A Kingdom in Chaos (A Kingdom Divided Book 3)

by S. C. Stokes

  Ferebour savored the moment, watching patiently as his father bent the iron to his will.

  “Your Highness. . .your Highness,” The voice called again. Ferebour’s mind returned to the present to find the guard staring intently at him.

  “The King’s forge, of course. That will meet my needs. If memory serves me, it adjoins the throne room, does it not?”

  “Indeed it does.”

  “Then I know the way. Thank you.” Ferebour turned and studied the throne room, his eyes resting for a moment on the Black Iron Throne. Etched on the stone wall behind the throne was a large inscription in Dwarven runes. Even at this distance Ferebour could read it clearly, but he strode across the room to a set of seams in the stone wall. It was a door, cleverly disguised to blend with the surrounding wall.

  Ferebour reached out and applied some weight to the door, which swung inward easily on well-oiled hinges.

  He could not help but smile as he entered the forge. Father never could stand a squeaky hinge, he thought as he closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 18

  Mizumura on the Island of Valaar

  Sven ducked quickly into a doorway. He’d been engaged in a bizarre game of cat and mouse with the assassin-turned-merchant all day. It had taken all of his expertise and field craft to tail the man through the busy streets of Mizumura. Sven had hoped to follow the assassin all the way back to his den, but clearly the merchant was aware of his presence.

  Try as he might Sven had not been able to avoid detection, but the longer he followed his quarry the more difficult it became. A foe might dismiss your presence the first time he caught sight of you, but the second or third time he chanced a look over his shoulder and saw you, the game was up. Sven was confident he’d been made, but with the Prince’s life at stake he was unwilling to give up his pursuit. The assassin would need to return to his home at some point—either that or confront the Spymaster who was trailing him. And at this point Sven was beginning to welcome either as an opportunity to get off his tired legs.

  The sun had gone down and still his quarry was content to roam meandering loops through the streets of Mizumura. Sven peeked around the corner to find the assassin was turning down a narrow lane up ahead. Sven stepped up his pace, desperate to keep the man in sight. The spymaster turned down the narrow cobblestone street and a minstrel’s music spilled out of a nearby tavern as its occupants caroused loudly within. The buildings opposite the tavern were closed, the day’s trade having long since finished.

  Sven’s tired eyes strained as he sought the shadowed street for some sign of his foe—but there was none. The street came to an abrupt end some twenty paces past the tavern. Either he’s in there or he’s gone. With a sigh Sven made his way towards the door and pushed it open. He was immediately assailed by the noise from within—the minstrel was plucking away at his lute and belting out a lively jig. It was a popular tune along the western coast, the story of a Tanameran lass waiting for her husband to come home from his adventures at sea.

  Ale was flowing like a river through the tavern and several of its drunker inhabitants had joined the minstrel for the chorus. Their ramblings were off-tune and poorly pitched, but their companions spurred them on, regardless. The noise washed over Sven as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, then slowly made his way through the room, diligently searching for any sign of the merchant—then he felt a hand against the small of his back.

  Before he could respond Sven was thrown roughly forwards, clutching about wildly as he tried to find his feet but only succeeding in grabbing a man’s tunic as he hurtled forwards, collecting several of the revelers and coming to a halt as he collided with a man at the table before him. Sven spun to see the assassin slipping out the door and into the street, but not before he pointed toward Sven and smiled.

  Sven rushed for the door only to have two immense hands clamp down on his shoulders. He was turned roughly about until he came face to face with a towering, irate tavern patron, the remnants of his meal still dripping off his face as he glowered. The minstrel stopped playing as all eyes turned to Sven.

  Sven’s collision had driven the man face-first into his meal and he was not pleased.

  “I’m sorry about that—I was pushed . . .” Sven began, but it was in vain.

  The man heaved Sven off his feet and across the room as though he weighed nothing at all.

  This is going to hurt.

  There was nothing for the spymaster to do but tuck himself tightly into a ball to avoid breaking an arm or leg as he landed heavily on another table. Food and cutlery flew and another angry patron reached across the table for a knife. Sven was faster. Drawing the knife from his belt Sven stabbed it through the man’s hand, pinning it to the table as he batted the knife off the table and delivered a clumsy kick to the man’s face to discourage him from further hostility.

  Getting his feet back underneath him, Sven perched on the table and struggled to assess his situation—it was going from bad to worse. The mountain of a man who had thrown him across the room was bearing down on him, and several other disgruntled patrons seemed to have similar intent. Those who didn’t want to beat him to a ragged pulp seemed quite content to watch the evening’s entertainment unfold.

  “Get him, Matano!” shouted a man from the bar.

  Others cheered and whooped as they spurred their comrade on.

  Sven didn’t want to kill the foolish patrons—he knew they were simply victims of the Night Stalker’s ploy. Sven drew another knife from his belt—blades he had in abundance. The spymaster crafted the weapons himself and took great pleasure in the feel of a fine knife in his hand.

  Brandishing the blade before him, Sven ran along the surface of the heavy table. Patrons scurried away, unwilling to cross the Spymaster who had so swiftly dealt with the first of their number. As he ran Sven swapped his knife to his left hand and reached down, grabbing one of the chairs and taking it with him.

  As Sven ran out of table he hefted the chair and hurled it through the window in front of him. The glass shattered and Sven leapt through the breach, landing in the cobblestone lane outside. Sven hurt all over—not just from his encounter with the tavern folk but from his day’s exertion. He had been up most of the night before and all day as he’d taken the long journey to Mizumura on foot. In spite of the pain Sven legged it out of the lane as quickly as he could, eager to get away from the tavern. The assassin would have long since slipped away, so Sven resolved to return to King’s Court as fast as he was able. I’ll find a horse first, Sven told himself. Anything to get off these aching feet.

  Around the corner Sven collided with a member of the town watch, sending both himself and the watchman tumbling into a heap.

  “What’s this then?” the watchman started as he scrambled back to his feet. “Where might you be going in such a hurry?”

  Sven heard the tavern door open behind him and knew it would be only a moment before he found himself embroiled in another tangle.

  “My apologies to the watch—it was a simple mistake,” Sven replied. “I’ll watch where I’m going next time.”

  “Hey! Get back here!” a voice shouted from the direction of the tavern. “You can’t just bust up my tavern and leave—you’ll be needing to pay for the damages!” Seeing the watchman the tavern owner shouted: “Aye, watchman, arrest that man! He just tore up my tavern and made all manner of mess.”

  “Is that so?” the watchman began, his eyes narrowing on Sven as he reached for his sword.

  Sven grabbed the watchman’s hand in his right and twisted it violently away from his scabbard. With his left he brought his dagger up to the watchman’s throat. Sven positioned himself behind the watchman as a shield against the tavern owner who was hastily making his way nearer.

  The watchman attempted to break Sven’s hold but the Spymaster held firm. “Now, now,” Sven began, “the last thing I wish to do is kill a member of the watch. But if you continue to fight me you’ll give me little choice. I am
here on the King’s errand and time is of the essence.”

  “Oh the King’s errand? Why didn’t you say so?” the watchman answered, his voice a blend of sarcasm and skepticism in equal parts.

  “Shut up and listen. I will not allow anything else to delay me from my purpose here. I am out of time and patience. If you cannot be reasoned with I’ll leave your body in the gutter and be on my way. Do you understand me?” Sven gave his demands in a tone low and measured.

  The watchman thought better of any further protest and simply nodded.

  “Very well.” Raising his head, Sven addressed the tavern owner now only a few steps away from him. “Stop where you are and clear the street. If you don’t I’ll kill you and him and be on my way.”

  The rotund tavern owner’s eyes moved slowly from the dagger in Sven’s hand to Sven’s face and back again. Not willing to gamble with his life the tavern owner nodded and turned back toward his establishment, shouting down the street: “Back inside, everyone—nothing to see here. Everyone inside—the next round is on the house.”

  There was a chorus of cheers from around the corner and the lane grew quiet. When the street cleared, the tavern owner turned his attention back to Sven.

  “Right,” Sven began. “Have you seen a royal writ before?”

  The watchman shook his head.

  “That’s a shame—I guess you will have to take my word that it is genuine. I am going to reach inside my coat—if you struggle I’ll slit your throat and be done with you. Understood?”

  The watchman nodded again and Sven released his grip on the man’s hand and reached inside his pocket for a piece of folded parchment. It was sealed with a dollop of red wax that had been set with a wax seal bearing the King’s coat of arms—the Eastern Star of the Listarii with a crown set upon it. “Do you recognize the King’s seal?”

  The watchman examined the seal and nodded.

  “Excellent—this writ allows me free passage throughout the Kingdom, and it enjoins any agent of the crown to aid me in my purpose. As a member of the watch you are numbered among those who should be helping, not hindering, my mission here. So either aid me or get out of my way. If you attempt to stop me again I will kill you without further warning.”

  “But what about my tavern?” the owner demanded.

  “The Crown will see to its repair—bring an account of the damages to the Palace and I will see them attended to.”

  The tavern keeper looked doubtful, but Sven was in little mood to bargain further. “I’m not going to tell you again—do as I have asked and you will be made whole. Hinder me further and you will find out that I am not bluffing.” Sven gestured with his knife point as he spoke.

  The tavern keeper raised both hands and backed away. Within a moment Sven and the town guard were alone. “I must return to King’s Court at once, and I need a horse.”

  “I haven’t got one—I’m just a watchman.”

  “Indeed—so take me where we can find one, then you’re going to ensure I acquire it without further incident.” Sven put away his knife and added, “The sooner I have a horse, the sooner I am out of your city and on my way.”

  “Very well,” the watchman replied, rubbing his neck with relief.

  Chapter 19

  The Hall of Shadows

  Hitomi stewed as she paced back and forth in her chambers. The Hall of Shadows

  might have provided a convenient sanctuary when she fled the fall of Belnair, but spending day after day in the subterranean lair was beginning to take its toll. The Mizumura were among the oldest of the Great Families of Valaar. Growing up as the heir to the throne and the fortune of her family had ensured she wanted for little as she had carried out her affairs from the richly furnished Riverhold. Such freedoms felt a lifetime ago now.

  The Riverhold had been constructed by her forebears in a time before the Great Families were united under Kai Valaar. Back then the Mizumura had run one of the largest trading concerns in Valaar. Spices and silks brought great wealth, but were only secondary considerations to the Mizumura’s principal trade interests—people.

  Under the eyes of their watchful overlords, thousands of slaves had labored for more than a decade to carve the Riverhold from the mountainside. Many died but their loss was of little consequence to their masters. By carving their stronghold from the Hikari Mountain Range the Mizumura gained a formidable position on the island—fresh water was supplied by the steady Eiengawa river, so the Mizumura could withstand a considerable siege. They also controlled the main avenues of trade through the interior of the island, allowing them to prosper as the neighboring Great Families were forced to pay prohibitive taxes on their own commercial endeavors.

  When Kai Valaar unified Valaar under his banner the Mizumura were the last to capitulate. From the safety of the Riverhold they watched as family after family united with the charismatic would-be King. Those who would not unite were swiftly crushed before his armies, their lands seized and distributed among Kai’s faithful followers.

  With the remainder of the island in his grasp, Kai turned his attention to the Riverhold. Proud and unyielding, the Mizumura refused to swear fealty. When his armies arrived at the Riverhold, Kai sought parley with the Mizumura, and at length the Mizumura agreed to speak with their would-be conqueror. The Prince of the Mizumura was sent to hear the Valaaran proposal.

  Kai presented the Prince with his terms. In exchange for an immediate surrender and their pledged fealty the Mizumura would retain much of their autonomy in the newly formed Kingdom of Valaar. If they did not and blood was spilled, the Mizumura’s lands would be reduced to rubble, their people wiped out and their family name erased from history.

  The Mizumuran Prince, Kanahide, laughed at the would-be King. “The Riverhold is the most impenetrable fortress on this island. While you have waged your war, we have gathered supplies. We have fresh water and enough food to last a decade. Long after your collection of fractured families descends back into anarchy, we will still be sitting safely in the Riverhold, eagerly awaiting a return to the old ways. So do your worst—we will weather the storm in our mountain.”

  Kai smiled as he answered the indignant Prince. “Oh, I think you will find you have underestimated me, Kanahide. It isn’t my warriors and weapons that will draw you out of your hole. There is something you fear far more than men and steel, and you will crumble swiftly enough when faced with it.”

  “You speak in riddles, Kai—perhaps you intend to bore us to death. What is it you think we fear more than your armies?” the Prince asked.

  “Poverty, Kanahide. We don’t have to storm your fortress. We simply leave you inside and reshape the world around you. For every day you waste behind your wall, your wealth will dwindle. We will begin by abolishing slavery. Never again will another man, woman or child be bought or sold on this island. Once you are isolated, your resources and influence will dwindle.

  “The old ways are gone, Kanahide. They are never coming back. If you wish to wield influence in the new world I am building, speak to your father, before your foolish pride costs you everything.”

  Kanahide was speechless. He had expected hostility and aggression from the would-be conqueror. Instead he was met with cunning and reason. The Prince left the parley deflated and defeated. The Mizumura surrendered the next morning.

  The world indeed changed over the centuries that followed. The Mizumura adapted and rebuilt their power and influence. When the line of Kings ended with Eleazar the heir-less, the Mizumura were one of the six Great Families that remained. Velas, Hitomi’s father, had wielded significant influence on the Council that ruled Valaar in the absence of a King. Hitomi had set her sights even higher.

  Driven by Gerwold, several of the families had united in an effort to put a new king on the throne. The endeavor had come very close, only to be thwarted by the upstart Tristan Listar. Hitomi had fled for her life when the sorcerer, Syrion, had appeared in Belnair. He had freed Tristan and assaulted the Black Iron Keep. Gerwold'
s son, Falen, whom Hitomi was engaged to wed, had died in the assault—at Hitomi’s own hand.

  With the defeat at King’s Court, Velas had been imprisoned along with the once- Baron of Fordham, and Gerwold had died on the Throne he sought to take for himself.

  To add insult to injury, the Council had crowned the foolish child King of Valaar. With his newfound power Tristan completed what Kai had begun. Velas was in prison, and his armies in tatters, so the Mizumuran lands were seized by the Crown. The fugitive Hitomi sought refuge in the only place that remained outside of the King’s growing influence—the Hall of Shadows, the den and training grounds of the infamous Night Stalker assassins. While all knew her as the heir to the Mizumura, few living souls knew of her true identity as Death’s Mistress. She was the unseen head of the Night Stalkers Guild.

  Of course Hitomi had preferred life in the Palace. Every day she was forced to live underground in these conditions chafed at her pride. I will have my throne back, Hitomi raged silently as she paced. Located far beneath the Riverhold, hidden in the sheltered corridors of the Hall of Shadows, she had patiently plotted her revenge and return to glory.

  A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. “Enter!” Hitomi commanded.

  The door opened and a handsome, well-built man in his thirties confidently entered the chamber, his Night Stalker’s robes doing little to hide his physique. The man took three steps into the room and went down on one knee.

  “My mistress, your message was delivered as instructed. I hid myself and waited for a response. The next morning the body of one of our brethren was left defiled, with the King’s response pinned to his chest.”

  “Give it to me,” Hitomi demanded.

  “I cannot,” the man responded, visibly concerned that he was disappointing his mistress. “The soldiers the Crown has sent to infest our city are vigilant. I knew I would be searched upon my return, so I memorized the contents of the missive and destroyed it.”