Fractured Throne Box Set 1

by Lee H. Haywood

“Emethius!” cried Sir Bastin in disbelief. “It has been some time. Years, in fact! Come, come, please.” He motioned for Emethius to enter. “How have you been, my boy?”

  “It’s good to see you, Bastin,” said Emethius, giving the dwarf a warm hug. “And I am doing well. I’m alive after all, and that wasn’t always a guarantee.”

  “Being alive is a fair bit better than being worm food,” said Sir Bastin with a soft chuckle.

  Sir Bastin had served as the master-at-arms for Emethius’s father, his grandfather, and even his great-grandfather before him. Emethius’s father would often joke that Sir Bastin came with the property. The old dwarf knew enough secrets to sully the Lunen family name a dozen times over, but he had always stayed loyal, even after Lithius Lunen was publicly disgraced and stripped of his lordship.

  The Lord of Greenstone had once claimed dominion over the entire Eastern Angle, a spur of land that jutted into the sea of Ro a few leagues north of Henna Lu. Unfortunately, Emethius’s father had put an end to that. After his shaming during the False Prophet’s Rebellion and his now infamous last charge, Lithius Lunen took hard to gambling and drinking. He leveraged his land to pay off his debts, but eventually, even that wasn’t enough. When Lithius failed to pay his annual tithe for the fifth year in a row, Praetor Maxentius settled the matter by reclaiming the majority of the Lunen estate and partitioning it out to men who would pay their dues. As a final insult, Praetor Maxentius stripped Lithius Lunen of his lordship. Now, all that remained in the Lunen name was the keep, a few hundred acres of land, and a lighthouse on the coast.

  This disgrace also meant Sir Bastin was no longer obligated to serve House Lunen. Knights of Niselus only served households that were granted lordships by the Throne of Roses. Given a choice, Sir Bastin decided to retire from the brotherhood and stay on as the estate’s master-at-arms.

  Although Sir Bastin had technically retired, he still wore his brotherhood uniform — a hardened leather cuirass embossed with the symbol of a burning tree, brown leather greaves, and a red tunic that stopped just short of his knees. He even wore a short sword at his hip, although Emethius doubted the old knight still had the strength to wield it. His skin was like wrinkled leather, and only the slightest wisps of white hair remained atop the knight’s otherwise bald pate.

  Sir Bastin examined Emethius from head to foot. “Some of the men from the Red Company returned south shortly after the war. I’ve heard quite a few versions of what happened at Imel Katan. How has your wound healed?”

  “The memory haunts me more than the wound,” said Emethius, allowing himself to be led into the parlor. It was just about the only room in the house that appeared to be in use. Everywhere else he looked he saw furniture covered in sheets and cold, empty fireplaces. In the parlor the hearth was crackling, illuminating the room in orange light. Emethius seated himself in what used to be his father’s favorite chair, and kicked off his riding boots. His damp and tired feet were grateful for the sudden heat.

  “How is she?” asked Emethius, when it became apparent his mother would not be joining them.

  “The same as the last time you paid us a visit,” said Bastin. “She takes all of her meals in bed, and wanders downstairs rarely. On some days, only to use the privy. She probably hasn’t stepped outside since the first snowfall last fall.” He sighed wearily. “I’m too old to be anything but frank, so I’ll come right out with it. Why have you come home?”

  Emethius handed Sir Bastin a letter sealed with candle wax. Bastin gave Emethius a queer look as he broke the seal. His lips moved as he read over the message. He gave a curt nod at the end. “Praetor Maxentius has granted you mastery of Greenstone.” His face remained a staid mask, betraying nothing of his opinion, but Emethius sensed this came as a relief to the old steward.

  “It’s not a lordship,” explained Emethius. “None of the property my father lost has been restored to the estate, but it’s a start.”

  Sir Bastin frowned ever so slightly. “Your mother will not be pleased.”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” said Emethius. “But this was my reward for my service during the war. Kill a prince, earn a title. If I had known it was that easy I would have stabbed Meriatis in the back long ago.” He gave a quiet laugh.

  Bastin did not share in his amusement. “Master Emethius. I’m not saying the title isn’t well deserved. It’s just... um... atypical for a son to inherit an estate while his mother still lives.”

  Emethius agreed, but it was better this way. “When was the last time my mother surveyed the property? Does she have a clue that squatters have settled near the greenwood? And when was the last time she rode down to the coast? I’d imagine the lighthouse beacon hasn’t been lit in a decade.”

  “Be that as it may, she will contest this.”

  “Don’t tell her. She doesn’t need to know that anything has changed.”

  “I don’t understand. Is it not your intention to move back in? Isn’t that why you have come home?”

  “No, Sir Bastin, my intention is to guarantee that my affairs are set in order.” He paused, unsure how much he should reveal. “I may not be returning home for a long time, and I can’t afford for people to be looking for me. Everything must be set in order — the fields, the lighthouse, our family debts, all of it. It doesn’t take a farmer to note that the fields have not been prepped for the upcoming season.”

  Sir Bastin sighed wearily. “Your mother evicted most of the crofters. She lost her mind after she learned you were injured in the war. She began to accuse anyone who disagreed with her of being a rebel. It went on like this for several weeks, then she caught a fever and became convinced someone had poisoned the well. That was the final straw. The first thing she did once she got better was evict everyone.”

  That would explain the squatters down by the greenwood, thought Emethius. His uncaring mother had evicted two score people right before the onset of winter. Of course they took refuge in the greenwood. They had nowhere else to go.

  “This is unacceptable,” snapped Emethius, letting his anger get the better of him. If a tax assessor noticed the fallow field, Emethius would be called to court to answer for his dereliction. That was a risk Emethius could not afford. Emethius planned to be half a world away in the depth of the Cultrator by the start of the growing season. “Offer the farmers my apologies for their hardship, and ask them to return to their homes. If need be, tell them they only owe half their annual tithe for this year’s harvest. But get them back. I won’t have my fields lying fallow all season. A single missed season and we’ll be making up our debts for years to come.”

  A bell chimed from the second floor. Emethius’s mother must have heard his outburst.

  “I’m coming, madam!” called Sir Bastin, then, turning to Emethius, “I mustn’t make her wait.” Sir Bastin hobbled up the stairs as quickly as his aging legs would take him. When he reached the upstairs landing, he opened the double doors leading into Evantia Lunen’s bedchamber with a flourish. “What may I do for you, Madam Evantia?”

  The voice of Evantia Lunen wafted down from above, weak and sickly. “I thought I heard someone else. For a second there, it sounded like Lithius. Am I hearing ghosts? Who’s down there with you?”

  “My apologies for disturbing you, madam. We were being too loud. A banker from Henna Lu has paid us a visit. He’s concerned about the barren fields. Do you feel well enough to meet with him?” Emethius smirked. Sir Bastin knew how to play his mother. Not in a thousand years would she want to meet with a banker.

  “No, not today. Come inside and shut the door.”

  Sir Bastin gave Emethius a sly smile and disappeared into the bedchamber.

  Emethius walked into the adjacent room. It was his father’s study. Greenstone had accumulated quite the library over the years, although Emethius had never seen his father open a book. He kept them there as show, something to brag about when he entertained visiting lords. Emethius would sneak into the study and read whenever his father was away.
His favorite book was the Lay of Etro. It told of Ateasar and his forbidden love for Ierra, Princess of Merridia. Emethius found the book on a low shelf, likely where he had left it years earlier. The book was covered in dust and its pages were warped from humidity, but the words on the pages were still clear.

  “Ateasar ise Ierra, vep’horan pepsi sitape,” said Emethius, reading the opening line. It was the first book he read in the ancient tongue, and although it took him half a summer to get through the archaic text, it was worth it.

  Beside the bookshelf, the plaster wall was cracked, serving as a dark reminder of less happy times. Emethius’s father had thrown Emethius against the wall during one of his drunken rages, breaking Emethius’s collarbone in the process. After the incident, Emethius rarely returned home from school, and when he did, he kept his visits purposefully short. In Emethius’s absence, Lithius Lunen began to direct his rage toward Emethius’s mother. One summer, when Emethius came home from an unusually long stint at the Royal Academy, he found his mother bedridden with broken ribs and a face that was bruised so badly she was hardly recognizable.

  “He’s afflicted with the Blackheart,” Emethius had proposed, hopeful his mother would take the bait.

  “No, of course not,” Evantia Lunen had reassured him. “I made a mistake, that’s all. You know how your father is.”

  That, Emethius did.

  When his mother refused to commit Lithius to a local Vacian Monastery, Emethius took matters into his own hands. He imagined his mother would see the death of her husband as a second lease on life. Instead, she spiraled further into depression. Emethius couldn’t help but feel responsible. I only tried to do what was right, what was just.

  “Ahem.”

  Emethius turned to discover Sir Bastin standing at the entrance to the study. He nodded toward the broken plaster. “Your father instructed me to hire a carpenter to fix that wall half-a-dozen times, but I never did. I wanted to leave it there as a reminder, something he could stare at while he sat in here nursing a bottle. He was a rotten father and an even more wretched husband. I don’t fault you for what you did.”

  “My mother does.”

  “He came close to killing her more times than I would like to remember,” said Sir Bastin with a sad shake of his head. “The only reason I continued to serve this house after your father lost his lordship was to protect you and your mother. But in the end, it was you who saved her life. What she has chosen to do with the extra time is her choice, and I give it little thought. What concerns me now, is what you intend to do.”

  Emethius wished he could give Sir Bastin an honest answer and tell him he was off to find a cure to the Blackheart and to save Prince Meriatis’s life, but he couldn’t.

  Before he departed, Emethius raided the household larder, collecting what was needed for the long journey ahead. With his saddlebags packed almost to the point of bursting, he ventured down to the stables to fetch Manos. He was pleasantly surprised to find his gelding happily chomping at a pail of oats right beside Baylilly. Sway-backed and a little bony, the old mare was long past her prime. Even so, Emethius needed a pack horse to carry supplies, and for that task, Baylilly was perfect.

  “How about one last ride and a wee bit of adventure to boot?” said Emethius to Baylilly, as he strapped the saddlebags to her back. The mare answered him with a soft nicker and a nuzzle from her nose.

  Emethius departed at dusk. Once again, he rode past the rotten elm stump that stood before the keep. The ax head embedded in the stump glowed as red as blood, set aflame by the dying embers of the setting sun.

  “Lithius Lunen,” said Emethius, giving a name to the first of four grooves dug into the hard leather vambrace he wore on his left forearm. Eager to put physical distance between himself and the specter of his father’s memory, Emethius spurred Manos into a gallop and went charging into the dusking night.

  • • •

  The last of the snow had melted by the time Emethius reached Vel Katan four days later. Everywhere he looked, people were shaking off the last vestiges of winter. Farmhands were tilling fields, grapevines were sprouting buds, and young foals were taking their first tentative steps outside. The land seemed oddly rejuvenated, and with that, Emethius felt a glimmer of hope.

  “I embark on a righteous journey,” Emethius reminded himself as he crossed himself in the gesture of the faithful. “All matters are fated by the Weaver. The gods will watch over me.”

  Vel Katan was one of the largest cities in Merridia. It was the seat of the third diocese, and home to a grand temple dedicated to the god-saint Ilmwell. It was also the location of the only bridge that spanned the Osspherus River south of Burrowick.

  A stone wall constructed of black volcanic rock ran the town’s perimeter. Emethius was forced to dismount to fit through the low archway that granted entrance into the town. He found himself standing amongst a maze of homes that were painted in a wide variety of hues; cherry reds, deep oranges, rustic browns.

  Vel Katan was named after the ruined Cul fortress that glared menacingly down upon the city from its perch atop the river’s far bank. Emethius spied the fortress with disdain. He despised all things associated with the Cul, and thought it odd that the structure remained standing when so many others had been torn down. It likely remained untouched as a warning — the deserted Cul fortress was on the far bank of the river, placing it within the kingdom of Emonia. The vile structure served as an unfriendly reminder to the people of Merridia; do not enter, there are enemies beyond.

  Emethius left Manos and Baylilly with the stable master, flipping the man an extra copper coin to guarantee the horses were treated well. He then entered the city’s central inn to seek out a bed for the night. He was shocked to discover Malrich had already arrived.

  It was planting season, and most Soldiers of the Faith took leave to tend to their plots of land during this time of the year. Even so, Emethius and Malrich decided to leave Mayal at separate times, worried that if they left together it might draw unwanted attention. While Emethius dealt with his affairs at Greenstone, Malrich remained in Mayal to make arrangements for the care of his sickly wife. Things must have gone smoothly — Emethius wasn’t expecting Malrich to reach Vel Katan for another two days. Malrich was hunched over at the bar in the common area. He was engaged in a loud debate with the innkeeper over the qualities of a good wine.

  “I like them tart and dry,” said Malrich, smacking his lips. “Give me a good Estero Ruby red and I’ll be happy all day.”

  “You folks are pampered in Mayal. Out here we have two types of wine. The red stuff and the white stuff. Which will it be?”

  “How about the hard stuff,” said Malrich, pointing over the counter to a bottle of brandy.

  The innkeeper grinned. “That I have aplenty.” He uncorked the bottle and filled a shot glass to the brim. Malrich drank the shot in one gulp and motioned for the innkeeper to fill it again. The innkeeper was about to pour Malrich a second glass when Emethius caught his eye.

  “He’s had enough of the hard stuff, thank you,” said Emethius, tossing the innkeeper a copper Merridian. “Please fetch us two ales instead.” The innkeeper nodded graciously, corked the bottle, and hurried off with two pewter mugs in hand.

  Malrich spun around on his stool, his nostrils flaring like a man looking for a fight. “Who are you to tell me I’ve had enough... oh, Emethius. Sorry. I didn’t expect you here so soon.” His breath stunk of wine and his speech was slurred.

  “I was going to say the same to you,” said Emethius. The innkeeper clacked a pair of mugs on the counter, each brimming over with beer foam. Emethius decided not to address his friend’s inebriation and slid Malrich a mug.

  Emethius briefly went over their plan, keeping his voice purposefully low. He repeatedly reminded Malrich to do the same. Emoni soldiers were regulars at the inn. If they got word that Malrich and Emethius were Soldiers of the Faith things might go poorly when they crossed the border into Emonia.

  Near mi
dnight, some of the bolder patrons began to tell tales. The first to rise for the occasion was a merchant from Chansel. He did a rendition of the Voyage of the Chosen, which told the story of how King Hearstock and King Merridir led the pilgrims over the sea to start a new life in Elandria. Next came an Emonian soldier who sang a song about Adelius, the third king of Emonia, and his fall at Vas Perloh. He was followed by a very drunk Merridian who lampooned King Clement, who was the current Emoni king, with a series of cruel and lewd jokes. By the time he reached his fifth joke he was shouted down by a group of Emoni soldiers who were gathered around a table in the back.

  A dwarf dressed in rich silks rose next. Emethius noticed a Tremelese caravan locked up behind the inn when he stabled Manos and Baylilly and assumed the dwarf was the owner. The dwarf had a cohort of companions egging him on. They smacked their mugs against the table, chanting and hooting. This came to a sudden stop when one of the dwarves broke his mug. Beer spilled all over his companion’s lap. Everyone thought this was quite funny, except the dwarf who was now drenched in beer. He responded by knuckling his companion in the head. This resulted in more laughter, until finally the dwarf who had risen to speak barked out some harsh words in the Tremelese tongue. The laughter died in his companions’ throats. He turned to the crowd and bowed.

  “I apologize for the buffoonery of my comrades,” said the dwarf. He spoke the common tongue fluently, although he pronounced the words more harshly than any Merridian ever would. “My name is Biriss. I am the captain of this fine crew. If it pleases the audience, I would like to entertain you with a song.” Tankards clacked against tables with approval. “Very well. Gentlemen, if your drunken tongues are still capable of carrying a tune I would be most obliged.” His dwarven companions began to hum, setting a tune to Biriss’s words.

  “We have heard three tales for Talsani ear

  so I will share one of Dwarven deed.

  Many centuries have passed since noble castes

  freed the land of tyranny.