Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  That’s it. Keep on, you bastard.

  Everitt, with sword in hand, pushed himself up from the trunk. A look of acceptance came over his face. He scanned the forest around him. Concluding that his spot was the most defensible, he motioned his men to join him. He switched his sword to his left hand, so as to place his right fist over his heart.

  “For Marland,” Symon heard his Right Captain whisper.

  You are not done yet, my friend. Just stay as you are...

  Everitt, always the hero, began to beat his chest. The thumping drew the attention of the Lewmarians. Soon, the knight was spewing his own incoherent war cry, as were the Marlish around him.

  Konradt, a tad impressed, urged the Marlish forward. Everitt, perhaps wanting his last moments to lead to a glorious death, answered the taunt. He emerged from the tree line, racing straight for the warlord.

  Bloody hell. We move now.

  From under the matted brush by his side, Symon lifted a crossbow. He fired a bolt straight at the largest Lewmarian in range. The one closest to him, only feet away, swung around. By then it was too late. Symon had jumped to his feet and planted the tip of his dagger just under the base of the man’s chin. Blood spewed from his mouth. Symon pulled the blade from his victim, allowing the fresh corpse to fall.

  Konradt turned his full attention to Symon. Symon raised his helm’s visor so the enemy could see his eyes. And so that he could fully see Konradt’s.

  The orbs of the warlord were a deep, dark blue. Almost black. Brilliant and fierce. Staring into them, Symon felt as though he was looking into the soul of a wild beast, one without fear of death, let alone man.

  The rest of the Lewmarians stared on as well. As did Everitt. And those Marlish still at the tree line. Suspended in their movements they were, with time having slowed to a trot, every moment languid.

  Now. This has to happen now.

  Symon kneeled. He reached over to his left side, pulling his sword from under the cover of a length of moss. He raised the blade above his head, the polished metal glinting in the light of the late morning.

  From all around the Lewmarians, the dead rose. Fallen knights grabbed crossbows from their own hiding spots and fired. Many more bolts joined them from the cover of brush and earthen mounds. The projectiles streamed in on the barbaric horde, with steel-tips piercing leather armor and animal skins alike.

  Everitt dove to the ground. He, along with the other Marlish, frantically crawled from the line of fire. Some of the Lewmarians tried to follow suit but their hesitation cost them dearly. With their comrades they fell as Konradt looked on.

  Symon, seeing his opportunity, reloaded with expert skill. He lifted his crossbow and aimed. He fired at Konradt.

  The warlord scarcely had time to react. Had one of Kondradt’s own men not crossed his path, the bolt would have found its mark, a fact that did not go unnoticed by him.

  Among his injured and dying army, Konradt pointed his broadsword at Symon. He uttered a primal war cry and charged.

  The scream from their commander inspired the rest of the Lewmarians. Even the bloody and broken raised their weapons as high as their limbs would allow before rushing towards every Marlish soldier in sight.

  The Marlish dropped their crossbows to reach for their weapons. The pole-men grabbed their halberds from under cover while the pavisers reached for their poleaxes. The light cavalrymen armed themselves with their short swords and spears while the knights picked up their broadswords and shields. All the Marlish collected in small units, bracing themselves for the onslaught that was to come.

  The Lewmarians crashed into the soldiers in haphazard fashion, their ranks having fanned out in all directions. They sliced and swung at the Marlish men-at-arms, their attacks as wild as their eyes. Their battleaxes and swords battered steel armor and shields. For their part, the Marlish remained firm. The Marlish held steady, their training apparent with every blow they deflected and counterattack they made. The Lewmarians had scarcely spent the better part of their energy before Symon noticed his forces were driving them back, propelling their wide circle of troops further in, the lines of their warriors contracting.

  All except for Konradt. The warlord, along with his retinue, made quick work of the first line of Marlish that met him on the field of battle. With sweeping strokes of his broadsword the Marlish had little recourse but to scatter and retreat. The second line – the only one between him and Symon – endured his wrath as well. Only those men met a bloodier fate, one that stirred Symon to his core.

  Symon marched forward. A Lewmarian spotted his approach and blitzed forward. Symon’s blade met the combatant’s not once but twice, before finding the weak spot in his armor, in the left shoulder. The man grimaced, arching his neck as though inviting a fatal blow. Symon complied.

  Two more Lewmarians rushed forward. They spread out and descended on Symon at once. Symon, though, was prepared. His training at the castle had included scenarios uncommon in fencing yet normal in battle: two-or-three-on-one, fighting with one’s back to a corner or battling left-handed. This charge proved no different in start or result. Symon, seeing the hubris in the men’s faces, responded with a lesson all his own. His blade met that of the right assailant, then the one to his left. Each blow well-placed and powerful, much more than the Lewmarians expected. Symon took advantage of their momentary shock. He plunged his sword in the crevice of the right assailant’s belly, where the man’s short leather tasset had been flapping wildly. The man used borrowed leather armor, Symon considered. Ill-fitted it was, a poor choice.

  The assailant to his left responded with a cry and an overhead stroke. This one overextends himself, Symon thought as he stepped out of the way. The man stumbled forward, allowing Symon the moment to pull his sword from the other’s stomach. As that man fell, the left assailant regained his composure, swung around and lunged at Symon.

  Blade danced off blade as steel sung with steel. Symon quickly realized the Lewmarian was far from a novice. He lunged and swung at every opening Symon had to offer: his groin, his shoulders and knees, and most importantly, his visor. However, though strong, the Lewmarian’s moves were predictable. With one overextended lunge, Symon stepped aside and swung his sword in a wide arch, the latter half of his blade spilling open the Lewmarian’s throat.

  The third assailant dropped to his knees before falling face forward into the dirt. That left Symon with one challenger.

  Konradt.

  The warlord spat on the ground and pointed the tip of his broadsword at Symon, all the while screaming incoherent curses. Symon, undeterred by his words or motions, continued forward, each step faster than the one before until he broke out into a full charge.

  Sword met sword. Again. Again. Then Again. The strikes were fierce. Neither swordsman allowed an opportunity for mistake.

  Perhaps seconds went by. Or minutes. Symon was not sure. While the grasp of time evaded him, the appreciation of his surroundings did not. The field of battle had shrunk, with a ring of corpses strewn about the edge of the forest and into the neighboring meadow from whence it had started. The engagement had grown more intimate, as one enemy crashed into another, each trying the drive the other back. At some point he heard his Right Captain yell, “Defend your Prince,” as he saw a glimpse of Everitt before a slew of Lewmarians came between the knight and himself. Yet with every passing moment, the tide favored the Marlish, who managed to encircle the Lewmarians.

  In reaching back to raise his sword, Symon grazed a Lewmarian behind him. The warrior turned, fuming, but had no chance to respond as the Marlish he was fighting slit his throat. Symon, seeing his movements restricted, gripped the center of his blade to begin half-swording.

  In doing so, Symon saw something in the warlord he had not hoped for - a grin.

  This cannot possibly bode well, he thought.

  Konradt, acknowledging the close quarters, took to half-swording as well. The two of them circled for a bit before Konradt made the first move. The tip of his sw
ord snapped at the crease of Symon’s left shoulder. Symon deflected it, just barely. In doing so, he felt the power behind the warlord’s lunge. He fought off another advance, then a third, all the while mindful of how well Konradt was closing the gap between them.

  The last lunge was little more than a feint. Symon deflected it, then found the bulk of the warlord before him, as Konradt shoved the length of the sword toward his neck. Symon, struggling against the momentum, took a few steps back before his retreat was hampered by the trunk of a pine.

  The warlord pressured his blade forward. Symon, his blade crossing Konradt’s held his own.

  Then warlord relented his pressure, only long enough for Symon to see his left fist - wrapped in a steel gauntlet – draw back and slam into Symon’s helm.

  Vibrations rang through Symon’s head. His vision blurred. His mind clouded. He fell to one knee.

  A burst of light fell upon his eyes as he visor flew open. Symon blinked, furious and desperate, as his sight returned just in time to see the tip of Konradt’s sword.

  With his gauntlet extended Symon tried to stop the blade. He nearly succeeded, as his steel-encased hand wrapped around the steel shaft inches from his eyes. Yet the blade wiggled through his grip. It advanced forward into the helm.

  Symon turned his head. A surge of pain erupted on his cheek, just under his left eye. Symon grimaced as the warlord shrieked, his war cry rising to an ear-piercing pitch.

  Symon opened his eyes. He could see. Though the cut was close, it had not blinded him. It had, however, made him mad.

  His fingers gripped the blade tighter than ever before. He dropped his sword, thus freeing his other hand. Now both wrapped around Konradt’s broadsword as Symon rose, his footing once again secure.

  Konradt, seeing his advantage spent, spat in Symon’s face. He fingers clenched his sword with renewed vigor. With that, both men began their dance.

  Push answered push. The two swayed and leaned in all directions. Both bore their teeth, as sweat soon dotted their brows. From beyond Konradt, Symon could see several of the fighters - both Lewmarians and Marlish - throw glances their way, even as they continued to battle.

  Konradt shifted his weight, throwing his momentum toward Symon. Symon staggered back, bracing himself against the additional force. The two paused, neither giving an inch as they stood locked in place.

  Symon searched the whole of Konradt for an opening, a flaw he could exploit. He found none.

  Though wearing his gauntlets, Symon’s hands grew weary, as the continuous gripping took its toll on his strength. His thighs and calves burned. His arms and back ached with each shove and pull.

  Dear Mar, Symon prayed. Dear Mar...

  Symon looked past Konradt once more. Suddenly, those soldiers in battle he had admired closely, in what seemed only moments before, fought in the distance.

  He glanced to his sides. The two had fought their way deeper into the woods. Where Symon expected to find soldiers, he saw trees.

  The earth beneath him had changed too. He could feel the crunch of twigs and tree needles under his boots, along with the rise and depressions of the uneven ground.

  The patch of dirt behind him slanted upward unexpectedly. Symon’s knee buckled for a moment. Konradt, seeing his opportunity, shoved the sword forward.

  Symon, though, regained his composure. He stepped back in quick succession, his hands still firmly around the broadsword.

  Konradt, now, stumbled forward, his momentum having the better of him.

  That’s it, Symon thought. Let’s finish this.

  Symon back-stepped further up the rise. He pulled the sword, and Konradt with it. Then, as the rise leveled, he threw himself into Konradt.

  The warlord buckled and fell back. Symon, with sword in hand, drew his arms in close as he rolled over Konradt. The two trundled onto the forest floor. Symon gave the sword a heavy yank. It collapsed into his chest, finally breaking free.

  Symon hurried to his feet. As did Konradt, who searched the forest floor. Seeing him temporarily thrown off guard, Symon tightened his grip around the sword. In the course of the grappling, the broadsword had spun around, so that the hilt was upright and the blade pointed downward. Just as Symon wanted.

  He bent the hilt toward Konradt. He swung the sword in a wide arc, in much the way one would expect a barbarian to swing a club. But with Symon, there was more purpose and precision to the application of his force. And instead of an aged piece of hardwood serving as the point of impact, there was the hilt – the cross guard, grip and pommel – careening toward its victim.

  With a strong and definitive thwack, metal crunched upon cartilage. Symon watched Konradt’s legs go out from under him, his head craned back as a spiral of blood etched the air above. Slow and glorious the sight appeared, one that would have satisfied the most seasoned of warriors. Still, Symon, not wanting to take chances, readied the broadsword for another blow.

  Konradt collapsed to the forest floor with a mighty thud. Blood gushed from his nostrils as his limbs laid out spread-eagle, seemingly lifeless. His eyes, however, conveyed a different reality. One not of pain, but rage.

  The warlord lifted his head, seemingly able to rise and fight until the death.

  Then, with another act of accuracy, the hilt came upon his face again.

  More streams of blood ran wild from his nose. His limbs laid limp. But this time, the wrath of his eyes quieted, as his eyelids shut.

  Symon stood over him. He lifted the visor of his helm to gather a proper look.

  The warlord’s face was a mess. His chest struggled to heave. Symon, wanting to ensure it wasn’t a ruse, nudged his legs and hands with his sword. He even went so far as to point it into his neck, driving the tip in until blood trickled. Nonetheless, the warlord remained limp. Convinced that the warlord was unconscious, Symon pondered his next move.

  Do I end him? For all of the Marlish he has killed? My countrymen. So many. How many more would he have killed had my men and I not stopped him? Hundreds? Thousands?

  The rustle of pine needles beneath boots broke Symon’s concentration. He gripped his sword once more.

  Everitt, his breastplate splattered with blood, rushed forward. Seeing Konradt on the ground, and Symon in defensive stance, he slowed.

  “Sire,” he said, panting. “Your Highness. It’s me.”

  With the edge of his battle lust waning, Symon eased his disposition and softened his stare. Everitt, looked over his shoulder, nodding to that behind him.

  “We won, my Prince. The battle is ours.”

  Symon looked past his Right Captain to spot the remaining Lewmarians encircled by Marlish, who outnumbered the standing enemy five to one. Reluctantly, the adversaries dropped their weapons as the Marlish men-at-arms closed in.

  “Well done, Captain,” Symon offered.

  “You as well,” Everitt said as he looked to the warlord and sheathed his sword.

  “I was fortunate, that was all.”

  “You were fortunate? With all due respect, Your Highness, those Marlish bolts provided quite the close shave.”

  Symon raised his brow, surprised by Everitt’s candor. “I said that I was going to join the others at the battlefield, to take my place among them. And rest.”

  “In a dead man’s armor?”

  “It worked, did it not?”

  Everitt, both relieved and exasperated, relented. “All I ask is for a little more... clarification. Next time. Your Highness.”

  “Of course,” Symon assured as he handed him the broadsword before turning back to Konradt. “Now gather some men. We need to secure this one. He has a long journey back to Arcporte with us.”

  Chapter 6

  The aroma of crisp bacon and eggs never made for something so foul.

  “Blah, get that wretched stuff away from me.”

  Symon leaned on his elbow, his head splitting in pain, seemingly from all sides. He coasted down back onto his pillow, the pressure relenting for a moment.

 
; “I was afraid I made that truth serum too strong.”

  Symon, awakening from the fog of a long sleep, cracked open his eyes. The late morning sun shone brightly from the conical opening above, painting the Fourpointe Chamber in bright light. He squinted at the yellow pastel walls as his eyes adjusted. The whole of the process was abruptly halted though by the breakfast plate shoved in his face.

  “The smell will fade as it cools. You still need to eat. So eat.”

  Gerry laid the plate on the end table by the couch. He made his way back to the brazier, where an iron skillet rested on top of hot coals.

  “Must you do that here?” Symon asked.

  “What did you eat on the campaign?”

  “My rations. Dried biscuits, jerked beef.”

  “And last night? At the banquet?”

  “Wine and mutton, I suppose.”

  “Then, yes, I must do this here. Eat.”

  Symon sat up, ignoring the aches from his head as he reached for the plate and fork. Though the scent still curled his stomach, he choked down the food as Gerry watched.

  “Better?” Gerry inquired.

  “I suppose,” Symon lied.

  Gerry set a stein on the end table. Symon glanced at it before giving Gerry a look.

  “It’s just good old-fashioned tea. I promise,” Gerry assured him.

  “Thank you.”

  “That was quite a tale you told last night.”

  “Impressed?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your antics were... brazen.”

  “I won. I thought that was the point of my mission to the Upper East Waterlands.”

  “You could have been a little more careful.”

  Symon stood. For all he’d endured, he was in no mood for a lecture. “You heard all about my exploits, what I thought, why I did what I had to do. I was decisive. I acted. I earned my men’s trust and admiration. No less would have been expected by any of the name Saliswater.”

  “It’s just... I admit you showed valor, but...”

  “But what?!”

  “Your victories are sometimes too much to follow.”