A King’s Bargain
Book I of Legend of Tal
J.D.L. Rosell
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by J.D.L. Rosell
All rights reserved.
Illustration © 2020 by René Aigner
Book design by J.D.L. Rosell
Map by Kaitlyn Clark
ISBN 978-1-952868-00-9 (hardback)
ISBN 978-1-952868-01-6 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-952868-02-3 (ebook)
Published by JDL Rosell
jdlrosell.com
Contents
Map of the Westreach
Read the Prequel to Legend of Tal — for Free
Prologue
The Call of the Constellations
The Greatest Chicken Farmer
The Blade That Rusts
Easterly Winds
The Traveler’s Home
The Ruins of Erlodan
A Touch of Night
The Wolf in Sheepskin
A Nasty Flock of Chickens
Haggling with a King
The Magebutcher and the Minstrel
Treachery’s Due
Lessons for a Legend
Stories Under the Stars
Sparring Partner
The Song
The Moonlit Courtyard
The Warlock of Canturith
The Bloody Circle
The Fox Among the Fold
From the Shadows
One Final Performance
The Man Behind the Name
Impervious
Like Old Friends
The Fickle Woods
Fable’s End
A Bargain Fulfilled
The Wayward Return
Thanks for Reading!
Books by J.D.L. Rosell
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Read the Prequel to Legend of Tal — for Free
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Prologue
The Truth of Legends
Tal Harrenfel is more lie than legend.
This is my conclusion regarding "the Man of a Thousand Names," and by the flagrant dishonesty of Falcon Sunstring, Harrenfel's minstrel, I must doubt all of the infamous adventurer's purported exploits.
Sunstring's opening ballad would have you believe:
He stole the Impervious Ring from the Queen of Goblins
He killed Yuldor's Demon and saved the Sanguine City of Elendol
He protected the Northern Shores and plumbed the depths of the dwarven mines
He stole the heart of a princess and the tongue from a bard
Ringthief — Devil Killer — Defender of the Westreach
His name harkens back to the deeds of his youth
His legend rings out from every throat in the West…
Yet Sunstring fails to mention the darker stories also attributed to Harrenfel. Magebutcher. Red Reaver. Khuldanaam'defarnaam — or, translated from the Clantongue of the Hardrog Dwarves, "He Who Does Not Fear Death, For He Is Death's Hand."
The story is at best incomplete, at worst impossible. That one man could be a swordsman, sorcerer, and mercenary as well as an accomplished poet, diplomat — and, if the rumors hold true, lover — stretches the limits of belief.
And how could any of the legend be believed, when Harrenfel himself was recorded saying to His Majesty, Aldric Rexall the Fourth:
"I've never claimed to be more than a man."
As a historian and a scholar, I will gather the witnesses, collect the accounts, and piece together the true story behind this modern fable. Then, fraud or impossibly true, I will expose Tal Harrenfel for the charlatan I suspect — nay, I know him to be.
- Brother Causticus of the Order of Ataraxis
The Call of the Constellations
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a candle flickering into flame.
A man, hunched over a rough-hewn table in a cramped room, stares at the swaying flame. Dark planes fall over his face, and lines of age and old injury fall into deeper shadow. A beard, tan speckled with red, is barely kept at bay, and long, tawny hair streaked with gray and white falls around his face.
The candle's flame dances in a breeze that claws through the boards, and the light reflects in the man's eyes, black as a devil's heart and wide with a wolf's hunger, as he shifts his gaze down to the object before him.
A book, its pages worn around the edges and yellowed with age, lays open on the table. His gaze does not shift, his eyes do not read the words, but he stares as if to see beyond what the pages can offer.
He is still for a long moment, then his eyes dart up to the swaying flame, and one calloused hand stretches forward. As his hand passes over the candle, the flame sputters and blows out, and the night sweeps into the room once more.
Sleep — sleep is all he dreams of. Sleep that comes as easily as extinguishing a candle, that banishes the thoughts of all he's lost. Only asleep can he lose himself in remembrances of fine wine and unwarranted fame, of palaces with mirror-bright halls and sly-eyed gentlefolk at balls. Even memories of the dark towers filled with murder and fury where he'd been hunted by beasts and black-hearted warlocks — even those nightmares would be preferred.
For, while awake, no dream can be real.
The wind whistles through the cracks, and the tired wood groans. Another mumbled word, and the candle flickers to life again, the hand falling back to the table to rest next to the book's frayed binding.
His eyes wander down to the tome again, and his fingers stretch toward it to brush across the rough, aged paper. He whispers, "Would that you'd reveal the truth of your secrets."
Then, he might know the face of him named the Enemy of the Westreach. Then, he could end this war, this farce.
Then, he could finally rest.
Far from the heart of civilization, cowled in a gloom barely lifted by the moons, rests the town of Hunt's Hollow, all still and shadowed — all save a man filled with memories of once was and dreams of what could never be.
Both near and far away, lost in a solitude of his own, a boy just becoming a man stares up at the ceiling of his shared bedroom, listening to the sounds of his sleeping brothers and remembering the stories of the stars.
The bed, stuffed with straw, is hard and lumpy and scratchy, but he barely feels it. He is strolling down shining rooms with ceilings as high as the sky, and a woman, as lovely as a sunset's glow, holds tightly to his arm. A sword is belted at his hip, and a smile plays on his lips. As they pass a group of people, he hears their whispers: There he strides! Isn't he glorious, the Hero of Avendor?
A brother snores, and the youth jerks back into the dark, stuffy room, the lumpy bed beneath. He shifts, tries to get comfortable, fails, and finally settles back.
He can see and feel it all so clearly. He can taste the wine, sweeter than any freshly picked autumn apple. He can smell the air, perfumed with roses and mysterious spices. He can see the famed bastion of the King of Avendor, salmon-colored towers rising into the clouds. And he can see himself among it all.
But when he breathes in, only the stench of stale sweat and manure fills his nose.
The youth sighs and stretches out on the bed long grown too small for him. He's never seen a castle, never tasted wine, never smelled a perfume the surrounding forest couldn't
provide. All he knows of the World, he has learned from stories told around the fire. Every imagining he has, he steals from the tales of the legends.
Markus Bredley, the roguish adventurer who delved into the treasure troves the dwarves keep hidden beneath their mountains and came out a rich man. Gendil of Candor, the warlock who learned the names of the moons and ascended to dwell with the Whispering Gods. General Tussilus, who led the charge that drove back the Eastern Horde during their last incursion two centuries past. And Tal Harrenfel, the Man of a Thousand Names, the living legend who disappeared into the barbaric East seven years before and was never seen again.
But more treasured still are the tales his brothers have told of their father, a captain who left to serve the King and died in his service, so long ago now he can scarcely remember his face.
"I'll earn my own name," he whispers to the night sky, hidden beyond the thatched roof. "I'll earn my stars."
One of his brothers mutters, and the youth falls silent. In the darkness, his dreams are safe. Only in silence can he hear the call of the constellations, whispering, beckoning him onward.
The Greatest Chicken Farmer
As Garin watched the man dart back and forth across the muddy yard, half-bent like a raccoon, trying over and over to snag one of the hens and failing, he couldn't say he'd ever seen a better chicken farmer.
"Come here, damn you!" the man cursed as he chased the chickens. As they scattered, he made a grab, missed, tried again, and nearly fell face-first into the mud.
"Try approaching slower," Garin said, a twitch to his lips. "Not that an old man like you could go anything but slow."
The would-be chicken herder straightened and stretched his back with a groan. "Tried that. Still don't have a chicken roasting on a spit." He eyed Garin. "Maybe if a certain lad helped me chase them, we might both be chewing on succulent meat before the hour's up."
Garin pretended not to notice as his gaze wandered up to the sky. "Best hurry about it. Looks set to rain at any moment."
The man sighed. "Maybe the mud will stop them. Yuldor's prick, but chickens are degenerate birds, aren't they? What kind of bird can't even fly?"
The farmer stalked after the hens, a hand pressed to his side. He often touched that spot, Garin had noticed, like one might pick at a scab that refused to heal.
Garin shook his head and looked off toward the main muddy road through the town. The chicken farmer, incompetent as he might be at his chosen profession, had been the most exciting thing to happen to Hunt's Hollow in the last five years. Little else changed in their village. The seasons came and went; rains fell, and fields dried up; youths coupled against their parents' wishes and established their own farms. Life was trapped in amber, the same cycle repeated for every man, woman, and child in the village. The only thing to change in the last five years was the lack of deaths, for though the Nightkin beasts that came down from the Fringes had still been sighted, none had stayed long enough to attack.
His eyes turned toward the western tree line. Garin had traveled to all the other villages in the East Marsh, taking every opportunity he could get, but found them all the same, and Hunt's Hollow the largest of them, with its own forge and sharing its mill with only one other town. The World, he knew, lay with the rest of the Westreach.
I'll see it all and make my name, he promised himself. Someday.
His unfocused eyes were drawn by a figure approaching down the road. As the man drew closer, it became apparent he wasn't from any of the surrounding towns, or even the East Marsh. No wagon or horse — can't be a peddler. A wandering tradesman? But where he kept the tools of his trade, Garin hadn't the faintest idea, for his pack was small and slight.
As he came closer still, he observed how oddly dressed the traveler was. His hat, made of stiff cloth that was worn and gray and notched on the rim, was pointed and bent at the top. The long braid of hair draped over the front of his shoulder was black as a winter night. His chin was completely smooth and so sharp Garin reckoned he could cut a wheel of cheese with it. His clothes, like his hat, were well-used, but despite the many patches, they spoke of quality not too far gone.
A man of means, Garin wagered. Always best to be polite to a man of means.
"Welcome, traveler!" he called cheerily as the man came within earshot. "Welcome to Hunt's Hollow!"
"I read the sign on the way in."
He sounded somewhat irritable. But then, Garin reasoned, he must have traveled a long way. Opening his mouth to respond, he found the words caught in his throat. The traveler's eyes were shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, but he could detect a shining quality to them. Like staring into a forge, Garin thought before he could banish the boyish notion.
"Rain's blessing to you this day, stranger," he finally said. "A lonely corner of the World the roads have taken you to today."
The man cocked his head, the floppy tip of the hat tilting with it. "Not for long, I hope."
Garin kept his face carefully smooth. He was quite good at it, having had plenty of practice with Crazy Ean, who drank too much marsh whiskey and said things that could stiffen even an old man's beard.
"You'll be looking for a place to stay, I reckon?"
The stranger's gaze shifted past him, and Garin glanced back to see the chicken farmer approaching them. Somehow, he seemed changed, his shoulders back and posture upright despite his earlier defeat, and an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes.
"No," the stranger said. "I won't."
"Garin! Who's this you're keeping inhospitably in the mud?" The chicken farmer had reached his fence and leaned against it, wearing an amicable smile. But that smile… something about it made Garin suddenly feel he'd gotten in the way of two hogs who had their sights on the same sow.
"The boy has been accommodating," the stranger said before Garin could answer. "Silence pray that others in this town are just as kind."
"Oh, Hunt's Hollow is a fine town," the chicken farmer replied. "Peaceful and quiet. We like it to stay that way."
Garin swallowed and edged back along the fence.
The stranger turned his gaze on him. "Boy, I may yet take you up on your offer. Stay close by."
"No, that's alright," the chicken farmer said with his smile wider still. "I'm sure I could put you up if it comes to it. You get along now, boy."
If nothing else had his hairs on end, the chicken farmer calling him "boy" did. In the five years since he'd settled in Hunt's Hollow, the man had never been anything less than respectful to him, treating him as a man grown — which, at fifteen, he damned well was. A boy would run, he knew, but a man would stay.
"I'll stay. You might need someone to help you chase down chickens, Bran."
The stranger's eyes seemed more molten than ever as they turned back to the chicken farmer. "Bran, is it?"
"It is." Bran straightened, one foot still on the fence. "But I must have missed your name."
"I very much doubt that."
Man or boy, Garin was starting to think he ought to run for someone. Smith wouldn't be a bad man to have around if this came to blows. Though to look at these two, a bout wouldn't take long to settle.
Bran looked to have forty summers to him, from the crinkles around his eyes, and the dark tan-going-leather of his skin. But he had broad shoulders for a man of his middling height, and a chest and arms to rival Smith's, which Garin guessed he hadn't earned through chasing chickens. Then there were his tattoos, and the scars they covered. Bran always wore long shirts, even in the heat of the day, but Garin had glimpsed them: the bright colors, the strange, scrawling patterns, the puckered skin running beneath them all. The scar on his side looked the worst of them, and he often caught Bran clutching at it as if it pained him still. And his hair was streaked with white and gray so that Garin had occasionally teased him by calling him "Skunk."
Bran had been a soldier once, Garin had no doubt. Though, if his swordwork was as good as his chicken herding, he wondered how the man had survived.
The
stranger, meanwhile, was slight as a scribe, and though tall and weathered, he didn't have a visible weapon. The match, he decided, could only sway in one direction. Except he couldn't quite shake the feeling that things didn't cut as straight as that.
Bran, quick as a snake in the brush, leaped over the fence to stand before the stranger. He tilted his head up to meet the other man's gaze, a slight, crooked smile still on his lips. Garin tensed, waiting for the strike that must come.
"Well, Aelyn Cloudtouched, He-Who-Sees-Fire, I'd hoped I'd never see you again. But since you're here, how 'bout I offer you a glass of marsh whiskey and we talk like old friends?"
"Like old friends," the stranger replied. "Or old enemies."
Bran shrugged. "Conversation is only interesting with animosity or amorousness — or so the bards sing. Follow me, it's not far."
Bran turned his back on the man. From the look in the stranger's eyes, Garin half-expected him to strike at the farmer's back. But instead, he followed him down the fence toward the small house at the end.
"You too, Garin," Bran called behind him. "If you've seen this much, our guest will want you to witness the rest."
"As if I'd have done anything else," Garin muttered as he tailed behind.
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