by Brad Carsten
The Wretched
The Fateless Throne
(Book 1)
Brad Carsten
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author, at:
[email protected]
Cover design by Brad Carsten Copyright © 2019.
This book is a work of fiction. All incidents, characters, and dialogue are from the author’s twisted imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, or any other sources including other works of fiction is purely coincidental.
To Rob Jones. For believing when I didn’t, for laughing until our stomachs hurt, for always listening and always having a word of wisdom and encouragement, for being a friend when I had none, for your spiritual guidance, for being as much of a procrastinator as I am, and then consequently spending far too many evenings never making it to a club because we couldn’t settle on what to eat; for stopping at every ice-cream shop along the way to troll those in the car with us, for staying up far too late playing Family Home Soccer and then decades later Orcs Must Die, for the birthdays and New Year's eves, for the holidays and camps, for making bow & arrows and forts, for water slides and sunburns, but ultimately for your support and friendship that has lasted for over thirty years without wavering. A truer friend and person I could never hope to meet again. Here’s to the next thirty.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 1
General Elian's boots echoed through the deserted hall. A lantern splashed enough light across the tiles to keep him from tripping over his own feet. The light crept halfway up the rows and rows of columns, but the vaulted ceilings, abnormally high, even for a palace, were lost in shadow. It seemed darker than usual, more ominous—an omen of things to come? But perhaps he was just worried about the message he was carrying and what it could mean for the kingdom.
Young Captain Faren was already waiting at the end of the hall with a blanket wrapped firmly around his shoulders and was blowing into his hands. He was a good man, as good as they came, and a talented general, approaching prince Thomwyn himself. He was next in line to take over the army of the Northern Pass.
“Sir, I got your message,” he said, falling in alongside Elian. His armour was immaculate, as always, but his face was pale, and shadows hung under his eyes. He must have been on duty still when the message arrived, or he wouldn't have reached the hall as soon as he did. “Is everything okay? Norindale's quiet, and there haven’t been any disturbances in the Western district.”
Through the arrow slits on the landing, guards, just flecks of lantern light, slowly crossed the outer walls. Beyond them, the city fell away down the steep Colbrin hill. Chimney smoke hung thick above the slatted roofs like a field blanket, but the hour was too early for there to be any lights in the windows. This was the first night in two weeks he could even make out anything beyond the walls, but at least the cursed rain had finally eased. The training yard had become a bog which was only worsened by the stream of wagons carrying in the new swords and armour from Galdyn-bree.
“No, the kingdom's still holding together, I'm pleased to say. It's too cold and wet for any trouble to spill over into the streets.”
“Well, the men can use the rest. And I'm sure the city folk are breathing a sigh of relief after the last few months. It's been a taxing year on all fronts.”
“I fear, we're not quite out of it yet. After the snow, Lord Jathom's son is coming of age, and the celebrations should swell every room and three-foot cubby in the city. Your men are going to have their hands full.”
“Cutpurses and beggars I can deal with. You simply string half a dozen up or send them to the workhouses, and the problem takes care of itself for a few weeks. No, it's those we can't touch that concern me. Lord Attenbuhn has an army of three hundred men and growing, and there's nothing we can do about that.”
“Lords will plot, as surely as hounds will return to their vomit. Just keep an eye on the numbers, and leave politics up to the politicians. You have enough to worry about, but that's not why I called you here tonight.”
The Captain opened his mouth to ask, but Elian held up his gauntleted hand to stop him.
“No. I'm not at liberty to explain just yet, but we'll need you close at hand. I hope you've managed to steal some rest, because you may not find much in the days to come.”
Large gilded doors, as strong as any city gate, blocked off the royal apartments.
“Is—is everything okay?” He was thinking what had damn near crossed everyone's mind already.
His Majesty hadn't left his apartment in almost a month fueling speculation among the nobles that he had passed on, fate willing that wasn't so. Elian himself couldn’t say for sure, but it wouldn't be unexpected. A year back the king took an arrow that would have killed a lesser man, but even with the finest dispellers in the kingdom, he still hadn’t recovered.
The two guards saluted, and one of them tugged on a silk rope, ringing the bell that would summon the steward.
“No, I haven't heard anything. But don't let that worry you. Keep your mind on your duties and what'll still require your attention tonight, in case you need to ride in the morning. Oh, and lose that blanket.”
It took a moment for the steward to arrive. He too was immaculate, though his eyes were puffy, and his silver hair not quite as flat as usual. Marhun Kempsdane had held the position for close on fifty years now and looked every bit as alert and regal as any half his age. “What is it, gentlemen? I hope there's a good reason for a visit at this hour.”
“You know I wouldn't request an audience if it wasn't necessary. It's a matter of the greatest urgency, and as his Majesty has granted me uninterrupted access in certain—matters...” He spared the two knights a glance. Their eyes were locked forward, but their ears, he was sure, weren't quite as disciplined. Sir Hamlyn and Sir Duncan, heroes from storybooks; together they could hold the narrow corridor against a thousand men to give the royal family a chance to escape through a hidden passage. The kingdom trusted them implicitly or they wouldn't be this close to the royal family, but this wasn't news for any but the King's ears. Elian stopped what he was going to say and instead handed the steward a copy of the orders. Words and orders meant little to him though; those were all secondary to his Majesty's well-being. On top of that, the man was a stickler for ceremony.
He snatched the orders, and it took him a few moments to fit his eyepiece and incline the note to a lantern. “I see,” was all he said. “Please wait here. I'll prepare His Majesty for an audience at once.”
Elian paced the corridor until th
e steward returned. “Right, his Majesty will see you now, and I'm sure I don't have to remind you to keep it brief.”
Like the rest of the castle, the halls were immaculate if a lot more ornate, but a doll’s tea set and a ball and ribbon, forgotten on a stand, reminded Elian that a family still lived here. The most powerful family in the world, but in other ways still a family like any other.
Portraits lined the walls, going back almost a thousand years, and below them was a scribble on the wall, about knee high, that the king cherished above all the other art.
Master Kempsdane halted outside the door, his hand hovering above the handle, before turning back to Elian, and when he did, his eyes were more serious than ever. “I need to warn you, His Majesty isn't well. It may come as a bit of a shock to see him, so please control your countenance.”
“Yes. Of course.” Could he look any worse than he did a month back?
The steward squared his shoulders and threw open the door. “My Lord, my king, His guardian of the four corners of the kingdom. Warrior of the light and hero of Valora. May grace be on him, and may the light of grace favour him.
Even at this time of night, the man insisted on observing the proper etiquette.
The diminished figure at the window was lost, almost swallowed, in the chair. He raised his bony hand. “It's too late to be this formal. General, please come in.”
Moonlight painted a square across the floor casting him in silver light and making his skin look even greyer than usual.
The steward bowed and set to lighting the oil bowls.
“I understand you have a message for me. I pray it brings good news.” His words wheezed off into a fit of coughs.
“Your Majesty.” Elian inclined his head. In public, he would have folded back his cape and dropped to one knee, but here, there were no dignitaries to please, and time was working against them. “I do indeed. A message just arrived from Holly-downs. It bore the seals of both Lord Algrin and Captain Moran.”
The king met his eyes. “What's the news?”
“They found a match.”
The king straightened in his chair. “Where?” he said, simply.
“Gosspree-nor. It's a small village in Whittene'. The assessors are waiting there with him right now.”
“How soon can we get there?” He tried to push himself up, but winced, and didn't get any further than that. A spot of blood had soaked into his white robe again. It was just a black stain in the moonlight, about the size of a coin, but that cursed wound hadn't healed in over a year. Elian kept his eyes trained forward.
“The barracks at Holly-downs is five days out. At your word, I’ll send them ahead of us, and it shouldn’t take us longer than nine days to join them.
“Do it. Send word. I want them to secure the village until an army arrives. Get Captain Faren.”
“The pigeons are ready, and Captain Faren's waiting outside, Sire.”
“Good. He's to hand select fifty knights and a thousand foot soldiers. You are to clear every stable in the kingdom if you have to, but I want them away at first light.”
“As you command, Your Majesty.”
The door squeaked, and Elian's hand dropped to his sword hilt. Small eyes, as blue as a sapphire, regarded him from behind the door. “Princess Kaylyn.” Elian inclined his head. As though that was an invite, she slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind her. Dressed in a nightgown and clutching a porcelain doll, she made her way to the king watching Elian with distrust. He wasn't any good with children, treating them as he would an adult when he had to deal with them or simply ignoring them altogether. His journey through life hadn't afforded him the luxury of a family to go home to.
The king smiled and held out his hand to her, and the steward helped her up into his lap. “I had a bad dream,” she said. Her cheeks were puffy, and she rubbed her eyes, tiredly.
“Oh? That's not good,” The King said, in a tender voice. “Was it those monsters again?”
She nodded, sadly.
“I'm here now, my heart. It's okay.” He stroked her mass of brown curls. “Nothing’s going to hurt you now.”
The king shut his eyes and allowed his head to drop back into the chair. “Everything's going to be fine from now on.” His lips moved silently like he was saying a prayer of thanks.
Chapter 2
When people thought of Brigwell, they couldn't but think of the giant waterwheel that once supplied water to towns as far as Highton and Little Rock. Close to the gate, the clanking axil and the buckets of water spilling back into the Almsbury river, drowned out the sound of the sheep and cows and wagons rumbling in and out of the village, and even the incessant hammering from Master Lowold’s smithy. The wheel wasn't quite as sturdy as it had been a hundred years ago, but it had always been a thing of beauty and pride to the villagers. Five years back, at one of the council meetings, Master Wentle had tabled a motion to have it dismantled and had nearly caused a riot. The Branbills and Tarplewolds stormed Elder Malumn's house in a fury, and when the poor man hid out back in the shed, they opened his goat pen and let all the goats out, and it took the villagers two days to round them up again. Since then, the wheel had grown in the people's minds, taking on an almost sacred air, and the Branbills had taken it upon themselves to guard it even after the council agreed, in writing, that it could stay indefinitely. Old man Branbill would come out every morning and sit next to the gate to chase off any children, and switch any that dared “laying one of those no good, sticky fingers on it.” Of course, that only made them want to touch it even more. Little Alistair Knobsby would come by every day to see how close he could get without a switching, and the other kids would line up to watch, and when he was caught, they’d laugh until their stomachs hurt. It was a small village, a peaceful village, where everyone would do their part for a wedding, and neighbours would settle their disputes over a pint of wattle beer and one of Madam Applesby’s pies. As far as villages went, it was a good one to grow up in.
“Liam, what's caught your eye?” Quinn shouted. “Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts about this already?” He was out of his shirt and boots and was hopping from foot to foot in the snow.
Liam had been thinking about the ceremony and whether he had everything he needed. His trousers were starched, and he had managed to get a shine, or something resembling it, into his old trail boots, but he still had to pick out a shirt, and he'd probably have to borrow one of his father's belts, as his was starting to crack. “You just worry about yourself and how you're going to be paying for the first-round tonight.”
“That's not going to happen. And will you get your boots off already? The snow's biting into my feet, and if I lose my toes, I won't be able to dance with Tayneth tonight.”
Liam gave him a flat look. “I’m sure she’d be SO upset.”
“But of course—along with every other girl in the kingdom.” His grin slipped, and for a moment, he seemed unsure of himself which was rather unusual for him. “So, what do you suppose the old root tastes like? I mean, Jed said he couldn't stop coughing, and everyone was laughing at him. Do you think it'll be the same for us?”
“Everyone coughs the first time,” Liam said. “Janep said, if you swallow instead of breathing it in, it won't be as bad.”
“Well, I hope he’s right. I’ve heard it’s vile. I wonder if I blocked my nose if anyone would notice?”
“I think they just might.”
Every winter, the lads who were turning sixteen that year from all the surrounding villages were taken by cart up to the Avocado inn in Bright-river, and they got to smoke the old root and drink a pint of berry mead which would mark their journey into manhood. After that, they'd be given greater responsibility around the farms and were expected to act in a more becoming manner. Perhaps it was a late consolation for those who hadn't been selected into the kingdom. This far from the capital, the assessors only came around every five years, and Liam had been off with his father on a trail and missed the first as
sessment, and five years later the snow had blocked the pass into the village for most of the winter. Liam waited outside in the blizzard until his father found him, nearly unconscious, and wrapped him in a blanket and laid him by the fire. Every morning for a week after that, Liam dragged his chair to the village gate to wait there in case the assessors arrived, but they never did. That dream had died the same time as Madam Winsler, both killed by that year's unusually heavy snow. Now, five years later, at fifteen, he was too old for consideration and was stuck in the village far away from anything important with his whole life pegged out before him like a deer skin stretched out to dry. As a child, who had seen the stars and dared to dream big, that wasn't how his dreams had played out.
They had a few hours before becoming men though and could use it to irritate old man Branbill for the last time.
“Liam! Would you hurry up already! The cold’s spreading up into my groin, and I don’t think that's healthy.” Quinn was rubbing his arms, and he blew into his hands.
Liam slipped off his cloak and hung it on a branch, and the wind blew down his neck.
What in the name of light was he thinking!
He took some time to draw off his boots, to see Quinn dancing a little longer, and by the time they were crouching through the shrubs, Quinn's lips had turned a shade of purple like he had been sucking on goatberries.
He wore that mischievous grin, as always—a grin he’d had since he was old enough to break into Master Balfries' beehives—a grin that would have the old wives reaching for their slippers without knowing what he had done.
Old man Branbill was down at the wheel again, watching it like a squirrel guarding its winter stash. There was something about the first snow of winter that brought out the worst in the children. One of them had already thrown a snowball at his head, and he was pacing up and down with his stick ready to wallop the next boy who came near.
He was slowly moving towards the far side of the wheel, grumbling to himself, a bit of snow dust still on his hat.
