by J Glen Percy
“My lord,” he interrupted. The man held grave concern like Breccyn had never witnessed before. “It’ll be more than your parents collecting your hide. There’s a reason these men did not run. They carry the Rosemark.”
* * *
The older fortress of a man paid well for information - information often yielded the highest returns – and when it was known his rival’s daughter was attending the Jester, he made a point to be there. Free-spirited though she was known to be, it was drink and a story the Starling brat was after, and not the seedier activities the inn provided. That did not stop the seedy regulars from pining after her.
From a blackened nook at the opposite end of the alley, Lord Gerrit Fairfield watched as Breccyn Starling put an end to his sister’s assailants. The lad could handle a blade, Gerrit would give him that. Gerrit had considered stopping the vicious beating himself - only waiting for the most lucrative moment to do so – when older brother and pet warrior rushed on scene. All that was left was to double down and play the odds. It paid off, and not for what the lad did. Breccyn Starling was clearly in the right and as much as it pained Lord Fairfield to admit, he would have vouched the fact in court. It was who.
Scoundrels, drunkards, and defilers, the miscreants would have been punished similarly when it was the Fairfields who ruled the West. Times had certainly changed. But Gerrit knew what the villains carried on their wrists, and right now, that information was worth more than gold. If played properly, it may well prove worth the West itself.
CHAPTER 4
“Which of you provincial mongers wants the Fellsword?”
Five skilled swordsmen surrounded a lone man in a grassy courtyard within Somerset’s largest palace. Aside from its pleasant climate and golden beaches, the sprawling city was known for its palaces. The palace beneath the yellow and black badger of House Stellen was the largest, and the most garish by far.
The five battled their opponent with the intensity of men who didn’t want to lose their heads on the spot, but knew harming the heir to the Throne of Thorns would have them meeting the headsman all the same. Even had they fought without reserve, their steel would have come no closer to the prince than it did now. None of the men responded to the lone man’s taunt.
“I believe that depends on your meaning, My Prince,” Lord Steward Stellen replied from his extravagant seat on the sidelines. The badger heads adorning the high-backed chair echoed those drifting listlessly overhead, as did the color of the older man’s gray-white beard. Servants held large canvases suspended on poles to shade the lord host. “Every warrior wants the title, but I would suppose you’re offering the razor’s edge itself.”
Prince Ceres Romerian handled his weapon as efficiently as reputation said he could. Reputation was not born from blue skies and clear air, after all. Several of the men locked in the dance were old enough to remember the Feral Wars and the mutated beasts that tormented the realm for a thousand years prior. They remembered the unnaturally quick, precise, and deadly movements of the pale terrors, a single Feral sometimes decimating an entire village before falling to a rally of pitchforks and spades. Fighting the prince was akin to that.
“I offer both,” replied the prince, his loamy hair only now beginning to mat with exertion. His dazzling blade, a cold blue beneath the direct southern sun, continued its mesmerizing dance. “There’s no donning the titled without defeating the razor, though I begin to doubt whether this province is capable of producing anything above an impoverished idler in sword-craft. You southern mongers grow weaker and weaker every visit.”
Admittedly, the swordsmen were not the lord steward’s best. You didn’t build with your finest stone if you knew the storm would topple the structure regardless.
“Perhaps the prince grows stronger and stronger,” Lord Stellen replied submissively while ignoring the blatant insult. “How can we compete with the Rosemarked, your nobility aside, when shame runs deeper in our blood than the color red?” Everything about the arrogant young royal, including his very presence here in the South, was an insult. Orthander Stellen didn’t know how much longer he could continue licking the boy’s backside.
Steel resonated against steel more steadily than a blacksmith’s workshop, pausing momentarily as another of Lord Stellen’s men took a deep wound to the upper leg. It was supposedly a friendly spar, but two had been taken to the infirmary already. It was questionable whether one had made it that far. Another took the fighter’s place with obvious hesitation.
Lord Stellen cringed before regaining his composure. “Perhaps My Prince should save himself for the purpose of his visit.” Assuming that purpose wasn’t solely to bed the South’s women and bloody its soldiers. That, and producing ample perspiration on the Old Badger’s brow, was all Prince Ceres had accomplished in his three day visit to Somerset.
The prince spun, stepping neatly from the enclosing circle and positioning his sword out front at the ready. Seven hands in length with a diamond fuller running three-quarters of that, the radiant blue alloy met haft at a robust cross-guard that was as functional as it was attractive. Tales spoke of seven others matching its grandeur, each marked with a distinct phase of the moon in their ivory pommel. Prince Ceres wielded Waxing Crescent, and though their owners changed with time – a new Fellsword was only born upon the expiration of another – the blades’ superiority never did. Touched by all five deities it was said, enabling the swords to retain their splendor even as the gods and their priesthoods failed.
The prince’s sharp response came in and amongst the continued fighting. “If you are interested in self-preservation, as all men are, you’d have me saving nothing of myself. Or better yet, praying that one of your provincial moles lands a lucky strike.”
When Prince Ceres’ grandfather united the five kingdoms – the First King himself a moon blade bearer – the title of Fellsword became a badge rather than a duty. The order had once crossed political lines, serving as impartial mediators and negotiators. Now there were no political lines, just provincial ones, and they all reported to the same king in Rosemount. Rules and protocol still existed, but mostly the blades were carried as warning of certain death.
“To suggest that My Prince’s death would benefit me is an insult.” Orthander squeezed every insincere word through clenched teeth like grapes through a winepress.
The lord steward gave a start as Ceres suddenly disarmed three of the men, bloodied the noses of the other two, then approached casually as if he were next.
“It would benefit you!” the prince roared. “Today, and far into the future. Deposition, not demotion, should have been the word when my grandfather saved your sorry kingdoms.”
The seated lord bit his tongue until the iron taste of blood filled his mouth. It pained the Old Badger to listen to this insolent talk. All of it. Lord Steward Orthander Stellen had been king once, when the Southern Province was the independent nation of Eglinsur. After raising an army from the centrally located city-kingdom and beating back the Ferals, Cairan Romerian tore the hearts from the four surrounding kingdoms that had refused to supply aid, stripping their sovereignty and shedding their monarchies. Unity. Decades had passed since Orthander Stellen had denied the First King’s request for men and material for the Feral Wars, and he had been paying for the decision every hour since. Now he was merely an old man with a worthless title.
“It’s a wonder my father keeps your monger son around his court,” Prince Ceres continued, taking a chair next to the lord. The servants redistributed without a word, providing shade to both men.
At last, a topic on which Orthander could find agreement with the young man. Unfortunately, Lord Steward Stellen recognized it for what it was; the calm between storms. “I won’t disagree, My Prince. It took a father’s love and a god’s patience to provide for the stone-headed fool as long as I did. Some seeds go bad despite the farmer’s best effort, it would seem. But you didn’t come all this way to scold me for something I have no control over, nor have ever had con
trol over.”
Ceres took a long drink from an elaborate kilned flagon.
“For far too long the South has drained the realm without contributing enough in return. The Rosemarked expect more. The kingdom expects more.” The prince’s voice was level, but the cool wine he permitted to dribble over his chin hinted at a temporarily bottled wildness.
“Your Highness’ father has never voiced displeasure.”
“I am my father’s voice! Do I sound pleased? Would he have sent me as messenger if he were pleased?” The flagon came down hard on the chair arm, shattering in a spray of purple.
The South was known kingdom-wide and beyond for its strong tradition of quarrying, masonry, and stonework. Somerset’s unparalleled architecture was a flawless example, and cities and villages spread across the South were no different. Still, even the most stone-headed southerner could see that bending with the wind was often the better way to weather a storm. The Old Badger’s teeth would inflict a greater toll on his tongue for it, however.
“I presume King Erick would send his heir for matters of upmost importance, independent of pleasure or displeasure.” The words calmed the prince, or at least diverted him.
“For the first time since Unity, the heathen Grayskins threaten the kingdom’s eastern border,” the prince replied.
“Do the Grays cross the River Ash, then?”
“As of yet, no, but they assemble a large encampment on its banks that scouts have readily named an invasion force.”
The lord steward scoffed before catching himself. “The heathens haven’t successfully crossed the river in more than a thousand years of exile. What threat to Rosemount, My Prince, especially with ponies from the West and arms from the North?”
The prince shook his head disappointedly, the wild look returning. “Always looking for others to fight your battles, Lord Stellen. Tis precisely why you are a king no longer. Do you really think the king intends to fight your wars for you again? That he’ll raise an army of Rosemarked from the capital, ride them out on horses from the West, brandishing weapons from the North, to do battle in the East, without so much as a farewell from the South?” The prince turned his left palm towards the sky, revealing the raised rose-shaped brand in his forearm-flesh. “The Rosemarked made their sacrifice for the kingdom in the Feral Wars. Every provincial monger will pay his due this time.”
The prince wasn’t the slightest hint of a notion when his sires defeated the beasts, yet he talked as if he stood shoulder to shoulder with them on the battlefield. All Rosemarked did.
“Then it is men you need?”
“Stone,” Ceres responded. “Folly though it may be, my father intends to prevent war before waging it, if at all possible. A great wall is to be constructed linking the watchtowers.”
Lord Stellen’s eyes widened with surprise before he brought them under control. Another spectacle of the fledgling kingdom’s power. “Much of our quarry’s output is shipping north to Lord Starling’s project, My Prince.” Bend with the wind, do not break, that was the key.
“Without turning in my seat, I see the spires of a dozen palaces that will do just as well. Move your stone, or move your head. Your choice.”
“Then we’ll need more horses for transport, My Prince. Word is that Ryecard is supplying both the king’s army and the northern construction as quickly as colts can be broken. No few will be required if the man truly means to push rivers uphill.”
“I’m headed to Shorefeld now to see that you get your beasts.”
“Give my regards to your uncle, then,” the Old Badger responded. The Romerians and Starlings were as close as two families could be without sharing blood, and that would be mended by the current generation, if rumors were true.
“My father has no brother,” the prince said bitterly.
“The battlefield forges bloodlines as strong as any man and woman, My Prince. I know your father and Lord Steward Starling enough to know that both men see it that way.”
“You worry about the stone.” Prince Ceres stood suddenly and made towards his quarters. “And perhaps work on training your moles how to fight better than the showing here. Your king may be calling on them soon.”
The prince departed with his guard later that afternoon, Lord Stellen removing his tongue-buried teeth long enough to bid safe travels. Try as he might to flex around the gale’s wrath, the royal’s tempest had utterly broken the Old Badger’s present intentions. His ultimate plans, however, were only fortified by the tumultuous visit.
CHAPTER 5
Four prominent individuals surrounded a robust yet unremarkable table within the Rose Citadel’s small council chamber. Simple, straight-backed chairs, unadorned iron sconces on cylindrical pillars, and barren walls oddly angled as if the space was created as an afterthought; the room was as plain and uninviting as the table. Even the mid-morning sun was filtered through pale blue glass, restricting the once jovial rays to nothing above a hollow light.
It wasn’t a room of comfort. The king didn’t want others growing comfortable here. The spit-swallowing gods be told, he didn’t want himself making comfortable here. It was the fable of unwanted visitors. Invite comfortableness for tea and he would fetch familiarity without consult. Familiarity would bring carelessness, who himself would extend invitation to the most treacherous of all guests; cost. The large council chamber, where he saw to matters with his full cabinet and extended nobility, was designed and draped specifically to host this band of characters. The Throne of Thorns itself was only slightly elevated in a warm reception hall that was as welcoming as a housewife’s kitchen. Error on the part of others was often to the king’s benefit in those rooms. Not so here. Problems were addressed here, not created.
“I need you in the North, Willa,” Erick pressed for what he hoped would be the last time. His wife was admittedly obstinate, but she had always been pleased to attend Whitehaven in the past. Motes traversed the light shafts like lifeless stars, matching the bland expression she wore.
“Ceres to the south and myself to the north, I simply fail to see the need for your family to play at courier hawks.” She was beautiful - penetrating jade eyes set symmetrically between full lips and a thick brown mane – which made her all the more dangerous when playing at persuasion’s game. If he could win this morning’s round, it was precisely why he needed her in the North. “Next you’ll have Cauril and Chiara running messages to the Drablands.”
“It’s not messages that need carried, it’s pressure and influence. Nothing speaks a king’s demands like his queen, and nothing sways the minds of men like my queen.”
“And what demand is that?” the queen asked unamused.
“I need guarantees that the Northern Province will have our weapons delivered on time. Lord Steward Redmond has been working a special project for us. The wall won’t be completed overnight and I mean to keep the Grays on their side of the Ash until it is.” The king paused, weighing his grand and fragile orchestration with a hand to his cleanly shaved jawline. Much had been accomplished in the years subsequent to his father’s death. Much still threatened those accomplishments. “You’ll miss Ryecard on your way but you can check on his project as well.”
“To witness the kingdom’s folly with my own eyes will be a treat,” she responded shrewdly. To name a work of the kingdom foolish was to name the king foolish. Willa knew this, and it showed in her narrow grin. “If Terra was of the mind to channel water through elevated rivers of stone, she would have crafted them that way to begin with.”
“If the contents of the gods’ minds mattered, the Five would count more than my wife and a handful of mindless mutterers as followers,” Erick rebuked. “I’ve known Ryecard since we were boys, better than any man has ever known a god. If the man says he can move water uphill and increase the kingdom’s output, we will get him that water.” The queen appreciated her husband’s blasphemous insult as little as he had her degrading one.
The remorseful fog clouding her vision was banished
swiftly and she returned to the subject of her travels. Laying a gentle hand across the king’s, she said, “I could be of more help in the East, my dearest. Guide preparations for the wall and see the commanders well ordered.” Pools of the deepest green grew several sizes behind heavy lashes, enhancing their enticement. The king was expecting it, her efforts nearly as insulting as her barbed comment.
“North!” he bellowed, repelling her allure like an archer’s shaft from steel battlements. Her tactics would not work here. Not in this room, not on this man. “Have your bags made ready, you leave first thing tomorrow.”
The largest portion of Erick’s sudden anger had more to do with his wife’s tightly-knit motivations than it did her slights. Lord Steward Redmond had always been a gracious host, yet she would prefer the frontline to the North? It was clearly more than the stubborn wishes of a smooth-skinned cosset, and one more knot for a king who had neither time nor energy to unravel.
The queen’s heavy chair scraped across the floor, emphasizing her pointed rise. The shallowest curtsy, a frustrated spin, and she was out the door. In truth, it was a better farewell than most he received from the woman.
“Your Grace could send our Fellsword friend here, if hoping to preserve peace in the kingdom,” Tobiah Jago offered. The two men present had remained silent until now, avoiding the quarrel between king and queen, and more specifically, husband and wife. Smart men.
Tobiah Jago had advised Erick’s father through war and unification. With more lines creasing his brow than most maps had detailing terrain and a nose like a crow’s beak, the old man retained a wide network of eyes and ears and was plenty sharp enough to maintain it. Jago was trusted as far as a king could trust anyone, as was the old advisor’s rival in the room.
“As much as I love peace, I would refuse unless Your Grace wills it. My talent with words is limited to giving orders, and only then because my blade stands behind them. Perhaps Jago and his excessively-exercised tongue would provide the appropriate negotiator.”