The Green Knight (Space Lore Book 1)

by Chris Dietzel

  The fat man howled with indignation at being treated so poorly. It was impossible for anyone not to notice how quickly his eye was swelling. He kept touching his ear, kept muttering that it felt as if it were going to fall off.

  Morgan wasn’t worried about him fighting back. She was sure she could beat him in the close confines of the bar or the open air of the alley outside the bar or anywhere else. What she was worried about was the giant reptile standing over her, taller than any human or any other two-legged creature Morgan had ever seen.

  “Okay, okay, everyone,” Vere said, but she was looking at Traskk and reaching toward him with her open hand as if to soothe him.

  A strand of saliva stretched from one of Traskk’s upper teeth to one of his bottom, and Morgan was sure her entire head could squeeze in between the gap. Without even being conscious of it, Traskk’s tail waved back and forth, a clear sign that any Basilisk was angry. Morgan pursed her lips shut and hoped the tail would stop moving, knowing that the majority of people who ever saw a Basilisk’s tail move that much didn’t live to see anything else afterward.

  “It’s okay,” Vere said again. “Let’s all be civil.”

  “But she started it!” Fastolf yelled.

  Vere shot back an exasperated look. “I said, let’s be civil.”

  “Man,” Fastolf said, rubbing his eye and trying to get sympathy from anyone who would give it to him. “I think my eye socket is broken.”

  “Serves you right,” Morgan said.

  “Damn it, I said let’s be civil!” Vere hissed.

  Only Occulus seemed unaffected by the punches that had been thrown next to him and by the giant yellow reptile baring his teeth. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he said again.

  A’la Dure, who had been quiet throughout the altercation, put a hand on Traskk’s side. Only then did the reptile gaze back into the bar to see everyone was staring at him. A group of Hoh’ksons, skinny pale things with enormous ears and barely noticeable slits for eyes, were retrieving money they had tossed into the center of the table they were sitting at, probably wagering how long it would have taken Traskk to kill everyone else at the table. Traskk turned his head and stared at the Hoh’ksons until they all made little hiccup noises and slouched down in their chairs.

  Occulus held his drink with both hands and looked in Vere’s direction. “Whenever something like this happens,” he said, sounding like a professor, “you have to ask yourself who benefits the most. That’s the only way to figure out true motives. Your father”—Vere frowned but there was no point in pretending to be anyone other than who Morgan knew she was anyway—“doesn’t benefit at all. In fact, he has the most to lose. The Vonnegan fleet has more starships and more firepower than the CasterLans have ever had. And everyone knows Mowbray has been wanting an excuse to expand his empire. Now, with the attack taking place in his own territory, he has it. I can’t believe your father would order the attack. He’s the person who will pay the highest price.”

  “He ordered the attack,” Morgan said again. She tried to focus on getting the others to believe her, but every time the Basilisk breathed a whistle of air escaped between his huge fangs where his tongue, longer than her hair, slithered in and out of his mouth.

  Vere ignored Morgan. “Then who benefits, Occulus?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he said. “Something isn’t right. Your father would have to be insane to order an attack that brings the Vonnegan fleet to him.”

  “He did,” Morgan said.

  “But if he did—”

  “He did!”

  “But if he did,” Occulus continued, “what is he aiming to accomplish by doing it? I’m afraid to say it, but there won’t be a CasterLan Kingdom anymore. Only a much larger Vonnegan Empire.”

  Vere’s mouth curled up at the side when she asked Morgan, “You don’t really think he ordered it, do you?”

  “Oh, he ordered it, all right,” Morgan said.

  “And how exactly would you know that?”

  Morgan reached into her back pocket to retrieve a paper. Her brow furrowed. Her hand searched her other pocket. Then another.

  Vere, knowing what had happened, tried not to laugh. “Just give it back,” she said to Fastolf.

  The heavy-set man, his glass held up to his eye to keep the swelling down, feigned indignation.

  “I don’t understand where—” Morgan started to say, but then remembered Fastolf walking past her to get the last round of drinks. She was in the middle of a pack of thieves and had already fallen victim without knowing it.

  As soon as her eyes focused on him and her fingers curled into fists, Fastolf made sure Traskk was in her way and then tossed the paper at her.

  “A copy of the orders that Hotspur received from the king,” she said, unfolding the document.

  But before Vere could see what proof Morgan had or didn’t have, another fight erupted on the far side of the room. The bartender could do nothing but shake his head and pull glasses back from the bar so fewer things got broken.

  A poor Wren, covered from head to toe with beautiful cream-colored fur, was being attacked by a pair of men who swung their barstools at it. Wrens were typically good-natured but because they were wider than they were tall, a confined space like Eastcheap often caused problems. This Wren had apparently knocked an entire table over—purely by accident—and there were thirsty drunks who took that personally.

  The Wren had one man over its head before tossing him ten feet across the room, while the other man broke a barstool over the alien’s back.

  Through the fighting, a man ran into the bar, looked around from table to table, then dashed right past the violence without acknowledging it. Out of breath, the man stopped at the same table Morgan was now sitting at.

  “Vere, I—” the man said, hands on his knees.

  “What is this, a convention?” Vere said, lowering her eyes, not wanting anyone else in the establishment to know who she was.

  “I’ll drink to that!” Fastolf said, raising his glass. When no one else joined him, he shrugged and downed the drink by himself.

  “You need to come to Edsall Dark right away,” the man said.

  “I know, I know,” Vere said, rolling her eyes. “Something about a war, right?”

  “A war?” Still panting, the man squinted with confusion. “I don’t know anything about a war.”

  And for a moment, Vere thought everything might be okay after all. Maybe this truly was some sort of misunderstanding.

  “Why are you here then,” she said.

  “Because your father is dying.”

  7

  The king’s bed was in the middle of the room. An arm’s length away from each bedpost were four stone columns with designs etched into each one. Three people were gathered around the ornate bed. A woman, her gray hair with blond hints still visible, held one of the king’s hands in her own. A young man stood over the bed, his jaw twitching back and forth as he listened to the groans of his ruler. His bushy blond hair fell down over his eyes so none of the others could see any emotion coming over him. A physician walked around the bed with a small cup of liquid.

  “Drink this, Your Highness,” the doctor said, but most of the liquid dripped down the king’s chin. The little that did enter his mouth only made him cough.

  “You’re getting it on his robes,” the woman said, taking the cup from the physician, then attempting it herself.

  At the door, a fourth man stood, watching the proceedings in silence.

  There were no living quarters situated at a higher point in all the kingdom than the king’s chamber. Half of every wall was covered in blue and gold tapestry similar to the sheets the king lay atop and that decorated his pillows. Within the fabric was the repeated symbol of a dragon’s head with five tails. The other half of the curved walls had floor-to-ceiling windows that offered views of the planet.

  To the east, the business district and thousands of people scurrying here and there, endless
movement and energy, everyone trying to get rich off of someone else.

  To the south, the space harbor. Launch pads and docking stations, tiered one upon another, over one hundred levels in all, each with a ship landing for the night or getting ready for take off. Above them, a line of starships of every make and size waited for clearance to land at Edsall Dark. Others taxied into position to leave the airspace and go out into solar system.

  To the west, the great fields of Aromath the Solemn. Flat lands of gray grass for miles and miles where, hundreds of years earlier, the former ruler had vanquished his brother, Methus the Vengeful. It was a battle that every child on Edsall Dark learned about in school—two brothers, both flying the same banner, entire armies unsure who was friend and who was foe, until one brother sought out the other and cut him down. Beyond the fields were the forests of tears, where men vanished and where souls were said to roam. And still further, barely visible from the king’s chamber, the great snowcapped mountains where it was said the gods had once lived and now, where they slept.

  Finally, to the north lay Idin’s Mountains, a range of peaks that stretched into the distance. Along the entire capital perimeter stood a wall bearing the same name. Idin’s Wall curved all the way from the northern side of the capital, around the business district to the east, the space harbor to the south, and the fields to the west. The wall was thousands of years old, a reminder of the days when armies traversed across ground on their way to invade kingdoms rather than arriving by starships. If an invader were to take that approach today, their best bet would be to do it from the open fields where brother slew brother so long ago. But even there they were blocked by the wall, and that had given the kingdom a sense of calm that came with being protected.

  Knowing there was nothing else he could do for his ruler, the physician gathered his supplies and excused himself. On his way out, the man in the doorway stepped aside, but only after putting a hand on the doctor’s shoulder to stop him in place.

  “How is he?” Hotspur asked, his eyes red. Having just arrived back on the planet, he was tired and more irritable than usual.

  “Our lord does not have much time,” the doctor said quietly, his eyes looking straight down at his feet.

  “How much time?”

  “Maybe a week.”

  “Maybe?” Hotspur said, his fingers curling to take hold of the doctor’s uniform. If he were on his Solar Carrier and one of his men responded with “maybe,” it would be the end of a career.

  The physician was unsuccessful in pulling away from Hotspur’s grip. Resigned, he said, “The king is a fighter. The sickness would have already killed lesser men. But I cannot be sure how much longer he can fight it.”

  Hotspur took a deep breath, then released the other man’s shirt and watched him hobble quickly down the hallway.

  Lady Percy, the king’s wife, spoke to her son, who didn’t bother to push the curls of blond hair away from his eyes so he could see her speak. Without saying anything else, she excused herself, passing by Hotspur without acknowledging him. Only when Modred was by himself, over the body of his stepfather, did Hotspur step forward.

  “How soon until the Vonnegan fleet arrives?” Modred asked, finally moving curls of bushy hair away from his eyes and resting his body against the side of one of the columns.

  “One hundred and sixty-five hours.”

  There were many reactions Hotspur might have expected from Modred. He could have asked how their own fleet was preparing. He could have asked if the defenses were ready. He could have become panicked or he could have stomped his foot and said it would be a good day for killing once Mowbray’s fleet did finally arrive.

  Instead, Modred laughed. He laughed!

  Hotspur’s eyes narrowed at the young man’s insolence. Any other person in the kingdom, except for the king and Hotspur’s own family, would be dead right now. Without even realizing he had done so, his fingers had tightened and were ready to crush bones. He was so angry he almost felt bad for the first person he would see upon leaving the king’s quarters.

  “One hundred and sixty-five hours?” Modred asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Not one hundred and sixty-four or one hundred and sixty-six?”

  “No.”

  Modred stopped laughing then, seeing he was pushing his luck. Hotspur worked for him, but it was only the two of them in this room—in his current state the king would never know what was being said or done. He saw from the way Hotspur’s hands were clenched that he was envisioning a gruesome death.

  “Very good,” Modred said, clearing his throat and attempting to adopt a serious tone. “Why so long?”

  “So long?”

  “There are countless portals in their kingdom, just as there are in ours. Their fleet could jump from one portal to another, then to another, and be at our doorstep in a few hours.”

  “They entered our space at the Troy portal.”

  “Where the attack took place?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And,” Hotspur said, looking out the window at the sky and all the infinite number of stars that could be seen in the distance, “they are traveling through normal space to get here and avoiding all of the portals.”

  “Why?”

  “I think they want to send a message on their way here.”

  Modred chuckled again, and Hotspur swore to himself that if the blond bastard laughed one more time during this conversation he would take his life right there, king’s stepson or not.

  Modred patted Hotspur on the shoulder. When he did, a dull thud sounded. Hotspur seemed not to notice. “Well,” said Modred, “I’m sure you’ll have the fleet ready when they do arrive.”

  Without waiting for a response, Modred left the king’s chambers, leaving Hotspur alone with his deathly ill king.

  For the first time since carrying out the attack on the Ornewllian Compact, Hotspur wondered how his king had been healthy enough to give the fateful orders. None of the conclusions he came to made him feel any better.

  8

  “Your name?” Vere said to the man standing over their table.

  “Baldwin, My Lady.”

  Fastolf snorted with laughter. Traskk and A’la Dure looked at each other and then at Vere, wondering who the person was that had been sitting in a bar with them for the past six years.

  “If you value your health,” Vere said between gritted teeth, “You won’t call me that again. I’m not your lady or your anything else.”

  “My Lady!” Fastolf said in between gulps of his drink. “My Lady, My Lady!”

  Vere sighed. “See what you’ve done,” she said to Baldwin. “How do you know my father?”

  “I’m one of his physicians.”

  The side of Vere’s mouth curled up as a thought made her look back at Morgan. “And how did you know about the attack at Troy?”

  The other woman raised her chin and jutted her shoulders back. “I was Hotspur’s top lieutenant.”

  Those at the table who knew of Hotspur—and the reputation he had earned as an ambitious and bloodthirsty officer rising through the ranks of the CasterLan Kingdom—groaned, and Morgan’s chin immediately dropped lower than it had been before she bragged.

  Baldwin said, “I swore not to tell anyone about your father’s health. But oath or no oath, I can’t let his only daughter go without knowing what’s happening.”

  “And what do you expect me to do now?”

  “Wait,” Fastolf said. For a rare moment, his attention was on something other than drinking, stealing, or laughing. “You mean you really are the person these two”—he motioned at Morgan and Baldwin—“say you are?”

  Baldwin seemed utterly baffled by the reactions of the people around him. A’la Dure said nothing, but furrowed her eyebrows and looked around for someone to explain what all of this meant. Occulus was the only one who looked like he wasn’t surprised by anything that had happened around the table.

  Morgan smacked her pal
ms against the table and said, “We’re wasting time. We have to get going back to Edsall Dark.”

  “Everyone, calm down,” Vere said, looking as though she needed to heed her own advice. She glanced at Occulus for help but the old man only leaned back in his chair to see what fascinating turn of events might occur next.

  Baldwin said, “Well, you have to come see your father. And you have to—”

  “Don’t tell me what I have to do. I don’t have to do anything,” Vere said in a tone that no one, not sage advisor Occulus nor best friend A’la Dure nor giant reptile Traskk would argue with.

  Fastolf belched and said, “You have to have another drink!”

  Vere smiled. “Okay, I guess there is one thing I have to do.”

  “This is absurd,” Morgan said as Fastolf walked behind her to get another round. “The future of the CasterLan Kingdom is drinking her life away while the Vonnegan Empire prepares to destroy it.”

  When no one else seemed as outraged as she was, Morgan picked up an empty glass, then brought it down on the table, smashing it to pieces. Flecks of glass sprayed everyone else at the table, causing Traskk to growl and make his tail sway back and forth under their chairs.

  Dismayed, Baldwin looked at everyone gathered around the table. This wasn’t at all what he had expected to find upon leaving his post in search of the missing CasterLan heir who, as he watched, was covering her face and groaning. The future of their kingdom was not looking very bright.

  “Give me some time to think,” Vere said.

  “We don’t have time to wait around,” Morgan said.

  “Damn it, I said let me think.”

  Morgan was on her feet, ready to swing across the table at Vere. Vere did the same. Both of them had fingers curled into loose fists and were ready to dive across the table at the person who was infuriating them.

  Traskk gave a soft hiss and both women reluctantly backed down.

  “What do you think?” Vere said to Occulus after flexing her fingers to get the tension out of them.