Praise for Rowena Cory Daniells
“A fast moving, gripping fantasy.”
Fantasy Book Critic on The King’s Bastard
“Rowena Cory Daniells has a splendidly devious way with plotting.”
SFX
“It’s a story of kings and queens, beasts and warriors, magic and religion. If you like any of the aformentioned things, then you’ll probably join me in loving this book.”
Den of Geek on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“The King’s Bastard is a cracking read and the pace never lets up.”
Geek Syndicate
“Royal intrigue, court politics and outlawed magic make for an exciting adventure.”
Gail Z. Martin, author of The Chronicles of The Necromancer, on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“Pacy and full of action and intrigue.”
Trudi Canavan, author of The Black Magician trilogy, on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“The King’s Bastard is a fabulous, rollicking, High Fantasy adventure that will keep you up at night, desperate to find out what happens next.”
Jennifer Fallon, author of The Demon Child trilogy
Also by Rowena Cory Daniells
The Outcast Chronicles
Besieged
Exile
Sanctuary
The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
The King’s Bastard
The Uncrowned King
The Usurper
The King’s Man (ebook)
Rowena Cory Daniells
THE KING'S MAN
The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
First published 2012 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-472-1
ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-473-8
Copyright © Rowena Cory Daniells 2012
Cover Art by Pye Parr
Maps by Rowena Cory Daniells and Luke Preece
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
To Leanne, who refused to believe that Garzik was dead.
Chapter One
ALL HIS LIFE, Garzik had followed Byren and Orrade around, trying to keep up with them, but his legs were never long enough. The five years’ age difference meant they were seasoned warriors at nineteen, while he was still an untried boy. Not that his brother and the younger of the royal twins were cruel. They tolerated him with the absent-minded kindness of older brothers.
He hated being tolerated.
Tonight was his chance to prove himself and win a place in Byren’s honour guard. Tonight Dovecote Estate had fallen to treacherous invaders, who’d murdered Garzik’s father. This meant Orrie was the new Lord Dovecote – what a strange thought.
Garzik gave himself a mental shake. Right now his sister, Elina, and Byren’s twin, Lence, were being held captive upstairs. Byren and Orrie were going to free Elina and the kingsheir, while Garzik lit the warning beacon.
They trusted him to alert Rolencia to the invasion. And he would do it.
Or die trying.
Garzik followed four of Byren’s honour guard out of the cellars, trying to pretend he wasn’t scared witless. Seven of them, dressed in servants’ tabards to blend in, made their way up the steps through the kitchen and storerooms to the door of the stable yard.
No one asked what they were doing.
Thanks to the cook, the Merofynians were all drunk or getting that way. As for the invaders’ servants, they’d been lured into a cold-cellar and the door bolted behind them.
If Garzik didn’t light the beacon on the warning tower, King Rolen wouldn’t know Rolencia had been invaded. Byren’s father was busy planning for a wedding, not an invasion.
Treacherous Merofynians!
Garzik glanced to Winterfell. With his broken nose, the honour guard no longer looked like himself. He looked battered, but determined.
Conviction hardened Garzik’s resolve. If he was honest, he was glad he wasn’t leading the party to light the beacon.
Winterfell paused in the doorway to the rear courtyard. At almost seventeen, he had two years’ experience on Garzik. Oldest of the honour guard, he had emerged as their leader. Three more honour guard stood between Winterfell and Garzik, so he couldn’t see out the back door.
But he knew what lay beyond it. Across the courtyard was the original Dovecote stronghold, built back when their family and retainers’ survival depended on stout walls.
This new house, with its gracious terrace, big windows and elegant chambers, was an affectation. A dangerous indulgence...
As the Merofynians had proven.
Anger and outrage churned in Garzik’s stomach. His home had fallen, but Rolencia wouldn’t fall to the invaders. Not if he could light the beacon.
He glanced over his shoulder to the two lads who brought up the rear. At thirteen, both looked up to him. Did they think it odd to see Lord Dovecote’s youngest son in a servant’s tabard?
Pale cheeked, eyes glittering, they watched his face. He hoped he didn’t look as scared as them, but he suspected he did. This was not like hunting Affinity beasts with Captain Blackwing. Poor Blackwing. The captain had been amongst the first to fall, an honourable death in defence of Dovecote.
Not like his father, who had been disturbed at the dinner table... Garzik rode a wave of fury.
An old man who had already lost four sons to war and ambition before they could produce grandchildren, his father should have been enjoying his old age. Instead, he’d been attacked by invaders in his own great hall. Garzik hadn’t been there to see it. He’d arrived after the estate had been overrun.
Discovering Lord Dovecote pinned to the front doors, a lance through his chest, had rocked the foundation of Garzik’s world.
Even Orrade had staggered when they found their father’s body. Respectfully silent, the eight honour guard had waited, while his older brother took him aside. ‘Don’t let anger or fear blind you, Garza. This was a calculated cruelty to cow the defenders.’
‘I wish –’
‘If we’d been here, we’d both be dead by now.’ That was Orrade for you, always one step ahead.
Garzik was brought back to the present as Winterfell led them into the night. The nearest honour guard nudged Garzik and he followed, keeping close to the guard’s heels. They ran in single file across the recently shovelled stable yard. Passing between mounds of knee-high snow, they reached the old keep where Garzik used to tag along after Lence, Byren and Orrade. In those days, he’d dreamed of being a great warrior and begged to be part of their king-of-the-castle games.
Now, he concentrated on not throwing up.
Inside the old stronghold’s gate tunnel, they paused. Ahead of them was the courtyard. Light spilled from the open doors of the great hall and lanterns glowed in the tower’s narrow windows. Garzik had heard singing from the tower earlier. He only hoped the cook had been generous enough with the wine.
Fierce whispering from behind made him turn. ‘Quiet, you two.’
Three heads turned towards him. Three?
‘Kiri?’ Garzik blinked. What was he doing here? ‘K
iri, go back.’
The skinny ten year-old shook his head, rabitty face resolute. He brandished a wicked little blade from the stables. ‘They killed Regal. I’m going to cut their throats!’
‘They killed Regal? Why?’ Even as he asked, he knew why. The liver-coloured retriever, queen of his father’s hunting dogs, would have sprung to the Old Dove’s defence. Tears stung Garzik’s eyes and his throat grew so tight he could hardly speak.
Even so...
‘Kiri, you can’t –’ Garzik broke off as someone tugged on his arm. He turned to find the four honour guards darting across to the great hall. ‘Go back to the stables and keep your head down. This is no place for you.’
With that, he turned and ran after the others. There were more important things to worry about than one stubborn stable-lad.
Inside the entrance to the great hall, they passed the open doors to the hall itself. A quick glance showed Merofynian men-at-arms everywhere. Some slept, snoring, while others drank and sang of bawdy women. Garzik felt nothing but contempt. The invaders thought themselves safe because no one knew King Merofyn had betrayed his word. What kind of king arranged a marriage to unite their kingdoms as a cover for an invasion?
In the entrance to a narrow passage, Winterfell turned to Chandler. ‘Close the doors. Shut them in the hall.’
The other honour guard grinned and nodded to Wafin, youngest of Byren’s honour guard. Winterfell kept going. The last honour guard and the two serving lads took off after him.
Garzik caught Kiri by the arm as he went to pass. The boy tried to shrug free. ‘Go back. You’ll –’
An ominous creak made Garzik let go and he looked over his shoulder. Chandler and Wafin struggled to move the doors, but couldn’t budge them.
That’s right, those hinges hadn’t been used for a hundred years. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Orrade would have.
Should he go back and help? What if the noise alerted...
‘Here, what’re you up to?’ a man demanded in rough Merofynian.
Chandler ignored him and shoved his shoulder behind the door, wet boots slipping on the flagstones.
Garzik went to help, but little Kiri caught his arm. ‘Come quick. Winterfell needs you.’ Garzik hadn’t even seen the lad go to the passage door.
The warning beacon was top priority. Even so, Garzik hesitated. Kiri tugged on his arm.
Leaving Chandler and Wafin to their fate, he ran ahead of the lad around the corner and down the narrow passage, over uneven flags laid nearly three hundred years ago in front of the oldest part of the stronghold, the base of the original tower.
He found Winterfell and the others standing over a dead man. From the opposite direction came voices and the sound of running boots.
Winterfell grabbed Garzik. ‘You know the tower. Go light the beacon. We’ll hold them here. Bolt the door behind you.’
And before he could speak up, he’d been shoved onto the first steps. Somehow, little Kiri was with him.
Garzik bolted the door while the boy danced with impatience. Then they were both running up the tower steps. Four floors, chambers filled with Merofynians, then the beacon. It was always prepared; his father had never forgotten the last Merofynian invasion thirty years ago.
His father... Garzik could not believe the fierce Old Dove was dead.
They passed the first floor door without mishap. A glance into the chamber revealed Merofynians dicing, too intent on their game to notice them. The second floor door was closed. Garzik began to hope – only two more floors, and he’d reach the beacon itself. Their boots made sharp scuffing sounds on the worn stone steps.
Shouting from below. Garzik cursed.
Kiri ran on past him.
‘Wait,’ Garzik whispered.
Kiri ignored him, following the curving stair towards the next balcony.
He stopped.
Garzik paused two steps below him.
The boy turned. There was something wrong with his face. For a moment it made no sense, then Garzik understood what he was seeing. A dagger hilt protruded from Kiri’s eye.
The boy’s knees gave way and he toppled forward, dropping his knife and hitting the wall with one shoulder before sliding down into Garzik’s arms.
A Merofynian stepped into view above.
‘He’s only a boy,’ Garzik protested. ‘Just a boy.’
The man glanced beyond Garzik.
Who turned to find a fist coming towards his head. He tried to block but, encumbered by Kiri’s body, couldn’t raise his forearm in time. Knuckles struck his cheek, driving his head into the wall.
No. It couldn’t end like this...
‘WILL HE LIVE?’ someone asked in a refined Merofynian accent.
Garzik tried to see who was speaking. One eye wouldn’t open and the other wouldn’t focus and, when he did get that eye open, light stabbed into his brain, making him wince.
Stabbed... Why did that word fill him with grief?
‘Lord Travany doesn’t want to go to the trouble of carting him halfway across Rolencia, and then ship him all the way back home, only to have him die before we get any work out of him.’
Garzik smelt smoke, charred wood smoke, like the winter three years ago when half of Doveton burned. How his father had cursed, blaming a clumsy baker.
Someone prodded his face, checked his mouth. ‘Teeth are fine. Don’t think he’ll lose his eye. The cheek’ll scar up. He’s for field-work?’ The gruff voice paused. ‘Then his looks don’t matter. He’s a house servant, judging by that tabard, but even Rolencian indoor servants are tough. This one should pull through.’
‘What about that lump on his head?’ Lord Travany’s servant countered. The tone of his voice told Garzik the servant wasn’t going to accept responsibility if anything went wrong. ‘An addle-pate’s no use to his lordship. Check his skull.’
Fingers felt Garzik’s head. How could he think with these hands prodding him? Why didn’t they leave him alone?
He tried to tell them, but his tongue wasn’t working properly and it felt like someone had wound a rag too rightly around his head. He lifted his hand to undo the binding, but his fingers encountered no cloth, only slippery, misshapen swollen flesh where his cheekbone and eye should have been.
‘Here, don’t touch.’ Speaking poor Rolencian, the gruff servant pulled Garzik’s hand away, then switched back to Merofynian. ‘Can’t say for sure if his brains are scrambled. Won’t know until he talks, Master Cialon.’
‘Should I throw ’im in the pit with the dead?’ a third voice asked.
Garzik waited to learn his fate. He knew he should have been worried, but nothing made sense and it was too hard to concentrate.
‘No, send him to port. If he dies at sea, we can throw him overboard and save on a burial. If he survives to reach Port Mero, he should live. Make a note. One field-hand, aged thirteen.’
That wasn’t right. He was fourteen, nearly fifteen.
‘What should I put down for a name?’ another voice asked, presumably the scribe.
‘How should I know?’ Master Cialon complained. ‘Call him Wyvern. That’ll do.’
Garzik wanted to protest, he was not some unwanted nobleman’s bastard, named for the Merofynian royal symbol. He had a name, a perfectly good name.
If only he could remember what it was.
Again he tried to open his eyes. The light of the lantern made him moan.
‘Slap some rosemary on that open wound and bind his head,’ Master Cialon ordered and moved along, to discuss the next wounded man.
A different pair of hands took Garzik. Their touch was firm but gentle, reminding him of Willowbark, the family’s healer. Why could he remember everyone else’s name but not his own?
Why did he feel that if he did remember he’d be sorry?
After his head was bound, he could not open either eye. A flask was pressed to his mouth.
‘Drink,’ the healer urged in Rolencian.
Willowbark would have given him d
reamless-sleep, that was what she’d done the time he’d broken his arm and they’d had to set it. This smelled like spirits. He opened his mouth to say no and the person tossed the liquid down his throat. That set him coughing so much he thought his head would burst.
Then he lay panting, with a warm glow in his belly. Voices moved on.
The smell of charred wood worried him. It held some significance, but he couldn’t think what. He was still trying to figure it out when the spirits swamped his senses and he welcomed it.
Chapter Two
EVERY TIME GARZIK surfaced, his head ached abominably. Along with the stench and the jolting, it made it easier to let the blackness take him.
There was a lot to be said for not waking up.
But eventually, his head cleared. He was shivering. Cold. His feet were cold. What happened to his boots? He opened his eyes. Someone must have removed the bandage – or had he imagined that part?
At any rate, he could open both eyes, but he couldn’t seem to focus, one eye was worse than the other. Not that there was much to see. He appeared to be in a dark place that stank of miserable people packed too tightly. He could hear moaning. Inevitably, someone would tell them to shut up. Then came the blows and the whimpering and...
He must have blacked out again, because he woke as someone tried to dribble water in his mouth.
‘Don’t know why you bother. The brat’s half dead. Save the water for yerself,’ a voice advised. Although their tone was not helpful, they spoke Rolencian, which he took to be a good sign.
‘We’re seven-year-slaves, but that doesn’t make us barbarians, like the Utlanders,’ his helper said. His voice reminded Garzik of a tutor he’d once had. ‘Not that I expect you to understand the distinction.’
The Kings Man Page 1
