Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  Deal with that. That's what Castellan Lhaurent had said.

  Deal with that. Like the dead youngster was just some nuisance, some rotten cord of wood to be heaped upon the slag-pile.

  With a resolute sigh, Jherrick grasped the lad's arm, hauling the dead weight up over his shoulders. Jherrick was lean for his twenty-three years, but it was all muscle, honed to perfection upon the dry side of a sword. Though most of his official time was spent reading through lists and ledgers with Guard-Captain Olea den'Alrahel, his unofficial time was spent doing odious chores such as this for the Khehemni Lothren, many of which required a fit frame and a hardened mind.

  The boy's slender form dangled across his shoulders as Jherrick moved at a brisk walk, sliding effortlessly behind Roushenn’s walls through the Hinterhaft corridor. The arched catacomb soon opened out into a massive space whose heights were lost but for the vapid blue globes. Jherrick traversed it diagonally, to a section of wall that saw little use. He pushed on the stone and some mechanism clicked. A section of wall pivoted away to reveal one of the little-used servant's corridors of Roushenn. The torch-brackets were few and far apart this deep inside the mountain, and it had been the lad's bad luck to have taken this particular shortcut with the delivery of spices he was making from one larder to another.

  And his further bad luck to lean against this particular section of wall while adjusting his sack over his shoulder.

  Not many stumbled upon the five sections of wall in all of Roushenn that could access the Hinterhaft. Four of them had been partially blocked by large armoires and bookcases, so that one had to sidle into a shadowy niche to give the wall a push. But this one, a little-used path between larders, was left unblocked for deliveries. And so it was now that Jherrick delivered the dead lad's body back out the hidden door like a sack of grain, stealing along a quiet section of corridor that led to the east garden.

  It was full night as he pushed on the garden door and into the soft warm night. Summer was here in full, and a peeping chorus of frogs followed his quiet movements, the only mourning that the poor dead boy would ever get. Unease gnawed in Jherrick's gut as he pushed through a little-known door in the rear of the palace guard-wall, one that led directly to the Kingswood. Patrolled by Guardsmen of Jherrick's own allegiance, he received only shadowy nods, a regular as he was through this door in the dead of night. Nodding back, he moved off down the path with his burden, his bootfalls a dull thump upon the thick loam.

  The Kingswood should have been a place of solace. Shifting shadows filled the vegetation from a slivered summer moon. A low double-hoot of a bridge-owl reached his ears. The trickle of water spilled over rocks as Jherrick stepped carefully over a stream. The night was silent but for this music around him, a synergy most ignored. But not Jherrick. The night was his protection in his duty, and he had learned to take its solace when he could. Sometimes he thought he heard the night speaking to him, as if spirits lingered in the trees, whispering absolution in the rustling of the leaves. Salvation for a young life gone wrong. It made him come to peace to walk beneath the trees and believe it so, a kind of empty bliss where he could ignore the heavy burden across his shoulders.

  But his midnight sojourn ended too soon for true solace. The cedar and barreloak hollow where the wolves knew to expect their meat loomed suddenly, a sallow slope of last-year's leaves showing the deep rents and claw marks of constant scuffle over gristle and sinew. It was a dark place, riven with a desperate energy. The smell of death lingered here, the cloying stench of entrails ripped apart and bones cracked open, a latrine acridity that no midnight wind could scour clean.

  Surveying the scene, so calm now in shifting grey shadows, Jherrick’s stomach churned into a gripping knot, knowing how it would go. Knowing how much torn flesh the dead boy's body was about to become. Knowing how the wolves would prowl in, wary at first, sniffing for life. And when the meat was found to be unable to fight back, they would surge with yips and growls, teeth flashing into blue skin, worrying the dead boy's body until sluggish purple blood coated their muzzles black in the night shadows.

  A howl of expectation sounded, a little too near. Jherrick's sword was in his hand, fast. And suddenly, he knew he couldn't leave the boy there, not like that. Not to be ripped apart like all the others. His flesh was too young, too pure, too… something.

  Too good to make a meal for wolves.

  Backing out of the hollow, Jherrick moved away from the slope, his sword still out. Watchful eyes were upon him, glinting by the high moonlight above the boughs. He could almost hear the pack's hunting tension in the dark, like bowstring pulled taut for a long shot. And they could feel his own readiness, his sword glinting in the darkness as much as their eyes, that he was a predator in the night as much as they.

  Just as fast with his own kind of claw.

  “Come try me,” Jherrick murmured to their tension. “Come for your meat if you dare. But this one’s not coming to you. Not this time.”

  His legs were strong as trees beneath his load, his posture wired and fierce. He'd drop the body to fight if he needed to, but it wasn't going to come to that. Jherrick could feel them, drifting away like smoke, back through the silver-dark cedars. A ready enemy was no enemy to fight.

  “Smart choice.” Jherrick murmured to the rustling silence. He slid his sword away. Now that the possibility of a fight had passed, he let himself shiver, let his body shudder it out, relieved. Something he could only show to the night, this weakness. Not something he could ever show to the Lothren’s watchful gaze. Hefting the body more securely atop his shoulders, he thought of where to take it. And suddenly, he knew. The boy's mother was a mushroom-hunter for the palace. Jherrick knew she went out every dawn from her modest cottage in the Second Tier, taking the same path through the Kingswood to her favorite spots. Jherrick angled for that path now, picking his way off-trail through fern and snake-vine.

  Dawn was kissing the pale sky as he found the right path at last. Gently, he unloaded his cargo, settling the boy's body in the middle of the cedar-strewn litter of the path. Unsheathing one longknife, he sliced the boy's purse strings, took the leather pouch. He raided the boy of a lapis pendant that wasn't worth much, and a stout ring of silver with a decent sapphire, probably once belonging to the boy's father. The mother would find the lad, think he'd come to visit her as a surprise, and that highwaymen had gotten him in the night.

  His gaze roved the scene, making sure it looked right. The boy looked almost peaceful like that, curled on his side, as if sleeping. Like a fire-yarn where a young boy stumbles into a ring of fae-caps and stumbles out years later, on the cusp of manhood, sleeping deep from his time dreaming in the fae lands. Jherrick was about to turn and go, when he suddenly paused. Something pulled at him; a memory of a peaceful life lost. A family, lost. He knelt, setting the ring upon a flat white stone in the path, as if it had been carelessly dropped. Where he knew the morning sun would find it through a break in the oaks.

  Where he knew the mother would see it.

  Slipping back into the thick vegetation, he hunkered beneath a madrona. A sense of rightness filled him, at what he had done. So beautiful the scene; so peaceful. Early-summer henianthus was in full bloom, and the bush he lingered behind was fragrant with pompous purple bells, their scent wafting forgiveness through his tired body. The glossy leaves and ostentatious blossoms would catch the eye, distracting from the waiting man behind.

  A chorus of titwidget and bunting-sparrow erupted around him in their spring courting glory. And as the sunlight from the eastern side of the Kingsmountains dappled the forest, the mother finally came into view. She was still young, upright, with long blonde hair bound over her shoulder. A true woodswoman of Alrou-Mendera, strong like Jherrick’s own mother had been, she wore breeches and a fitted hunting-jacket, and boots for foraging. Her gaze swept the verge of the path, a basket upon her arm. And then swept the path ahead. She stopped. Gasped. Ran. Fell to her knees screaming. Weeping. Jherrick saw her glance at the flat w
hite stone in the path, saw her pick up the sapphire ring, glinting in the sunlight. A long wail ripped through her, and she flung herself over her dead son.

  It was somehow worse than the howl of wolves.

  Bitterness twisted Jherrick's gut. He melted back into the vegetation, a shadow lost in the underbrush.

  * * *

  “Has the lad been dealt with?” Lhaurent den'Karthus's oil slick voice was smooth with a lack of care.

  Jherrick stood at attention in the hard yellow lantern light of the octagonal room. Accessed through the Hinterhaft, this room had clearly been made for war-council during times of siege long ago, occupied by a massive octagonal table and throne-carven chairs going to dust. Hard-toothed iron chandeliers swept the highest gables, their candles unlit for eons. Lhaurent den'Karthus sat in the largest of the thrones in his impeccable grey velvet doublet and robe, pouring over a red-inked map spread upon the table.

  Without looking up, he sipped a cup of tea.

  “Well, den'Tharn?”

  “He's been dealt with.” Jherrick's voice was colder than the iron in the chandeliers.

  Castellan Lhaurent glanced up, his attention piercing Jherrick to the quick. “Do you have something you'd like to say, Khehemnas?”

  Jherrick stilled his emotions, blank. “I serve the Khehemni Lothren. Whatever their bidding.”

  Lhaurent kept him pinned for a long moment more. “Good.” He murmured at last. “Then I have another task for you.”

  “May the Lothren guide me.” Jherrick knew the words. Although he wasn't so certain about this particular member of the Lothren. The dead boy had not been Alrashemni, nor even descended. That hadn't been for the Khehemni cause, killing that boy. That had just been murder, ordered by Castellan Lhaurent to keep the Hinterhaft of Roushenn Palace a secret.

  Something in his tone must have pricked Lhaurent, because those steel-grey eyes were still watching Jherrick.

  “Careful, my young friend,” Lhaurent murmured. “Sometimes the blood of innocents must spill to serve our larger function. Do not forget why you chose to swear allegiance to the Broken Circle. The memories of Khehemni are long, Jherrick. Remember the Kingsmen who slew your family and the reason your vows were made. And understand that the Khehemni Lothren guide you now to greater purpose. Sometimes, that purpose will show you the Broken Circle within yourself. Where you are tempted to be merciful, you must hone yourself. You have sworn to be the weapon of the Broken Circle, the tip of the spear for the Khehemni Lothren's purpose. Remember that all we do, we do for you.”

  “Yes, my Lothren.”

  Lhaurent eyed him a moment further. He settled his teacup upon its fine gilt-edged saucer with a soft clink. “I believe you have rounds this evening in the West Guardhouse? With Captain Olea den'Alrahel?”

  “Yes, my Lothren.”

  “Then I have a new assignment for you.”

  “Yes, my Lothren.”

  “Keep a close watch upon your Captain-General. She is serving a purpose currently for the Dhenra Elyasin, something outside her usual duties, and the Lothren want to know what it is. You are dismissed from your regular interrogations and other tasks in the Hinterhaft until we know what Olea den'Alrahel is up to. If it's something decidedly intrusive to our purposes... we will have to arrange a way of disposing of her. She has become... less than cooperative lately with me.”

  “Yes, my Lothren.” Jherrick eased, knowing he was dismissed from interrogations and corpse clean-up for a while. But something inside him clenched at Lhaurent for having leveled a threat against the Guard's Captain-General. Jherrick made his body serene and his face empty, in the way that he had trained now for so many years. Lhaurent would never know about that thought.

  Nor would he ever know about Jherrick's mercy with the dead boy.

  “I will do my duty, sir.” Jherrick murmured.

  Lhaurent gazed at him for a long moment. At last, he waved one regal white hand, his ruby ring catching the light and flashing red. “Dismissed.”

  * * *

  It was late afternoon, the sun well on its way down the western side of the mountain, but still bathing the city of Lintesh in a fair golden light outside the grime-smeared West Guardhouse window. The day had turned excruciatingly hot, and Jherrick was looking forward to the end of his shift, to a cooling dip out in the Kingswood. It was a long way to Elhambria Falls, nearly a ten-league run, but Jherrick was craving the pummeling of the water to work out the knots in his shoulders. Carrying a dead lad for nearly three leagues this morning had only worsened his general tension. Its ancient frame cracked open to get what little breeze there was today, the window by his stout desk suddenly afforded Jherrick a view of his quarry, Olea den'Alrahel.

  Striding across the flagstones in front of the main gates of the palace, Olea moved with elegant purpose. Jherrick sat up, tracking her. His Captain-General was a fascinating woman. Olea den'Alrahel's long and tousled curls caught the wind as she moved. Her hair was a shade of black so pure it gleamed blue in the hot afternoon light, and those grey-opal eyes gathered the sun as if she shone from within. She marched past, one hand upon her sword, purpose in her stride. Her cobalt jerkin was undone, and Jherrick caught a glimpse of the unmistakable star upon her chest. One of the Palace Guard marched past, saluting her, staring as most men did. Olea was hard to not stare at. A striking woman, she was clearly used to stares, and strode onward with a nod.

  On her way to the West Guardhouse, the Captain-General would spend her evening drinking as she inspected the lists with Jherrick, and approve the payroll for the month before it was brought to Chancellor Evshein den’Lhamann. She had a few hours of reading ahead of her tonight, reports of behavior from her Guardsmen, considering promotions and demotions. Jherrick knew her schedule by heart, even though he couldn't follow her by day. But the Lothren kept Jherrick close to her every evening at his position here in the West Guardhouse, perfectly poised to gather everything the Guard-Captain knew, and whatever she let slip.

  Jherrick watched her slender swordswoman's hips as she rounded the broad fountain, the market in the plaza nearly packed up for the day. She had picked up her stride and was about to make her usual leaping run up the steps of the guardhouse, when a brawny young man sauntered by. Jherrick saw the man's gaze flicker over Olea's Inkings, then narrow. He spit.

  Olea rounded upon him. Jherrick saw her customarily blithe mood sour as she took the insult with her straight dark eyebrows pinched in a scowl. Jherrick slid from his desk with a grace he never exhibited in the guardhouse and slipped to the open door, watching their interaction from the shadows.

  “Do you have something you’d like to say, fellow?” Olea den'Alrahel's bell-clear voice rang out like a duelist's challenge in the dusty heat.

  The young man turned, challenging her. He was dressed in stonemason’s roughspun with the sleeves and ankles of his garb rolled up from a hard day’s labor. Blue byrunstone chalk covered his hands and smudged his clothes and face. He spit again near the Captain-General's boots. Drawing up before her like a bear, the stonemason was nearly a head taller, though Olea was not a short woman.

  “Blackmark bitch.” The mason growled.

  Jherrick saw his Captain-General step closer, saw her go deadly still. Jherrick had seen Olea put men in their place upon the practice grounds. A small smile stole over Jherrick’s lips, watching the show, knowing what was coming. The stonemason had chosen the wrong Blackmark to insult.

  “That’s Guard-Captain-General Kingswoman Blackmark bitch to you, mason. Do we have a problem here?” Olea's voice was saccharine, her smile so sweet it burned.

  The stonemason's thick lips screwed up, as if he might spit again, and on her this time. Olea’s sword was out faster than Jherrick could blink, the tip nicking the mason's stout neck.

  “Give me a reason, fool.” She hissed, cold as a viper.

  The mason flinched back, incredulous. “You can’t threaten a citizen!”

  Olea’s dark eyebrows arched, those sweet ber
ry-ripe lips set in a flat line. “An insult to me is an insult upon your Crown, fellow. Do you want to take that risk? I don’t have to kill you, you know. Only hamstring you and slice your wrist tendons and drag you down to the cells. You’ll never stand again, never work again. Never walk again.”

  And though his beady eyes were furious like a raging bear, they also flinched. Olea was a ruthless bitch when she wanted to be. Jherrick's lips curled up further into an eager, dark-edged smile his Captain-General had never seen from him, and never would see.

  “You got any family who call you son?” Olea's words wafted through the muggy thickness of the late afternoon heat, up the steps of the Guardhouse. The mason took a deep breath, but Jherrick and anyone else watching could see he was bested. Cowed. Such a big, thunderous man and Olea den'Alrahel had broken him, just like that.

  Olea lowered her blade but didn’t sheathe it. “Go home.”

  Jherrick's gaze flicked around, but few were in the plaza now, the market packed up for the day. Few had seen the stonemason's immense embarrassment. Without a word, the mason growled and turned, hulking back to whatever hovel he called home in the King’s City. Olea was putting her sword up when a man loitering just at the far edge of the byrunstone fountain caught her attention.

  Olea halted, watching him. Jherrick stilled, eyeing the man also.

  The brawny fellow had a casual appearance, sitting upon the lip of the wide fountain in the plaza. Broad arms were crossed over a muscular chest in a homespun flax shirt. He looked like a blacksmith, thick muscle with iron-hard hands, like he had spent a lifetime hammering iron or wielding it. And with his military-cropped dark curls and ragged scar down his face, he'd probably been discharged from serving in Valenghia, shoeing horses on the battlefield and wielding an axe on the side. The rugged fellow stared out towards a weaver’s shop across the way, but neither Olea nor Jherrick were fooled. Jherrick was certain that the big blacksmith had been staring at Olea not a moment before, watching her encounter with the stonemason.