Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  SIMON BLACKFYRE

  and the STORMS OF DESTINY

  AJ Callen

  Copyright Notice

  © 2018 A. J. Callen.

  All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this book may be reproduced

  or copied without the written permission

  of the Author.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction.

  * * *

  Characters and events are the products

  of the author’s imagination.

  * * *

  Any similarity to persons living or dead

  is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Special Thanks to Annie Jenkins for her patience,

  encouragement, and superb editing skills.

  * * *

  You can contact her at: https://www.just-copyeditors.com

  * * *

  Cover by rebecacovers

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-9938784-1-1

  Contents

  1. Gimcrackery and Blatherskites

  2. Misgivings

  3. Tarts and Trotters

  4. A Mysterious Woman

  5. An Unexpected Visitor

  6. An Imposing Intruder

  7. Skullduggery and Secrets

  8. Wonders to Behold

  9. Unanswered Questions

  10. A Fearful Message

  11. Are You Worthy?

  12. Daggers and Demons

  13. Hawks and Stones

  14. Something in the Trees

  15. Ropes and Quills

  16. A Merry Band

  17. The Rising Storm

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  Gimcrackery and Blatherskites

  Simon Blackfyre hated magic and always would. Of that much, he was certain in life, though he could not say exactly why, since—to his recollection at least—he’d never encountered anyone or anything remotely magical.

  Simon brushed back his long, lank hair, tucking a single greasy strand behind his ear.

  Bloody, fool-born codswallop, all of it!

  He sniffed and leaned into his work. And if such forbidding powers did exist—which he didn’t believe for even a moment—then he wanted nothing at all to do with any of it.

  Already weary from listening to such gibbering nonsense for weeks now, there was, unfortunately, nothing he could say to stop the superstitious old fools of Grimsby from whispering and blathering on as if they knew something more about the world’s cruel workings… which he, for some reason, did not.

  Harlick Pumberton swatted Simon across the back of his head. “Stop your daydreaming, boy, and watch what you’re doing. Look! It’s spilling right over the rim.”

  “Yes, Mister Pumberton. Sorry, sir.”

  Simon took a deep breath and focused on stirring in steady, circular paddle strokes. He’d risen even earlier than usual to begin his chores, hoping they’d help him forget another night of uneasy, fretful dreams. If I could have but one sound night’s sleep, I know I’d feel myself again.

  “What’s wrong with you lately, Simon? Keep your mind on your work. Faster now and watch your hands or they’ll end up with the rest of the lard.”

  Harlick wiped his greasy fingers on his streaked beard as he watched Simon stirring the vat in the rendering shack; the yellowed fat bubbled up and filled the air with its greasy fumes. “And see you get your hair cut after supper, boy. Get any of that in the mix, and I’ll chop it all off for you.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll get it all cut, sir.” Simon glanced out the open window at the half-rotten rooftop of the barn, its loose and cracked timbers hanging and swinging from the frame; black, scavenging birds picked over the carcass of a dead feral cat down near the haystack.

  “Oh. Mister Pumberton, sir. I was… I was wondering what you made of all this strange talk going around town?”

  Harlick scratched the pimple on the side of his stubby nose.

  “Gimcrackery and blatherskites, my boy. All of it. Gossiping old biddies and drunken, superstitious neighbors with not enough work or common sense to occupy their idle hands. I’m surprised you ask. Don’t you believe a word about foul water and dead livestock being the demon’s work.

  “Sloth and poor animal husbandry skills are what’s to blame. Sloth and cluelessness, that’s what. Aye.” Harlick smoothed back the sparse, drooping strands of his oily brown hair.

  Simon stayed quiet, as if mulling things over.

  “You hear me, lad?” Harlick asked.

  Simon squinted through the steam, finally relieved to hear he was not alone in his beliefs. “Thank you, sir. I won’t be losing any more sleep over it then.”

  Harlick patted his puffy hand on Simon’s back.

  “Now, that’s the spirit, lad. Trust me when I say any so-called strange goings-on near the eastern frontier are nothing more than thieves and brigands, all spouting the same old peasant stories… The same ones, mind you, that I heard when I was a lad. Those Darguza savages are just trying to scare the bejesus out of respectable people so they can carry on their shenanigans like the murdering nomads that they are.”

  He pointed at the vat. “The other way now.”

  Simon tensed his lean shoulder and stirred the thick, fuming slop in the opposite direction. “Well… when our new King is crowned, he’ll make the land safe for all of us, won’t he, Mister Pumberton?”

  “Now don’t you count on it, boy. Noble families are all the bloody same—and worse if they get a whiff they might be sittin’ their fat arses on the throne. Isn’t one of them ever done anything to help an honest merchant trying to make a living for himself and his family.”

  He yawned, squishing a bloodsucking stable fly onto his cheek with his palm. He held up his red-smeared hand.

  “See that, lad? Just like that little bugger. Looks like a harmless housefly, it does, until it takes a piece out of you when you’re not looking. None of them will be happy until they draw the last drop from you and me both, mark my words.”

  Simon’s arms strained, the sinewy muscles cording in his neck. He was thirsty as always, but it wasn’t yet time. There’d be no slacking in this place—at least, not if he wanted his supper and a fresh bed of hay in the barn.

  Harlick waddled over to the work table and picked up a ladle.

  “That’s the thing, Simon, see? Doesn’t matter if you’re born a sickly pup whelped into this world along with all your whining, mithering brothers and sisters. It shouldn’t prevent you breaking away from the scavenging class and rising up through the ranks of the gentry. A drippings merchant with my vast mercantile ambitions shouldn’t be limited to the provincial backwaters, isn’t that right?”

  Simon swallowed and wet his lips together, the stench of boiling fat starting to water his eyes. “Yes sir, Mister Pumberton.”

  Harlick examined the ladle, dropped it onto the tabletop, and picked up another.

  “A hard-working man gets fed up watching lesser men grow and prosper, but I promised Missus Pumberton… and I’m determined to advance our family’s position in Grimsby this year by any means I can afford.

  “I’ve great plans for expanding Pumberton’s Lard, Tallow and Drippings across all the civilized regions of this kingdom. How does that sound, my boy? Now, wouldn’t you like to be overseeing my renderings shacks in Sharnwick and Pirn instead of forever stirring that pot here in Grimsby?”

  Simon lifted the paddle and checked the thickness of the lard dripping off its end. That would be a sight better than my life so far.

  “Yes sir, Mister Pumberton. I would like that very much. Mister Krechfield was never so kind. I would love to oversee your ren
derings shacks, sir, Mister Pumberton.”

  Harlick cleared his throat and spat a gob of thick green sputum into the boiling lard.

  “A worthless, drunken bugger without ambition. How could he ever improve your lot in life as a lowly stablehand? That’s the difference between a lazy fat codpiece like Krechfield and me, see?

  “I can spot potential when I see it, boy, and that’s why I didn’t quibble with that bastard Weezgout—though he’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. A man should be able to trade and sell his own property without some slimy cutpurse lining his own pockets in the bargain just because it’s the King’s law.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair, sir. It’s not—”

  Harlick jabbed the ladle at Simon’s chest.

  “Shut up, lad…I didn’t ask you. Anyway, bloody highway robbery is what it is. I’m telling you; an honest man finally scrimps, saves, and trades enough to buy what he needs to free himself from the back-breaking, thankless drudgery of his profession and yet still has to pay a lowly, good-for-nothing parasite like Plotmir Weezgout.”

  He wiped the ladle across the front of his filthy apron.

  “Well, I’m only glad I waited until the head price dropped as low as it did. This Kingdom needs a prosperous merchant class, but the new King will never have one if the King’s Council keeps taxing us to death. I promise you that much. Now, keep stirring; don’t be letting it sit.”

  Simon lowered his head. Be thankful for that much. I’ll never see that cruel bastard Weezgout again if I prove my worth here. “I am grateful to you, Mister Pumberton. You will not be disappointed, sir.”

  He plunged the paddle back into the vat and continued stirring in the same direction, bending his shoulder into his labors.

  The royally-sanctioned traders always got their pound of flesh and, at the final bartered price of nineteen gold sovereigns—one for each year of Simon’s miserable life—it seemed too steep to many. But Mr. Pumberton was willing to pay it so he could travel to other towns in search of profitable trading partners and customers.

  “You’re a quick study, boy, when you keep your mind on your work.” Harlick dipped the ladle into the steaming vat. “With the proper introductions and invitations, I might very well soon be coming to terms with the King’s Council in Avidene to supply the royal kitchen and chandler with all their larding needs. What do you think of that, then?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think! I think both you laggards should do more working and less gossiping like a pair of old women, if you want to impress anyone in Avidene.”

  The shrill tones of a woman’s voice pierced the air as Rimilda, Harlick’s younger wife, bustled in through the open door; her hair was tied back, and she carried two cups of black tea. Handing one to her husband, she wiped her plump, red hand on the stained white linen apron, across the top of her mountainous bosom.

  “You too, Simon. You’ll be no use at all to us if we work you to death.”

  She offered him the second cup.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Simon sipped his tea, enjoying the warmth and sweet touch of honey. Unaccustomed to receiving such small, kind comforts, he was grateful to the Pumbertons for their great generosity.

  “That’s what I was just saying, Rimilda, my love. Am I not a good master, Simon? I don’t whip you to within an inch of your life like others do. I value the gold spent and time needed to make sure you’re trained properly. How else can I be certain that you’ll continue performing your duties for many years to come?”

  Simon nodded. “You are good master, Mister Pumberton, and a wise one. It’s a waste of gold to break a slave until he’s no good to anyone.”

  “Exactly, my boy. What good, I ask you, does it a benefit a man of humble means to destroy the very thing he worked so hard to buy in the first place?”

  Rimilda blew her nose into an old piece of cheesecloth. “So, where’s Baxley then?”

  Simon winced and rubbed the spot on his bruised thigh where the young master had struck him with a pebble from his wood sling the day before.

  “What’s wrong?” Rimilda stuffed the cloth back down her cleavage. “Are you hurt already?”

  “It’s nothing, ma’am. Thank you again for the tea.”

  “Baxley had better not be lallygagging about with any of those little Truntings or Queazle shites.” Rimilda sucked in the larding vapors hard, through flared nostrils. “I wouldn’t trust either one of those flibbertigibbets farther than I could spit.”

  She leaned forward and spat into the boiling pig’s lard.

  “They fill our poor son’s head with so much rot about demons hiding underground ready to snatch him away in his sleep that our poor little lamb can barely sleep at night.”

  “He’s supposed to run errands in town,” Harlick said, slurping on his warm tea. “Go fetch him, Simon, and tell him his father wants a word.” He untied his filthy apron and hung it on a peg.

  The familiar worry and uncertainty gripped Simon’s chest, making his brand burn anew with cold fear. He breathed deeply, wiping the dewy sweat from his brow.

  “Yes sir, Mister Pumberton.”

  “And I want you to go with him to Grimsby, so he doesn’t go getting into any mischief. The neighbors love to gossip and tell lies now we’re proud owners of such a fine slave boy.” He squeezed his wife’s fleshy buttock. “And there’s no need to hurry back. Is there, my love?” He winked at Rimilda.

  She smiled, revealing a fresh, blackened space from her latest missing tooth before glancing over at the rumpled old corner bed strewn with its frayed sheets and sacks. “And put the latch on the door, Simon. We don’t want any riffraff arriving unannounced.” She rubbed at her husband’s hairy belly.

  “I’ve got big plans for you, boy,” Harlick said, squeezing tight on Simon’s wrist until it hurt. “Because I know you’re not one of those fool slaves who thinks he can run away, are you?” He tapped the side of his eye. “Potential, see, lad? That’s what I’ve got an eye for and I don’t want to be seeing yours hanging from a tree. Not unless I have to.”

  “No, sir. You can depend on me, Mister Pumberton.” Simon lowered his gaze.

  Work hard, do all he asks without complaint, and pray this master keeps his word. He might even pair me with a good, strong woman if he can afford to buy another. What more can someone like me expect from this life?

  Simon had sure seen enough of the wretched hanging trees to haunt the rest of his days; familiar faces, friends and enemies alike, had all proved willing to risk the agony of a slow and tortuous death rather than spend another day alive in this hope-forsaken, godforsaken world.

  Simon downed the rest of his tea in one gulp and coughed as he stepped briskly toward the open door.

  Chapter 2

  Misgivings

  After completing their morning intimacies to Lady Omarosa’s flushed and breathless satisfaction, Niclas respectfully asked to take his leave so he might renew his vigor after another unsettling night of troubled dreams.

  A brisk walk around the grounds to help clear my thoughts and I’ll be better for it.

  Tarsilla’s long black hair shimmered in the breaking dawn. She relaxed her supple legs and stretched. “Oh, come back to bed, Niclas.”

  “I would enjoy nothing more, yet I fear I could not leave your side, my kind and gracious lady. And I do have my final appointment with the Governor that duty obliges I must keep. Much to my chagrin, as you know, my lady.”

  “What, that drunken boor, without an acre of entitled land to his name? Could the King’s Council not have appointed a more refined and wealthier baron than Viator Zonaras?”

  “He is loyal to the Crown and competent in his duties, my lady. I do wish I could say the same of many others.”

  “That’s because our late King preferred the company of fawning sycophants instead of strong warriors willing to do what is necessary to advance our Kingdom’s power. It’s common knowledge he’s descended from the Darguza herdsmen without a single drop of noble
blood coursing through his veins.”

  “But many with noble names do arise from humble origins, my lady.”

  A shrewd, confident noble woman, Tarsilla narrowed her moss-green eyes. She reclined her graceful body and curled the end of her hair around long, cool fingers. “But not you and I, my sweet Lord of Delcarden. We are purebloods, as was my poor husband Ardusin, all descendants from the Age of Heroes. We share the same noble history as the five warrior patriarchs and when our one true King is crowned, it will be the only measure of worthiness in his eyes.”

  Niclas poured a crystal goblet of water. “All may show their worth when the moment arises, my lady. We can never tell until we are tested by destiny.”

  “You always were an idealist. Maybe that’s what attracted me to you, that and your ... other persuasive talents.” She arched a finely-plucked brow and picked a grape from the silver bowl, examining it for blemishes.

  “But no, dear Niclas, the rest, like Zonaras, will be no better than freemen or slaves when our next King sits upon his rightful throne.”

  She flicked the grape away then chose another. “Please do eat something before you go. The serving girls will have the morning table set by now.” She held a hand mirror and examined her face as though searching for some traitorous fault that might have appeared silently overnight.

  “You are too pale, my handsome lord, and Sucaria is not dreary Avidene. You should have far more color in your cheeks after so many fortnights in our splendid Kardi sun.”