A March of Kings sr-2

by Morgan Rice

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Steffen cowered beneath the whip of his master, bending over and bracing himself as he was lashed across the back yet again. He braced his hands over the back of his head, trying to shield the worst of the blow.

  “I ordered you to remove the chamber when it was full! Now look at the mess you’ve made!” his master screamed.

  Steffen hated to be yelled at. Born deformed, his back twisted in a permanent hunch, looking prematurely old, he had been yelled at from the time he was a child. He had never fit in with his siblings, with his friends, or with anyone. His parents had tried to pretend he didn’t exist, and when he was just old enough, they found a reason to kick him out of the house. They had been embarrassed by him.

  Since then, it had been a hard, lonely life for Steffen, left to fend for himself. After years of working odd jobs, of begging in the streets when he needed to, he had finally found a job in the bowels of the king’s castle, toiling with the other servants in the room of the chamber pots. His task, for years, was to wait until the huge, iron chamber pot was filled with sewage from the floors above, then carry it out while it was overflowing, with the help of another servant. They took it out the back door of the castle, across the fields, to the river’s edge, and dumped it in.

  It was a job he had over the years learned to do well, and as his posture was ruined before he arrived, the lugging of the pot could not have affected it anymore. Of course, the stench of the waste was unbearable, though, over time, he had learned to block it out. He had taught his mind go to other places, to escape in fantasy, to imagine vivid alternate worlds and to convince himself that he was anywhere but here. Steffen’s one gift in life had been a great imagination, and it didn’t take much to send him off to another realm. His other great gift was observation. Everyone underestimated him, but he heard and saw everything, and he took it all in like a sponge. He was much more sensitive and perceptive than people realized.

  Which was why, the other day, when that dagger had come tumbling down the stone chute, into the chamber pot, Steffen had been the only one to take notice. He heard the slightest difference in the splash, something landing in the water that sounded not human, but metal. He’d heard the tiniest bit of a clang as it settled to the bottom-and he had known immediately that something was wrong. Something was different. Somebody had dropped something down the chute, something he wasn’t supposed to. Either it was an accident, or, more likely, it was on purpose.

  Steffen waited for a moment when the others weren’t looking and stealthily approached the pot, held his nose, rolled up one sleeve, and reached in up to his shoulder. He fished around until he had found it. He had been right: there was something there. It was long and metal, and he grasped it and pulled it up. He could feel, before it even reached the surface, that it was a dagger. He extracted it quickly, glanced it over, made sure no one was looking, and bundled it in a rag and hid it behind a loose brick.

  Now that things had quieted down, he looked around, made sure no one was looking, and when he felt sure the coast was clear, he hurried over to the brick, loosened it, unwrapped the weapon and studied it. It was a dagger unlike any he had ever seen, certainly not one for the lower classes. It was an aristocratic thing, a piece of art. Very valuable, and expensive.

  As he held it up to the torchlight, turning it every which way, he noticed stains on it, stains which would not come out. He realized, with a shock, that they were blood stains. He remembered back to when the blade had fallen down and realized that it had come down on the same night of the assassination of the King. His hands shook as he realized he might be holding the murder weapon.

  “How stupid are you?” shrieked his master, as he whipped him again.

  Steffen hunched over and quickly wrapped up the blade, keeping his back to his boss, hoping and praying he had not seen it. He had left the chamber pot untended while examining the blade, and it had overflowed. He had not expected his master to be so close.

  Steffen took the beating, as he did every day, whether he did a good job or not. He clenched his jaw, hoping it would end soon.

  “If that pot overflows again, I will have you kicked out of here! No, worse, I will have you chained and thrown in the dungeon. You stupid deformed hunchback! I don’t know why I put up with you!”

  His master, a fat, pockmarked man with a lazy eye, reached up and beat him again and again. Usually, the blows ended; but tonight he seemed to be in a particularly belligerent mood and the blows just kept getting worse. They never seemed to end.

  Finally, something inside Steffen snapped. He could stand it no longer.

  Without thinking, Steffen reacted: he grasped the hilt of the dagger, spun around and plunged it into his master’s rib cage.

  His master let out a horrified gasp as his eyes bulged in his head. He stood there, frozen, looking down in wonder.

  Finally, the blows stopped.

  Now Steffen was furious. All the pent up anger he’d felt over the years came pouring out.

  Steffen grimaced, grabbed his master by the throat, and squeezed it with one hand. With the other, he pushed the blade in deeper and slowly dragged it higher, cutting him up through the sternum, all the way to his heart. Hot blood poured out over his hand and wrist.

  Steffen was shocked at what he had summoned the courage to do-and he reveled in every second of it. For years he had been abused by this man, this horrible creature, who had beaten him like his play thing. Now, finally, he had vengeance. After all those years, all those abuses.

  “This is what you get for beating me,” Steffen said. “Do you think you’re the only one with power here? How do you like it now?”

  His master hissed and gasped, and finally collapsed into a heap on the floor.

  Dead.

  Steffen looked at him, lying there, just the two of them down here this late in the night, the dagger protruding from his heart. Steffen looked both ways, satisfied the room was empty, then extracted the dagger and wrapped it back in its rag, and stashed it back in its hiding place, behind the brick. There was something about that blade, some evil energy to it, that had goaded him to use it.

  As Steffen stood there, looking at the corpse of his master, he was suddenly overwhelmed with panic. What had he done? He had never done anything like that in his life. He did not know what had overcome him.

  He bent over, hoisted his master’s corpse, heaved it over his shoulder, then leaned forward and dropped it into the chamber pot. The body landed with a splash, as the filthy water spilled over its sides. Luckily the pot was deep, and his corpse sank beneath the rim.

  On the next shift, Steffen would carry the pot out with his friend, a man so down and drunk, he never had any idea what was in the pot, a man who always turned away from it, holding his nose from the stench. He wouldn’t even realize that the pot was heavier than usual as the two of them carried it to the river and dumped it. He wouldn’t even notice the mass in the night, the body floating away, down the current.

  Down, Steffen hoped, towards hell.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gareth sat on his father’s throne, in the vast council chamber, in the midst of his first council meeting, and inwardly, he trembled. Before him, in the imposing room, seated around the semi-circular table, sat a dozen of his father’s counselors, all seasoned veterans, all staring back at him with gravity and doubt. Gareth was in over his head. The reality of it all was starting to sink in. This was his father’s throne. His father’s room. His father’s affairs. And above all, his father’s men. Each and every one of them loyal to his father. Gareth secretly wondered if they all suspected him of having murdered him. He told himself he was just being paranoid. But he felt increasingly uncomfortable, staring back at them.

  Gareth also, for the first time, felt the real weight of what it was like to rule. All the burdens, all the decisions, all the responsibilities, were on his head. He felt woefully unprepared. Being king was what he’d always dreamed of. But ruling the kingdom, on a dai
ly, practical level, was something he had not.

  The council had been going over various matters with him for hours, and he’d had no idea of how to decide on each one. He could not help but feel as if each new matter was raised secretly as a rebuke to him, as a way to foil him, to highlight his lack of knowledge. He realized too quickly that he did not have the acumen or judgment of his father, or the experience to rule this kingdom. He was woefully unqualified to be making these decisions. And he knew, even as he made them, that all of his decisions were bad ones.

  Above all, he found it hard to focus, knowing the investigation was still ongoing into his father’s murder. He could not help but wonder if, or when, it might lead back to him-or to Firth, which was as good as leading to him. He could not rest easy on the throne until he knew he held it securely. He prepared to set into motion a plan to frame someone else. It was risky. But then again, so was murdering his father.

  “My Liege,” another council member said, each one looking more grave than the next. It was Owen, his father’s treasurer, and he looked down at the table as he spoke, squinting at a long scroll. The more he unrolled it, the longer it seemed to get.

  “I’m afraid our treasury is near bankrupt. The situation is grave. I warned your father of this, but he did not take action. He did not want to raise a new tax on the people, or the Lords. Frankly, he did not have a plan. I presume he thought that somehow it would all work out. But it has not. The army needs to be fed. Weapons need to be repaired. Blacksmiths need to be paid. Horses need to be tended, and fed. And yet our treasury’s nearly empty. What do you propose we do, my lord?”

  Gareth sat there, his mind swimming, wondering what to do. He had absolutely no idea.

  “What would you propose?” Gareth asked back.

  Owen cleared his throat, looking flustered. It seemed as if this were the first time a king had asked him his opinion.

  “Well…my liege…I…um… I had proposed to your father that we raise a tax on the people. But he had thought it a bad idea.”

  “It is a bad idea,” Earnan chimed in. “The people will revolt with any new taxes. And without the power of the people, you have nothing.”

  Gareth turned and looked at the teenage boy seated to his right, not far from him. Berel, a friend of his, who he had grown up with, someone his own age; he was an aristocrat with no military training, but who was as ambitious and cynical as he. Gareth had brought in a small group of his own advisers, his friends, to help balance out the power here, and to have some advisers his own age. A new generation. It had not gone over well when they had arrived with Gareth, upsetting the old guard.

  “And what do you think, Berel?” he asked.

  Berel leaned forward, arching an eyebrow, and without pausing, said, in his deep, confident voice: “Tax them. Tax them triple. Make the people feel the yoke of your new power. Make them fear you. That is the only way to rule.”

  “And how would you know what it means to rule?” Aberthol called out to Berel.

  “Excuse me my liege, but who is this person?” Brom called out, equally indignant. “We are the King’s Council. And we never sanctioned any new councilmen.”

  “The Council is mine to do with as I wish,” Gareth chided back. “This is one of my new advisers. Berel. And I like his idea. We will tax the people triple. We will fill our coffers, and even more, we will make the people suffer under the burden of it. Then they will understand that I am King. And that I am to be feared-even more so than my father.”

  Aberthol shook he said.

  “My Liege, I would caution against such a harsh response. Everything in moderation. Such a move is rash. You will alienate your subjects.”

  “My subjects,” Gareth spat. “That is exactly what they are. And I will do with them as I wish. This matter is ended. What other matters are before me?”

  The council members turned to each other and exchanged troubled glances.

  Suddenly, Brom rose.

  “My Liege, with all respect, I cannot sit on a council that does heed our advice. I sat on this council for years for your father, and I am here to serve you out of deference to him. But you are not my King. He was. And I shall not serve on any council that does not pay homage and respect to its original councilmembers. You have brought in these young outsiders who know nothing of ruling a kingdom. I will not be a part of this facade. I hereby resign from this council.”

  Brom scraped back his chair, got up and marched from the room, yanking open the door and slamming it behind him. The hollow sound echoed in the chamber, reverberating again and again.

  Inwardly, Gareth’s heart was pounding. He felt the deck of cards crumbling around him. Had he gone too far?

  “Never mind,” Gareth said. “We do not need him. I will bring in my own adviser on military affairs.”

  “Do not need him, my Lord?” Aberthol echoed. “He is our greatest general, and was your father’s best adviser.”

  “My father’s advisers are not my advisers,” Gareth threatened. “It is a new era. Is there anyone else here unhappy with this arrangement? If so, you can leave now.”

  Gareth’s heart pounded as he sat there expecting the others to walk out, too.

  To his surprise, none did. They all looked frozen in shock. He felt he had to assert his authority, had to make this kingdom his own.

  Sweating now, Gareth just wanted this meeting, which had already gone on for hours, over with.

  “Any other news, or can we finish?” he asked, peremptorily.

  “My Liege, there is another important matter,” Bradaigh said. “News of your father’s death has spread to all corners of the Ring, and has reached the McClouds. Our spies inform us that they are meeting with a contingent from the Wilds. The rumor is that they intend to attack, either alone or with the Empire in tow. They may allow them to breach the Eastern Crossing of the Canyon. I suggest we mobilize our forces, and double our patrols of the Highlands.”

  Gareth sat there, rooted in place, unsure what to do. He had never had any skill when it came to military affairs, and the thought of the McClouds invading terrified him.

  “The McClouds will not let the Empire breach the Canyon,” he said. “That would imperil them, too. They might attack, though, even with my sister as their new Princess. Maybe we should not wait. Maybe we should attack them first.”

  “Attack them unprovoked?” Kelvin asked. “And spark an all-out war?”

  Gareth considered the possibilities, resting his hand on his chin, wondering when this would all be over. He wanted to be outside; he did not want to think any more of these affairs. And he wanted to get off his mind his most pressing concern-the investigation into his father’s murder.

  “I will consider what to do,” Gareth said curtly. “In the meantime, I must raise a much more pressing matter, concerning the murder of my father. It has been brought to my attention that the assassin has been found.”

  “What!?”

  “What my Lord?”

  “Who? How?!”

  The councilmembers all yelled out at once, some of them standing in shock and outrage.

  Gareth smiled inwardly, realizing he had them exactly where he wanted them. He turned and nodded towards Firth, who, standing on the outskirts of the room, walked across it, holding something small in his palm. Firth made a show of reaching out and handing it to Gareth, and as he did, Gareth held it up so that the others could see. He leaned forward on his throne and held out the small vial.

  “Sheldrake Root. The same root used in the first attempt to poison my father at that night’s feast. As you can see, this vial is nearly empty. This vial was found in the killer’s chamber, on that very night.”

  “But who is the killer, my Lord?” Aberthol yelled out.

  “It pains me to say,” Gareth pronounced slowly, doing his best to feign sadness, “that it is my eldest brother. My Lord’s firstborn son. Kendrick.”

  “What!”

  “An outrage!”

  “It can’t be!�
�� they yelled back.

  “Oh, I’m afraid it is,” Gareth replied. “We have gathered ample evidence. As we speak, I’m sending our men to arrest him. He will be imprisoned and tried for the death of my father.”

  The council broke out in outraged mumbling.

  “But Kendrick was the most loved of your father!” Duwayne yelled out. “And the most loyal of all.”

  “It must be a mistake,” Bradaigh yelled.

  “And our own committee is still investigating the matter!” Kelvin shouted.

  “You can call off the investigation,” Gareth responded. “It is concluded.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Firth said, stepping forward. “He has a motive. Kendrick was the firstborn son. He was passed over. He must have had a vendetta, and must have pined for the throne himself.”

  The councilmen turned and exchanged troubled, skeptical glances.

  “You are wrong,” Aberthol said. “Kendrick is not ambitious. He is a loyal warrior.”

  The councilmen debated with each other, and as Gareth watched them, he smiled inwardly. This was exactly what he’d wanted: to plant doubt in their minds. He had achieved his vision. He had found a scapegoat, planted evidence, and gave himself cover to imprison him. He would not give him a trial. He would let the kingdom know that the matter had been settled, quickly and easily. And in the process, he would remove one more threat from the crown.

  Gareth sat back, satisfied with himself, and watched and enjoyed the chaos spreading before him. He was beginning to realize that it suited him, after all, being King.

  It suited him very well.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Thor marched amidst the huge contingent of Legion members, Krohn at his heels, Reese, O’Connor, Elden and the twins at his side, all of them heading down a wide, dirt road which never seemed to end. They had been marching for hours, heading towards the distant Canyon, preparing for their first leg of the journey to the Tartuvian Sea. Thor had made it back in time from his night with Gwen, had awakened with the dawn and arrived first thing in the morning at the barracks; he’d joined the others as they were rising, prepared all his things, grabbed his sack, his sling, his weapons, and left with the others just in time.