The King Trials

by D L Sims

  Nixema.

  She pushed at Khett’s shoulder and wiped her mouth with the back of her palm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Khett looked away, ashamed. “I apologize. I think it’s all the excitement.”

  He said nothing more and walked out of her tent.

  Andalen cursed to the Gods.

  Chapter

  Ten

  After seven days of uneventful lounging around the Manor, they were taken to the woods again. Why are all these damned Trials in the woods? Ikar mentally grumbled as they trudged into a meadow in the middle of the Elthare forest. They lined up before Master Roxell in a large clearing with bows, quivers and swords strapped to them as if they were going into battle. The roar of the crowd from the perimeter where the grass bled into the treeline was deafening, but Ikar paid them no mind.

  “Champions!” The Master announced, and the crowd fell into a hush. “Congratulations on making it to the third Trial! Today, you have been given weapons and a servant; they will accompany you into the woods to bring back the requested game!” Ikar’s heart thumped in his chest, beating in time to the words Master Roxell spoke. “You are to hunt four ducks and a boar, and you will receive bonus points for any other kills you bring back!”

  The crowd cheered.

  The sun beat down on Ikar, stifling hot. He pulled the collar of his tunic away from his neck. Gods, I hate summer.

  “You have until sunset. Failure to complete the Trial is an automatic forfeit.”

  Yvney leaned close to Ikar, and he could smell the wine on his brother’s breath. “It’s fortunate we are not hunting wolves, eh, brother?”

  The ever lingering hatred for his brother burned Ikar’s belly, sitting inside him like acid. He glared at Yvney, who only smirked at him. “You stole all of those kills from me, brother. I’m just as good of a hunter as you.”

  Yvney laughed, his eyes sparking with a challenge. “Alright, if you bring back a wolf I will give you my sword.”

  Ikar looked at the hilt of the sword strapped to Yvney’s back. The weapon was long, sleek, and made from Opal Stone. The rubies in the hilt glittered in the sunlight. Ikar coveted that sword. He was supposed to get one of his own on his birthday, but since he failed to kill a wolf, he got nothing instead.

  At least you weren’t branded. The town had overlooked his failure when he announced his entry into the Trials. He had thanked Kurem that day; he had not wanted to mar the flesh of his back with a hideous mark.

  “You have a deal, Yvney.” Ikar smiled up at his brother.

  Yvney returned the challenge with a scoff.

  The Trial had already begun as they spoke. Arlen and Grant had been given rewards for having the highest scores during the Archery Trial. They were allowed to enter the woods an hour and a half hour, respectfully, before the others, but the Master announced that Arlen had given Khett the advantage earlier that morning. Ikar pulled away from his brother as Khett disappeared through the trees. He waited quietly with Grant, Arlen and Phinn until their turn. Yvney stood apart, waving at the women in the crowd.

  The crowd chanted around them, filling the air with a mixture of their names and banners. Ikar saw one with a gray wolf’s head and the words from the Dominikov family crest:

  One of Many.

  Bold silver letters on a blanket of red as dark as blood, and then he saw the person the banner belonged to. Roslen and Briar smiled at him from the crowd, their red hair nearly blinding in the sun. He watched Roslen’s perfect lips form his name over and over again, and he smiled.

  The Master signaled for them to enter the woods, after giving Grant his head start. Ikar looked at Roslen again, and she beamed, waving at him as he disappeared into the trees.

  The woods grew quiet as he trudged through the overgrown brush and roots; he could no longer hear the crowd, but now heard only bird song and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. It took him several long moments to realize he was lost in the unfamiliar forest. Everything was too green and lush; he missed the knotted, black trees of the Althanen woods.

  Ikar cursed and turned, choosing a different path than the one before.

  He came to another clearing, where he found a servant in a simple red and silver tunic waiting with a cart and rope.

  Only two carts remained, his and Phinn’s. He frowned, realizing his brother had gotten there before him. The servant was a tiny thing with curly brown hair and an innocent face marred with blue and purple.

  “Are you even strong enough to pull that cart?” Ikar asked.

  One brown eye looked up at him as the other was swollen shut. As Ikar got closer, the extent of the boy’s injuries became more evident. His lip was swollen, and his cheek was split and scabbed over with blood. Ikar knelt, taking the servant’s small, dirty face in his hands. “Who did this to you?”

  “Please, My Lord,” his voice was small, terrified; a voice Ikar knew all too well.

  Ikar had been younger than the boy when Yvney started beating him, and when the bullies in his village started picking on him for his pale skin and skinny frame.

  “What is your name?”

  “Bel-Belmar.”

  Ikar smiled at the boy and squeezed his shoulder gently. “If you won’t tell me who did this to you, will you at least accept some coin for a job well done today?”

  The boy’s eyes widened, and a smile lifted, splitting the cut on his bottom lip. “Dolnik says I shouldn’t take money from the nobles.” His face fell, and he kicked at a pebble on the forest floor. “Thank you, My Lord.”

  “Who is Dolnik?”

  “My brother.”

  You’re wasting time, Ikar’s brain warned him. “Is he the one that did this to you?”

  Belmar shook his head. “No. Dolnik tried to get them off of me.” He trembled, rolling the rope between his fingers. “Please, My Lord, we should begin the Trial. The others have already come and gone.”

  “Too right, Belmar.”

  Ikar stood to his full height. Unable to shake the look of fear, and bruising around the child’s eye from his mind, he found a path and started along it with Belmar following behind. The trail twisted and turned, branching off into smaller, narrower paths that led deeper into the woods. Ikar frowned when he could no longer hear the rush of water, and the sun did not penetrate through the leaves as much. He looked up at the canopy of trees, and then back down the path they were following.

  “I do believe we are lost, Belmar.” His voice calm and light, but his heart hammered in his chest. Memories of getting lost in the Althanen woods when he was no older than Belmar pierced his mind.

  For hours, he had walked around in the black woods, hungry and tired. Cold from the autumn winds. His Uncle Dietrick hadn’t found him until the sun had nearly set.

  Ikar shook his head, ridding himself of the memories, and turned to lead his small companion back the way they came. When they came to a fork in the path, he turned left instead of right, hoping to find something he could kill with the dull, steel sword rattling around in the cart Belmar pulled. They walked for miles, following the twisting path until they came to the bank of the Roaming River.

  “Ah, there we are,” he said, clapping Belmar on the shoulder and smiling down at the boy. “I knew we would find it.”

  “Very good, Lord Ikar.”

  The tracks from the other Champions’ carts were imprinted in the mud, but Phinn huddled on the river’s edge, struggling to pull an arrow from the body of a duck. His servant looked on with pity. Ikar watched with mild amusement as Phinn struggled, holding back a chuckle when the naive Lord nearly fell into the water.

  How did he get here before me?

  Phinn was a kind man, but Ikar wondered if the young lord would be strong enough to continue in the Trials.

  The servant took pity and plucked the duck from Phinn’s hands and threw it into the cart.

  “We’ll deal with it later,” she demanded, pulling the cart away from the bank.

  Ikar turned his at
tention back to the task at hand when he could no longer hear the squeaking of Phinn’s cart, and looked up and down the water as it flowed over rocks and made the lily pads dance on its surface.

  There were no ducks in the area, all having flown away when the Lords had trampled onto the bank. Ikar silently walked along the river’s edge after telling Belmar to stay with the cart. He had slung the bow over his shoulder, and it bumped against the leather quiver as he walked, a familiar weight upon his back.

  Quacking came from a small break off the main river, and Ikar nearly cheered in triumph. He moved slow and quiet through the trees until they broke apart, giving him a clear view of five full-grown drakes.

  He pulled out four arrows, hoping he would be able to nab these without having to give chase, and laid three in the grass next to him. He nocked the first arrow and let it loose, piercing two of the ducks in one shot. The others tried to take flight, but he already had the next arrow ready to go. It flew through the air, piercing another.

  Fuck, he thought as the other two got away.

  He looked down at the three dead birds in the water and went to them to pull the arrows free from their bodies. He held them by their feet as he trudged back through the woods where Belmar waited with the cart. The boy smiled when he came back.

  “That was fast, Lord Ikar!” he exclaimed, tying the ducks together in the cart.

  Ikar found himself smiling at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Come, we must find another and a boar.” He began walking and heard the squeak of the wheel as Belmar followed with the cart. “Oh, and a wolf.”

  “A wolf?”

  “Yes, the biggest, ugliest wolf we can find.”

  The sun had nearly set, and Ikar’s cart brimmed with four ducks and two boars. He had not meant to kill the second, but it had tried to attack him; he had no choice but to stab it through the neck with his sword. Belmar had nearly been sick when the boar’s tusk had grazed Ikar’s arm, and he had to prove to the boy that he had not truly been injured; the wound was nothing more than a small gash. Belmar had still vomited in the bushes.

  Ikar walked through the woods, heading back to the clearing where the Master waited, with his shoulders rolled in and head bowed in disappointment.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t find a wolf, Lord Ikar.”

  He turned and smiled at the boy. “It is alright, Belmar. It was an idiotic bet I had with my brother.”

  “Well, you did capture two boars,” Belmar offered.

  “There is that, Bel. I hope they serve the one who nicked me for dinner.”

  “Me too!”

  They broke through the trees, coming to the clearing where the Master waited; he looked mildly irritated about something, and Grant was nearly doubled over in the grass laughing.

  Yvney stood off to the side, plucking under his nails with his knife, while Arlen and Khett were staring down at Grant as if he had gone mad. Phinn looked to be in a state of shock as he stood covered in blood over a pile of sick. His boar was still breathing, but not far from death. No one else had killed an extra animal, at least Ikar had that above the rest.

  “All our Champions have returned!” The Master called. “In first place, we have Lord Arlen! In second, Lord Khett! Third, Lord Grantham! Fourth, Lord Yvney!” Each name was met with a roar of cheers. “Now, Lord Phinn did arrive before Lord Ikar. However, Lord Ikar brought back two boars, and Lord Phinn’s boar is still breathing, so this will put Lord Ikar in fifth place!” More cheers mixed with some loud groans of discontent that came from where the Palmans stood. “And Lord Phinn is in sixth!”

  Arlen, still dressed in a soft leather archery helmet, stalked towards Phinn’s cart, driving a sword through the boar’s heart. Ikar had not known the mild-mannered lord to be an expert at hunting and archery; it almost made Ikar like Arlen. Almost.

  A hush fell over the crowd, and the Master cleared his throat. “Right…..well…..” Ikar got a certain amount of satisfaction at seeing the pompous, well-polished man flustered. “That concludes the Hunting Trial.”

  Something caught Ikar’s eye just beyond the trees--a flash of gray. He let out a laugh that sounded like cracking ice, drawing the attention of the other Champions and the Master.

  “Something funny, Lord Ikar?” Master Roxell asked. The look of irritation he wore only moments before returned, twisting his brows and drawing his face downward.

  Ikar ignored him. “It seems my luck has turned, Belmar,” he whispered to the young servant as he drew the sword from the cart and left behind three gold coins that he hoped the boy would take.

  “What do you mean, Lord Ikar?” Belmar turned, searching the woods for what Ikar had seen. “Is it a wolf?”

  “It is indeed, my young friend.” And with that, he took off at a sprint with Grant asking him where he was going, and the Master’s voice carrying through the dusky twilight, both of which he pretended not to hear.

  “Have you all gone insane!” The Master’s voice followed him as he broke through the trees.

  Perhaps, he thought to himself. He certainly thought he had a touch of lunacy since he was chasing a wolf through the forest with nothing more than a sword to arm himself. You’re not wearing protective gear, you twit.

  He stopped running, listening to the sounds of the forest, waiting to hear the wolf. Silence. Only the sounds of crickets and other insects that came out at night. He turned his head this way and that, trying to figure out which direction it had ran. And then he heard it, a twig snapping in the not-to-far distance.

  He followed the sound, hoping to find his wolf, and he would. Tracking was in the Althanens’ blood.

  He walked for what felt like hours. The sun had fully set, and the moon had risen. Trees gave way to the rocky base of the mountains, and a wide, black mouth of a cave.

  Gods, please do not let me get eaten by a bear.

  Growling sounded behind him, and he whipped around, facing the wolf. Wild black eyes met his. Lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing yellow canines and dripping saliva. A smirk curved on Ikar’s lips, pulling them back from his teeth until his snarl matched hers.

  “Hello,” he said. “Be nice, and I will kill you quickly.”

  The wolf let out another menacing growl before she pounced.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  Ikar dragged the wolf’s body through the halls, leaving a large streak of blood on the marble floor as he limped through the Manor. The bite on his leg was wrapped with torn cloth from his tunic, but blood was already starting to seep through, dripping to the floor in small puddles. A servant asked if he needed aid, but Ikar refused the man with a curt shake of his head and pulled the wolf along until he reached the door of Yvney’s room. He entered without bothering to knock.

  Yvney sat in a chair by the fireplace, Milden’s head was in his lap bobbing up and down. Yvney’s eyes flew open at Ikar’s intrusion, and he yelled. The seamstress scrambled to her feet, pink staining her cheeks. She adjusted her dress and patted her dark hair before skirting around Ikar and darting out the door.

  “Be sure to return the favor, brother,” Ikar said. “It probably wasn’t easy for her to throw her pride out the window and service a cock like you.”

  “What do you want, Ikar?” Yvney snarled, tucking himself back into his pants and standing. He crossed the room, pouring wine into a goblet. “You irksome toad, Mother was going to send a search party for you. She thought her little babe got lost in the woods.”

  “I brought you a present.”

  Ikar dragged the wolf into the room, depositing it on the rug in the center. He took the chair Yvney vacated and warmed his chilled hands in the fire.

  “Why did you bring this here?” Yvney asked, standing by the mantle, drinking his wine. His lip curled. “Our arrangement was that you find a wolf during the Trial, not after. You won’t get my sword.”

  Ikar’s eyes flicked to the sword hanging near the wardrobe. Its shiny handle absorbed the light from the fire in an almost hypnotizing way. Ikar s
hook his head and turned his glare back to Yvney. “I don’t want your sword. I wanted to prove to you that I can kill a wolf. You’re not the only wolf hunter in the Dominikov line.”

  Yvney laughed, and Ikar’s hairs rose on the back of his neck. “You’re a joke, Ikar. I still don’t understand how you’ve remained in the tournament. You have no power, your intelligence is for shit, you may be good with a bow and arrow, but your sword work is lacking.” He laughed again, and fire rose in Ikar’s belly.

  He jumped up, rushing his brother, pushing him back into the marble mantle. His forearm pushed against Yvney’s throat, but his brother’s dark eyes danced with glee, taunting him. The bite on his leg began to leak again, but he ignored it. “Why do you get so much pleasure from tormenting me?”

  Yvney bared his teeth, reminding Ikar of the wolf right before she attacked. “You’re weak, a stain on the Dominikov family tree.” But there was something in Yvney’s eyes that suggested he wasn’t being completely honest. “Mother spoiled you rotten when she came home from the war, and it turned you soft.”

  Ikar’s fist reared back and caught Yvney in the nose. His brother howled and fell against the wall. A well of satisfaction rushed through Ikar as he turned and headed for the door.

  “Take your fucking wolf!” His brother yelled, his words muffled by the blood gushing from his nose. “It’s bleeding all over the carpet!”

  “As are you,” Ikar returned with a smirk as he went to the door and turned back, looking at his brother. Yvney’s face was covered in scarlet, his nose crooked from being broken by Ikar’s fist, and his tunic wrinkled where Ikar had grabbed him. Ikar laughed. “I’m sure the servants know of some tricks to get blood out of the rug.”

  Andalen pulled her legs up under her on the garden bench as she ripped the bread in her hands to pieces, feeding it to the birds that surrounded her on the pathway. It was a chilly morning. Summer was slowly turning to autumn; Andalen’s favorite season. Dew still clung to the petals of the flowers growing next to her, and when she breathed she could see it curl up before her like smoke from a chimney.