Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  My Volkmar is poor, Gerry remembered. Dawkin already spoke to him rather fluently. If I were to try to talk, to hold a conversation, Konradt will find me out. Best to limit my speech.

  “Greetings,” Gerry repeated in Volkmar, hoping that his second attempt would rouse a reply from his captive. Konradt looked on, prompting Gerry to shift and consider another attempt.

  “Are you well?” he asked, instantly regretting it. “What I mean to say is, can you speak? Have you fallen victim to a cough, an illness, that prevents you from talking? If so, nod.”

  Konradt made no motion.

  “I came to discuss a possible...” Damn it, what is that word in Volkmar? “... peace. Our guests, the Ibians, are concerned with your presence. Peace would be in our mutual interests.”

  Gerry paused. The last utterance had stretched his limited knowledge of the Volkmar language, and he doubted that he spoke it as well as Dawkin could. Nonetheless, the deed was done. The proposal was made. Now all he had to do was wait.

  Minutes passed between the two with nary a word. Did I mispronounce that much? Gerry pondered. No, it cannot be. He merely seeks to intimidate me. Perhaps he seeks better conditions for him and his men? Ha! I will not oblige.

  Time ticked onward. Gerry, nervous as he was, paced. Konradt remained in place.

  Why doesn’t he speak? Say something? Anything?

  “I can have some wine or ale brought down, if that will loosen your tongue. Or mayhaps some hard cheese and bread?”

  His lips stayed closed.

  “Come now, what have you to say? I tore myself away from my princely duties as a gesture of goodwill.”

  His feet did not move.

  “You must desire something? Peace? To return home? Or war? More land? Gold? My head?”

  His eyes, of cobalt, twitched not.

  “Answer me! What do you want?!”

  Even his breathing paused.

  “I know!” shouted one prisoner from the pitch down the hall. “I want you to shut up!”

  A few chuckles followed. Gerry, sensing himself losing control of his nerve, withdrew from the cell. He straddled the shadows at the far wall, watching Konradt, who remained bathed in the light of the moon.

  “This is a waste of time,” Gerry muttered to himself. He shot a furtive glance at Konradt before moving toward the exit.

  “If you gave up this easily on the Chesa, it would be you in a cell.”

  Gerry halted. Stepping back to the cell, he found Konradt before the bars, having crossed his pen with nary a sound.

  “You speak... Marlish?” Gerry asked as he approached.

  “Your Volkmar has deteriorated since your last visit. Pity. You showed promise.”

  “Volkmar is not common around these parts.”

  “And yet you managed to speak it so much better only days prior. Why?”

  “I did not come here to talk language,” Gerry replied, purposefully changing the subject.

  “No. You came to discuss death. You seek to know who killed your father.”

  How did he know? “You overheard the guards?”

  “No. I have other means of learning.”

  Gerry cocked his head, puzzled.

  “Your bells,” Konradt offered, not waiting for Gerry to ask. “They tolled.”

  “Right.”

  “So, my dear Prince of Marland.” Konradt leaned his forearms on the bars. “What answers do you seek?”

  “Did the Ibians send you?” Gerry blurted.

  Konradt threw his head back and laughed. “You dare to suggest that I would work with those bastards? What with their lace and frilly shirts, their thin moustaches and little swords.”

  “Then who?”

  “No one ‘sent us.’ We are Volkmar. We answer to no foreigner.”

  “But you have allies? Do you not?”

  “Aww, a better question. Finally, after such drab talk, you begin to interest me.”

  “Are any here in Marland?”

  Konradt smirked. “You have foxes here. On your shores. And abroad.”

  “Who? Who are they?”

  “We have conspired with a few. But you ask too much, young prince. Or should I say too little too late.”

  “Stop with the riddles!” Gerry demanded. He stepped up to the bars, to point at the warlord. “Give me answers!”

  With deft hands, Konradt reached between the bars to grab the prince by his collar. Gerry, having stepped too close in his frustration, jettisoned forward. He braced himself against the iron bars as Konradt pulled him near.

  “You’ll have your answers, you spoiled princess. In due time. So long as you are keen enough to open your eyes to what lies before you. Everything you seek, all the enemies you attempt to uncover, are in plain sight. The fact that you cannot identify them and have to come to me for help is pathetic. But also entertaining. Hearing of your failures and watching your guards pace with worry almost makes me want to stay in this dungeon just so I can see you fail.”

  Gerry flinched as Konradt gritted his teeth. The gray and brown daggers of the warlord were but an inch from the prince. Gerry averted his gaze. Too close, he thought. He could rip the flesh from my face.

  “Fear,” Konradt observed.

  Gerry, shuddering, remained quiet. Konradt released Gerry.

  “You’re not the man I fought on the Chesa.”

  Gerry looked at the warlord as he stepped back. Konradt leaned his forearms against the bars, as relaxed as ever, while Gerry fell away to the opposing wall.

  Footfalls clapped through the hall. Gerry, hearing their presence, persisted in his stare.

  Deeper than any sea, the blue eyes met his. The grime on his face filled every wrinkle and line, to add to his demure. His lips, chapped from months in the sun and sea, could have curled into a devilish grin. In fact, Gerry half-expected it. Yet they didn’t. They remained flat, in a horizontal line. Like the rest of him, they did not move, creating a suspense that entranced Gerry with a fear he had never known.

  “Your Highness!”

  Gerry glanced to his right to find one of the dungeon guards standing at attention, his own sense of concern plastered on his face.

  “Your presence is requested above.”

  Gerry swallowed. He nodded. As the guard pivoted to lead the way, Gerry’s gaze lingered on the warlord. As the bars gave way to stone and the cell receded from his sight, Gerry finally turned.

  “Prince Jameson, the next time we meet will be in battle. And I promise, unlike our last, you will not be so fortunate.”

  Gerry paused. The hall behind him was dark, save a few scattered torches. No moonlight spilled into the corridor. Yet the presence of a shadow was there. Waiting, watching, listening.

  As he ascended, the clank and furor from the walkway above countered the lull beneath. No sooner had he come to the top did Sir Everitt appear to clasp him by the arm.

  “Your Highness, we must move. You must restore order.”

  “What? Where?”

  “The Throne Room. There threatens to be a riot on our hands.”

  Guards fell in line all around them to create a wall of shields and armor. En masse the lot of them made for the tall doors of the meeting hall. Upon approach, the sentries opened the wooden behemoths, to allow the full rumble within to flood the hall.

  Inside, the barons of two nations screeched and yelled, trading insults and threats at a feverish pace. The addition of the prince and his retinue did nothing to stem the tide of the mob. The guards at the front braced against the audience, pushing the raucous nobles to the side, where more guards fought to keep the threats at bay. Everitt, with one hand on Gerry and the other on the pommel of his sword, leaned in to him. “You have a weapon on you, don’t you, James?”

  Gerry patted his side. He did, finding his knife sheath. Yet realizing it was empty, he searched himself some more. Where is it? I had it. I know I did.

  Spittle struck his face to jar him from the concern over his lost dirk. Gerry nearly cowere
d back, yet the push forward from his Right Captain and the supporting guards proved too great a resistance. The entourage ushered him forward until he came upon the steps to his father’s seat.

  He sat himself down as Everitt rounded the throne to ensure every guard stood in place and allowed no gap in protection. Satisfied, Everitt hurried to Gerry’s side. Atop the raised throne platform, he drew his sword. The guards at the fringes of the Throne Room did likewise, as did those who had established a perimeter around Gerry.

  The barons closest to the readied blades quieted first, followed quickly by the ones behind them. The stillness spread, leaving only wide eyes and a scattering of murmurs in their wake.

  “This is not appropriate!” Gerry scanned the audience to find the slender figure of Grand Duke Xain snaking through the sea of barons. “Swords drawn at my people! How dare you!”

  “Watch your tongue, you foreign snake! Or should I say fox?” A deep voice penetrated the crowd.

  Gerry saw the finger first, pointing at Xain. He followed the length of the arm to find it belonged to Baron Tristan, who stood firmly across from the Grand Duke, a blaze burning in his eyes.

  “What did you say, baron?” Xain demanded as he sauntered up to the extended index finger, laying into it with his chest. “Do you dare forget your place? A baron chastising a grand duke?”

  “You are no duke of mine! You are an Ibian. No better than the mud on a peasant’s shoe.”

  Chatter and gasps exploded from the crowd. The Grand Duke’s face boiled red with rage.

  “You will pay for that!” Xain unsheathed a long-pointed dagger from his belt. He thrust the tip towards Tristan.

  “Brother!” Sir Ernald emerged from the densely-packed mass. He wrapped his arms around his kin as Tristan reached for his own weapon.

  “Let go of me!” Tristan insisted.

  “Let him fight,” Baron Gale urged. The old man shifted his weight as he motioned to his younger counterpart. “First, the Ibians. Then, let us take care of the Lewmarians.”

  “Aye!” shouted several Marlish barons from the crowd.

  “Lewmarians?!” Gerry asked as he directed his eyes to his Right Captain. The crowd quieted once more, though the tension still hung thick in the air.

  “Tis true,” Everitt confirmed. “One of Baron Gale’s ships made haste to bring us word. The raids in the north have resumed, with a large force gathering again at the mouth of the Chesa.” Everitt looked to the crowd, to one point in particular. There, both he and Gerry found the forlorn visage of Baron Ralf.

  “I heard the same from my own kin as well,” Ralf said. “One of my cousins was traveling north, to visit the manor of a friend. He fell upon a Lewmarian ship. He escaped. His son was not so lucky.”

  “Are you saying we are being set upon by another raiding party?” Gerry inquired.

  “Larger than before, Your Highness” Gale added. “Tis a bloodthirsty lot of them, too. Me sailors say they heard from them fleeing villagers the horde is being led by Warlord Hunold.”

  Hushes and whispers floated about. Gerry, aghast, mouthed the name.

  Hunold.

  He had heard the stories. They had drifted in from the lips of hardened sailors and fishermen, those not easily frightened yet reserved upon considering the name. Hunold. Not the keenest of the Lewmarians nor the most victorious. Just the most vicious.

  As half-brother to Konradt, his fleet and men numbered significantly less when he was first bestowed the title of warlord. He had earned the distinction at the age of fifteen, though, having already fought a dozen battles alongside his father and half-brother. His reputation for brutality continued on from his adolescence into his adulthood, during which time his appetite for carnage grew.

  Hunold.

  Unlike Konradt, Hunold had turned his sights to the east, where the spoils of war were less lucrative but the promise of fighting clans and kin were more enticing. Now, Gerry considered, he is here. In my kingdom.

  “No doubt he comes to aid his brother.” Gerry shook himself from his trance to find Baron Thybalt amongst the crowd. “The Lewmarians are a proud folk. They will not stand for one of their own, a warlord, to be jailed and chained. They seek his release. Along with retribution.”

  “They seek to fight with the Ibians!” Baron Tristan bellowed.

  “Yes, the Ibians!” shouted another.

  “I will not entertain such accusations. Not from this lot.” Xain retorted, directing the tip of his dagger toward Tristan. “Let this talk of your foreign problem not detract from the matter at hand. He spat on my honor. And the honor of every one of my countrymen present.”

  “You defiled my country, Ibian,” Tristan shot back. “Ever since you came, tragedy has happened. You insulted our dear prince during a hunt, you wrangled a treaty from us and you killed a king. Now, another enemy comes to our doorstep. Because of you.”

  “The enemy is your own doing. You barons recline in luxury and feast like buffoons, growing fat and lazy. As for your king... he died because of Jameson’s incompetence!”

  “Blasphemy!” Tristan clawed at Xain as the Grand Duke tried to break free from his countryman. “I’ll have your head for that!”

  “After him!” shouted Baron Gale. “Remove that oil-slick head from his filthy body.”

  “Here, here!” yelled Baron Ralf.

  “Father!” Everitt replied as he stepped down to the perimeter of guards. “Do not add to this!”

  “It is my right as a Marlish lord. Rid this island of these devils!”

  “Yes, expel them!” Gale urged.

  “Expel!” Tristan screamed.

  “Expel! Expel! Expel!” The barons punched the air with their fists. A few at first, their chorus grew. The Ibian nobles shouted back, a vain attempt to overcome the chant with insults all their own. Yet without a unified call, they were soon drowned out by the rising symphony.

  The Ibian barons coalesced with one another in pockets. The Marlish gathered together in the center, their mass growing and pushing back their foreign guests. Among those brushed aside were a large gathering of Ibians towards the rear of the Throne Room, a group that stood closely-guarded around their prize in the middle: King Felix.

  “Order!” Gerry commanded. “Order! Order!” He swept down from his throne to his Right Captain. “Everitt, we need to control this.”

  “Aye!” Everitt beat the length of his sword against his breastplate. The clang of steel on steel rang through the hall as he paced from guard to guard. “Marlish! Settle this at once!” The guards followed Everitt’s motion, sending a resounding clang through the hall.

  “Order!” Gerry screamed, his command melding into begging. “Order!”

  The noise throughout began to die down, starting in the rearmost areas of the hall. Gerry nearly sighed in relief until he noticed the mob parting ways to allow the town crier to come forward.

  “Your Highness!” he shouted, his raised arms reaching no higher than most heads. “Prince Jameson!”

  The clamor stilled. Gerry squeezed through his line of guards, ignoring Sir Everitt’s attempts to keep him at bay.

  “Prince Jameson!” Reysen yelled from the middle of the hall. “The harbor! A fire! It spreads... to the ships... hurry!”

  “He’s right,” confirmed an unknown voice from the mob. “Outside! Look!”

  The audience swarmed towards the exits. The shift pushed Gerry forward, nearly knocking him down, despite the guards that closed in to shield him.

  “Prince Jameson,” Everitt cried, fighting his way to his side.

  “Everitt, to the hall,” Gerry commanded. “I need to see what is going about.”

  “The mob, they’ll trample us.”

  “Then take me higher. To the upper parapet.”

  Everitt nodded. He directed the ring of guards around them to shift to the rear of the Throne Room. The pace proved slow but consistent for the start, until the guards towards the rear of the circle paused.

  “Back away!” o
ne of the guards shouted.

  “His Highness flees! His Highness flees!” a baron with an Ibian accent yelled.

  “Will you deny that you burned our ships?!” demanded another Ibian.

  “Go on! Deny it!” taunted a third man.

  Gerry peeked through the small gaps between the guards. Ibians had managed to surround them as the remainder of the hall – along with all of Gerry’s supporters – flocked outside to view the spectacle in the harbor.

  The foreign mob pushed at the guards. Some tried to pull at their shields so as to separate them from the ring they had formed. Many spat past the soldiers, their spittle aimed at the prince.

  “Everitt –”

  “Aye! I know what to do.” Everitt raised his head. “Protect your Prince!” he commanded.

  The guards withdrew from the mob to tighten their circle. The gaps that Gerry was able to see before closed as one guard’s armor seemed to meld into another’s, over and again throughout the band. Everitt clasped the shoulder of the nearest guard to designate him as the leader. Using him as a guide for the others, he redirected the defensive ring to the rear.

  The Ibians started to shove with greater force. They resisted. Everitt, seeing some of the angrier culprits, slid his way between his men to confront them. The largest Ibian met him face-to-face.

  “Well, what do we have –”

  Everitt met the unfinished question with his closed gauntlet. His scaled fist rupture the Ibian’s nose, so that a torrent of blood sprung. The man clasped his hands over his face as he withdrew into the crowd. Those nearest him backed away, thus providing an opening for the guards and the prince.

  “Was that necessary?” Gerry asked of Everitt as the Right Captain came to his side once more.

  “You should know,” Everitt barked, seemingly forgetting his place.

  Gerry, flustered, bit his lip. He went along with the ring of guards and his Right Captain as they came to the largest of the Throne Room’s tapestries, at the rear of the great hall. Everitt broke from his position to muscle his way to the tapestry, which he pulled aside to reveal a simple door of poplar. Using his master key, Everitt opened it. Five of the guards entered the corridor first.