Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1)

by J. D. Morrison

  “It may look like she wasn’t grateful, but she was,” she said.

  Annie picked up her books and rose to her feet. “I best return home before my mother starts to worry,” she said, hoping the woman would understand. “Thank you for allowing me to help you.”

  “Oh, no, child. I can’t let you leave,” she replied. “Your little village mustn’t know of my existence or whereabouts. You understand, yes?” The woman started moving closer to Annie who, at that moment, was locked in place and overcome with fear.

  “I won’t tell anyone, I swear,” Annie said fearfully.

  The woman grabbed Annie’s right arm gently and said, “You’re right, child. You won’t.” The woman raised her left hand and pushed it toward Annie’s face. “Di ley gron!” she shouted. Annie lost consciousness and fell slowly to the ground.

  Cecracy

  Muddy. Humid. Foul smell in the air.

  His eyes lock onto an old man standing in front of a wagon who is showing a stalk of corn to a potential customer. It had been a while since he had killed an elderly man. They were always the easiest targets as they shuffled slowly from place to place. He had seen this man before as he was as a local legend around Avanton and The Hamelesh. He never questioned the highlord when given the names and descriptions of targets. He simply accepted the assignment and completed it without regard to the effect it may have on the families and friends of the departed. This time was different, however. He knew that by killing this man he’d be causing quite a stir in the neighboring villages and trade posts.

  “What’s your business in Avanton today?” a voice breaks in. He turns to see a guard standing over him.

  “Trade, like everyone else,” he replies.

  “Is that right?” the guard responds. “Well, what are you trading?”

  “Goods and services.”

  “Aye, well, where are they?” the guard asks as he looks around.

  He realizes the guard would rather be acknowledged than placated. He turns to face him. “What I trade cannot be wheeled about in the streets like any other common product. My customers do not soil themselves with the muck of the underclass…that is what they pay me for. If it is important to you then by all means follow me to the cellar of the Dibbuk Inn and I will show you my wares,” he said as he revealed a blackrock dagger hanging inside his overcloak. “Otherwise, harass some other law-abiding citizen.” The guard, having never seen a blackrock dagger before, abandoned his investigative effort and left the man to do as he pleased.

  His assassin name was Cecracy. Nothing distinguishable about his appearance other than a tattoo on his forearm, which is important for someone who earns his gold by blending in. He, like many other members of The Shroud, is a master of deception, short blades, disguises, and tradecraft. Each member was branded with the mark of The Shroud: two daggers crossing each other with a capital “S” above them. The location of the brand was consistent among members as well – on the inside of the forearm. This tattoo was mandatory among its members and solidified a lifelong adherence to its rules and policies. Cecracy was proud to wear it, but understood the importance of concealing it in public.

  He is the third son of Lord Commander Fortineth who had recently been assigned to manage Fort Asbury in the southern part of the kingdom. Those intimate with the family believe that he and his father are strangers to one another as Fortineth was called to battle when Cecracy was just a boy. He joined The Shroud, also known as the King Killers, a few years ago to, as he puts it, “address the growing problems of the kingdom.”

  He spots a youth join the old man by the cart. The two talk like they know each other and the younger one doesn’t seem interested in corn or wheat. He spies on them for a few minutes and notices three larger men on horses join the conversation. The youth seems to be the one giving orders. After another minute or so the youth jumps on the back of one of the horses and rides off with the three men, leaving the old man behind.

  Cecracy knew that Avanton, like all trade posts in the southern part of the kingdom, was a haven for smugglers, drunkards, women of ill repute, and the impoverished. He also knew it was the only place that Hamelesh farmers could sell their goods for quick profits. Recent random acts of violence have lead the local lord, in this case Gandor of the House Goldrak, to increase the number of guards that patrol the town. His mission would have to be completed in darkness if he wanted to escape unscathed and unnoticed. So, he must wait.

  The sun set hours ago. Cecracy climbed to the top of a bread maker’s shop and waited for the old man to emerge from the Dibbuk Inn. Maybe he doesn’t care if his goods and ox are stolen, he thought as he looked down at the old man’s lot. After another hour of waiting the old man finally came out to secure his goods. Cecracy watched as the old man lead his ox down the thoroughfare and into the dark alley that is across from the stables. Cecracy jumped from atop the break maker’s shop to the top of the blacksmith’s and then to the top of The Lion’s Den, the town brothel. “I’ll wait until he comes back,” he whispered aloud.

  “God’s hell!” the old man shouted. The back wheel of the cart had gotten stuck in a mudhole and he tried in vain to pull it out. Cecracy inspected the old man’s troubles from afar, but knew it wasn’t his place to intervene. He noticed another man, younger and brawnier, walk over and help him lift the wheel out of the hole. They conversed for a few moments while the old man secured his ox and cart in the stable. You’ve helped him, now leave, Cecracy thought.

  But the younger and brawnier man didn’t leave. He instead walked with the old man toward the alley that Cecracy was directly above. He had killed non-targets before, but in this case, it was important that he not start a ruckus as the guards in Avanton were already on edge. He ran through a half-dozen scenarios in his head before realizing what he must do.

  The two men stopped directly below Cecracy and, presumably, discussed whether or not they would join the fun inside The Lion’s Den. Thinking there is no better option, Cecracy leapt from atop the building and down behind the younger and brawnier man. Within seconds he had already pulled his blackrock dagger out and in two consecutive motions slit both their throats. The two men fell quietly to the ground and Cecracy sprinted away into the forest.

  Rinehart II

  Rare mushroom hunting was a favorite pastime of the boy prince. He, like most of the educated elite children of the time, had read Eladrin Allspice’s works on the various flowers, mushrooms, roots, trees, and vegetation of the kingdom. Dark Botany and The Uses of Welterkelp were among his favorites. Mushroom hunting was a dangerous sport even for princes as the best shrooms always grew deep in the forest.

  “Don’t you think we should be heading back soon, Your Majesty?” Sir Wein asked.

  Rinehart looked to his left and gave Leeon a smile. “Not, not quite yet, Sir Wein. Once we find a crimson altershroom we can return home.”

  Both Sir Wein and Leeon loved the boy prince. Sir Wein was in his late forties at the time and walked with a slight limp. He had seen many battles in his day and was well-respected by all. In his younger days when Rinehart I, the boy’s father and present king, was just coming to power, Sir Wein served as the King’s consulate – a position of power and respect. No one knows why he left the King’s side to become the boy’s mentor and protector.

  Leeon was just a boy as well. He was slightly younger than Rinehart and not born to a noble family. Rinehart befriended him when his father visited Havendore a few years ago. Once he discovered Leeon was an orphan living on the streets he begged his father to give him a place at the palace as his companion. The two have been inseparable since.

  “We’ve been going about this for a long time,” Leeon confessed. “Perhaps other hunters have cleared the area.”

  “No, they know better than that. My father is rather strict about what goes in and out of the King’s forest,” Rinehart replied.

  Leeon looked down at his basket and the prince’s and noticed that they had a good haul of other rare mushro
oms. Normal hunters would be happy with what they’ve found, but he knew that once Rinehart set his mind to something there was no stopping him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the prince said. “You’re thinking that since we already have a healthy amount there is no point searching for a crimson altershroom, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Leeon said, defending himself.

  “Your eyes, Leeon. They tell me everything.” He was reminded of a time when he and Leeon spiked the king’s soup with brightberries, a type of berry known to cause a light form of dysentery. The two learned of its effects after spending a day or research in the consulate’s library. They came across a copy of Alchemy and its Effects by former court magician Ryd Det’soar. When the King recovered he summoned the two boys to his chamber to interrogate them. Rinehart kept a collected demeaner while Leeon refused to make eye contact with the King, revealing their guilt. The two were scolded and were forced to clean the palace grounds for a month, a humiliating punishment for a prince.

  Just then they heard twigs snap in the distance in front of them. And then to their left. And then to their right. Sir Wein drew his sword and the boys drew their daggers. “Boys, get behind me!” Sir Wein exclaimed in a panic. The boys quickly rushed behind him and clinched their daggers tightly so that if anything were to get in close they’d be ready.

  After a few seconds, a large grey timber wolf emerged from the brush ahead of them. Then two others showed themselves a few yards to the left and right of Sir Wein and the boys. They were surrounded. “Timber wolves,” Sir Wein said. “No point in running. They’ll chase us all the way to the palace. We must fight them here.”

  Each wolf growled aggressively, showing their teeth and their intentions. Timber wolves do not generally hunt humans which has resulted in an increase in their numbers in recent years. Only curious individuals stumble upon them and as long as they don’t infringe on the wolves’ territory they escape with their lives. Rinehart knew this and theorized that they had crossed some boundary that has made the wolves feel like they have to defend themselves.

  “Sir Wein,” he said, shaking. “I think we have accidentally entered their den.”

  “I believe you’re right, Your Majesty,” Sir Wein replied.

  “I know common knowledge suggests these wolves will fight to their death defending their territory, but let’s keep in mind that we’re not here to attack them or cause trouble. I think if we turn back slowly and leave this area they will not follow,” Rinehart said.

  Three small pups appeared behind the wolf in front. “That’s not good,” Leeon said.

  “They think we’re here to kill the pups, Your Majesty,” Sir Wein assumed. “I’m not sure they will let us leave so easily.”

  “We’re going to try. Put your weapons away and let’s back up slowly.”

  Rinehart and Leeon sheathed their daggers and Sir Wein lowered his sword. The three of them began moving backward ever so slowly. With each step the wolves growled louder and moved closer to them.

  “I’m not sure this is the best idea, Your Majesty,” Leeon said.

  “Trust me,” Rinehart replied. “They’ll realize we’re not here to - ” the prince was interrupted by the whoosh of arrows flying over his head and into the wolves. Each arrow hit its mark and each wolf died almost instantly after a brief whimper. He turned to see a dozen or so of the Royal Guards, three archers with bows drawn with additional arrows at the ready in case one of the wolves was too stubborn to stay down.

  “What have you done?’ exclaimed the prince.

  In front of the troops stood an imposing man, well over six feet tall. His armor, made of iron from the northern islands, made him look huskier than he already was. He was known for many things, namely his inability to soften his gaze. When he looked at someone they felt as though he were looking straight through them, presumably thinking of ways to kill them. His name was Ga’rane and he was the highest-ranking commander of the Royal Guard.

  “Your majesty,” Ga’rane started, “you must come with us. Your father has died.”

  The boy looked back at the pups who were now using their snouts to nudge their dead mother awake. It was a tragic scene to witness and the boy hated leaving them there to die.

  Lynad

  His name was Lynad. He lived in solitude in the most southern part of the island. It would take two days on horseback in any direction before he could come across another human. He liked it this way. His cottage was humble yet sizable enough for a family of four or more, which he had had before the war. At the end of the war as he was returning home he discovered that he was being followed by a small band of highwaymen. Not wanting to lead them to his family he turned to fight, killing two and wounding the third. He discovered later that the two men he killed were the sons of a notorious bandit who exacted revenge on the man’s family a few weeks later while he was away. He always assumed the bandit let him live so he could feel the pain of having to bury his own children.

  He was a veteran of the War of the Plains a decade ago and still carried the limp to prove it. He now considered himself more a trapper than a solider and spent his days setting bear, rabbit, and squirrel traps along the edges of the forest near his home. He made his own clothes and hunted and cooked his own food. He was a proud man and in his youth he was well-liked by all. Now, no one even knows of existence save the bandit who murdered his family all those years ago.

  His fingers lightly sweep over a fresh rabbit track in the mud. His eyes scan the perimeter of the forest where he believed the rabbit had escaped to. In his right hand he holds an iron trap that when placed correctly could snap a rabbit nearly in two.

  “This is good a place as any,” he says as he unfolds the trap carefully and sets it on the track.

  It was dusk and he was nearly home with three rabbits over his shoulder when he saw it. A falling star, bright like fire and maybe the size of three cottages, rushed over his head and crashed in the forest causing a mini quake that he could feel a half mile away. He heard the clanging of hanging pots outside the cottage a few yards away and the whispered yipping of Dragon, his twenty-year-old blind bloodhound, who now sleeps for days on end in front of the cottage doorway.

  “Did you see that, Dragon?”

  Dragon replied with a few more labored yips and yaps.

  “Guess we need to go check it out,” he said as he entered the cottage to secure his day’s catch. Dragon was still alerting him of the noise when he came back out of the cottage. “I know you want to go with me, but your hips won’t allow it,” he said as he patted Dragon’s head. “I’ll give you a full report when I return.”

  A decade of trapping and hunting had made him an expert tracker and the dense forest did not intimidate him in the slightest. He pushed limb after limb aside as he journeyed from moonlit clearing to moonlit clearing. The forest, he had come to realize, often preserved certain spots where animals could come and stare up at an unobstructed starry sky, or at least he thought.

  After over an hour of hiking he spotted the crash site. Small flames illuminated the area and smoke rose a hundred feet or more. He could tell a crater had been created and knew he would have to hike just a little more to survey its bottom.

  The crater was, in his estimation, five hundred feet wide. At its center was a black sphere the size of, as he had guessed, three to four of his cottages. It stood three stories high and seemed to be unaffected by the crash landing. He stood on the edge of the crater in awe for a few moments as he thought about what it was. This can’t be a rock, he thought, it is too perfectly round.

  He stepped and slid down the side of the crater slowly toward the object. Cautiously, he inched closer and closer until he could reach his hand out to touch it. First, he touched it with one finger and then two and then his whole hand was against it. “Cold,” he uttered. He then heard whispers from within the sphere. Whispers in a language he couldn’t understand. Startled, he pulled his hand away and raced to the si
de of the crater to climb out.

  He ran quickly from one moonlit clearing to the next brushing limbs aside not caring if he left tracks or not. He was afraid, more afraid than he had been during the entire war a decade ago. He could see his cottage in the distance where he felt he would be safe and then, suddenly, snap.

  “God’s hell!” he cries out. He grabs two fistfuls of dirt in pain and barely finds the courage to look at the bear trap wrapped around his ankle. His foot dangles in place and he knows he will never walk on it again. He knows he has to crawl the remaining few hundred yards home.

  Lynad moves slowly through the brush between his cottage and the outer rim of the forest. His twists and turns are small to avoid leaves and branches as he knows, better than most, a blood trail leading directly to his home is a dangerous thing. He’s always thought ahead like this, but tonight he knows at some point he’ll have to face the reality of his situation – he will lose at least a foot. No time for that now, though. He has to make it home first. Twist. Turn. Twist. Turn. Only fifty yards from home. He can make out Dragon’s shape on the deck. Almost there.

  In the distance to the East, he is flanked by what he assumes are two timber wolves. He sees their outline moving toward him fairly quickly. Twenty yards away from the cottage gate. Twist. Turn. Ten yards. They’re getting closer. Five yards now. One of the wolves arrives and latches onto his leg. He reaches for his dagger and thrusts it into the wolf’s eye. And again. And again. It whimpers and dies on top of him. The second wolf watches safely from a few feet away. Lynad sees its fear and pushes the dead wolf off of his body. “Come on you bastard,” he challenges. After a few seconds, the wolf turns and makes its way back toward the forest. Lynad grabs and opens the gate behind him and drags himself into his cottage.