Prologue: Visitations
10 Years Earlier...
King James the IV, the 10th King of House Amarrel, stood in a private study at the top of the highest tower in the palace. From here, he could see all the way to the Mountains of Mist. The room was bitterly cold despite the fire burning in the fireplace. The heat was fleeing out the window and the winter chill rushed in to replace it. The sky was a clear blue and he could smell the snow in the air. The storm clouds were moving in from the mountains.
Even wrapped in layers of heavy ermine robes, King James could feel the chill in his bones. It made his joints ache. He made no move to close the heavy shutters though. His eyes were continuously drawn to those mountains. Somewhere among those peaks, the High King's Keep waited for someone strong enough to claim it.
Four hundred years had passed since the last High King had sat upon the Dragon Throne.
He looked down into the courtyards. The snow blanketed everything and he could see the guards patrolling the inner courtyard. A few liveried servants scurried about and he could see his chief groom leaving the stables. The outer courtyard was empty save for the guards that patrolled the walls and the gate.
The sun had yet to clear the horizon and the dawn air was still and tranquil. Somewhere down in the courtyards, a cock crowed. He pulled his robe more tightly about his body. The winter had been brutal and spring had yet to arrive.
"You should not stand so close to an open window, Sire."
King James flinched despite himself. He had not heard his Court Sorcerer approach.
"You have many enemies and a talented archer could steal your life."
The Court Sorcerer's voice was low and husky from countless incantations. The robed figure walked to his side, the heavy scarlet cloth rustling. The deep cowl was pulled low, obscuring the Sorcerer's face. A slender, long fingered hand reached out and closed the heavy shutters. King James turned away and crossed the room, sinking into a plush chair before the fire. The Sorcerer swished along behind him, standing behind the chair.
"Something troubles you, Sire?"
King James sighed and gaze deeply into the flames. "Something always troubles me," he said wearily. "It is the nature of Kings to be troubled."
"True," the Sorcerer agreed, "but something seems amiss."
"I am getting old," King James admitted.
And it was true. His long dark blonde hair was streaked with iron grey. His skin was leathered from the elements. His joints ached in the winter and he found that his hands shook.
"That is the nature of man," the sorcerer said. "Even Kings."
King James nodded and stroked his silver shot beard. "I fear I have too little time to fulfil my ambitions."
"That too is the nature of man," the Sorcerer said softly.
"I have come to a decision today."
"Indeed, Sire? What have you decided?"
King James was silent for long moments. The room was heating up slowly but his bones still ached. He looked down at his scarred and callused hands. When he spoke, he was disappointed that his voice was not as steady as he had hoped it would be.
"I am sending out the Heralds. I am proclaiming myself High King."
He could feel the shock in the Sorcerer's silence. He understood it well.
"You wish to say that I am being foolish," he said softly.
"Sire, what you speak of...it means war."
"Only two nations are strong enough to oppose me," he said.
"Dalasia and the Kalesian Empire," the Sorcerer supplied.
"I am concluding an alliance with Dalasia today," King James said.
"An alliance," the Sorcerer repeated. "Sire, King Richard is Over King of the Western March. Rumour tells of his ambition for the High King's Throne."
King James smiled a very grim smile. "But he has no sons. In exchange for his loyalty, I will marry Alain into his family."
"Alain 'tis but a child, Sire, barely six summers."
King James nodded. "Yes, but his only daughter is three summers of age. They will be betrothed."
"And King Richard is willing to surrender his ambitions?"
King James laughed. "No...but I have sworn to make him first among equals. He will retain stewardship of Dalasia and the Western Marches, as well as gaining stewardship of Caer Brae."
"You give up your own Kingdom for the Dragon Throne?"
King James laughed. "Only in appearance. Jared will follow me as High King. And Alain will be King of Dalasia, Over King of the Western March, and King of Caer Brae."
He could hear the Sorcerer's robe rustle as she shook her head. "Brilliant, Sire, but the Kalesian Empire is still too strong. Even if you unite the West beneath your rule, the Khan's army is still vastly larger."
"I disagree," King James said. "Their internal strife is growing."
"A foreign war will unite them."
King James stood up and turned to face her. "It is already done. Don't bother trying to talk me out of it."
The Sorcerer nodded gravely, her cowl bobbing. "I see, Sire. Have you informed your Generals?"
"No. I am going to inform everyone at the banquet tonight."
"May I ask what prompted this decision?"
He smiled grimly at her. "My Soothsayer read the Prophesies. They proclaim that the High King will spring from my house."
"Prophesy is very fickle, Your Majesty," she warned, "and ever changing. No path is set in stone."
"He assured me that the time for the High King to assume his throne is now," King James insisted.
"He is a Soothsayer, Your Majesty, not a Prophet." Her voice was low and dangerous. "No one but a Prophet can accurately read the future and even they see only possibilities."
"Even so," he said, "it is done."
"I shall leave you now, Sire," the Sorcerer said. "I must gather my strength."
"I expect to see you at the Banquet," he said softly.
She nodded once and left the study. King James sat in there, staring into the flames for a long time. In their light, he saw many things; a castle in flames, soldiers fighting and dying, and he saw the High King's Banner flying on the highest tower in a long hidden Keep. He did not move until his Captain of the Guard entered his sanctum and informed him that the Court was gathering and the supplicants had arrived.
When she arrived in her private chambers, she found the Crown Prince waiting for her. He was standing before her bed, his arms folded arrogantly. He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed and glittering in the candlelight. He was rarely up before midday and she was surprised to find him in her chambers so soon after the dawn. She stared at him from the depths of her cowl for long seconds before bowing her head.
"Your Highness," she said in a low voice. "I did not expect you."
"You are my tutor, correct," he demanded imperiously.
"One of several," she said.
He waved away the distinction with a negligent hand. "The others are fools."
She walked past him, studying the room, making sure that nothing had been disturbed. The young prince was still whole, that was a good sign.
"Where is my apprentice, Your Highness?"
"I sent her away," he said. His voice trembled with an undercurrent of...fear.
"I see," she said in an emotionless voice. "I assume you wish to discuss something with me?"
"My continuing education," he said and his voice broke.
She turned to face him. His body was held at an awkward angle, attempting to lean casually against the foot of her bed. He had the looks of his mother, the dark hair and even darker eyes. He had the broad shoulders and bulging muscles of the maternal grandfather. His face was hawkish, making him look older than his sixteen summers.
"Which subject troubles you today," she asked.
He began to look around her room, betraying his nervousness. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his tunic. He walked over to the vanity, picking up a small silver statue of a griffin in flight.
"You should not touch that," she warned.
He put it down quickly.
"You must obey my commands," he said, his voice unsteady.
"Any command that is not treasonous," she corrected. "I serve the Royal Family but my loyalty is to your father."
"You will serve me tonight," he said.
So this is what he wants, she thought. I should have expected this.
"If you insist," she said.
He crossed the room and threw back her cowl. She did not move. His eyes widened and he stepped back.
"The rumours are true," he whispered.
Her long, flaxen hair spilled about her shoulders. Her eyes were pale blue, almost grey. Her skin was creamy pale and unlined. She had an aquiline nose and thin lips. She looked to be of an age with the Prince yet she had served the Royal family for two score years.
"Do you find me suitable, Your Highness?"
He flushed a deep scarlet and grabbed the front of her robe, tearing it open. She did not flinch. She merely cocked an eyebrow as he bared her breasts. They were roughly the size of large apples, still firm with youth. The chill air stiffened her nipples and he touched them with tentative hands.
He caressed her ineptly; his touch too firm and rough. He squeezed her breasts and pulled on her nipples. He pushed them together and weighed them in his hands. She suffered the indignity in silence.
His breathing grew hoarse and his face flushed. He stripped the remains of her robe from her body. He ripped her silken undergarments to shreds. She stood before him in all her naked glory, her smooth belly, slender hips and shapely legs. She could see the growing erection in his hose.
He pushed her none too gently onto the bed and she went without a struggle. She looked to the side and stifled a yawn as he stripped himself and crawled onto the bed. He positioned himself between her legs and probed her sex, trying to gain entry. He fumbled for a few moments before she reached down and grasped him firmly in her hand. She guided him into her and then released him. She let out a slight grunt as he forced himself into her. But the angle was bad and she felt no need to be accommodating.
He heaved his body on top of hers and she grimaced slightly. It had been long decades since she had lain with a man and she was tight as an untried virgin. The chill air made ice of her flesh and she felt no heat...no passion. Her legs were spread obscenely and he ground his groin against hers when he finally managed a full penetration. Her breathing remained even and slow, while he gasped for air.
He rutted with an animalistic frenzy, often pulling back too far and taking forever to figure out how to put it back in. She soon grew bored and silently recited the Laws of Magic. He had trouble keeping his erection. Finally, he backed away from her, unsatisfied and flushed with shame. She sat up, covering her nudity with the rumpled coverlet.
"Your Highness...don't you find me pleasing," she asked, her voice betraying nothing.
He dressed quickly and in silence. His face was sullen and she knew that his pride had suffered greatly. He spoke once before leaving her chambers.
"Tell no one of this," he commanded, and then he was gone.
She stood and dressed herself in a robe of sable hue, pulling the cowl up and obscuring her face in shadow. She left the torn remnants of the robe and her undergarments where they lay, trusting that her apprentice would dispose of them properly.
The Swordmaster of Molay stood near the fireplace, allowing the heat to soak into his body. The time has come for him to take on apprentices, to begin preparing them for the honour of taking his place. He had come to the castle just a few days ago to observe the many Bastard Princes and Princesses. The King had been a skilled swordsman in his youth and it was possible that his children may have inherited the knack.
He had already taken on two youngsters, the youngest son of a Baron and a girl-child from a merchant family. They were near the same age; the boy being six while the girl was five. They sat silently in the corner of the room.
The boy had brown hair and dark eyes. He was a very homely child, not attractive in the slightest manner. His eyes were beady and his nose crooked, almost as crooked as his teeth. He was short and stocky, with very prominent, lumpy ears and a lantern jaw. He figured the boy for the heavier weapons, two-handed sword and the bastard sword.
The girl was a slender beauty, with glossy black hair and dark eyes. Her mouth was a little pink bow and her complexion was creamy pale. Her wrists and ankles were delicate and she had very small hands and feet. The girl would do well with a lighter blade, perhaps a sabre or longsword.
The door to the chamber opened and a liveried servant led an armoured man into the chamber.
"The King will see you both shortly," the servant said.
He exchanged a grim nod with the armoured man, recognising him immediately for what he was. There were very few Holy Knights of Atna, less than three score on the continent. The Knights armour was burnished to a silvery sheen and covered with a pristine white surcoat. A monstrous two-handed sword was strapped across his back. A young boy followed behind the knight, sleepy eyed and his hair still tousled.
"Greetings," the Holy Knight said, his voice very deep.
"Greetings," the Swordmaster returned, his voice a rough rumble.
The Swordmaster folded his arms across his chest. He had been waiting since dawn's first light. It was nearing midday and the King had been seeing supplicants for several hours. He was a patient man but he was unused to the casual disregard inherent in the way he was being made to wait.
And from the discontent look on the Holy Knight's face, he was unused to such treatment as well.
"Is the boy your apprentice," the Swordmaster inquired.
The Knight smiled grimly. "Not as of yet. I have chosen him to be such but cannot remove the boy without the King's permission. The boy is a servant here."
"I too seek the King's permission to take an apprentice," the Swordmaster said.
The Knight nodded and they spoke not another word until the servant came to lead them before the King.
The Herald rapped the butt of his Standard against the cold stone of the floor. He was dressed in shades of black and grey. The standard he bore was a white flag with a black stag rampant. He looked around the room, his eyes arrogant and his chin held high.
In a ringing voice, he proclaimed, "My Lords and Ladies of the Court, Your Royal Majesty, I present to you Richard, the King of Dalasia and Over King of the Western March."
The ornate double doors were opened and a fierce looking man dressed in furred robes swept into the Hall. He wore a neatly trimmed brown beard and his hair was cropped short. His blue eyes were pale ice. He stopped at the foot of the raised dais and nodded his head once. He was clad in red enamelled chain mail and his blood red Crown was riveted to his helm.
The Herald rapped the butt of the Standard once more.
"I present to you, Princess Anne, the Jewel of Dalasia and future Queen of the Western Marches."
Princess Anne walked into Hall. Her long hair was glossy black and her eyes were dark blue. She wore a gown of ivory lace and blue satin. A diamond tiara crowned her. She walked three steps past her father. Her graceful curtsy ended when her bottom touched the ground and she had no choice but to sit down or fall down. She sat and stuck her little thumb into her mouth. King Richard scowled but the gentle hand that patted the top of his daughter's head showed that the child could do no wrong.
King James smiled.
The girl was quite lovely and would grow into a stunning beauty. Alain would be a very lucky man. For a moment, he was tempted to invoke the ancient rules of hospitality. According to those rules, Richard would lay with Queen Katherine and James would lay with Richard's lovely young Queen, Margaret. But a look at Richard's fierce eyes told him it would be a mistake.
He motioned for his own herald to step forth. The young man spoke in a commanding voice.
"You Majesty," he said, bowing to King Richard. "May I present to you, Prince Alain, younger son of the House of Amarrel, Grandson of the Philosopher King, and Nephew to the Lord of Fire Keep."
The hush that came over the assembled Court pleased King James, as did the look of shock that crossed Richard's visage. Fire Keep was an impenetrable fortress deep in the Mountains of Mist. The Lord was the only ruler to scorn any alliances and Fire Keep guarded the pass that legends foretold led the way to the High King's Keep.
The current Lord of Fire Keep was a member of King James' younger brother. Tradition dictated that the Lord of Fire Keep swear allegiance to no man. And from the day he had left, the current Lord had sent to messages to his brother. For Alain to be announced as his nephew was a declaration of his father's intent to be High King.
And everyone in the Throne Room knew it.
Prince Alain stepped out from a curtained alcove and walked to stand next to his father's throne. His honey blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and his blue eyes were melancholy. He was dressed in silks and satins of the purest white and a small golden dagger was sheathed at his hip.
King Richard stepped forward and spoke, his voice deep and strong. "I offer up my Loyalty to you, paid in Blood."
A hush descended as the ancient formula was spoken. King James spoke, his voice just as strong though not as deep.
"I accept your Loyalty and offer up my Blood as payment."
Alain stepped down to the floor and knelt in front of his future father. Richard knelt down and removed his daughter's thumb from her mouth and helped her kneel in front of Alain. He placed her small hands into those of the Prince. She smiled at him, her two front teeth missing. Despite himself, Alain smiled back.
Richard drew a dagger and removed his gauntlet. King James did likewise. Together, the two Kings sliced open their left palms and then clasped hands, mingling their blood. The Court erupted into joyful cheering.
Queen Katherine glided through the halls of the Keep, her gown flowing about her legs like a living thing. She had dismissed her Ladies in waiting and was unaccompanied, except for her young maid. A heavy ermine robe was draped about her shoulders and her breath steamed in the frigid air.
The West Wing of the Keep was largely deserted, used for storage. Rumours held that the West Wing was haunted. She could hear the fright in her maids every breath. The torch that the maid held flickered as a stiff wind nearly extinguished it. She heard the maid's frightened cry and shushed her furiously.
She descended a flight of stairs, making her maid go first. The damp chill cut through her fur lined cloak, down to the bone. She looked at the slight form in front of her. The poor child must be freezing. She was clad only in a gown of the purest white. The girl looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide with fright. Queen Katherine motioned for her to hurry.
As they went deeper into the bowels of the Keep, Queen Katherine could not help but smirk. Her beloved husband was probably just convening his Court. He would be seeing supplicants for the whole of the day. And while he was busy ruling his Kingdom, she would see to more carnal concerns.
Shortly after her first pregnancy, he had taken a concubine. Over the years, he had taken several and all of them lived here in the Keep. As did his bastard children. Ten years had passed between the births of her first child and the second. Ten years in which he had fathered several bastards. And it had been 3 years since the birth of her third child. Three years in which he had fathered seven bastard children.
It was said that she was still as beautiful as the day he married her. She knew differently. Her figure had grown more womanly over the years. Her breasts were full and well rounded. Her hips and legs were shapely. Her skin was still flawless. Her dark hair was very curly and her eyes were the colour of new turned earth.
Not that he ever noticed. They did not even sleep in the same bedchamber anymore.
They stopped before a heavy, ironbound door. They had to push together to force it open and the rusty hinges squealed shrilly. They tried to push it shut once they had passed through but were unable to do so. The staircase was mouldy and in the faint light provided by the torch, she could see fresh bootprints in the moss.
"Your Majesty," her maid whispered. "Where are we going?"
"Hush," the Queen said sharply. "We're almost there."
As they walked neither of them noticed the shadow that followed behind them.
King James frowned as the Duke presented himself to the Throne. He did not like this Duke. The man was a fop, dressed in silks of scarlet and gold. He held a delicate lace handkerchief to his nose; no doubt it was perfumed. Rumour held that the Duke was a pederast and King James did not like the way the man's eyes seemed to linger on Prince Jared.
"Your Majesty," the Duke said grandly. "I come before you seeking Justice."
King James motioned for the Duke to continue.
"A Minstrel of ill repute has stolen away my youngest son," the Duke said. "I impeach you, send out your soldiers to apprehend that foul wanderer."
"The boy is of age," the Court Sorcerer whispered sibilantly.
"I am afraid I must refuse," King James said.
The Duke recoiled in shock. "But...Your Majesty..."
"Bring forth the next supplicant," King James commanded.
The spluttering Duke was led away.
"Only the Swordmaster of Molay and Sir Markham remain, Sire," the Court Sorcerer whispered.
"I will see Sir Markham first."
"As you wish, Sire."
The Court Sorcerer turned and spoke softly with the Herald.
Sir William reined in his horse as he passed a nondescript building. It was bitterly cold and his horse's flanks were steaming. The snow was falling heavily, a white veil hiding the ugliness of the walled city. He patted the horse's neck and studied the structure before him. The windows were boarded up and the door was thick oak. He turned in his saddle and looked behind him. The streets were empty and poorly lit by the torch he carried. He could feel the eyes on him as he checked to ensure that there was no one on the streets.
He dismounted, his boots crunching in the icy snow. He led his horse to the post and tied it there. Someone would be there to stable him shortly; he had no fear of that. The House was very good about that sort of thing. He strode up to the door and thumped it in a particular pattern. A few moments later, it creaked open. He walked in, the warmth of the place soaking into him. He smiled at the brothel mistress.
"Good evening, madam," he said cheerfully.
She smiled, her deep dimples lighting a fire in his loins. She was an older woman, in her mid-thirties but she was still very beautiful. Her hair was a lustrous brown. Her eyes were a merry hazel. Her figure was generous, almost lush.
"You are most welcome here, Sir Knight," she said in her smooth voice.
He removed his cloak, revealing the mail shirt he wore beneath it. She frowned at the sight of his sword.
"You know we do not allow weapons in this House."
He smiled and removed his sword, handing it to her. She handled it with obvious distaste. Most of the girls in this House were not willing and a weapon could provide them the means of ending their existence. He struggled out of his mail shirt.
"I did not expect you to arrive so quickly," she remarked.
He smiled. "Your messenger told me you had a new girl; one that suited my tastes. I wanted to get here before you whored her to someone else."
The mistress raised an eyebrow. "She is a virgin. She will be expensive."
He handed her a jingling bag of coins. "I came prepared."
The mistress accepted the bag. "She is in the Red Room."
Sir Michael rushed up the stairs. He did not see the melancholy look the mistress directed at his back. When he barged into the Red Room; he beheld his angel. Her dark eyes were wide and full of fear. Her long black hair was braided. She was not older than seven summers. He grinned a fool's grin and advanced on her, already hard.
Queen Katherine led the way down a frigid hall. From beneath one of the doors, a warm light glowed. She motioned for the maid to douse the torch in a bucket of water that sat near the door. With a hiss, the hall was shrouded in darkness. She reached out and opened the door.
Heat washed over them and the stepped into the room, the maid closing the door. The room was lavishly appointed and a fire blazed in the hearth. Queen Katherine shed her cloak and handed it to her maid. The maid folded it neatly over the back of a chair but the Queen only had eyes for the young man standing before the fire.
Lord Nathan was like a blade, slender and deadly. His hair was dark as night, save for the wings of silver at his temples, and his face haunted her every dream. He smiled and held out his arms. She entered his embrace, her breasts flattening against his chest.
"Gods, how I've missed you," she breathed.
"And I, you," he said.
He kissed her, running his hand through her hair. She pushed his open tunic down his arms and savoured the feel of his tightly muscled chest. Before she could go any further, the door banged open. The maid screamed and Lord Nathan pushed her away, turning and rushing to the bedside, grabbing up his sword.
Queen Katherine fell over her trailing skirts and fell with a cry, helpless to do naught but watch. Lord Nathan leaped over her, his blade flashing. Her maid ran deeper into the room; her eyes wide and her mouth open in a silent scream. And everything seemed to slow down.
The intruder lifted his arm from beneath his cowled cloak, a brutal double crossbow held in his gloved hand. She heard the deep twang of the crossbow as Lord Nathan got almost within blade's reach of him. The two quarrels slammed into Nathan, sending him tumbling back. The Queen stared up at the intruder, her eyes wide with fright and her mouth working soundlessly.
Then her maid screamed and that freed her own voice. She screamed too.
The intruder seemed unfazed by it all and merely closed and bolted the door. He tossed the crossbow aside and threw back the cowl of his cloak. He was young, perhaps a year or two past twenty summers. His black hair was cut very short and he wore neither moustache nor beard. His eyes were an icy grey. He was breathtakingly handsome in a very cold, very frightening way.
Her maid's scream died off into frightened sobs and Katherine's own scream died. She rose trembling to her feet and attempted to smooth her rumpled gown.
"How dare you," she seethed. "I will see you hang for this."
"I think not, My Queen," he said in a voice as frigid as the winter air outside. "Your own lovely neck should be your first concern. Even a Queen would be tortured to death for treason."
His words sent a dagger of ice into her spine. Her legs felt weak and she moved backwards, sitting on the bed.
"Treason," she whispered.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said scornfully. "Treason...adultery is a serious crime when your husband is King. Why, it makes the parentage of your children suspect."
She was silent, the prospect of death by torture robbing her of speech. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes pleading. She had finally recognised what he was, a member of the feared Shadow Guard, the Kings secret protectors.
"Please," she begged.
He knelt before her, wiping away her tears with a gloved hand. "Do not cry, My Queen. I will grant you the mercy of a quick death."
"No," she cried. "Please...let me live."
He stood and posted his fists on his hips. The action caused his cloak to open and she could see the hilt of his sword. She stared at it for a moment before tearing her eyes away and looking him in the face.
"Please," she begged. "I swear to be faithful. I swear by the lives of my children."
"You are a whore, Your Majesty," he said softly. "Why should I take you on your word when my eyes see the proof of your infidelity."
She stood, meeting his eyes squarely. "I will ensure you do not regret the decision."
"Are you trying to buy my loyalty," he asked, "my honour?"
She did not flinch from the ice in his voice. "I am."
He laughed and crossed his arms. "You have three tries, Your Majesty. If you fail, I will kill you immediately."
Her breath tried to stick in her throat but she forced herself to meet his eyes.
"I will give you wealth," she said, her voice carrying a hint of the steel it normally did.
He laughed.
She shivered and tried to back away from him but the bed was right behind her. That gave her an idea.
"I will be a whore," she said, her voice catching. "Your whore...for as long as you wish."
She saw his eyes narrow as he considered the idea and she felt a moment of triumph. Her triumph melted into terror when he shook his head. He stepped back from her and drew his blade with a steely rasp. She had almost had him; she was sure of it. She heard her maid sobbing and a desperate idea sprung to mind.
"I will whore my Ladies in Waiting to you," she said quickly, "and the ladies who attend us."
He lifted the blade, tucking the point beneath her chin. She closed her eyes and awaited the cold kiss of the steel. When he spoke, his voice mocking her.
"Too little, My Queen...but together...enough to spare your life."
She opened her eyes.
He sneered at her. "You will grant me one favour, at a time of my choosing, anything I desire. If you agree and whore yourself and your Ladies to me, I will let you live."
"Anything," she sobbed. "Anything you desire."
His frigid smile stole the strength from her legs.
The Court was deathly silent. King James felt the shock reverberating around the Hall. The Swordmaster stood at the foot of the dais, his arms crossed defiantly. He had been forced to leave his sword in an antechamber but an air of quiet menace still cloaked him. For long moments, the Swordmaster's words hung in the air. It was Crown Prince Jared who broke the tense silence.
"No," he cried out. "It's not fair! I'm Firstborn!"
"I have made my decision, young Prince," the Swordmaster said calmly. "I choose Prince Alain as my apprentice."
The Court seemed to hold its breath. King Richard smiled but hid it behind his hand as he stroked his beard. King James stood and descended to stand before the Swordmaster.
"I beg you reconsider," King James said reasonably. "Jared is already a skilled swordsman. He would do well under your tutelage. Alain is but a boy. He has yet to even hold a blade, much less learned to wield one."
The Swordmaster shook his head. "I am afraid, Your Majesty, that Jared knows too much. To teach him to unlearn the bad habits he has acquired would be near impossible. Your son is arrogant and would not listen."
Jared's face flushed in anger and his hand went to the ornamental dagger he wore at his waist. The captain of the King's Guard put a restraining hand on the young Prince's arm. The Swordmaster ignored them, speaking to the King.
"Alain has quick wrists and good balance. He could be a great Swordsman...perhaps even a Swordmaster."
The Swordmaster's blunt manner and casual dismissal of the Crown Prince stunned King James. He also knew that sending Alain would be an insult Jared could not bear. He shook his head sadly and ascended back up to his throne.
"I am afraid I must refuse," he said softly. "You must choose another apprentice."
The collective intake of breath seemed to suck the air from the room. The Swordmaster's eyebrows shot up into his hairline but his face remained calm and stony. He bowed stiffly to King James.
"As your Majesty wishes."
The Swordmaster spun on his heel and strode from the Hall. Doing so was a serious breach of etiquette but King James did not protest.
The fat man waddled out of the Blue Room and opened the door to the Red Room. It was the gurgling screams that had given it all away. The girl clutched a small dagger in her right hand, the blade and her hand dripping crimson. Blood was smeared on her cheeks and spotted her clothes. The knight was thrashing on the ground, clutching at his throat. The girl looked up at him.
"Put the knife away, girl," he grumbled.
The girl lowered the blade.
The fat man waddled over to the critically wounded knight and stepped on his throat, crushing the life out of him.
They left the House and the mistress was not sad to see them leave. Sir William had been a very profitable customer. It was a shame he had chosen the wrong girl for a midnight rape. One did not cross the merchant princes of the East. And raping the favoured granddaughter of the Merchant Prince Tsang Hueng was tantamount to suicide.
On a different day, she might have found it ironic that Sir William had met his death at the hands of a girl-child but, today, she just mourned the loss of the Red Room. Not many of her customers would take their pleasures in that room now. Too many of them were superstitious.
Queen Katherine could not watch as her young maid was raped.
The Shadow Guard had ripped the girl's clothes from her and was skewering her relentlessly. She screamed and thrashed but she was too small to really hurt him. But he could and was hurting her terribly. The girl was not yet ripe but he cared not.
The shrill, hurt cries ripped through Katherine.
It was too much. The girl was suffering for her indiscretions and to save her own life. She had to at least grant the girl the dignity and respect of not turning her face away from her suffering. So she looked and what she saw would haunt her for the rest of her life.
The girl was still gangly with youth, all arms and legs. She had no curves, no breasts, and for a certainty had not flowered. But between her widely spread legs, the Shadow Guard was pumping madly, tearing at the girl and smothering her with sloppy kisses.
The sight was grotesque. The girl looked so small beneath him and her cries were shrill and hurt. Her little heels beat the bed to no avail. The Guard kept raping her without mercy or compassion. But suddenly, the Guard ceased and withdrew from the girl, his lance red with the young girl's blood. He sighed contentedly and glanced over at the Queen.
"I never imagined a child could give me such pleasure. Are all your maids this young?"
She convulsed and looked away. The man's laughter cut through her. The girl was sobbing and choking.
"Watch, my Queen, for this girl would not be here if not for you."
She looked, her eyes filled with hate. He rolled the girl over onto her belly, his hand caressing her tiny little bottom. He placed her ankles together and then took his lance in hand, straddling her hips. Almost gently, he rubbed his lance up and down the shallow valley between her buttocks before setting his lance in place. He jerked his hips, her maid screamed, and Queen Katherine had to look away.
Prince Aiden convulsed and fell to the floor.
His guts were on fire and he felt the bile rise up into his throat. He wretched and sobbed as he felt his insides being shredded. He cried out weakly. His eyes burned almost as much as his throat. He wretched again. He curled into a ball, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth and nose. The pain was too much.
The door opened and the last thing he heard was the gentle swish of heavy robes and a strangely sorrowful voice.
"My poor child Prince... your life will be forever changed..."
The room was cold as ice.
The fire still raged but no earthly fire could banish the ice that had formed in the Queen's chest. The Shadow Guard was dressing himself, not looking at either of them. The pain and memories made her throat thick with bile. She covered her mouth with her hand, choking. He ignored her.
Her maid had stopped sobbing hours ago. The girl was sprawled at the foot of the bed; naked as the day she was born. Blood stained her thighs and the immature flower of her sex, a flower that had been brutally defiled. Blood and semen leaked from her and her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. The Queen looked away from her.
The man was buckling on his swordbelt.
The Queen struggled to her feet, her knees shaking and the pain making her grimace. She had never been taken in that manner and her breath hissed between her teeth. Tears leaked from her eyes and the Guard looked at her finally.
"Stop snivelling. I cannot abide the crying of women."
Then he fastened his cloak around his shoulders. She hobbled over to her maid, lightly touching the girl's face but the girl did not respond. She had been used so terribly and her mind seemed to have fled. Queen Katherine sobbed for her and for herself.
She had saved her own neck but at what cost?
The poor girl had screamed and screamed while the Guard had plundered her backside. But after a while, the screaming had stopped and the girl had gone still. The guard had filled her with his seed, the poor child's bottom overflowing.
Then he had thrown Katherine onto her face and taken her ass as well, jamming his lance into her with all his strength. Twice more after that, he had taken her. Her maid had been ravaged another four times.
She looked at him as he left and had to wonder if death may not have been preferable to life by these terms.
It was the middle of the night when a frantic pounding against his door woke the Swordmaster. He leapt from his bed and had a naked blade in his hand before he was fully awake. His two apprentices were huddled in the corner, well out of sword reach. They had learned quickly the folly of startling him awake. He crossed the room and unbolted the door. He stepped back as it swung open, his sword held ready.
Three robed and hooded figures stood in the hall, two adults and a child. He lowered the blade in stunned confusion.
"What goes on here," he demanded.
"Let us in," a woman's voice whispered. "We cannot be seen here."
He allowed them into the room and barred the door behind them. The removed their cowls and he nearly dropped his sword. He did not recognise the woman but he knew King Richard and the young Prince Alain.
"What...what goes on here," he repeated softly.
"The Prince is in danger," the woman said. "Already, jealousy has turned Jared's hand against him; a subtle poison in Alain's milk. You must take him with you and flee the kingdom tonight."
"But King James said-"
"Alain is marrying into my House," King Richard said grimly. "That makes the boy my ward. Return him to me in ten years time; to be married to my daughter."
"But-"
"Time is short," the woman said. "I have given Alain an amulet that will allow me to track him and to show me that he still lives. You must flee now."
The Swordmaster nodded.
"I will give the amulet's twin to Anne, when she is older," the Sorcerer said as they rode back to the Keep. "It will assure her that her betrothed still lives and will bind them together."
"Anne and I will leave for our own Kingdom in the morning," King Richard said grimly. "I do not trust her safety in the same house as Jared."
They rode in silence for a few blocks, their horses' hooves clip-clopping against the cobblestones of the King's Road. Prince Alain would not be seen in the capitol for years to come, if he returned at all. The life of a common sword was dangerous and uncertain. But should he remain, his death would come on silent wings and by his own brother's hand. And the Sorcerer knew hard truths that had to be spoken.
"She will have to return in a few years time, to live in the house of her Betrothed."
King Richard's voice was as cold as iron and grim as death. "My own sorcerer will be-spell her, to protect her from Jared."
The Court Sorcerer nodded, her hood obscuring her face but her breath steaming in the bitter winter night. Fat flakes of snow fell from the sky lazily for there was no breeze to move them. She turned her hood towards him.
"You might do well to send a sword to guard her as well, Majesty."
King Richard nodded, his voice hard. "I will."
The Court Sorcerer remained silent for the rest of the return journey to the castle, knowing that her treasonous actions tonight could cost her dearly.
Only the Beginning...
There are rules to telling a good story; rules that every bard should know. Actually, it can be boiled down into three rules.
It should start in a tavern. The good legends always do. The ale is always good and the food is even better. A fire would be burning in the fire pit. The bar wenches are lovely and young. The tender is a retired adventurer with a bit of free advice for any young warrior willing to listen. A minstrel or bard would be singing their hearts out on a low stage.
It's something I noticed a long time ago. Great adventures always start in taverns.
Maybe it's the atmosphere.
Regardless of the reason, a good tavern is always the start of a good adventure.
Your heroes should be larger than life. That's why they're heroes. Even when they brawl or are out wenching, your heroes should possess a natural style and charisma. It's true of all the great heroes, Hercules, Odysseus, Conan, Kull, even Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser.
They fight on through any adversity and against monstrous odds. They smile at the villain when a weapon strikes them. It is not necessary to have them be a little distrustful of magic but it helps.
And finally, the heroes will always win in the end.
Sounds pretty simple.
Unfortunately, it never really works out that way. In some lands, Bards are known as Soothslayers, slayers of truth. A very wise storyteller I once knew gave me a bit of wisdom on a cold winter morning.
"Never tell them the truth; it's not good storytelling."
For the most part, that is true. The truth is often ugly and vicious. People do terrible things to people and if the circumstances are right, they become heroes. Even Paladins are not the paragons of virtue they are made out to be. To certain people, they're monsters. And remember, your hero is someone else's villain.
It depends on your point of view.
The story I am about to share with you breaks all the rules of good storytelling. The "heroes" are mercenaries, sell swords. They work for gold, not noble causes. That does not mean that they are bad people. They just are not very good people. Although, they did have their moments.
The sad truth is that there are no real heroes left. If they sound too good to be true, they are. So I guess I have introduced this tale well enough so I should begin.
At the very least, it started in a tavern...
Continued in Chapter 1
High King Rising - Prologue
Next Story:High King Rising - Chapter 1
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