by Greg Curtis
But as if to make up for their absence there were minstrels. He hated minstrels. Their singing tore at his ears, the sounds of their harps and lutes were pure torture. Adding insult to injury he recognised them as nothing more than a bunch of thieves and beggars who told endless lies about him across a thousand inns. He would have had them all put to the sword had it been allowed. He regularly prayed to the All Father to have them struck down by some plague. But of course that never happened. The gods – if they truly existed – did not do as he asked. And to kill them himself would simply have been seen as a king gone mad, and would have stirred up the people against him. So he had to tolerate them. As the king he had to be seen by the people as at least fair. They were never going to love him as they had loved his father, but if he was considered fair, then at least they wouldn't turn on him.
Heri's mother had taught him that, before she'd turned against him and he'd imprisoned her in the towers with the rest of his enemies. Stupid woman, she'd actually thought that she could control the throne through him. Now she had plenty of time to reflect on her mistakes. He was the king and she should have known better. But still, he visited her and listened to her advice from time to time, one piece of which was to hold regular public courts. His subjects needed to know that their king still lived and that he still held the reins of power tightly. That their lives were his.
They also needed to know that he was beyond them in all the ways that mattered. And so the castle was kept in perfect order, the throne room and all the antechambers were polished daily and the most extravagant of artworks hung from the walls. Naturally most of them were portraits of him, looking down regally over his subjects.
The cannon throne that he'd had carefully crafted in precious metals was another symbol of his power. He had had his golden high backed chair draped in the most expensive furs he could buy and then placed securely on two bronzed cannon. Those cannon in turn stood on a raised dais of marble overlooking the chamber. He thought it emphasized both his wealth and his military might.
Then too he held a dozen balls a year, more than he needed to and far more than he wanted, but he had to demonstrate his wealth at every opportunity.
The guards in their expensive finery and bearing their more than serviceable weapons were also sign of his power, as was the army he kept and the regular patrols he sent throughout the realm. The people had to know he was more than just a man; that he would not be easily overthrown, and that when the time came if they tried, he would crush them. There was a reason he kept the heads of those who had dared to stand against him on a garden of pikes outside the front gates. There was also a reason that there were so many of them.
More important than the people of course, the nobles had to know that he was king. Fair Fields was less a kingdom than a collection of baronies, fiefdoms, principalities and estates that had come together for trade and mutual defence from one another. The throne was a prize that all of them wanted. And they all wanted to see Heri fail so that they could lay claim to it.
He would not fail though. And today every noble house would see once again that he had a way of dealing with those who challenged him. It would keep them in order for a while. And the people would think nothing of it save that the king was supporting them. Today would be a good day for him. If he could just get through it.
Heri sat on his throne, idly clutching his gold and jewel encrusted sceptre, surrounded by his court and tried to look attentive as his mother had schooled him. A king had to be seen to be concerned with affairs of state, even when he wasn't. Like today for example.
Usually he was. Usually he liked being king. He liked having the nobles of the realm bow to him. He liked setting down the law, and watching them grit their teeth in pain as they had to obey. He liked raising taxes for the same reason. Not because of the poor people who also had to pay them. They were nobodies. But the nobles, the pretentious, treacherous lords and ladies of the court – most of whom were always looking for a chance to slip a dagger in to his back – they mattered, and he loved seeing them suffer. He loved seeing the impotent fury in their eyes as they surrounded him, bowed to him, while all the time masking their rage with fake smiles.
This day however, wasn't a good one. First there had been news from his spies that the elves of Shavarra were on the move. No one could tell him why, save that it didn't seem to be a military posture. But the one thing they could tell him was that the elves were heading this way. West towards Fair Fields. Every pigeon they had sent had said the same thing. He didn't like that. He especially didn't like that there could be a war coming. So he had had his patrols start riding the border and now waited impatiently for more news from his spies.
To add to his worries Augrim had been making noises about some huge magical event in the world. He too could tell him little about it, save that it was immense and it heralded major changes in the world. The man might be his magical advisor and highly respected as a wizard, but some days Heri wondered if he was really worth what he paid him. True the wizard had found him a lot of ancient magical treasures for his sanctum, but often his divination skills didn't seem to be the most reliable. And the cost of all those scrolls of magical knowledge the wizard wanted in exchange for his services was excessive. Besides, he hated the wizard's stupid looking beard.
Then a messenger had come from the dungeons with some disturbing news. His prisoner was poorly. That was a worry. He didn't really care in truth whether Ryshal lived or not. She was inconsequential, especially since she'd spurned his advances years before. There were plenty of other wenches happy to share his bedchamber and a whoring elf didn't matter to him. But if she died his hold on Samual died with her, and that could be dangerous.
Samual had magic, which was bad enough. He'd used it against him once, and Heri had counted himself lucky to have been ready for him. Even so it had been close. A lot of men had fallen that day and Heri had nearly fallen with them. But if Samual had been thinking he would have known that his magic wasn't his greatest weapon. Nor was his blade. He was a knight, one of the dearly loved knights of Hanor, and he had a following within his order. People who would blindly follow him. Others would follow them in turn. And they would do so not only because they loved Samual but also in memory of their father – the only king of Fair Fields to have been elected by the people of the land and not the nobles. That made Samual much more dangerous than a few sparks flowing from his fingertips.
It also didn't help that his half-blood brother was fair of face. He stood tall and he smiled and people flocked to him. They listened as he spouted his noble words. They believed in him. The bastard had been favoured by the All Father.
Heri hated him for that. He always had. Samual had been his father's favourite. He had always had everything given to him. Worse still, things came easily to him. Whether it was swords, or warcraft, learning or magic, he had been given everything. For as long as he could remember Heri had always wanted Samual dead. It had just never seemed to happen.
Heri for his part wasn't loved by the people, and there was nothing he could do to change that. The people wanted a hero. Or a worthy king. At the very least they wanted someone they could understand. Feel a little kinship with. But using the shortened version of his name had not been enough to do that. Samual called himself Sam and the people flocked to him because of it. He shortened his name and they lost what little respect they had for him to begin with. And now instead of Heriott he was eternally Heri. As for the Court they hated him. An older brother, even if he was a bastard son without a legitimate claim to the throne could still pose a serious threat to his rule if he was loved. Heri couldn't afford threats.
Lose the throne and lose his life. That was one of the facts of life his mother had taught him, and Heri had learned the lesson well. He had no interest in dying.
That was why Heri had locked Samual's elven whore up in the first place. Samual had made a pretence of leaving Fair Fields with his new wife and her parents. He had loaded up wagons and made all t
he right noises. But it had been a lie. Heri had seen through to the cold, calculating heart of his pox ridden half-brother. Samual had been making a play for the throne. He had only pretended to be leaving. In truth he had been fomenting revolution. His plan had been to make the people protest and beg him to stay. He had even amassed a following. It wouldn't have been long Heri knew, before Samual had graciously acceded to the people's demands and taken the throne from him. That could not have been allowed.
So he had abducted Samual's wife and locked her away. Then he had sent his royal guards to kill Samual. They had failed. Badly. But his hostage had saved him. Even at the end Samual had not been able to kill him. The whore was his weakness. And Heri knew he had to keep her. Always. He could not afford her getting ill.
The girl had to live, at least until his brother had died. But Samual kept refusing to die, so his miserable elven whore had to live. For the moment. Because if she died it would be war. And Heri had no idea how strong or cunning Samual had become. How many allies he'd gained. All he knew was that until his assassins who he paid a hefty amount of coin for had finally done the one and only job he paid them to do, she had to live. Then she could hang.
If only he could find him! Heri was almost certain now that Samual was somewhere in one of the nearby elven realms. He was half elf so where else could he go? But finding one man who was presumably using a false name in either of the two nearest elven realms was proving extremely difficult. Samual could be anywhere, gathering his power and preparing his plans to take his throne. The whore had to live.
He'd sent a messenger back down to the dungeons with those very instructions, and a healer as well, but they hadn't yet reported back. For all he knew the elven wench could already be dead. Then there would be an underworld of trouble. Especially if the nobles realised.
He had gone to great lengths to make sure that they never found out about his prisoner. Because the instant they did, his brother would have an ally. And if she died, then the nobles would have an angry fire mage, knight and a prince at their side. It would become a revolution.
“Highness?”
Heri looked up as his major-domo finally caught his attention, reminding him that he had a decision to render. The man was an irritation some days with his simpering words, and Heri hated the way he watched him all the time with those calculating eyes. But he could be useful, especially when he reminded him that he was supposed to be hearing a dispute instead of fretting. A dispute between a merchants' guild and the Fallbrights. Which reminded him in turn that he had already made up his mind – in fact he had done so well before the hearing – and he couldn't be bothered listening to anything more from the two of them. The morning was marching on and Heri had had enough. It was time to give his decision.
“Fallbright, attend me.” He commanded the ageing Baron with an imperious wave of his hand, and watched with not particularly well-concealed glee as the noble limped his way to the foot of his throne. He was an old man, his hair very grey if not completely white yet, and he'd suffered an injury a year before falling off his horse. An injury that would not heal. But then it wouldn't when the Baron's own healers were in the pay of Heri, and had been commanded to keep him suffering. With luck he'd never walk properly again. But that was the price for disloyalty. After all, the man had openly questioned his will. Now it would be good that the rest of the court should witness his dominion over the noble, and learn some respect.
“Highness.” Baron Fallbright bowed low to him as was required, despite the obvious pain it caused him. But then he probably knew that bad news was coming, and he didn't want to make it any worse.
“Your roads have been closed too long, the taxes you demand of the merchants passing through, too high. This will change. From the morn you will halve your taxes on the merchants, and your lands will be open to all.”
“Yes your Highness.” The Baron bowed again, probably hating him with every breath of his weakened body, while the rest of the court clapped politely. No doubt at least the merchant cartels would welcome his decision even if the nobles hated him for it. But Heri hadn't made his decision for them. Nor for trade. It was always about strategy. Fallbright had defied him, openly questioned his decisions in front of the court. He had to pay and he had to be seen to pay.
With the income from the merchants halved, the Barony of Fallbright would find itself in a difficult position. They could not afford to continue spending as they did, which meant their small army would become smaller again. Their spies and assassins would be reduced in number as well, and most importantly, their influence in the court would suffer.
Of course they'd fight back. They'd find some other devious method for gaining coin, and start once again to rise to the top of the pile of noble houses through a careful programme of assassinations and espionage. They'd probably also make a few more attempts on his life, never realising that their assassins were also in Heri's pay, or that their spies told them exactly what Heri wanted them to hear. The Barony was a big house and a rich one, but not that clever. Still, perhaps this would be a good evening to sit in his sanctum and spy on them through the Window of Parsus.
Heri dismissed the Baron with a casual wave and watched him limp back to his place in the queue of attendees to stand with his advisers, happy with his work. It would perhaps have been more satisfying to kill the old man, whether officially or through his own assassins, but that would bring its own problems in the form of his sons. The Baron had three of them and all of them were nasty in their own right. Each had trained as soldiers, although the two elder sons were none too bright. When their father died there would be a grab for his seat, and when one of them claimed it, trouble would begin. Bainbury – their main town – would be in turmoil – and there would likely be battles in the street as soldiers loyal to each of the three sons fought. And no matter which one of them finally succeeded and took the reins of the barony all three were just about ambitious and stupid enough to actually try to form an alliance against him and march on the citadel. The eldest two anyway.
They would lose of course. Fall Keep was ready for them – and even if it wasn't he had one or two toys in his secret sanctum that would destroy them completely – but they wouldn't be clever enough to realise that in advance, and there would be trouble until then. It would lead to his people panicking. Nobles and merchants would all be busy trying to take advantage of the discord, and of course, there would be more threats against him as people took their chances. The old man was a nuisance, but at least he wasn't stupid.
The youngest son though, Harmion, the weasel, now he was clever. Cunning like a rat. Or like one of Alder's followers as Heri sometimes suspected he was. Who else could the weasel follow but the God of mischief? If Harmion somehow took the seat when his father died, things would be worse. He wouldn't make the same mistakes as his older brothers. He would use subtlety and guile, and that was far harder to defend against.
Maybe, Heri thought, it was time that the weasel had an unfortunate accident. A crossbow bolt in his back. And while he was at it, Samual too could finally die. His assassins had failed repeatedly against him, causing him no end of annoyance, but there were always more to hire, and some of them surely were better skilled.
Sooner or later one of them would have to get through. Sooner or later Samual would die and he would finally be rid of him.
Heri tried to concentrate on that joyful thought as he listened to the next petitioner – a trading consortium upset about the market fees in one of Lord Cameral's towns. But really he couldn't. Not when Samual was so well hidden from his agents and all he wanted to do was kill him.
Now there was a prayer he would offer to the All Father.
Chapter Five.
Life was pain for Sam. It had been for a day and a half.
His woes had begun from the very moment he'd finally caught up with the elves after the battle and he was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. Despite the exhaustion of their mounts they had made good time an
d were very nearly at Torin Vale by the time he and Tyla had reached them. Sam by that stage had been almost asleep in the saddle. Only his horse's smooth gait and his feet bound firmly in the stirrups had stopped him from falling to the ground. The fire within him had seemed to have been drained by the battle – more so than ever before. He knew he couldn't have launched another attack for at least a week. Fortunately he figured the enemy had been badly hurt and his remaining machina a long way behind. He would need time to recover. The elves would have time to flee.
It was lucky he had a well-trained steed. He could set her off on course, and Tyla would carry on even though he had given her the lead. True to her nature, Tyla once on the path had quickly located her daughter Aegis' scent ahead, and had tracked her down and even given chase. By the time he truly awoke he was already in the midst of the fleeing elves. Elves who understandably had questions.
Despite the distance, they had seen and heard much of the battle, if only from the shaking of the ground under their feet, the thunder that echoed for leagues and the great balls of flame that seared the very sky. But from at least several leagues away, that was an incredible testament to just how massive that last spell must have been. Though Sam had been at the very heart of the blast, he had been sheltered from the worst of it by the channelling itself. So even what he had witnessed had been limited. The true force of the magic only the machina and the forest had known, and they weren't talking.