The dark clouds and pounding surf had been hovering over Teorton Harbor for weeks. The storms that came in from the east had assaulted the arriving ships, threatening to smash them against the rocks or run them aground on the shoals.
Those that survived the storms limped into the harbor with damaged hulls and lost cargo. The sizes of the ships’ crews have dwindled, leaving few men to perform the many jobs required on board. Those who had survived kissed the ground when they debarked, thanking the god Laryn for allowing them to survive the vengeful sea.
It was a bad time to be a sailor.
For the dockworkers and merchants, things weren’t much better. With so much cargo lost, fewer dockworkers were required to unload cargo. For the merchants who had to absorb the cost for the lost cargo, many of them were forced into solvency and destitution. Many of them found new lives as beggars on the same streets their money had once ruled.
Up on the mountain tops, the wealthy rulers glared disdainfully at the plight of the sailors and merchants. Those poor beggars began to use the name Mot’s Hill as an expletive. Explaining that the palaces that sat upon the hill were the symbol of an uncaring nobility and an angry god.
Those inside the palace had problems of their own. King Llarwyn had fallen ill many years ago, and during the progression of the illness had gone from a loud and vivacious king to a feeble and dying man.
While Llarwyn was bedridden, his son Alfyn tried to keep the kingdom running with the support of the king’s trusted advisors. As in any time when a king lay on his deathbed, infighting had begun almost immediately as the different members of the nobility began jockeying for new positions of power. It was difficult for the young crown prince to keep a handle on.
And he was the one Davinya was most worried about.
Her father, King Llarwyn hadn’t been out of the massive carved oak, four-poster bed in three years. The painted frescos above the wood-paneled half walls of his bedroom depicting his most favorite battle scenes hadn’t been gazed upon by him in ages.
His cheeks, once overflowing with fat, were now gaunt. His eyes, which saw even the most minute detail, were hollow and vacant. His once-strong arms were now thin and spindly. His skin, once bright and radiant, was now a sickly, pale green.
He didn’t have much time left.
He was being poisoned. Davinya was certain of it, but she could find no proof. Jor Bashi, the king’s royal mage believed it too, but like her, could find no evidence of a poison in his system, nor could he find any poisons on the meals he was fed. All his tasters were as strong as oxen.
No effort of healing Jor Bashi attempted worked. The king continued to waste away while her brother, crown prince Alfyn ruled in his place. The nobles, believing him to be young and impressionable, made their best attempts to supplant his authority.
Davinya knew better. Alfyn was as crafty as her father had been. Even craftier if that could be believed. She needed to leave the capital. Ulfnar had left years ago, though Davinya wasn’t sure if that was of his own free will or not.
Her mother was gone as well. Like Ulfnar, it wasn’t clear whether she had fled, or if she had just mysteriously disappeared. She was sure Alfyn was responsible for both. He was trying to solidify his claim to their father’s throne, and he perceived all of them as threats. He could easily have killed both Ulfnar and their mother, though she didn’t understand why he would need to. He was the eldest and was named crown prince by their father. He already had the best claim to the throne.
She would be the next to disappear if she wasn’t careful. No matter what disgusting feelings her brother had towards her wouldn’t stop him from killing her if he needed to. Or just wanted to, for that matter.
“Oh, daddy,” she said softly. “I wish you could hear me.”
The idea of her father slowly wasting away was hard to process. Intellectually, she knew it was happening. She knew that he was going to die. She knew she was supposed to feel sad.
But, instead, she only felt anxious. Not for her father’s impeding death, but what it meant for her own safety. What would her brother do to her once he was able to put the crown on his own head?
Her father didn’t answer her, not that she had expected him to. He just stared blankly at the ceiling with his vacant, hollow eyes. The only time he would look at anything was when he woke up in the morning. He would look around for a few moments before his gaze slowed down and began the arduous task of staring at the ceiling.
“I will miss you when you’re gone, if I am not the next to follow you to the great beyond.”
Suddenly, her father’s hand moved. It reached out and grabbed hers.
“Daddy?”
He turned his head to look at her, eyes wide. His mouth moved and he rasped out some sounds, but she couldn’t make out any words.
“Daddy!” She cried. Was he finally getting better? A lump started in her throat. What would her father do to Alfyn if she told him that she and Jor Bashi thought the crown prince had been poisoning him? Would he execute his own son?
His grip on her hand tightened, and the look of surprise on his face turned to fear. His arms and legs began shaking uncontrollably. The grip he had on her hand kept getting tighter. It started to hurt.
“Daddy, you’re hurting me!”
But he didn’t hear. His head started moving violently as a foamy spittle erupted from his mouth. His whole body spasmed, save for the one hand gripping hers. She felt as though her hand bones were being crushed.
“Daddy!” She screamed.
The door burst open, and two servants rushed in. Tindelle and Yapham were their names. She had played with Tindelle when they were both children, though now that she was older, she wasn’t allowed to associate with a commoner.
The two servants rushed to either side of the king. Tindelle grabbed his legs while Yapham put his body over the king’s torso. The king’s free arm struck Yapham across the face and sent the young man sprawling across the floor.
His legs kicked hard and Tindelle lost her grip on them. He struck Tindelle hard, and she staggered away, trying to recover her balance.
The king’s face began to turn blue. Yapham rushed back and tried to force open the king’s mouth, not caring that the king was trying to bite him. The servant grabbed a hold of a tongue that had swollen to 5 times its normal size and yanked.
It did no good though. With a shudder and a final cry, her father collapsed on the bed, unmoving. His swollen tongue stuck out from his mouth like a massive boil. His eyes were red and bloodshot, and again, staring blankly at the ceiling. His hand, which had been gripping hers so tightly just a moment ago was now slack. Davinya stifled a tear.
Her father, King Llarwyn, was dead.
Both servants stepped back and hung their heads. “Laryn save the king,” they said softly.
“Yapham, fetch my brother, Lord Smyton, and Jor Bashi,” Davinya said. “Go now, quickly!”
As soon as the servant was out of the room, she turned to Tindelle.
“We don’t have much time,” she said. “I need you to sneak me out of the palace.”
She hoped she could trust Tindelle. According to the laws of succession, Alfyn was already king. She didn’t have much time.
***
Fenn lake was beautiful this time of year. As the weather started towards the cold and rainy season, the trees surrounding it began to change colors. The greens and browns of summer would shift to reds, yellows, and tans.
A handful of ships were moored at the docks beside Fenn Castle. Some were fishing boats preparing for the day’s work. Others were cargo ships either loading or unloading their wares for transport to the city surrounding the castle. Once in the city, they would be carried overland to a dozen other cities, towns, and villages inside the realm. Some may make their way south, across the Tambrynese border and to villages such as Ableton or Graslan.
Others would make the trek to the port city of Shatham where they would be loaded up onto another ship for the short journey to Gavinholm Isle. There, they would end their journey at either Gavinholm City, or further inland to the few small villages that populated the island—if the Magicians of the Isle would allow that. They were well known for restricting movement inside the island. Those that flouted their rules would find themselves thrown into the Tower of Dread if caught.
The walled city around Fenn Castle was ancient, and the architecture reflected that. Most of the buildings that had begun as wooden construction had, over the years, been replaced by stone, either through fire, war, or another catastrophe. Some wood buildings still existed, mostly on the interior, out of the reach of enemy trebuchets.
There was a time, even before King Drahius’ great grandfather held the throne when the impetus to replace all the wood buildings with ones made of stone was extremely urgent. But those were times of war that had faded into history. With the border between Fennland and Camulan so far away, the likelihood of an invasion was small. The king wasn’t interested in spending the money on rebuilding all those buildings, so they remained wood.
Besides, the wall surrounding the city was 14 feet tall and 8 feet thick. It was impossible for any invading army to breach. And if they thought they could invade the town via the lake, Fenn Castle stood alongside its shores ready to protect it from any invaders.
Inside the castle, King Drahius sat in the Water Room. The room was cold and bland, decorated only with a few tapestries and banners. At its center was a long, stout wooden table. The servants who polished it every day took considerable pride in the care of the table. It was said to have been built by the first kings of Fennland a hundred generations ago and was a symbol of the kingdom. It hadn’t worked its way into the Lake and Oak sigil of the kingdom yet, even though most referred to the royal family as the House of the Table.
A large balcony opened to a view of Fenn Lake on the eastern side of the room. The view from the room stretched for miles along the unending lake. It served to remind those who sat at the table of the kingdom and their responsibilities to it.
“Will you again tell me, General Fisborne,” Lord Avaris asked again, “Why you chose to take it upon yourself to try to start open war with Camulan?”
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Lord Avaris was tangentially related to the royal family and held the rank of Duke of Shatham. He was Drahius’ Lord Chamberlain and was responsible for not just the smooth operation of Fenn Castle, but for the rest of Fennland as well. He was the king’s right-hand man.
General Fisborne was in command of the Western Reaches; the land that bordered Camulan. He had lost a substantial number of his soldiers in his skirmishes with the Camulani soldiers who occupied Fort Camulan on the border between their nations. He had attacked without permission, and nearly sparked a war between the two nations.
“Lord Avaris,” the general began again, “I don’t know how many times I must tell you that my military actions were at the invitation of the crown prince of Camulan.”
“Yet you have no letter to prove it?” Avaris asked.
King Drahius liked both these men. He would have to have to send either of them to the chopping block. Particularly Avaris. He couldn’t run his kingdom without the man. If it came down to it between these two, the general would lose his head every time.
“It was stolen, my lord.”
Drahius leaned forward in the large chair reserved for the king. “How? You expect us to believe that someone from Fort Camulan snuck into Tinar Outpost, stole your letter from King Alfyn, and fled?” the king found this explanation unlikely and improbable at best, and a straight fabrication at worst. “How did your sentries not see invaders?”
“Unless you admit to having Camulani spies in your ranks?”
The general shook his head, and placed his hands carefully on the table, lest he reach for his blade. Drahius knew he had one hidden somewhere on his person. He tolerated the breach of protocol, but if the general tried to touch it, wherever it may lay, Fisborne would be dead before he even pulled it from its sheath.
“I have no explanation, Your Grace.”
“What are we to do with you, general? You nearly started a war, and according to your battle reports, the Camulani have a new weapon that we have no counter for. That puts us in a dire situation if they choose to invade.” The report that the general had made about this new weapon was vague, but it still drove fear into Drahius’ belly. He didn’t want to think about it. Lightning bolts and fireballs suddenly exploding behind his lines with no apparent cause? The king wasn’t a mage, and even he knew that was impossible.
“It’s been three years, Your Grace, and the border is still quiet,” Fisborne added.
“Because they are perfecting their weapon,” Jor Yoxin said.
The king’s royal mage had been as baffled by the description of this new weapon as the rest of them. He said it was magical but defied all the rules they knew about using magic in combat. The distance between battle lines was too great for the magic that the general described. He had even made inquiries to the Magicians of the Isle, who agreed with him. No magic had that kind of range.
“General, you are to be punished for this, but I haven’t decided how.”
“Wasn’t three years in prison enough?” Star Yurix commented. He was the Temple of Laryn’s official representative to the court of King Drahius. It still bristled that they got a lowly star while the king of Camulan got the Archstar, the leader of the whole religion.
“If they invade, we are doomed,” Lord Avaris said. “What could we do to stop our own destruction?”
“Perhaps an alliance?” Baron Lackis, Fennland’s Supreme Judge said quietly. He was the one who would be responsible for the general’s fate. Drahius could issue a command to execute him, but it was Lackis who would see it carried out. The fat man was always dressed ostentatiously, but today he had a much more conservative coat on.
“With whom?” Avaris asked.
“The Elves of Wickshire,” Lackis said. “They are still angered that Camulan has not returned their sacred arrowhead. I don’t think it would take much to convince them to come to our aid.”
“Your Grace,” Avaris said, “There’s no way we could promise to return the A’Lon’co’kal to Daal Trullax.”
He liked the idea of an alliance. They’d had one before, years ago, and he didn’t think it would take much to reactivate it. They did, after all, have an elvish ambassador in court. Elves were exceptional in magic, but he wasn’t sure if even they would have a counter to this new weapon.
But if they couldn’t beat the Camulani’s new weapon, perhaps they could beat them with sheer numbers.
“Send an invitation to Ambassador Traxxus,” the king said. “I would like to meet with him to discuss this idea.”
Perhaps all would not be lost. They would still need to explore another avenue that was extremely distasteful to Drahius—peace with Camulan. His ancestors would curse him for even considering it, but in the face of this new magic, he might not have a choice.
***
The tall towers of Tambryne were visible in the distance, their banners hanging listlessly in the still wind. The harbor town had been battered extremely hard by the harsh storms. Ulfnar had heard stories of ships being taken up in the wind and thrown leagues inland, where they were smashed and wrecked, spilling their ballast, their cargo, and their sailors.
The town was still recovering and might be for years to come. Many of the docks had been destroyed, and several of the ships that had been racing to the protection of the harbor hadn’t escaped the storms’ wrath and were still sitting at the bottom of the sea, clogging the harbor’s mouth.
From the small village of Tophton though, with only the Spires and towers visible, the town didn’t look affected at all. It still stood, proudly surviving the onslaught of storms. Not proudly – defiantly. The towers dared the storms to come back and try again.
Ulfnar hoped they wouldn’t. The ground here was already a soupy, sticky, muddy mess. He could barely walk ten feet without getting his boots hopelessly stuck in the morass.
“This is insufferable!” Ulfnar moaned, trying to once again free his boot from the sticky mud. He absolutely hated this. They had spent the last 3 years running from town to town, trying to meet with nobility, build an army, and find allies who would support Tylenna’s goal of overthrowing Archduke Rovaielle, and, Ulfnar assumed, put Tylenna on the throne herself.
Not that she admitted to wanting it. She always said there was another who should be, by right, the Archduke of Tambryne. Tylenna’s mysterious cousin, who she spoke of often, but never named. It was like that time his brother Aeolwyn, at 6 claimed to have a girlfriend, but she was from a noble house Ulfnar wouldn’t have known.
In other words, she didn’t exist.
“You’re just a heavyfoot, is all, milord,” Arden said.
Arden was one of Tylenna ’s few supporters who joined the army. His homeland was in the Great Bog, so this sort of terrain was extremely familiar to him. He chuckled every time Ulfnar got his feet stuck and laughed out loud when he fell into the mud.
The soldier was a heavy-set man with broad shoulders and a large gut. He was always picking fleas and bits of food from his beard and chewing on them. It was a disgusting habit. Arden was one of the reasons Ulfnar shaved every morning. The last thing he wanted was for the soldier’s fleas to hitchhike onto Ulfnar’s face.
Arden must have outweighed Ulfnar by 30 pounds, but still managed to walk, light as a feather, across the slippery and sticky mud. Despite the soldier’s flaws, Ulfnar was very fond of him. He was one of the men that rescued him.
Just like he was fond of Tylenna. Maybe too fond of her, considering that the condition for his release from the tower was that he kill her. Lady Larella hadn’t given him a time limit on the assassination, but he was sure it had expired by now.
What could he say? The large sack of gold and a full belly Tylenna offered had been mighty appealing. Besides, it was difficult to get alone with her. Well, not that hard, but usually during those times he had no place to hide a weapon.
He wasn’t in love with her, of course. Lina still held his heart. But he couldn’t deny that there was something about Tylenna that attracted him. She wasn’t strikingly beautiful, but rather ordinary in looks, though she had something else that he was drawn to like a magnet—her unending drive. As a lazy man, he didn’t expect to find such a quality alluring, but he did.
And Lina liked her too. The doll had become his constant companion and a valued advisor. Even if she repeatedly told him to kill himself. Still, she had helped keep him sane in the tower and continued to do so in the times when he missed Teorton Palace and his family.
But neither Lina nor Tylenna could protect him from Lady Larella’s wrath. He was sure an assassin was going to come for him. He rarely went out, and when he did, he made sure to have Arden or Furis with him. And an extra pair of daggers within easy reach.
Lina said he was acting paranoid. Maybe he was. But being paranoid never got you killed. Sure, no assassin had come for him yet, but they would. It was only a matter of time.
He finally managed to get his foot unstuck from the mud by bracing himself on the cart. He was supposed to be helping the cart through the mud, not the other way around. Its heavy load of foodstuffs and weapons made it easy to bog down, but they couldn’t lose it. It was a find gift from Baron Shendalle, who quietly said that he was still loyal to the rightful rulers of Tambryne and prayed for the day she declared herself.
Lady Tylenna had blushed at that, but not openly. She didn’t want to be Archduchess, she said. She promised she would hold it for a more worthy ruler. Ulfnar had heard those kinds of words before. The words of someone making sure no one believed she wanted the exact thing she lusted after. It was a trick he had used many times. Usually in card games back home.
He missed his home terribly. Especially on days like this where he was knee deep in mud pushing a cart to the thatched huts on the outskirts of Tophton they called home. It was quite different from the carved and gilded wood of the palace.
Hell, he’d even take Brigadoon’s Arms over the hovel they lived in now.
But that was never to be. If wishes were fishes, the whole sea would be full. Or something like that. It was one of his mother’s favorite sayings.
He missed her too.
***
Longinus lounged in his office. He was glad to be back in the Fortress of Heaven in Branson’s Fork. While the other Star Bases were judged to be extravagant by most estimations, the Fortress was on another level. It was meant to inspire awe and fear in worshippers and commoners alike.
Everyone needed to know of the threat the heavens presented. There were things out there. Things that would invade and destroy all life on Laryndor, and the only thing standing between the populace and destruction was The Courageous Order of Heavens, and Lord Longinus was their ruler. The tip of the spear, so to speak.
And he took his job seriously. The kings and nobles of the various nations in Laryndor were ignorant. They would rather spend their time on their petty squabbles and schemes for power than on protecting the people. It was the nature of things.
This was why Longinus stepped into the world of politics. If he were to protect Laryndor from the inevitable threat, then he had to be a man of power. He had to have the ears of the rulers, and in some cases, he needed to be the ruler himself; for if no one else fought back, everyone would face destruction.
To that end, he’d been reaching out to various nobles throughout all the kingdoms. Ones who were ambitious, felt slighted, or were just easily manipulated. He could play their game, too. He had to. The entire world was at stake.
Which was why he had agreed to the meeting with Lady Larella in the first place. She was an associate of the Archduke of Tambryne, but neither his lover nor of the Spires. He didn’t care. The Archduke had a problem in his duchy, and Lady Larella was the one charged with fixing it.
That problem? Revolution. The archduke’s cousin, Lady Tylenna had been visiting the nobles, both minor and major in an attempt to gain support for her cause. While she wasn’t laying claim to the throne, when she had enough support behind her, she would.
“As I said, Lord Longinus,” Lady Larella droned on. She had been talking for a long time, explaining the entire political structure of Tambryne. Longinus hadn’t realized he’d tuned her out. “I speak with the authority of the Spires as though I wore the Ring of Anud myself.”
“But you’re not of the Spires, my lady,” Longinus replied. Not that he cared, as long as she was desperate enough to give him what he wanted. And what was that? Well, the Duchy of Tambryne, of course. Lord Archduke Longinus had a certain ring to it.
Failing that, some property, and a title in Tambryne would suffice. And, of course, a seat on the archduke’s council. Then, he might consider helping Archduke Rovaielle keep his throne.
“That’s irrelevant, Lord Longinus.” She scowled when he reminded her that, technically, he was of a higher station than she was, and he insisted on being recognized as such. She was one who was used to others giving her deference, and it grated her to have to do it to someone else.
“I understand your predicament. How can I help the archduke?”
“Well, as I said, the archduke’s cousin Tylenna has been going from town to town, trying to build an army.”
“Travelling with your former prisoner, Prince Ulfnar, no?”
“Yes, and we’ve given him ample time to kill her, and has, thus far, failed in that mission.” If she was surprised that he knew about that, she didn’t show it. Perhaps she already knew that someone in her retinue was feeding him information.
“Perhaps they are lovers?” he asked. The Lady Tylenna was not known to be beautiful, but her plainness could have an appeal to a certain type of man. And Ulfnar was both a prince and good-looking. If either ruler had been smarter, the two of them would have made a good match.
On the other hand, Ulfnar’s older brother was ambitious, and with King Llarwyn on his deathbed, Alfyn was king in everything but name. Giving Lady Tylenna access to Camulan’s army could spark an invasion, and following that, a war.
Allowing Alfyn to rule Tambryne, even by proxy, couldn’t be allowed.
Lady Larella chucked. “She could do worse than him.”
“Indeed,” Longinus said. “And such a match could be problematic for Archduke Rovaielle.”
“Just so. She needs to be dealt with, but my assassins are known to her and have been unable to get to either of them.”
“I see,” Longinus said, a plan starting to formulate in his mind. “I have the perfect men to send. I must warn you, though. We Children of the Order do not come cheap.”
“Price does not concern me, Lord Longinus.”
It might not concern her, but it will concern the archduke. He would not be happy with the offer Lady Larella would sign. Longinus knew she would sign it because she was desperate. Not just desperate at the archduke’s plight, but one of her own. It wasn’t clear to him what sort of struggle she was having, but he would find out.
He stood, gesturing to the door. “Please, join me for some refreshments, Lady Larella. I will have my scribe write up a contract for our assistance.”
