Five Kingdoms: Books 01, 02 & 03

by Toby Neighbors

  “You want to stay the night?” Zollin asked.

  “I think we better,” Brianna said. “Edmore’s people may come back around or someone else might try to implement his methods. If we stay, we can make sure that things get started on the right foot.”

  “I suppose you’re right, although I prefer a little more space. I feel like we’re being trapped by the tents and campsites.”

  “We can stay on the edge of the village,” Brianna suggested.

  “I saw a small grove of trees on the other side of the road, would that be okay?”

  “Sure,” Brianna said.

  “Good, I’ll get a fire going. I’m starving.”

  “We just ate,” Brianna said.

  “Working magic makes me hungry,” Zollin said.

  “Everything makes you hungry.”

  Chapter 8

  “Wake up,” Quinn said, nudging Mansel with his boot.

  Mansel groaned and sat up, rubbing his eyes, which felt swollen and gritty. He was tangled in his cloak after a short night of sleep, and he wished that he could lie down again and sleep through the day. He grunted as he got to his feet, shaking out his cloak and brushing the dirt from his clothes.

  They had made camp just outside of a small village. The day before, they had passed through Valeron and resupplied. Then they had ridden late into the night, before making camp as the moon set. Quinn was setting a furious pace, and Mansel was surprised that the older man could ride so hard and seem none the worse for wear.

  “I’m betting they have a hot breakfast in that village,” Quinn said. “I, for one, could start the day with some sausage and a cold pint.”

  Mansel’s day brightened considerably. Getting Quinn to stop for anything was difficult, and they had drunk nothing but water for the last four days. There was no fire, they were keeping a cold camp and setting no watch. They slept three or four hours a night and were constantly on the move. When their horses grew tired, they walked. They had sore feet and sore backsides, but Mansel was not the type to complain. He picked up his saddle and got his horse ready.

  “You’ve been quiet these last few days,” Quinn said.

  “I have to concentrate to keep up with you,” Mansel replied lightly.

  “Don’t go stroking my ego, now, I’m liable to believe it.”

  “You should, I’ve never ridden this hard in my life. Not even when Zollin and I were riding to save Brianna.”

  “Well, we’re in a race,” Quinn said. “The Mezzlyn have four, maybe five days lead on us. Our only hope is that they aren’t traveling as fast and perhaps we can catch up.”

  “What do we do if we travel all the way to Osla and find out that Prince Wilam is dead?” Mansel asked as he pulled himself up onto the saddle.

  “We turn around and come home,” Quinn said. “The only reason I left Zollin was because the King asked. I know I can’t be much help fighting a dragon, but I don’t like being so far away when he could possibly need me.”

  “Yes, this does seem a bit like a fool’s errand to me. Surely the Prince has guards; can’t they protect him just as well as we can?”

  “Perhaps, but they don’t know what trouble is coming. We do.”

  “And that gives us an edge?” Mansel asked as they rode toward the small village.

  “An edge over the Prince’s guards, perhaps, but not over the Mezzlyn.”

  “What will we do if they shoot him with a poisoned dart, like they did with Zollin? We don’t even have an antidote.”

  “I doubt that they’ll use the same methods as they did in Brighton’s Gate. They’ve got agents all across the Five Kingdoms—at least it’s believed that they do. No one really knows much about them.”

  “Fabled assassins are good, but I’d rather be known for slaying a dragon,” Mansel said.

  “I’d settle for surviving,” Quinn said.

  The village was just stirring as they rode in. There was no inn, but at one of the larger buildings they saw barrels of ale and smoke rising from the chimney. They dismounted from their horses just as a young boy came from a small stable with a bucket of milk.

  “Would the master of the house welcome visitors?” Quinn asked the boy.

  “Aye, Lady Loria runs a café. We’ll be serving breakfast soon,” the boy said.

  They followed him into a long, low-ceilinged room with long benches. There was a strong aroma of bacon and fresh bread coming from the kitchen. Quinn and Mansel sat down while the boy let his mistress know that customers had arrived. Soon, a tall woman with gray hair and a cheerful smile appeared. She was carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

  “Visitors, I see,” she said as she set the mugs down on the table. “Would you be wanting breakfast, then?”

  “Yes,” Quinn said. “Whatever you have that’s fast.”

  “And ale, if you have it.”

  “We’ve plenty of ale, although we don’t serve it this early in the morning,” she said.

  “We’re on the King’s business and we’ll be riding hard today, as we have been. Whatever you can provide we’d appreciate,” Quinn said, laying two silver marks on the table.

  “Paying customers can have ale at any time, day or night,” Loria said. “I’ll send something out in just a few minutes.”

  Quinn and Mansel sipped their coffee. It was strong and Mansel found it bitter, but a welcome change from their cold rations. The heat felt good in their stomachs and soon it was replaced by two mugs of frothy ale. They both took long draughts of the cool spirit before setting their cups down.

  “Now that’s more like it,” Mansel said.

  “They’ve a good brewer hereabouts,” Quinn agreed.

  It was only another minute before the boy returned with hot bread and a crock of butter. They cut the bread and slathered it with fresh butter, which melted into the hot bread. Then Loria returned with two large plates which were full of fried eggs, sausage that was still sizzling from the pan, and soft fried potatoes.

  They ate everything on their plates and finished off two more mugs of ale before the next customer arrived. They carried their own dishes back to the kitchen and found Loria hard at work.

  “We thank you,” Quinn said.

  “My pleasure, gentlemen,” Loria replied.

  As they walked out, Mansel said, “I could get used to starting my days this way.”

  “Didn’t your mother feed you breakfast at home?”

  “Only porridge,” Mansel explained. “We didn’t keep chickens and with six children to feed, sausage was a luxury.”

  They climbed back on their horses and set off, both feeling good about the day ahead. The sun rose high and hot, but their pace kept a light breeze kissing their skin. When they walked the horses through the afternoon, the heat was worse, but they kept as fast a pace as they could and didn’t complain. Neither man had been to the southern kingdoms, and they knew the heat would only increase the further south they traveled.

  “So what is our plan?” Mansel asked.

  “We make for Lorye and take passage south. That way we can travel day and night. We’ll be able to rest up, too. It shouldn’t take us more than a few more days at this pace to reach the coast.”

  “I’ve never sailed on a ship before,” Mansel admitted.

  “Well, it takes some getting used to, but at least there will be a nice breeze and nothing more for you to do than sharpen your weapons.”

  “Why not just ride down?”

  “It’s not a pleasure trip. If we go overland, we’ll have to skirt the Rejee Desert and cross the Walheta Mountains. Even riding hard, it would easily take twice as long. The ships at Lorye can sail straight to Brimington Bay, and from there it’s only a few days ride to the Grand City.”

  Quinn was a little surprised at Mansel’s questions. It reminded him of when he was a young man, questioning every decision just because he could. Mansel had always been a very eager apprentice and had become a very skillful swordsman. Anyone could learn to use a sword, but some pe
ople had the muscle build that allowed them to do things with a weapon that others simply couldn’t do. It wasn’t just about strength, but agility and the way his muscles were formed. Still, all through his tutelage with the sword, Mansel had been a respectful student, working hard and never questioning Quinn at any point. Now, even though he remained respectful, he obviously wasn’t content to simply sit back and let others do the thinking for him. It was a necessary step towards adulthood, but there was a hint of frustration and disrespect just beneath the surface. Quinn wasn’t sure if he should be worried, but it was just one more thing to weigh on his mind.

  Fatigue wore on them both as the evening approached. The temperature dropped as the sun went down and they climbed back up onto their horses. They talked less and less as it took all their concentration to stay on the road, which was little more than a dirt path, as the evening turned to night. They rode late and fell asleep exhausted an hour or so after midnight.

  The next morning they ate bread and cheese as they rode.

  “I liked yesterday’s breakfast better,” Mansel said.

  Quinn agreed.

  “I miss inns, ale, and pretty girls.”

  “I miss soft beds and warm meals.”

  “And pretty girls. Why do you think most village girls are so homely?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said.

  “I think it is because they just don’t have any reason not to be. They spend all their time baking and cleaning. Whereas a tavern maid relies on good looks for tips.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s a working theory. I need more research.”

  “Perhaps when we’ve successfully gotten Prince Wilam home again.”

  “It seems a shame to waste this trip. Why can’t we stay in an inn? We have to sleep at night anyway. We’d probably travel faster if we rested more. At an inn, the horses would be fed oats and plenty of water. We could ride them all day and then rest them at night.”

  “In most cases that might be a good idea, but we’ve got to make up as much time as we can. Plus, if we stay at an inn, you’ll be tempted to drink. We might travel faster with more rest, but not if you’re hungover.”

  “I can have a few drinks without getting hungover,” Mansel said testily.

  “True enough, but can you stop after a few drinks?”

  “I did yesterday morning.”

  “That was because you didn’t have a choice,” Quinn said.

  “I’m not a child, Quinn. I don’t have to be watched every moment of the day to make sure I don’t do something stupid.”

  “I agree,” said Quinn. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, I’m simply trying to give us the greatest possibility for success. If we don’t keep moving, we won’t get to Osla in time to save the Prince. If we do, think of how the King will reward you. You’ll be able to drink as much as you want when we’re done.”

  Mansel grew sullen.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Quinn explained.

  Mansel did not reply and they rode through the morning without another word. That afternoon a storm broke. At first the cool wind was a welcome change. Then the rain fell and they were soon soaked and cold.

  “Tell me we should push through now,” Mansel said through chattering teeth as the rain fell in sheets.

  The road was soon churned into thick mud, and the horses’ heads drooped as they slogged along. The rain fell heavily for a quarter of an hour and then slowed to a steady, moderate rain that seemed as if it could fall for hours. It took an hour to reach the next village. The small community had an inn with just a half a dozen guest rooms, all of which were occupied. They were allowed to occupy an empty stall in the horse stable, where they changed quickly into dry clothes and hung their rain-soaked garments along the walls of their stall. Then they hurried into the inn’s common room, where a bright fire had been kindled in the small fireplace. Quinn and Mansel went to warm themselves.

  “Can I get you something?” a young girl asked. She was not yet a teenager, yet she was working hard, bringing drinks and clearing away dishes.

  “Mulled wine,” Quinn said.

  “Ale,” Mansel said.

  The girl nodded and hurried away.

  The locals were talking about the weather, while refugees sat huddled close together, nursing their drinks and looking glum.

  “Not a particularly social place, is it?” Quinn said.

  “No, but it suits my mood.”

  The room was dark since the clouds and rain blocked the light that would normally come in through the common room’s small windows. The fireplace was short and narrow, not allowing much light into the room, and the lanterns were sooty and cast a weak light.

  “What have I done to make you surly?” Quinn asked.

  “It’s not what you’ve done, but what you haven’t done.”

  “Don’t speak in riddles.”

  “Stop telling me what to do!” Mansel said, his voice raised.

  “Keep your voice down,” Quinn said, “there’s no need to make a scene.”

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re a control freak, Quinn. Just give it a rest and let me be.”

  “As you wish,” Quinn said. He stepped forward as the young girl returned with their drinks. “I’ll take my food to the stable,” he told her. He took his drink and left the common room.

  Mansel felt guilty as he settled in close to the fire. He didn’t know why Quinn was making him so angry lately. He didn’t really disagree with any of Quinn’s plans or ideas, but he resented that Quinn never seemed to consult him. It made him feel childish and angry. He didn’t want to be simply told what to do.

  He drank the ale slowly, mindful that he didn’t want to lose track of how much he was drinking. The food that evening was braised lamb with stewed vegetables and dense bread that tasted almost like cake. He ate alone, his frustration radiating out and causing the other guests to give him a wide berth. He drank more ale after his dinner and although he planned to get to sleep early, he didn’t like the thought of joining Quinn in the stable.

  It didn’t take long to lose count of his drinks, and before long he was drunk. He didn’t really notice until he stood up to relieve himself. The room seemed to spin and he had to hold onto the table to stay on his feet. The floor seemed to pitch and roll under his feet as he staggered out into the night. The rain had become a thick mist and the ground was slick with mud. He fell after just a few steps and got up covered with mud. He leaned against the corner of the stable and relieved his bladder and then decided he’d better call it a night. He stumbled into the small stall he was sharing with Quinn and found the older man fast asleep.

  He didn’t bother with his bedroll, instead he sank down into the hay that Quinn had arranged for them and went to sleep.

  The next morning Quinn woke Mansel gently. He felt bad for the boy, who was not only covered in mud, but the straw he’d slept in was now stuck to him as well. He decided to stay busy and give Mansel a chance to clean up before they set out for the day.

  “Wake up, Mansel. I’ll get the horses ready and meet you in the inn’s dining room.”

  Mansel grunted and rolled over. His head was pounding and his stomach was quivering. He could taste stale beer in his mouth and his tongue felt swollen and thick. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up and felt the mud on his face. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the daylight, even though it was muted by thick clouds. He looked at himself and sighed in frustration. He was filthy and his clothes were a mess. He stood up and held his stomach, leaning against the wall of their little space until the threat of vomiting had passed. Then he walked slowly out and found two wooden buckets of water sitting beside a small stool. There was a set of rags on the stool. Quinn had made sure that Mansel had what he needed to clean himself up. Now, on top of his aches, pains, and nausea, he felt guilty. He wanted to climb into a hole and disappear. Instead, he pulled off his filthy clothes, dunked one of the rags into the bucket of cold water
, and started scrubbing.

  Chapter 9

  Zollin and Brianna stayed at the refugee village for two days. The second night Edmore disappeared. He left everything, including his big tent, which the refugees had turned into a gathering place. Zollin did all he could for the people, and on the morning of the third day he and Brianna set out again. They had been traveling at a rather leisurely pace and now the urgency of their mission was setting in.