Simon Blackfyre and the Storms of Destiny

by A J Callen

  The growing flames threatened to engulf the entire Great Hall within the time it would take to escape through the open door. Niclas coughed in the thickening smoke and grabbed Uriel’s arm. “We must go now!”

  “As Count Borodin and others before you, swear your oath of secrecy to me as my protector until I return.”

  “Euriel, please, I beg of you.”

  “Swear to me!”

  “I swear, my lady, upon my word and life none shall know. Now I beg thee!”

  Euriel smiled, a bittersweet expression of gratitude. “Until we meet again, my brave lord.” Without warning, her arm withdrew and shrank away from Niclas’s hand until he felt nothing more. It was as if she had not even been there.

  Smoke clouded his watery eyes. He wiped them with the back of his hand and when he could see again he barely managed to glimpse a reddish-brown feathered hawk flying out through the shattered glass window.

  “Niclas!” Count Borodin and Uray stood by the open door as the flames burned ever closer.

  Niclas stepped around Sir Razmig’s body. Suddenly, the knight grabbed his ankle with two hands and yanked him down.

  Niclas hit his head on a chair and tumbled to the floor.

  Sir Razmig lurched to his feet, reached over his shoulder and snapped the arrow shaft. He lunged for his sword, raised its blade, and lunged.

  With strength born of the need to protect and the will to survive, Niclas dodged his first thrust, ducked the second, then sprang forward, grabbing the knight’s sword arm and pressing it hard toward Sir Razmig’s chest.

  Sir Razmig, his wild eyes red in their cadaverous sockets, bared his teeth like a mad dog. “Your world is doomed. The King soon returns to claim us all.”

  “Then best you tell him that none in hell are welcome here and that he shall never walk this earth again.” Niclas stomped his heel down as hard as he could on the knight’s soft boot leather.

  Sir Razmig yelled and crumpled forward, the sword tip piercing his chest. Niclas pushed him and he tumbled, screaming, face first into the fire.

  Darting just out of reach of the thrashing flames, Niclas, his clothing singed, his eyes stinging and teared over from smoke, dodged and swerved around the burning rafters falling from the ceiling. He burst through the open gilded glass door at the last moment, gasping for air, and rushed toward Count Borodin’s group running down the hall toward Governor Zonaras standing outside the front door.

  Niclas tumbled, breathless on the ground a safe distance from the manor as the ceiling of the once magnificent Great Hall collapsed in flames.

  The Governor hurried to his side, his voice a shrieking tone of stunned panic. “Lord Delcarden, are you hurt?”

  Niclas shook his head and pulled himself up to a sitting position, breathing deeply; he remembered his promise, and was struggling to collect his thoughts about what he would say next. “How did you know to find us?”

  “The servant boy, Uray. He saw that raping sod, Larce Delkofer, in Razmig’s company when they rode away to fetch you. ‘Tis a pity slaves cannot testify in court or we would have castrated and strung him up years ago with his bloody cock stuffed in his mouth.”

  “Any news of Bishop Jubert?”

  The Governor sighed and glanced away. “My men found him dead in his residence, his face and body partially eaten away as though attacked by some mad wolf or ferocious beast.”

  “Sir Razmig and his men are dead, also,” Niclas answered.

  “And Lady Omarosa?”

  Niclas shook his head and looked back at the burning house. “None survived.”

  “And good riddance to every last one of those bloody traitors.” He spat on the ground. “Count Borodin has explained their dark conspiracy. A cabal of mutineers in the employ of those cutthroat barons from Varza, no less! It is no secret those backstabbing Varzanian bastards have long claimed ancestral right to our jewel of the sea, but Kardi shall never fall into their filthy hands as long as Avidene is sworn to protect her, am I not right, your Lordship?”

  The flames flowered through the broken windows. The Great Hall, a furnace burning all inside it down to mere charred wood and bones, would leave nothing but the ashes of memory to be found. Tarsilla would not survive long, Niclas thought. They were sure to find her in the morning. Or, what was left of her.

  The Governor huffed. “I ask again. Am I not right?”

  “Please, Lord Governor.” Count Borodin stood next to them. “His Lordship is exhausted from his ordeal, as are we all. We narrowly escaped with our lives and many were not so fortunate. My housekeeper, Frieda Rasolka, and dearest kin, Euriel Glanduer, have perished along with our despicable enemies.”

  He exchanged a wary glance with Niclas and Uray.

  Niclas lowered his gaze. “I am sorry for your loss. Were there any others?”

  “Thankfully, no. I had need of only Missus Rasolka’s services when staying here and, regrettably, I am the closest thing to family that she had. I swear, though, I will avenge her death.”

  Uray helped Niclas to his feet. “Thank you, Uray. I am most indebted to your foresight and bravery. No master may lay claim to you now.” Niclas placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “As witnessed by my noble peers, I, Lord Niclas Aronbach of Delcarden, do happily and gratefully release you and your future kin from servitude ... forevermore.”

  Uray offered his wineskin to Niclas and bowed. “I am grateful, my lord, and I bear witness this night to the truth. You and Count Borodin may always count on my bow and sword to serve you.” He looked up at Niclas, his young eyes shrewd and aware. “... When the time comes.”

  The Governor coughed and cleared his throat, his sweaty jowls jiggling as he did so.

  “I am not certain of what you speak—but is a traitor’s property not forfeited and claimed by the crown?”

  Niclas wiped his mouth and turned on him. “I have not yet finished my report, Lord Governor. Do you wish that I make changes different from those upon which we have agreed?”

  “No, no, by all means.” The Governor clapped Uray on the back. “A fine, honest citizen if ever there was one. He’ll make a good freeman, no doubt. Quite an eye with a bow and arrow, so my men tell me.” He looked back at the burning manor engulfed in flames. “And about that, my friend.” The Governor bent in closer. “It was dark, my men farther away so they could not see clearly through the smoke and fire, yet ... nothing else strange occurred that I should know about, did it?”

  “And if it did, should I include that along with your name in my report, or do you prefer being known as the King’s loyal servant and hero who uncovered a foreign plot to seize the island of Kardi?”

  “A hero?” The Governor gushed in a wincing, fulsome display of gratitude. “Certainly, my lord. Oh, thank you! You are too kind. I only wish to serve our kingdom and the Crown.” He bowed, his buttery face flushed and sweaty. “Well, if there is nothing more I can do here, I will be in my coach waiting to depart. Do not tarry, my good friends. Who knows what still may be lurking in the shadows of the night?”

  Niclas and the others watched the Governor waddling away until he was out of earshot. Count Borodin re-sheathed his sword. “The Sirin refuge is lost, and all within. I leave for Salak on the first tide home. There is much to prepare before winter comes.” He looked at Niclas. “And you, friend? Where does your duty and destiny call you?”

  “I sail for Avidene with Captain Grenfall by the end of the week. My time on Kardi is over.”

  Count Borodin shook his hand. “You are sworn to protect her, as we all are, Niclas. Euriel’s very survival depends on your secrecy and support. You must find great and loyal allies in Avidene, allies upon whom you can rely, to trust them with your life and hers.”

  “I will. My word is my bond and none will break it.”

  “I thought nothing less. We shall communicate by trusted messenger only and I entrust the book to your impeccable care until we meet again.”

  Uray shouldered his bow. “And the sign, lords
? In the sky? How will we know they are true and not filthy lies sent to deceive us?”

  Flames crackled and smoke billowed from the broken windows, then wafted up into the starry expanse of blackness.

  Count Borodin turned toward the waiting horses. “Come, we still have a long ride ahead of us and should heed the Governor’s advice, if only this once.”

  Though the night was close and the flames hot against his skin, Niclas shivered with every step, resigning himself to a fate and secret too fearful to imagine—yet he could no longer doubt the truth that had been revealed in the burning light of this strange and monstrous new world.

  Chapter 13

  Hawks and Stones

  Simon lay still on his straw bed, grateful that Mr. Byrch had not shaken him awake this morning. His last five days on the Pumberton’s farm had not been as he expected and left him feeling more drained than any spell of hard labor yet endured in either the fields or larding shack.

  “You’re quick-footed with a strong back,” Mr. Byrch had said, “As often results from the demands of your situation, but ye have to build the right kind of brawn that will help you in the fray.” To that end, Mr. Byrch had him up before the rooster crowed, filling Simon’s day with preparations, as he called them; these consisted almost entirely of lifting heavy rocks from bloody one pile to the next, hiking over the hills around Grimsby with a sand-filled burlap sack strapped to his waist and shoulders, clearing brush with a hatchet, using first his right arm then his left and making sure to keep the number of strikes balanced between the two, and finally, jumping on the spot, legs open then closed, all the while raising then lowering his arms like a wounded bird flapping its wings, desperate to take flight.

  Complaining of being worked harder than when he was in the camps only seemed to amuse Mr. Byrch. “I doubt that, lad. Cruel labors make a young man old before his time. This may still be hard work, ‘tis true, but these will build ye up, not break ye down.”

  If that was true—and Simon wasn’t convinced—he then asked why Mr. Byrch didn’t join him, considering the great importance he placed on continuing these bruising exertions.

  “I completed my training when I was younger, hungrier, and thinner than you, lad,” he had replied. “And ye can rightly see how I still benefit from it after all these years.”

  He thumped on his barreled paunch which, oddly enough, didn’t move as though fortified by wood staves within. It rather seemed to ripple and heave like a strawberry blancmange, though Simon accepted he was hardly an expert in the assessment of belly brawn, nor of any other kind of brawn.

  Mr. Byrch continued. “I’ve seen many a lass smaller than you do them with ne’er a curse! So, stop yer belly aching and move yer weight in stones thrice more before supper. Otherwise, I’ll eat the lot if it, as disagreeable as it is certain to be.”

  Simon couldn’t help but chuckle thinking about it now. Baxley, it seemed, had done his best to avoid him and that suited everyone just fine.

  He rubbed his sleepy eyes, stretched, and rose with a groan. His feet were heavy like the stones he’d lifted from pile to pile, aching with every step, and his arms were as stiff as the oak staffs used for training. They had left their marks on his hands and chest. No matter what he says, I don’t believe Mister Byrch was ever thin enough to see his ribs, he thought.

  * * *

  The morning mists had retreated from the trees bordering the field. As Simon fastened the buckles on his new ankle boots, he heard the flapping of wings and a small rush of wind. Something had flown in through the open barn window behind him.

  A hawk tumbled, skittish and panicked, into the straw, screeching in distress as though wounded. It limped toward him, one wing lowered near the floor.

  “What’s all the bloody racket?” Byrch, his mouth full, stepped into the pen and frowned. “Where did that bloody bird come from?”

  “It just flew in through the window.”

  Byrch studied it for a few moments. “Is that the same one you spotted in Grimsby?”

  “No, sir. I mean, I don’t think so. It was a black sparrowhawk, and bigger.”

  The red-tailed hawk bobbed its head and screeched again, its beak wide and exposing a bright red tongue and throat.

  Mr. Byrch tossed a piece of bacon toward it. It snatched it out of the air with a single bite. “There’s a falconer somewhere, cursing his bad luck. She’s been trained well, she has.”

  “What should we do with it?”

  “If the wing’s not broken she could just be exhausted and hungry after a long flight. Their wee muscles get worn out too.” He tossed the hawk another morsel. “I can bind the wing to be safe if she lets me.”

  Baxley clumped into the barn, sweating and puffing, out of breath, with Welton close behind. “Get out of the way!” Baxley raised his wood sling and pulled.

  Mr. Byrch stood in front of the hawk so it was impossible to have a clear shot. “You launch another stone, lad, you better pray it hits me in the forehead and cracks me thick skull wide open—because that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you before you can shit your breeches.”

  Baxley’s bottom lip quivered. “But didn’t he tell you about the one that attacked us on the road?” He lowered the sling. “Your new friend uses dark magic to get what he wants, Mister Byrch.”

  He patted Welton on the shoulder. “Just ask my closest and most trusted friend, Mister Welton Queazle, the honest son of a freeman. He saw everything.” Baxley stabbed his pudgy finger into Simon’s arm.

  “He summoned the damn scavengers, his cursed familiars, out of bitter and raging spite against me and intends to bring harm to us all.”

  “Is that right,” Mr. Byrch said, a tad scathingly. It was not a question, his tone showing little belief in the claims.

  Welton cleared his throat. “That’s right, Mister Byrch, sir. It was uncanny how Simon calmed the savage creature as though it was under his spell.”

  Byrch scratched his shaggy beard and turned to Simon. “Right, well. What of that, lad? Those are serious accusations if someone was at all partial to believing in such things.”

  Baxley folded his arms over his chubby chest and smirked.

  That spiteful, lumpish bastard. I won’t let him get away with this.

  Simon’s mind whirred as he stepped carefully toward the hawk. It didn’t screech nor back away. Simon crouched and carefully picked it up with both hands supporting its body. “She’s been well trained for certain, Mister Byrch, but not by me. You could tell it was female so you must know something of falconry. I would be eager to learn, sir, and as for magic of any kind...”

  Simon glared at Baxley. “I know no more of it than you do, nor do I care to. Hang the sorcerers next to the murderers and thieves as far as I’m concerned.”

  Baxley’s mouth dropped open. “You ungrateful dog. I should have whipped you to within an inch of your life when I had the chance.”

  “Quiet the both of you. We’ll have no more foul talk of whipping and hanging.” Byrch held out his huge hands. Simon carefully placed the hawk into Byrch’s cupped palms as wide as a bowl. The hawk nestled quietly without stirring, its beady black eyes looking upward at him, as if in trust.

  “These birds have more intelligence than any young men I know.” Byrch looked at Baxley, then Simon. “Right then. I say we keep her and let her wing mend. If she decides to stay with us, we can always use a sharp pair of eyes in the sky.”

  Baxley cursed and tramped out of the barn in a simmering rage. Welton hurried after him.

  Simon finished packing his saddle bags. “Any idea of a name for her, Mister Byrch?”

  “Hmm. How about Esther?”

  Simon would have preferred another one, something more powerful and threatening like Striker, Chariot of the Skies or Red Dagger. “If you say so, Mister Byrch. Esther it is, then. It’s a …nice name, Mister Byrch, sir.”

  Mr. Byrch held the hawk up before him. “So, she’s Esther, then… after me dear, sweet Mum, God bless her sou
l. One of the smartest people I ever knew. Her eyes never missed a thing. Esther will lead us all to good fortune, lad, of that I have no doubt.”

  Esther bobbed her feathered head as if to agree.

  * * *

  Simon hurried outside holding his blanket roll, the saddle bags slung over his shoulder. Jesamine, his sleek, brown mare, was tethered to the elm tree; she neighed and shook her head as he approached.

  Simon was proud to be riding such a fine horse and glad to have shown sufficient skill to meet with Mr. Byrch’s approval.

  Byrch patted her hindquarters. “What do you think of him, girl? You’ve only been together five days. Do you agree to take Simon Blackfyre as your worthy rider on our journey?”

  Jesamine snorted and stamped the ground.

  Simon reached into his pocket and took out a piece of dried apple. It had been thrilling to ride Jesamine through the fields and surrounding hills, but nothing had given him greater satisfaction than seeing the shocked faces of the Pumberton’s neighbors when he galloped down the road to Grimsby and back with Mr. Byrch.

  Simon stroked her thick mane. “Good girl, Jesamine. Good girl.” Simon’s legs twitched to get moving, anxious to slip his boots into the stirrups and swing himself up into the saddle. Once he pulled on the reins, he would turn his horse toward the road and lose sight of the depressing, ramshackle Pumberton farm for good. Simon offered the apple slice in his open hand. Jesamine sniffed it and lapped it up into her mouth with her long and leathery tongue.

  Byrch smiled. “Looks like you have the lady’s approval. She’s a good, strong mare in her prime. Treat her with respect, tend to her needs, and she’ll carry you far. Like any good lady should.”

  “I will, Mister Byrch.”

  “And understand me well, Simon. I won’t abide any cruelty delivered upon these magnificent creatures. I owe my life more than once to the likes of this fine horse and her kind.”

  “You have my word, Mister Byrch. I can’t tolerate cruelty to either animal or man.”