Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  Lord Lionsbury rubbed his forehead as though overcome by fatigue. “Then may I trouble you for a cup of hot tea in the kitchen, dear lady? We have had a long ride and I feel the sudden chill of a gathering storm in the air.”

  Chapter 6

  An Imposing Intruder

  Simon peered through the open barn door at the candle glimmering to life in the rear kitchen window of the house. “But Mister Baxley, should we not first tell your parents you have returned safely? They’ll be worried.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do, you worthless shite.” Baxley shoved Simon into his barn pen, scattering the cackling chickens nesting on the fresh hay.

  Simon slumped against the pen wall, determined to keep his mouth shut in future so as not to provoke the master. But at least the bastard let him dunk his head and drink the rainwater from the cattle trough. After storing the sacks, he didn’t miss that old pig’s foot at all anymore; he was too exhausted to eat it now.

  Baxley placed the cane onto a hay bale. He lifted the coiled whip off its hook and rubbed the leather lash between his fingers.

  He turned and struck the air once, twice, with a delicate flick of his wrist to show that he had been practicing. “They say you can tell the most respectful slaves by the scars on their backs. Our neighbors haven’t complimented us yet on your training, and we need to change that.”

  Simon closed his tired, dry eyes, resigning himself to the inevitable; it would soon be over and then he could sleep. Although he wanted nothing more than to tighten the whip around Baxley’s fat neck like a noose, it was better to take a lashing and live to breathe another day. Considering this maggot’s pleasure, it could be worse, much worse.

  Fortunately, Baxley’s father had made it clear that his expensive property was being groomed for the larding business and was not to be used for any other purpose, and for that, Harlick Pumberton was a fair a master as Simon could ever expect.

  Simon only wanted to fall onto the nearest hay pile and take his beating, but he could not unless Baxley gave him permission. The trembling in his overly worked limbs made his stomach turn. He couldn’t hold up his weary head any longer and let it droop.

  “Please, good Mister Baxley, If I could but lie down I promise I will not turn from the lash. If I remain standing I fear I may fall when you strike.”

  Baxley ran his tongue over his thick lips. “No tricks then? You won’t try to run and hide like a whipped dog?”

  “No, sir. I’m tired and only wish to sleep if you will allow me.”

  “Welton, fasten his shackle, won’t you?” Baxley handed his friend the key. “I’m famished and don’t want to exert myself any longer until I’ve had something to eat. I’ll see what Mummy has boiling in the pot for supper tonight. She always saves extra if I’m late. Would you like some?”

  Simon grimaced as Welton finished locking the shackle around his sore ankle.

  “Thank you, Baxley. I have missed mine by now. You are such a good friend.” He frowned at Simon. “But what about him? Doesn’t he need to be fed with the other animals before he sleeps?”

  Baxley stood over Simon and stroked the braided leather lashes. “He’s lucky if I give him anything after the embarrassment he’s caused to me today.” He raised the whip and lashed Simon’s leg.

  Simon recoiled. “I’m sorry, Mister Baxley, sir. I’ll work twice as hard tomorrow. I just need to eat and sleep to recover my strength.”

  “Over on your back and open your tunic.”

  Simon did as he was told, knowing he’d be most fortunate if it stopped there.

  Baxley lashed the eye-shaped brand seared into Simon’s chest, over near his heart. “I hate that slave mark. I feel like you’re always trying to see things you have no business looking at in the first place.”

  Simon recoiled from the searing pain but did not try to turn over. “I’m sorry it offends you, Mister Baxley, but I assure you, sir, that it offends none more than me.”

  “My, what a sassy one you are. You’ll pray for more than sleep by the time I’m finished with you.” He clumped back and forth in front of Simon as though deciding where to strike him next. “And you can fight for scraps with the other vermin when they scurry out at night. See if that brings back your strength, or not.”

  He grabbed Simon’s hair, yanking his head back. “Who knows, slave boy?”

  He licked his pudgy lips. “Maybe if you started doing nice things for me, I’d let you suck on a big, juicy pig’s foot after all. Well, you just never know your luck.” He chortled and his blubbery neck swung and shook as Welton covered his mouth and snorted with glee.

  “Nay, my stout friend. I say he eats a proper meal right now, and I dare say you won’t miss yours.”

  A voice had appeared as if from the darkness.

  Simon looked up. A red bearded mountain of a man in thick leather, iron studded breast plate leaned forward on his double headed ax handle, his ireful gaze firmly fixed on Baxley.

  “The ogre is going to eat us! Help!” Welton squealed. He jumped behind the gaping Baxley for protection and peered around his fleshy shoulder.

  They stared in stunned silence a few moments. If Simon believed in giants, he would have said that was exactly what he was looking at, but he didn’t believe in them; like all magical things, he knew they didn’t exist. Some men were just much larger and with more solid heft than others. What truly surprised him, though, was that this colossal warrior could have moved so swiftly and silently. How did they not hear him enter?

  The hulking intruder arched straight and his woolly red hair brushed the ceiling joists. He pulled a tangle of cobwebs from the top of his head and wiped it off on the pen door. “You ought to clean out your barn, lad. A hard day’s work would do you good and then you might deserve a Frangipane tart once in a while.”

  Baxley picked up the cane in his shaking hands and waved it as though it was a magician’s wand to transform the monster into a mouse. “Who—who are you and what do you want?”

  The bearded behemoth pointed at Simon. “I’m here to fetch him. Best you feed our friend well the next few days. Bring fresh blankets while I bring my horses around.”

  “I’ll do nothing of the sort. You don’t scare me, whoever the hell you are,” Baxley said, unconvincingly.

  The towering stranger exhaled his frustration.

  “We’ve had a long, arduous and dangerous ride, my little man. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I’m in no mood to be arguing with a young, insolent whelp. Do as I say before I crack that cane over your clay-brained head.”

  “What’s all the commotion out here?”

  Mr. Pumberton rushed into the barn out of breath, waving his favorite meat cleaver over his head. The moment he looked up at the gigantic stranger, he gasped and dropped it, narrowly missing hacking off his own toe.

  Rimilda trundled up to Mr. Pumberton a moment later, pointing a pitchfork up at the towering trespasser. Her mouth and eyes gaped and she froze like a statue holding the tool in midair.

  The huge man gently lowered the pitchfork tips from his beard. “I was raised to have manners but folks like you sorely test the limits of both patience and civility.”

  Baxley and Welton skittered behind the Pumbertons. “Do something, Daddy, please!”

  Simon wanted to thank the stranger for the precious gift of witnessing the terrified and cowering Pumbertons fearing for their lives, yet there could only be one reason why this alarming fellow was there.

  So; it’s happened. I’ve been sold to the mines and this is the mercenary sent to collect their property after I’m fed and rested. So much, then, for learning the larding trade and becoming an overseer. After all Harlick’s fancy talk, the bloody bastard didn’t even have the courage to tell me!

  Simon swallowed to moisten his dry throat and summon his courage. “Can you tell me then, sir, to which mine have I been sold?”

  “You insult me too, then, lad?” The colossus shifted his great girth around and stared at Simon. The
man seemed either perplexed by the question or angered, for it was hard to tell under all his thicket of reddish bristle. Either way, Simon regretted asking.

  “I will say it once, and once only. I am Oswin Alasdair Byrch, Sergeant of the King’s Council Guard garrisoned at Farrhaven and I do not trade in slaves. I am a proud freeman and you’d do well to show respect to those who deserve it. And you might be one too someday.”

  “Farrhaven? Then I have been sold.”

  “Far from it, my boy,” a stern voice corrected Simon.

  Another stranger swept into the barn, striding with regal bearing beneath an emerald velvet cloak. His hand rested on the bejeweled hilt of his sword, which seemed the most natural place for it. He narrowed his eyes on Simon as though assessing the measure of his worth. “Have we met before, young man?”

  Simon considered this question for a moment. There was something about the man, like someone glimpsed once through a mist and then gone, so there was nothing but the wisps of lost memory once more. Simon glanced down at the noble house insignia shield of a lion’s head over three crossed swords, sparkling emblazoned on the cloak.

  “No lord, though I may have seen your colors during the Feast of Saint Kaja when I worked in one of the camps. All the colors of the noble families were on display there.”

  The nobleman extended his hand and shook Simon’s, taking him completely by surprise. “My name is Lord Ethan Braiding of Lionsbury. Your fealty bond has been paid as proof of your loyalty to Miradora and her future King.” He shook a pouch near Rimilda’s ear.

  The sound of the jingling coins in a large money sack—all bearing the royal, winged six-pointed star of Miradora—broke through Rimilda’s awe-struck trance. She lowered the pitchfork to the floor.

  “You should have described him more fully, my lord. We’ve never seen the likes of Mister Byrch around here before.”

  His Lordship handed Harlick the pouch. He shook it a few times then opened it under his wife’s nose.

  Baxley tugged on his mother’s apron. “These men are from the King’s Council?”

  “Hush, now. It doesn’t concern you, boy. Go to the kitchen and bring your dinner and what’s left in the pot here.”

  “But you promised I could join the Council Guard when I came of age. I’m ready now to serve my kingdom and show how brave I am. In time, those who mocked me will be my soldiers and I will command a legion in the name of our King.”

  No response came.

  Baxley’s arrogant features fell, completely devastated, as though pronouncing the death of all his hopes and aspirations. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is prove my worth and gain the respect of our people.”

  Harlick peered inside the pouch, lifted it, and poured a few gold sovereigns into his cupped palm.

  Simon drew a breath. He can buy three or four young men to replace me, with gold to spare.

  “Quiet, Baxley and do as your mother says.” Harlick drew the pouch string tight.

  “But why him and not me? He’s a slave and that’s all he’ll ever be,” Baxley whined.

  Harlick turned on his son, his sweaty red face fuming. “I said shut yer fat gob and bring yer supper here! And tell Welton to bring the clean blankets from your bed and ours. Mister Byrch will be watching over Simon from now on.”

  “But he’s a slave! Why should I—”

  “Now, Baxley!” Rimilda grabbed her whining little lamb by the ear and led him whimpering out of the barn door. Welton scurried after them.

  Simon could scarcely believe what he’d just seen and heard. The Council could take as many slaves as they wanted for war and not pay a penny. Why did he pay a king’s ransom for someone like himself?

  He needed to order his thoughts before saying something that might cause these remarkable gentlemen to change their minds. “Am I to be trained as a foot soldier, your Lordship? I thought the last insurrection had been put down many years ago and the kingdom was at peace. Forgive me my insolent question, your Lordship, sir.”

  Lord Lionsbury pressed the palm of his sword hand with his fingers as though trying to knead away some malingering pain. “I wish I could say that was true, Simon, but you are not being trained for battle in the field.”

  “What then, my lord, if I may ask?”

  “You have been chosen by the Holy Seer herself to compete in the Rites of Succession.”

  This is what Harlick spoke of! Simon cleared his throat, remembering. “I’m sorry, kind sirs, but I know little of what you speak.”

  Mr. Byrch drank from his wineskin. “Not surprising, lad. All who last witnessed the rites are long buried almost a thousand years ago.”

  Lord Lionsbury held his hand out to the side, extending it toward Harlick without looking at him. Mr. Pumberton sheepishly placed a key into his palm.

  His Lordship knelt before Simon and unlocked his shackle.

  “Our period of great mourning for the King and Queen has come to an end. The governing King’s Council Triumvirate residing at the royal Capitol of Avidene must, by law, dissolve before the first snows of winter. Our great King Christoforus and cherished Queen Oriana have passed away childless without a surviving male heir to the throne. By the ancient holy decree of the Holy Seer, the Council is instructed to undertake the Rites of Succession for the first time since the Age of Heroes.”

  “I ... I’m going to help you ... choose the next King?”

  “Yes, to put it simply, though there is much you must do in a short time to fulfill your sworn duty.”

  Simon raised his foot on a hay bale and massaged his sore ankle. “Thank you, Lord Lionsbury. The iron was particularly cold tonight.”

  “Then I trust you will never give me cause to ever use it again.” His Lordship threw the shackle at Harlick’s feet.

  Simon bowed, as if for the first time humbling himself before someone who truly deserved his gratitude. “You have my word, Lord. I will do as you ask and honor my debt to the crown.”

  Mr. Byrch offered the wineskin to Simon.

  “The Evermeres had a long and glorious lineage but the bloodline of King Christoforus sadly ends in his tomb.”

  Simon was surprised by the strong taste of the wine, but thankful nonetheless, and drank his fill.

  “Water before wine, lad.” Mr. Byrch winked. “And no wine on an empty stomach.”

  Simon wiped his mouth on his dirty tunic sleeve. “Didn’t the King have family? Why not crown a brother, a sister, or a cousin twice removed?”

  He raised the wineskin to his lips again. Freedom was giving him a voice—and a thirst.

  Lord Lionsbury snatched the wineskin away and handed it back to Mr. Byrch, fearful the boy would empty it. “Only a direct male heir of the King and Queen can assume the throne and if that son were never born or died without brothers, then the future king must be chosen from the five families of the patriarchs by sealed vote, all at a special meeting of the full King's Council.”

  Simon scratched at the mark on his chest. “Forgive me, Lord, then would that not solve your present difficulty as in times past?”

  His Lordship raised his brow and glanced away. “Perhaps, in some respects, but her Holiness in her divine wisdom has determined another path to the throne for the young lord who emerges victorious. To that sacred end, you have been chosen by the Holy Seer herself to train in the Rites of Succession, and if successful, you will become a protector of the realm and free of your servitude forever.”

  Simon could not believe what he was hearing. “A freeman, Lord?”

  “Only if you prove yourself and the contender to whom you are sworn as both worthy in the rites.”

  Simon’s heart beat faster with renewed vigor, as if being released from the chains of some dark curse. He bowed, feeling for the first time that the long-awaited dream of freedom was within his grasp, tangible now, if he followed his Lordship’s commands.

  “Thank you, my lord, thank you. I will do all that you ask.”

  “It’s still not fair!” Baxley’s whi
ning, thin voice trailed from outside. He shuffled back into the barn holding a platter with two big, steaming bowls of savory broth, half a loaf of dark ryebread, and a pot of black tea. Welton followed after him holding a folded blanket and two flowery quilts.

  Rimilda pointed at the bench in the pen. “Don’t just stand there. Simon and Mister Byrch must be fair famished.”

  Baxley pouted, the tears still warm and trickling down his chubby cherub cheeks. He placed the tray down and glared at Simon as though he wished he was dead.

  Simon lifted the bowl to his lips and gulped, not caring if he burned his tongue. Do all they ask and I’ll be a freeman by winter!

  “Easy lad.” Mr. Byrch put a big hand on his arm. “You don’t have to fight for it anymore and no one’s going to take it away.”

  Simon ripped a piece of dark bread from the loaf. “Please do not be mistaken, both of you, kind sirs. I’m grateful for the mercy you have shown me and will work hard to prove my worth by any labor that you command.” He washed the bread down with a cup of warm black tea. “But you should know now that I have only known hard work in the fields and forests. I have none of the warrior’s skill, though I am eager to learn.”

  Lord Lionsbury placed a firm hand on Simon’s shoulder. “That’s just it, my boy. You don’t know who you are or who you can be. That’s why you ride with Mister Byrch to Farrhaven in two days, no longer.”

  Questions darted through Simon’s mind. Exhilarated and frightened at the same time, he wanted to know all he could about the rites, yet one question begged to be asked above all others. He couldn’t stop himself from stammering and sputtering as he spoke.

  “But—but why me, your Lordship? How can the slave son of a hanged varmint and thief help choose the next King of Miradora?”

  “Did you know your father and mother?”

  Simon shook his head. “No, your Lordship. I have no recollection of ever seeing them. I only know what Master Weezgout, the slave trader, told me when I was young. He says I was lucky to keep the name they gave me.” Feeling humiliation reddening his face, he lowered his gaze. “This is the only life I’ve ever known.”