Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

The Spider Witch gleefully told Adan what she needed of him.

  First he argued to try and get her to see reason. “It’s too reckless!”

  Then he threatened and shouted in anger. “How dare you ask me such a thing?”

  And then he begged. “Please, no, don’t make me do it.”

  Despite his arguing, and threatening, and pleading, Adan was forced to accept the couple’s demands. With a heavy heart Adan gathered his bow and retreated into the swamp.

  “Did you learn anything new?” asked Husband once Adan was long gone. “Why look into the passst now? It’sss been ssso long. Bessst not to dwell on sssuch thingsss.”

  “Oh, deary,” said the Spider Witch, putting her eyes back into her chest. “Studying the past helps me understand the present. It helps me make sense of time. Soon we will have our revenge and take this land with us. Nothing’s impossible, you’ll see. Our opportunity is coming. Maybe one of our old friends will come back to help?”

  “Don’t be ssstupid,” said Husband. “We don’t have any friendsss left.”

  “Oh...” said the Spider Witch. “That’s right. I forget when I remember.” She landed another kiss on Husband’s carapaced head. “At least we have each other.”

  Chapter 1

  The human preoccupation with knights is something I’ll never understand. Their glorification has always screamed to me a frightening disconnect from reality. We dwarfs have no fantasies about our warriors. The name Breaker suits them well and keeps them from delusions of grandeur. The same cannot be said for human knights, except for maybe one…

  —Excerpt from the journal of Kaevin, last master smith of Morheim.

  The mare’s hooves kicked up dirt and sand as she trotted around the arena, the man on her back a colossal mountain of armor. His helm was in the shape of a dragon’s head, regally crafted and horned. The Dragon Knight’s horse was cloaked in black and emerald. Gauntleted fingers lifted up the dragon’s nose, exposing his face and white beard. A roar of applause and cheers went up from the crowd as the Dragon Knight rode a circle around the tournament grounds, his spiraled lance proudly raised high.

  A horde of young women waited eagerly in the front row of the crowd, and all cheered as the Dragon Knight passed. A pretty girl whose hair was covered by a yellow turban caught his eye. “I have a gift for you, Dragon!” she shouted, leaning over the stands.

  “A gift?” asked the knight as he stalled his horse beside her. “What kind of gift?”

  The girl pushed a curly strand of blond hair back into her turban and reached into a bag beside her.

  She pulled forth one of the finest cloaks the knight had ever seen. “I made it especially for you,” said the girl, batting her eyelashes, “Sir Pendragon.”

  Pendragon held the cloak gently, eying the raven feathers embroidered into silk. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Too beautiful to be worn in a duel. I’m afraid Stolk will tear it off me…” His voice trailed when he saw the girl’s disappointed frown. “Very well,” Pendragon chuckled as he wrapped the jet black feathers over his pauldrons.

  Sir Clark Pendragon was a man respected and feared. Even unarmored, Pendragon was an intimidating figure. Strong and over six feet tall, he refused to be hindered by his age. The former duke remained a fearsome victor of tournaments and over the past few weeks he had fought hard to add yet another victory to his title.

  He forgot the girl when the trumpet blew and Duke Jario Stolk trotted out of the opposing gate. Stolk wore metal dyed a purple so deep it threatened to become black. This stood in contrast to the white and flamboyant pinks that decorated his plumage and tabard. Softly, and half-heartedly, the crowd cheered for Stolk, although Pendragon detected more than a few boos. Stolk met Pendragon in the middle of the arena atop a black steed. “You’re not going to win,” said Jario, lifting his visor, which was molded in a mask of a young woman. “I’m going to beat that dragon helmet off your old head and mount it on my wall.”

  The Stolk family has never been a fan of sportsmanship, thought Pendragon as he stared Jario down. Stolk was young for a duke, and despite his aristocratic appearance he was a renowned and savage fighter. “May the best man win?” Pendragon suggested, his annoyance masked as usual behind a smile.

  “Oh, he will,” Stolk hissed, spitting into the dirt and riding to the end of the arena.

  A second trumpet blare sent the knights flying at each other, lances outstretched. The horses charged, a thundering mass of iron and steel. Jario’s shield wore the emblem of House Stolk, a white naked maiden dancing on a pink field. Not the shield, thought Pendragon as their horses’ hooves tore at the dirt. Lower. Pendragon let his lance drop. Let’s hope that fancy codpiece of his is well made.

  Wood shattered and splintered as Pendragon’s lance smashed into Jario’s groin. The force sent Stolk flying off his horse and backwards onto the dirt while a roar of approval went up from the crowd. The Dragon Knight dismounted and drew his sword. “You rotting fucker,” Stolk moaned as his agonized writhing sent sand flying.

  “Sorry,” said Pendragon. “My aim is not as good as it used to be. These tired muscles have made me weak. I am an old man, after all.” The knight pointed at the Duke’s crotch with his sword. “Your armor seems to have saved you, so you may have children yet… though you should probably lay off the whores until the bruising heals.”

  Jario struggled to find his footing. “Sorry? You’ll be sorry when I’m done with you. I’m going to stretch you on the rack and leave your body broken on the wheel.”

  Sir? Clark Pendragon planted his sword in the dirt and spread his arms towards the stands. “These people came here today to watch a fight, not to watch a spoiled duke cry and roll around in the mud. Are you going to disappoint them?”

  Stolk lowered his visor. “Axes! Fetch me axes!” he bellowed.

  A ten-year-old squire sprinted out onto the field holding axes and shook nervously as he approached Stolk. Stolk snatched the weapons from the boy’s hands and struck him hard across the face, leaving a three-inch cut. Jario threw away his shield, forcing his squire to chase after it as it rolled. Stolk ran at Pendragon, and his axe bounced off the old knight’s blade. They exchanged blows as Stolk swung and danced around the Dragon Knight, quick as lightning.

  He’s fast but careless, thought Pendragon, narrowly avoiding an axe strike. Pendragon brought down his black blade in a wide arc, but it was blocked by tempered steel. Stolk’s other weapon swung at his side and splintered the wood of Pendragon’s shield. The edge of the curved axe blade caught on the shield’s iron frame and with a sharp pull Pendragon yanked Stolk’s weapon from his hands. The axe twirled through the air before it embedded itself in the side of the stands with a heavy thunk. With only one weapon Jario didn’t stand a chance as the Dragon Knight’s green armor slammed into Jario’s purple. Pendragon made sure Stolk was disarmed before putting a foot on his chest. “I win,” he growled as he put his weight on Stolk’s chest, pushing him into the muck.

  “You haven’t won,” Stolk snapped through his visor. “Let me up and give me my weapon.”

  “I think not,” said Pendragon, silencing Stolk with a stomp.

  The crowd went wild upon seeing Stolk defeated and almost tore the stadium down when Jario was announced the victor. “You hit him below the belt,” said Sir Richard, the tournament’s judge. “That’s an instant disqualification.”

  “Well worth it,” Pendragon responded. “After all, what’s one loss amongst my countless victories?”

  “There is another matter. The Queen has demanded you meet her in the palace immediately,” said Sir Richard.

  Instantly Pendragon became uneasy. “Did she say why?”

  Sir Richard shook his head. “No. She commanded you come alone.”

  When the Amernians spoke of the late King Gabriel Roselock, they did so with a nostalgic sadness. Not because Gabriel was a perfect king, which he certainly wasn’t, but because he represented a youthful optimism which had since been eradicated in
the county. Gabriel’s rebellion, the Rose Rebellion, threw the Vaetorians out of Amernia and sent them fleeing back across the sea. As a peace offering, Vaetorian royalty gifted their fourteen-year-old daughter, Minerva Van Cann, in marriage.

  Twenty-five years later, Queen Minerva Roselock sat upon her throne, red fingernails impatiently tapping at her armrest. She was a pale woman, and although she retained her youthful beauty her eyes were tired and harsh. Her scarlet hair was done up in a heart-shaped bun and around her neck she wore a tight ruby choker that glistened in the light. To compliment the red in her hair and jewels she had chosen a low-cut dress which showed off the tense muscles in her neck and the gentle curves of her long angular body. She could not have picked an outfit that better evoked her nickname, Blood Queen. A harsh and brutal history of dealing with dissenters made the title all too accurate.

  “Blood Queen” had first been coined by her eldest son, Darius, who had murdered his father, Gabriel, and accused his own mother of the crime. Thousands had died in the resulting civil war. The loyalists’ infamous use of chemical weapons had left the northern tip of the country uninhabitable. They called the Amernian civil war the Green War because of the toxic fog that still remained. That had been ten years ago, and although the scars of war still ran deep in the kingdom, the Queen slept with relative ease knowing her position as Queen of Amernia was secure. While Darius lived he had been the greatest threat to her throne. Now none of the original Roselock bloodline survived. Minerva did not fear the dead.

  The Tarnished Palace never failed to impress Pendragon, and he nodded to the palace guards as he passed, smiling through a short white beard. He was as liked by the wealthy as he was admired by the poor, popularity enhanced by Pendragon’s lucky history of fighting with the victors in Amernia’s two most recent wars. In battle alongside Gabriel Roselock, Pendragon had helped earn his country’s freedom in the Rose Rebellion. Later he had fought for Minerva in the Green War to avenge the murder of his old friend and king.

  Her throne room hit his soft spot for extravagance. Columns—ornately carved with sculptures of dragons, basilisks, griffins, krakens, and half a hundred other monstrosities—supported a painted dome ceiling. The six gods of the ancients looked down upon Pendragon. What type of man prays to gods like these? He shuddered. Public worship of the old gods thrived in most parts of Archipelago but had never fully taken hold in Amernia. The old ones were notorious for being unpredictable and cruel. Many thought them dead, but not the wise.

  He lifted his dragon-faced visor and took off his white-plumed helmet. Then Pendragon unsheathed his sword of volcanite steel and fell to one knee. For the first time in ages Pendragon felt nervous. She didn’t haul you up here for anything good, old man. Better play it straight and mind your manners. Who knows how the years of power have changed her? he thought. His green eyes met the Queen’s feet as he spoke. “I, Sir Clark Pendragon, answer the call of the Queen of Amernia, as it is my—” He was cut off by fingers lightly touching the side of his face.

  “Hush, Pendragon,” said the Blood Queen. “You and I have known each other for so very long. There’s no need for formalities between friends.” She delicately pulled up Pendragon’s chin until their eyes met. “Rise,” she commanded. Pendragon obliged.

  The Blood Queen leaned forward and kissed Pendragon on both cheeks. Her kisses made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and his face tingle. “Come walk with me,” commanded the Queen, her voice so soft, so soothing, that had Pendragon not known her, he would have thought she was making a request.

  Pendragon stroked his beard. He was fond of beards as they hid much—including fear. “As you wish, my Queen.”

  At this she waved her finger back and forth disapprovingly. “Now, Clark, your queen has asked you to address her casually. Will you deny her what she desires?” The Queen wore a smile, but as Pendragon gazed into her eyes he saw she was being anything but friendly.

  “Of course not, Minerva,” said Pendragon, smiling that warm grandfatherly smile that so often softened people.

  “That’s much better,” said Minerva, returning his smile with a bigger one. “For a second there I was considering having you tortured.” Minerva let out a laugh as Pendragon stared back, dead-eyed. “A joke. It was a joke. Don’t worry, Clark, you’re far too valuable to torture.” The Queen laughed again.

  Hear that, old man? You’re still worth something to your country. She’s every bit as beautiful and as pragmatic as I remember, though power doesn’t seem to have helped her temperament, thought Pendragon.

  “Only kidding, only kidding, I swear,” said the Queen, holding back laughter, terribly amused with herself. “Come, now, let’s go for a walk,” she said, grabbing Pendragon by the hand. “There is something you just have to see out in the garden.”

  The royal garden was built into the upper levels of the palace, with a view overlooking the capital of Voskeer. Water surrounded Voskeer on three sides. To the south was the Mono Sea, to the east was the great Massapon River, and on the west side were the city docks connected to the Bay of Spice. Voskeer was a majestic place, its buildings constructed out of multicolored brick, their roofs covered with teal copper plating. Sunset made the city glow with a serene light that was warming even in winter.

  It wasn’t the knight’s first visit to the garden, yet he still found himself amazed by the collections of flowers and vines imported from all corners of Archipelago. A pair of yellow stone arches marked the garden’s entrance. They were connected by a trellis overgrown with vines. As the pair walked under it the vines blossomed into bright yellow flowers lined with purple teeth.

  “Snap lilies,” said the Queen as one of the flowers snapped a sprite from the air and assisted a neighboring lily in pulling it apart. “I had them imported from Azmire. They’re rather aggressive little things,” she continued as her pets finished eating the fairy. “Come this way, Clark. There’s something I need to show you,” said Minerva, leading Pendragon further into the garden.

  Standing side by side in the clearing were a pair of automatons. These living statues towered over Pendragon. Red light glowed through the cracks in their armor, which was plated with solid gold. Expressionless masks turned and stared at Pendragon with an unsettling blankness. “What kind of monsters are these?” asked Pendragon in awe as the giants clenched their fists. He inspected them, perplexed by a foe he knew could crush him in an instant.

  “Something I had my boy in the dungeon cook up,” smiled the Queen. “Took him five years. We call them sentinels. Bow low, Clark; the future stands before you. Do you recognize their armor, Clark?” Pendragon shook his head. “You should,” said the Queen. “Think back to the war, your battles in the dwarf capital off the coast…”

  Pendragon remembered. Prince Darius had rebelled with the support of the elf and dwarf bastions. Pendragon had led the siege against the dwarf capital of Morheim. Morheim, like most dwarf settlements, was located deep underground. Dwarven scientists had selected their best, their strongest, and alchemically mutated them into giants. It was a desperate strategy that was meant to make up for the dwarfs’ lack of numbers. This plan failed, as desperate plans often do, when the giants went feral and tore the city open from the inside. When weeks had passed without his seeing a dwarf, Pendragon had led a small regiment of men into the city. The canyonesque halls of the dwarfs were stained with blood, and they had found the golden-armored giants feasting upon the dead.

  I’m happier when I forget. Her victory, my curse. Pendragon snapped back to the present. “How did they get that armor?” he asked. He hadn’t liked the sight of the sentinels before, but he hated them now. “I thought the giants still controlled Morheim.”

  “Of course they do! But a queen has her ways. The armor is only a superficial feature. They aren’t alive, you see—well… not technically. That’s their strength. I don’t know if they can be killed, and if they can, certainly not by blade. They are powered by the souls of the dead… Oh, wipe that look of
f your face, old man. I didn’t have anyone killed to make them… well, at least not anyone who wasn’t already sentenced to die. At least now criminals, cretins, and other undesirables can finally serve their kingdom. I’ve been assured that they have no memory of their former lives and are completely obedient. Can you imagine what an army of these could do, Clark? With sentinels no one will ever be able to challenge Amernia again.” She smiled.

  “You want an army of these things?” asked Pendragon, uncomfortable.

  “No,” said Minerva. “At least not yet. These two are my new bodyguards. But I didn’t call you here to show off my new toys.”

  “And why did you call me here, Minerva? What can an old knight do for you?”

  The Queen smiled her pretty smile. “Quite a bit,” she said. “Knights improve with age, like a fine wine.” The Queen inhaled deeply and put her shoulders back, stretching her dress over her breasts tightly enough to reveal the hint of her nipples. It was a ploy to distract Pendragon, as the Queen knew all too well how to get men to do her bidding. It was not a ploy Pendragon would fall for, and his eyes did not leave hers.

  “One month from now Norfield is having its Yulander festival, which as usual will be headed by the ever-expanding Archduke Phineas Ashen. An attempt will be made on his life by a subhuman assassin.”

  “How do you know the assassin will be elfkin? Why not a human?” asked Pendragon apprehensively. Elfkin. She hates that I still call them that instead of “subhuman.” I’m sick of that vicious wartime slur she coined. “Sounds like you’re letting old fears get the better of you,” said Pendragon, instantly regretting his words.

  “I fear nothing,” snapped the Queen, her eyes flashing dangerously. “I know the subhumans are plotting something; they’re always plotting something. You are a man who has quite the history with their kind, don’t you, Elf Butcher? Surely you aren’t so senile you’ve forgotten your role in our little war? I’m sending you to guard the Archduke. Fifty of my best men are waiting outside the city. Tomorrow they will depart and you are going to lead them. If the elves have the Archduke’s head, I will have yours.” Her eyes narrowed and Pendragon felt her hate tearing into him. “But don’t worry,” said the Queen with a large smile. “I’m sure you’re capable of stopping one little assassin. It will all go well. Trust me.”