Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2)

by Ben Cassidy

  Kendril’s eyes glowered darkly. “Those ‘confounded firearms’ just saved your life, you pompous windbag. Two more seconds and you would have been dead on the floor.”

  Maklavir set the table back up with a stifled groan. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore. Any winnings are gone either way. I don’t suppose you managed to procure any coinage last night?”

  The Ghostwalker scowled, glancing at the busy street outside the window. “No.” He gave Maklavir a side look. “So were you cheating?”

  “No,” said the diplomat coldly. “I told you before, Kendril, I don’t cheat.”

  The young man in the black cloak grunted. “Right.”

  They moved back into the common room of the tavern. The place was large, with long rectangular tables running down the center of the room. A fireplace stood against the far wall, with a nondescript painted landscape hung above it. A bar ran across the wall to their right, and the tavern owner and his assistant were busy delivering breakfast to people seated at the tables. Illuminated in the gray morning light streaming in through the windows, the tavern had the vaguely dirty, unsophisticated look of a hundred other taverns in a hundred other small towns.

  Kendril had seen enough of them to last a lifetime.

  They moved around one of the larger tables, avoiding a man who was tearing furiously into a stale loaf of bread. No one seemed too concerned about the scuffle that had occurred just minutes ago back in the card room, but that didn’t particularly surprise Kendril. Stefgarten was filled with miscreants and vagabonds of every description, and fights in this town seemed fairly common. He had seen two break out in the street in as many days. One had ended with a man getting killed.

  It was all rather typical for a little border town like Stefgarten. The refuse from both Merewith and Valmingaard seemed to congregate here, looking for a place to trade furs, drink booze, and play cards where no pesky officials would bother them. Technically, Stefgarten was in the borders of the Empire of Merewith, but Merewith was fractured and divided into countless duchies and baronies. The Emperor in the capital city of Varn didn’t have much actual authority over many of the outlying provinces. Kendril didn’t know what petty lord held sway this close to the border of Valmingaard, and frankly he didn’t really care. Whoever it was had obviously given up any attempt to govern this backwater little town, and Kendril didn’t much blame them. Stefgarten wasn’t exactly the kind of place worth caring about, much less fighting for.

  The sooner they got out of here, he thought for the hundredth time, the better.

  “Well,” said Maklavir, shaking his depleted coin purse miserably. “I suppose we have enough for breakfast, anyway. Might as well start the day on the right foot.”

  Kendril rubbed his eyes wearily as they sat down at one of the long tables close to the fireplace. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  “Yes, well eat up, because this is probably the last meal we’ll have for a while, not to mention beds for the night. I can only hope Joseph and Kara are having better luck than we are.”

  Kendril leaned back in his chair, watching the thin crowd in the common room warily. “They certainly can’t be having much worse.”

  “No,” said Maklavir with a sigh. “They certainly can’t.” He looked up as a tavern maid came up to the table.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” she announced.

  The diplomat gave a disarming smile. “Your beauty is enough for me, my dear.”

  The maid giggled, her cheeks blushing slightly.

  Kendril rolled his eyes. “Bread and cheese for me,” he said. “And an ale.”

  Maklavir gave his companion a sharp look. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Kendril.”

  “You indulge in your vices, Maklavir,” Kendril replied with a quick glance at the wench, “and I’ll indulge in mine.”

  The diplomat shook his head, then smiled up at the girl again. “Bread and cheese for me as well, my dear, though plain water will suffice instead of ale.”

  Batting her eyes one more time at Maklavir, the maid turned back to the bar.

  Kendril folded his hands together on the surface of the table. “Do you have to do that all the time?”

  Maklavir rubbed his hands together, looking up in surprise. “Do what?”

  “Flirt with every woman who gets within fifty feet of us. It’s annoying.”

  The diplomat glanced up at the painting above the fire. “I find that flirting is a rather necessary prerequisite when it comes to enjoying the company of a beautiful woman.”

  Kendril crossed his arms, his eyes wandering to a bearded man at the next table. “Here’s a thought. Maybe for once you could forgo the company of a beautiful woman and leave us all in peace.”

  Maklavir looked over at his friend. “Just because you’ve made a silly vow never to touch a woman doesn’t give you the right to deny others the same.” He cocked his head. “You’re unusually nasty this morning. Anything you want to talk about?”

  “With you? No.” Kendril’s eyes followed the tavern maid as she returned to their table with their food and drinks.

  “Thank you,” said Maklavir with another smile. He pressed a coin into the lady’s hand. “And this is for you. A small price to pay to view such a lovely face.”

  She smiled again, hesitating for a long moment before she turned quickly back to the bar.

  Kendril grabbed the handle of his ale mug. “Want to give away any more of our money?”

  Maklavir shrugged and picked up his bread. “Tavern maids make next to nothing, Kendril. A little tip won’t hurt.”

  The Ghostwalker lifted his mug sarcastically. “Here’s hoping you make it into her bed, then. I’d hate to think that coin was wasted.”

  Maklavir took a bite of his bread and gave Kendril a cutting look. “My, my, you’re positively vitriolic.”

  Kendril took a long draught of the ale, then set the mug back down on the table. “Why shouldn’t I be? We’ve got no money, we haven’t heard from Joseph or Kara in three days…” he glanced down suspiciously at his drink, “and this ale has more water in it than the Arneth River.”

  “Joseph is a skilled trapper,” said Maklavir as he cut off a slice of the grayish cheese. “And Kara’s a fairly decent woodsman herself. I’m betting they’ll have some furs to trade when they get back.”

  “They’d better,” glowered Kendril, “because so far all we’ve gotten from your card playing are death threats.”

  Maklavir waved his knife in the air. “I told you, I had that under control.”

  Kendril sighed, looking off to the side and rubbing his arms. The air in the common room was chilly, despite the blazing fire just a few feet away. Last night’s bedding hadn’t kept out the frigid cold much, either. Of course, even that would be better than sleeping out in the stables, which is what they were facing unless they got enough money for rooms tonight.

  All in all, Kendril thought to himself as he looked over the tables of the common room, things were about as low as they could get. To make matters worse, if he had just gotten out of bed five minutes later Maklavir would most likely be dead right now and he could have been spared the tediousness of having breakfast with the man.

  Oh well. Such were the vagaries of life.

  They ate in silence, enjoying as best they could the meager fare before them. As Kendril drained the last of his ale, Maklavir yawned, stretching his arms as the fire crackled nearby.

  “I suppose we should go get the animals,” he said, his voice drained of enthusiasm.

  Kendril nodded, wiping his chin. “When did Joseph say he and Kara would be back?”

  Maklavir brushed some crumbs off his trousers and got stiffly to his feet. “Sometime today. He wasn’t much more specific than that.”

  Kendril got up as well, casting a quick look at a group of men clustered at one of the other tables. “Hopefully they’ll find us, then.”

  His companion sighed. “Hopefully.”

  They moved
to the door of the simple tavern and headed outside.

  The first bite of air was startlingly cold, and Maklavir quickly pulled on his gloves against the chill.

  Kendril closed the door behind them, glancing around.

  The front porch of the inn was small, opening abruptly onto the main street of Stefgarten. Icicles glistened brightly in the morning sunshine from where they hung along the edge of the inn’s roof, and the wooden steps leading down to the street sparkled with ice as well. Snow covered the entire street in front of them, close to a foot deep in places. A small lane had been plowed through the center of the road. Snow was piled against the buildings on either side. The constant churning of passing people and animals had turned it an unhealthy brown, and in places the dirt showed through the trampled snow on the bottom of the lane.

  Kendril glanced up at the bright sky above, then moved for the stairs that led to the street. He grabbed the railing carefully as he descended, trying not to slip on the icy footing.

  Cold winters were certainly not a strange sight this far north, and life in Stefgarten plodded remorselessly on through the inclement weather. Several travelers worked their way down the street, keeping their heads down against the crisp air. A large wagon carrying several barrels creaked through the snow, a small gray dog yapping and biting at the heels of the weary horses that pulled it. Across the street under the awning of the local general store three men were drinking whiskey and laughing uproariously at some joke. A woman wearing a dark blue handkerchief over her head hurriedly crossed the street, huddling a screaming infant close to her chest.

  Kendril pulled up his cloak against the cold breeze, his eyes watching the road carefully.

  Maklavir clambered down the steps as well, both hands on the rail.

  Three men came out from an alleyway across the way, wearing wide-brimmed hats and keeping their faces down out of the wind.

  “It was like this all the time in Valmingaard,” said Maklavir conversationally as he stepped cautiously into the snow. “Bloody cold almost the year round. Can’t say I miss it much.”

  Kendril crunched into the snow, glancing over at the woman and her screaming infant. “The Valmingaard border’s not far from here, just a day’s march or so to the north.” He smirked. “Maybe we should drop in and say hi to your old friends at the royal court.”

  “That wouldn’t be such a good idea,” said Maklavir as he tried his best to avoid getting snow on his trousers, “what with the banishment and all. The King was never too good at controlling his temper, and I have a feeling—” He glanced up, his face suddenly blanching. “Great Eru!”

  Kendril whirled, one hand flashing to his pistol.

  The three men that had appeared from the alley were coming towards them. Two of them were the same ruffians that Maklavir had been playing cards with that morning, and the third was a large man who looked to be a friend of theirs.

  Somehow, Kendril thought as he whipped out one of his pistols, he had a feeling they weren’t interested in another game.

  The gun was barely in his hand before one of the men swung a large wooden club. It caught the barrel of the pistol, knocking it out of Kendril’s grip and into the snow a few feet away.

  His wrist still ringing from the blow, Kendril jumped back, fishing for the hilt of one of the two short swords buckled to his belt. He crashed into Maklavir, and sent them both sprawling back against the wooden steps.

  The diplomat gave a sharp cry of pain as the sharp corner of one dug into his ribs.

  The man with the club was readying another blow when his foot slipped on a patch of ice. He wobbled and threw out both hands to steady himself.

  The second man drew his knife, then caught sight of Kendril’s pistol in the snow. He rushed off to the side, and reached out a hand for the gun.

  With a muffled curse, Kendril shoved Maklavir aside, then drew his sword. He nearly lost his footing on the icy ground.

  The diplomat slid into the wooden railing, than fell backwards into the snow.

  The man with the club had finally steadied himself, but not before Kendril hurtled at him.

  The Ghostwalker’s sword shone fiercely in the morning sun before it cleaved through the wooden club and into the man’s arm.

  The ruffian screamed shrilly as he tripped back into the snow, blood erupting from his slashed limb.

  Kendril spun around, just in time to see the second man with the knife pick his gun up out of the snow. He launched the short sword in his hand through the air towards the man.

  Admittedly, it wasn’t a very tactically sound maneuver. Swords were in general not designed to be aerodynamic, and throwing one was generally a sign of extreme desperation.

  Then again, this situation struck Kendril as being about as desperate as they came.

  Fortunately, the blade proved better at the task than Kendril had assumed.

  The second man was just straightening when the short sword hit him squarely in the middle of the chest. The impact of the heavy steel punched the air out of his lungs, and with a rather muffled grunt he toppled back into the snow.

  Still smiling from the unexpected success of his flying sword trick, Kendril turned back around.

  The smile vanished from his face.

  The third man was standing just a few feet away. He had thrown off his coat, revealing a chest that bristled with more muscles than Kendril could remember seeing in a long time. His bald head and the gold earring dangling from his left ear only contributed to the overall menacing demeanor.

  That, and the five-foot long double-handed sword that he held as lightly as a feather in his hands.

  The woman with the infant screamed, dashing through the snow towards the safety of the other side of the street. The men drinking whiskey on the porch across the street quickly put down their bottles, and crowded along the edge of the railing to see what was happening.

  The card-player whose arm Kendril had slashed struggled to his feet with a curse, cradling his injured limb. “Talvik,” he shouted, “kill him!”

  The large man smiled. Several of his teeth were missing. His hands tightened on the hilt of the massive sword, and he took a half step forward.

  Kendril moved back, his eyes never leaving the man’s face.

  Maklavir emerged from the snow, shaking the white flakes off his arms. His eyes widened as he saw the large man with the massive sword. He fumbled for the hilt of his own weapon. “Kendril—”

  “Shut up,” the Ghostwalker hissed, waving one of his hands back without taking his eyes from Talvik’s face. On his belt his second sword and loaded pistol dangled with tantalizing nearness, but Kendril knew that to reach for them would be death. His adversary was far too close, and the brief half-second it would take to draw a weapon would be just enough time for the double-handed sword to take his head off.

  “Kill him!” the man with the injured arm screamed again.

  Talvik grinned again, his gold earring glittering in the cold sunlight.

  The next moment the two-handed sword sang through the air, straight at Kendril’s head.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Books in the Chronicles of Zanthora

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  An Excerpt from Book Three of The Chronicles of Zanthora: Soulbinder

 

 

 
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