by Rex Jameson
“And the ransom was paid to Mallory?” King Aethis asked.
Theodore nodded.
“If the raids were along the King’s Road,” Prince Ragnar said, “then that’s royal property. We are not obligated to respond?”
“No,” Theodore said. “Technically, the raids took place while the caravans were resting off the road. Each of the raids has happened on Vossen’s land. Whenever he sends a mounted force, the forests are empty.”
“Quite vexing,” Jurgen said.
“Terribly,” Theodore agreed. “By the laws of the land, we are not allowed to interfere in business between lords on their own lands. Of course, my King may decide to intercede if he likes.”
“Do we know the source of this animosity?” Aethis asked. “These men have been longtime allies. Both came to the aid of Lord Croft at Dragonpaw and Hell’s Edge, along with my sons Magnus and Ragnar.”
“The Vossen family is not entirely close to the Mallories,” Jurgen said. “They have refused to marry their sons and daughters with the Mallories for centuries.”
“Why?” Aethis asked.
“Who knows?” Jurgen asked rhetorically.
“150 years ago,” Theodore said, “Lord Jaxar Mallory had a young lord killed in the Vossen clan for insulting his daughter. She was apparently very plain, and this young man was the object of her affection and very disinterested. The Vossens had a revenge killing or two with lower court members sympathetic to the Mallories, but they lost another Vossen son trying to kill the daughter for causing the dispute. The blood feud died, but the hatred continues.”
“But they fight together against the orcs?” Aethis asked. “A common enemy unites them.”
“The blood feud is dead,” Theodore said, “but the Vossen’s still use the story as an educational tool in the upbringing of children. They do not intermarry because they are taught to hate the Mallories.”
“Seems petty after 150 years,” Aethis said.
“Does it?” Jurgen asked. “Giving how the Mallories are forcing the Vossens to make two tax payments?”
“What kicked off this latest feud?” Aethis asked.
“The latest orcish incursion was apparently the source of the dispute,” Theodore said. “Mallory claims that Vossen owes him for passage and back pay for food and shelter through his lands. Vossen claims he was responding to the King’s call to fight the orcish invasion, and no such levy should be made. He claims the King’s coffers should pay for the tolls and levies.”
“So, Mallory is collecting the tax from Vossen through banditry?” Aethis asked.
“Not officially,” Theodore said, “and to reveal that we know this would reveal my sources. I advise caution in publicly accusing Lord Mallory.”
“I’m the King,” Aethis said. “If I felt there were wrongs here, I would do more than accuse.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Theodore said, nodding deferentially.
“How exposed are we to open warfare within our ranks?” Aethis asked.
“Vossen won’t move against Mallory until he has proof,” Theodore said, “but from what I’m hearing from my spies, that is the only thing stopping retribution. For now, Vossen is willing to bide his time.”
“Have Lord Croft or Crayton declared?” Aethis asked.
“My spies in either hold have been silent on Vossen and Mallory,” Theodore said. “Crayton discusses only the weather and harvests. He does not appear at all interested in the activities of the southern lords, and they have not attempted any communication with him. Croft worries about orcish attacks and the activities of the wood elves.”
“What does he have against the wood elves?” Magnus asked. “They were most helpful to Croft in breaking the siege of Dragonpaw. Their five hundred archers kept the orcs at bay.”
“And now, they harass his wooden walls with warning shots,” Theodore said.
“Why would they be firing at Croft?”
“A perceived slight,” Jurgen said. “Croft and the King’s men chopped down about twenty acres of trees from the forests west of Nylelthalas. They needed the timber for walls and arrows.”
“And this forest was in the elven lands?” Aethis asked.
“Disputed,” Jurgen said, “but never with any force from our side. We’ve always considered it their land. The problem comes from the fact that the elves did not protest the cutting at the time. Apparently, they assumed we would replant.”
“How much will it cost?” Aethis asked.
“5,000 gold pieces if we were to supply maples or some other common tree. Probably six months of labor for one to two hundred peasants. Fifty guards should do, in case orcs make incursions.”
“The problem is,” Theodore Crowe said, “they don’t want maples. The original trees were ancient and the wood elves claim they were magical and communicated with the Creator. They claim each tree will have to be replanted from seeds of a fae tree of Nylelthalas, Felsari, or Yla Aiqua.”
“Which are sacred to them,” Aethis said, realizing the issue. “They would never allow humans to get too close.”
“Correct, My King,” Theodore said. “The elves consider the trees that were cut down invaluable. Priceless. They claim it will take them hundreds of years to recultivate. They claim they did not protest because they were in shock.”
“What do they want?” Aethis asked.
“An apology,” Jurgen said, “and the promise that the forest will never be touched again.”
The King grumbled. “Does this have to be in person?”
“That would require you getting close to the fae trees,” Jurgen said, smiling, “and you’re human. One of your only faults.”
“The elves are such bizarre creatures,” Magnus complained. “I’ll never understand them.”
“You only need to understand that they are loyal allies,” Aethis said, “until they’re not. These kinds of slights can fester and erode an alliance. Being a king is all about the details.”
“Some say a poor king,” Jurgen said, nodding in agreement, “cannot see the forest for the trees. I say a wise king must see the forest but also appreciate the trees. Literally so, in this case.”
Aethis smiled at Jurgen, acknowledging the compliment.
“Have an apology ready for me,” he said, “and I’ll sign. Make sure it is spread to Croft and the southern lords so such a situation is not repeated.”
“Understood,” Jurgen said. “Most excellent!”
“And offer them a thousand saplings to be planted as they see fit,” Aethis said. “Obviously not in this section of the forest, but we leave it to their discretion. Also, remove our dispute from the land. If they have been taking care of it, then I officially recognize that their claim is valid. That should remove any obscurity with who owns the land.”
“How shall I mark the transaction, My Lord?” Jurgen asked, opening a ledger he had kept in the folds of his orange robe.
“Recompense for the siege relief at Dragonpaw,” Aethis said. He nodded to his son Magnus so that he might pay attention to the wording and the reasoning. Magnus was next in line to the throne.
“What of the necromancer?” young Olaf asked. He was outgrowing his small tiger fur shoulders. Soon, he might have to trade out for the large male tiger furs that his father and two brothers wore. He was the youngest of Aethis’s children, some five years younger than Cassandra.
“Any chance he’s a ploy of Vossen or Mallory?” King Aethis asked.
“If so,” Theodore said, “then they are playing their cards close to their chest on that one.”
“Likelihood of that?” Aethis asked.
“Slim to none,” Theodore said.
“Why?” Magnus asked. “If Mallory is willing to openly defy peace by paying bandits to steal from Lord Vossen, would it not be within reason to suspect Mallory might fabricate such a story to further impugn Vossen’s character to the King?”
“The necromancer, if he exists, appeared in Perketh, which is in Mallory’s lands,” T
heodore said. “The only person who might be impugned here is Mallory.”
“And Vossen is incapable of doing such a thing to Mallory?” Magnus asked.
Theodore seemed to ponder the possibility for a moment, scratching the stubble on his face. “All men have their breaking points. Still, necromancy is too taboo a subject. I expect Vossen’s retribution to be very direct. Nothing about his character points to this kind of deviousness. Mallory, perhaps, but not Vossen.”
“So,” Aethis said, “The necromancer is either the figment of the imagination of some jumpy villagers or a real man that even the dark elves fear to have on their flanks.”
Theodore nodded. “Still, even if he is real, we have only one report of a grave disturbed. It’s possible this was a grieving widow, as the villagers claimed, who stole her husband’s body and was burned for it. Or it could be a vendetta against this man, a smith’s apprentice, for some deal gone bad, by claiming he is undead to tarnish his name and get his wife killed. At best, you have lost a loyal subject over a witch hunt, which happens. At worst, you have a single necromancer with a single corpse. This is hardly the stuff of legend. It is likely a low game by meaningless players.”
Jurgen nodded in agreement. “The last known necromancers were documented during the fall of Ul Tyrion, which casts its shadow upon Kingarth, over a thousand years ago. The elves say the number of undead summoned there was beyond counting. Legends are always exaggerated, but I see no reason to make a huge fuss about this lone man or woman. There is only risk in acknowledging modern necromancy publicly. No reward. From the report of Mr. Crowe, we need less anxiety in the south, not more.”
King Aethis nodded as he paced along the stone steps near a large wooden table with red and gold cloth tapestries of knights on tigers fighting huge orcs with giant axes and swords.
“How much is the supposed debt between Vossen and Mallory?”
“A year ago,” Theodore said, “the claim was 1,000 gold. Now? Mallory claims 1,500 to 2,000 in his council chambers.”
King Aethis tapped Jurgen on the shoulder. “Pay Mallory 1,000 gold. Make it clear that it is for the transport of troops through his lands for the orcish sieges. This should resolve the issue.”
“Quite so,” Jurgen agreed. “With you claiming the debt, Mallory will have no recourse but to drop his banditry and accept the debt is no longer Vossen’s. Any additional claim above the 1,000 would need to be taken directly to your court, which he will not do for it would imply that he believes you did not value his services correctly.”
“I believe it will calm the situation,” Theodore agreed. “He will swallow his pride and move on to other things.”
“It is settled then,” King Aethis said, putting his arm around Magnus and walking alongside him as they left the room. He pulled his son to the wall beside the door and motioned for Magnus to listen for ongoing conversations inside as they exited.
“Are you still going to search for the necromancer?” Jurgen asked Theodore as Ragnar and Olaf followed their father through the doorway, falling in line farther down the wall from their oldest brother and the King.
“He gave me a direct order in front of the nobles,” Theodore said. “To appease the dark elves, I must do so, and I must be clumsier than usual so word reaches the necessary people.”
Jurgen chuckled as he hobbled after Aethis. “Poor spymaster!”
Aethis nodded to Jurgen and Theodore as his spymaster closed the door and locked it.
“I promise I will let you get back to the shadows as soon as I can,” Aethis said.
Theodore grumbled but smiled good-naturedly as he strode quickly across the court and down the hallway to the stairs that led to the main gate. Aethis knew that Theodore was aware of his eavesdropping and the lessons he was imparting to his children. It was part of a game they had played thousands of times over the years.
6
Gazing Upon Our Lord
Ashton woke to a migraine and a hangover. Sunlight reflected off a polished surface beneath him. His first thought was not that he didn’t know where he was. The more he wakened, the more he remembered he was still in Alefast. His first thought was relief that he couldn’t remember dreaming.
Riley had been haunting him even before he and Clayton had found her in the main square in Perketh. Now, she sometimes invaded his waking thoughts. He had been hiding from her memory ever since. Inebriation seemed to be the only thing working anymore.
The soft thud of wooden mugs being restacked forced Ashton to lift his head.
“You know,” the innkeeper Brian of the Laughing Barmaid said, “when you told me you wanted a room for two weeks, I expected you’d be sleeping in your room.”
Ashton groaned. He blinked repeatedly as the sun assaulted him through the nearby glass windows.
“Now that the two weeks is up,” the innkeeper said, “I feel it’s best to give you some advice while you’re sober. You’re a young man. Whatever you’re running from, whatever has happened, life moves on. No one, not even a man as young and strong as you might think you are, can survive long in this world on ale and bad thoughts.”
Ashton’s shoulders hung low. He nodded as he rubbed his face.
“You could die,” the innkeeper added.
“Am I still paid up for the day?” Ashton asked.
Brian nodded.
“So I can have another mug?” Ashton asked.
Brian subtly shook his head, as if in disappointment, and then nodded.
“It’s just to make the headache go away,” Ashton grumbled. “After that, I’ll leave.”
“Is your friend still waiting on you outside?” Brian asked.
“You know about Clayton?”
“The whole town knows about Clayton,” Brian said. “Once you get past your third ale, you won’t shut up about him.”
“What’ve I said about him?”
“Trained with you as a blacksmith in Perketh. Married a beautiful girl. That kind of stuff.”
Ashton grunted and pointed toward a mug along the wall behind Brian. The innkeeper nodded and slapped the polished wooden bar, which caused Ashton to wince in pain from the migraine. Brian moved the mug under one of the three casks behind him, unplugged the container, and the sound of liquid hitting wood filled the hall.
Ashton breathed deeply, taking in the slightly sour smells of barley mixed with nearby grasses. The fragrance had been unpleasant when he first arrived in Alefast, but now, it brightened his morning. Definitely an acquired taste.
“So, I guess I’ve told you about Riley then?”
“Who’s Riley?” Brian asked cordially, laying the brimming mug down in front of him. “Is she your girl?”
Ashton shook his head.
“So, I’ve talked constantly about Clayton…”
“Constantly,” Brian agreed.
“But in all the nights I’ve been here, I haven’t mentioned Riley?”
Brian shrugged. “Not by name.”
Ashton nursed the mug in his hands and leaned over it until his nose almost touched the liquid. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, so powerfully that the churn in the froth hit his nose. The pressure behind his eyes shifted, and the migraine ebbed.
“She was Clayton’s wife,” Ashton said.
“Oh?”
“She died,” Ashton said before taking his first sip. The beverage was bitter but familiar. He immediately felt better.
“Is that why your friend is sleeping in the streets?” Brian asked. “Is he punishing himself?”
Ashton panicked as he realized that he should have had a cover story for this. He had been so engrossed with his own melancholy at raising his friend from the grave, then also being the source of Clayton’s wife’s death, that he had focused on the task of forgetting his troubles. He had simply wanted to be anonymous for a while and immerse himself in oblivion. No one should have to explain themselves in oblivion.
“You tell your friend to come in here,” Brian said. “You tell him that he can s
tay tonight for free.”
“No, we need to be going anyway. I—”
“What kind of friend lets his friend stay outside in the cold?”
“You don’t understand,” Ashton said. “He’s…”
Ashton stumbled over and explanation. He almost said undead. Thankfully, his brain worked just well enough to hold the thought back from his lips. He gulped a third of the mug and kept it between his hands.
“He’s what?” Brian asked, gripping the counter and peering at Ashton intently.
“He’s mourning,” Ashton said simply. “He doesn’t want to be around people. He wants to suffer.”
“Hasn’t he suffered enough?” Brian asked. “Losing his wife?”
“It’s a phase,” Ashton said. “He’ll pull through it.”
He drank another third of his ale.
“You’re right though,” Ashton said. “This has to stop. Him sitting outside… Me being in here drinking…”
He looked down at the remaining liquid as he swirled it around his mug. The pressure in his skull had faded enough that he felt he could rise from his oaken bar stool.
“I don’t think I need this anymore,” Ashton said.
He put the mug down and stepped away a bit too quickly. He grabbed onto the bar to steady himself, and Brian raised an eyebrow. Ashton backed away.
“Until we meet again,” Ashton said.
He exchanged a short acknowledgement nod with the bartender. Ashton turned toward the exit, crossed the hall and pushed the heavy door outward. The day bombarded him with warmth and overwhelming light. He covered his eyes with a dirty hand. He smelled his stained brown gray tunic and realized he needed a major change in scenery and attire.
He found Clayton three streets over, sitting in the shade of a building. Unlike Ashton’s alcohol-soaked clothing, Clayton smelled of flowers and soap. He must have bathed in a nearby creek or maybe even King’s Lake.
Clayton groaned as he got to his feet.
“It’s time to go,” Ashton said.
