Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Sword and Highland Magic

by Jean Lowe Carlson

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  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 Chancellate 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.”

  The three bowed in Alrashemni fashion, and strode from the hall as den’Selthir continued. “The rest of you, listen closely. We are beginning a campaign. From now on, each of you will leave this manse once a day, and travel somewhere new. A map will be kept of all locations in the training room. You will go in plain clothing to areas outside my domain, but dress as you are for areas where you may be known. We begin a war of slander against the Chancellors and this rash Elsthemi invasion.”

  The Vicoute paused, swinging his icy gaze around to take in everyone in the hall. “You will take coin from den’Thurgard, and spend it on your travels. You will drink in the taverns, gossip in the markets, visit a brothel and a smithy. You will spread word of what is happening in Lintesh, and use language such as, plot from within against our Queen, unnecessary, two-front war, reaching too far, stretching too thin, outnumbered and the like. The populace must be made to agree that this war is a terrible idea, and urge them to protest. In two weeks’ time, we will re-visit the marked areas and begin to rabble-rouse.”

  One of Arlen's more brave retainers, a brawny man named Dhuth, broke in suddenly, his voice low and his dark-browed face frowning. “But what if she's dead, Arlen?”

  The Vicoute drew a long, slow breath. The single breath of his training. “Hopefully by then, we will have confirmation of the Queen’s safety, Dhuth. Even if she’s not alive, however, we must avoid a
war at all costs. I will hear suggestions in my study all day today and tomorrow from sunup to midnight. I will consider all thoughts. Get some breakfast, think of your destinations for today. Only the most minimal chores are to be observed, cooking, feeding the animals, groomsmen duties, and the smithy. If you have one of these, please plan your visit somewhere local. Telsen, engage an inventory of all weapons. Arthur, recruit as many hands at the smithy as you need to anticipate an engagement. Dismissed.”

  Palms went to hearts all around the room. More than a hundred Kingsmen-in-hiding pledging their duty, eyes flashing, finally able to retaliate after all these years. Though it was a small ripple den’Selthir had started, Dherran felt the power it created like lightning in his limbs. His own heart was hungry now, feral like a wild boar about to charge.

  Den’Selthir’s eyes pinned him, then Khenria. “Dherran, Khenria. With me. You will observe all proceedings for the next two days and keep my notes. Get dressed properly, then bring breakfast to my study. Go.”

  “Vicoute.” Khenria was bowing, one palm to Inkings that were not even there yet, her grey eyes shining for war. Dherran nodded also, feeling battle bristle in his soul.

  THE END

  The adventure continues in BLOODMARK, book two of The Kingsmen Chronicles.

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