Tales of Kingshold

by D P Woolliscroft

  Kolsen took command, of course. He was first mate, and with such a skeleton crew, there wasn't anyone else who wanted to challenge for it. He ordered the crew head southeast instead of northeast, arguing it would be better to stay close to land.

  And wouldn't you know, they happened to come across a treasure boat from the Wild Continent, full of slaves and gold. It had been undergoing repairs in a secluded cove, away from any escort it must have lost in the same storm which caused it to need two new masts.

  What a lucky bastard, thought Mareth. Why does that never happen to me?

  As he thought about it, he'd been pretty much at rock bottom when he'd met Kolsen. Now, with the benefit of time, having partially forgotten what had happened to some of their poor victims and with a jangly purse full of gold, Mareth recognized that some of Kolsen’s luck must have rubbed off on him, too.

  But that was some luck. The treasure boat had been basically unprotected. Most of the crew were on land, organizing the slaves hard at work crafting new masts. The Dolphin's Prize sailed right up to the ship in broad daylight. The crew climbed aboard and took what they wanted, keeping the slavers at bay with the ballista.

  When they eventually got to Cloudscar, they saw The Icicle had arrived before them. The inventory was sold, debts settled, and the prize shared amongst the crew. A larger share went to Captain Gilstrap and the biggest share to her backers.

  Kolsen had seem depressed when he handed over The Dolphin’s Prize, but only Mareth noticed. The others were too busy melting away to their families in Cloudscar after another privateering season done, or getting ready to move on to The Shards and pick up with another crew.

  Gilstrap asked Kolsen to stay on and travel with her to The Shards, but he turned her down. He said he would stay in Cloudscar for a while with Mareth, his old mate.

  Of course, before Mareth had even turned around, Kolsen was gone. Mareth had thought the pirate gone for good, a week having passed since then, until a note turned up at the inn where he lodged.

  It's not The Dolphin’s Prize, it's mine. Come to the docks at two.

  There was Mareth, on time. But there was no handshake or embrace. Just the sight of The Juniper, formerly The Dolphin’s Prize, rowing out of the harbor. Kolsen was putting on one last show, and there was no bloody wave back. Just the last words of the note.

  I still owe you one.

  Kolsen.

  Jyuth on Magic - Weaving

  I spent my childhood years on Edland. My family were sheep farmers, and I have discovered that being a wizard is much like the life of a sheep farmer. We had to attend to our flock, ensuring they were safe and never taking too much to feed our family so there would be sheep for tomorrow. We would shear the sheep, cutting their wiry woolen fleece, which we would then tease into long strands that could be used for weaving. My mother and sisters would use simple wooden looms to weave the thread into yards of fabric that we would use to clothe us and keep us warm at night, or to barter and trade with other families.

  For the wizard, it is the same. It should be obvious to you by now, that the sources of mana around you are your herd. They must be tended, and not exhausted, otherwise the wizard will starve and die. And the mana is the woolen fleece, which must be pulled and stretched into long threads, ready to be woven into whatever wonders you can imagine.

  All of the magic that I have learned requires the ability to take these threads and mold them into the form needed. And, like weaving a blanket, this process can take time for the unpracticed wizard and it always requires concentration. But in moments of stress or strife, it is often time that you do not have.

  And so, I have learned how to do many different things at once.

  There is a children’s game where they try to rub their stomach and pat their heads at the same time. For a long time, their hands want to do the same thing; both hands pat, or both hands rub. But eventually they learn the trick of starting one process and then layering on the second. Well, I spent two years studying how to do that in a different way.

  The mind is a strange tool that must be mastered by the wizard. If you were a knight it would be your sword; your loom if you were a weaver. And so you must constantly train, practice, hone your skills.

  The first thing that is realized is that the mind can be split, consciously and safely, creating independent thinking and operating units within your mind. The different selves can focus on different tasks; such as carrying on a conversation, and at the same time drawing thread and weaving it to create a shield, or drawing the wind under the wizard for flight. The ability to concentrate on these separate magical tasks while going about your normal life, be it reading a book or running from a bear, is what makes a true wizard.

  I cannot begin to convey on parchment how you would do this—you need to have a teacher to show you the steps of mastering the mind through meditation, and you will have to practice them your whole life to keep them both supple and sharp. And if you are my student then hopefully you now understand why the first task you had to master was something that most children think of as a game.

  Narrowing it down

  Petra was out of breath. The brisk walk from the Narrows back to the Cherry Tree district—on top of a whole day pounding the pavement drumming up support for the district meetings that needed to be held—had left her exhausted. But if she had been able, she would have run the final length of the Lance.

  After all of the hard work of the past days, those two knuckleheads could mess up everything. This was the type of problem that needed to be fixed.

  Quick.

  As she arrived at the Royal Oak, Petra saw Alana approach from the opposite direction. Petra waved and got her attention before she entered the inn.

  “Petra, are you ok?” asked Alana. Petra’s sister’s face was still puffy; a blue and yellow bruise visible through the powder that Jules had applied to her face. Petra realized that the sight of her hustling through the streets had made her sister think about the attack that she had suffered just a few nights past.

  “I’m fine,” huffed Petra. “Seriously, I’m well. But we’re in trouble. Dyer and Lud have decided that they don’t want to work together. And Dyer says that if Lud is going to support Mareth, then he’s not going to.”

  “What? Why?” Dyer and Lud were the district supervisors for the Inner and Outer Narrows, and they had both shown their support the other night when many of the supervisors had agreed to come together and see if they could influence the election. The fact that they hated each other, typically not agreeing on any topic, did in retrospect mean that their concurrence was peculiar.

  “No bloody good reason. Other than pig-headedness. Stupid men.”

  “We’ve all got to work together,” said Alana. “If one district isn’t on board then the others might decide to do something different. We should tell Mareth.”

  “I know that, Alana. But he’s not here. They went to Unedar Halt this morning when you went to the palace for your shift. And we can’t tell him yet anyway. You heard how he was questioning if we could win last night. If the district support is not there, that will knock him on his arse.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Petra shook her head. “That’s why I was rushing. To find you. Thought you would know what to do.”

  Alana tilted her head and looked up into the sky for inspiration. Petra knew her sister so well. Her mannerisms. This was her thinking, and Petra gave her some time to consider.

  “Why don’t they like each other?” Alana asked. Petra wasn’t sure if she was asking a question or talking to herself.

  “I don’t know,” she sighed, taking it for the former and tired of being asked questions she didn't know the answers to. “Everyone says they used to be friends. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Maybe if we find out, we can fix it.” Alana reached out and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Get them to be friends again. Then they’ll work together.”

  �
��I guess that could work,” said Petra. “But how do we find that out? Neither of them even wants to talk about the other.”

  “We could talk to others who know them. Everyone in the Narrows loves to gossip.”

  “Alright, let's give it a try. I’ll take Dyer. You take Lud. See you back here this evening and we can compare notes.”

  Petra was always able to tell where she was in the Narrows by the contrasting surroundings. Having started off as shanty settlements beyond the Outer Wall of Kingshold, it would be reasonable to assume that the area closest to the Outer Wall was the oldest, and it was true that the Inner Narrows, as it was known, had been in existence for the longest time. But the district that she was in now had gone through more changes than the Outer Narrows since Crandall’s Curtain had been drawn around all of the Outer Hub settlements. Now, interspersed between the wooden buildings that were still aggregations of various pieces of salvaged materials—which did give their appearance a certain organic quality—were some new buildings. These stood upright, all straight lines and sharp corners. Wealth from the Middle had been slowly trickling through the twenty feet of Outer Wall. So now, surrounded by the new, that meant the oldest part of the Narrows, and surprisingly the inhabitants took pride in both of those things.

  Dyer lived in one such house of newer construction, though the whitewashed facade was faded and peeling in places. Petra had been there that morning to talk to Dyer, the district supervisor of the Inner Narrows, but he wasn’t her target now. She wanted to talk to his wife.

  Standing behind a cart selling unidentified grilled meat snacks, Petra waited until she saw Wenda leave the house, and move off down the narrow pedestrian pathways. Wenda wore a dress that was simple of cut, but adorned with tiny cross stitch flowers, her signature that everyone in the Narrows knew. Wenda was short, getting a little rounder around the waist from making an acquaintance with middle-age that had also gifted her with more than a few gray hairs.

  Petra hurried after her.

  “Excuse me, Wenda,” she said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Could I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Oh, hello, Petra love. You’re back again?” she said. “Dyer’s back at the house if you want to see him.”

  “I’d like to talk to you if I may?”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, one eyebrow arched. From reputation she knew that Wenda was not a favorite of the women in the neighborhood, and so she hardly contained her surprise at Petra’s request.

  “You’ve been with your husband for a long time. I wondered if you knew why he and Lud don’t like each other? I remember hearing they used to be friends.”

  “Well I don’t know about them being friends. Weren’t ever the case since I met him. Dyer didn’t like him then,” said Wenda, before adding with a shake of her head, “and after that night at the Giant’s Toe he made it clear what he thought of that Lud!”

  “Tell me be about that.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago. Twenty years nearly. Dyer was playing in a skittles tournament during the mid-winter festival at the Giant’s Toe. And he was good; still is,” she said proudly. “But this was his first time getting to the final. There was a bloke from the Outer Narrows who won every year, but it looked like Dyer had a good chance of beating him.” Wenda paused for dramatic effect and conscripted her hands to aid in the telling of the tale that she launched into. “The tavern was packed. Supporters from both sides filling the common room and spilling out on to the street. Back then I was a bit of looker if I do say so myself. Always had plenty of the lads sniffing around like horny dogs. But I was already in love with Dyer.

  “So, I was there supporting him. Standing right at the front, when Lud inched his way through the crowd and started talking to me. It was obvious he was trying to chat me up, but I wasn’t interested.” Petra nodded along, having a fair understanding of what ‘not interested’ would have been like. “I kept trying to ignore him but he’d start up some more conversation, commenting on the game or someone in the crowd he knew. He was definitely a bit of a charmer. He tried very hard. Well, you know what I mean love. You must have them buzzing around you all the time like flies.

  “Anyway, Dyer noticed that Lud was trying to talk to me. Knocked him off his game it did. And then he couldn’t bear to keep seeing Lud trying it on with me—not that he had a chance—and so he came over and told Lud to bugger off.”

  “And that was it?” asked Petra.

  “Oh, no! There was a right bloody argument, there in the middle of the tavern. Lud was saying rubbish about being there to support him, when Dyer knew he was there to throw him off his game. Argument started inside, but it finished outside with their fists. Dyer might have lost the skittle match, but he wiped that smarmy smirk off Lud’s face. Anyone can tell you that.” Wenda finished with her hands on her hips as if in triumph, pedestrians of the Narrows walking by craned their necks to see if there was some juicy gossip they should be gathering.

  Petra gave this some thought. A fight between Dyer and Lud was hardly news. Hardly a year went by without some gang fights between the Inner and Outer Narrows, and when the two of them were younger men, they would be there at the front. Now they were more likely to be at the back handing out clubs to the youngsters. But, maybe this was the first time they really fought?

  No. Wenda said they weren’t friends, so it sounded like they had problems before that she didn’t know about.

  “Thank you, Wenda,” said Petra. “That’s very helpful.”

  “Well, I’m happy to help, love.” Wenda leaned in conspiratorially. “And you know what? I enjoyed talking about the old days. Nice to remember that men used to fight over me.”

  Wenda walked away appearing taller, with a sway of her hips and a smile on her lips.

  Alana stood in the doorway of a long room; a fireplace at the far end with a pot of bubbling water, and metal tubs lining the length of the room. Neighborhood women and children crowded around the tubs, rubbing wet cloth against wooden boards, scrubbing the grime of the city out of their meager clothes. Alana was familiar with wash houses like this one, even though this was not her local one. For a few coppers you got a big tub of hot water, and most importantly a bit of soap. And, a good bit of gossip too.

  She threaded her way through the working women—young children hanging off their skirts or trying to climb into the grey water—until she reached a middle-aged lady standing by the cauldron.

  This was Madge, wife of Lud and owner of the washing house. She was taller than Alana, and though she’d had four children, she was lean; ropey muscles visible in her arms as she poked at the fire and placed another large log on top. Madge barked orders to a boy and a girl, who ran around tending to the customers. In the light of the hearth she looked like a fire giant of legend. Alana swallowed down her fear.

  “Mistress Madge,” shouted Alana over the hubbub of the wash house. “Can I have a word?”

  Madge turned and appraised Alana. “Alana, I don’t have time for any of this election rubbish.”

  “Please, I need your help. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”

  “Alright,” she conceded with a harrumph. “Come back here where we can hear each other without shouting.” Madge led Alana into the back room, passing out orders to the girl to mind the shop. Closing the door behind Alana, thankfully muting the shouted passing of local news, Madge offered Alana a seat at a simple table. Though she didn’t go so far as to put the kettle on.

  “What is it then?”

  “You’ve been with Lud for a long time…”

  “Aye. Married twenty years. Courting since we were kids.”

  “Did you know Lud when he was friends with Dyer? Folks have said they used to be friends.”

  “That was a long time ago, before I knew either of them. But I know that Lud was bothered by it. He didn’t talk about it much but I could tell he missed his friend. He was always interested in news about Dyer, though who knows what he saw in him. One mid-winter he went to go and
do something about it too. Got it into his head after a few drinks that they could be friends again.” Madge shook her head, at the foolishness of boys in their cups or in anticipation of what was to come, Alana wasn’t sure.

  “He knew that Dyer was playing in a skittles tournament at some tavern somewhere, so he went to give him some support. I didn’t go. Can’t stand skittles. But he told me all about it after he came home and I had to help his mum clean him up.”

  “What happened?” asked Alana.

  “That cow, Wenda, is what happened.” Madge’s head continued to nod like she was watching one of her customers scrape the dirt out on a wash board, but this time Alana could tell that her displeasure was aimed at Dyer’s wife. “She said Lud tried to hit on her, but he was just being friendly to his old friend’s girl. And then she came on to him. He had to push her off! Everyone knew that Wenda was a slut. Walking around, swinging her arse in everyone’s face. Dyer couldn’t help notice, but he didn’t lay the blame with her. She was his girlfriend. He pointed the finger at my Lud and came out arms swinging. Well, Lud had to teach him a lesson then.”

  “Wow,” breathed Alana. “Did Lud try again to make friends with Dyer?”

  “’Course not girl!” said Madge, exasperated by the question. “Waste of time it was then, and waste of time it would have been after. At least that little episode got it out of his system to want to be friends with that arsehole again. Now then, is that all you wanted? I have punters that need seeing to.”

  “Yes, Mistress Madge. Thanks very much for your time.”

  “I hated that Inner lot when I was a kid. Me da always told me to watch out for them.”

  Alana sat across the rickety table from Orman, Lud’s best friend, in the Kingshold’s Glory. How the original founder had decided on that name, given it was now a smoky, dirty, dive of a bar was lost to history. The fact that the locals called it the Glory Hole, or sometimes just The Hole, was much more appropriate.