Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1)

by J. D. Morrison

  He wondered why the figure taught him so much about fire and explosives. He was certain that few, if any, had made the discoveries he was now privy to. He assumed the figure had taught him these things for a reason, but he was never one to place a high value on his life or believe that he was of any importance to anyone else.

  He then began thinking of the benefits of his discoveries. He was a former military man so it makes sense that his perception of each invention was that it could be used for killing. How might others use the things I’ve created, he wondered. He looked at the large metal ball on the table.

  “For the life of me I don’t know why I started working on you,” he said.

  On the wall over his bed hung a metal sling that fastened to one’s forearm. There was a slot for a medium sized dagger to fit in. With a clenching of the fist a dagger would shoot through the sling and either into the wielder’s hand or into the body of a target standing a couple feet in front.

  “Or you.”

  He was realizing that there were holes in his memory. He tried to remember the day he created the sling or started on the large explosive ball. He had trouble identifying the moment or moments that he developed the ideas or saw the figure work on similar objects. He closed his eyes tightly to force the memory, but nothing came.

  Just then he heard the distant footsteps of many men. He bolted out the door and saw, in the distance, an army of the Royal Guard marching toward the south. He noticed several men on horseback leading the units.

  “Soldiers have never marched this far south.”

  He ran back into the house and packed a few things in a knapsack. He decided that a distraction was exactly what he needed, even if it was a bloody battle of sorts. He thought about packing his notebook, but decided against it as it could fall into the wrong hands. It contained the blueprint for his large explosive ball invention as well as blueprints for a dozen other objects that, if used correctly, could inflict fatal injuries on several targets at once. He lifted his mattress and placed the notebook under it.

  He left his cottage and dashed into the forest, choosing to follow the troops at a safe distance. He served as a scout for a brief time during the Plains War so he knew how to stay hidden. He didn’t know where he was going or what to expect, but he was excited nonetheless. After years of solitude he was ready to see fellow humans again, even if they weren’t ready to see him.

  Part V

  Cecracy

  Port Royal was a busy place. There were only two ports on the entire island and the other one wasn’t sanctioned by King’s Square - meaning that trade at that port, Port Common, was illegal. However, Rinehart I never minded it and it is still a hotspot for black market trade today. There were still instances of illegal trade at Port Royal, though, and Cecracy wanted to exploit one if he had the opportunity.

  Trade vessels entering Port Royal made anchor on the west side while departing vessels held positions to the east. It was a perfect place to disappear as a thousand characterless faces moved about.

  He stood in an alleyway and surveyed the fleet of departing ships. He studied the captains, identified by their square black hats and grey beards, of each ship. He waited to catch one accepting a bribe or conversing with an unsavory figure. He looked to his left and spotted a man staring at him. Alarmed, Cecracy began moving through the crowd. He moved quickly, but not so quickly that he caused a scene as he had done this a hundred times before.

  He turned his head and saw the man who was now, seemingly, following him. They’ve found me, he thought. There are several ways to respond when being followed by a potential attacker. The first is by disappearing into a crowd, which he had been trying to do for the past few minutes. The second is to wisely defend yourself. The Shroud prided itself in covert operations and executions. The goal of every member is to remain unseen in everything they do. He knew that if he fought this man in the middle of a crowd his chances for escape would be dashed. He scanned the area for a decent kill spot and found a dark, narrow alley.

  He made his way to the alley and spotted a window ten feet above the ground. He grabbed a nearby deserted apple cart and pulled it under the window. He used the cart to climb up and into the house.

  The man who had been following him appeared in the alleyway. Cecracy peaked through the window at the man and noticed that he looked quite ordinary, perhaps too ordinary to be an assassin. He contemplated his next move. How long will this man follow me? Will he alert the others of my whereabouts? Ultimately, he knew what he had to do as he had done it so many times before.

  He leapt from the window and landed behind the man. Pulled both daggers and inserted them into the man’s kidney and neck. Blood sprayed across the wall as he pulled the daggers out. He leaned over and pulled the man’s sleeve up so he could see the brand of The Shroud. Nothing. No tattoo. He then quickly looked through the man’s pockets and belt and found nothing. No weapon, no message, no order to kill. Nothing. He just potentially murdered an innocent man.

  He moved quickly through the crowd and away from the alley. He had to create as much separation from the murdered man and himself as he could. He no longer had time to be choosy about what ship he’d board. He spotted one with black and red sails and found the captain standing on the dock near it, flipping through a manifest.

  “I volunteer to swab the decks if you’ll have me,” Cecracy said.

  “Crew’s full up, boy,” the captain replied.

  Just then a woman’s scream was heard from the alley Cecracy had just come from. Another woman screamed and hysteria ensued. A few guards drew swords and a man shouted, “Someone’s been murdered!”

  “It is in your best interest that I be given a duty aboard your ship,” Cecracy said, without turning to acknowledge the screams.

  The captain looked at Cecracy and then at the frenzy forming behind him in the distance.

  “You in trouble, boy?”

  “Captain, please,” he begged.

  The captain noticed a few guards walking their way. He saw the desperation in Cecracy’s eyes. He had a heart for troublemakers as Cecracy would soon discover.

  “Get on the ship.”

  Cecracy grabbed the captain’s hand and shook it vigorously before he made his way onto the ship. He noticed the guards approach and address the captain. He saw the captain point off into the distance, assumingly informing them that he spotted the murderer escape into the crowd. Why would he do that for me, he thought.

  “New to The Ransack, boy?” a voice asked from behind him.

  The Ransack? Cecracy looked around at the crew and realized he was not on a trade ship. He was not going to Havendore or any of the other islands at all. Instead, he was about to spend at least a year at sea raiding and pillaging merchant ships. The Ransack was, indeed, a pirate ship and Cecracy must now consider himself a pirate if he wanted to stay alive.

  Braume

  “What do you want?” Dentrik shouted down at the two men on horseback.

  “An audience with the new King of the South,” Sir Ga’rane shouted back.

  Sir Ga’rane and Sir Wein sat on their horses outside the gate to Fort Asbury. Sir Ga’rane’s men had assembled a tent a hundred yards from the fort. Sir Wein argued that meeting the rebels inside their keep was a more diplomatic strategy, but Sir Ga’rane insisted they abide by his wishes.

  “We’ll lower the gate so that you may enter,” shouted Dentrik.

  “Well, that just won’t work for us,” Sir Ga’rane shouted back. “Who’s to say you won’t murder us once we cross the threshold?”

  Braume and Artyom joined Dentrik on the gate.

  “Who is this?” Braume asked.

  “I don’t know. They haven’t introduced themselves.”

  “Tell us who are you and what you want,” Braume demanded.

  “Oh, forgive me, my lord. My name is Ga’rane, newly appointed Warden of the South. And my companion here is Sir Wein, Consulate to the King.”

  “Warden of the South, huh
?”

  “Yes, my lord, which makes me Lord Commander of Fort Asbury and governor of the South.”

  “Says who?” shouted Artyom,

  “Well, your king.”

  “Braume of the House Kellner is the new King of the South,” Dentrik shouted.

  “So, we’ve heard,” Sir Ga’rane replied. “My men have erected a tent just over there. How about we discuss your terms and demands therein? The sooner you send us back to King’s Square the sooner you get what you want.”

  “It’s a trap,” said Artyom. “It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Sir Wein is an honorable man. I agree, I would not trust it if he were not present. We’ll be fine, son. Stay back and man the gate.”

  “No, I’m coming with you,” Artyom countered.

  “Man the gate. That’s an order,” Braume said forcefully.

  The gate lowered and Braume and Dentrik appeared on horseback. Artyom watched as the followed Sir Wein and Sir Ga’rane back toward the tent.

  “Archers, ready yourselves,” he shouted to the archers on the walls.

  Braume looked around the field surrounding Fort Asbury. The land seemed calm. It was quiet. He wondered why Sir Ga’rane, Commander of the Royal Guard, would be so far removed from his men.

  “Something the matter, Bear?” Dentrik asked.

  As they inched closer to the opening of the tent Braume was hit with a sour feeling in his gut. He had that feeling once before as he watched his father’s wagon disappear over the hill toward Avanton. He began to feel as though he and Dentrik had made a mistake and that something was about to go horribly wrong.

  “I don’t know,” he replied.

  He looked back at the gate to Fort Asbury and noticed his son standing tall. He was still so proud of him for fighting like he did a week earlier. He never thought he could be that proud.

  He thought about how the people of The Hamelesh probably reacted once they heard news of Fort Asbury’s fall. He thought of Jonus and his wife and how good they must feel now that justice has been done. He thought about his other three sons: Benjamin, Thomas, and Abram. How he longed to return home and see them again.

  “We’re here,” Dentrik said as he dismounted.

  Braume sat on his horse and peaked into the tent. He saw both Sir Ga’rane and Sir Wein standing behind a table. Sir Wein nodded and gave him a smile. This was the sign he needed. Sir Wein was an honorable man after all. He dismounted and made his way into the tent alongside Dentrik.

  “Good evening, my lords,” Sir Ga’rane said. “Let us negotiate over drinks.”

  He poured wine into four goblets that were on the table.

  Braume and Dentrik entered the tent cautiously and noticed two guards posted just inside the tent.

  “These two need to leave,” Braume demanded.

  “Yes, of course. My apologies. Men, outside,” Sir Ga’rane replied.

  The two men exited the tent and stationed themselves just outside the entrance.

  Sir Ga’rane walked over to Braume and Dentrik’s side of the table and placed two goblets in front of them.

  “It is customary to offer wine during negotiations,” he said.

  “We don’t drink,” Dentrik said.

  “Well...I guess I won’t be able to poison you then,” he said with a smile.

  “Pardon the Warden’s humor, he’s still learning,” Sir Wein said, in an attempt to cut the tension.

  Sir Ga’rane took that as an insult, but was the type of man that wouldn’t reveal that he had been offended. Actually, he was the type of man that kept everything to himself: his plans, his emotions, his fears – if he had any. The trip from King’s Square to Fort Asbury was a quiet one as Sir Wein recognized the Warden’s inability to talk about personal matters.

  “So, what are you demands?” Sir Ga’rane asked candidly.

  “Demands? What do you mean?” Braume asked.

  “Demands, what you want from King’s Square in return for Fort Asbury.”

  “My lord, I’m not sure you understand. We don’t want anything from King’s Square. There’s nothing that you can give us that will restore what has been done to us for over a century,” Braume said.

  Braume noticed Sir Ga’rane’s eyes look past him and toward the opening of the tent. He turned to see what he was looking at, but it was too late. The two guards stationed outside the tent rushed in with daggers drawn. Braume reached for his sword but a dagger was already in his jugular. He looked over at Dentrik who was suffering the same fate. The two guards stabbed them both repeatedly for several seconds.

  “God’s hell,” shouted Sir Wein as he reached for his sword. Before he could fully unsheathe it Sir Ga’rane had driven a dagger into his chest.

  Braume was able to pull his sword and swing at one of the guards. He missed, but was able to push them both aside and stumble outside of the tent. He dragged himself toward his horse. He twisted and turned through the mud and reached for the saddle.

  Artyom looked on from the gate to Fort Asbury. He spotted his father bloodied and on the ground.

  “Men! Prepare for battle,” he shouted.

  Braume realized he couldn’t reach high enough for the saddle. He realized his palm couldn’t stop the bleeding from his neck. He realized the guard who stabbed him was only a few feet away ready to finish the job. He looked to Artyom one last time and saw that he was looking back. And then, darkness.

  Lynad

  The flames above Fort Asbury burned bright. Lynad heard the screams of men that were trapped inside its walls. He had seen the events of the day unfold from a safe spot in the forest and felt cowardly for it.

  Thousands of Royal Guards were positioned around the fort in a square formation. It became evident to Lynad that they never planned on taking the fort as the battle that took place earlier that day consisted of archers shooting flame-tipped arrows into the compound. He watched as soldiers poured oil around the perimeter and set it ablaze so that no man would escape alive. At one point the gate lowered and a few men rushed out into the flames where they were systematically executed by lines of archers a hundred feet away.

  Burning people alive was more common a century ago when the God of Fire was the preferred deity. Most military-minded men still favored the old ways and Lynad witnessed his fair share of burnt flesh during his stint in the Royal Guard. Yet, the smell always bothered him more than what he saw.

  The screaming had finally stopped and all he heard now was the crackling of flames. How can this be sanctioned by the King?

  “The battle is won!” shouted a large man from behind a row of archers. The soldiers cheered and banged their swords against their shields.

  He had enough. He plodded through the forest, reflecting on what he had witnessed. He returned home to his various contraptions and sat down at the table, across from the large metal ball full of blasting powder. He thought about how long it took a burning man to die. One man, he remembered from his days as a Royal Guard, was set on fire and lived for nearly a minute. He may have lived longer, too, if Lynad didn’t drive a longsword through his heart.

  Warfare of the age troubled him a great deal. It was so barbaric and men tended to die more from wounds they received on the battlefield than they did from the actual battle. He began to wonder what he could do prevent it altogether. Perhaps if both sides recognized the power of the other side they would be more prone to compromise, he thought. He was intrigued by this notion as armies have fought the same way for centuries and men of power always assumed they had the upper hand against their targets. Or, if they must fight, perhaps the battles could be decided more quickly.

  He moved to his bed and lifted the mattress. He grabbed his notebook and began flipping pages. Page after page he saw drawings and blueprints for objects that, if used correctly, could alter the trajectory of a battle.

  He spent the night packing and loading a wagon with his inventions. It took him over an hour to roll the metal ball through the mud and up the makeshift ramp he
built. He hoped his two horses would be able to pull it as it was the heaviest object he had ever handled.

  He had become a planner in his old age and his plan was to ride to King’s Square and show his inventions to the King. He hoped the King would listen and realize that the art and science of war needed to change. He hoped the King would commission him to build more objects that could be used to decide battles more promptly. He hoped he would never have to see and smell a burning man again.

  He glanced at his black hand and knew that it would be alarming to some. Committing to wear gloves during his time in King’s Square didn’t bother him, but he worried about what he’d say if anyone ever saw it and questioned him. Telling them the truth wouldn’t be an option and he knew he wasn’t the best at fabrication. I’ll deal with it when the time comes, he said to himself.

  After the wagon had been fully loaded he made his way across the field to a spot marked by four sticks standing upright in the ground. He stood silently in that spot for a few minutes. He wasn’t an emotional man. Not anymore. He wasn’t sure if he could cry even if he wanted to. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that he would not return for quite some time, if ever.

  He leaned down and grabbed a fistful of dirt. He pulled out an empty jar from his knapsack and placed the dirt inside. He kept the lid open for a minute and examined the dirt inside until he finally sealed it and returned to the wagon.

  Annie

  The fire over Fort Asbury illuminated the sky. The soldiers who had set it ablaze didn’t bother extinguishing it. They were long gone now so the witches had the fields to themselves. They all passed over a shallow grave where at least four hundred soldiers were placed.

  “Fitting place for a transition,” Gresolda said.