Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Without warning, Myron kicked the baron in the knee with such force that it broke the baron’s grip on the monk, who leapt over a fallen log and bolted into the darkness of the trees snapping twigs and branches as he ran into the night. Screaming in pain, the baron collapsed to the ground. “Get him!” he yelled, and two soldiers chased after Myron.

  A commotion erupted in the trees. Alric heard Myron cry for help followed by the sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Another scream ended as quickly as it began, cut abruptly short. The silence returned. Still holding his leg, Trumbul cursed the monk. “That will teach the little wretch!”

  “You all right, Trumbul?” asked the guard holding Alric’s horse.

  “I’m fine, just give me a second. Damn, that little monk kicked hard.”

  “He won’t be kicking anyone anymore,” another soldier added.

  The baron slowly climbed to his feet and tested his leg. He walked over to where Alric lay and drew his sword. “Grab him by the arms and hold him tight. Make sure he doesn’t cause me any trouble, boys.”

  The guard Myron was riding behind dismounted and took Alric’s left arm while another secured his right. “Just make sure you don’t hit us by accident,” he said.

  Trumbul grinned in the moonlight. “I never do anything by accident. If I hit you, you’ve done something to deserve it.”

  “If you kill me, my uncle will hunt you down no matter where you try to hide!”

  Trumbul chuckled at the young prince. “Your uncle is the one who will pay us for your head. He wants you dead.”

  “What? You lie!”

  “Believe what you will,” the baron laughed. “Turn him over so I get a clear stroke at the back of his neck. I want a pretty trophy. I hate it when I end up having to hack and hack.”

  Alric struggled, but the two soldiers were stronger than he was. They twisted the prince’s arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and shoved his head to the ground.

  There was the sound of snapping twigs from the thick brush by the side of the road. “About time you two climbed out of there,” Trumbul said as the two guards returned from killing the monk. “You got back just in time for the night’s finale.”

  The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. “No! Stop! You can’t! Stop!” His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip and years of battle wielding swords and shields had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.

  Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul’s blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The nearest to the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man who held a sword in each hand.

  “Everyone, over here!” shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.

  The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.

  “Your friends aren’t coming,” Alric heard Royce’s voice. “They’re already dead.”

  The two guards wielding swords looked at each other then raced down the road in the direction of The Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted into the trees. Before Hadrian could close the gap between them, the man screamed. A moment later, Myron exited from the trees, dragging a bloodied sword behind him. He was pale, and a sickened look covered his face. When he reached the rest of the party, he dropped the sword, fell to his knees, and began to sob.

  Alric could not stop shaking, as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce came over and helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.

  “They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to kill me!” he screamed.

  He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.

  Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from The Silver Pitcher Inn, and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood, but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.

  “Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”

  “As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”

  “Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.

  “Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”

  There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.

  The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge of the division of loot and began to divvy it up as best he could.

  “Give the half-elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.

  “What?” The innkeeper asked stunned. “You want us to give him a horse? Are you sure? I mean most of these men don’t have a good horse.”

  Drake quickly cut in, “Listen, we all fought equally tonight. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”

  “Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.

  The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm, but his eyes smoldered.

  “What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, ’em is his horses right? His soldiers was a ridin’ ’em. We should ask him to decide…okay?”

  There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He came within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was still crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back to the crowd.

  “Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, and coldly. “They are my Royal Protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys will be executed.” There was quiet in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”

  Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then helped Myron up. The monk was silent now and walked in a daze. He no longer looked around; instead, he focused on his blood-covered hands. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.

  As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-elf gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I will hold everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once—it
will be legal.”

  The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed. “It was my own uncle.” Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Hadrian mentioned. “The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he’d be just as big a target as you, only he’s not a blood uncle is he? His last name is Braga not Essendon.”

  “He married my mother’s sister.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “No, she died years ago, something to do with a fire.” Alric slammed his fist on the saddle’s pummel. “He taught me the blade! He showed me how to ride! He is my uncle! And he’s trying to kill me!”

  Nothing was said for awhile, and then Hadrian finally asked, “Where are we going?”

  Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering’s castle. He is…was…one of my father’s most trusted nobles, a staunch Royalist, and the most powerful leader in the kingdom. If he is still loyal, I will raise my army there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or uncle, who tries to stop me!”

  — 5 —

  “Is this what you wanted to see?” the archduke asked Arista, picking up the dagger. He held it out so she could read the name “Percy Braga” clearly spelled out on the blade in her father’s blood. “It looks like you have indeed learned a thing or two from Esrahaddon. This however, proves nothing. I certainly didn’t stab your father with it. I wasn’t even near the chapel when he was killed.”

  “But you did it. You ordered it. You might not have driven the dagger into his body, but you were the one who killed my father!” Arista wiped the tears from her eyes. “He trusted you. We all trusted you. You were part of our family!”

  “There are some things more important than family, my dear—secrets, terrible secrets which must remain hidden at all costs. As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do care for you, your brother and your—”

  “Don’t you dare say it!” she shouted at him. “You murdered my father!”

  “It was necessary. If you only knew. If you could understand what is truly at stake.”

  “Esrahaddon told me everything.”

  “Esrahaddon told you what he wanted you to know. Do you think that old wizard is your friend? He used you, just as he’s trying to use us, just as he has always used people. He’s the reason your father had to die, and he’s the reason Alric will die as well.”

  “And me?”

  “Three unusual deaths look a little too suspicious. One murder is fine, and Alric’s disappearance is actually a great help. I suspect he will meet death in some quiet remote area far from here. But if you were to be found murdered, well, that may prove to be difficult to explain. You, however, my dear, have made my job much easier than you might imagine. It will be easy for me to convince others you hired those two thieves to kill your father and your brother. You see, I already planted the seeds that something was amiss. The night your father was killed, I had Wylin and a squad of men at the ready. Having failed the double-murder, you sought to correct matters by freeing the killers. We have several witnesses who can attest to the arrangements you made that evening. You would have been smarter to send a handmaid and then poison her. Alric will be found dead, and you will be found guilty of the murders. I planned on holding your trial after Alric’s body was found, but now…” he looked at the dagger and his name glistening on the shining metal blade, “now I will have to accelerate my timetable.

  “I will announce your trial at once and call all the nobles to court. They will hear of your treachery, your betrayals, and your foul acts. They will learn how education and witchcraft turned you into a power craving killer.”

  “You won’t dare! If you put me before the nobles I will tell them the truth!”

  “That will be difficult because, for the safety of the nobles, I will have to keep you gagged to prevent you from casting spells upon us. I would have your tongue cut out now except that might look suspicious as I haven’t yet called for the trial.”

  Braga looked around the bedroom once more and nodded. “I was wrong. I do approve of this choice of room after all. I had other plans for this tower once, but now, I think sealing you in here until the trial will keep you nicely isolated. And with the amount of time you’ve spent by yourself, practicing your crafts, no one will notice a difference.”

  He walked out, taking the dagger with him. As he left, she saw a bearded dwarf with a hammer in hand standing outside the door. When it closed, she heard pounding and knew she had been locked in.

  Chapter 7: Drondil Fields

  The four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an ox cart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

  “Don’t stare, Myron,” Hadrian told him. “They will think you’re up to something.”

  “They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

  Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell them that.”

  Ahead a hill rose and on top of it, stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle; it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

  “That’s Drondil Fields,” Alric told them. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead. As they came into view of the castle, he began speaking with a tone of pride and warmth in his voice. “It’s the oldest and strongest fortress in Melengar. They built it with thick walls of granite shaped like a five-pointed star making it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.

  “It was once the home of Brodic Essendon, who in the turmoil of the civil wars following the fall of the Empire, subdued these lands to become warlord. His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work his father started. He defeated the forces of Lothomad the Bald and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. That was the last battle of a long war, which carved the kingdom out of the political chaos of the post-imperial era.

  “They fought the battle just down there, in those fields to the left of the hill. They belonged to a farmer named Drondil and afterwards this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.

  “This was also the site where Tolin, his clansmen, and his warlords drew up the Drondil Charter, which divided Melengar into seven provinces. He rewarded his faithful warlords with the titles of counts and gave each of them a parcel of land. Once he was officially crowned king, Tolin felt it wasn’t proper to live in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and, before moving there, Tolin entrusted Galilin, the largest and richest of the provinces, to his most loyal general Seadric Pickilerinon. Seadric’s son assumed control of the province a short time later, after his father died of a terrible fever. He was the one who shortened his name to Pickering.

  “The Essendons and Pickerings have always been close. We often spend Wintertide and Summersrule here with them. There is no direct blood relation, but it is as if we are kin. I grew up with Count Pickering’s sons and they are like my brothers. Of course, the other nobles aren’t happy about that, particularly those who actually are blood-relatives. Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though since no one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords.”

  “We are well acquainted with that little bit of trivia,” Hadrian mutt
ered, but it did not stop the prince from continuing.

  “Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld, the post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the legendary Teshlor Knights. The Teshlor, the greatest warriors ever to have lived, once guarded the Emperor himself. Like everything, they were lost with the Empire. What Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld was just a tiny bit of the Teshlor skill, just one discipline, but that knowledge was faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and the secret give the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.

  “This hill never used to look like it does now,” Alric explained, gesturing to the trees growing on the slope all the way up to the walls. “It used to be cut clear to afford no cover to would-be attackers. The Pickerings planted this orchard only a couple of generations ago. Same with those rosebushes and rhododendrons. Drondil Fields hasn’t seen warfare in five hundred years. I suppose the counts didn’t see the harm in some fruit, shade, and flowers. The great fortress of Seadric Pickilerinon,” Alric sighed, “now little more than a country estate.”

  “Here now, hold on there!” an overweight gate warden ordered as they approached the castle. He was holding a pastry in one hand and a pint of milk in the other. His weapon lay at his side. “Where do you think you’re all going, riding up here as if this were your fall retreat?”

  Alric pulled back his hood, and the warden dropped both his pastry and milk. “I…I’m sorry, Your Highness,” he stumbled, snapping to attention. “I had no idea you were coming today. No one said anything to me.” He wiped his hands and brushed the crumbs from his uniform. “Is the rest of the royal family coming as well?” Alric ignored him, continuing through the gate and across the plank bridge into the castle. The others followed him without a word as the astonished warden stared after them.

  Like the outside of the castle, the interior courtyard did little to remind one of a fortress. The courtyard was an attractive garden of neatly trimmed bushes and the occasional small, carefully pruned tree. Colorful banners of greens and gold hung to either side of the keep’s portico, rippling in the morning breeze. The grass looked carefully tended, although it was mostly yellow now with winter dormancy. Carts and wagons, most filled with empty bushel baskets possibly used to harvest the fruit, lay beneath a green awning. A couple of apples still lay in the bottom of one of them. A stable of horses stood near a barn where cows called for their morning milking. A shaggy black-and-white dog gnawed a bone at the base of the fieldstone well, and a family of white ducks followed each other in a perfect line as they wandered freely, quacking merrily as they went. Castle workers scurried about their morning chores, fetching water, splitting wood, tending animals, and quite often nearly stepping on the wandering ducks.