Five Kingdoms: Books 01, 02 & 03

by Toby Neighbors

  Mansel was still asleep, but no one seemed to mind stepping over him. Ollie came out of the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs. She set one before Quinn and spoke quietly.

  “Best remedy for a night of too much fun,” she said, smiling. “Drink it slow and it'll stay down, guaranteed.” Quinn nodded but looked doubtful. “I'll send Ellie out with your breakfast in just a moment dear.”

  Brianna started to say thank you, but before she could speak, a man sat down opposite Quinn without an invitation. It was the man from the night before, and he laid a knife on the table in front of him.

  “I hear that some men started some trouble in here a while back,” said the man in a low voice that seemed too deep to come from such a thin person.

  “That so,” said Quinn. He was staring hard at the man, the look of sickness gone completely.

  “Word is it was you that they ran into,” said the man. “Seeing how you aren't beat to death or full of wounds in your back, I'd say you're ex-army, King's Guard maybe.”

  Quinn didn't speak. He just stared at the man.

  “Personally, I didn't care for that bunch. We're all better off without them. But the boss pays me to ensure that nothing disrupts his business. And while for the most part those three were worthless, they were in charge of bringing supplies back to our camp.”

  “What is it you want?” Brianna said, her voice shaking. She wasn't sure if it was from fear or anger. How dare this man come to them and defend those barbaric miners!

  “I just want to hear what happened,” said the man.

  “I expect you've heard enough,” Quinn said.

  “I've heard quite a bit, and I know my boss will want to meet you when he comes to town, but I've also heard about a group of people that were run out of a small village called Tranaugh Shire. I heard a lot about Wizards and mercenaries and battles. Of course, you can't believe everything you hear. But then again, we’ve been getting our supplies from this little village for a while and no one ever made a play before.”

  Brianna looked at Quinn, but the Master Carpenter was still staring straight at the man across from him. Brianna looked at the knife on the table. It was the length of a man's hand, from palm to finger tips. It was forged entirely from one piece of metal, the handle merely wrapped with leather. It was exactly like Quinn's dagger, the one he had thrown and killed the miner with.

  “I'm also wondering if there might be a more lucrative reward for a group that's being chased by so many,” said the man. “I could report to my boss, tell him I found the man responsible. He'd be glad to hear it, but something tells me that I could do a lot better if I just took you south.”

  “We aren't who you think,” Quinn said. “I'm just a Carpenter. We're from a village called Winsel. Don't want no trouble.”

  “Most people don't, but trouble has a way of coming around, don't it.”

  “Don't think because I don't want it that I'm not prepared for it,” Quinn said.

  The man smiled. “That's what I figured,” said the man. “My name's Dex. Be seeing you around.”

  The man stood up and walked away, leaving the knife on the table.

  Chapter 22

  Branock rode through the falling snow and pondered his future. He knew that he could not return to the Torr without Zollin, but even if he managed to capture the boy, he had no desire to remain subservient to his Master. His battle with Zollin and the resulting wounds had changed him. He wanted to enjoy the life his power provided him before he was too old to enjoy anything except cruelty. He wanted to rule, but he could never truly do that while his Master lived. Still, he wasn’t strong enough alone to challenge the Torr. His Master was much too powerful for him to overcome alone. He also needed to deal with Wytlethane. The elder Wizard did not rival Branock in strength, but he could not allow his foe to rejoin their Master, and a prolonged battle would severely weaken him in his attempt to gain Zollin’s allegiance.

  He closed his eyes and let the cold seep into his body. He could feel the ragged toughness of his scar tissue just below the surface of his skin. He had full movement, but the damage was still there – he had merely been able to bypass it. He knew that he needed to move quickly, but he also desperately needed an ally. Wytlethane would be in Isos City, but Branock had turned his farm horse south and headed toward Orrock. He knew there was no turning back now. If he failed in his attempt at freedom, he would be hunted down. The best he could hope for would be a quick death. If his Master captured him, he would die slowly.

  Still, he knew there was no reward where there was no risk. He had always felt that he could sense opportunities. Some people saw the unexpected as setbacks, but Zollin’s escape seemed to Branock to be a blessing in disguise. Wytlethane was alone and vulnerable. Their Master was certainly aware that Cassis had been defeated, but he could not foresee Branock’s plan. That was the just the edge that Branock needed.

  It took nearly a week of travel before he approached the city. He passed the outlying villages that sprang up around any great city. There were venders under colorful awnings stretched tight like sails from a ship. They spread their wares on blankets and quilts laid on the snow-covered ground. The snow had not been as heavy out of the mountains, and the constant traffic of men and animals had churned the pure white flakes into muddy heaps that clung to everything. The road was a sucking mud-path that coated his mount's hooves and legs.

  The houses here were hovels, most made from mud and thatch, but some of scrap wood. The walls of the city loomed ahead, and the people lived here in the shadow of safety, many tending to the less savory demands a large city imposed. On the far side of the city were the riverside docks where goods were shipped downriver and loaded onto ships fit for sailing up and down the coast. But not in winter, when the seas were too stormy to risk, and so local trade thrived during this short season. There were people everywhere, some herding sheep and goats, others butchering animals. The merchants were calling loudly to any who passed by, most of whom were on foot. Branock's appearance caused people to stop and stare. His hairless, slightly scarred head, his disfigured ear and milky white eye set him apart. He saw people making gestures with their hands to ward off evil. He chuckled to himself, as if they could stop anything he desired to do.

  As he approached the city, he saw the guards talking as they leaned on their heavy pikes. Had Prince Dewalt been in the city, the soldiers would have taken their duties much more seriously. The first prince was bright and cared deeply for his people, demanding the best from those entrusted with their governance and safety. He would have made a fine king, but that would never happen now. King Elwane had sent his eldest son to Osla as an ambassador. In his absence, the city had grown soft and ripe like a plum. When Branock had been to see the King with Wytlethane and Cassis, they had been greeted by the King's second son, Prince Simmeron. He was a grasping, devious young man, impulsive and overly fond of his power and position. He was also probably behind his father's illness and would likely have his brother assassinated so that he could be king.

  The streets of the city were paved with cobblestones and had been swept clean of snow. There were merchants here, and Branock planned to visit one soon, but first he needed to make his presence known. The Prince would make him wait, and he did not wish to sit in a cold room with sycophants and minor dignitaries hoping for an audience. He needed a more direct approach. He rode through the winding streets and finally came to the walls of the castle which rose like cliffs in the middle of the city. The gate was guarded more carefully than the city, but this was the King's own guard.

  “Hold,” said the guard who stepped up into the road before Branock. “State your business in the castle.”

  “I'm here to see Prince Simmeron's steward,” said Branock.

  “His steward,” said the solider. “Why are you here to see the steward?”

  “Royal business,” said Branock, pushing a sense of trust and acceptance toward the guard. He felt the magic flow out and saw a change in the guard's
appearance. “Is it possible that you could run ahead and bring him out to me? It's urgent.”

  “Of course,” said the soldier, spinning on his heel. He called for one of the older soldiers to take his place at the gate while he jogged inside.

  Branock rode forward. He was tired and cold and hungry. He looked forward to sitting near a fire and eating warm food again, not to mention lying in a bed rather than on the cold, hard ground. Not that Branock needed much sleep, since his magic could keep him going for days without rest, but eventually he needed to sleep and regain his full strength. He would sleep soon, but first one last task kept him in the saddle.

  He waited in a side courtyard while the soldier ran in and herded the steward out into the cold. It took several minutes, but finally the guard returned. He was practically dragging the steward along by his collar, the official sputtering in rage. Branock smiled as the steward caught sight of him. His sputtering protest died as a look of revulsion swept over him.

  “You are the Prince's steward?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” Branock smiled. “I will see the Prince in the morning. Meet me here after sunup and escort me to him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, lord,” said the steward.

  Branock did not even have to use his power – the man's fear would be motivation enough. He turned his horse and rode back out of the castle. He made his way to the finest Inn. There was a young serving boy, shivering in the cold, who took his horse as Branock dismounted. His body ached from the cold and from days spent riding. He felt pain in his wounded side that flared from time to time and now seemed to spasm with every step. The young servant stared openly at Branock's ruined eye. It didn't bother the Wizard to be gawked at, and the boy's fear would cause him to treat the horse well. Not that Branock intended to keep the small farm horse. He would sell the horse and buy a proper animal before leaving the city, but the horse had seen him this far and deserved a warm night in a proper stable with plenty of oats to fill his belly.

  Branock strode into the Inn and was greeted by a short woman with a hooked nose and pinched expression. He could tell she was practiced at hiding her reactions to what she saw and heard. Business secrets were often discussed in her rooms, and she was probably good at listening quietly before entering to bring food and drink. She had obviously prospered by exploiting what she had seen and heard. Branock admired those traits, even if they were underhanded in nature.

  “I need a room, a hot bath, a hot meal, and your best wine,” he said.

  “I'll have the water heated immediately,” said the Inn Keeper. “Would you care to dine in the common room?”

  “No.”

  “I see, right this way, my lord.”

  She led him down a wide hallway to the room at the end. It was large, with a fine wooden table, a couch with embroidered cushions and a padded chair with a foot rest near the fireplace. A crackling fire was already burning brightly in the room. There was a large bed at the far end of the room, with heavy curtains hanging from a frame around it.

  “Is this room acceptable?” asked the woman with a false sense of modesty.

  “It is, now send a servant with the wine who can do my bidding,” Branock said as he dropped gold coins into the woman's outstretched palm.

  She bowed, the coins disappearing into a hidden fold of her gown. Then she turned and left the room, closing the door as she went. Branock walked to the fire. He was wearing dirty, tattered clothes. The boot on his wounded side was misshapen from the fire attack and he struggled to pull it off. Once both boots were removed, he dropped into the padded chair and extended his cold feet toward the fire. A servant entered carrying a decorated glass bottle of wine and a large crystal goblet. Branock took the goblet as the servant removed the cork from the bottle and poured the dark liquid into his cup. The man sat the bottle on the table as Branock tasted the drink. It was smooth and rich, warming him as it flowed down his throat and into his stomach.

  Branock turned to the servant, who was about the age of the young Wizard he was pursuing. Zollin had never been far from Branock's thoughts, but having focused on this part of his plan for the last several days, he had let the boy fall further and further from his mind. Now he was reminded of the task and consequently the dangers involved. He pushed those thoughts from his mind.

  “Run and fetch me the finest tailor in town,” he ordered. “Tell him he is to meet me here with all haste. This should motivate him,” he held up a gold coin. “Then take this boot,” he said, holding out his one good boot, “to the best cobbler in the city. Tell him I need two pairs of his finest work before sunup. There will be more of these if he can please me,” said the Wizard, holding up another gold coin. “I'll need food for a week's ride, wine in skins but not watered down, fresh but hardy bread, and smoked cheese. I want salted meat and be sure it's good quality. And I'll need the best horse money can buy here in the morning. If you please me, there will be a few of these for you as well, boy.”

  The servant nodded, taking the gold coins and smiling. He hurried from the room, and Branock closed his eyes. He would be busy soon, eating, bathing, being measured and fit with the finest clothes. His body showed no visible scars, but the unnaturally white skin on his left side was different enough. His bald head, ruined ear, and milky eye would make him stand out among the city. There would be rumors and gossip even now among the servants and city guard. Soon it would include the merchants and nobles, and by morning even Prince Simmeron would have heard of the stranger whose frightening appearance was as intriguing as his rich purse. That was as it should be. He was tired of lurking in shadows, blending in with the crowd. People should know his power and fear him.

  ***

  The next morning, Branock was well rested and well fed. He was wearing leather breeches over linen undergarments. He had a thick wool shirt and leather vest, with a short, fur-lined cape over his shoulders that hung down just below his waist. Tall boots came up just below his knees and he had matching gloves tucked into a belt that was lined with silver studs. As he stepped out into the weak winter sunlight, he was met by a man with a thick beard holding a short rawhide whip.

  “You the man looking for a good horse?” the man said.

  “I am,” said Branock.

  “My name's Henrick, got the best in Orrock.”

  “Did you bring your best?” Branock questioned.

  “Brought two, just depends on what you want. You looking for speed or reliability?”

  “I take it the faster horse is spirited?”

  “Spirited is a good way of putting it,” Henrick said. “He's a young stallion, very fast and strong, just needs a strong hand to guide him.”

  “I'll take him. What's your price?”

  The man offered a good price and Branock paid him in gold, then sent the young servant who had run his errands the day before to buy a good blanket and saddle for the horse. He gave the young boy a small purse of coins and told him to bring the horse to the castle and to wait for him. Then Branock set off for the castle himself, walking on the cobblestone street with long strides to stretch the stiff muscles in his leg and back. The boots felt good and he was warm in his new clothing despite the temperature. There was ice in spots on the street, and water barrels had to have the layer of ice broken to get to the clean water underneath. With the rest of his body so warm, Branock noticed just how cold his head was now without any hair. He made a mental note to purchase a hat of some kind before leaving Orrock later.

  At the castle gate, he was met by the same guard as the day before, who escorted him back to the small courtyard.

  “You're looking better today, if I may say so, lord,” said the guard.

  Branock ignored him. They were met at the courtyard by the steward who looked visibly relieved that the Wizard's appearance wasn't as frightening as the day before.

  “Ah, right this way, sir,” said the steward. “I'll take you right up the Prince. You may have to wait a while, as the Prince is a slow
riser.”

  “You can wake him, my business won't wait,” Branock said.

  “I'll not be waking his majesty, sir,” said the steward with some measure of resolve. “All courtiers must wait –”

  Branock cut him off before he could finish. “I'm not a courtier, and if you don't wake your master immediately, I'll see to it personally that he has you hanged from the castle walls by your feet.”

  “Sir, I protest your foul treatment and I'll have you know – arggghh –”

  Branock slammed the man into the wall with a wave of his hand. The steward's feet were far from the floor, his face red, eyes bulging in pain.

  “Do you now understand the measure of my resolve or do you still need to be convinced?” Branock said, his voice harsh in the quiet corridor.