Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Florian regarded the ten pirates in front of them, swords drawn and spreading out across the room. He turned to Motega. “Called it. Royally screwed.”

  “They made me do it, Kolsen, sir,” squeaked Mouse.

  The pirate king Kolsen ignored the alchemist, regarding the interlopers intently. “Kill them,” he ordered, and his men began to move forward. Motega drew his other ax.

  From the window behind Motega and Florian streaked a ball of outstretched talons and feathers into the pirate king’s face. Per! Kolsen screamed and flapped his hands at the falcon clawing his face. And then the ground moved again, synchronized with great agonized bellows audible through the open windows. The world lurched to the left as Turtle Town pushed off against the street of Wetside and turned back out to the harbor. The pirates stumbled and looked to the king in confusion, unsure whether his last order still stood. But he was still trying to fight off the tearing beak and razor-sharp talons making a bloody mess of his face.

  In times like these, Motega always thought, it was best to go with what you know. So, he and Florian, still clutching Mouse, dove from the window and into the night sky.

  Chapter 43

  Naming And Shaming

  From the shadows of a doorway at the rear of the throne room, Hoskin could see the assembled crowd. The room hadn’t been used since the death of the royal couple, and it seemed strange to him now to see the vast chamber in use. In fact, if there had been a viable alternative, he would have taken it and avoided using the room, but he had to admit to himself it did also reinforce a particular message.

  The room was three times as long as it was wide, a raised dais at one end where the thrones rested along with his usual seat, three steps down, reserved for the lord chancellor. Commander Grimes stood by that chair, and noticing Hoskin, he gave him a small nod of recognition. At the other end of the room were the double-height twin doors through which the assembled good people of Kingshold had passed momentarily before. The guild masters who weren’t nobles stood furthest away from the throne close to the entrance, next to them were the senior priests of the various religions observed in Edland, and the open nature of the country meant there were rather a lot.

  Lining the sides of the chamber were the collected nobility and their attendants, clustered amongst the pillars supporting the upper tier that was mostly empty today. Each noble family stood in their appropriate places, the same whenever the court was in attendance, determined by an unclear method of self-selection, which inevitably made the jockeying for position a national pastime. The central floor was typically where supplicants, ambassadors, or others addressed the king and queen, and this was where his primary audience—the remaining candidates for lord protector—had been guided to wait.

  Standing there was Sir Penshead and Lords Eden, Uthridge, Fiske, and the new Lord Bollingsmead. Each of them had brought a handful of attendants, who stood off to the side, and Hoskin caught sight of some familiar faces. Sitting on the steps of the dais in front of the assembled candidates was the wizard Jyuth, forearms resting on knees with back straight, chin up, and eyes closed, ignoring the hubbub of collected murmuring around the room. Hoskin thought he’d probably waited for long enough, no need to let them get too restless.

  Striding out from the back of the dais, Hoskin walked past the two carved wooden thrones and descended the steps to his usual seat, but he didn’t sit. The noise of chattering continued. He nodded briefly to Grimes who signaled two guards, armed with halberds, to strike the heels of the wooden shafts of their weapons on the ground. The noise reverberated around the stone chamber, and all eyes looked forward.

  “Friends and fellow Edlanders,” began Hoskin, “I’ve asked you all here today because we need unity after the events of the past few days. Our fair city has suffered at the hands of invaders and our own people.” Hoskin regarded the candidates in front of him. “One of you will rule Edland in just a few short days. Your role is to protect the people of our nation so they can lead good and prosperous lives, and I don’t envy the burden one of you will inherit. The world has changed in this past moon cycle. The cart has started rolling down the hill, and I fear there’s no stopping it now. I know some of you have been calling for war, some for expansion, and others for retreating inward and ignoring the outside world. You’ll soon find so simplistic a view is naive.”

  He paused and looked around the room. Muttering between neighbors had begun again, and some of the nobility seemed vexed. In particular Eden. But Hoskin didn’t care. They might not want to listen to him, but they were going to. In the past, he wouldn’t have been so bold as to speak his mind publicly, but the past four weeks had changed him, too, and it seemed there was no stopping that particular cart either.

  “But who rules is for you to decide,” he continued. “I’m neither a candidate nor going to vote. For now, I give thanks to those of you who helped Kingshold and Edland last night. I cannot award titles or rewards, but I can make this known to you all.”

  “Sir Penshead, I heard you worked tirelessly with Commander Grimes, the two of you organizing the city’s guard and defenses. And you personally led assaults against the barricades. You’ve rediscovered your bravery and your priorities. I salute you.” Hoskin’s nod to the armored knight was mirrored in return.

  “Lord Bollingsmead. And I mean the younger, of course.”

  A murmur of laughter rippled around the room as many looked down the hall to the recently arrived elder Bollingsmead.

  “It appears it was you who led the defense of the city. It was you, and your companions, who attacked the ships, you who rallied the people of the city to defend it and send the cowardly pirates running for the open waters. And I have it on very good authority,” he said, looking down to see Jyuth nodding as he gazed up at the vaulted ceiling, “that your companions, Motega and Florian, risked their lives to board the monster burning our city and cause it to leave.”

  Jyuth began to clap loudly, singularly at first until more hands joined his, and applause filled the throne room. Bollingsmead gave a small bow while the two fighters Hoskin had named stepped out from under the gallery and raised their arms in triumph. Though Hoskin considered their smiles to be the silly grins of youth, the pair indeed looked tired from their exertions of the previous night.

  “As I said, I can grant you little gift other than my appreciation. Without you, even though Kingshold is scorched in places, it would be in even more dire straits. But I can do one other thing. I can let all know who it was, when the city was in greatest need, that did nothing.” The apprehension of what he was about to say, and to whom, made him feel a little nauseous, but it also conjured an intense feeling of pleasure in the back of his mind. “Who was it, Lord Eden, who did nothing last night? Who locked their compound and ordered their guards to see to their own personal protection instead of the city? I wonder if you would be able to tell us all?”

  Eden’s jaw clenched, his complexion flushed, and a vein bulged in his temple while his eyes fired hot needles into Hoskin’s flesh. Hoskin met his gaze and held it with a smile on his lips now. It was only the sight of Lord Bollingsmead turning to look at Lady Grey that distracted Hoskin. The young lord seemed visibly shocked Eden had not helped last night. Hoskin considered it a sign of his naivety, and he saw him mouth a word to the lady, who had so clearly become his sponsor. Coward. So easily readable for Hoskin, and also it seemed for Eden, too, who had followed the chancellor’s distracted attention.

  Eden took a step toward Bollingsmead. “How dare you call me a coward!” he roared. “I’ve proven my worth to the realm countless times! I’m the liberator of Redsmoke!”

  “I believe it was called Redpool when you liberated it, my lord,” said Bollingsmead, regarding his verbal attacker quite calmly. “And I’ve heard stories about that campaign.”

  “What are you blathering on about, boy?”

  “The official story goes you’re a master tactician and orator, who during parley, goaded the installed governor of
Redpool to open the doors and meet you on the field. The real story is a little different, isn’t it? You actually had a squad infiltrate the city and murder his family while you were under the white flag.”

  “How dare you!” Now Eden really exploded. Flecks of spit flew from his mouth, and he moved within feet of Bollingsmead. “Liar! You may have no honor, lying with common tavern wenches and behaving like an entertainer, but I won’t stand to be called a coward! A liar! A murderer of children!” He turned and looked again at Hoskin. “I demand, by my rights, to settle this by duel!”

  Bollingsmead regarded Eden, his eyes taking him in. Eden was tall and still muscular for a man in his late forties, and Hoskin remembered him as quite the duelist in his youth. Bollingsmead turned to face Hoskin, too, smiling and spoke a single word. “Agreed.”

  Hoskin sighed. So much for bringing people together in unity. Now, there’d be blood on the throne room floor.

  “I name Sir Frederick as my champion,” said Eden.

  And a tall knight in gleaming plate armor strode forward to stand by his side, loosing a shield worn on his back and drawing a long sword. Bollingsmead’s smile disappeared. It seemed the savior of Kingshold was naive in other ways, too, if he thought Eden would actually fight himself.

  Chapter 44

  Duel

  Mareth was dead on his feet throughout the lord chancellor’s speech. It had been a long night. There had been holdouts of corsairs, the ones left behind, he’d helped to subdue, and the sun was rising by the time the last of the fighting had stopped. And then there were fires to quench. The people who’d come to his aid, to be the front line of taking the fight to the pirates, became bucket chains. They’d probably still have been fighting those fires if Neenahwi and her father hadn’t used magic to make the waters from the harbor flow into the burning structures. As it was, he only had time to wash and shave before traveling to the palace after receiving the summons.

  He knew he should probably have held his tongue when Eden rose to the charges Hoskin announced, but he couldn’t help himself. He really disliked the man, someone he once thought was a hero of the realm cared nothing for the people. That Eden was still the favorite to become lord protector had Mareth considering where he was going to have to move. And when he challenged him to a duel, Mareth’s sleep-deprived mind imagined Eden dead at his feet and the path to victory open. He didn’t exactly feel comfortable fighting with the rapier hanging at his hip but, surely, he could take an old man.

  Then the big bastard-knight stepped forward, and Mareth’s head spun. Of course, Eden himself wasn’t going to fight, and his champion was probably going to cut his thin blade in two before doing the same to him. Mareth took a deep, ragged breath, and the blood drained from his face.

  “Lord Jyuth, you must do something,” said Hoskin. “There has been enough blood spilled.”

  The wizard had appeared to be only paying partial attention for most of the proceedings, but now he became present. “I can’t do anything with fools, Hoskin. Law is the law. Loser either dies or is banished. It’s been this way for centuries, though I’ll make it clear, it was never something I agreed with.”

  The brief moment of hope Mareth had grasped for disappeared like a lost love partially seen in the crowd. He heard Neenahwi ask the same favor of her father, but she sounded distant to his ears, like he was under water and the sound was muffled. He’d been in fights where he could have died many times. Shit, he’d seen his friends cut down by men and monsters, and his foolishness had been responsible for leading some of them to the grave. But now, faced with his own death, he felt an overwhelming weight of despair that he’d let everyone down, all of those people who’d believed in him.

  A hand touched his shoulder, and Mareth noticed the lord chancellor standing in front of him, the grip on his shoulder providing an anchor back to the throne room. “Lord Bollingsmead,” Hoskin spoke clearly and slowly, eyes locked on Mareth’s, “do you name a champion?”

  Name a champion? The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. But how could he ask someone to take the blade in his place? He turned to look at his companions. Lady Grey’s mouth was pursed, and her eyes betrayed the anger she contained. Mareth quickly looked on, unable to bear the look, his eyes resting on Dolph. Dolph had been his shadow for the past three weeks. He’d fought at his shoulder last night, but now he shook his head.

  “I will champion you, Mareth.” Florian stepped forward. A few moments before, he was basking in the applause of the great and good of Kingshold, and now he looked sober. And tired, too.

  “No, Florian.” Motega made to pull back his friend, but Florian shrugged off his attention. “You’re exhausted. I’ll do it. He looks like another Juggernaut, eh?”

  “No, Mot. It’s not like the Juggernaut. I know Sir Frederick, and he’ll beat you in single combat. I’ll do it. I can win.” His last words sounded to Mareth like he was trying to convince himself. “No arguments, Mareth. I do this willingly.”

  Mareth nodded and turned back to Hoskin and Eden. “I name Florian as my champion.”

  The silence in the throne room disappeared as the crowd anticipated the bloodshed to come. Palace guards strode forward to stand in front of the attendees, forming a rectangular ring for the duel. Mareth and Eden stared across the ring at each other, the ill will palpable in the air. Sir Frederick placed a shining steel helm over his head, covering his long curly blond hair and chiseled features, and clanked into the ring. On his left arm was a shield bearing Eden’s crest, and in his right, he gripped a broadsword.

  Florian bounced in place opposite the knight, stretching the muscles in his arms and back, rotating his neck. He had stripped off his tunic to reveal chainmail underneath, but he wore no helm, nor carried a shield. In both hands, he held what Mareth had never seen him without. One sword was long and plain, lacking adornment or engraving, but made of solid steel. The other blade was slightly shorter, with a curve to the point, filigree etched along its length.

  The lord chancellor stepped between the two fighters and looked at Mareth and Eden in turn. “Lord Eden. Lord Bollingsmead. Do you withdraw your desire for a duel?”

  “Never,” spat Eden.

  Mareth shook his head.

  “Then, in the witness of these fine people, may Arloth guide the winner and show pity on the fallen. Begin!” And Hoskin quickly ran to the side ducking behind the palace guard.

  Sir Frederick strode directly at Florian, shield in front of him with sword close, held at chest height. Florian skirted to the left, trying to keep his distance as he assessed his foe, but the rectangular fighting area naturally brought them closer together. Sir Frederick moved like quicksilver, striking in rapid succession, which Florian struggled to parry. Each of Florian’s blades only just moved in time to deflect the knight’s strikes. Florian looked exhausted, his breathing already labored through his open mouth.

  Florian swayed back from another strike and tucked into a roll to try to give himself some distance, but it wasn’t fast enough. As he regained his feet, the knight was already upon him. A flurry of blows, low and high, each one forcing Florian back toward the crowd, who in turn shrank back to safer vantage points. Sir Frederick’s shield lashed out, smashing into Florian’s face and chest and sending him sprawling across the floor.

  “Hah! That’s what you get for consorting with tavern scum, Bollingsmead,” laughed Eden. “This won’t take long.”

  Florian got to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Frederick hadn’t followed up. He was clanging his sword on his shield in time to calls of “Eden, Eden, Eden.” A man who certainly enjoyed his work.

  Florian waited, swords pointed at the stone floor until Frederick decided he should finish the job. Once again the knight sauntered forward before quickening his pace for the final approach, his blade slicing through the air. Florian’s left sword parried one strike high, the follow-up pushed low with his other weapon from across his body.

  The plain s
word held Sir Frederick’s blade wedged against the stone floor, the muscles of Florian’s arm rippling as it pushed against the knight’s long sword. It only bought a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Florian to spin, stepping inside the knight’s guard, bringing his other weapon slicing down onto the gauntleted hand. The force of the blow, and the precision of the strike, ripped the gauntlet from Frederick’s hand. It fell to the floor along with the knight’s sword and a couple of fingers.

  Florian’s turn continued, all one fluid movement, and he pushed into the shield with his broad shoulder, knocking Sir Frederick backward with all the force his legs could launch. The knight struggled to hold his balance, and he toppled to the floor. The clatter of steel on stone mingled with the knight’s screams as his brain recognized what had happened to his hand. Florian’s left sword flashed down, completing the spin, threading above the gorget and pushing through the chainmail protecting the knight’s neck.

  Sir Frederick’s screams turned to a gurgle as he thrashed on the floor, trying to bring his hands up to help him lift his helm, but his ruined hand and bound shield didn’t help. Florian took a few steps back and watched as the life bled from his opponent.

  Mareth exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath for who knows how long. The throne room was completely silent for a few moments until there was the sound of hands clapping. Lady Chalice applauded, regarding Florian with the eye of a sailor in a whore house. “Bravo,” she called. Eden stared at her, looking as if he had a chicken bone caught in his throat.

  Lord Hoskin made to step into the ring, but Jyuth put an arm across his chest to hold him back. “Let me,” he said quietly. The wizard strode into the clear space, and his voice boomed out, “By the grace of Arloth, Lord Bollingsmead is the victor. Lord Eden, you’ve been found wanting. And so, in line with the law, you are stripped of your lands, your titles, and you must leave Edland. You have twenty-four hours.”