Death of a King

by Robert Evert

  “So? I’ll be nineteen in two months? What does it matter?”

  “Nat.” He drew closer and took her hands again. She didn’t pull away this time. “I owe the king four years of service.”

  “And?”

  Natalie felt like screaming. She knew what was coming.

  “And…I have to go. In a couple of days, in fact. I have to go to Upper Angle and do my time.”

  “In a couple of days?” Now Natalie really was screaming. She tore her hands out of his. “And you’re telling me this now? What were you going to do? Leave me a note?”

  “No, of course not. You see, we didn’t know. That is, we always knew I’d have to serve. I’ve told you that from the start.”

  “I can’t believe this!” She turned to storm out of the room, but a pile of boxes blocked her. She took a step to her left and found that way blocked as well. She collapsed onto a crate. “Days? Can’t you stay a little longer?”

  Reg stroked her hair. “That’s the thing. We were hoping to delay my service, so I could keep being Sir Edris’s squire and help him win one last quest.”

  “But?”

  “But we got word that wasn’t a possibility. Nat—I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  Tears welled in her eyes; however, Natalie would be damned if she let herself cry.

  “That’s one of the reasons why we decided to set you up here,” Reg went on. “We’ll only be a five-day ride apart.”

  “Five-day ride?”

  “And I will be entering the company with some rank. So I’ll be able to get away more often than most of the men.”

  “How often?”

  Reg stared at the floor.

  “How often?” she said, louder.

  “Once or twice a year.”

  “Once or twice—a year?”

  First her father, then Art, now Reg. Why did all the men in her life always leave her?

  Reg tried to dry her tears. She shoved him away.

  “Damn you,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. But, to be fair, you knew—”

  “Oh, shut up!” Natalie forced herself to calm down. “Okay. I understand this. I do. I understand. But I don’t like it.”

  Reg caressed her head again. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “I know.” She glanced about them. “But why didn’t we move to Upper Angle? Why can’t we set up the shop there? We’d be able to see each other every day! We could get married…and…and…”

  Reg looked at her with a wary expression. “Nat, you know why.”

  “You said Brago thinks I’m dead!”

  Again, Reg hesitated.

  “You don’t think that at all, do you?”

  “Nat…”

  “Don’t ‘Nat’ me. No more lies. No more half-truths. Tell me exactly what you think. Do you believe Brago thinks I’m dead?”

  Now it was Reg’s turn to grow angry. “I’ve never—ever—lied to you, Nat. I hope you know that.”

  Her tone softened. “I do! So…be honest with me. Okay? Do you think Brago is still looking for me?”

  Reg took a deep breath. “We heard he was asking around for you.” Natalie swore. “However, that was over a year ago! Honest. Natalie, look at me.”

  Artis used to say that.

  Reg grew less guarded. “Nat, we can never be completely safe in this world. None of us can.”

  “I know—”

  “Listen, okay? Please?” His fingers touched hers. She took his hand. “You’ve been training with your knives really hard and…” He trailed off.

  “And what?”

  He shrugged. “And I love you.”

  She smiled. The bastard always knew when to say that.

  He sighed again. “Nat, if you want guarantees—”

  “I know! I know! I’ll never find them. All I can do is stack the odds in my favor as much as possible,” she said, repeating something Sir Edris often told her. Through the window, she could see the knight stroking one of the horses.

  Reg took a step closer. “Right. So continue practicing and keep your eyes and ears open. Okay? And know I love you, no matter where I am. And above all—” He lifted her chin so she peered up at him. “I’m not like that asshole husband of yours—William.”

  Sobbing and laughing, she fell into his arms. “By the gods, I love you.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I know. I’m wonderful.”

  She laughed louder and tightened her grip around him. “That you are, mister.” She moaned. “Four years.”

  “It won’t seem that long.”

  “It’ll be an eternity.”

  The door opened; Sir Edris stuck his head inside. “No more screaming? Everything okay?”

  Reg nodded, still holding Natalie. “As okay as they can be. I’ll leave for Upper Angle the day after tomorrow, and then we’ll see how fate unfolds.”

  “I’m coming to visit you,” Natalie said resolutely. “No discussions. I don’t care Brago is still looking for me.”

  “You told her?” Sir Edris asked, surprised.

  “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us,” Reg said.

  “My boy, you’ve got a lot to learn,” the knight said. “Sometimes secrets are what keep us alive.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Magnus stood in some nameless tavern under construction in some nameless frontier town. It wasn’t even a town yet. It was merely a collection of half-built buildings clustered around the desolate intersection of three roads out in the middle of nowhere. All about him, hammers pounded and saws sliced back and forth as grunting men dragged lumber through the dirt streets. Sawdust was everywhere.

  He was either in the far eastern reaches of King Olaf’s realm of Narvon, or perhaps the eastern plains of King Christopher’s realm of Greenlawn. Magnus wasn’t quite sure which. Lord Fairhill had given him a horse and a map to follow, and here he was—nine days’ ride from Eryn Mas.

  Riding a horse was a lot harder than Magnus had anticipated. He thought you simply kicked the beast to go and pulled the reins for it to stop. Either his horse was defective or riding was far more complicated. If the horse wanted to stand by the side of the road, munching on grass all day, no amount of kicking got it to move. And if Magnus wanted to turn right, there was nothing he could do if the horse wanted to turn left or go straight.

  It beat walking, though. He was able to cover ten times as much ground. Then again, his ass hurt. Boy did it hurt! His father’s beatings were nothing compared to how he felt. He couldn’t even sit at the long, warped board serving as the tavern’s bar. He had to stand.

  Outside, men were cursing as they compelled a team of oxen to drag a felled tree from their building site. Magnus watched them crack whips over the oxen’s heads. The oxen continued plodding along at their own leisurely pace.

  Magnus took a drink of warm beer.

  Part of him wanted to take the horse and keep riding to the gods only knew where. Or he could sell it. He could easily get twenty gold. The beast was a bit headstrong, but it was handsome—all red with a white splotch between its thoughtful eyes.

  Who’d lend a horse to a perfect stranger?

  Nobility, that’s who. And Lord Fairhill was noble. Magnus had made sure of that. He wasn’t going to be fooled again. No sir. Trust nobody and always know who you’re working for—that was his new motto.

  Magnus chuckled.

  He was working for nobility. Who would’ve thought? Allyn was going to be green with envy. How long had he been looking for a patron? And here Magnus had a royal patron of his own.

  Hey! Maybe he could ask Lord Fairhill to be Allyn’s patron too. That’d make up for the prank he played on him with the letter. Not that Magnus hadn’t already repaid him and then some. He told Allyn the owner of The Gilded Lily was willing to give him ten silver for his trouble. Thankfully, Allyn never found out Magnus had paid him with his own money.

  Ten silver. Boy, that was a lot of money.

  Then again, he couldn’t complain too mu
ch. The crazy shop lady had given him more than enough to get through the winter without any worries. And Lord Fairhill had given him more than that. All he had to do was come here and tell a few harmless lies.

  “The brewmaster here must be exceptionally skilled if his beer makes you chitter away to yourself,” somebody said.

  Magnus turned to find a young man in his late teens standing a couple of stools over waiting for the tavern keeper to bring him his order. At a corner table, by one of the completed walls, sat another man wearing a tabard with the emblem of Eryn Mas.

  “Knights?” Magnus said to himself. “From Eryn Mas? Here?” He remembered why he was there. “Are you on some sort of adventure?” he asked innocently.

  The tavern keeper brought the squire two large tankards.

  “Alas, no,” the young man said. “Things have grown rather boring of late as far as quests go, what with His Majesty away up north, fighting the rabble. You’re from Eryn Mas, are you not?”

  “I am. How’d you tell?”

  “You don’t have a Narvonian accent. Bloody hard to tell what they are saying half the time.” With a tankard in each hand, he inclined his shoulder to the knight sitting at the table. “Come sit with us. Bartender! Another for our friend here.”

  The bartender filled Magnus’s stein.

  “Thanks. Much obliged.” Magnus followed him. “Narvon? Is that where we are? I wasn’t sure. It’s godforsaken, regardless. Not a farm or a village for a day’s ride from what I’ve seen.”

  The young man laughed. “Not yet. But I tell you, this will be where the money will be made, if you have any to invest. Perfect place for a new settlement. Plenty of lumber is at hand, and the crossroads all head to overcrowded cities—Green Hill to the east, Loc Shire to the west, Winros Minor to the north, and Upper Angle beyond that. Why, to the south, this road eventually leads to the seaport of Dardenello. The trade come through this region will be immense!”

  The squire set the two tankards on the table, one in front of his friend poring over a series of maps.

  “Oh,” Magnus said, pretending to sound disappointed. “I thought you two were on a quest. I’ve been running into adventurers as thick as rain, as they say. I thought I might’ve stumbled across something interesting.”

  The knight sitting at the table lifted his head. “Adventurers? Which adventurers have you run across?”

  “Allow me to introduce ourselves,” the squire said, pulling out a chair for Magnus. “I’m Tyler and this”—he nodded to the man in the tabard—“This is Sir David.”

  Magnus extended a hand as though he were an equal. Sir David shook it.

  “Pleasure,” Sir David said, then asked again with more interest, “What adventurers have you run across? I wasn’t aware of any quests being issued.”

  “I’m Magnus, by the way.” He wanted to use a new name, but Lord Fairhill told him the foundation of a good ruse was keeping things simple. Too many lies to remember always created complications.

  Tyler sat in front of the second tankard. “He’s from Eryn Mas as well. Thought I’d treat him to a beer and encourage him to buy a plot of land or two. The more the merrier.”

  “Yes. Excellent. Always happy to meet a countryman. And the investment opportunities here are nearly limitless, but we can discuss such matters later.” He folded up some of the maps cluttering the table in front of Magnus. “You were saying something about adventurers. Whom have you come across? It wasn’t here, was it?”

  Magnus sipped his beer, taking his time like Lord Fairhill had taught him.

  “No, not here. I was in Eryn Mas a couple weeks ago, and I came across Sir John’s squire. Then before that, I had a run-in with Sir Edris himself.”

  “A run-in?” Tyler took a long pull on his beer. “Sounds intriguing.”

  Magnus followed his example. “Ah! There’s nothing like good beer after a long day’s ride.”

  “What would Sir Edris be doing in Eryn Mas?” the knight asked doubtfully.

  “Drinking and whoring, by what I saw. I’ve got the next round.” Magnus waved his good hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Have you ever met the man? Sir Edris? You wouldn’t believe what an ass he is.”

  Sir David’s eyes flared. “Regrettably, I have not had the honor.” He resumed inspecting his maps.

  “He was telling all of these stories, trying to impress the women,” Magnus went on, painfully aware of his drinking mates’ silence. “Which is fine and all. Hell, some of them were humorous. But then he started getting all mouthy about our adventurers.”

  Sir David lifted his head again. “About our men?”

  “Exactly.” Magnus took a drink of beer and wiped the suds from his mouth. “Now I don’t mind him saying things about some of the newer adventurers, you understand. It’s part of being young. They have to pay their dues and all that. But when he started in on Sir Wallace and Sir Donald and Sir Bruce the Fearless…well, I tell you, I came this close to telling him to shut his fat mouth!” Magnus held up two fingers about an inch apart. He took a drink, pretending to savor the warm beer. “I wish one of our men would knock him on his fat ass a time or two.”

  Sir David and Tyler exchanged glances. Then Sir David leaned closer to Magnus, teeth gritted together. “What exactly did he say about Sir Donald?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There were no private quarters available in the nameless town, only a room with rows of cots in the partially built inn. Magnus quietly stowed his gear and sat on an empty bed, trying not to wake the men sleeping around him. He sniffed.

  The place stank of freshly cut wood.

  He put his throbbing head in his hands.

  As far as Magnus could tell, the evening went according to plan—though how he’d retaliated against Sir Edris, he hadn’t a clue. The knight and his squire were obviously interested in what he had to say, especially the knight. He kept asking what Sir Edris said about the other adventurers. Magnus kept re-telling the story Lord Fairhill had concocted, answering their many questions. They must have believed him; they kept buying him drinks. The question was: What now?

  The thought of riding to Eryn Mas didn’t exactly thrill him. Sure, he had a place to live and warm clothes to wear for a change. But there wasn’t any reason to be there. There was no purpose—he had no purpose. For the first time, he had a fistful of money and nothing to do. He needed some sort of life, some reason to get up in the morning.

  Coins landed on his pillow. Magnus looked up.

  “Well done, Master Magnus.” Lord Fairhill sat on the bed across from him. He was dressed as an ordinary rider, his clothes dusty from the road. An oversized hood replaced his broad-brimmed hat. “Your performance was admirable.”

  Magnus blinked at the coins. They were all gold, but he didn’t scoop them up. He knew they wouldn’t change how he was feeling. Not really.

  “Under the weather?” Lord Fairhill inquired. “Too much to drink, perhaps?”

  “No. Nothing like that, though doubtless my head will be aching worse later.”

  “Doubtless it will,” Lord Fairhill said. “You see, young man, there’s a bit of a trick to drinking with men like those you met today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Make sure you keep buying them drinks when your glass is still full. Then take your time. Take small sips. Savor your beverage. Only oafs guzzle.”

  Magnus considered this and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Your head will be kinder to you if you do.” Lord Fairhill surveyed him, wearing an expression of concern. “Are you sure nothing is bothering you?”

  The occupant of the bed by the far wall let loose a rasping snore.

  “I’m…” Magnus thought for a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Allow me the opportunity to guess.” Lord Fairhill reclined on his own bed. He put his hands behind his head. “You feel as though you haven’t been completely avenged? You don’t feel satisfied?”

  “Yeah. Not sat
isfied. That’s it exactly. Not necessarily with getting back at Sir Edris or anything like that, but in general. With life, I mean. I don’t know. I suppose I need something to hang my hat on or something. I’m sorry, that sounds stupid.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. It’s very poetic, in fact. ‘Hang your hat on.’” Lord Fairhill mulled the saying over. “It conjures images of a cozy home with a warm fire on the hearth, hot food on the table, and a sleeping cat on a comfy chair. You, my friend, have an outstanding way with words.”

  Magnus grunted. The way he was feeling, he didn’t have an outstanding way with anything—other than drifting aimlessly.

  “I think you have a keen insight, Master Magnus,” Lord Fairhill continued. “I could use somebody with your abilities. Perhaps that could be a peg upon which you could hang your hat.”

  “Abilities?”

  “Assuredly. You have many extraordinary qualities that many of us, indeed, most of us, don’t possess. You’re easy to talk to. And you’re believable. And you are able to go places without being noticed. I walk into a room, and people notice me. You, on the other hand, can be noticed or not.”

  Magnus frowned at the sawdust on the floor. “More not than noticed.”

  “Perhaps.” Lord Fairhill stretched as he studied the rafters. “However, it has been my experience people who go unnoticed tend to live more fulfilling lives than those who are always watched.”

  Magnus didn’t know what he was supposed to say to this, so he muttered something unintelligible.

  “People who go unnoticed,” Lord Fairhill went on, “also live longer. Ever consider that? No matter how loved or feared, those who are watched always have a target on their backs.”

  That made sense. There were definitely downsides to being rich and famous. Yet, Magnus felt as though he didn’t have a back upon which a target could be placed. Outside a few people, he didn’t exist. He was a nobody.

  The fellow across the room began snoring again.

  Lord Fairhill stood and lit a long sliver of wood from the lantern burning dimly over their heads, then he lit his short clay pipe. He lay on the bed next to Magnus, sending streams of bluish-gray smoke into the air.