Kingslayer
Honor Raconteur
Raconteur House, TN
Published by Raconteur House
Manchester, TN
Printed in the USA through Ingram Distributing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
KINGSLAYER
A Raconteur House book/ published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Raconteur House mass-market edition/July 2013
Raconteur House ebook edition/July 2013
Copyright © 2013 by Honor Raconteur
Illustrated by Honor Raconteur
All rights reserved.
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Acknowledgements
Many thanks go to my brothers, Chris and Jarrett, who were the sources of awesome battle techniques and information on ancient warfare. I would have had to do a lot more research without their help.
Thanks go as well to my mother, Jane, whose constant enthusiasm for this story kept me motivated to write. Her sounding-board sessions were also very helpful as I tried to unravel what needed to happen.
And as always, thanks to my amazing editor Katie who keeps me on the straight and narrow and isn’t shy about telling me when I’ve messed up. Her honest criticisms polished this story to a shine.
The future is not the result of choices
among alternative paths offered by the present,
but a place that is created—
created first in the mind and the will,
created next in activity.
The future is not someplace we are going to,
but one we are creating.
The paths are not to be found—but made.
And the activity of making them
changes both the maker and the destination.
-John Schaar
Not a shadow stirred in the hallway. Darius strained his senses to their limit, alert to any hint of movement. But the soft breeze that fluttered through the open windows at the end of this hallway only carried the scents of flowing water and the sweet smell of jasmine. No sounds.
Good. He didn’t expect a patrol to come through here for another hour or so, giving him plenty of time to enact the second part of his plan.
Quietly, he stole through the opposite doorway, pushing the door open noiselessly. This room was an exact replica from the one he had just left—a gigantic bed dominated the center of the area, expensive rugs covered the floor, and floor-to-ceiling windows opened on either side to allow the cool night air through.
In the center of the bed lay Prince Baros, although he didn’t look like much of a prince with his fair hair tangled around his head and a leg sticking out over the edge of the bed. Apparently, the prince was not an elegant sleeper.
Darius strode directly to the bed and laid a hand against the prince’s shoulder, shaking him awake. “My Prince.”
With a start, Baros awoke, half-flailing as his eyes flew open. When he realized who leaned over him, relief flooded his features. Alarm followed just as quickly and he sat up more fully.
“General. What is amiss?”
Darius didn’t answer him immediately. He couldn’t. What he would say next was tantamount to a death sentence. But he had made his choice. He could not regret his actions, so it was not possible to regret the consequences. With a deep breath, he sought for the courage that had brought him through every campaign in his career to carry him through the next several hours. Strangely, he wished in that moment he wore the Brindisi uniform instead of these casual clothes. He also rather wished he had properly armed himself instead of just grabbing a dagger to kill the king with. Reporting death seemed wrong, somehow, when he was unarmed and out of uniform.
He sank to one knee next to the bed, and stared sightlessly at the thick carpet under him for a long moment before he could force his head back up. Moistening his lips, he opened his mouth and forced out the words.
”Prince Baros, I have come to report to you that the king is dead.”
The color drained from Baros’s face, as if the God of Death were draining life from him. “Gods preserve us. How?”
“I killed him.”
Baros stared at him for a long moment, as if Darius’s words didn’t make any sense. Maybe, for a moment, they didn’t. Then the reality sank in and his eyes closed in a gesture of understanding and resignation.
“Because of the oath you two exchanged? You killed him for breaking it?”
“Yes.” Darius didn’t know what else to say.
“Gods, Darius.” Baros raised his hands to rub roughly at his eyes. “I don’t suppose I can blame you, in a way. He swore to protect Brindisi…and yet his blind ambition and greed led to the capital being laid to waste. Because of that oath, you had every right to kill him, but…why by the gods are you reporting to me after you’ve done the deed?!” Baros abruptly sat up and grasped Darius by both shoulders, eyes begging for understanding. “Don’t you know that as the new king, I have to have you executed for this?”
“I know,” Darius assured him quietly. “But I am not above the law. Oath or not, I do not have the right to kill a king without consequences befalling me.” Taking in another breath, he stared into the prince’s wide eyes and prayed that this would be the last time he would have to say this. “Prince Baros, I have killed your father, the king. My last command to you as your mentor is this: Be a better king than he was. Do not repeat his mistakes.”
Baros had been his student for nearly five years. The pain on his face Darius well understood and it hurt his heart to know that he had caused it. But Baros proved that he had indeed learned everything he should. After a deep breath, he blinked away the tears standing in his eyes and ordered with a shaky breath, “Darius Bresalier, I order you to live. As the new king of this Sovran, I cannot stay my hand of execution. But as your friend, I can give you an hour’s head start. Go.”
Darius jerked back in surprise. “Baros, what are you saying? You can’t—”
“That man broke two oaths with you,” Baros interrupted harshly. “Both of which cost this Sovran dearly. He needed to be punished. Am I to ignore this? You taught me that justice crosses all boundaries of class and station, Darius. The world is not fair enough to always do this, but I can certainly try. Go, Darius. Live.”
He felt like he should argue, somehow, but Baros clearly meant the command. So he slowly gained his feet, heart pumping in renewed hope. But he couldn’t leave without saying one more thing.
“Long life, King Baros.”
Baros managed a smile, although it was bittersweet. “You too, my friend. May the gods open another path for you to walk upon.”
Darius bowed deeply one last time to his king, and then spun on his heel, melting back into the darkness.
“Clear the road! Make way!”
Darius winced as the guard jerked at the ropes binding his arms. The guard captain hadn’t taken any chances once
they’d managed to catch him. His hands were securely tied behind his back, a manacle around each foot that connected him to another guard, and he wore a heavy collar around his neck. Instead of just one or two guards as an escort, he had a whole squadron. In a way, it was rather flattering to think that his reputation among the people of this country was so fierce that they deemed it would take this much manpower and restraint to keep him from escaping.
Actually, he couldn’t pick a lock if his life depended on it. He knew that for a fact because his life did depend on it and he hadn’t a clue how to manage it.
While the guard walking point continued to bellow out orders to make way, the pedestrians on the street quickly darted to either side of the street. The buildings here were crowded in on each other; all made with the same white plaster and tiled roofs to reflect the strong rays of the sun. Not one building had a straight edge to it. They all had rounded walls, roofs in the shape of cones, with arched doorways and circular windows. It looked very different from the straight, in-line buildings of Brindisi.
Some were obviously shops as they had signs out front or wares on display; others could be small houses or restaurants although he didn’t smell much food here. Aside from fruit, water and bread, nothing edible could be seen for sale. But people seemed to fill every nook and cranny. They leaned out of windows, crowded around ware tables, and lingered in the shadows of overhead awnings. This was the main street of the capital city, so the number of people here came as no real surprise. They made a large crowd of spectators as Darius passed. Those that recognized him whispered to their neighbors, and rumor spread so quickly that the whole street knew in moments who he was.
The Kingslayer had been captured.
A smile teased at the corners of his mouth. The situation really wasn’t that funny, but the irony couldn’t be ignored. He had attacked this country for over a year, using every strategy and tactic he could think up in order to conquer it in the name of his king. And yet, now that he finally walked the main street of the capital of Niotan, he would give anything to escape it.
The gods did indeed have a strange sense of humor.
One of the guards noticed his smile and turned a heated glare on him. “Something funny, Kingslayer?”
“No,” he denied mildly. “I was just thinking that the gods are indeed fickle.”
The guard on his right side blinked at him in astonishment. Suspiciously, he asked, “You believe in the gods?”
“Only a fool doesn’t.” Darius answered in all sincerity, but he doubted that anyone around him actually believed him. Ah well. With a shrug, he let this go and focused on more important matters.
The five-man squad serving as his escort was not to be lightly dismissed. Every Niotanian had olive skin, but these men were much darker than the usual, silently testifying to how much time they spent on their training. Their black hair had been cropped short, barely finger-length, as most of the career soldiers tended to do. Darius’s eye quickly skimmed over the standard white shirts, baggy tan pants, and armored chest plates. It all looked well worn-in, bordering on shabby. Niotan didn’t have the resources to issue new equipment to her soldiers, he knew that, but this was a little worse than he’d expected.
Everything he saw said that this squad had a great deal of experience fighting and working together. Bound and weaponless as he was, it would take a miracle straight from the gods to get him out of this city alive.
Darius absently cursed the fact that he had been driven so far south. He’d fought from one end of Brindisi to the other, and because of his high status of general, most of the populace knew of him. When he’d left the capital, his first plan had been to head west, toward Askara Bay and get on a ship there. But someone had anticipated that idea and cut him short, forcing him to choose the only other open route. He’d fled south, with every intention of going through Hamms and getting on the first boat that left the main continent. He’d been aboard a caravan going south and working as a guard there to make enough money to pay for a ship’s fair. He’d thought that would give him enough of a credible cover to escape detection, as long as he’d kept his bright blond hair covered, but it hadn’t worked. An overly enthusiastic road guard in the Dakan Pass had caught him before he could quietly sneak away and over Hamms’ border.
In renewed aggravation, he sighed and thought to himself, I really, really shouldn’t have taken the road south. As dangerous as it was, crossing over the Songhor Mountains probably was a better idea than risking a visit to my former enemies.
His eyes caught a glimpse of the palace roof ahead. So they really were taking him straight to the queen, eh? Darius had never been in the city before, so this busy market street had meant nothing to him. But he’d seen the palace before from a distance, so he knew roughly what it looked like. From outside of the city, he had seen the white building sprawling out in every direction over a small hill, the blue roof tiles and the green, extravagant gardens inside of its walls making a picturesque view. Some part of his mind idly wondered if a closer inspection would dash any illusions his imagination had conjured up.
The majority of his attention had only one question: what would the queen do with him?
They turned onto another street and the main gates to the palace abruptly appeared before them. The walls were indeed white, but they were not painted that way, as he’d always suspected. Instead, they were formed from a sparkling white sand that had been hardened into a smooth surface. The blue roof was formed from tiles, no bigger than the size of his spread hand, overlapping each other. His eyes roamed over the guards that stood at intervals along the top of the wall, and the sentries that stood at attention in front of the very massive iron gates. No one looked bored, or like they were simply going through the motions. Was it because of his appearance?
He certainly got many a curious look, but it never lasted for more than a few seconds before the soldiers turned their attention back to what they were doing. The commander in him nodded in approval. Yes, that was the quality of soldier he had fought against for over a year.
The large iron gates did not move, but a smaller version to the left was opened to permit him entrance. His escort did not slow in their pace, so he could only give his surroundings a cursory look. The palace had large, open windows and doors on each of the five levels with little pots of flowers and flowing water fountains in every available space. In this arid land where the sun could bake a man alive, the cool stone of the palace and the openness of it would keep away the worst of the heat. He already felt cooler and he wasn’t even properly inside yet, just under the shading of a connecting roof.
Here, the staff gave him longer looks as he passed. They always flattened their backs to the wall, partially to give the party room to pass through, but as soon as he passed, he could hear whispers in his wake. Darius made a personal bet with himself that the queen would know he was coming before he even entered the throne room.
When he finally did reach the throne room, long minutes later, it did not hold the crowd of curious onlookers that he’d half-expected. Instead, the long room only had a few people standing at the very front, near the dais where the throne sat. The room was lined with tall glass doors on both sides, but no one apparently dared to stand there and try to eavesdrop. Darius’s forehead twitched in a brief frown. A private audience? For what purpose? There were only two other people in the room, and by the look of them, they were the queen’s personal aides.
Upon the dais lounged a woman that he had never met but certainly knew. Queen Tresea of Niotan was every bit as beautiful as rumor made her out to be. Her long, dark hair draped artfully along one shoulder, setting off unusually pale skin. She did not possess the cute, dainty look that Brindisi preferred, but instead had very striking, angular features. She wore the deep purple of royalty, although in this heat her long dress had no sleeves and she wore a simple belt around her waist instead of any connecting fur robe. Her dark eyes watched him intently as he was dragged to within a few feet of her an
d shoved down to his knees.
Darius felt like the year of running had finally caught up with him. Paranoid tension had kept him going so long that when it disappeared, he felt only exhaustion. Muscles he hadn’t known were rigid began to unlock, and his body sagged. The coolness of the stone floor seeped into aching legs, offering relief. For the first time in memory, his mind didn’t spin in mad circles, constantly weighing and suspecting everything around him. It felt…peaceful…in his own mind. He had known this day would come. No man could escape the entire might of the Sovran forever. He just found it humorous that it was an enemy of the Sovran that had caught him instead.
Bound, kneeling before a queen whom he had hounded for a straight year, he should have been anxious. Or at least a little worried. Instead, a strange sense of relief filled him. It was over. His mad escape from Brindisi’s justice was over.
“That is a very calm expression on your face, General Darius Bresalier,” she observed. Her tone was idle, but her eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. “Are you not worried?”
“I knew what the punishment would be, Your Most High Majesty,” he answered respectfully. “I have had a year to resign myself to my fate. I cannot complain.”
She gave a low, musical hum of approval. “Well said. I have heard many reports on what you did but never once did I believe I could have the full tale.” She leaned forward, causing the silk pillows behind her to slide in every direction. “Kingslayer, tell me. Why did you kill your king?”
She had a reputation for seeking amusement in every way possible. Darius had no doubt that she asked simply to satisfy her curiosity. But he was tired. Also hungry, sunburned, and filthy after weeks on the road, but mostly tired. Tired of recounting that night in his head, tired of hearing that question posed around him, tired of everything. He shook his head wearily. “What does it matter? I killed him. Choose whatever version of the story that you like best and believe in that.”
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