Chaos Reigning: The Five Kingdoms Book 10

by Toby Neighbors

  Zollin put the amulet back in its box and walked to the far end of the cave. With other magical artifacts he could only access the item’s power if he took possession of the object, but even though he’d left the artifact by his fire and paced to the far end of the cave, he could still feel the gemstone’s power flowing through him. He walked back to his pallet and sank down on the blanket. He was still tired, but happy with his discovery. The amulet seemed happy too—it vibrated gently in the magical spectrum as Zollin hung it around his neck. Then the young wizard stretched out beside the fire and went to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Mansel woke up and fought through the mental fog of his hangover until he could think straight. It took several minutes to realize he was lying in an alley under a pile of rubbish from the kitchen. The events of the previous night slowly came back to him. Alone and without friends in Orrock, Mansel had once again gotten falling-down drunk. His plan was to drink himself to death. He had failed the two people he cared most about in the world, and there was nothing left for him to live for.

  After being thrown out of the castle by guards under Branock's command, Mansel had stolen coins from a fat merchant who had mocked his filthy appearance and drunken state. The merchant sat at a table in a tavern with a guard and several other men Mansel took to be the fat man's associates. Mansel looked at the merchant and then spit on the floor to show his disdain. Furious, the merchant ordered his guard to teach the drunken warrior a lesson. When Mansel drew Death’s Eye, the sword that Zollin had made for him, the effects of the ale he’d been drinking fell away. He could think clearly and was no longer unsteady on his feet, but he didn't let it show. The merchant’s swordsman was large and carried a scimitar, but he was slow and Mansel wasn’t intimidated. The swordsman slashed first at Mansel’s head, but he swayed back out of the way. The next attack was a swipe at Mansel’s legs. He dropped the end of Death’s Eye and blocked the big man’s sword, but then had to duck under a punch that was aimed at his head.

  The crowd of the tavern was laughing as Mansel stumbled back out of the way, and he might have let things go if the swordsman hadn’t pursued him so eagerly. Mansel recognized the look in the bigger man’s eyes. He was a bully. Mansel’s brothers had tormented him when he was a child in exactly the same way. The look in the man’s eyes was one of excitement; he was eager to best Mansel and have a story to tell his friends. Mansel hated the way his brothers had bullied him and he didn’t relish being the butt of anyone’s jokes.

  When the swordsman knocked a table out of his way and rushed toward Mansel, the young warrior set his feet and switched Death’s Eye to his left hand. The swordsman attacked with an overhead chop that would have killed Mansel had the blow landed. But instead of scrambling back, Mansel stepped forward and caught the swordsman’s hand as it descended. The tavern went silent and the look in the swordsman’s eyes changed to fear. Mansel knew he could have rammed his own sword into the larger man’s gut, but instead he rammed his knee into the swordsman’s groin. The larger man fell to the ground, his heavy scimitar clattering to the ground at Mansel’s feet.

  The young warrior looked around the room. The fat merchant was no longer laughing, and the other patrons in the tavern watched Mansel with grim fascination. Mansel slid his boot under the scimitar and kicked it up into the air where he caught it easily, then he stalked toward the fat merchant.

  “I demand satisfaction,” Mansel said.

  “I…I…I…” was all the fat man was able to say.

  “Half your coin,” Mansel demanded. “Or I’ll gut you like a fish and take it all.”

  “Here!” the fat man threw his money pouch at Mansel.

  Most men carried coins in a small pouch, but the merchant liked flaunting his wealth. The coin purse was larger than Mansel’s fist and filled with silver and copper coins. The young warrior dumped half the contents onto the table, then cinched up the pouch by the leather thongs, before turning his back on the merchant, stepping over the fallen swordsman, and leaving the tavern.

  That incident had taken place over a week before, and Mansel had managed to spend all the coin from the merchant, including the money he’d gotten for the swordsman’s scimitar, on food, lodging, and ale. The night before, he’d gotten especially drunk and was thrown into the alley when he passed out in a corner of the tavern. The innkeeper didn’t like Mansel, who had flirted with his wife, which accounted for the scraps from the kitchen being dumped on him while he slept. His head was spinning as he leaned against the stone wall of the inn. He needed to get cleaned up and find a safer place to rest, but he didn’t have the strength.

  It would take a few days to get past the effects of so much ale and wine, but Mansel also needed money. His head was pounding worse than if he’d been in a fight, and his whole body was stiff and sore from sleeping on the hard ground. He still had his sword—no one was foolish enough to try and take his weapon—but Mansel had nothing else of value.

  “Hey there!” came an angry voice from the street. “You can’t sleep in the alley. Get up!”

  Mansel looked out into the street to find a group of soldiers. He didn’t want trouble and since Commander Hausey had become king there were regular patrols through the streets of Orrock. Trash was not allowed to accumulate in the alleys, nor were people allowed to loiter in the shadowy spaces between buildings. Mansel got slowly to his feet.

  “Another drunk,” said one of the soldiers.

  “Filthy, too,” said the squad leader, “better get him out of the city. Kragg, take this vagrant beyond the wall.”

  “Aye, Sergeant,” the young soldier said.

  “There’s no need,” Mansel said, hoping his words weren’t as slurred as they seemed.

  “Let’s go!” the soldier named Kragg said, grabbing Mansel’s shoulder and pulling him into the street.

  Even the weak winter sunlight made Mansel squint; his eyes watered and his head ached with pain. He did his best to stay on his feet, but his legs felt weak and shaky. The soldier pushed Mansel from behind and sent the young warrior sprawling.

  “He’s too drunk to walk,” Kragg complained.

  “Get him on his feet,” the commander said. “And you better take that weapon from him too, before he hurts someone.”

  “No,” Mansel said as the soldier approached.

  He was on his knees when Kragg pulled him up to his feet.

  “By the gods, you stink,” he said angrily. “Give me the sword.”

  Mansel’s hand fell to Death’s Eye’s hilt and instantly, miraculously, his mind cleared. Mansel felt a strength flow into him that he couldn’t explain, but his back straightened, his shoulders squared, and he moved quickly away from the soldier.

  “I’ll go,” Mansel said. “No need to trouble yourself with me.”

  “Don’t resist, you dung-covered drunk,” Kragg said.

  He reached for Mansel but the young warrior spun out of the way, his hand still on his sword. The squad leader turned back around, not expecting his young soldier to have trouble with Mansel. His face pinched in anger when he saw the young warrior behind him with his hand on his sword. The sergeant drew his own weapon and leveled it at Mansel, followed by the other three soldiers of his squad.

  “Remove your hand from that weapon or we’ll cut you down,” the sergeant snarled.

  “I’m not hurting anyone,” Mansel said. “You have no right to disarm me.”

  “Take him,” the sergeant said.

  Two of the soldiers had spears, which they thrust at Mansel. They didn’t really try to stab him with the weapons—neither of the young soldiers were veterans. Other than rousting drunks and beggars from the city, none of the soldiers other than the sergeant had been in a real fight. Mansel stepped back, drawing his sword and spinning to the side to avoid Kragg’s attack. The young soldier had intended to hit Mansel from behind with the hilt of his sword.

  “No one needs to get hurt,” Mansel said. “I’ll leave the city.”

  “You�
�ll be carried out,” the sergeant said.

  The three soldiers spread out as the sergeant stepped forward. He had the standard issue short sword that Quinn had trained Mansel with. The weapon was very efficient in close quarters, but Mansel’s own weapon was longer. With a feint to his left, then a sudden thrust forward, Mansel ran the tip of his sword across the back of the sergeant’s hand. The squad leader shouted in pain as he dropped his weapon, his eyes opening wide with rage and shock.

  “Get him!” the man screamed.

  Mansel had hoped the sergeant would recognize his skill and call off the attack. Mansel could have just as easily thrust his sword into the man’s chest, but he’d shown restraint. Unfortunately the soldier’s anger had overridden his better judgment.

  The two spearmen tried to attack from opposite sides of Mansel, but he rushed toward the man on his right, batting the spear aside with Death’s Eye. He brought his left elbow up in a vicious blow that shattered the young soldier’s nose. Blood burst from the soldier’s face as he fell back sputtering. The other spearman was still advancing with his weapon held firmly in front of him. Mansel slid to his left and grabbed the spear just behind the metal head. Then, with his sword flashing in the sunlight, he chopped the spear in two. The soldier looked dumbfounded as Mansel kicked him hard in the chest and sent him sprawling toward his squad leader.

  The sergeant had picked up his sword with his left hand and was moving toward Mansel, but he no longer looked angry or certain of his actions. Fear was evident on his face, the same as it was on Kragg’s, but Mansel knew they couldn’t back down. A crowd had gathered in the street, watching the confrontation.

  “I don’t want trouble,” Mansel said. “I’ll leave the city.”

  “Drop your weapon,” the sergeant said.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I’ve got this!” Kragg shouted as he dashed forward, raising his sword.

  “No!” his commander shouted, but it was too late.

  The young soldier hacked at Mansel, who stepped out of the way and swung his own weapon in a level arc. Death’s Eye could have severed the soldier’s spine easily, but Mansel turned the sword at the last second, so that the flat part of the blade slapped against the soldier’s neck.

  Kragg shouted as he stumbled forward and fell. Mansel had done his best to keep the soldier's injuries to a minimum, but as Kragg fell his sword twisted up, so that the young soldier fell onto the blade, impaling himself. Mansel knew in that instant that he was in serious trouble. There were dozens of witnesses who saw that the young soldier’s death was an accident, but the sergeant would cry foul. Mansel knew he needed to get out of the city fast. He turned, looking for a way past the growing crowd, but there was no way to get through the throng of people that had hurried to see what was happening.

  Behind him, the sergeant shouted as he made his own charge. The sound of steel clashing only attracted more people as Mansel defended himself. He parried the sergeant’s slashes and thrusts, resisting the urge to fight back. The soldier was in a frenzy, his teeth bared and his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried desperately to strike Mansel down, but he was clumsy with his left hand and Mansel defended himself easily. When the sergeant finally faltered, Mansel kicked out at the soldier’s heel, sweeping the man’s feet out from under him. He fell hard and Mansel swung Death’s Eye down at the soldier’s sword, knocking it from his hand.

  Once again Mansel looked around, desperate for a way through the crowd, but the streets were even more congested than before. There was no way for him to flee, and a group of riders was approaching.

  “Hold there!” came a voice from the riders.

  Mansel’s survival instincts were screaming at him to run, but another part of him wanted to stay and fight. He had nothing left to live for and he refused to give up his sword.

  “Mansel!” came Quinn’s familiar voice as the group of riders dismounted. Mansel’s mentor was riding with a group of high-ranking officers and city administrators. Most of the people with Quinn looked nervous, but the former carpenter smiled as he stepped forward. The look on his face sent a shiver down Mansel’s back and the crowd grew silent.

  “What have you done, old friend?” Quinn said, but there was nothing friendly about his voice.

  “I was just trying to mind my own business, Quinn.”

  “Looks like you’ve attacked the king’s soldiers.”

  “It was self-defense,” Mansel said, easing back, away from Quinn.

  “An attack on the king’s soldiers is an attack on the king.”

  “It’s not like that. I just want to leave the city.”

  “You’ve had plenty of chances. Is that ale I smell on your breath? Even from here you reek of spirits and filth. They say a pig will always return to its own filth and you have proved that to be true.”

  “I’m no swine,” Mansel said, his temper rising.

  “No, of course not. Swine are useful, but you are just rubbish that needs to be cast out. Perhaps today is your day to be cast out.”

  “Quinn, I don’t want to fight you.”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Quinn said, the smile returning to his face. “None ever do.” Then he drew his sword and the fight began.

  Chapter 11

  After securing Miller’s Crossing, Lorik sent runners north. Their message was simple. Lorik was king of the outcasts and there was safety in the south. The runners also had orders to return with any news of soldiers from Yelsia or Baskla moving south. Lorik knew his enemies would come for him soon enough, and he honestly looked forward to that confrontation, but he wanted to give the outcasts the kingdoms they deserved. They may have been victims of the witch’s vile magic, but that did not mean they were lost or that they could just be slaughtered by those fortunate enough not to have been captured and a mutilated by the evil witch.

  “Stay here and make sure Onnan follows through on his promises,” Lorik told Spector.

  “And if he doesn’t?” the ghostly figure asked.

  “Then report his treachery to me. Do not kill him. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Spector hissed.

  “Good. I want the city rebuilt. The outcasts need places to restart their lives.”

  “Your mercy is touching.”

  “Don’t be so cynical. We can’t do everything by ourselves.”

  “You want to build an empire. I want to see it burn,” Spector hissed angrily. “Do not forget that those who supported the puppet king Yettlebor still live. I will not rest until they pay for their crimes.”

  “I want revenge just as much as you, but we aren’t ready. We can’t fight them all, you know that. They have thousands of soldiers and vast resources. We must draw them to us, where we can crush them and avenge those we loved.”

  “Fine, I will be your watch dog, but do not put me off too long, Lorik.”

  There was an icy tone to Spector’s words. The ghostly being had once been Lorik’s best friend, but now he was a vengeful spirit, given life by the same dark magic that had imbued Lorik with vast strength and supernatural abilities. Lorik had no idea what would happen once the people Spector blamed for the death of his wife were dead.

  “I’ll take the rest of the outcasts back to Center Point. Be patient; soon the enemy will come to us.”

  “You had better be right,” Spector hissed.

  Onnan was the champion that Lorik had fought, the same outcast that had killed Banar. The wound on the smaller outcast’s back wasn’t serious, but it was painful and so Lorik was sending him back to Miller’s Crossing with specific instructions to help other outcasts and begin rebuilding the city. Everywhere Lorik looked there were signs of looting and destruction. The towns and villages were all in states of disarray. Where once cattle and horses had roamed the green grassy hills of Falxis, there was an emptiness that made Lorik ache deep inside. He longed to see the Five Kingdoms returned to their glory, to see people happy and prosperous, but he knew he couldn’t trust anyone to create the world
he envisioned. The kings and rulers that had come before him were hungry for power and their greed had spoiled the world. Even the people he thought he could trust the most had wounded him the deepest. He didn’t think he would ever get over Issalyn betraying him to Yettlebor.

  Lorik joined the fighters that Banar had recruited. Most had been soldiers for a short time during some period of their lives before they were mutated into outcasts. After the witch had been slain and the outcasts had regained their senses, most had left behind the ill-formed swords they had been sent to war with. Those weapons had been little more than bars of metal ground down on one side to form a cutting edge. The fighters who had joined Banar either found traditional weapons they were comfortable with on their own, or picked up tools that could be used as weapons. Lorik had all the men sling their blades or leave them behind. Instead they would pick up building supplies to carry back to Center Point.

  The group moved quickly, running at a fast jog until sunset. They stopped at the small village Lorik had liberated the day before and gathered whatever supplies they found. Then they marched through the night, walking in the darkness across the gently rolling hills. The outcasts struggled to keep up with Lorik, but they didn’t complain. An hour before dawn Lorik stopped and let the fighters rest. A few hours later they began a steady jog that carried them to Center Point just as night was falling.

  Lorik was surprised to see how much progress had been made in the city. Large pens for animals had been made, and there were cows, pigs, sheep, and chickens on the downstream side of the valley. More buildings had been constructed, mainly small cottages for new arrivals and some shops for those outcasts with skills. A water wheel was being set up to grind wheat, and the timber walls were being raised around the large hall on top of the hill. A stone bridge was being constructed in the center of the town to allow easy access from one side of the deep stream to the other.