The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1]

by Christopher W. Wilcox, Sr.

  Rory rose to his feet, but it was Swiftstalker who spoke. “His Grace, the Duke of Kendrahl, did speak in error, Your Majesty. Lord Rorrick killed two ogres and sixty-eight orcs."

  The king's eyes widened momentarily. “The past six months have changed you in many ways, Lord Rorrick. We welcome you to the court. As for your garb, Duke Westfell, we are intrigued. What do you think, my Queen?"

  Queen Beatrice smiled at the trio before them. “We are also intrigued by this new fashion. We can see many possibilities from them. Duke Richard, we would suspect these are the product of your heir's time with the Forest Lords."

  "You are quite correct, Your Majesty,” Duke Richard said as he bent to kiss her hand. “Lord Rorrick became so accustomed to their style of dress that he designed this compromise of our fabrics with their styles."

  Queen Beatrice looked up at young Rory. “We wonder why you felt a compromise was necessary, Lord Rorrick."

  "The Forest Folk wear garments of the sheerest silk, Your Majesty. Such fabrics can be quite ... revealing as the person wearing them moves. It was my belief that would be a bit too provocative for the court of Aluria."

  "Oh, my,” said the queen. “And you wore such garments yourself?"

  As Rory nodded, the queen and several of the other ladies of the court seemed quite flustered at the image that danced through their minds.

  * * * *

  "My boy, you are a genius. These new garments are the hit of the court,” Swiftstalker said. “I spoke with one of the maids and every seamstress in the city is busy making copies for the nobility."

  Duke Richard added, “Even the king will be wearing them from now on. The queen liked them very much and demanded he set the tone for the rest of the court. Seems she is tired of seeing some of these flabby earls and others prance around in tights.” He chuckled. “I must agree with her, for the sight of the many of them is enough to put me off food for quite some time."

  "So what happens now, Grandfather?"

  "There will be a feast tonight with the entire court, of course. Until then, we are left to our own devices. I plan on seeing some old friends. Why don't the two of you take a walk around the town and see what life is like in Aluria? We can meet back here later and get ready for the feast."

  Once the duke left, Swiftstalker said, “I suggest we go dressed a little less conspicuously. Perhaps some of the garrison leathers so we will look like common soldiers rather than members of the nobility."

  "That's a good idea. We should be able to get a better idea of what life is truly like that way.” They dressed as simple soldiers, left the castle, and ventured into the streets of Aluria.

  Aluria was a city built in concentric rings. The center of this was the castle, surrounded by a curtain wall and battlements, pierced by only two stout gates made of seasoned oak and banded with forged steel. The sally points through the walls were lined with arrow slits and the tunnel ceiling had numerous slits through which arrows or hot oil could be loosed upon any invading force. The next ring of the city contained the homes of the near nobility, the earls and counts who served as functionaries in the court but did not rank high enough to warrant chambers inside the castle itself. Here, too, lived many of the more prosperous members of the merchant class, hoping that proximity to the near nobility might result in a marriage and a change in status. The wall between these homes and the third ring was not quite as high as the one surrounding the castle, but it was no less thick. Boasting four gates with heavy oak barriers that could be lowered in times of crisis to seal off the second ring from the third. The streets within the second ring were paved with cobblestones and had wide gutters to drain away water and other refuse. These streets were washed clean every night by workers.

  The third ring housed the markets and shops that supplied everyone with food and other necessities. It was here that seamstresses, tailors, butchers, and merchants of every type plied their trades. The area was patrolled by members of the King's Own to keep peace and protect the citizens and merchants from any who would prey upon them. The fourth and final ring was for the peasants and serfs, the day laborers and the indigent. Their housing was mean and miserable; the streets packed dirt when dry and rivers of mud when it rained. Livestock roamed at will amid the squalor; pigs rooted in the garbage while chickens scurried around searching for grain. Dirty children played in the streets, dodging horses and wagons, mangy dogs, and each other.

  Rory and Swiftstalker had little trouble leaving the castle itself; the King's Own presumed that such a pair of scruffy soldiers must have been there on invited business, perhaps with one of the dukes. As they passed through the gate to the second ring, they picked up a pair of King's Own who followed them as they made their way through the ring to the next gate.

  "Why do I suspect that our disguises are too good? We may have trouble getting back into the castle later,” Rory said.

  "Aye, lad, getting through these gates will be harder than I thought. Aluria seems a might more class conscious than ever. We'll just have to come back the elven way rather than the human."

  "Elven way?"

  "We can try passing the gates using a glamour to make us appear more what they would be expecting or we can just go over the wall and not bother the fine soldiers at the gate."

  Rory glanced up at the wall but did not see any guards patrolling its heights. Perhaps the wall might be easier at that, and certainly more fun. Putting such thoughts aside until later, Rory began to explore the markets of Aluria. They stopped first at a food stall for some fresh baked bread and a slab of meat of indeterminate nature. The proprietor insisted it was beef, but Swiftstalker countered with a comparison to horse. The two bickered good-naturedly while Rory looked around. A tankard of strong ale washed down the meat and bread.

  There were stalls selling a variety of goods. Boots, weapons (of inferior quality according to Swiftstalker's professional opinion), and clothing. One enterprising vendor even had the new “Westfell Trousers” for sale. There were jewelers, too, with their stalls guarded by hired men. Around the outside of the market square were the more established merchants, their wares for sale inside buildings. From furniture to fine wines, it appeared everything could be found in this market.

  "This market caters to the nobility and near-nobility of the second ring, Rory, so their goods and prices are higher than what we will find farther out. You will note there are no stables here, nor any smithies. No foul smells or loud noise to disturb the gentlefolk. We will find the more lively activities elsewhere."

  They eased their way through the bustling square. The patrol of King's Own looked them over as they passed but decided they meant no trouble and let them by. The streets from the market were narrower in this quarter, although still paved with stone. Here the gutter ran through the center of the street, but it was clogged with every manner of waste and debris. As they approached the outer markets, the sounds of music and laughter came through many doors on either side of the roadway. Rory glanced toward one window and thought he saw a flash of naked skin. He looked at his uncle with a raised eyebrow, and Swiftstalker said, “Bawdy house. That's a place men can go for bad liquor, worse food, and even cheaper female companionship all at a price few can really afford but most will pay willingly."

  The sounds of a blacksmith's hammer striking steel met their ears as they entered the outer market. Here were located the stables and stockyards, the purveyors of things to the lowest classes. Anything and everything was for sale here, if one knew the right person to ask. The King's Own only appeared in this part of town if they were called, and even then it was a rare occurrence when they actually showed up. Thieves, pickpockets, and prostitutes mingled with the crowd freely. Most pickpockets took one look at Rory's size and the two sword hilts above his wide shoulders and the dagger in his belt and decided there were easier marks to fleece. The prostitutes, on the other hand, took one look and swarmed after him like bees after nectar.

  As one rubbed her hand suggestively across the fro
nt of Rory's breeches, Swiftstalker said, “You don't want to mess with him, dearie. He likes it rough and nasty."

  "Anything is fine as long as the price is right,” she replied.

  "He's got a real bad habit of not paying afterwards, and some of the girls have not been in a position to complain once he's through with him. Best if you moved along."

  She moved off and had a whispered conversation with the others, mingled with fearful looks over their shoulders at Rory.

  "Just what did you say to her?” Rory asked.

  "I simply suggested that she would be better off with a different customer, lad. I hinted that you liked it rough and no girl wants to risk being hurt or worse by one of her clients. So what can you tell me about this town from what we have seen?"

  "For those with wealth and position, Aluria is a nice place. For those without, it is miserable. Unlike Westfell, there is a clear division between the classes here."

  "Think on this, then. If it is this bad here at the King's Court, what must it be like in less enlightened places like Eastfell and Solange?"

  "How could it be worse than this, Uncle?"

  "You haven't seen slavery yet, Rory. In Solange, they sell people like animals to work in the fields, mines, and worse. That is truly a dark stain on humanity's soul."

  "And the king permits this?"

  "The king cannot stop it. To do so would mean tearing Solange apart and rebuilding it again. If he tried, there would be open war in Aluria once more."

  * * * *

  They had little trouble retracing their steps toward the inner markets. The bawdy houses were full and rowdy. As they passed the door of one, a man was thrown through the door and into the street, just missing Swiftstalker. He was followed by a gang of toughs. Seeing the pair, they warned Rory and Swiftstalker to mind their own business. They advanced on the man in the street with drawn knives. There was the whisper of steel as Rory drew his swords and moved between the gang and the downed man.

  "Leave him be,” Rory warned in a quiet voice. “I'd rather not kill any of you over this man, but I will not stand by and watch you harm him, either."

  "Stay out of this if you know what's good for you.” One of the men spat in the street. Another looked up at Rory's broad shoulders and drawn swords and said, “Let it go, Rolf. He looks like he knows what to do with those two pig stickers of his."

  "Naw, don't let his size fool ya. He's so big, he'll be clumsy.” As he turned to face Rory once more, he suddenly found that Rory was no longer eight feet away; Rory was now standing right in front of him, and his swords were crossed under Rolf's neck like a giant pair of scissors.

  "Are you willing to risk your life on that, friend?” Rory asked. “Perhaps you could explain why you wish this man harm. If I like your reason, I will stand aside. If I don't ... well, you'll be bleeding on the ground next to him."

  "He was cheating at cards. He was! And we caught him."

  "Still not enough to warrant killing, although a good beating would suffice,” Swiftstalker said. “We'll just stand here and watch you administer that and then you can return inside. If you want more, then some or all of you will die."

  The gang of men milled around, talking a few minutes, then most drifted back through the door to the bawdy house. Rolf walked over, gave the man a few kicks in the ribs, and then ground his booted heel down on the man's hands and fingers, breaking the bones audibly. Giving him a final kick, Rolf went back into the house.

  "This kind of thing happen around here often?” Rory asked as he dragged the moaning man out of the center of the street and propped him against the side of a building out of the way.

  "Often enough. Odds are they were all cheating at cards, but this fellow was just too clumsy or careless. There are always predators, Rory, just as there are always those who are prey,” Swiftstalker said as they walked away.

  Rory glanced back and watched as a dark furtive figure slipped silently out of another doorway and began methodically stripping the beaten man of everything he had, even the rags around his body. He shuddered. “Why would anyone live this way?"

  "Most feel they have no other choice. When towns get too large, the lines between being comfortable and those on the ragged edge of starvation are deep and wide. To a person not knowing when they will eat next, dreams are the first things to die. They can no more conceive of leaving this life for another than you could imagine spending your days as they do."

  * * * *

  As they crossed back into the innermost market, the head of the King's Own patrol stopped them. “You two, stand where you are.” Rory and Swiftstalker were quickly surrounded by the soldiers.

  "Can we help you, Captain?” asked Swiftstalker.

  "You can start by identifying yourself and stating your business."

  Rory spoke up. “I am Lord Rorrick, Heir of Westfell, and this is Lord Swiftstalker of the Forest. Our business is our own concern."

  The captain looked at Rory, a small measure of doubt in his eyes. One of the patrol spoke out.

  "Your pardon, Cap'n, but I was on duty in the main hall this morning when the Duke of Westfell arrived. I got a good look at the heir and I believe this is him."

  The captain's glance caught sight of the dagger in Rory's belt. The snarling wolf head on the pommel announced clearly the identity of its bearer for no one else would wear Westfell's totem without risking life and limb.

  The captain straightened and said, “I beg your forgiveness, Lord Rorrick. Your attire belies your station. Are you returning to the castle now? If so, perhaps you will allow us to make amends by escorting you through the gates to avoid any further ... confusion."

  Swiftstalker sighed as they followed the captain and his men. There would be other chances to test the walls. As they approached the gate into the second ring, the captain hurried ahead to converse with those on duty at the gate. Before they could start to pass, however, several mounted men raced up to the gate.

  "Make way for the Duke of Eastfell,” one shouted and he struck out with a lash at Rory.

  Rory knew the lash would miss, so he didn't move. This infuriated the man and he raised the lash once more. “I said, make way."

  "Swing that lash again, and your head will be laying in the street,” Swiftstalker said. “That's the Heir of Westfell and if he doesn't kill you, I will."

  By this time, the Duke of Eastfell himself had ridden past so the man just dropped his hand back to his reins and spurred after his master. The captain hurried over. “Lord Rorrick, are you injured?"

  "No, Captain, just disgusted. May we proceed now?” Rory asked.

  Chapter 17

  Rory, resplendent in his Westfell trousers and silk shirt of forest green and silver filigree, stood at one side of the grand ballroom and compared the hall to the one back in Westfell. It was much larger, of course, with finer fabrics draping it in the scarlet and gold of Aluria. There were more tables since all of the nobility and near nobility would be present tonight, as would those wealthy merchants in favor with the crown.

  Swiftstalker came over and said, “Did you know your grandfather will be sitting at the head table? He'll be next to Duke Armand. You and I will be seated at one of the lower tables."

  "That's fine by me. Sitting up in front of everyone makes me uncomfortable. I never know what to say and I'm afraid of making a fool out of myself when I eat."

  "You won't know the others at our table, either, except for one, I think.” Swiftstalker had a smug smile on his face.

  "Oh, and who would that be?"

  "Your intended, the Lady Bethany."

  Rory suddenly went very still. He knew he would see Bethany here at Aluria, and that as some point, the king would announce their engagement. He still did not know how he would feel when he saw her; his time with Arianna was still fresh in his memory. He also remembered his words to his grandfather. Arianna belonged to his past, and Bethany would be his future. Who knew his future would be upon him so quickly?

  Then he saw
her. Her copper hair was swept up and around on the top of her head, exposing her long elegant neck. Her dress was of sky blue embellished with gold lace, gathered below her bust and then falling cleanly to the floor. The neckline was still as daring as he remembered and her skin was still creamy. She had done something to enhance her eyes ... somehow making those sea-green pools more vibrant than he recalled. She wore a necklace of plain gold around her neck and small gold combs in her hair. Her face flushed a little when she realized he was staring at her.

  "My Lady Bethany, it is a pleasure to see you once again. You look wonderful.” Rory took her hand and kissed its back.

  "My Lord Rorrick, I would not have known you. You have grown so tall and strong!” Bethany said. “I have heard some fantastic tales about you."

  "Do not believe all you hear, my lady. We did merely what needed to be done,” Rory said as he led her to her chair between his and Swiftstalker's.

  Moments later, the herald announced the arrival of the king and queen, and the crowd hushed and bowed as they passed into the room, followed by the dukes of the realm in order of seniority. First Westfall and Kendrahl, followed by Solange and Eastfell. Surreptitiously, Rory studied the Duke of Eastfell and did not like what he saw.

  Although the Duke of Eastfell was only a few months younger than Rory, he had assumed his majority upon the sudden death of his regent, his mother, of an unfortunate piece of bad pork just as winter had set in. No one believed that, of course, but by the time news had reached the court, Eastfell had been ruling alone for several months. The king decided to leave bad enough alone and had confirmed the young duke upon his arrival at court. Named Rikard after some previous Duke of Eastfell, he was of average height. The bulge at his waist gave mute evidence to his slothful and indulgent habits, as did the stains upon his black and grey doublet. His hair was a dirty blonde and worn loose about his shoulders. A sparse beard sprouted from his cheeks and chin. His eyes were narrow and suspicious as they met Rory's across the banquet room. They were also as cold and as empty as the eyes of the dead.