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

by Jean Lowe Carlson

  “Arlen.” A large grey-maned boar of a man growled, clasping the Vicoute’s forearm.

  “Ghevran.” Arlen acknowledged him.

  “Arlen.” Another retainer clasped arms with the Vicoute.

  “Ihlen.” Again, den’Selthir recognized the man and moved on. Upon the estate, the Vicoute treated his men like retainers, Dherran had noticed, civil with them but brusque like a lord. But down here, in the training-pits and in the saunas, all were Kingsmen, and all equal, and Arlen greeted his kin accordingly. They moved through the room, the Vicoute pushing through another cendarie door, and came to a second steam room where a few other men lounged. But upon seeing the Vicoute, these stood with a nod, gathered their towels and stepped out, leaving Dherran and Arlen in the room alone. Arlen den’Selthir sat upon a bench with a sigh, scrubbing at perspiration on his face with his towel. Hanging it around his shoulders, he leaned back on the cendarie-paneled wall, closing his eyes.

  Still not knowing what he was doing here, Dherran sat also, a respectful distance away. The Vicoute was not a man to get cozy with, no matter that they had now known each other for three weeks. The steam was rich with a loamy smell, something that mellowed the mind and eased the tension from his screaming muscles. After a few breaths, Dherran had likewise closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall.

  But he was still curious. After a moment, he opened his eyes, gazing at the Vicoute’s bare chest. “Vicoute.”

  The man took a long, deep breath of steam. It curled in around his mouth and nose, then sighed out. “Down here, you may call me Arlen, Dherran.”

  “Why is that?” Dherran murmured.

  “Because at the end of a day, when a man has done everything he needs to do,” Arlen sighed, his eyes yet closed, “when he has upheld his integrity and lived a day worthy of his Inkings, then he may enjoy solace. Just as a man. Just as we all are, in our bones and flesh. Equal.”

  “Why do you not have Inkings?”

  One of Arlen’s eyes cracked open. “I have them. They are just not seen until you pierce me with a blade. One day soon, you will best me, Dherran. And when you do, you may have the honor of striking a mark upon my chest until Ink burns in my blood. But you must best me first.” A low chuckle came from the man, haughty and amused.

  “I will best you.”

  “I know that. Your skill impresses me, for having gone so long without a proper teacher. But know this: I am not here to teach you the sword. The sword is a crude weapon. I am here to teach you that which you lack most. To lead men in battle, one must be clever, patient, and thoughtful. One must play to the strengths of all around you, and win their hearts, so that their loyalty to you never wavers, never even for a heartbeat. Why do you think the people of Vennet love me? I send men and women for charity duties. I hold a school for the children of the town to learn their letters. I invest in community works like bridges, water piping, and roads. I sponsor events for the town, to liven their spirits. And all is done with the face and name of Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir. That is how they know me. And should the day ever come, that I must bare my true Inkings upon my chest and rally this town, this entire valley, this entire precinct, behind the Kingsmen, I could see it done. But for the spear you lanced right in my well-greased wheel. You have the courage and stamina of a great leader, but up to three weeks ago, you’ve been dumb as a stump and making enemies the entire way.”

  Dherran couldn’t resist crossing his arms over his chest, anger rising at the sting in the Vicoute’s words. “Why do you care at all? If I’m such a lost cause, just dump me and be done with it. Khenria and I can make our own way, even with Grump gone.”

  Arlen gave an irritated sigh. “Your Grump, as you call him, will be found, sneaky fox that he is. And when he is, he will be put to justice.” He held up a hand, forestalling any argument from Dherran, as had happened before. “I know he aided you and Khenria, her especially, and I am grateful to the man for preserving our Kingskinder. But it does not excuse what he is, Dherran. He is a Khehemni agent. And he will die like one.”

  “I don’t see why he has to die,” Dherran scowled.

  “Where there is one, there are ten. And where there are ten, there are a hundred. And breaking even one, Dherran, may lead us to the hundred. I will not repeat myself on this matter again.”

  “You can’t just keep leaving me in the dark, Arlen, and have me take all this on faith, and on your word.” Dherran growled, warning now. “There are things I need to know. You’ve explained less than nothing, and Khenria and I have waited long enough, training with your retainers day after day.”

  “You’ve waited ten years for answers, and you can’t wait one more day?” A curl of a smile graced Arlen’s lips, but he did not open his eyes.

  “I could slit your throat down here, and your retainers wouldn’t hear it.”

  Arlen’s smile turned into an amused smirk. They both knew his threat was useless. “Go ahead and try, Dherran. In any case,” Arlen continued, scrubbing a hand through his iron-streaked blonde hair, wiping sweat from his neck with his towel, “I’ve brought you down here to give you answers. You’ve earned them today. You controlled your temper and made a decision about what was best for your army, which today was simply your body, but that’s where one begins. Armies can’t fight day in and day out. They tire. Men get injured and sore, horses wear out, supply lines run thin. No one gets any sleep and people are up at odd hours doing tasks all night that weary them, like watering the animals. Commanders have even less time and ability to rest. Take it when you can, when the moment is non-critical. So you have earned answers tonight, by being smart today. Ask. I will give you five answers tonight, and five answers only. Be careful what you ask.”

  Dherran clenched his jaw, wanting to hit the Vicoute for his arrogance. But he saw now, what the previous weeks had meant, and found he was mulling it over, thinking about commanding armies and what a man had to learn.

  But there were other questions first.

  “How did you know Grump was Khehemni?”

  Den’Selthir sighed. “I wish I didn’t. I remember him from the Khessian Hills. He was in the rebel camp we routed. I chained him up myself, him and a few others who were to be brought to trial for war crimes. But he escaped, Aeon knows how. And in the morning, we found a number of our Kingsmen dead. He’d been spying on us. He knew which of us carried black Inkings, and he targeted them. I don’t know if he planned his capture so he could get close to our ranks, or if it was accident. But there it is. He stands accused of the deaths of thirteen Kingsmen. He will pay the Fifth Price, once we catch him. What else would you ask?”

  Dherran thought a moment, but the next question was clear. “Who are the Khehemni? And why do they plague us Alrashemni?”

  Arlen gave him a wry, tired smile, his eyes still closed. “We know and we know not. They have been a force opposing us in secret, for many hundreds of years, nigh-on a thousand, really, and yet the why of it is not exactly known. They are passionate about tearing down the things Alrashemni create, and do so in utter secrecy. Khehemni often come through a family line, like most Alrashemni, though some are conscripted. We know that their central governing council is called the Lothren, though we have only suspicions about certain individuals. Khehemni are notorious for being able to withstand torture, and rarely give us names. They have been found in Cennetia, Praough, Valenghia, here, and in Elsthemen. They wear a bloodmark upon the left shoulder that appears when the skin is cut, the same Ink I have for my Shemout mark, but their Inking shows a dragon fighting a wolf inside a broken circle.”

  Dherran blinked. “Like the tableaux upon your basement wall?”

  “Like it and yet not. My wall depicts the classic emblem of the warrior’s way, the Marriage of Conflict in perfect balance. Their blood-inking has the dragon and wolf, but inside a circle broken into many pieces. We don’t know the significance of the difference. Ask me something else.”

  Dherran paused, taking in this information, then pushe
d forward with a topic of interest to him. “How does a Kingsman become Shemout Alrashemni? One of the Hidden People?”

  The Vicoute blinked at him, then barked a laugh. “You don’t! You’ve flaunted those Inkings over half the Realm! Khenria might, but she’s been seen in your presence. To become Shemout, one must keep a low profile. Or a very high one, so high that no one would ever suspect you of being what you are. Some Shemout are born, as I was. Others are conscripted, but never with a history as brazen as yours! No, you’ll be needed for other things…”

  “What other things?”

  The Vicoute eyed him. “Are you sure you want to waste a question?”

  Dherran thought about it, then tightened his jaw, but he looked down, conceding.

  “Smart man. Your role will become plain soon enough. Ask me something else.”

  “Who leads the Shemout? Who makes the calls?”

  Arlen eyed him a moment. “Telling you that will secure your obedience here. I won’t let you leave, not if you have that knowledge.”

  Dherran eyed Arlen, the way he sat perfectly still. He was nearly certain that the Vicoute could kill him with just his bare hands, if he needed to. “It’s you, isn’t it? You're the leader of the entire Shemout, not just their Rakhan, their battle-commander.” Dherran murmured. “How many of your men and women here know?”

  Those icy eyes were riveting. “Only the ones who sport no blackmark. If you loose your tongue about this, boy, even to them, I will have it silenced.”

  Dherran did not back down this time. “And who becomes leader of the Shemout in Alrou-Mendera if you die?”

  The Vicoute Arlen den’Selthir gave a cold snarl. “You’ve got to get a lot faster to kill me, boy. I will answer your question, because you have earned the right to be answered tonight. But after tonight, I will answer no more questions about the Shemout, and you are to repeat nothing of what you’ve heard. My Second, if I die, is a Jenner. The Abbess of the First Abbey, in Lintesh. Her name is Lenuria. If I die, you are to ride out with the Unmarked from my retinue, and pass word immediately to Abbess Lenuria. Can you do that, boy?”

  “Why are you asking me to do this?” Dherran murmured.

  “Because if someone kills me, it will either be you,” he eyed Dherran almost appreciatively, “or it will be a very skilled opponent. And if she kills me, I want you to run like hell, and protect as many as you can. Abbess Lenuria can help you do that. Promise me that if I fall, you’ll pass word to Lenuria.”

  “She?” Dherran blinked at him. “You already know who it is that could kill you?”

  A wry, bitter smile curled Arlen's lips. “Yes. She spared my life once, barely. That is all I will say about it.”

  Dherran held the man’s gaze a long moment, weighing his options as the curling steam passed between them. “If I leave here, I may never find out what happened to the Kingsmen, to my family.” Dherran murmured at last. “So you have my vow. I will stay, and pass word to the Abbess if you die.”

  Arlen den’Selthir’s nod was grave with respect. “Alrashemnari aenta trethan lheroun.”

  Dherran nodded back. “Alrashemnari aenta trethan lheroun.”

  * * *

  The next morning, a servingman came early, a brisk rap at the door. Dherran opened his eyes to a trickle of light passing over the eastern mountains out his open window, the sky brightening slowly. It wasn’t quite morning, but it was a far sight better than being woken after only three hours’ sleep to haul water. Dherran groaned as he sat up. Khenria shifted and peeped irritably beneath the covers. They had finally made love after that first fateful meal at the Vicoute's table, and it had been fierce and wild, the both of them flooded with fear at how their lives were about to change under the Vicoute's raptor-keen eyes. But since then, they had become comfortable with the routine, making love in bruised exhaustion as the both of them tumbled in, night after night, in post-training fatigue.

  And indeed, this morning, all the effects of the steam-room upon Dherran's battered muscles was gone. Everything screamed miserable fury as he swung his legs out of bed. Hauling a blanket with him to cover his nakedness, he stumbled to the door and threw it wide.

  “What?! Aeon and all the gods…” Dherran slurred, still half-asleep.

  The servingman, the same one who had convinced Dherran to wear the fine doublet upon his first night here, was a fellow named Fhennic. Dherran knew the man to be a blackmarked Kingsman, his duties as servingman a sham. But for all that, he took them seriously, and did not sneer at Dherran’s disheveled unpreparedness. “The Vicoute has called a meeting, Dherran. Everyone. Rouse Khenria and bring her down. Immediately.”

  Dherran’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked, rubbing his face to clear the sleep. “What? Does he do this often?”

  The man’s eyes hardened. “Never. Just throw something on and come down to the dining hall. Excuse me, I have others to wake.” Fhennic stepped quickly past, jogging off down the hall. Dherran watched him go, noticing that he sported a full brace of knives and a baldric today with a longsword across his back. Something in Dherran’s gut tightened, uneasy. Fhennic never wore weapons in the house, accomplished fist-fighter as Dherran had learned the Kingsman was. He closed the door, striding quickly to the bed, shaking Khenria by the shoulder.

  “Khenria, love, get up. We need to dress.”

  “What? Hmm?” Her sleepy tousled head was nearly irresistible, her puffy face imprinted with the blankets. Khenria had become a heavy sleeper since coming to the Vicoute’s manse, training with the women fighters nearly as hard as Dherran did with the Vicoute.

  “Up. Clothes. Let’s go.” Dherran threw her the first thing to hand, a flimsy underdress. Pulling it on over her lithe nakedness, she put it on backwards at first and had to haul it back off. Dherran paused, caught in the beauty of her pert little breasts and lean curves, then hauled his trousers and a loose shirt on, pulling on his boots. At last, Khenria was out of bed, the thin shift clinging to her slender frame like mist. Lust rose, and Dherran wanted nothing more than to rip it off her and trundle her to the bed, but he stuffed it down.

  Fhennic was wearing weapons. Not good.

  Khenria donned a pair of silk house slippers in green embroidery, yawned. “Whaddre we doing? Running ‘way?”

  “Meeting with the Vicoute, Little Hawk.” He wrapped her in his arms, kissed the top of her head. “Splash some water on your face and let’s go.”

  She stumbled to the basin, splashing her face, combing down her wild mane, blinking awake. When she turned back, a ready woman faced him. “Weapons?”

  Dherran nodded. “Maybe.” He buckled on his sword belt. Khenria slung into a leather longknife harness the Vicoute had gifted her, which was strange to see with her slinky underdress, but fit her personality perfectly. She nodded, and Dherran heard her light steps follow as he moved to the door and hauled it open. They strode into the hall, a few of their Kingsmen comrades already jogging towards the stairs, disappearing down them. Dherran picked up his feet, jogging also, Khenria on his heels. The feeling of foreboding in his gut grew as they stepped quickly through the formal halls to the massive dining room, just lit with the blush of dawn through the arching window-gables.

  Fhennic had not exaggerated when he’d said everyone was called to the meeting. Over a hundred people crowded the dining hall, the entire estate. Men and women in various stages of dress, but all armed, stood or sat about the long table, steely-eyed. Dherran and Khenria were among the last to arrive. The Vicoute entered from a side door, two of his best men tailing him, all three dressed impeccably and fully armed. Arlen stood at the head of the table and placed his fingertips down upon its polished top.

  A hush settled over the long dining hall.

  “I have had a rider just this morning,” Den’Selthir began, his eyes even more icy than usual, “from Lintesh. Two weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt at the Queen’s coronation. The Queen is missing, presumed dead. Her assassin was the Elsthemi First Sword, and the Chanc
ellate have called for justice from King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen, who abducted her and fled. The Chancellate have made a public show of executing Elsthemi retainers they captured during the fighting, and declared an emergency power of state. They are preparing for all-out war with Elsthemen.”

  Murmurs rose around the table, growled expletives. Dherran’s eyes went ‘round the hall, taking in the set of every jaw, the cold readiness in their eyes, and was surprised to feel how well it fit him. The bristle of anger, kept in check but surging with a current of fury, was intoxicating. That much power in this hall of Kingsmen could have brought down an army of five hundred, and they were angry. Each and every one of them.

  Den’Selthir, however, was calm and collected, all trace of the haughty lord gone, replaced by a battle-hardened commander. “My contacts in Lintesh have reason to believe that the Elsthemi King is not at fault. Two Kingsmen were seen leaving with him as he escaped, who had been posing as palace Guardsmen, and he was carrying the Queen, who may have still been alive. Other Kingsmen are missing from the palace. We believe this to be a Khehemni-induced plot. I have told you all, briefly, about the Khehemni’s supposed link to the Summons and the Purge. Know this: they are at work again behind this maneuvering, and we cannot support a war with Elsthemen. Alrashemni are numerous in Elsthemen. I need three volunteers to go as ambassadors to the Elsthemi King, and tell him we stand ready to support him. Who will go?”

  Hands went up around the hall, too many. The Vicoute nodded at three, two men, and one woman. “Den’Bherlus, den’Khan, den’Buir. Good. Make ready anything you need to travel and be upon the road in two hours.” He placed a solemn palm to his vest. “My thanks to you gentlemen, and lady. Please be excused, the rest does not concern you.”