Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2)

by Ben Cassidy

  Kendril gave a sardonic smile. “I’m glad to hear that, Maklavir.” He made the slow journey towards the palace doors, wincing with each step. “What about Kara?”

  Joseph walked beside him as Maklavir fell in on the other side. “Whitmore has given her an official pardon for her assistance in putting down this little plot of Lord Bathsby’s.”

  “Little plot?” said Kendril. He looked over at the diplomat. “Is that how this whole thing is going to go down in Llewyllian history?”

  “Failed attempts to overthrow governments rarely receive much press or praise,” Maklavir commented.

  They exited through the doors.

  The rain had stopped, and tendrils of blue sky appeared above. The castle courtyard still bore some of the signs of the battle that had occurred there just a few nights before, but much had already been cleaned up and replaced.

  Sir Mulcher was standing at the bottom of the steps, wearing the white uniform of the Royal Guard. His left arm ended at the elbow, the empty sleeve pinned back to the shoulder of his uniform.

  “Mr. Kendril,” he said with a smile. “Glad to see you up and well. A bit touch and go there for a while, eh?”

  “I guess so.” Kendril gave Mulcher’s arm a weighty glance. “It looks like you’ve had a bit of ‘touch and go’ yourself.”

  Mulcher glanced down at his arm. “Oh, that. Musket ball shattered the bone to pieces. Physicians had to remove it, don’t you know?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kendril.

  Mulcher made a face. “Don’t be. This old soldier still has plenty of fight left in him, I can assure you that.”

  Joseph came up beside Kendril. “Lord Whitmore has appointed Sir Mulcher the new head of the Royal Guard.”

  Kendril inclined his head. “Congratulations.”

  Mulcher beamed. “Her Highness has put a carriage on hold for you, for the trip to the cathedral. I’ll have it brought over, if you’re all ready.”

  Maklavir nodded. “I think we are.”

  Sir Mulcher turned and headed across the grassy courtyard.

  “Joseph,” said Kendril quietly, “whatever happened to Lady Bronwyn?”

  The scout looked over at his friend. “Who?”

  “The black-haired woman wearing the amber amulet.”

  Joseph thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, I think I remember her. I haven’t seen her around anywhere. She certainly wasn’t with the prisoners that were taken. Why?”

  Kendril frowned, leaning on his cane. “She must have escaped in all the confusion,” he said.

  Maklavir gave a hearty shrug. “Either way, I doubt we’ll be hearing from her again.”

  The Ghostwalker nodded, but said nothing.

  “Ah,” said Maklavir as the coach rumbled towards them down the tree-lined avenue. “Here comes our ride.”

  The wedding ceremony was truly an epic event. The road to the cathedral was lined with a cheering crowd, and even the sun came out for a bit. The church itself was packed with onlookers, and the nobles were dressed in their finest attire.

  Maklavir, Kendril and Joseph found that seats had been reserved for them uncomfortably close to the front. Kara was already there, wearing a beautiful silken gown instead of her usual green cloak and trousers. Her red hair dangled down in delicate curls, each finely combed and set.

  Joseph stopped cold when he saw her, his mouth open and his eyes wide with astonishment.

  Kara cocked her head as she saw his reaction. “Try not to stare too much, Joseph. You’ll start making me feel self-conscious.” Her voice was stern, but she couldn’t hide the smile on her face.

  For a moment Joseph nervously fumbled with a reply, but a smiling Maklavir pushed him down into his chair, gave a gentlemanly bow to Kara and then sat himself.

  Serentha and Lord Whitmore were married at noon, the church bells ringing loudly as they finally kissed.

  Kendril watched the whole ceremony in silence, his eyes always on the princess. When the newly married couple walked down the central aisle of the cathedral, she glanced over for one brief instant, and caught Kendril’s gaze.

  And then, just as quickly, she looked away.

  The reception was held at the palace that evening. Music poured out of the open ballroom windows, and fireworks exploded into the night sky above Castle Dunhill, their red and purple tails sparkling down with fizzling pops.

  Kendril escaped the celebration early, limping his way across the castle courtyard with the help of the walking stick. He found the stables against the northwestern part of the wall, and made his way inside. The stalls were dark, heavy with the scent of hay and excrement, but the muffled sound of laughter and music from the palace could still be heard through the loosely boarded walls.

  The Ghostwalker stopped in front of a stall, and pulled back his hood. There was a snort, and then a dark shape lumbered forward, giving a soft bray.

  Kendril smiled and smacked the mule fondly on the nose. “Hey there, mush-for-brains. You getting the royal treatment here again?”

  Simon gave a wag of his head. Straw fell from his nostrils.

  “Well don’t get used to it,” said Kendril. “We’re going.” He opened the stall door and led the mule out.

  Simon buried his face in Kendril’s shirt, gave another loud snort and lashed his tail back and forth.

  The Ghostwalker sighed. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a carrot. “Here. Just one, though. You’re not getting any more.”

  Simon took the vegetable, chomping noisily on it as he lashed his tail even harder.

  Kendril took the mule’s bridle, leading him back towards the stable doors. He looked up, and stopped.

  “I thought you might leave,” came Serentha’s soft voice. “I was hoping you’d at least say goodbye.”

  Kendril looked away. A waltz from the palace drifted out on the night air. “I guess I don’t like long goodbyes,” he said simply.

  Serentha stepped forward. “Neither do I.” She paused awkwardly, then shifted a long package that she held in her arms. “I have something for you. To…remember me by.”

  Kendril took a cautious step forward, and took the wrapped gift. He gave Serentha a questioning look.

  “Open it,” she said.

  He did, tearing away the paper that the object was wrapped in.

  It was a rapier, shining brightly even in the tiny amount of moonlight that penetrated the stalls. The wire rim hilt was covered in gold, twisted around into the shape of a peacock with its tail feathers outstretched. Blue and green jewels glittered in a dazzling array along the wings of the bird and down the handle as well.

  Kendril ran a finger down the steel blade. It was razor sharp, made of fine Balneth steel. He looked up at Serentha. Torn emotions showed on his face.

  “Jade, I can’t—” he began, standing with the sword awkwardly in his hands.

  She nodded quickly. “I know.” She looked into his eyes. “It’s for when you find your redemption.”

  Kendril stood silently for a moment, then took the sword firmly in his hands. “Thank you,” he said.

  Serentha nodded. She looked away quickly. Kendril could see a sparkle of tears in her eyes.

  “I suppose this is goodbye, then,” she said without looking at him.

  Kendril merely nodded.

  Jade looked at the ground for a moment, then looked up at him, her voice shaking.

  “Goodbye, Kendril. I will never forget you.”

  Before he could respond she had turned, walking quickly out of the stables and away across the castle courtyard.

  Balneth was quiet as Kendril walked through the cobbled streets. Most of the aristocracy was at the palace celebrating, and the rest of the common folk were either up late at the taverns or snug inside their beds at home.

  He reached the northern gate, nodding to the guards as he passed through to the dark road that stretched beyond.

  Simon gave a soft whine as they stopped along the side of t
he path a little ways from the city gate.

  “Just a moment, boy,” said Kendril. “We’ll be going soon enough.”

  He stepped back to the mule, and took the sword in his hand. He drew it from its sheath and held it up in the moonlight. The balance was almost perfect, the steel light as a feather. He gave it one or two quick swings. The blade sang as it carved through the night air.

  He had never seen a finer weapon.

  For a moment he held it, looking down the blade in silence. Then he slid it back into its sheath, wrapping the whole weapon again in the paper it had come in. He slid the sword onto the pack on Simon’s back with his good hand, and secured it as tightly as he could. Taking his cane, he started down the long road.

  “Well, well,” came a voice from behind him, “you’re out awfully late.”

  Kendril turned in surprise.

  It was Joseph, sitting on his horse. The scout gave a quiet smile. “Which direction are you headed?”

  The Ghostwalker shrugged, still getting over his surprise at finding the Joseph here. “North, I suppose.” He looked down the dark road. “To Calbraith, or maybe Arbela.”

  Joseph whistled. “That’s a bloody fine coincidence. I was just heading north myself.” He eyed the road ahead. “Perhaps we should travel together. It never hurts to have a pathfinder along.”

  “And a diplomat, too,” came a voice from the other side of the road. Maklavir appeared from out of the woods, riding Veritas. He stopped the horse and smiled broadly. “Just happened to be in the area. I heard you both were headed north.”

  Joseph beamed. “Quite right. You’re not heading north too, are you?”

  “I am.”

  The scout slapped his leg. “You know, we should all travel together.”

  Kendril gave each man a hard look. “I know what you’re trying to do here—” he started.

  “Of course,” said Joseph to Maklavir, “we have to consider whether we really want a Ghostwalker tagging along with us.”

  The diplomat nodded sagely. “I’ve heard they’re dangerous.”

  “And stubborn,” came Kara’s voice from behind them. The redheaded thief rode up, a new hunting bow and quiver hanging from her saddle. She was dressed in her familiar brown and green weather-stained cloak.

  She smiled. “Someone told me you boys were headed north.”

  Joseph shook his head. “By Tuldor’s beard. What are the odds of this? All of us headed the same direction, at the same time?”

  Kara pulled her horse next to Joseph’s, patting her mount on its neck. “Perhaps we should all travel together,” she suggested innocently.

  Maklavir grinned from ear to ear. “That’s a capital idea!”

  All three looked down at Kendril.

  “Well,” said Joseph as he leaned on the pommel of his saddle. “What do you say, Kendril?”

  For a moment the Ghostwalker said nothing. Then, ever so slowly, a smile formed on his face.

  “All right then,” he said at last. There was a sudden glow of warmth in his heart.

  “North it is.”

  Continued in Book 3 of the Chronicles of Zanthora:

  Soulbinder

  For thrilling action adventure set in the “sword and planet” setting of the Two Rings, check out these collections of novellas, also by Ben Cassidy:

  Daughter of Llathe: A Tale of the Two Rings

  Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 1

  Tales of the Two Rings: Volume 2

  About the Author:

  Ben Cassidy lives in Vancouver, WA, with his wife and three children. He pursued graduate studies in history for several years until he decided that reading six scholarly books a week was not challenging enough for him, and so switched to being a stay-at-home dad. He has been writing since he was in third grade, though now he is able to bribe other people to do the illustrating for him. He has the uncanny habit of writing of himself in the third person, and is disturbed by how easily his whole life can be summed up in four sentences. Or even five.

  Connect with Me Online:

  Email list for New Releases: ChroniclesofZanthora@yahoo.com

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ben-Cassidy/393172364133550?ref=hl

  Note from the Author:

  I need your help.

  When you publish independently, you have to do everything yourself. I’m not just writing and dreaming up plotlines and characters. I’m editing, formatting, and marketing my books as well. All that takes time, and most of it I’m not very good at.

  There is no marketing campaign behind me. No major publishing house. No motivated literary agent watching my back. It’s just me. And in this e-book age, a successful writer needs positive word-of-mouth to succeed.

  If you liked what you just read, if you want to see more of the characters and the worlds I am creating, then take five minutes to help me out. Publish a review of my work online. You’d be amazed how important reviews are, and how few readers do it. Click on my facebook link (above) and like my page. Sign up for my update email list, ChroniclesofZanthora@yahoo.com. I promise I will only send emails to you when I’m coming out with a new piece of fiction.

  And above all, tell a friend that you liked my work. Blog, twitter, tweet, text, facebook, or telegraph other people about me.

  And thank you for reading what I have written. If even for a moment you found yourself standing under the twin moons of a distant world, or smelled the stench of gunpowder and crisp tang of blood, then I consider my work well done.

  An Excerpt from Book Three of

  The Chronicles of Zanthora:

  Soulbinder

  Chapter 1

  Kendril always hated having to kill someone. Especially before breakfast.

  He pressed the barrel of his flintlock pistol a little harder into the cheek of the person before him, causing a little white circle to form on the skin.

  The man looked back at him in terror, his face smashed against the wooden boards of the tavern wall.

  He didn’t look nearly so tough now, Kendril thought. Considering the poor fool was a trigger’s pull away from a messy death, Kendril couldn’t really blame him.

  The room was deathly silent. The table and chairs still lay haphazardly on the ground where they had been thrown, while the dirty floor boards were covered with the yellowed playing cards that had been sent flying moments before. Poker chips lay scattered everywhere.

  By the frost-covered window another man was getting to his feet, a knife at his belt half-drawn.

  Only half-drawn, because Kendril’s other hand held a second flintlock pistol that was aimed at his head.

  “Kendril,” said a voice from behind him, “for the love of Eru put those guns away.”

  Kendril kept his eyes shifting back and forth between the two men he held at gunpoint. “Stay out of this, Maklavir.”

  Brushing himself off, Maklavir rose to his feet, giving a heavy sigh. He was a tall man, immaculately dressed in fine silk clothes with a purple cape and a prominent silver buckle on his belt. Dark hair and a sharply-trimmed goatee accentuated his face, while a sword that looked as if it hadn’t seen much use was fastened to his belt.

  His friend was far different in appearance. Draped around Kendril was a long, weather-stained black cloak, with a hood that covered his head. Along with the two pistols he held in his hands, the hilts of two short swords glistened from underneath the folds of his cloak. His boots were spattered with mud and snow, and black gloves covered his hands.

  “I was handling this just fine,” said Maklavir sourly.

  The man by the window shot the purple-caped man a hate-filled look. “You’re a dirty liar and a cheat.”

  Maklavir spread his hands in frustration. “I told you, I wasn’t cheating. You were just playing badly, that’s all. Now look, maybe we—”

  “You’re a dead man, ambassador,” snarled the man with the pistol against his cheek. His eyes shifted warily back to Kendril. “And so’s your friend here. We have friends in t
his town.”

  Maklavir sighed, looking down at a trampled card on the ground. “Diplomat, not ambassador. And I’m not even that any more. Look, can’t we just talk about this?”

  The man by the window looked over at Kendril, his hand tightening on his dagger. “You picked the wrong fop to help, stranger. You must have a real death wish.”

  Maklavir replaced a cap with a bouncing yellow feather on his head. “Actually, he does have a death wish. He’s a Ghostwalker.”

  If it was even possible, the two men’s faces paled a little bit more.

  “A Ghostwalker?” stammered the man against the wall.

  “You’re lying,” snapped the other one.

  “Care to find out?” said Kendril.

  There was another moment of agonizing silence.

  Finally, there was a clunk as the man against the wall dropped the sword that had been in his hand. With a resigned scowl the man by the window let his dagger fall back into its sheath, then pulled his hand away.

  Kendril took a step back, his pistols still leveled at both men. “Now both of you, get out, before I decide to redecorate in here.”

  With a silent look of rage at the Ghostwalker, they shuffled through the door out into the bustling common room of the tavern.

  Kendril watched them carefully until they disappeared out the front door into the frosty morning air. Giving a satisfied sniff, he re-holstered his pistols.

  “What in the Halls of Pelos was that?” said Maklavir as soon as they had gone.

  Kendril gave his friend a surprised look. “What was that? That was me saving your life. The big one already had his sword out, for Eru’s sake.”

  Maklavir angrily grabbed one of the wooden chairs and set it back upright. “I told you I had it under control. Until you came in here, that is, waving those confounded firearms of yours around—”