The Imperial Metals, Book One
Within the Hollow Crown
by Daniel Antoniazzi
Copyright 2013
Cover art by Raymond Minnaar, copyright 2013.
Map by Pheobe Boynton, copyright 2013.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. And hilarious.
All events described in this book actually happened. Just not on our world.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Disclaimer
Special Thanks
Very Special Thanks
Dedication
Map
Quote
Prologue: The Unique King
Book 1: Relics Lost
Chapter 1: The Toll at the Bridge
Chapter 2: Nothing But Steel
Chapter 3: A Glorious Quest Worthy of a Librarian
Chapter 4: Things To Talk About When Dining With The Count
Chapter 5: The Demographically Challenged
Chapter 6: Sarah
Chapter 7: The Trade Commission of Taverns and Inns
Chapter 8: Triangles
Chapter 9: A Noble In Name Only
Chapter 10: Alumnus
Chapter 11: Love Letters
Chapter 12: Bad Poetry
Book 2: Kings Slain
Chapter 13: Attack of the Turin-Sen
Chapter 14: An Uninvited Guest at the Wedding
Chapter 15: A Pirate in Name Only
Chapter 16: Knowledgeable Birds
Chapter 17: Alone
Chapter 18: A Man Of Habit
Chapter 19: The Regicide
Chapter 20: A Match Made In A Match Factory
Chapter 21: The World Crumbles
Chapter 22: The Gathering Tide
Chapter 23: Magic
Chapter 24: Under the Old Oak Tree
Chapter 25: The Wanderer
Chapter 26: The Line of Kings
Chapter 27: Is Dead
Book 3: Dreams Deferred
Chapter 28: Heart Beats
Chapter 29: Nobles, Ancestors, and Loyalties
Chapter 30: Really Good Salmon
Chapter 31: The Road to Recovery
Chapter 32: Things You Can’t Unsay
Chapter 33: Learning to Teach
Chapter 34: Over the Years
Chapter 35: The Lair of the Beast
Chapter 36: The End of the Lesson
Chapter 37: The Edge of the World
Chapter 38: Doctor’s Orders
Chapter 39: The Send-Off
Chapter 40: Threats Abroad
Chapter 41: The March
Book 4: Realms Uncharted
Chapter 42: Memory of Betrayal
Chapter 43: A History of Drentar
Chapter 44: Homecoming
Chapter 45: Unforgotten Memories
Chapter 46: A Moot Point
Chapter 47: Planning Ahead
Chapter 48: The Reasons
Chapter 49: Darkness
Chapter 50: Bedroom Politics
Chapter 51: Another Path
Chapter 52: Off the Map
Chapter 53: Men of the Kingdom
Chapter 54: Problem Number One
Chapter 55: The Worth of a Man
Book 5: Sights Unseen
Chapter 56: Insectus Jareld
Chapter 57: A Volunteer
Chapter 58: Language Barrier
Chapter 59: Farsight
Chapter 60: Injury Report
Chapter 61: The Gate
Chapter 62: Descendants
Chapter 63: Practice
Chapter 64: Twenty-Seven
Chapter 65: A Silence of Choice
Chapter 66: The Plank
Chapter 67: The Sacrifice
Chapter 68: The Words You Learn First
Chapter 69: Eternity
Chapter 70: The Duel
Chapter 71: Attack on the Queen
Chapter 72: Eye-Patch
Book 6: Darkness Braved
Chapter 73: The Numbers
Chapter 74: Overhead
Chapter 75: Heart of a Noble
Chapter 76: Tapestries
Chapter 77: Battle of the Turin-Sen
Chapter 78: The New Assignments
Chapter 79: Memories and Dreams
Chapter 80: Incoming
Chapter 81: Fighting Time
Chapter 82: The Lost King
Chapter 83: The Last Tactic
Chapter 84: The Writing on the Wall
Chapter 85: The Refugees
Chapter 86: Devesant
Book 7: Futures Forged
Chapter 87: The Siege
Chapter 88: The Eye of the Storm
Chapter 89: The Battle of Deliem
Chapter 90: The Unity Treaty
Chapter 91: Dark Magic
Chapter 92: The Toll at the Docks
Epilogue: The Tower at Goldmere
Coming Soon
Footnotes
Special Thanks to...
My Mom, Dad, and favorite sister (Irene) for believing in the book nonstop, even when the smart money was pointing the other way.
Irene, again, for finding the title.
Bobby Brimmer, for going first and proving there was nothing to fear. You can find his writing at his website.
Raymond Minnaar, for the cover art. Find more of his art at his website.
Pheobe Boynton, for the map. Find more of her art and costume design at her website.
And Kristen Eaton, for liking the part with the juggling.
And a Very Special Thanks to...
Paul Loester, Jon Lum, Evan Piccarillo, Kevin Sheldon, and Sloane Yavarkovsky for being inspiring characters.
Dedicated to my Mom and Dad.
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Richard II
William Shakespeare
Prologue: The Unique King
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the wind in your hair as you fall from the North Tower of the Castle Anuen.
There’s also nothing quite like the abrupt, sickening thud that inevitably follows.
There had been many assassinations in the history of the Kingdom of Rone, but this one differed from all the others in three important ways. First of all, there had never been an attempt on the King’s life. Previous assassinations had targeted Dukes, Counts, Barons, and the occasional Yodeler, but nobody had ever been so ambitious as to off the King.
Second, none of the assassinations had been the result of defenestration. This particular detail would make the scholars very happy, since they had been forced to learn the meaning of the word “defenestration” but never had an opportunity to use it.
And finally, the motive behind the assassination was unique. In all previous assassinations in the Kingdom, the motive involved moving s
omeone up the line of succession. In the case of King Vincent Rone, it was exactly the opposite.
King Vincent was a passable King, but certainly his death would play a bigger part in his legacy than anything he had done in life. Even then, his untimely and unique demise would only amount to a footnote in the history books. Because when the story is all told, it is about another King entirely, and about a sword called the Saintskeep.
But that comes later. To truly understand the scope of this event, we must begin our story three months earlier in the County of Arwall, in the southeast corner of the Kingdom of Rone…
Book 1
Relics Lost
Chapter 1: The Toll at the Bridge
The land of Arwall was known for very little besides its mud. Just as those in the northern tundra had developed over a hundred words for snow, so had the Arwalls coined more than thirty words for mud. “If there was a market for red-dirt,” Lord Kelliwick had once said in a speech, “We would certainly have cornered it. And just as certainly, we would be trading it all for a pair of dry socks.”
Lord Kelliwick was a favored Baron in the Arwall region for his honest disposition, his disarming sense of humor, and most importantly, his inability to levy taxes effectively. Count Arwall had spent a considerable amount of time editing a tax code for his County, and most of the Barons were able to provide the appropriate income. Lord Kelliwick, however, was somehow incompetent, and always came up short.
“I’m very bad at math,” Kelliwick had explained to the Count, “Also, it’s hard to get to everyone; there’s so much slurve.”
It was the slurve and the tax code that Jareld had to deal with on a drizzling Thursday in March. Jareld was not from Arwall, and so he only had one word for mud. He was one assignment short of graduating from the Towers of Seneca, the most prestigious academy in the Kingdom. At the age of seventeen, he would be the youngest man to do so.
“Stop there,” said the bridge attendant, a rotund man named Carl. “I’m afraid there’s a toll for the use of this bridge.”
Jareld and his travel companion, Thor, stopped their horses. Thor was from a place called Maethran, where they had a considerable number of words for chicken. Thor was several years younger than Jareld, and also a scholar at the Towers. But where Jareld was accepted based on merit, Thor was probably enrolled as a result of the generous contributions from his father. It’s not that Thor was spoiled. It’s just that the phrase Thor the Scholar was an oxymoron.
The Academy had a rule about sending their scholars out into the real world. They always sent them in twos. It wasn’t that they hoped that two of them would be able to defeat ruffians where one of them couldn’t, but it was in the hope that at least one of them would get away to report the death of the other.
“How much?” Jareld asked.
“Well, I can’t say just yet. I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Are they easy ones?” Thor asked.
Carl looked up at Thor, disgusted at the puerile joke, and also slightly offended, as though being a bridge attendant wasn’t good enough for Thor. But when Carl saw Thor’s face, he realized that the man was serious, and actually wanted to know how difficult the questions would be.
Carl sighed, took out a parchment, and read from it.
“Are you carrying any weapons?”
“No,” Jareld answered.
“Are you carrying any expensive items?” Carl asked.
“We each have one of these,” Jareld said, holding his hand down from his horse to show Carl. “It’s a Signet Ring from the Towers of Seneca, showing that we are scholars of the Academy.”
“Scholars, eh?” Carl said, scratching his head, “Interesting…”
“So, how much do we-” Jareld started.
“Not just yet,” Carl interjected, “Still have some questions. What is your purpose in our fine land of Arwall?”
“Well, we think there’s a cave,” Jareld said, “About four miles north of the shore and two miles east of your western-most border.”
“Well, there are many caves,” Carl said. “But at this time of year, those caves are full of worm-glue.”
“Worm what?” Jareld asked.
“If you want some dryer and, dare I say, nicer caves, you could try up near Johnstown.”
“No,” Jareld said, “You don’t understand: We need to get to that specific cave. We believe that Sir Dorn, the last of the League of the Owl, went there when King James II died, one hundred and forty years ago, and--”
“So, the purpose of your trip is recreational?” Carl asked.
“Well, no, it’s exploratory, or for research.”
“Ex-plor-a-tor-y,” Carl sounded out, while misspelling it on his parchment.
“So, how much do we owe you?” Jareld was getting tired of the drizzle, and his horse was getting stuck in the turcle.
“Well, exploratory fees, plus the rings…carry the two…horses, unarmed…about three kilos of luggage… Neither of you has ever committed a crime, or spent any time in a jail in Arwall in the last three years, have you?”
Both Jareld and Thor felt they could answer the question with an indignant stare. They had spent their formidable years reading large texts, translating books, learning languages, astronomy, mathematics, savoir-faire, and being sent to their room for mispronouncing the Galbosian word for turnip, which many believe is impossible for a non-native speaker. The idea of committing a crime was ludicrous to them, and they each hoped that his frown was enough to show this to Carl.
“Alright then,” Carl said, “Looks like you owe one silver farthing.”
“One silver…” Jareld started. “One silver farthing. That’s it?”
“Well, to be honest,” Carl said, “I’ve never been good with numbers. But Lord Kelliwick said I should never charge less than a silver farthing.”
Jareld dismounted, the turcle getting all over his boots and the bottom of his leggings. “Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the parchment from Carl.
“What’s your name?” Jareld said after pondering over the tax code.
“Carl.”
“Well, Carl, let me show you something: See this, this is the left bracket, all fees are taken from this column. And see on the bottom, those are the adjustments. So, two adult men, two horses…see the letters in red…OK, and then there’s the unarmed adjustment…no criminal record…and I would say, seriously, that we have almost four kilos in luggage…OK, plus the adjustments…Are you following this?… The adjustments for the time of year…and you have…seven ducats and four farthings.”
Carl took the parchment back from Jareld and looked it over in wonder, as if he had just discovered that there was writing on it at all.
“But,” Jareld added, “As a scholar from the Towers of Seneca, I have a fee for instructional sessions. As it turns out, your fee for a tax code today is seven ducats and three farthings, so…”
Thor flipped a silver farthing to Carl.
“Don’t let anyone make a fool of you, Carl,” Jareld said as he got back on his horse. “And take care.”
Jareld and Thor trotted their horses across the bridge. Carl looked over the tax code again, a smile growing on his face.
“May your boots be dry,” Carl called after the two scholars. It was an Arwall expression to wish travelers a good journey. Carl wiped the turcle off his boots, which he thought was really becoming more of a splishle, and returned to his post.
Chapter 2: Nothing But Steel
If you took the very same bridge as Jareld and Thor west instead of east, then covered the fifty-three kilometers of the north highway across Ralsean, then swung south by way of the Deliem River, and went down to the coast of Deliem, you would be where Lady Vye was that very moment.
If you were thirty-one klicks north of where Lady Vye was at that moment, you would be where Lady Vye wanted to be at that very moment: In her bed.
Instead, she was in the well-groomed courtyard of Rutherford Manor, nervously keeping her hand
on the hilt of her sword. Rutherford Manor was the home of the Baron Harold Rutherford, the most inbred, generally incompetent, irritating member of the Deliem Nobility. Vye didn’t think she could recall the number of times he had screwed the County of Deliem, but this was the third time in a year, and it was getting on Vye’s nerves.
Some of Rutherford’s transgressions could be chalked up to him being dumb. He once called Lord Fatroud, Lord Fart-Loud, even though Lord Fatroud did not pronounce the “d” at the end of his name. He had burned down the windmill in Dagos during a festival. He even accidentally declared war on a neighboring County during a tour of the Royal Gardens. He was, in a word, a mess.
But most of time, and the reason Vye had so little patience for the hapless Baron, he was causing problems with his penis. Vye was thankful that she had never seen, touched, or otherwise interacted with said member. But nonetheless, a lot of her life recently had been dedicated to helping Harold keep it in his pants.
Harold’s ability to offend anyone within earshot often led to put off Maids and Wenches, but it was the Lady Marisa Endior that was the most common problem for Rutherford.
Vye supposed she was pretty enough, in that gangly, redheaded, fifteen-year-old sort of way. But for whatever reason, she was the apple of Harold Rutherford’s eye. If he could have written poetry, no doubt she would be his muse. If he could speak in complete sentences, no doubt he would have actually talked to her.
Instead, he tended to make clumsy, aggressive passes at the wily, young woman. Vye wasn’t worried about Marisa. She could take care of herself, and even if she couldn’t, Vye doubted Rutherford had the wits to actually get what he wanted from her. But it was Marisa’s father that was the problem.
Lord Endior prized only two things: A 2nd Place Archery Trophy from the 3rd Annual King’s Tournament given to his grandfather by the King’s grandfather, and his daughter’s virginity. There were many young Ladies in the Court that Rutherford could have targeted with less protective fathers. But, naturally, Harold had chosen her.
Within the Hollow Crown Page 1
