Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (4 page)

“Ah, what could happen in the middle of a tavern?  If there is trouble, you'll teach them a lesson or two.”

“I wish you’d stop saying that.”

The serving woman returned dropping two large bowls of shredded meat on the table.  Brown gravy slopped over the edges onto the table.  From under her arm she pulled two mugs of ale and set them down.  “That'll be six pieces of silver.”

Gant pulled out his coin purse and pulled out a single gold coin.  “Here,” he said handing the coin to her, “keep the rest.”

For the first time the woman smiled.  “Thank you, young sir.  If there's anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

She turned to leave.

“We need a room for the night,” said Gant.

She turned back.  “Sorry, the Drake is full.  The best place for you two is the Hammond House. Respectable, for Blasseldune, and not too expensive.  Go back to the main street, turn left, second street go right and you'll see it.  It'll be safer for you than staying here.  Tell ‘em Anna sent you.”

With that she hurried off.

“What do you think she meant by that?” asked Chamz, digging into the food with a wooden spoon he pulled out of his pack.

“I'd say this could be a rough place. I wonder why my uncle liked it here?” Getting to more immediate matters, Gant searched for something to eat with.  He hadn't packed any utensils.  And where was the bread?  “What I really need right now is a spoon.”

Chamz stuffed another bite into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Why didn't you say so.”  He reached into his pack and pulled out another wooden spoon.  “In case I broke one,” he said and went back to eating.

“Always thinking of your stomach.”

Gant took the spoon, filled it with the steaming, hot gravy, blew on it to cool it, and shoveled it in his mouth.

At that moment, the server dropped a loaf of bread on their table as she rushed past.  “Enjoy,” she whispered and was gone.

Gant tore off a chunk of the crusty brown bread and dipped it into the meat juices.

“Don't look now,” said Chamz between mouthfuls, “but here comes trouble.”

Gant glanced back over his shoulder.  A large, scruffy man pushed his way through the crowd towards Gant and Chamz.  He swayed slightly as he walked and Gant guessed he'd been drinking for some time. In one hand he carried a tankard that sloshed foam with each step.  His other hand rested on the hilt of a sword hanging at his side.

Gant turned back to eating.

“Looks drunk to me.  Those kind always caused trouble back home,” said Chamz.  “What do you think he wants?”

“Who knows?  I hope he's looking for someone else.”

“No such luck,” said Chamz.

“You there,” rumbled the man and poked Gant in the back with his metal tankard. 

“Yes,” said Gant, turning slightly to look over his right shoulder.

The man was taller and wider than Gant.  His eyes were dark, blood shot, wild.  He had a scraggly black beard that hadn't seen a comb or wash for a long time, bits of food perched there as witness.  He wore rusty armor, inferior quality in Gant’s mind.  Whoever made the armor was a poor excuse for a craftsman.

“Stand up when I'm speaking.” 

He tossed the tankard aside, splashing those at the table next to Gant.  None of them complained.  The pewter mug clattered loudly in the silence that filled the room.

The stranger grabbed for Gant's shoulder.  Gant easily brushed his hand aside.

“I said stand up,” bellowed the stranger.

“What for?”

“So I can chop you down to size,” he growled, pulling out his two-handed sword.

Chamz jumped to his feet taking his bowl with him.  “You don't want to start trouble here.  My friend is an accomplished swordsman.  He's defeated tougher men than you.”

“If you’re his friend, then I'll take care of you when I'm finished with him.  Draw your sword, if you know how, or die where you sit.”

With that the stranger inched his sword back preparing to strike. As the two-handed sword started forward, Gant spun around, pulling his sword out as he turned.  He parried the bigger man's sword off to the side.  Before the stranger could recover, Gant sliced lightly into his exposed forearm.  Next Gant spun his blade and struck the man with the flat on the side of the head.  The big man staggered. Gant hit him under the chin with the pommel.

A glaze spread over the stranger's eyes.  His sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor, followed a moment later by the resounding crash of his unconscious body.  The room took a collective inhale.  Then everyone turned back to important business they just remembered and the clamor of drinking men resumed.

Gant turned around and glared at Chamz.  “What was that crack about me defeating tougher men?  You trying to get us killed?”

Through a half smile Chamz said, “No, no.  I just thought I'd get him to leave us alone.”

“Worked well, didn't it.”

Before Gant could sit back down, the serving woman was at their table.  “You'd better get out of here.  Talth isn't well liked but he has friends and no doubt they'll be here soon. Go to the Hammond House.  Now.”

Gant scooped in one more spoonful of the juicy meat and gravy, looked longingly at what was left, and decided it was best to avoid more trouble.

“Come on,” he said and headed for the door.

Chamz was right behind him, clutching the remains of the loaf of bread.

Chapter 4

M
iles from Blasseldune, up the mountain road west of Netherdorf, a massive stone castle sat glowering on a steep, barren hilltop.  Bright orange fires made the narrow slit windows gleam in the darkness like great reptilian eyes.  Neither moon was visible in the night sky and dark clouds hid whatever slivers there might have been.

In the castle, a foul group gathered in conference with the new Mountain Lord, Barlon Gorth.  His dark, shaggy hair and thick black eyebrows framed a face that was even darker.  His eyes were catlike, emotionless.  He sat wrapped in heavy fur robes at the head of the rough-cut oak table.  The cheery fire that blazed in the hearth did little to brighten the ominous mood that hung ugly as a night storm.

“Captains,” growled Barlon, his voice deep and rasping like the sound of gravel grating on stone.  “Report on the military training.”

“First brigade is doing well.  They are nearly ready.  We will do m'Lord proud,” answered the man seated to Barlon's left.

“The second brigade is ready, Sire,” said the next man.

“And the third.”

“The fourth also.”

Around the table it went.  Each of the 15 brigade captains reported that the training was on schedule.  Then silence.  Only three men had not spoken; the gray-haired general, the scar-faced spy and the knight in purple armor.

“Does General Ecker agree?”  Barlon looked directly at the grizzled veteran commander.  In Barlon's mind the general's opinion was more important than all the captains.  The captains were untested in battle whereas the general knew the burdens war put on a man.  “Are they ready?”

“Very soon.  They will be molded into an effective unit in time for our attack.”  The general sat upright, proud, his gray hair a symbol of his wisdom.  His spotless black and gold uniform sparkled with ribbons and medals on both sides of his broad chest.  “By the time we hit Netherdorf, the men will be spoiling for a fight.”

Barlon scratched his beard for a long moment.  It was what he wanted to hear.  Could he trust General Ecker to tell him the truth?  If not, who could he trust?  He decided to move on.  “The spies, Shalmuthe, what do you report?”

The chief of Barlon's espionage corps was a short, stocky man with a livid scar from left cheek to left ear.  He wore a tan calfskin tunic that concealed a deadly pair of daggers.  On his right index finger a rune-covered ring flashed with a fire of its own.  The man rose slowly from his wooden stool, and measured each man in the room. His hard eyes cut through them one at a time.  Finally he fixed his gaze on Barlon.

“Netherdorf is a plum ripe for the picking.”  A sneer punctuated his words.  “They suspect nothing.  Their army is understaffed and the nobles are divided by silly squabbles over a blacksmith's son who escaped punishment for striking a noble’s son.  Some of the nobles may side with us.  I've been discreet in my inquiries so as not to tip your hand, sire.  We have the support of a young warrior named Wendler and likely his father as well.  In the end, I doubt we'll need their help.”

“What about the castle staff?  And the gates?”

“The castle staff will be compromised as you wished.  The gates will be opened when needed.  Your plan to neutralize the only knight worthy of the title is brilliant.  Everything progresses as planned.”  With that Shalmuthe settled back onto his stool.

Barlon’s bushy eyebrows knotted in thought and he looked at the man seated immediately to his right.  He was a blond-haired brute with black eyes that burned with an unbridled lust for death. His deep purple armor was unscarred from battle and sucked the light from the fireplace into a living darkness that surrounded the strange metal.  A glinting silver triangle crisscrossed by black lightning bolts stood out on his breastplate.

“Are the Knights of Habichon ready?” asked Barlon.

“At your command.”  The voice was hollow, as if it came from another dimension.

“Excellent,” Barlon said, nodding his approval.  “Netherdorf will fall and the glory that should have been ours in the last war will follow.  No one will betray us this time and those that pushed us into this dark corner of the world will pay. Carry out your preparations for the glory of the Mountain Kingdom.  We move before the next turning of the Greater Moon.”  Barlon stood and waved them toward the door.

The men rose and the clatter of armor drowned out whatever whispered comments they exchanged.  The vast chamber cleared to the ringing of mailed boots except for the massive blond giant in purple armor.  He waited quietly at his liege's side.  The reverberations of metal on stone died to a soft murmur and then fell silent.  At last Barlon turned to the commander of the Knights of Habichon.

“Lom.”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“You haven't forgotten my special instructions?”

“No.  The king will die.”

“And the others?  The silversmith, the goldsmith, the sword-maker, the gem-cutter and the jeweler?”

“Will be brought to you as ordered.”

“Good.  Otherwise you may take such spoils as you can carry.”

“Thank you, m’Lord.”

It was all Barlon could do to look at those alien eyes, lifeless dots that burned with an animal lust for blood and death.  Lom turned and started for the door.  His armor soaked up the firelight leaving only darkness.  Once Lom passed into the shadows he was virtually invisible.

Barlon returned to his chair and waited, drumming his fingers on the table.  Over and over he reviewed the preparations, scrutinizing each detail for any flaw that would steal his victory.  Much was unfinished.  One detail in particular held his attention and for that he had to wait on a midnight visitor.

Chapter 5

G
ant and Chamz dashed into the street.  Night had fallen and the streets were a murky sea of dark shadows sprinkled with splotches of yellow light from an occasional oil lamp.  Here and there faint light shone through a dusty window.  Gant turned toward the main street, warily checking for ambush.  Chamz was so close behind he felt like an appendage. 

They reached the main street.  It too was sparsely lit.

“How come they keep it so dark?” asked Chamz.  “Do they encourage muggings?”

“Shh,” said Gant.  “Listen.”

They turned left and hurried along.

“Listen for what?”

They reached the second street on the right and turned in.  It was so narrow that Gant and Chamz had to go single file.

“For the man tucked back in the doorway up ahead.  I hear him breathing, but I can’t see him.  I'm sure he can see us.”

“What'll we do?”

Gant started forward.  He was tired.  His only thought was to find a safe place to sleep.  His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt.

“You there, in the doorway.  Step out and show yourself.”

Feet shuffled in the doorway but no one emerged.

Gant lurched to a stop, his heart racing.  Chamz bumped into his back.

“Come out now or we will be forced to conclude that you mean us harm.”

A frail, hunched shape emerged from the darker shadows into the faint light.

“I meant no harm.  Just trying to find a place for the night.  This street's usually deserted by this time.”  The figure bowed crudely and backed away.

“Okay, then be off,” said Gant and waved the man down the street the way they'd come.

The dark figure slid by them, shuffled a little way, and then hunkered into another recessed doorway.

Gant hurried on.  Chamz glanced over his shoulder nervously.  Ahead weak light came through shuttered windows allowing them to read the weathered sign hanging in front of a two-story wood building: Hammond House.

“This is it,” said Gant and turned in.

He pushed open the heavy door and entered a small, comfortably furnished common room.  A heavyset man in a stained apron sat at a corner table.  Next to him was a thin woman nearly his age.  Both were eating a bowl of something brown, a half loaf of bread sat between them and each had a tankard near their elbow.

The man rose.  “Can I help you?”

“We need a place to sleep.”

“Anna sent us,” added Chamz.

A smile spread over the man’s features.  “I am the innkeeper.  A room you shall have.  Upstairs or main floor?”

“Which is less?” asked Gant, mindful that his purse was already considerably lighter.

“Upstairs.  It'll be eight silvers for the night, and for Anna's friends, I'll throw in breakfast in the morning.”

Gant opened his purse, sorted through until he found eight silver pieces and handed them to the innkeeper.  “We'll take it.”

The innkeeper hefted the coins, and then dropped them in the front pocket of his apron.  “Up the stairs,” he said, pointing to a narrow set of wooden stairs that were so steep they were more like a ladder, “down the hall, second room on the left.  Breakfast is soon after first light and lasts until the foods gone.  And be quiet.  I've got other guests already asleep.”

“We're always quiet,” whispered Chamz, “aren't we, Gant?”

Gant nodded and headed for the stairs.  He heard the innkeeper lock the main door behind them.

They struggled up the steep stairs carrying their gear and soon were in their room.  It was small, hardly large enough for one, let alone two, but the thick mattress was soft and wide enough for them both.  Gant stacked his equipment in one corner near the door.  Chamz put his gear in the opposite corner.

“Didn't it seem strange that the innkeeper would lock the door?” asked Chamz.

“I was wondering about that myself?  How do they stay in business if they lock out potential customers?”

“Anna did say this is a more respectable place.  Maybe they don't encourage late night visitors.”

“I hope not.  There’s no lock on our door.”

They looked at each other and immediately slid their gear in front of the door.  Once that was done, they pulled off their garments, lay down and wrapped up in their trail blankets.  Gant fell asleep dreaming about wild-eyed swordsmen attacking him.

#

A faint tap at the door disturbed Gant's sleep.  Was it a dream?

“Gant,” whispered Chamz from under his blanket, “someone’s at the door.”

It was pitch black.  Gant couldn’t tell how much of the night had passed but he was certain it was no honest citizen at the door.

The tap came again, a little louder.  Gant slid off the mattress and fumbled for his sword, making a mental note to never let it out of reach again.  His fingers found the hilt and as quietly as he could he withdrew it.

“Gant,” came a soft voice from outside, “you don't need your sword, just open the door.”

“Uric?” asked Chamz as surprised as Gant to recognize the voice.

“Correct,” was the hushed response.  “Now open the door before I wake up everyone in the inn.”

Gant pulled the door open.  Standing in the hall, holding a flickering candle, dressed in his usual, floor-length, thick purple robe, was King Tirmus' sage, Uric.  The royal schoolmaster was tall, stately, with soft blond hair that hung to his shoulder.  A powerful presence showed in green eyes so alive and strong that it was difficult to look directly into them.  His face was devoid of facial hair and despite being older than anyone Gant knew, Uric showed no signs of age. Gant liked the sage and had marveled at the knowledge Uric willingly imparted to his students.

“May I come in?” Uric asked, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hallway.

“Yes, of course,” said Gant, lowering his sword and backing up.

Uric stepped gingerly over the pile of equipment and pushed the door shut behind him.

“I'm sorry I could not come sooner but things are a bit troubled in Netherdorf.”

“How'd you find us?” asked Chamz.

“I knew your uncle favored the Drake so I went there first.  They're still buzzing about the way you stopped Talth.  A pity you had such trouble on your first day here.”

“Anna told you we came here,” guessed Gant.  “What about Netherdorf?”

“Political unrest.  Your uncle Jarlz wanted to come himself, but the king needs all the support he can get right now.  Some of nobles think the king is weak.  They are using your fight with Wendler as an excuse to stir up trouble.  Some have started rumors that the king and your mother have been lovers.”

“That's a lie,” snapped Gant.

“Of course.  Castle rumors are hardly ever based on truth.  People would rather hear ugly lies than the truth so rumors travel with a life of their own.  In this case, nobles with their own agenda are looking to fuel their fires, doesn't matter where they get it.  And worse is the new mountain king.  He's using this to entice nobles to his cause, which is of course to conquer Netherdorf and use our resources to further his ambitions.  In any case, the king needs all his loyal supporters around to pull things back together.”

“If the king needs your support so much, what are you doing here?” asked Chamz.

“I needed to talk with Gant.  There may be important things in your future.  If I am reading the signs correctly, Gant, you will need to train with your sword like never before.  When possible I'm sure your uncle will come to work with you but that won't be until things have calmed down in Netherdorf.  Eventually, you must enter the Devonshield games.  It is crucial.”

“Crucial to what?”

“That doesn’t matter.  Just train hard.”

“Okay, fine,” said Gant.  “What am I supposed to do for a job?  We need to eat.”

“I've taken care of that.  Tomorrow, take this note,” Uric handed Gant a small, neatly folded piece of parchment sealed with wax, “to the freightmaster at the Eagle Freight Company.  His name is Brawnson.  They are at the end of the North Road on the edge of Blasseldune.  He is looking for trustworthy men-at-arms to help protect his wagons.  My recommendation should be sufficient.”

“Fine, now we eat,” said Chamz. “How about a job for me?”

“That you will have to work out for yourself.”

Gant took the parchment and carefully placed it atop his pack.  “If things are so unsettled in Netherdorf, why are you here now?  Even riding a fast horse it will take a full day to get back.  Almost anything can happen in a day.”

“Fortunately, I do not depend on horses.  But you are correct.  I need to go least I am missed.  Remember what I said, keep up your training.  Working as a guard will probably give you some experience though likely only against men of lesser ability so you will not improve other than tasting real combat.  Jarlz will be here when he can.  And Chamz, you see that Gant stays out of trouble.”

“Yeah, sure,” grumbled Chamz.

Uric turned and in a swirl of violet robes was gone down the hall.  Gant closed the door and sat down on his bedroll.

“It would have been nice if he could have gotten me a job too,” said Chamz.

“Shh.”

“Shh, what?”

Gant held one finger up to his mouth for silence.  Long minutes went by but he heard not the slightest sound. 

“What are you listening for?” asked Chamz.

“I was waiting to hear how Uric got out of the inn.  Did you hear a door open, a lock turn, anything?”

“No.”

“So, how did he get in and out?”

“How should I know?  He's a sage.  He probably knows lots of tricks.”

“I guess,” said Gant and lay back down.  “Let's get some sleep.  I want to be up early and get over to the Eagle Freight Company.”

#

Barlon sat alone in the main room.  His mind wandered over his plans, searching for holes that would cost them their victory.  He couldn’t see any but he knew from experience that there were always unknowns that could not be prepared for and thus plans had to be flexible with options.  And yet he saw no flaws.

Finally, in the darkness before the dawn, there came the soft rustle of robes.  Barlon looked up from dozing.  The newcomer stood at the end of the long table, twisting his boney fingers nervously in front of him.  His sandy hair was wild, unkempt, and his gray eyes held a frightened sheen.  Charcoal robes hung softly around him leaving only his hands and head exposed.  He was young for a wizard, barely a wrinkle on his face.  At times Barlon wished he could have found someone more experienced.

“Well, Razgoth,” said Barlon.  “Did the summoning work?”

“Yes, Master,” said the wizard, shifting his gaze to the floor.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh no, Lord.  The spell went perfectly.  It was just. . .  a bit exhausting.”

“And this lesser demon, the one you chose to test your spell on, what will keep it from running amuck and announcing to the world that someone is calling demons from the Dark Realms?  What will keep it from giving away our plans before the next night of darkness when both moons are new and we can summon the Demon-Prince Varg?”

Here the wizard smiled for the first time, a half smile betraying his satisfaction.  “Don't worry, sire.  I have called up Egog, a minor demon of the night.  He cannot enter daylight or even strong moonlight.  The cave where I summoned him is his prison.  Only on the darkest nights will he be able to venture out, and even then he won’t be able to travel far before sunrise sends him scurrying back into hiding.  I pity anyone who enters that cavern seeking shelter.”

“Pity is for fools.  You have done well.”

Barlon rose and slapped the mage on the shoulder roughly, and then started for the door.  “Sleep well.  Soon we leave for Netherdorf.”

“Yes, Master,” said Razgoth.  The wizard cleared his throat and stood unmoving.

“Is there something else?” asked Barlon, stopping after only a few steps.

“Sire, I wouldn't question your wisdom, but the smith's son, Gant.  I am worried about him.  What if he is the one of the prophecy? Even if I can summon Varg and the amulet controls him, this Gant may be able to destroy him.”

“A worthy question but of no concern.  The prophecy warns us of a warrior who has won at Devonshield.  Has this Gant won anything?”

“No.”

“Does it seem likely he will enter the games at Devonshield?”

“No.”

“Rest assured we are watching him.  If he enters the games, we may move to prevent it.  Perhaps even this Egog you've summoned will be useful.  Now off with you.  We all have work to do.”

“Yes, Master,” said Razgoth and hurried out the door ahead of Barlon.

Barlon Gorth stood in the doorway and watched his wizard disappear down the hallway.  Once Razgoth was out of sight, Barlon twisted the peculiar ring on his left hand.  The magic in the ring bent the light unnaturally around the Mountain Lord and he became invisible.  He passed unseen down the sparsely decorated halls, up the narrow tower steps to the uppermost room.  There a bald, rotund little man sat morosely at a heavy wooden table.  At the sound of the lock turning, the man slumped over the table as if a terrible weight pressed on his shoulders, shoulders ill suited for such a load.