Ranger of Kings (William of Alamore Series Book 1)

by C. J. R. Isely

  Sir Laster, obviously unphased with the matters happening in front of him, shifted his cloak to drape over Sir Dannix’s chest and face, carrying him from the hall.

  “You should train your knights on respect, Revlan,” Giltor hissed. “In my castle, I would have Sir Laster’s head for his disobedience.”

  “But we are in my castle, Giltor,” the King of Alamore replied, his eyes flashing dangerously.

  Will could see Treck, standing behind Ross, shaking with sobs. The two Kings were standing feet apart, their stances braced as if expecting to duel. The hall seemed surreal, a nightmare that he might wake from at any moment.

  “This is a matter that should be discussed amongst leaders, not in this place,” Kenta’s deep, calming, rumble had the effect of making shoulders around the hall relax as he stepped between two of his men and into the cleared circle.

  “You say this like an Earl has the right to be in a meeting with Kings,” Giltor snapped. “You should know your place, Kenta.”

  The green and gold around the room shifted; hands resting on sword hilts, distrust building between bodies. The Earl, however, seemed unphased as he leveled Giltor with his steady grey eyes. “Your highness,” he emphasized the title, “I have my own men to worry about and men that I have been in charge of for more years than you’ve been alive. You have the makings of a great King and leader, but not the control.”

  Giltor stepped forward, teeth bared, hand on his sword hilt until he was inches from Kenta’s face. “I don’t care for your condescending tone and have half a mind to teach you to respect your betters, Earl.”

  “That is enough!” King Revlan yelled, grabbing Giltor by the shoulder and spinning him away from Kenta. Giltor’s sword was out in an instant, his eyes darting between the Earl and the King, his body shaking with his rapid breaths.

  From the crowd, the black hooded form stepped between the two Kings. The Ranger’s sword point was pointing passively to the floor as King Giltor raised his own level with the Ranger’s hood. “Ah, of course! Your guard dog, Revlan.”

  The Ranger didn’t react, standing motionless in his station. “Ranger, step down,” the King ordered.

  “With all due respect, my King, I won’t until Giltor decides to sheath his sword. Look around you, Giltor, you are in the halls of Alamore here. This isn’t Shadow Dale and you are putting strain on our hospitality. I don’t recommend pushing it to the point of hostility,” said the Ranger.

  For the first time, Giltor visibly wavered. He seemed to notice his surroundings, the men from Shadow Dale, Finnwick and Alamore, waiting with gripped weapons and bated breath. He sheathed his sword, his eyes locked again on the Ranger. “We ride at dawn for Thornten. I’m done waiting for them and Phersal to ambush us, done being run to ground. We ride at dawn to get the first strike before they can.”

  “I’ve already told you,” the Ranger’s voice was laced with ice, “that we can’t do that yet.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your theories and tunnels,” Giltor snarled. “For all I know, it is nothing but a wives’ tail that you’ve concocted to give your brother an opportunity to kill us all.”

  The Ranger’s sword hand twitched as if he had contemplated raising it and attacking. “I am loyal to King Revlan, Giltor. If you knew what was best for you, you would remember where you’ve sworn your allegiance as well,” the Ranger’s sword free hand gestured to the room at large. “And I don’t believe for one moment that you want to go further into these discussions with the audience at hand.”

  Giltor’s eyes darted around the room again, landing on Rowan, Will, and Colin. He sneered in their direction and returned his focus to the Ranger. “Very well. A council, because your King can not make his own decisions. Regardless of the outcome, Shadow Dale will be ready to ride come dawn, with or without your men at my side.”

  “You won’t have to worry about how Finnwick will decide in this council,” Kenta said, turning to look at the crowds. “We will not be any part of an ambush on Thornten. We don’t have the men to sacrifice for a fool’s errand,” he started to walk back to the group of waiting green and gold clad knights, then turned to look at King Giltor once more, his face drawn. “Come dawn, ride for Thornten. You will never make it to see their gates. Come dawn, we will ride to Finnwick.”

  “This is not good,” Rowan whispered, shifting and nearly toppling from the bench. Colin and Will both reached over to steady him. The two Kings and the Ranger were striding toward the council chamber, the Earl following in their wake. Sir Ross had turned and was crouched in front of Treck, saying something in a soft voice.

  “We should go to him,” said Will, as the crowd began to move uncomfortably around them.

  Rowan and Colin nodded and the three leapt from their bench, slipping between people, trying to ignore the undertone of furious tension. When they reached Treck and Sir Ross, the knight was straightening, running a hand through his hair. Will could see blood across Ross’s sleeves, heavy shadows under his dark blue eyes. He nodded in acknowledgement of the three squires. “You three, take Treck to the healers’ chambers.”

  “I don’t need a healer,” Treck protested, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “I don’t, I need to see Dannix.”

  Ross’s jaw tightened. “He will be there, Treck. They will be preparing him for burial, more than likely,” he straightened. “After you go to the healers’, I think the four of you should lie low. Go to the knights’ tower, climb until you find the room with my name. You four can stay there, there are blankets and cots under the bed. I’ll probably be up all night anyhow,” he smiled grimly.

  “Why do we need to lay low?” asked Will, glancing around the chamber.

  “Because I don’t need you three getting in trouble or Treck being questioned. It’s better for everyone if you all stay out of sight after Treck has seen Dannix.”

  Treck’s whole body was trembling and Will instinctively moved closer, draping his arm over Treck’s shoulders. “You ready?”

  Treck only managed a nod. Ross gripped Colin’s shoulder for a moment, then nodded. “I will see all of you in the morning,” he promised.

  They left the hall with Treck, the mutters at their back growing louder and louder. As they climbed the stairs to the healing chambers, Will heard the first outburst of yelling. It was only quieted for a moment before more replaced it.

  “This isn’t going to be good for anyone until the Kings and Kenta have made decisions,” Colin muttered, glancing back down the stairwell.

  “I think Kenta already has,” said Will darkly.

  They hesitated outside the healing chamber, the three Alamore squires exchanging nervous glances. Treck pulled away from Will’s support and pushed his way through the door. Inside the room, they were hit with the stench of blood. The healer, his assistant, and Sir Laster were around one of the beds, the assistant holding a damp rag, stained with blood.

  Sir Laster was the first to notice the squires. He tensed and, for a moment, Will hoped he would tell them to leave, that this was no place for them to be. “Ross sent you then?” he asked.

  They nodded mutely and he sighed. “Well this may be the best chance for you to say your goodbyes, Treck,” Laster stepped back, his body no longer blocking the corpse.

  Fear, dread, horror; they all ran through Will’s blood at the sight of the man on the bed. He was no longer Dannix, calm, smiling, and lanky. His inviting face was unrecognizable; pale but for the dark bruising and smeared blood. It was evident that the party around him had been doing their best to clean his body. On the bed around him were more damp cloths, pink with blood. One of his eyes looked at the ceiling, empty and glazed, the other appeared to be swollen shut. As they took another step, Will’s skin crawled with the realization that the eye wasn’t swollen shut, it was missing.

  Treck began to sink slowly as he reached his knight’s side. Colin moved quickly to push a chair under him. The Shadow Dale squire leaned forward until his forehead was against the sheet that cov
ered Sir Dannix’s chest. His body trembled then shook with silent sobs, his heart breaking with the tears that mixed with his knight’s blood.

  Laster glanced at Will, Rowan, and Colin; his hard expression somehow different. He laid a hand on Will’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “This is the time,” he growled in a low voice, “when the three of you can reconsider what it is to be a knight. It’s not all glory, it’s also being the one alive to carry home the dead.”

  Will shivered at the words. Despite the feelings battling inside of him at the sight of the knight, he couldn’t draw his attention away. How could it have been that morning that they rode out to circle the castle? Where had Sir Dannix been then? Dead yet? No. His body was too fresh. Living in the village, seeing people die on the streets, drunk or delirious, had taught him what death looked like. Somehow, it had never prepared him for this. The violence of death. Whoever had killed Dannix had taken their time to send the message, had made it so that everyone, not just Dannix, suffered.

  “Meldra,” Laster called softly to the healer’s assistant, “tea and more chairs if you don’t mind.”

  She turned to the healer who nodded, running the back of his wrist over his forehead. She rushed through the door at the back of the chamber and out of sight. “Laster, I have my second ward set up in the barracks and I have soldiers who need me tonight,” said the healer, his gaze never leaving the sobbing squire. “I want to stay, to help, but I feel…”

  “You can leave them with me. You and Meldra have your own duties without babysitting the lot of us,” Laster smiled slightly, the gesture still almost appearing more like a smirk on his arrogant features.

  Meldra returned carrying more chairs and, eventually, a tray that shivered in her hands, overly filled with mugs, a kettle, biscuits and a jar of jam. Laster thanked her, relieved her of the tray, and walked out with the two healers, leaving Treck and the Alamore squires alone.

  “He was my family,” Treck whispered, wiping his eyes furiously and sitting back. “He’s been more like a father to me than my father ever was,” the tears were already filling his eyes again and Will shifted, holding his mug, uncertain how to comfort Treck. “And look what they did to him,” his voice was soft still, but Will heard the anger creeping into his tone. “They used him as an example, as practice. He didn’t even get the chance to die with honor.”

  “Honor is in the man and how he’s remembered, not in his death,” Colin said, leaning back in his chair.

  Treck snorted. “What is that supposed to mean? How does that help?”

  Colin’s eyes, shadowed with thought, were still on Dannix’s body. Will had the impression that it wasn’t Sir Dannix that Colin was truly seeing. He had lost his parents, his brothers. He had seen each buried. “It means that their honor is up for us to decide, you know, in how we remember them. How we live by them.”

  “I’m going to kill everyone in Thornten tomorrow,” Treck said darkly.

  “Oh excellent, the nephew is not much different than the King,” none of them had heard Laster re-enter the room but he slid back into his chair, eyes fixed on Treck.

  “We avenge our dead in Shadow Dale,” Treck growled, finally turning away from Dannix’s body to glower at the Alamore knight.

  Laster raised his eyebrows, his expression unimpressed. “So, you avenge them by losing most of your men? With that logic, it’s incredible your country has a heartbeat, let alone any knights.”

  “And what of you then? You’d probably just slink back here and hide, carry away the body and put it out of sight!” Treck’s voice, like those below them, was beginning to rise.

  Laster’s eyes flashed; a danger sign. “Listen up, boy. I have buried more men than you have met. I have buried my family. I have buried my enemies who were killed in brutal ways and left for the vultures to feed off of. What has happened to Dannix can and will be made right in time, the time, though, isn’t at sun up,” he looked away from Treck, back at Dannix’s corpse. “For once, I have to agree with the Ranger when it comes to this matter,”

  Treck snorted. “You can’t even be loyal to yourself; I am impressed you ever became a knight. We are raised with so much more honor. I’m sure these three will ride out with us tomorrow because they have honor as well!” Treck gestured toward Colin, Will, and Rowan.

  “Now hold up there just a minute,” Rowan said, raising his hands. “I serve Alamore and I’ll die for Alamore. If my King says we defend the castle, I’ll die defending the castle.”

  Treck turned to him, horror-struck. Laster’s lips twitched into another smirk.

  “You’re supposed to be my friends!” Treck looked at each of them in turn.

  Will’s heart seemed to scream that he had to help Treck but, looking at the body before him, all he could imagine was Rowan or Colin lying dead in the snow. “They have too many defenses. They are goading us,” said Will.

  “You sound like the damn Ranger!” Treck burst, throwing his hands in the air. “Do none of you see what they’ve done to Dannix? And you expect us to sit down and take it behind these walls?”

  “We expect you to be logical and realize they knew who Dannix was; he’s been Giltor’s advisor since even Giltor’s father was King. Will’s right; they did this to trigger an attack or to divide us. Perhaps both,” Laster snarled. “What is with your Shadow Dale type and their emotional leadership?”

  Treck looked at each of them in turn and sank into his chair, his shoulders slumping. “We are going to fight. I can’t be the one to convince all of you that it’s the right thing. I can only hope that Giltor does.”

  “Giltor’s done enough damage tonight,” Laster glowered up at the ceiling. “The Earl’s riding out at dawn, back to his castle.”

  “Then the King needs to order him to stay,” Treck said, forthrightly.

  “If the King had to order loyalty, it wouldn’t be very strong,” said Rowan.

  Treck fell into a dark silence, staring at the dead man lying in front of him. No one moved or spoke for what felt like hours. Will watched blood, made pale by the snow that had melted over the body, slide slowly down the side of Dannix’s forehead then fall onto the pillow. He wondered if he would ever again be able to sleep without this image coming to mind; the empty eye socket, the bloody lips, the red-stained white sheet draped over unimaginable destruction of a man.

  “Bed, now,” Laster finally growled, standing up. “They will be back and need to finish cleaning the body. None of you will be in here for that.”

  “Five more minutes,” Treck whispered.

  “No. Now,” Laster scowled down at Will, who was the first to scramble to his feet.

  Rowan followed and Colin after him, more slowly. He rested a hand on Treck’s shoulder. “We will know one way or the other in the morning what to expect,” Colin muttered. “Either way, we all need our rest.”

  Treck finally nodded, wiping his eyes again on his sleeve.

  “Ross told me when I was downstairs that you are all taking his room tonight,” Laster said, leading them out of the healing chamber. He closed the door after them gently and gestured for them to start down the stairwell. “It’s probably for the best that you do stay in the knights’ tower.”

  In the entry hall, an eerie quiet had fallen. It was as though the five of them were the only living things in the entire castle, perhaps even the entire world. Will knew he was not the only one disconcerted as Rowan shivered, glancing back toward the dining hall. Sir Laster led them through another door in the hallway that opened in a large circular chamber; one of the towers. A simple Alamore banner, faded with age, hung on one wall. In the center of the room was a large stone pillar that, after a moment, Will realized was a chimney. Laster led them to a set of stone stairs arching along the wall of the tower.

  “Up we get,” Laster waved them forward, taking up the back of the pack. Will found it hard to believe that he was where the knights lived. At the first landing, there was a single door to their right with the name “Sir Henry” w
ritten on a sign.

  At the next two landings, the door signs were empty. “How many of these rooms are left just empty?” Rowan asked, hesitating in front of one.

  “Too many,” Laster growled. “There was a time when we had this tower full and another wing of the castle had started to hold knights. That was when I was first knighted; a lot has changed since then. A lot of people opt to become soldiers and live in town or are moved and positioned elsewhere in the country. Once a knight is married, of course, they move into a separate wing to have enough room for their family.”

  “How many of the knights are married?” Will asked. He didn’t know why the thought had never occurred to him.

  Laster shrugged. “A few of them, but their wives live in the city often enough and work there. Sir Henry and Sir Richard for example, their wives run the tavern in the city together. When we aren’t constantly fighting off Thornten, the two knights go there at night. They have rooms out of a formality in the event of war; like right now,” Laster hesitated, pausing on the landing that held Sir Ross’s doorway. He fished a key from his pocket, his eyes flitting toward Will. His brow furrowed and then he looked away, at the lock before them. “Sir Ross is widowed,” he said, gruffly. “He lived in the city with his wife as well, but that’s been years ago.”