Sins of a Sovereignty (Amernia Fallen Book 1)

by Plague Jack

  The long silence was broken by Kaevin. “Fuck it. Let him live or I quit.”

  “You are in no position to blackmail anyone, Kaevin,” hissed the judge. “But given the circumstances it seems that Clark Pendragon has won the right to live.” The crowd went into an uproar, some voices yelling their support, others shouting for blood, all voices angry. “Silence!” shouted the judge, banging his gauntlet against the podium.

  Pendragon looked over at Evrill, who was smiling with gentle relief. “You have a few more years yet,” said Shrike playfully. “And you’re welcome.”

  “Your crimes, Pendragon, are forgiven but not forgotten. From this point on you are property of the Wild Hunt.” The judge removed his mask, revealing the handsomely chiseled jaw and short sandy blond hair of an elf in his early thirties. “And property of me…”

  “Pendragon, meet Salus,” said Pierah as Salus left his podium, vanishing between the gnarled legs of the Nemesis statue.

  That’s Salus? thought Pendragon. Hardly what I was expecting, but there always has been something about the vigor of youth to inspire men. But I am not his property. I will not pledge myself to him sincerely—not yet.

  The gilnoid Mordigan approached the table and banged a clawed hand in front of Pendragon. “Get up and follow. Salus wants to talk now, in his chambers.”

  “Go. We can handle ourselves,” said Shrike as the crowd began to disperse with an echo that reverberated off the walls of the hall. Guards kept the mob away from the travelers’ table, the unarmed elfkin peering with curiosity now rather than resentment.

  “I trust that you will,” said Pendragon, who was about to deliver a thank-you before Mordigan again claimed his attention.

  “We must go,” said Mordigan. “Salus does not like to wait.”

  “Very well,” said Pendragon as he picked his helm up off from the table and followed the gilnoid’s hulking figure up the podium’s stairs. The stairs and railing were black and twisted, as if they had been melted by flame before cooling. The passageway under the Nemesis statue lay before them, dark and ominous. The only light came from the occasional oil lamps which infrequently lit the hall.

  “Dragon goes first,” said Mordigan. “I follow behind.” The gilnoid wore a massive two- handed maul over his green cloak, and Pendragon got the feeling he was itching to use it. The stairs spiraled upward and became increasingly difficult to climb with every step, a fact not helped by the heavy plate mail he wore. So we’re above ground, thought Pendragon, noticing a window recently walled off and mortared. When they reached the entrance to Salus’s chambers, Mordigan spoke. “I wait here. You go in alone.”

  The door frame was ragged, as if it had been a wall that had recently been smashed down and had a door jammed into it. Pendragon knocked. When there was no reply he pushed the heavy chunk of wood forward, and it groaned heavily across the floor as he entered.

  The room’s ceiling was high and domed, its walls lined with musty books that had been scavenged from postwar Capricorn. Along the far wall was a regal and inviting feather bed, and above it hung a portrait of the Elf King Harendiir. As always, he scowled, and a crown carved from oak perched upon his bald head, held in place by pointed ears. The chamber had once had windows, but they had been walled up to keep the Nixus out. Salus sat in a high-backed chair beside a tank filled with swirling fish that glowed red, casting the room in a flickering light. “We had to wall off the fireplace to keep the gas out,” said Salus, “but the fish provide much the same effect as flame.” He had changed from his judge’s robes and now wore a light tunic and pants. For an elf, Salus was huge, and although shorter than Pendragon he must have weighed almost as much in muscle. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a metal-framed chair opposite him.

  He wants your obedience, and your loyalty, thought Pendragon. But Gabriel was the only man worthy of either. Play your part old man, but watch him closely. The Dragon Knight took a seat and placed his helmet on the floor. His sword hand still shook. “Why have you let me live?”

  Salus let out a long and hard laugh. “You were never in any real risk of dying. What good would your death do?”

  Pendragon shrugged. “Justice? Revenge? The right to parade my head on a stick?”

  “No, that’s what Phineas is for.” Salus smiled. “Pierah told you I wanted your blood spilt, didn’t she?” asked the elf, filling two cups of wine and handing one to Pendragon, who accepted it with his stable hand. “A word of advice—never trust that one. She’s pretty, but she’s a wildcat. The pretty ones always are, aren’t they? But it is the Wild Hunt, so she fits right in. The trial was our little way of appeasing the Huntsmen. It had to be proven to them that you deserved to live… You aren’t exactly their favorite figure.”

  “A ploy to manipulate the masses? I can’t complain if it keeps me alive.” Pendragon paused, swirling the purple wine around in his glass. “What is it you want, Salus?”

  “What do I want?” Salus repeated before drinking heavily and refilling his glass. “I want peace without the price of oppression. I want for my kind to be able to achieve something better than they had yesterday. We cannot do that in this country, and, unfortunately, there are those in power who want nothing more than to keep us beaten so they can grow fat on our sweat.”

  “Is that why you killed Phineas first, then?” asked Pendragon. “He was hardly the cruelest noble.”

  “No… that title goes to Jario Stolk. I heard you walloped him good at a tourney recently—thank you for that. He’s someone we’ve got our eye on, to be sure. I don’t want to kill all humans, Pendragon, although many of my Huntsmen do. I find this thought foolish and futile.”

  Or you’re willing to keep humans alive if they serve you, thought Pendragon. Whether or not Salus believed the things he was saying, Pendragon couldn’t tell. “Clearly you don’t want us all dead,” he said. “But I still don’t understand why you killed Phineas. His death resulted in the worst slaughter of elfkin since the war.”

  Salus frowned and looked down into his cup. “Phineas controlled Norfield, which had been teetering on anarchy since the war. Phineas, while the royal treasurer, was also in charge of managing the crops and harvest. The flatlands surrounding Norfield are responsible for sixty percent of Amernia’s harvest. That’s why Norfield is such an important target. If you control Norfield, you control the food. It’s as simple as that. We had hoped the destabilization of Norfield would prompt a rebellion. It didn’t go according to plan.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Pendragon. “How were a bunch of half-beaten, starved, and plagued elfkin going to storm the Ribcage without organized military support?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Salus. “It was a mistake, but that’s the way things go when you’re fighting a war. You know how it is.”

  “All too well,” said Pendragon. So the Queen’s at war, then; I wonder if she even knows?

  “I am a mortal enemy of stagnation,” said Salus dryly. “And Queen Roselock is allowing just that. I want to usher in a new era for Amernia and erase the scars left from centuries of brutality. But I can’t do it alone, Clark; I need good men backing me, good men who’ve lived long enough to understand this world and all its dark corners. Will you help me?”

  Too many allegiances in my lifetime. My father, Gabriel, Minerva, and now Salus. “If it will help right my wrongs, I will give you my sword,” lied Pendragon. Better he believe what he wants to.

  “I don’t need your blade,” said Salus. “We have plenty of men around here who are more than ready to kill for me. No, what I need from you is a bit more complicated. You served with Duke Prosper Quintero, did you not?”

  “Quintero is someone I had hoped I was done with,” said Pendragon. “He’s a cold-hearted, greedy tyrant.”

  “Yes, yes, he is,” said Salus matter-of-factly. “But he’s a fellow malcontent and might be willing to aid our cause. I don’t need to tell you why his support is needed, do I?”

  He didn’
t. Quintero’s fleet was the largest in Amernia, half of it consisting of Vaetorian dreadnoughts stolen during the Rose Rebellion. “His fleet is big enough to take on the Queen’s. If you have his support, taking Voskeer would be easy.”

  Salus smiled. “See, Clark, this is why I need you. Yes, I hope to take Voskeer when the time comes, but not yet.”

  “And then what? You’ll appoint yourself King of Amernia?”

  “I don’t plan on it,” said the elf. “Men such as I are better as soldiers than rulers. I imagine when all this is over I’ll retire to the countryside and hopefully live a life of peace.”

  “It’s never that easy,” said Pendragon. “Trust me.”

  Again Salus laughed, something he did often. “You said you would do everything you could to help right your wrongs. I need you at the Talon. We cannot win this fight without Quintero, and you’re the best bet we have at changing his mind.”

  “No one changes Quintero’s mind. The most that I’ll be able to do is provide some motivation.”

  “Then motivate him.”

  Once again Pendragon found himself standing at a crossroads, and as always the wrong choice meant death. People are going to die no matter what I do. Maybe that’s just my destiny. Pendragon’s hand stopped shaking. “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent!” said Salus, beaming. “I’ll have your horse saddled and readied tomorrow morning. You’ll be given food, a fresh gas mask, and enough coin to travel comfortably.”

  “There is one condition,” Pendragon added.

  “And what’s that?” asked Salus with a raised eyebrow.

  “When the time comes to take Voskeer, I don’t want to see Minerva harmed or killed. She may be a tyrant but she does not deserve death.”

  “Deal!” said Salus as they shook on it.

  Chapter 7

  Your poison will kill me soon, father, but truth be told I was never fit to inherit your throne. I was always the weaker sibling. The child who could save your kingdom, you sold to Amernia.

  —Eric Van Cann

  “Queen Roselock!” said Sir Richard. “We’ve found the bastard!”

  The Queen raised a plucked brow. Sitting on her throne, she was clad in a golden dress, her scarlet hair held back with a peacock-feathered hairpin. “Bring him in,” she commanded. Norfield needs a new ruler, and it needs one fast. The longer Blake sits in the Ribcage the faster dissent will grow and more terrorists flock to the Wild Hunt’s side, thought Minerva.

  The late Great Phineas Ashen had been rumored to have fathered a bastard, long before he ate himself into immobility. The Jester House Courier Company, which in Shrike’s absence was now run by Margot Braddock, had recently tracked down the lost Ashen, who was supposedly living right in the capital. At the far end of the great hall, the doors opened and a pair of guards dragged a portly man by the arms. He was thrown at the foot of the Queen’s throne, where he spat blood onto the stone.

  “I present to you Peter Ashen,” said Sir Richard, “bastard of Phineas Ashen.”

  “Let him up,” ordered the Queen, and her guards pulled their spears away from the fat man’s neck. He groaned as he pushed himself off the ground and stuck his chest out proudly, straining the buttons on his brown leather vest.

  “Fat Peter knew the whore would want him again. Fat Peter’s whores always do!” said Fat Peter before Sir Richard struck the fish salesmen in the kidney with his pommel. “Ummph!” groaned Fat Peter as he fell to the ground. “And her boyfriend’s here as well. Fat Peter wonders if the knight would be so bold were his girly boyfriends not here?” snapped Peter, taunting the other guardsmen.

  Is this a joke? thought Minerva, trying to suppress an improper giggle. Of all the people in Amernia, this fool is heir to Norfield? “Are you sure this is Phineas’s spawn?” she asked the new spymaster, who stood proudly to the left of the throne in front of a watchful sentinel. Braddock was a plumping gray-haired woman who dressed plainly and drew little attention to herself. She walked up to the throne and handed the papers to the Queen almost lazily. “So it is true,” said the Queen as she looked them over. “You are a great man after all, Peter Ashen.”

  “The name’s Fat Peter!” said Fat Peter.

  “So I’ve gathered,” responded the Queen. “Tell me why you are so desperate to incorporate ‘Fat’ into your name? It’s hardly a flattering attribute.”

  “Because Fat Peter is fat,” said the man with a shrug. “He eats a lot because he is always hungry. It’s in his nature.”

  “Always hungry? A trait most likely inherited from your father… Did you know you were of noble blood, Peter?”

  “Aye,” Fat Peter spat. “He sent my mother gold when I was young—gold enough to keep her mouth shut. Fat Peter never knew his father.” There was a hint of sadness in the man’s voice.

  “Probably for the best,” said the Queen. “He was a difficult man to know. You’re in line to inherit his title and lands.”

  Fat Peter stood up as straight as a board and put on his most serious face. “Fat Peter would be an honest and fair ruler. Give him his father’s lands and he will see to it that no pointy-arrow-eared subhuman ever sets foot in them again!”

  “No. You are not fit to rule,” said the Queen. At this Fat Peter’s expression sank. “But I may have use for you yet.” This perked him up. “The palace kitchens are always in need of cooks. Would you work there for me, Peter?”

  “Of course he will!” exclaimed Fat Peter, his eyes wide. “Fat Peter will cook a banquet of food for every meal of the day! He will prepare rows of steamed anemone stuffed with shrimp and buttered with coconut oil! He will make cakes that tremble underneath the weight of their own frosting! I promise the royal whore will never hunger again!” At the word whore Sir Richard raised his sword to strike, but a shake of the Queen’s head commanded otherwise.

  “Peter,” said the Queen. “If you ever call me a whore again I will have your hands cut off and your tongue cut out. I have one question for you, before Sir Richard escorts you to the kitchen. Why do you refer to yourself in the third person?”

  Fat Peter laughed. “So they never forget who he is.”

  “Does that work?”

  The man shrugged. “You remembered.”

  “There was a time when you would have had his guts pulled out for speaking to you that way,” Margot Braddock said later as they walked through the tunnels to the Queen’s gallery. “What stopped you?”

  Minerva shrugged. “If truth be told, I admired his spirit. But he’s also nobility. Who knows what use I might have for him in the future?”

  “It’s his blood that worries me. Bastards that think they have a right to their fathers’ lands have, historically, always been a problem. Just look at the darkie who’s let his kind overrun the Talon. Perhaps it would be wiser to dispose of him,” Braddock suggested with a smile.

  “That will not be necessary,” said the Queen. “Fat Peter will be kept close enough that he won’t be able to scratch his nose without us noticing.”

  “Very well,” said Braddock hesitantly. “There have been reports of elfkin congregating outside Norfield late at night. By the time guards arrive to investigate, they’ve already fled. From the very few captured members of the Wild Hunt we’ve interrogated, their location has been pinpointed to what’s left of Capricorn. From there it’s anticipated they will launch an attack on Norfield. Arterius Blake has requested reinforcements to defend the city.”

  “How many?” asked the Queen, raising an eyebrow.

  “Two hundred.”

  “Then give him two hundred and fifty,” responded the Queen. “I’m not worried about Norfield being taken, but it’s better to be prepared. No one has even come close to taking Norfield. After the Green War the walls were reinforced with repeating ballistas. They would have better luck taking Voskeer.”

  “And what about their hellions? Norfield might not stand against the fury of a hellion-backed army.”

  “Eldred was working on something to
deal with her,” said the Queen. “I’ll check with him to see how his latest project is coming along. He does love to take his time,” said the Queen. “And speaking of which, how goes the processing of the Van Canns’ bodyguards?”

  “The one they call Reginald has confessed to spying for King Van Cann. The others still maintain their innocence,” said Braddock.

  “Then have them all killed in secret, and have their clothes burnt. No one can know they were here. If Bridget Van Cann asks, tell her I’ve had them hidden. If she inquires further do not hesitate to remind her of her place.”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Braddock. “Your mother has, so far at least, behaved herself very well. The washerwomen speak highly of her, and Eldred’s potions have already healed her arrow wound.”

  “As expected. See to it I don’t ever have to look at her.”

  “It will be done,” said Braddock as she approached the sentinel-guarded stairway to the Queen’s gallery. “There’s also the matter of the girl—”

  “Do not trouble yourself with her,” snapped Minerva. “She is mine to deal with.” The Queen’s eyes met Braddock’s. Is that disdain I see in there?

  “Very well,” said Braddock with a nod.

  “You are dismissed, Margot,” said the Queen, steely-eyed. She’s hardly as good as Shrike, she thought as her new spymaster left the abandoned halls. “Follow,” the Queen instructed the sentinels as she took the first stair. Going down was always less painful than going up. It had been a long day filled with boring aristocratic squabbles. Come to think of it, she thought as the sentinels activated the clockwork lock to her gallery, dealing with Fat Peter was arguably the highlight of my day. The golden doors opened with a whoosh as stale air collided with fresh.