King's Man

An original fantasy story that I'm still working on.

Index
King's Man (below)
Queen's Rider

 

King’s Man


Intermittent scuds of rain had been blowing down the street for the best part of the day. Clouds loomed overhead, rolling ominously and occasionally letting out a distant rumble of thunder. The day was dark and gloomy; inside the tavern it was even gloomier. There was a fire in the hearth and oil lamps about the room, but they quite failed to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the regular patrons sat about the taproom, drinking and eating as the fancy took them. Behind the counter, the overweight tavern owner, red-mustachioed and balding, served drinks. His equally overweight wife and three younger girls, one of whom was possibly his daughter, brought drinks and meals out to those who had ordered them.

The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold, rainy wind, and grey daylight. Pausing in the doorway, the newcomer allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness before stepping inside. Before the door quite had a chance to close all the way, a massive hairy form nosed its way in as well. It sneezed once, then shook itself thoroughly, spraying tiny shimmering droplets of water over everything within a ten-foot radius.

Kaelim of Haven Home was not a tall man, but he had breadth in the shoulder to make up for it. His closely-cropped dark hair was just starting to show grey at the temples, also reflected in the week’s growth of beard on his face. Heavy lines had etched themselves here and there on his features, while a once-serious scar, grown faint with age, traced its way down past his right cheekbone.

He eased out of the heavy rain cape, shook the water off, and slung it over his arm. Under it, he wore a lighter cloak over a heavy dark leather cuirass, with the hilt of a shortsword just visible on the left side of his belt.

No-one in the taproom took much notice of his arms or armour; while the Kingdom of Mornas had been established almost three hundred years ago, it was still wise to wear armour and carry a blade in the wilder regions. And south of the Cloudpeak Ranges, well, such as he was wearing would likely count as being under-prepared for some of the menaces that could be encountered there. Laughably so, if one ventured to the western end of the Cloudpeaks, and dared Firedrake Mountain.

Kaelim made his way over to a table, as yet empty, set up against the wall. His heavy boots clumped on the floorboards, but that was not what drew the attention of most of the patrons. The centre of attention was instead the oversized wolf, more than three feet high at the shoulder, which padded almost silently behind Kaelim. The only sound of its passage was the clicking of its toenails on the well-worn wood.

He scraped out a chair, and eased himself into it, automatically adjusting the hang of his sword so that it did not catch on the chair or snag on his cloak. The wolf padded up to the table, then settled itself down with a whuff into a semi-somnolent pile of fur alongside Kaelim. Dark eyes surveyed the room, gleaming softly where the firelight caught them.

After a short discussion with his wife, the tavern owner himself came out from behind the bar to approach the newcomer and his unusual companion.

“Ahh ... beg pardon, sir,” he began, then broke off as the wolf lifted its too-large head to regard him steadily as he approached. He forgot entirely what he had been intending to say, and instead blurted out, “That’s a dire wolf, isn’t it?”

Kaelim looked him up and down, and then at the mass of fur at his feet. “Why yes, I suppose he is,” he said gravely. “I thank you for bringing it to my attention. I had not quite realised that fact before now.”

The tavern owner flushed, aware that half the patrons in the taproom had heard the question and the answer, and were now chuckling over the latter. “Ah ...” he said, “I generally have a rule ... no pets, sir?”

Kaelim leaned forward slightly, as if to impart a confidence. “Furball here’s a dire wolf, sure and true,” he said. “Now, have you ever heard of someone making a dire wolf into a pet?”

The tavern owner blinked. “I would say that I have not,” he said at last. “Excepting this one here, of course.”

“He’s not my pet,” Kaelim corrected him patiently. “He wears no collar, tolerates no leash. He’s my travelling companion. He chooses to go where I go, and I choose to let him.” A tired smile spread across his weathered countenance. “If you intend to have him tied up outside, then I would advise you to bring stout rope indeed ... and to notify the local healer, so that he may attend your wounds ... if you survive the experience.

“If you leave him alone,” he continued in the same quiet, patient tone, “then he will bother you not, nor your patrons. He only wakes up if someone is causing trouble.” He nudged the enormous wolf with the toe of his heavy boot. “Isn’t that right, Furball?”

In answer, the beast let out another whuff, and rolled on to its side, jaws half-opening to reveal gleaming fangs and a large pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Kaelim rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth along Furball’s ribs; the immense animal yawned, showing even more fangs and tongue than before. Looking up at the tavernkeeper, Kaelim added, “I’ll have two plates of your best stew. Make it an extra-sized bowl for Furball here. Plus a pitcher of your ale, and a bowl of water.”

The tavernkeeper thought to object, then looked down at the dire wolf, and at the man who so casually used a boot to scratch its ribs. There was a glint in the man’s eye as he looked back at the tavernkeeper, and he had the sudden thought that the man may well be as dangerous as the wolf.

“I-I’ll get it done, immediately,” he promised, and hurried away.

“Another small town, another small mind,” Kaelim mused to his companion, even as he reached down to scratch the dire wolf behind one exceedingly large ear. “At least this one didn’t try to give you any trouble.” He straightened up and looked around the taproom, his brow furrowed. “But by all the Ancients, where is that cursed girl?”

* * *
​

Time had passed. Some patrons had entered, while others had left. Kaelim had enjoyed the stew, as had Furball. He was on his second mug of ale, still looking around the taproom, still wondering where his contact was.

And then his eye lit on the serving girls. Of course. The tavernkeeper’s wife could be ruled out, of course; she was too old. The redhaired girl, in her first blush of womanhood and well aware of it, could well be the one he was looking for, but she took too much after the man and woman who owned the establishment; the girl he was after would be working under an assumed name, a false identity. Not her, then.

Which left the other two. One was beautiful, with raven-black hair, dark flashing eyes, a bold smile, and a manner which drew the eye. She had shot him a look of interest at one point; was she interested in him, or what he stood for? He had not had the chance to speak with her.

The third serving girl was bland, drab, self-effacing. Her hair, so pale brown it was almost grey, hung partly over her face. Her figure, while feminine in its own right, was so overshadowed by those of the redhead and the dark-haired girl that she looked almost boyish in comparison. She had barely paid him any attention at all.

A new party spilled into the tavern, laughing and boisterous, as the dark-haired girl crossed the taproom to retrieve the bowls which had so recently held stew and water. Kaelim obligingly helped her stack them on to her tray. As he did so, he said casually, “I’ve just come north from the Cloudpeaks. The road is long.”

She responded with a look of intrigued interest, leaning over slightly to allow him a view into her bodice, if he should choose to look that way, and said breathily, “That must be a very long way indeed. Did you meet any bandits along the way?”

He blinked, not expecting that response. Is she not, then –

And then, over her shoulder, he saw the other serving girl. She was looking directly at him, and her hand was forming a particular gesture. A gesture that he recognised all too well. And in that moment, he knew two things. One was that his contact was not the alluring servant girl before him; her interest in him was purely personal, or perhaps financial. The other was that he was in direct and imminent danger. For the gesture he was reading meant Get down!

Lunging from his seat, he caught the dark-eyed girl about the waist and flung her to the floor, falling atop her and driving all breath from her lungs. The tray of bowls clattered to the floor; Furball awoke from his doze with a whuff of surprise and looked around.

Across the taproom there came the twang of no less than four crossbows releasing their bolts. Overhead, four deep thuds sounded as the bolts hit the wall and chair, approximately where he had been sitting.

Rolling to his feet, Kaelim drew his shortsword with the expedience of long training. He found himself facing four of the six men who had entered the tavern moments before, each holding an empty crossbow. Two more held swords, which they were apparently using to menace the other patrons into immobility.

Four crossbows were dropped, to swing to their owner’s sides upon short leather lanyards. Four swords, of varying lengths and types, scraped from sheaths. Six men, all armed with sharp steel, stepped forward with purpose.

Kaelim likewise stepped forward, his teeth bared in a grin that had not the faintest relation to humour. In his left hand, drawn without any conscious thought on his part, was his long-bladed knife. At his side, moving as silently as a shadow on a moonless night, appeared Furball, eyes slitted and fangs bared. A rumble of a growl, sounding like the distant thunder of the clouds overhead, was all the sound that the dire wolf made.

The appearance of the massive beast caused a couple of the men to look somewhat apprehensive. Kaelim decided to capitalise on that. “Gentlemen,” he said into the silence that had fallen across the taproom. “I know not who hired you, nor what he told you about the man you were meant to kill.”

He shrugged the cloak back from his left shoulder, so that firelight glinted from the metal badge attached to his armour there. It portrayed a hand holding a blade, upthrust through the circle made by a royal crown. “I am a King’s Man, sworn to protect the Crown and uphold the security of Mornas. Petty criminals such as yourselves matter little to me. Walk out of here, leave town, and I will think no more of you.” The glint came into his eye once more. “Face me with steel in hand, and I will kill you. The choice is yours.”

Two men stepped back, ostensibly to ensure that the other patrons did not interfere. The other four moved forward with grim purpose. Kaelim took a deep breath, and let the calm of the Way seep into him.

The world seemed to slow down. Each movement of the would-be assassins was outlined in cold fire; he could divine each man’s thought processes from his very stance. That one was fearful, but would attack when the others did. Another considered himself the leader, and dared not back down. And so it went.

Kaelim moved forward, his steps smooth and gliding, his balance always sure. Two of the men facing him wore armour under their tunics; he could tell from the way they held their arms. The other two were not thus encumbered, but were quicker-moving because of it.

No matter.

Abruptly, he flipped up the long knife in his hand, caught the tip, and threw it. It turned over once, and the razor-point sank inches deep into the throat of one of the men who wore armour. He went over backward, clutching at the dark blood that welled up around the blade in his neck.

One down.

Another rushed him with a yell, sword held high. Kaelim hooked his foot around a chair leg, and skidded the chair into the man’s path. The man stumbled over the chair, tripped, and went down, his sword sliding off to the side. He tried to climb to his feet but never made it; Furball got to him first. The massive beast bore him down, gleaming fangs causing the bubbling scream – and the man – to die quickly.

Two down.

The two that remained closed to sword range. Kaelim parried one sword and ducked under a wild swing more suited to harvesting wheat than serious combat. Straightening, he drove out a side-kick that caught his incautious opponent on the side of an unguarded knee. Cartilage crackled and the man screamed as his leg collapsed under him. At the same time, Kaelim’s sword darted out in a move made ghostly and nebulous by the flickering lamplight. The swordsman facing him parried one way, and got nothing. Then he realised his mistake, just as the first five inches of Kaelim’s blade found his vitals.

Furball caught up with the man whose knee Kaelim had ruined at about the same time the last two tried to close in on him. A knife flashed in the crippled man’s hand, but he was too slow. Furball’s jaws closed over the wrist and bore down; bone cracked, and the man screamed high and loud.

Four down.

The last two tried to crowd him; they obviously realised that standing off gave him the chance to take them one at a time. One got behind him; he felt rather than saw the presence, and dodged abruptly to the side. A blade whispered past his ear; his elbow drove back savagely in response, and he felt something crunch under the blow. Behind him, the would-be backstabber stumbled back, hands clutched to his shattered nose.

Meanwhile, in front of him, the last sellsword seemed to actually possess a modicum of skill. Unfortunately, he tried to let enthusiasm and energy take the place of training and common sense. Kaelim had training; he had learned under most exacting masters, and had been honing his skills since before this gutter-rat had been born. Quickly, efficiently, professionally, he parried three wild blows, forced the sword well out of alignment, and slashed the man’s throat, turning away almost before the body finished crumpling to the ground.

The man with the smashed nose was the only one still standing. He saw Kaelim moving toward him, and lunged for the door. Bending, Kaelim swiftly plucked the long knife from the throat of his first victim and threw it after the retreating assassin. His aim was just a little off, or perhaps the man was a little faster than he’d accounted for; the knife struck the doorframe, sinking in at heart level with a deep thunk.

“Curse it!” Kaelim ran for the door. At the best of times, he was not a fast runner, but he had to make the effort.

As it turned out, he did not have to run far. Even as he reached the door, the same man backed through the doorway, hands up, a slender rapier-like blade almost touching his left eyeball. Kaelim looked at who held the blade, grunted with no little amusement, and dragged the man back into the tavern, slamming the door closed. He plucked the knife from the doorframe, and turned to the tavernkeeper.

“Call the guard, or watch, or whatever you have in this town!”

The tavernkeeper nodded. “Aye. Already sent Marella to fetch ‘un.”

Kaelim grinned darkly. “Just so.” He took his prisoner and slammed him up against the wall. “Who paid you to kill me?” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Furball padding up behind. “Answer, or I feed you to the dire wolf.” On cue, Furball growled, deep and menacing. The man blanched. “Feet first.”

He talked.

As he did so, the tension of the Way wore off; objects regained their softer hues, and it no longer seemed to him that each breath, each movement, was something to be pondered over.

The story was a depressingly familiar one; a cloaked man, an anonymous meeting, a sack of coins, a reasonably complete description. No questions had been asked as to why they wanted him dead, and no explanations had been given. Nor had Furball been mentioned. So, someone knows me, but only by hearsay. And they knew I was coming here. And they would chance to kill a King’s Man. They must be desperate.

He was left to mull that over when the town’s single watchman on duty arrived and goggled at the bodies strewn over the floor of the tavern. “This man,” grated Kaelim, pushing the living prisoner at the watchman, “goes into a cell. He speaks to no-one. No visitors.” He glowered at the watchman. “Not his dear old grandam, not his sweet little daughter, not even a King’s Man, save it be me. Are my words understood?”

Such was the tone of his voice that the watchman stuttered and agreed without any demur. He hooked his thumb at the ceiling of the taproom. “I will be taking a room above. I have a powerful urge to sleep. Disturb me at your peril.” With more assurances, the watchman led his prisoner away.

Turning, Kaelim surveyed the room. There was, in truth, very little blood. Likely, more had been spilled in the last brawl this place had held. He approached the counter, and counted coins from his pouch; copper and silver, small and large. “These should pay for cleaning, my meal, and a room for the night. Someone should be along for the bodies.” He smiled grimly. “I apologise for the mess, but think of the tales you can tell of this eve.”

Upon gaining his room key, he turned and mounted the stairs, Furball padding after. The room was middling sanitary, with a window that opened on to the narrow alleyway behind the inn. The bed was narrow and lumpy, and he suspected the presence of bedbugs. A good practitioner of the Art could have cleared them out, but he suspected the owners did not wish to have that expense put upon them.

Outside, the rain had stopped – small mercies there – the sun had set, and the full moon was just rising, huge and round and silvery. He nodded. It would give light for tonight’s efforts.

As narrow and lumpy as the bed was, it was almighty tempting, especially to one as tired as he was. But he had another duty to perform. So, opening the window, and bidding Furball to mind the majority of his possessions, he carefully climbed down from the upper storey. From there he found a patch of shade that the moonlight would not dispel until well after midnight, not too far from the rear exit of the tavern. He settled down to wait; this could take some time.

* * *​

In fact, it was a little over an hour before things began happening. Shadowy figures, four in number, crept along the back street, and into the alley that served the back of the tavern. They situated themselves in the various hiding places that could be found there. One, indeed, came sidling into the very patch of darkness that Kaelim inhabited. He kept so still that the man never knew he was there; not until a very brawny and immensely strong arm encircled his neck and made sure he never knew anything ever again.

And then the event occurred, the one that Kaelim and the other three had been awaiting, but for different reasons. The rear door creaked open, and the younger serving girl, she of drab appearance and light-brown hair, appeared. She who would not be noticed in a crowd, or in a servant’s garb. He chided himself for not realising earlier, then reminded himself that this was because she was so good at blending in.

She stepped out, moving carefully past the puddles the rain had left. Kaelim had not found a crossbow on the body he had laid carefully in his hide, and had not heard the creaking of tight-drawn strings from other places in the alley, so he was reasonably sure that they would try to capture her, take her away, question her ... and then she would never be seen again.

And so, they moved out of cover to surround her. Blades dulled with lamp-black, the edges glittering with moonlight, were drawn to menace her. But as smoothly as they moved, she moved even more so; the slim blade, owned and used by just one type of person, leaped from its concealment and wove a deadly skein of light in the air.

One of the ambushers staggered back, clutching his eye, from whence blood welled black in the moonlight. But there were yet two more ... and Kaelim. Kaelim, who stepped from concealment and laid hands upon one of the erstwhile attackers, and picked him up. Spun him around and slammed him face-first into the wall of the tavern with tremendous force, from where he slumped to the muddy ground with barely a groan.

That left one able-bodied attacker; he looked at the odds arrayed against him ... and bolted. Kaelim brought out his long-bladed knife, and threw. This time, his aim was better; the man went down with the hilt protruding from between his shoulderblades. Kaelim tramped over and retrieved the blade, wiping it on the man’s clothes. He returned to find the ‘serving girl’ going through the pockets of the other two, her slim and deadly blade returned to its hiding place.

“The road is long,” she said conversationally, as he rejoined her.

“And the way is hard,” he replied, checking for life signs in the man he had thrown against the wall. There were none; a broken neck will do that.

“But not with true companions to share the journey,” she finished. “Well met. Palara, local name Marella, of Chapter House Seven in Kowsom.”

“Well met,” he responded. “Kaelim, from Haven Home barracks.”

“It took you long enough to get here,” she observed, tucking away various things she had found on the bodies. “I sent three messages. I was thinking I may have to repeat Isel’s Ride.”

“I got word two nights ago, and have been on the road ever since,” he replied, thinking about her words. Isel’s Ride.

It was the stuff of legends. Isel had been half-sister to King Morn, the first in the line of the ruling dynasty of Mornas. Traveling incognito, she had uncovered treason; with no-one to turn to, no-one she could trust, she had been forced to take matters into her own hands. Stealing a horse, she had ridden halfway across Mornas, stopping for neither food nor sleep, until she reached the palace. When she got there, she was more dead than alive, but yet able to tell her tale. A tale which had set an army on the march, and saved a kingdom. The first, the originator, of the Order to which Palara belonged.

Palara would have upon her the badge of her order, a small silver medallion which portrayed Isel herself; a cloaked woman upon a galloping horse beneath a full moon, riding forever across the plains of Mornas, bringing word to the Queen.

“So,” he said conversationally, “how long have you been a Queen’s Rider?”

 

Queen’s Rider


Some of you are orphans, who have come to this life because you have nothing else. Others are daughters of merchants and farmers. And some, of course, are from the nobility and aristocracy. Well, all of that ends at these doors. You enter as novitiates, and if you manage to stick it out, you leave as Queen’s Riders.

You will be trained to serve, to blend in, from the lowest of society to the highest. No-one is more invisible, more able to learn secrets, than the lady’s maid, the servant girl, the bar wench. You will learn to pick locks, to fight with the slim blade. And you will learn to ride anything with four legs and a saddle.

The time may come when you find yourself far from home, far from help, and in possession of information vital to the security of the kingdom. When that time comes, your sole duty is to beg, borrow or steal a horse and ride to the capital, to bring word to the Queen. That is your duty as a Queen’s Rider. Nothing else matters.
- excerpts from a speech traditionally given to the novitiates of the Order of the Queen’s Riders

You do not choose the life of a Queen’s Rider. It chooses you.
- Sanus Larrad, Matron Prime of Chapter House Three, Haven Home

“Sanus? Yeah, I remember her. Ancients, what a wildcat she was in her day. Gave the Matrons more trouble than any three other girls. And when she made Rider? Uncovered a slavery ring that would have sent relations with Southern Turok right back to pre-Reform days if it had gone on any longer. I was delayed in getting there, so she went in alone. Had a crossbow, two belt knives and her slim-blade. I bust in, she’s got three of ‘em down, the big boss up against the wall with her slim-blade at his neck, keeping the rest of his bravos at bay with her crossbow. Cool as you please, turns around and asks what kept me.
... what? She made Matron Prime? Huh. Now I know the world’s gone crazy.”
- retired King’s Man Chard Rellin, speaking with old friends

* * *​

Palara knew, in that part of her mind that was always coldly logical, that she should be grateful for the presence of Rahash and Costara. Rahash was Master Ryne’s daughter, so she could flirt with the men all she liked, but anyone refusing to take no for an answer got the boot immediately. And for those who wanted more of their tavern wenches, Costara was definitely willing to take up the slack. Palara would have hesitated to call her cheap or easy, but she was certainly ... willing.

Palara’s training made it easy for her to blend in, to be self-effacing. Where Rahash amd Costara employed every trick they knew to make themselves more enticing, more alluring, Palara used those same tricks in reverse, to divert attention from herself. She was polite to the customers and prompt in serving them, but to them she was just part of the furniture, not a pretty girl to be stared at and remembered.

Which was all to the good. Because from what she had found out, pieced together, she needed every bit of her self-control to continue doing her job, not to stand out, not to do something stupid. She was reasonably certain that her presence was suspected, but not known for sure. They thought that someone might know, someone in the village, but not who, and not where. The roads out of town were being watched, she was sure of that. If she made a break for it, she would have to do it at night, and she would have to ride far and fast to evade them.

But she had sent three messages. They had been coded, and they had been sent in three different ways. Had they been intercepted? Surely not all three.

Where was that cursed King’s Man?

* * *​

The day outside was cold and blustery, and getting toward afternoon, when the door opened and the man entered. He wasn’t tall, but he was broad, with the depth of chest and width of shoulder that indicates strength and power.

He brought with him a dire wolf.

This immediately got Palara’s attention, as it did Rahash’s and Costara’s, but for different reasons. While the other two girls immediately began their subtle jockeying for the chance to serve his meal, Master Ryne went over, perhaps to protest the presence of the massive animal in his establishment.

Palara had heard of a King’s Man who was accompanied by a dire wolf. She did not recall the man’s name, but the sight gave her hope. With an inward smile, she saw Master Ryne shrug and give up, and return with the man’s order.

Rahash got to serve him the meal, which included a larger bowl full of stew for the dire wolf. Costara would collect the empty bowls after. Palara itched for the chance to go over to him, on some pretext or another. If she could simply speak the pass-phrase in his hearing, he would know.

Her urgency faded as he ate and drank; obviously, he was settling in, ironically to wait for her. Meekly, she asked Costara if she could instead fetch his bowls, but was rebuffed. Not harshly, because Rahash and Costara saw her as ‘poor Marella, who’ll never catch a man’, not as any sort of rival, but Rahash had already spoken to him, and Costara wanted her chance.

So she worked, and kept half an eye on him, and bided her time.

And then the party of six entered, and she was immediately on her guard. Costara was just going over to collect the bowls, and she did not pay attention to the men, but Palara had been trained to do just that. All six men were strangers. And as they turned and looked about the tavern, they all noticed the man sitting back at the table.

Palara saw, because she had been trained to see such things, the small crossbows under their cloaks, hanging on lanyards, already cocked, ready for shooting. And as they reached down to bring them up, she looked over toward Costara, who was taking her time collecting the bowls, no doubt leaning over to give the handsome stranger a look at what he might yet sample, if he played his cards right.

If they shot now, at least one bolt would find her. And she was petty, and self-centred, but she was not a bad person.

Palara moved sideways, and she saw his face, and realised that he was looking back at her. And she gave him the hand signal for Danger! Get down! that had been drummed into her at the Chapter House.

Praise be to the Ancients, he saw the signal, recognised it, and acted, all in the same blurred instant. By the time the crossbows came from beneath the cloaks, had bolts slapped into them, and shot, he had already come out of his seat, bearing Costara to the ground. All four shots missed.

The men drew their swords then, as did the stranger with the wolf. Far from cowering, however, he moved forward to meet them, whilst announcing himself as a King’s Man, and offering them a chance to leave. He held himself and moved in a fashion that told the informed eye that here was an initiate of the Way. She was not surprised; it was part of the reason why the King’s Men were so formidable.

“Marella,” said Master Ryne; it took her a moment to recall that this was her assumed name.

“Y-yes, Master Ryne?” she quavered in simulated fear. On the other side of the bar, a knife was thrown and a man died.

“Go fetch the Guard, quick now,” urged the tavern keeper. “Bring ‘un back as fast as can. Go, girl!”

Palara nodded, and slipped out the back door of the tavern. An instinct made her pause near the front door, hand resting in an inconspicuous fold of her long skirt.

Moments later, the instinct bore fruit; the tavern door burst open, and out leaped one of the would-be assassins. His nose was a shattered ruin, from which blood dripped down his face.

Palara drew the slim blade from its concealed sheath with practised speed. Before the man could take two more steps, she had moved in front of him. The slim blade came so close to his eye that if he had blinked, he would have cut his eyelid. He backed up. She followed, not speaking. He backed up some more, hands up, surrendering.

And then the tavern door opened, and the King’s Man looked out and saw her. He smiled crookedly, yanked the man back in, and slammed the door shut.

Palara nodded to herself, sheathed the blade, and ran to get the Guard.

I may have just blown my cover, she told herself, but it was in a good cause.

* * *​

Ardreg, the sole Guard on duty at the town watch-house, did not want to come at first. “One man against six?” he scoffed. “He’ll be dead, girl, and they’ll be gone. An’ if they are not, I’ll not go up against six sell-swords. I like bein’ able ta eat my food without a cut throat, if you get my meaning.”

“You do not understand,” she said, her patience strained. “He is a King’s Man.”

That put a different complexion upon matters. King’s Men were notoriously good at handling themselves in a fight. Six to one odds were still no laughing matter, but there was now a reasonable chance of his survival.

Also, there was the other matter. For an ordinary case of treason, one King’s Man, or possibly two, might show up. It was all that was usually necessary. The murder of a King’s Man was something different; then they showed up en masse, and did not rest until the murder was solved and the killer brought to justice. It was one of the few laws that had made the shift from the bad old days of the Kingdom of Mornisia, to the reformed – and renamed – Mornas, some three hundred years ago.

Back then, the King’s Men had been feared and hated; they had roamed the land in groups of six or more, rooting out treason wherever they could find it. Their methods were brutal, if not savage; it was not uncommon for them to seize upon a passer-by and subject him to intense interrogation about his friends and family. Too often, the hapless victim would blurt a name in relation to a crime just to get the heat off himself.

King Morn had been the previous king’s bastard son by a slave woman, and had been inducted into the ranks of the King’s Men. He had seen for himself the injustices perpetrated on the kingdom, and on the indigenous Turoki south of the Cloudpeaks, and he saw the tensions simmering under the surface. A popular uprising, with him at the forefront, had toppled the regime and placed him on the throne.

He had reformed the King’s Men, purging their ranks of any who could not change their ways. It had taken a long time, but now the King’s Men were seen with respect and deference rather than fear and revulsion. But to murder one was still a terribly bad idea. And if he died, and other King’s Men came to question Ardreg, he did not want to be the one to say, “I knew about it, but I did not help.”

And so he grabbed his helmet and sword, and ran for the tavern. Palara followed behind, a little more sedately.

She arrived back at the inn just as Ardreg hustled the man out, holding him at swordpoint. Ardreg hardly needed the weapon; the man was broken, lifeless. He stumbled along, barely caring where he put his feet. But then he saw Palara, and his head came up, staring into her face. Too late, she chided herself, I should have waited, gone another way. Now my cover truly is blown.

But she had to go back to the inn anyway. By the time she got back in, the King’s Man with the dire wolf had paid for a room and gone upstairs. She dared not ask which room; the less interest she showed in the afternoon’s events, the better. Master Ryne told a couple of the regulars that if they got rid of the corpses, they could have whatever they found upon them. He had already sequestered the crossbows and the swords; they would go for some coin, later.

When time came to scrub the bloodstains from the floor, Costara was far too busy serving customers, and Rahash gave her father an imploring look, and so Palara was put to work doing that. It took longer than she expected; a dire wolf could apparently make a serious mess of a man. And so, when she finally hung up her apron, it was well after sundown and the moon had risen.

When she opened the back door to the tavern, she made sure that the slim-blade was close to hand; she half expected the King’s Man to be waiting to speak to her, and half that some of the people she was concerned about would be waiting on her. Also to speak to her, but not half as friendly.

As it turned out, she was correct on both counts.

Three dark-clad men stepped from concealment as she emerged. She could have run back in and shut the door, but that would not have stopped them, and it would have put Master Ryne and his family in jeopardy. So she stepped forward and drew the slim-blade.

One made the mistake of getting too close, and she lashed out, feeling barely any resistance as the blade went through his eye and into the brain beyond. She was not an adept in the Way, but she had a little teaching in it, and she was beyond squeamishness, beyond fear. The logical part of her brain was all, now, and it calculated odds and chances. Her slim-blade had the reach on them, and she was adept with it. Still and all, with one down, the other two would be less likely to attempt to take her alive. Two to one odds were survivable, but she would be pressed hard.

And then the King’s Man stepped from cover, and the odds abruptly reversed. He was not tall, but by all the Ancients, he was broad and strong. The two remaining men were concentrating upon Palara as she wove a web of moonlight upon her blade; the King’s Man laid hands upon one, picked him up like a child, and slammed him head-first into the tavern wall. Palara half-expected the stout timbers to buckle under the impact, but it was the man who slumped to the ground.

Palara was moving on the last man with intent when he turned and ran. There was a blur of silvered steel, a meaty chunk, and the fleeing man grew the hilt of a knife between his shoulder-blades. He fell, kicked his last, and lay still.

Palara searched the man she had skewered through the eye, finding and secreting away some interesting items for later examination. The King’s Man retrieved his knife and then returned to watch what she was doing.

As he did so, she decided to make use of the code phrase. It was, after all, standard procedure.

“The road is long,” she said. This is the first time I’ve had to say this in the field, she realised. It feels different.

“And the way is hard,” he replied absently, checking for life in the man he had slammed into the wall. Palara was not surprised that he found none; the impact had been tremendous.

His voice was gruff but pleasant; they may have been making polite conversation in a town square.

“But not with true companions to share the journey,” she finished. True companions indeed, she told herself. “Well met. Palara, local name Marella, of Chapter House Seven in Kowsom.” Saying this, for the first time, she really felt as though she were a real Queen’s Rider. As if all her actions before this point had been mere play-acting.

“Well met,” he responded. “Kaelim, from Haven Home barracks.”

Kaelim, she thought. I’ve heard that name. She remembered the tales told in the novitiates’ dormitory after lights out, and seemed to recall one or three about Kaelim of Haven Home. Abruptly, she felt a little dizzy; whether from the reaction to the adrenaline rush, or from giddy reaction to meeting such a well-known King’s Man, she could not tell.

To cover her confusion, she tried for a tart tone. “It took you long enough to get here,” she observed, as she searched the other bodies and tucked away her finds. “I sent three messages.” Greatly daring, she added, “I was thinking I may have to repeat Isel’s Ride.”

“I got word two nights ago, and have been on the road ever since,” he replied. She frowned, remembering what Costara had said; he had told her that he had come north from the Cloudpeaks.

He traveled from the Cloudpeaks to here in two days? she asked herself. He can’t have slept more than four hours in that time.

“So,” he said conversationally, “how long have you been a Queen’s Rider?”

She paused, biting her lip. No, I must not lie, she told herself. We tread the same path, and must rely upon one another absolutely.

“Four months, one week, three days,” she said levelly.

He stared. “Ancients, girl,” he said. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” she admitted in a small voice.

He shook his head slowly. “I would not have credited it,” he said slowly. “You saved my life in the tavern, and from the way you handle the slim-blade, I would have thought you small for your age, a three-year veteran, eighteen or nineteen at the youngest. But ... sixteen.”

She was ready with defensive words, citing her excellent scores in horsemanship, in slim-blade combat, in a dozen other fields. But he was not belittling her; he was praising her. Mentally, she stumbled, caught her footing again.

“Ah ... thank you, sir,” she mumbled.

He shook his head and chuckled. “You do not call me ‘sir’, Palara of Chapter House Seven. You are a Queen’s Rider, full fledged and true. We ride the same road, share the same journey.” A brawny hand slapped on to her shoulder, driving her heels an inch into the mud. “Well met, indeed.” He glanced down at the cooling corpses, and indicated a direction. “But perhaps we should be gone from this charnel house before others stumble upon us.” He began moving, taking determined, ground-eating strides.

“Where are we going?” asked Palara, as she followed along.

“First? To the watch house. I have questions to ask of our lax young Guard. For only he could have let word of your involvement get out.”

Palara nodded grimly. “He does like to talk. If that man asked who I was, he would have told him.”

“I presumed as much. Which is why I waited to spoil their ambush. You show far too much promise to have your career cut off so quickly.”

She felt the warm feeling spread through her body. This man had survived half a hundred battles, had endured hardships she could only imagine, and he was praising her.

They reached the watch house, to find it dark and quiet. No lamp flickered in the window, no movement sounded from within.

“Is this normal?” Kaelim asked, his voice an almost soundless rumble.

She shook her head. “No. Ardreg may be foolish, but he follows his orders. Prisoners must be guarded, and there must be a lamp in the window.”

“Hm.” The sound was almost a growl. “Perhaps I should have brought Furball along. He excels at this sort of thing.”

Furball? Oh, right, the dire wolf.

I would wager there is a story there.

He came to a decision. “Wait here. Be ready to assist if I call for it. Keep your blade handy.”

Quiet as a drifting cloud, he approached the silent guard house, and pressed the door with one finger. It opened, the hinges creaking right on the edge of audibility.

Palara scanned the street, imagining ambushers lurking in every shadow. Her hand itched to pull the slim-blade, for it to be ready when the trap was sprung. But she did not do it. She simply remained ready.

* * *​

Kaelim eased his way into the darkened building, hand on sword hilt but not clutching it, not drawing it. He controlled his breathing, listening for other breath in the darkness, hearing none.

He did hear something else, and it woke a sad suspicion in his mind. And then he smelled the blood, and knew it was true.

Dimly in the gloom, he made out the desk used by the Guard. Upon it, located by carefully questing hands, was the lamp that should have been in the window.

Lighting a lamp in the dark is not an easy task, but he had done it more than once before. Flint scraped on iron, scattering sparks on tinder. He blew until he had a small flame, then applied it to the wick. The lamp flared, bright and cheerful, settling down to a steady glow once he replaced the glass chimney.

By its light, he saw what he had known, ever since he heard the sound and smelled the blood.

Ardreg lay slumped over the desk, arm dangling down over the edge. Kaelim did not need to lift him to see that he was dead; a fatal wound somewhere in his neck or chest was the culprit. Blood was pooled on the desk, and was dripping over the side in slow, sticky drops; this was what he had heard.

Either he refused to be bribed, or they did not even bother trying, he decided. Either way, boy, I maligned you. And for that you have my apology. I set you up as bait, just as much as Palara. But I imagined that they would hesitate to murder a Guard.

He shook his head. My fault. My error. I must work at making less of those.

Palara came in, and paled at the sight of Ardreg. “Is he -?”

“Dead,” he confirmed. “No-one could live with that much blood outside of him.”

She nodded once, stiffly. “He was not a bad man,” she said. “He thought a little too much of himself, but doesn’t everyone?”

And that’s as good an epitaph as any, mused Kaelim. He picked up the lamp and carried it through to the cells. He did not hold much hope of finding the prisoner alive, and nor was he. He must have been clutching at the bars, pleading to be let out, when the blade entered his throat.

He exited the cell block and shook his head at Palara’s silent query. “Dead,” he said again. “These people mean serious business.”

She nodded again. “Where do we go from here?” she asked.

“Back to the tavern,” he said. “I’ll fetch Furball and my effects, and then we’ll go someplace where you can tell me everything that’s been going on.” He set his jaw and spoke grimly. “For as sure as Firedrake Mountain fertilises the fields, there’s surely something going on here.”

 

Very good start. Good action scenes and details on side characters. I like the world bulding, enough to set the stage, and to hint at more, not enough to drown the reader in history. Good Details on the two orders, a nice duality, with one order spying, the other working openly, and the two characters are interesting. Whets the appetite for more. (and, as usual for good Fantasy stories, makes me imagine running a game in that world or using similar characters in my campaigns). Also, nice set up with showing the same scene from the two viewpoints and providing more background that way.

 

I have another chapter partly written, and I know where it's going, but I have yet to get back to it.

The entire story, the entire world of the story so far, stems from the last line of the first chapter, which (believe it or not) came to me at the tail end of a dream I had.

It took me a while to piece together the world and the history to date, including Isel's Ride (and I rewrote that paragraph a few times until I was satisfied with it), and more besides. I have a world map, a history and a secret history.

Also, there are dragons, which can be inferred by the references to Firedrake Mountain. But they have yet to enter the story.

 

Makes me want to write a Fantasy story as well, though it'd be NSFW and set in a less medieval, and more Ancient Rome&Persia/Conan-like world, set in a Metropolis, with a few individuals of various Backgrounds struggling in plots and intrigues. But I already got two stories running, so that'd be a backburner.