Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (22 page)

Eagerly the party pushed into the forest and set up a hasty camp.  They built a small fire carefully shielded from the road.  Again Gant stood first watch with Krist.  The night huddled black and quiet outside the little circle of firelight. Gant had an uneasy feeling that they were being watched.  Now and then, he thought he heard a stick crack, but the cheery fire masked the noises from the forest.  Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of something moving just outside the limit of his vision.

Eventually he woke Zandinar.  “Your watch,” he said.  “There’s something not right about the woods tonight.  I hear noises and think I see something, but there’s never anything there.”

“Nerves,” said Zandinar flatly.  “Get some sleep.”

Gant nodded and slipped into his blankets but sleep took a while coming as he imagined all sorts of terrors lurking around their camp.  Finally, with a stern effort he forced himself to think of Dalphnia, about her warmth and the peace he’d felt near her.  He fell asleep.

Zandinar woke Captain Hesh and Faltern for the final watch.  While the rest slept, the Captain and Faltern sat comfortably around the fire and nodded off to sleep.  The fire burned down to coals.  The absolute blackness before dawn stole over the camp hiding the growing band of shadowy figures watching from cover.  With the darkness, the intruders moved stealthily into the camp.  Quietly they surrounded each slumbering figure with a bristling wall of spears.  At a nod from their leader they prodded the sleepers with razor-sharp spearheads.

Gant came fully awake.  Valorius leaped into his groping fingers.  The steel tipped spear nudged his unprotected neck and he glared up into half dozen sets of cold, dark eyes.

“No one move, or you’ll all die,” barked the leader from beside the fire pit.

Gant saw that everyone was surrounded.  Even if he escaped, the others would pay the price.  He fought to control his burning rage, forced himself to remain motionless.

Chapter 33

I
n Pogor, Barlon Gorth wrestled with the everyday problems of wielding power.  His “people” were uneasy, merchants demanded justice for breached contracts, thieves stole, and new conscripts turned up daily seeking to join his ever-swelling army.  Success bred success.  He hated dealing with mundane problems preferring to strut along the battlements viewing his city, reminding himself how masterful he was.  He loved power and wanted more.

But Barlon knew that power could just as easily be lost. So even on his best days he felt a sense of dread.  He was wary of a populace unenthusiastic about his rule. He never left the castle grounds and all the castle servants were trusted staff who came with him from the Mountain Castle.  He did not permit locals inside unless they were heavily guarded.  He worried about revolt and with these thoughts in mind he had sent for Shalmuthe, Sir Jarlz and General Eckert.

The scarred master spy relaxed in his customary chair in the tower chamber facing the others.

“These people are more interested in their profit than who runs the city.  There are few left who would openly oppose you.  Some thought of stirring up resistance, but we’ve ferreted them out and their heads line the streets,” reported the spy.

“Then any that remain have gone underground,” said General Eckert.

“Yes, and my men are after them.”

“Good,” said Barlon nodding his approval.  “Never let up. There are too many ignorant peasants who know nothing of justice. Do whatever you have to and get rid of anyone who opposes us.”

“Don’t worry.”  The look in Shalmuthe’s eyes signaled that the peasants were the ones who should beware.

Barlon smiled, stood, and paced a few steps toward the window.  Turning, he asked, “Are the plans complete for taking Blasseldune?”

General Ecker nodded, half-heartedly.  “Yes, we are ready. A poorly defended city is an easy mark, but shouldn’t we consolidate our power here before extending our forces to the east?”

“General Ecker, you surprise me.  Don’t you want a larger kingdom?”

“I’ve had little enough time to enjoy the kingdom I already have.  It won’t be long before I’m too old to enjoy anything.”

After a moment’s silence the gray haired warrior added, “There’s too much trouble here to start another campaign.  You say it’s about finished, but what about the underground here in Pogor?  What about Daggon?”

Barlon's smile widened.  “Yes, what about Daggon?”  He turned to look at Shalmuthe.  “Have you invited the king here?”

“Yes, he will arrive day after tomorrow.”

“You see, General, there are no problems here.  The Farmer King is a fool.  I’ve sent Varg and Lom’s knights to ‘escort’ the good king to Pogor.  A pity I can’t be there to see it.  Soon his head will adorn my palace. He is the last.  After he’s dead, I’ve repaid the treachery of the Western Kings.”

Barlon finished his walk to the window.  He gazed out, hands together behind his back.  For a few minutes, the room was silent.

Finally, Sir Jarlz spoke. “Sir, do you trust the Scaltzland Priests?”

Barlon whirled.  “Not in the least, and Shalmuthe has a plan for them, too, though we won’t discuss it here.  Yes, things are going perfectly.  Superior men attract power.  The rest remain peasants where they belong.”

“Is that all, my lord?” asked Shalmuthe, rising from his chair.

“Yes, of course, you’ve better things to do.”

As Shalmuthe left, General Ecker and Sir Jarlz rose.  With a nod from Barlon, they too left.  As soon as they were gone, Barlon yelled for the guard.  A stern-faced young soldier entered.

“Have the kitchen send up a bottle of wine,” ordered Barlon.  “And be quick about it.” 

The guard disappeared and Barlon slumped into a chair, throwing his feet up onto the table.

Barlon closed his eyes and dozed.  He snapped awake at the sound of the door opening.  A girl dressed in the coarse garb of the kitchen servants stepped timidly into the room carrying a tray with two bottles of wine and several cut crystal goblets. Her face was an ugly mass of scar tissue. She set the tray lightly on the table before Barlon and stepped back with a hint of a bow, her eyes on the floor.

“Wait,” said Barlon, before she could leave. “Come here,” and he motioned her back.

Obediently she took a step toward him.  His eyes ran up and down her body, a hunger there that seldom colored Barlon’s face.

“Do you like your new king?” he asked, his voice husky with desire.

“Yes, m’Lord,” she said without emotion.

“Then you’ll wish to stay with him.”

She looked up, revulsion in her eyes that she covered before Barlon noticed. 

“The kitchen master said I was to come right back.”

“So, I’m the king.”

“Yes, m’Lord, but I’m sure there are nicer women than I.”

Barlon poured a goblet of wine and drank deeply, draining the glass in one mouthful.  His eyes cleared and he looked up again at the frail girl with her horrible face.  Barlon laughed, throwing his head back, and then poured another glass of the deep red wine.

“Yes,” he said finally.  “There are more beautiful women than you.  Back to the kitchen.” He drained the glass a second time.

The serving girl curtsied, retrieved her tray and slipped out into the hall.  She passed several guards on her way to the narrow stairwell.  As soon as she’d gone down the first few stairs, Amelia slumped against the sandstone wall, the tray dangling from her hand.  She wasn’t cut out for this.  She liked open air, freedom, not secret, covert spying within constricting castle walls.  She took a few deep breaths and let her heart slow.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the winding staircase and immediately she was up, moving down the stairs.  She hoped it was not Varg.  She’d seen the monstrous demon more than once.  So far she had always managed to keep her distance.  His insatiable lust for blood and death gave her chills.

She rounded the curvature of the staircase and almost dropped her tray.  Sir Jarlz, long-time friend of her grandfather, plodded steadily up the steps, his head hung down.  He wore the exoskeletal purple armor of Barlon’s knights.

For an instant, Amelia panicked.  She started to turn, thought of running back up the stairs.  That wouldn’t help.  She’d only be running to Barlon’s guards.  Worse, she’d be drawing attention to herself.  Steeling her screaming nerves, she went down; step-by-step nearer to being exposed.  She glared down at the worn stone steps hoping to make her face invisible, hoping the wax scars on her face would hide her identity. 

Nearer, they drew, and finally, as they passed, she couldn’t help glancing up to catch a look at his face.  The wax scar tissue worked.  There was no recognition.  Sir Jarlz’ eyes stared straight ahead, lifeless, covered by a shadow.  And in that instant, Amelia saw the thick medallion around his neck.  Magic, she thought.  That medallion is a mind trap. Somehow she had to get the medallion off of him.

She hurried back to the kitchen and sped through the endless list of chores.  She cleaned, she scrubbed, she made countless deliveries of food, wine, cheese, whatever the nobles wanted. No one came down for their meals anymore and Amelia ran endlessly, hoping for a delivery to Sir Jarlz.

Finally, she got an order for a tray of cheese, bread and ale for Sir Jarlz.  The head cook told her which room was his and she hurried off.  Fear sent her pulse racing. Somehow she
had
to
get
the
amulet
from
Sir
Jarlz.

She knocked lightly on his door.  No answer.  She slipped inside and
looked
around.
 
No
one was
there.
 
She
placed
the
tray
on
the
small
table
and
left.

Back
in
the
kitchen
she
went
to
the
cook.
 
“I
went
to
the room
you
told
me,
but
Sir
Jarlz
was
not
there.
 
I left
the
tray.  Are
you
sure
that
was
his
room?”

“Yes,”
said
the
cook
busy
with
other
preparations.
 
“Sir Jarlz
is
seldom
in
his
room
at
the
evening
meal
but
we have orders to leave food
anyway.
 
Now,
get
this
plate
of beef
to
the
barracks.”

Amelia took the platter and hustled along.  She worked long into the night as she’d done every night as serving wench.  While she made her deliveries, she worked on a plan to free Sir Jarlz from the medallion.  Finally the nobles began to go to sleep,
the
castle
quieted and
the
cook
told
her
to
go
to
bed.
 
Making
sure
no
one
was looking,
she
took
a small
block
of
cheese,
a bit
of
bread
and
a tray, and ducked
out
into
the
hall.

Quickly
she
sped
to
the
nobles’
wing,
carrying
the
tray.
 
She
passed
two
guards
at
the
entrance
to
the
nobles’ hallway.  Neither
bothered
to
ask
the
pathetic
serving
girl
where
she
was
going.
 
She
skipped
up
the
steps
to the
second
floor,
nearly
tripping
over
the
drunken
form
of
one
of the
Brigade
Captains
asleep
on
the
stairs.

She
rounded the top
of
the
stairs,
turned
right,
and
entered
a long,
dimly
lit
hallway.
 
In
a moment
she
was
at
Sir Jarlz’ room.
 
Delicately
she
tapped on the door,
hoping
the
knight
was asleep.
 
No
answer.

She
reached
for
the
catch
when
a voice
behind
her
growled,
“You
there,
what’re
you
doing?”

She
froze.
 
Slowly,
she
turned
and
stared
up
into
a pair
of battle-hardened
eyes.
 
The
man
was huge, dressed in the uniform
of
the
castle
guard. His sword was out and ready.

“I-I’m
to
bring
a bit
of
food
to
Sir
Jarlz,” she said fighting to hold her tray steady.

“He’s
been
asleep
for
hours.
 
Take
it
back.”
 
He
waved
her away
with
his
sword
point.