Contents
Title Page
Rights
Acknowledgements
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1: Jeina
Chapter 2: Nicolas
Chapter 3: Xasho
Chapter 4: Jeina
Chapter 5: Bokrham
Chapter 6: Nicolas
Chapter 7: Xasho
Chapter 8: Jeina
Chapter 9: Xasho
Chapter 10: Bokrham
Chapter 11: Nicolas
Chapter 12: Jeina
Chapter 13: Xasho
Chapter 14: Bokrham
Chapter 15: Nicolas
Chapter 16: Jeina
Chapter 17: Xasho
Chapter 18: Nicolas
Chapter 19: Bokrham
Chapter 20: Xasho
Chapter 21: Jeina
Chapter 22: Nicolas
Chapter 23: Isic
Chapter 24: Bokrham
Chapter 25: Jeina
Chapter 26: Xasho
Chapter 27: Nicolas
Chapter 28: Jeina
Chapter 29: Bokrham
Chapter 30: Isic
Chapter 31: Jeina
Chapter 32: Nicolas
Chapter 33: Jeina
Chapter 34: Xasho
Chapter 35: Bokrham
Chapter 36: Xasho
Chapter 37: Nicolas
Chapter 38: Xasho
Chapter 39: Bokrham
Chapter 40: Isic
Chapter 41: Xasho
Chapter 42: Nicolas
Chapter 43: Bokrham
Chapter 44: Nicolas
Chapter 45: Xasho
Chapter 46: Isic
Chapter 47: Xasho
Chapter 48: Jeina
Chapter 49: Bokrham
Chapter 50: Xasho
Chapter 51: Nicolas
Epilogue
Preview
Cast of Characters
THE WEIGHT
OF A
CROWN
Book One
of the
Azhaion Saga
TAVISH KAEDEN
Copyright © 2011-2014 Tavish Kaeden
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-9838966-0-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-9838966-0-9
Cover Art by Lin Hsiang
Map by Jared Blando
Acknowledgements:
This amateur effort would not have been possible without the help of others.
My sincere thanks to my stalwart readers Daniel and Anthony, and to my lovely, understanding wife.
Additional Thanks To:
Lin Hsiang for his fantastic artwork
Dieter Steffmann, Charles Minow, and the NRSI team for
their most excellent work in fonts
PROLOGUE
The messenger was not drunk, but he felt it. It was the first time his feet had touched good solid rock in ages, and yet the world around him continued to sway. As he made his way up a modest hill he cursed the sea and its damnable waves, twice-cursed the salty air that seemed to stick in his lungs, and thrice-cursed all ships and the men who made them. He was hard-pressed to recall a point in his life when he had felt so wretched. A month at sea was bad enough, but knowing that in a few days' time he would have to repeat the journey made his current misery all the more unbearable.
Yet, King Vichtor himself had placed the letter in the messenger's hands. The King had made it clear that the message contained within was of paramount importance and that of all the messengers in the Blood Marsh, there was only one to whom he could entrust its delivery. It had been the proudest day of the messenger's life; and even a month at sea, and the prospect of yet another, could not eclipse the pleasure of such recognition.
Now that he had arrived at his destination, however, doubts began to flitter through the messenger's mind. This small island, so far removed from the mainland, seemed all but deserted. Were it not for the small dock they had found along the coast, the messenger would never have guessed anyone made their home here. The island appeared more rock than anything else, and only a handful of scraggly, misshapen trees had managed to take root in the inhospitable soil.
Still, the ship's captain had been positive that this was the right location, and sure enough, as he made his way inland the messenger could see the stone walls of a keep flying the pennants of the Blood Marsh. As he approached its doors, he could see that they were made of wood, and engraved with the Mehlor family crest. The messenger guessed there was as much wood in those doors as there was growing wild on the island, and doubted that anyone living here had the skills to carve them so ornately. They must have been brought by ship, then, an indication that someone had put a good deal more thought into the construction of this keep than was initially apparent.
There was no guard at the door, only a stout length of rope attached to a large metal bell. The messenger gave it several swift pulls, and was rewarded with a dull clanging which dissipated into the air almost as soon as his hand left the rope. Even so, a chorus of barks erupted in the distance, and he soon heard the squeak of rusty hinges as the doors parted just enough to reveal the slim form of a boy, no more than twelve years in age, and the noses of half a dozen dogs sniffing the air excitedly.
"What do you want?" asked the boy, his tone suspicious. The messenger was taken aback. He had not expected to be greeted by a child.
"I bear a message from the King, lad, " he replied. "I was told to speak to Paeter Sillcim."
The boy's eyes had grown a bit wider at the mention of King Vichtor, but without hesitation he said, "That's me."
"Perhaps I am meant to speak with your father?" offered the messenger, trying to remain patient.
"He has been dead three years," said the boy.
"Who was left in charge of the keep?" asked the messenger.
"Me," replied the boy, "now let me see the seal."
"Look here," began the messenger, "the letter I bear is of the utmost importance. I cannot give it to a mere child."
The dogs, sensing a shift in the boy's demeanor, started growling.
"If you truly bear a message from the King, then it will have his seal," said the boy. "Show it to me, or I'll have the dogs on you."
The messenger's hand closed around the hilt of the dagger at his side, but he soon thought better of it. There was something about this lad's voice—an authority well beyond his age, that made the messenger wonder if the boy really was in charge of the castle.
"I will show you the seal," he said, "but the letter is for a man called Erwhil. Upon the King's command, only he may open it."
The boy seemed to relax. "Erwhil? Well, he might be able to open it, but I doubt he'll be able to read it. Show me the seal, and I shall take you to him."
After a quick inspection of the waxen seal, the boy opened the doors wide enough for the messenger to pass through. The dogs, satisfied that he was no longer a threat, swarmed about him, sniffing his hands and pawing at his trousers.
"Sorry about all the fuss," said the boy, who began moving toward a small passage not far from the main doors. "We have strict rules for visitors here, though we don't get many. You are the first outlander to be admitted to the keep under my watch."
"What?" gaped the messenger, shocked. "Then you have not heard?"
"Heard what?"
"The Marshland army has conquered the mainland. The Curahshena and Hinnjari armies have been crushed."
"Oh," said the boy, obviously uninterested by this historic piece of news.
As he was led through the keep, the messenger counted only three other people anywhere in sight. Both women, much older than the
boy, stopped and stared at him as he passed, but said nothing. One of them was working in a small garden full of lush greens. He could see the greens had been planted in dark, rich earth that looked nothing like the barren land outside the walls of the keep. Imported, no doubt, and one of the reasons why this tiny settlement could survive in such inhospitable surroundings. But why anyone would want to live such a remote existence, the messenger still could not fathom.
Eventually he was led to a simple doorway in what was obviously the living area of the keep. The space around them was comfortably appointed, with beautiful paintings of Blood Marsh landscapes occupying the walls, soft rugs lining the stone floor, and a few well-worn leather chairs nestled comfortably by windows.
"This is his room," said the boy, "you will find him inside."
"Is he expecting visitors?" asked the messenger, who had imagined that a King's message would have been treated with more formality. "Should I not be announced?"
The boy only shrugged his shoulders. "It will not matter to him."
"Very well," said the messenger, pushing open the door. Inside was a room very much like the rest of the living area, save that it contained a large canopied bed and an old writing desk by the window. Before the desk sat an ancient man, slumped over and snoring softly. He was dressed in the robes of a noble, but was otherwise fairly unkempt, with a long and scraggly beard that fell to his waist and wispy tufts of white hair about his pate so thin that they did nothing to obscure the age-spotted skin and odd scarring beneath.
"There is a man here to see you," said the boy, in a loud voice. The old figure jumped and looked about in a daze. As he did so, the messenger heard a slight clinking sound, and looking closer was shocked to see that Erwhil's ankle was shackled to the desk. A prisoner? he wondered.
"Who…who's there?" wheezed Erwhil.
"A message from the King," said the boy, still speaking rather loudly.
"The King? Who?"
"King Vichtor Mehlor," offered the messenger. Obviously the old man was not in complete possession of his wits if he could not name the king of the Blood Marsh.
"Vichtor…Vichtor?" Erwhil's face fell. "Well then, what did Vichtor want?"
"I do not know," replied the messenger, "but he sends you this urgent letter."
He tried to hand the sealed roll of parchment to Erwhil, but the old man waved it away.
"My eyes are long past the point of reading," said Erwhil, visibly irritated. "I can barely see you, damn it. If I must hear what Vichtor had to say, read it aloud and be done with it."
The messenger considered this request. Vichtor had been clear that the message was for Erwhil's eyes alone. It would have been treason had he, unbidden, decided to open the letter and read it for himself. Now however, the letter would be useless if it was not read by another pair of eyes.
"Is there someone who you trust, a confidant, who can read this to you?" asked the messenger. "I doubt I am worthy of its contents."
"No," sighed Erwhil, "and no."
"Pardon?" asked the messenger.
"There is no one whom I trust, and no one else who can read. Just read it, damn it, you do not have anything to lose."
"But," said the messenger, "I have been ordered not to read the contents of this letter. To do so might be treason."
For some reason, this made the ancient man chuckle as he said, "On my word, you will not have to worry about treason."
"But…"
"Think of it this way: if you fail to deliver the message to me, even though it was perfectly in your power to do so, what would be the consequences?"
"I…" protested the messenger, trying unsuccessfully to think of some way out of his quandary that would not end with his neck on the end of a rope.
"Read it," wheezed Erwhil.
"Very well," conceded the messenger, and breaking the waxen seal which bound the parchment, he rolled out the paper and began to read:
My Dear Erwhil:
I must ask you to forgive my past few years of silence, but I do not exaggerate when I tell you that I have not had a moment's peace since last I put quill to paper to write to you. I am proud to say, however, that peace is precisely what I now have, and what is more, have given to Esmoria. I know you shun news from the mainland, but perhaps now, even so many leagues away, you may be interested in my success.
My son Kazick has led his forces into the desert and routed the savage Curahshar in their own sandy den. His progress was swift, and with few Marshland casualties, as the Curahshar had been devastated by a "mysterious" plague which had recently swept through their ranks, killing thousands of their warriors and leaving many others broken and scarred. Even so, I take great pride in the fact that my son has been able to claim the wealthy River Cities in the name of the Blood Marsh, and journey deep into the desert to bend the knee of the Grand Johalid in the sacred city the Curahshar call "The Heart of Sand."
Bokrham, my most trusted guardian and companion, had similar success in his conquest of the North, though his campaign was more protracted. I had thought that, like Kazick, he would find the Hinnjar a weak and broken people, as an "unusual" shortage of game this past year meant a long winter filled with famine and disease. But the cowardly Hinnjar fled into the mountain caves of their ancestors and hid themselves in a network of tunnels known only to them. Bokrham had no choice but to lay siege to the Mountains themselves, cutting off the Hinnjar from all supply routes and known sources of water. As our forces shivered in the inhospitable northern climate, they were routinely attacked by Hinnjari raiders who would slip out from their hiding places under cover of darkness and plague Bokrham and his men. Though we suffered heavy losses, the siege held firm. In the end, the elder Mountain Prince, Eathor Stonelord, emerged from within the Mountain and, submitting himself to capture, begged that his people be saved from starvation, offering in exchange his and his mother's immediate abdication and subsequent recognition of Blood Marsh rule.
I consider myself a fair man, and accepted his offer. Eathor is now imprisoned in the Weeping Tower and his people, at least those who do not openly oppose Marsh rule, are no longer starving or dying of sickness in the murky darkness below the Silver Mountains. Indeed, I have even let the Mountain Queen be taken to a cloister in the foothills, where she will spend the rest of her days in quiet and inconsequential prayer. The younger Mountain Prince, Tobin Stonelord, is as of yet unaccounted for. Regrettably, I believe he has fled into the frozen north with a small cordon of men and intends to mount a resistance. Any force he may muster will be pathetically minuscule, however, so I waste no time worrying about his intentions.
And so, with the whole of the mainland united under one rule, Esmoria has tasted peace for the first time in memory. Truly, it is a wonder, is it not? Even you, so steeped in the histories of the land, most likely cannot cite to a time when the Curahshar, the Hinnjar, and my own people were not at war.
One month from now will be my coronation. Not as ruler of the Blood Marsh, but as ruler of all Esmoria. Mark my words, under my rule I will bring justice and prosperity to the furthest corners of the land, and, if not in my lifetime, eventually there will come a day when all will praise my name for the legacy I have left them. Ah, Erwhil, were I to die tomorrow my happiness would be all but complete. I have only two regrets. The first is that my son has not yet married and produced an heir. I can't understand why he has not yet done so, or why he continues to shake off my attempts to place him with a suitable bride. He has, in all other ways, been the embodiment of obedience. However, I do not despair, for in the end I know I can compel him to see sense.
My second regret weighs more heavily upon me, for it is beyond my power to change. I would have liked to see you, my timeless tutor, at my side as the crown of Esmoria is placed upon my head. Alas, I know it cannot be so. I am sorry, Erwhil, that I could not convince you to see things as I do. Perhaps at least now you can take some comfort in knowing that my family's actions have, in the end, been in the best interests of Esmori
a.
When Kazick has found a bride and taken the reigns of the kingdom into his capable hands, I will finally have some time for myself. Do not doubt that I will come to visit you. It has been far too long since I have had the pleasure of your company.
Your Perpetual Friend and Pupil,
Vichtor
As the messenger read the last words aloud, it was hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. This was the important message he had braved a month at sea to deliver? There was not one thing in the message that the messenger himself did not already know. The "great honor" he had imagined bestowed upon him was really the simple task of a news courier, delivering a message to this fossil of a man whom Vichtor had once known.
"Does something trouble you?" came the voice of Erwhil.
"No...I, I was merely waiting to see if you had any sort of answer you wished to convey to the King."
"You are not a very good liar," said Erwhil with a whimsical smile. "But there are two things you must now know. I am afraid one will ruin your day, but you may, under the circumstances, take some solace in the other."
"I see," replied the messenger, wondering how his day could get any worse, "and what are those?"
"First," began Erwhil, "the ship that brought you here has already set sail for the mainland."
"What!?" cried the messenger.
"And second," continued Erwhil, "Vichtor, the man who sent you here knowing you would never be allowed to return, is dead."
Chapter 1: Jeina
"Out of your beds," bellowed the campmaster as he slammed his iron-tipped staff into the door of the women's barracks. The sound snapped Jeina to consciousness and she sprang up in her cot, hugging the sheets tightly to her body. The early morning mountain air was bitter-cold, and an unpleasant chill crept into her skin as her mind struggled to come into focus. Still bone-tired from the previous day's toil, she longed to fall back into bed and sleep for another day and a half, but forced herself to rise and pull on the stiff hide leggings and heavy woolen coat that had been her uniform since the day she had been consigned to the Blackcrest mine.
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 1