Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

  The audience of knight and counts around Ernald parted to allow him to approach Artus. Even some of the Voiceless hesitated to keep their weapons raised. Artus, noting this, moved to the front of his retinue.

  “That’s far enough.” Artus extended his hand, prompting Ernald to stop a few feet from him.

  “But, Grandfather–” Ernald began.

  “Do not listen to that fox, Grandfather!” Gerry yelled.

  “Nonsense!” Ernald pointed at Gerry. “He is a fraud. I am the real Prince.”

  Gerry wavered. All eyes turned to him. Then, on his otherwise nervous façade, a grin appeared.

  “No. I am the real Prince!” he proclaimed.

  He shared a look with Ely. A fraction of a second it was. Enough, though, for Ely to grasp his intention.

  “No!” Ely screeched. “I am the real Prince.”

  “Do not listen to them,” Ernald protested.

  “No, listen to me,” Gerry urged.

  “No, me! Me!” Ely added.

  “Attack them!” Ernald commanded.

  “Kill him!” Gerry directed, motioning to Ernald.

  “Kill the two frauds!” Ely waved his hands, garnering as much attention as the confused audience would allow him. “Kill them all!”

  The last bit proved too much, as Artus raised his hands into the air. “Silence!”

  Quiet struck. Ely and Gerry shared another look, before joining the others in their gaze towards Artus.

  Yes, Grandfather. Give the command. Say what we hope for. Do not worry. Gerry and I will be fine.

  To the surprise of everyone save Gerry and Ely, Artus took the bait. “They are all imposters,” Artus bellowed. “The three of them. They murdered my son.”

  Baron Tristan, sensing that he and his brother were losing the upper hand, stepped up beside Ernald. “My Lord, you are mistaken. The one before you is your grandson, your kin. On my honor, I vouch for him.”

  “What honor? You are a Boivin. Cowards by blood.”

  “Careful, Baron Artus. You are not the man you once were. I fear that madness has overtaken you in your old age.”

  “How dare you accuse me of madness! You think that that ship in the harbor did not go unnoticed? You and your cohorts here invited the enemy to our doorstep. I’ll see you in the gallows for that.”

  “By what right? With what force? By the looks of it, my men outnumber your three-to-one.”

  “You are right.”

  Their heads snapped to the entrance, where King Felix and Grand Duke Xain appeared, flanked by their Realeza.

  “Three-to-one,” Felix stated, nodding to Baron Tristan. “With the odds against your favor, though, not for it.”

  “Your Majesty,” Artus said. “I advised you to remain in your quarters.”

  “And forego the opportunity to partake in an engagement? Nonsense. What say you, nephew?”

  “I wholeheartedly agree, uncle. I wholeheartedly agree.” Xain smirked, patting the sword still sheathed at his side.

  “Your Majesty,” Tristan started. “Allow me to explain. This is the one and true Prince Jameson. These other two are fakes, I assure you. The good Baron Artus here cannot tell the lot of them apart. He is feeble-minded–”

  “I am a Saliswater!” Artus roared. He parted from his protective circlet to approach Ernald and Tristan, who withdrew behind their own ring of swords.

  King Felix strode forward. His Realeza, and nephew, stayed close at hand, forcing every other to step back. He eyed Artus, along with Ernald, Ely and Gerry. “I do admit, the similarity is striking. Uncanny, really. I suspect it to be the result of much alchemy, be it potion or paste or poultice. Not even the keenest of eyes could tell the difference between the three.” He scanned the lot again. His gaze fell on Ely once more, then Ernald and Tristan, followed by Ely before settling on Artus. At that, he reached up to his neck, his fingertips suspended above his scar. “Yet, even in old age, kin know their kin. The ones that matter. Those who would live and die – especially in battle – for one another. If Artus sees a fraud amongst us, then they are false.”

  “But...” Baron Tristan uttered, his hand extended to his brother. “We have...”

  “Baron Artus, as ranking lord in this chamber, I grant you the use of my personal guard, the Realeza, to restore order. What say you? What is your command?”

  Artus glanced to all sides, his sight finding his two grandsons.

  Go on. Continue the ruse. We can save ourselves.

  “Voiceless,” Artus shouted. “Realeza. Arrest all three imposters, and any who stand in your way!”

  A flurry of steel followed. The Voiceless fanned out across the Throne Room, with the Realeza close behind. The counts and knights aligned with Ernald and Tristan fell back, their blades raised in haste. The guards of two Courts came upon them, determined to disarm. Cuts and thrusts met blocks and parries. The knights and counts allied with Boivin struck back furiously, their betrayal of the Crown having been exposed. Desperately knowing that escape was the only option that did not end with the gallows, every traitor lashed and broke from each other, leaving Ernald and Tristan to fight their own way out.

  Gerry and Ely had nary a moment to relish in the reveal, though. In the onslaught, some of the Realeza set their sights on them with blades aimed.

  “Run!” Ely shouted at his brother.

  Ely ducked under the swipe of a Realeza, which with a strike sent sparks flying from the stone above. He darted and shoved through the combative mass, limbs and weapons knocking against his armor. The collisions did little to slow his flight, for soon he had dodged into one of the servant doorways.

  The clap of boots remained close behind. Ely had nary a moment to savor his elusiveness when he spotted the Realeza in the same corridor. Sheathing his sword, Ely sprinted the length of the passageway, with the Ibian guards close at hand. Ahead, the sconces had burned out.

  He allowed himself a fleeting wisp of a smile. He knew this section.

  The Realeza continued after him. They stormed through the dark patch of the unlit area, coming into the light of the other side only to discover Ely’s absence.

  “Where is he?” the one in front asked, pausing to look in all directions. The passage had led into a hall, from whence several more corridors crisscrossed.

  “He was right in front of us. He couldn’t have run ahead that fast!” shouted another Realeza, as two others from the dark joined them.

  They nearly considered doubling back when two Marlish counts – traitors having escaped the Throne Room – burst in down the hall.

  “After them!” pointed the front Realeza. The three by his side fell in behind him as he led the charge, the traitors in their sights as they fled.

  From the shadows of the unlit corridor, Ely dangled from the vaulted ceiling. Two intersecting iron bars had been secured overhead, to provide support to the short dome that still lay crumbling, as the castle’s masons placed little importance on a passage frequented by servants. For Ely’s part, though, the cross bars of the vaulted ceiling had provided much opportunities for escape, whether in the games of his youth or the ladies of his present.

  Wiping his hands on his pant legs, Ely retreated in the opposite direction until a corner finally presented itself. Though lit, in the commotion of the conflict the path was still unoccupied, providing Ely with yet another opportunity. Hurrying to a recess cut for a standing guard, he reached to a loose stone above. The width and height of his head, it proved light and porous, so that he could balance it in one hand while he dug his hand into the space to retrieve one of his prized disguises.

  The wax was so real that Ely could – in his heightened state – not help but admire the craftsmanship. His craftsmanship. The face staring back at him was of a grizzly dungeon master Arcporte Castle had employed years earlier, who had since died. His semblance had been such that one could have mistaken him for any dungeon master, or a veteran guard or even a mage. So generic had been his appearance that Ely had made several
likenesses of varying degrees. The one he now held in his hands was of a pensive man, one who exuded wisdom and authority. Or so he hoped.

  The echo of footfalls broke the length of Ely’s admiration. Fitting the disguise in haste, the clamor grew until the chorus stopped.

  “You there!” shouted a man with a hoarse voice, his accent Ibian.

  Here we go.

  Ely turned around, the mask fully fitted against his face. He clutched his side, feigning an injury.

  “The knight... one of Tristan’s... he went that way.”

  The Realeza eyed him with suspicion. Chances were that he would have prodded Ely – in his guise – further, especially as he still bore remnants of the Voiceless’ armor. But the clash of swords further down the corridor, beyond Ely’s line of sight, prompted the Ibian guard to dart away.

  I’ll need to work on my dungeon master’s voice. Still, it’ll do.

  Ely bolted up the passageway. The sounds of the fighting from the Throne Room and beyond growing faint. He considered grabbing a weapon from one of his other secret compartments. Doing so would mark him as a fighter not a servant fleeing, as now there were several. Might as well keep up the ruse, he thought. The time for swords will soon be at hand.

  First, I must find Gerry.

  Ely circled to the main bailey. There, a count held his sword limp in his bleeding hand as three Voiceless closed in on him. Stupid fool. Gerry, even in his frightened manner, would never retreat to the open. Then, Ely made for the kitchen, where he could hear the sniveling and cries of a half dozen servants.

  “Is it safe to come out, Sire?” one of the servant girls had asked.

  Too concerned for his brother, Ely left without replying.

  On and on he went. To Mage Wystan’s quarters. To the main gatehouse. To the castle stables. The blacksmith’s workshop. The guards’ barracks. All in quick succession, blowing past one skirmish or match to another.

  Where are you, Gerry?! he nearly screamed.

  He stopped. Of course.

  A short time later, Ely slowed before the statue of their mother.

  “You can come out now,” Ely urged, panting. Then realizing that his voice was muffled by his disguise, he removed his wax mask. “I said come out!” he screamed as the wax left his face, which was met by the crispness of a sea breeze.

  He surveyed the Sovereign Gardens, noting them devoid of any nobility or attendants.

  From the other side of a tall goldenrod bush, Gerry emerged, uncertain.

  “Finally.” Ely threw his arms around his brother.

  “We mustn’t stay long.”

  “I know, Baron Tristan and his men. But the Voiceless and Realeza –”

  “Not them! The real threat...”

  The utterance from Gerry trailed off, leaving his mouth agape. He peered over Ely’s shoulder. Instinctively, Ely looked behind him.

  From the shelter of the garden’s manicured trees and shrubs, the wild men of Lewmar appeared.

  “Gerry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Go. Now.”

  Their eyes not leaving the enemy, they backed away, only turning when they had built up enough momentum to break into a run. For all their hulking presence and thick garb, the Lewmarians moved with surprising rapidity, able to progressively close the gap between themselves and the brothers.

  “The castle! The castle!” Ely yelled.

  “But–”

  “Do it!”

  Racing up the steps of a small stone staircase, Ely and Gerry hastened to the top. They were almost halfway when at the head of the stairs another unit of Lewmarians appeared.

  “Ely!”

  “I see them. To the side door. There!”

  Midway up the stairs leveled and became flush with a stone parapet that intersected its path. To their left, an archway stood. Ely and Gerry bolted for its opening as the Lewmarians descended upon them from above and below.

  The parapet was dim though lined with unlit torches. It had a few windows cut into the outer wall that ran the width of the cliff. Through them, Ely glimpsed the remnants of the Lewmarian’s raid. Arcporte below lay dotted by fires, with spirals of smoke stretching above the city like dark specters. Masses fled through the streets as herds do when chased by wild packs of dogs. In the harbor the sea churned, tilting ships to and fro, as though patiently biding their time until calm returned.

  Shooting past the last window, the corridor cut into the cliff turned further into the interior, leading the brothers into darkness. Ely and Gerry slowed, groping the walls, their hands coming upon cool sandstone. Trailing them were the shouts and the unintelligible banter of the Lewmarians chasing after them.

  “Are they close?” Gerry asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Just keep going.”

  Instead, Gerry halted. Ely, having no notice, bumped into him.

  “I said keep going,” Ely said.

  “But, there is a fork. Two paths.”

  Ely brushed past Gerry. Extending his hands, he found the flat surface before them. He patted the width of it, noting that on each side the stone wall curved and led away, a separate path in each direction.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Ely wondered the same. The labyrinth of tunnels between each section of the castle grounds was meant to be an expeditious way of escape to the Marlish who knew it. To the ignorant, however, the system was designed to confuse and frustrate, affording no shortage of roundabouts and dead ends. A useful model, to be sure. The problem, though, was that so much of the interior tunnel system was now unknown, with patrols in the area discontinued since the close of the Century War.

  And today we pay for that ignorance. We go into the void. Uncertain.

  “This way.” In the pitch, Ely grabbed Gerry by the shoulder and shoved him into the tunnel that curved to their left.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  No further queries or protests came from Gerry as they scurried into the abyss. Looking back, Ely glimpsed the glowing edges of torchlight from their pursuers. Of course they would light our torches. Their faint light was swallowed up by the darkness as once more their path turned, as were the foreign cries and calls.

  Perhaps they went the other way.

  Gerry paused again.

  “Another fork?” Ely asked.

  “A dead end.”

  His soul collapsed. The cavernous shell of his body filled with dread. He fell forward into the wall before them, feeling from top to bottom for any hole or space where they could continue their flight.

  Then came the rise. Of shouts. Murmurs. Talk. In foreign tongues. Those from Lewmar.

  This could be it.

  Ely drew his sword, though he continued to run his hands over the wall.

  “Do we fight?” Gerry whispered. Though in darkness, Ely could hear him slowly draw his sword.

  “Perhaps,” Ely said, not caring for his brother’s trepidation.

  “Ely, if we fall...”

  “No time for that rubbish. We aren’t gone yet. Help me look.”

  The voices down the hall grew in volume, as did the harshness of their tone.

  Come now, enough of this dead end. There must be another passage somewhere.

  Soft glow morphed into radiance as the first of their torches came into view.

  Not yet. Not yet.

  Light spilled into the length of the tunnel, exposing the two. Gerry, as though resigned to their fate, turned. Slowly he raised the tip of his sword.

  Aha!

  The sudden light proved enough. A dozen steps back from the dead end, a narrow entryway stood. Ely grasped Gerry by the back of his collar and shoved him through the adjacent tunnel. With his brother before him, he pushed violently as he hurried, until the two of them broke into a frenetic pace. He cared not whether they crashed into another wall or off of a sudden cliff. For the torches followed at a pace to match their own.

  Then ahead, by the dimness of the torches behind them, El
y caught sight of another fork in the corridor.

  “Faster!” Ely urged Gerry. “Turn right.”

  Gerry pivoted, not breaking his stride. Ely followed. The two could not have made it more than a hundred yards when Ely collided with Gerry, who gasped and cried out.

  “Again!” Ely shouted. He pulled his shocked brother to the right. Thankfully, the corridor continued, taking them out of the light once more.

  As they went on, the voices behind grew faint. Ely peered back to discover no light – nor Lewmarians – trailed them.

  “Are we –”

  “Shhh!” Ely whispered.

  They pressed onward, slowing only when they were enveloped in silence.

  “Ely. Ahead.”

  Shafts of light from above cut through the pitch, like buttresses to the black. Ely brushed past Gerry and approached, at once relieved. They left the constraints of the tunnel and entered a hall cut from the rock, illuminated by four arched windows hewn into one side.

  “By Mar, what is this?” Ely asked.

  “It appears to be a chapel.” Gerry paused to admire a relief, which featured along its border men bearing pickaxes.

  “Cut from granite.” Ely placed his palm against a stone pillar. Where are we? He knew that Arcporte had started as a miner’s camp, with several mine strewn across the area that would later become the city. But he had never realized that so much of the underground had been carved and populated by those same descendants.

  “How far did we go?”

  “I can’t hear the waves. Nor the sounds of the city. We must have traveled east, into one of the cliffsides that faces the country –”

  Ely turned around to find his brother’s back facing him. Gerry stared straight ahead. At a Voiceless.

  In full regalia, the knight stood at the other end of the chapel, the edge of light catching his breastplate. In one hand he bore a halberd while in the other he carried a torch. With the visor of his helm lifted, he looked back at the brothers.

  Ely, his sword raised, rounded his brother to come between him and Gerry. “Were you at the castle? When my grandfather gave the order to hunt us down?”