Five Kingdoms: Books 01, 02 & 03

by Toby Neighbors

  “I’ll need a room for the night,” he told the inn keeper. “And someone to wake me just before dawn.”

  “Have you got coin? It’s two silvers for the room and another for food and ale.”

  Mansel reached into the little pouch at his belt and pulled out the coins, then dropped them into the inn keeper’s outstretched hand. He then made his way to the far table and sat with his back to the wall. He preferred to be able to see who was in the room without someone coming up behind him. Especially since he had a full purse of the King’s silver. He propped his sword against the wall. It was his most prized possession. Zollin had fashioned the sword from steel chain in the Great Valley. It had been one of his friend’s most amazing displays of magic, and the sword was perfectly balanced. In truth, Mansel felt that the magic made the weapon more potent somehow, and when he wielded it he felt unbeatable. He had fought off the pirates with his sword and he had come through that fight unscathed.

  “Ale or wine?” asked the maid Mansel had seen earlier.

  “Ale,” he said, smiling, “and some for yourself if you have the time.”

  “For a handsome lad like you, I’ll make the time.”

  Mansel ate and drank. Then he drank more, laughing and flirting with the woman who served him. Some of the merchants joined Mansel at the table, telling stories and jokes. Finally, Mansel decided he better get a little sleep before morning and stood up. The room spun and he waited for his head to clear. It took him a moment, but he managed to strap his sword back around his waist and climb the stairs up to his room. When he got there, the serving woman was waiting on him. She smiled and held out her hand.

  “A woman’s got to make a living,” she said.

  * * *

  The next morning appeared weakly through a thick layer of clouds that had rolled in overnight. The men on the ship worked hard to make sure everything was ready for the new sails. Quinn rose early and waited for Mansel. He had slept fitfully and was anxious to get Mansel back on board. He was certain his young friend would be sick, he only hoped the sickness passed quickly so that he wasn’t weak and tired when they arrived at Brimington Bay. He watched the sailors row a large vessel out to the ship and then saw them use block and tackle to hoist the heavy canvas up onto the deck.

  “We shall recover our lost time with a new sail, I think,” said the captain as he came strolling up behind Quinn.

  “New sails make your ship faster?” Quinn asked.

  “The new sail is stiffer and stretches less, so every breath of wind will propel the ship forward.”

  Quinn nodded, watching the men arrange the new sails on the deck. The old sails had been carefully folded and stored away in case of an emergency.

  “Your friend has not returned, eh?”

  “No,” Quinn said, the word bitter in his mouth.

  “We shall wait. The ship cannot sail without an hour of labor, maybe even two.”

  “He’ll be here,” Quinn said, as much to reassure himself as to reassure the captain.

  The hour passed quickly and there was no sign of Mansel. Quinn was at the railing, as still as a statue, watching the quay in the distance. His only movement was to occasionally raise his arm and stretch his wounded shoulder. The captain approached again once his men had finished preparing the sails on their crossbeams.

  “We could send a party ashore to fetch him,” the captain suggested. “Of course, my men are susceptible to the temptations of shore life. They may not return themselves.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “A storm is brewing. I predict that it will make leaving the harbor impossible in another hour.”

  “How long will the storm keep us stuck here?” Quinn said, trying not to let the exasperation he felt enter his voice.

  “I cannot say, a day at least, maybe longer.”

  Quinn’s face was a mask hiding the emotions he felt. He had warned Mansel, but the boy simply wouldn’t listen. Now Quinn had to decide the best course of action; did he stay and wait on Mansel, or did he leave the warrior behind. Quinn knew that he needed Mansel if he was going to have any success in a confrontation with the Mezzlyn assassins, but he knew that waiting on Mansel and getting trapped by the storm would leave the Prince too exposed. They needed to get to Osla, and they were close. Sailing day and night had allowed them to make excellent time as they traveled south, he could not throw that away because Mansel was too drunk to make it back to the ship.

  “Wait as long as is prudent, but get us out of here before that storm hits.”

  “As you wish, signore.”

  Quinn stayed at the rail, his eyes searching for any sign of Mansel, but the warrior did not appear. An hour later, the captain called his men to action. They raised anchor and set the topsails. The ship slowly pulled away, sailing out of the harbor and leaving Cape Sumbar behind.

  * * *

  When Mansel awoke, he was alone. The room he was sleeping in was small. There was a bed and a hook on the wall to hang his clothes. He hadn’t hung his clothes up, instead they were scattered on the wooden floor. He got up and pulled on his pants. His head ached, but he wasn’t nauseous and he was happy about that. The inn keeper hadn’t woken him up, but the light coming in the window was so weak that Mansel thought it was just past dawn. He buckled on his sword and checked his coin purse. He still had plenty of silver, even after paying the woman to stay with him through the night. He had enjoyed sleeping in a flat bed again, one with a feather-stuffed mattress and a woman to keep him warm.

  He stretched and went down to the common room. The inn keeper smiled and nodded at him. Mansel looked around, but the room was empty. He was surprised that he was the only one up so early, but he took it as a good sign that he was ahead of the morning crowd.

  “Can I get you anything?” the inn keeper said. “We’ve a little porridge left, and some bread.”

  “I don’t want yesterday’s breakfast, bring me something fresh,” Mansel said.

  “It’s not yesterday’s, sir, it’s from this morning.”

  “How can you have run out? I’m the first one here.”

  “No, sir, you’re the last. It is nearly midday.”

  “What?” Mansel shouted. “I told you to wake me,” he shouted as he rushed past the inn keeper and threw open the door. The street was busy with people, the sky gray overhead.

  The realization that he was late hit him like a solid blow; he ran out of the inn and sprinted toward the quay. There were several merchant ships in harbor, but Mansel didn’t see the Nightingale. They were gone, Quinn was gone, and Mansel was left in the port of Cape Sumbar all alone.

  He looked around, breathing hard, his head pounding. The sailors, merchants, and dock workers went about their business as if he weren’t there. He didn’t know what to do. He needed to catch up with his ship, but he knew that would be impossible. Then anger hit him, and he thought that Quinn must have planned this. Quinn, his mentor, the man he’d treated like a father, was, in fact, no different than his own father. Mansel had grown up the youngest of a large family. He’d fought for everything he got, from his share of food to respect from his father and older brothers. But no matter what he did, or what he accomplished, his father could only see his flaws. Mansel had always thought that Quinn was different. When Quinn had agreed to take Mansel on as an apprentice, he’d been thrilled, working as hard as he could to prove to Quinn that the older man had made a good choice. At first he’d been jealous of Zollin, but it didn’t take long to realize that Zollin would never be a good carpenter. Mansel had been mortified when he made a mistake, sure that Quinn would reject him and send him back to his father to work in the tannery, but Quinn was always patient with him.

  At least, he was until I became a better swordsman, he thought to himself. He was bitterly angry at the older man’s condescension and constant commands. Mansel was sure that Quinn had left early in the morning before he’d had time to get back to the ship, even if he hadn’t overslept. Quinn didn’t want
him along, even though the King had asked Mansel to save the Prince. Then a plan formed in Mansel’s mind. He could travel by horseback and beat Quinn to the Grand City. Quinn would have an advantage at first, but Mansel could make up the difference. He would have to the follow the coast until he could travel overland straight to the capital of Osla. He would need two fast horses and he would have to push them both to their limits, but he could do it.

  He went immediately to the stables on the outskirts of town. He had two gold coins that Zollin had given him. He kept them in a hidden pocket, just inside the waist of his pants. He pulled the coins out and looked at the shining metal. A gold crown was more than enough to buy a horse. He would have to negotiate, but he could probably get two horses and tack for the gold. He needed supplies, too. He used his silver and bought a bag of bread, some salted beef, and a large canteen, which he filled with water.

  His shield and change of clothes were still aboard the Nightingale, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He’d see about replacing his shield once he arrived in the Grand City. He talked to the stable owner, requesting his fastest horses. In the end he paid the man two golden crowns and one silver mark, but he left with two horses, saddles, tack, and even saddlebags to store his supplies. He regretted not having a bedroll, but it couldn’t be helped. He would pick a cloak when he had the chance, but it was much warmer on land than on the ocean, and perhaps, he thought to himself, he wouldn’t need anything to keep him warm at night.

  He set off on the coastal road, which was really nothing more than a set of dirt trails where the grass and weeds had been beaten down from wagons rolling along the rocky soil. At first he was gloomy, just like the weather, but soon, with the cool sea breeze blowing in off the ocean and the feel of his horse beneath him, his spirits lifted. This was how he preferred to travel. He felt strong, his headache was waning, and the horses were moving at a quick pace. He changed from one horse to the other almost every hour. He ate some of his bread to ease his hunger and kept moving until just before sundown. He was planning to ride through the night, but he stopped at a small village and purchased a hot meal of fried fish, onions, and potatoes. Then he was back on the trail. He used a torch to light his way and rode until well past midnight. Then he made camp in a small grove of trees, hobbling the horses and lying down for a few hours of sleep.

  He woke up the next morning at dawn, proud of himself for not oversleeping, and continued his journey. He rode through the day, only stopping long enough to water the horses. It was well into the night when the ambush came. He was on a lonely stretch of road and the last village he’d passed had been almost two hours back. There was a high sand dune on his right and the trees in the field to his left grew right up next to the road. He didn’t see the brigands who silently took station on the road behind him. When the three large men, all armed with broadswords, came out from around the dune, he reined in his horse.

  “Give us your money, sword, and horses,” said one of the big men in front of him. “We’ll let you live.”

  Mansel merely drew his sword and spurred his horse forward. The horses weren’t trained destriers, but they rushed forward, knocking one of the men backward and stepping on his stomach. The man who had given Mansel the demands jumped aside and swung his sword in a level arc that caught Mansel on his calf muscle before slicing into the horse’s hindquarter. The horse faltered and then fell over. Mansel came out of the saddle in time, but his wounded leg buckled beneath him. The sword had cut through muscle and it was painful, but he could stand on it. He staggered up to his feet in time to catch the lead brigand’s attack on his sword. The big broadsword felt almost like a sledgehammer blow to Mansel, but the sword was slow and before the brigand could compose himself for another blow, Mansel thrust his sword into the man’s stomach. The outlaw screamed and fell backward. The third swordsman came at Mansel with his sword straight out in front of him like a lance. Mansel batted the sword away from his body and was in the middle of a spin that would have cut the outlaw’s head off when his leg gave out again. He tumbled into the tall grass and his attacker ran past. Mansel then saw the two other outlaws running toward him. He used his sword to help him get back on his feet, aware now that he needed to keep his weight off the injured leg as much as possible.

  The big outlaw came charging at Mansel again, this time swinging his large sword over his head in a downward arc that would have cut Mansel in two. Fortunately, Mansel was able to deflect the sword with his own weapon, one handed, and as his body turned, he delivered a powerful punch to the side of the outlaw’s jaw. The brigand dropped, knocked out cold by the massive blow, but Mansel felt an icy stab of pain in that hand that shot up like lightning through his arm and into his shoulder. His hand went numb and even though he could move the hand, it had no strength left.

  Mansel didn’t wait but plunged his sword down quickly into the unconscious outlaw’s neck. The other two brigands, seeing their comrades fallen, skidded to a halt in front of Mansel.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” he shouted. “I’ll kill you all!”

  The outlaws believed his bravado and ran into the trees at the side of the road. Mansel was thankful he hadn’t had to fight the men. He knew his right hand was broken from the punch, and he wasn’t sure he had enough strength to keep fighting. His hand was numb, but his leg was burning and he could feel the blood running down into his boot. His wounded horse was bellowing in pain, struggling to get back on its feet, but its rear left leg simply wouldn’t work. Mansel limped over and talked softly to the animal, calming it down. The other horse was probably a hundred paces down the road, having continued running after trampling one of the outlaws.

  Mansel couldn’t see how bad things were in the dark, even though the moon was shining brightly enough that he could make out the landscape and even the dead bodies on the road. He sheathed his own sword and picked up the nearest outlaw’s weapon. It was heavy and he guessed it probably wasn’t even very sharp. He used it like a walking stick to help him hobble into the woods and gather some fallen limbs to start a fire with. He was lucky that his flint was in the saddlebag of his fallen horse, which was now lying quietly on its right side, occasionally lifting its head to stare at Mansel with a large, terror filled eye. Mansel got a fire going and then lifted a burning branch to inspect the horse’s wound. It was a deep, ragged cut severing the thick muscle in the horse’s haunch. Mansel wasn’t sure if the horse would be able to walk and if it could, it wouldn’t be far. Still, he wiped away the blood as best he could and tried to calm the animal. He didn’t have any bandages, so he used his shirt. He cut off both sleeves for his own leg and then used the rest to help stop the horse’s bleeding. He knew he’d have to wait for the following day to try and move on. He sat down next to the fire and inspected his own leg. He used his dagger to cut his pant leg off just above the knee. He pulled his boot off, despite the searing pain it caused him. His leg had an ugly gash, much like the horse’s, only not nearly as long or as deep. He wiped away the blood and then tied one of his shirt sleeves around his leg as tightly as possible. He poured blood out of his boot and then lay down on the hard ground.

  The next thing Mansel knew it was morning. The clouds were gone and the sun was shining brightly. He rubbed his eyes with his good hand. His right hand was swollen and very painful to move. His leg looked okay and, to his surprise, his horse was on its feet. The fire had burned out, and there were swarms of flies around the outlaws. Mansel used the big sword to once again climb to his feet. His muscles were all stiff and his leg ached terribly. He couldn’t stand to put his weight on it for more than a moment.

  He hobbled over to the first outlaw and searched the man. He had an old knife and a few coppers in a purse that hung on his belt. Then he moved to the man who had been trampled. The man’s shirt was torn where the horse had stepped on him and the skin underneath was dark purple. Mansel leaned over and began checking the man for valuables. He didn’t like taking things from dead men, but he kn
ew his meager finances wouldn’t last him much longer and he needed all the supplies he could get. His good horse was several hundred yards away and he wasn’t even sure if he could get to the horse, much less ride to the next village for help. He was patting the man down when the outlaw’s eyes popped open. The sight scared Mansel and he reared back and then toppled over.

  “Where’s Gershun?” the outlaw said.

  “I don’t know,” Mansel said, his heart booming in his chest. “If he was one of your outlaw friends, he’s probably dead. I killed two of them.”

  “Bastard,” the man whispered.

  “They had it coming,” Mansel said.

  “I’m dying,” the outlaw said. “Finish me off and you can take whatever you want.”

  “I imagine I can take what I want anyway,” Mansel said. “But I won’t leave you in pain.”

  He got back to his feet and drew his own sword. The man looked at him with terror in his eyes. Mansel lowered the sword over the man’s throat.

  “Any last words?” Mansel asked.

  “Go to hell,” the man whispered.

  Mansel shoved the sword forward; it sliced cleaning through the outlaw’s neck and severed his spine, killing him instantly.

  “That’s a nasty business,” Mansel said.