Keys of Candor: The Red Deaths Read online

  KEYS OF CANDOR

  The Red Deaths

  By Seth Ervin and Casey Eanes

  Keys of Candor: The Red Deaths

  Copyright © 2015 Seth Ervin and Casey Eanes

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the authors.

  For my beautiful wife and my two amazing kids. - CE

  For Janet. -SE

  keysofcandor.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  MAP OF CANDOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MAP OF CANDOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Again. Strike again.”

  Kull flinched at the command. He rolled over on the hard packed earth. His body felt broken.

  “You going to lie in the dirt and cry?” The taunts gave Kull a new vigor.

  Rising to his knees, Kull licked his bloody lip and spat on the ground.

  “Just give me a second.”

  A rocketing fist flew across his helmet, stealing his breath. The young man fell flat as the world buzzed and swam in a sea of black and blue. He panted, sweat pouring from his brow. Kull could not remember a time his father had beaten him so badly in a sparring match. He was like a ghost; he couldn’t land a single strike on him.

  “In battle there are no seconds to give. Get up!” Grift ran a hand through his long, graying hair, frustration flickering across his face. He bent down to grasp the heavy cloth of his son’s training armor and hoisted him to his feet.

  “The Academy won’t give you any seconds either.” The words landed on Kull harder than his father’s fist. Entrance into the Academy was Kull’s dream – a way to make a name for himself. Unlike young men of wealth, Kull’s only ticket into the esteemed ranks of the Academy would be his skill in combat. Without his father’s training he knew he did not stand a chance. Grift stepped back and picked up a training sword before turning to Kull.

  “Son, you have to do better than this if you ever expect the Academy to accept you.”

  Propelled by anger and insult, Kull lifted a sword and stalked towards his father. He already wore a tapestry of bruises highlighting his earlier mistakes, but he determined the mistakes were going to end. The training sword was heavy in his hand, and his arms ached in silent protest. They had been sparring for hours. Kull stared his father down, trying to read his next move. He knew he was no match for his father’s swift tactical skill. His body ached for rest, but his pride overshadowed the pain as he probed for an open strike.

  Grift sounded a warning, “Your stance is too narrow. I could knock you down with one swing if you don’t widen your stance.”

  Kull listened, but gritted his teeth and mumbled beneath his breath.

  Grift held the training sword in a defensive position. “So what’s your next move, son?”

  “THIS!”

  Kull rushed at his father. Their swords connected, letting out a huge CRACK. Grift swung around, channeling the energy of Kull’s blow, and brought his own blade right back down on top of Kull with ease. Kull hit the dirt. He had failed, again.

  Defeated, Kull rolled to his back and tossed his sword to the side. Frustrated, he complained, “I don’t know why we need to practice with these dumb swords anyway! In the Academy the cadets are issued rifles.”

  Grift held out a hand to Kull and lifted him to his feet. He looked deep into Kull’s blue eyes. “You’re a great shot, Kull. Even better than a lot of my soldiers. But it’s not enough to rely on a single talent. When you’re in a fight – a real fight – you have to use any weapon you can find. The most dangerous and useful weapon for you to wield is right here.” Grift tapped his son’s head and embraced him. “You have a great mind, Kull. Be ready to use it. You hear me?”

  Kull let out a deep breath and, despite it all, smiled. “I hear you dad. Can we go now?”

  Grift slapped his son’s back and dusted the dirt out of Kull’s shaggy brown hair.

  “You did really well today. But remember, always be ready.”

  Kull shrugged. “Thanks. I guess. Maybe next time I will actually get some licks in.”

  Grift let out a booming laugh, “Don’t worry, son. Soon it will be you picking me up off the ground. You are close, very close.”

  With each sparring match, and there were many, Grift was grooming Kull for success. Someday soon the lessons would help him gain entry into the Academy. His bruises were a tactile reminder of his mistakes, but they also let him know he could handle pain easily enough. He was not made of glass.

  ***

  “Remember, always be ready.”

  The memory of his father haunted Kull as he stood on Lookout Hill and stared out into the vast valley below him. A cold blue canopy of sky stretched out toward the capital city of Vale. The smell of honeysuckle and the lilies that once dotted the hillside had long faded into the dark brown chill of autumn. Winter was quickly approaching. The once lush, green hillsides now looked like the brown hide of an old cow; plain and dull. The only color that survived the seasonal change was the dark green hue of the evergreens that danced in the cool wind over Kull’s small village of Cotswold. Kull could smell snow and he spied several large flakes beginning to fall. He stamped his feet and shuddered, trying to shake the frigid, still air around him.

  Despite the cold, the quiet countryside offered solace from his ailing mother’s bedside where he spent his entire morning. He had never seen her this bad; her condition had faded with the oncoming winter. Silently, he wished his dad would hurry and return to help. He did not know what to do, and he hated to face this sickness alone. The days grew longer with more tremors, fevers, and terrible rattling coughs. No matter how many ice wraps he prepared the fever burned on. Herbs, poultices, spring water. Nothing was working. Perhaps just seeing Grift would give her strength to keep fighting. It was as if she had given up hope after he left for war.

  Before leaving for Lookout Hill, Kull ground extra herbs and crushed up her pills into their normal daily rations. She sat motionless over her uneaten plate of breakfast as he pulled back her thin brown hair and raised a glass for her to drink. She sipped at the cup but said nothing, her brown eyes like dull stones, glazed over and fixated on the wall in front of her. Kull thought back to his last memory of his mother when she was healthy and full of life. He was only twelve years old. It was shortly after his birthday, and his mom took him into town to buy a uniform for the Academy. She always told Kull she believed he would become a top recruit. But her health soon took a turn for the worst and the five years passed, turning her into the skeletal shell left sitting at the table. Instead of heading off for the Academy, Kull had to stay and help tend to her. His dad kept promising he would help him get in. He trained him, a lot. But nothing changed over the years.

  “Mom, can you hear me?”

  Nothing. Kull leaned down and kissed the top of his mother’s head.

  He leaned in, desperate for some sign of life. “Mom. Ewing is coming over to sit with
you. He will probably tell you the same old stories again. I am going to wait for Dad. I got a letter from him. You know. The one I read to you last night? He should be back today.”

  His mother looked at him, her face still vacant. Kull draped a blanket around her shoulders and kissed her head again.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours. Please, try to eat something.”

  Kull let himself out of their small home, allowing his worries and fears to be carried with the cool autumn wind. He climbed to Lookout Hill and sat on an old stump. For nearly three hours, he waited and watched over the hills for his father’s return. His mind drifted, returning to the words that had turned his world into an ever deeper, lonelier void, the words that stole his father from him and left him alone, caring for his dying mother. The announcement exploded through Candor like a cannonball, leaving nothing the same as it had been before.

  “The King is dead!” The proclamation tore through the streets of Cotswold just six months prior. The commotion in the town square caught his attention and drew him in to see what was happening. One of the town elders was frantically pacing the square, stamping his cane. “The King is dead! He is dead. Murdered. Poisoned! Why? Why, oh Aleph, why?” Tears were pouring from his wrinkled cheeks as he screamed out for everyone to hear the terrible news.

  It meant only one thing. War. Lotte was at war. After nearly 40 years of hard-earned peace, the Realm was once again plunged into conflict. The continent of Candor and its five Realms were no strangers to battle. The oncoming war would dwindle already meager resources to near exhaustion and men would take desperate, unthinkable measures to survive. For others, the fighting was a window of opportunity to grasp more power as the continent’s control of oil, water, and food changed hands.

  For Kull, the announcement of King Camden’s death and the ensuing war meant that his father would once again be called away on an active tour of duty, and he would be left to handle the task of keeping his mother alive. Grift had been gone on details before, but this was different. For years, Grift served King Camden as his steadfast head of security. For as long as Kull could remember, his father never failed to protect the King. Camden’s assassination ripped through Grift with such force that he did not hesitate to volunteer for combat duty to avenge his murder.

  In Cotswold it was said that his sacrifice was because of Grift’s faithfulness and loyalty. Others suggested that Seam Panderean, the heir to King Camden’s throne, had sent Grift to the front as punishment for allowing such a tragedy to occur under his watch. No one knew for sure, and Kull was not given any details, least of all from his father. Staring over the hills, his mind swept back to the day he watched Grift’s rail car take him away to war. Kull scratched at the old stump with a knife.

  He shivered and rubbed his arms as a cold northern wind blew over him. He wondered if his father had been scared to go to war. No. He was never scared. Yet the thought would not leave him, creeping back into his mind. Fear was in his eyes when he stepped on the railcar. He had been afraid. He knew he might not come back again. Another thought hit Kull like a punch in the gut. What if he isn’t on the next railcar? What if he knew he would never come back?

  He pulled out the letter, filled with his father’s small, neat script. It came only two weeks ago. In it, he said he earned some leave. Two weeks, in fact. He would arrive either Monday or Tuesday of the current week. Today was Wednesday, and Kull kept his watch, blowing his breath into his cold, aching hands.

  Come on Dad. Come on.

  Kull tried to ignore the dread building within him as each minute went by. He talked to himself, trying to calm his nerves. Just bury those thoughts, Kull. They are no good for you. Dad is coming. Like a storm cloud, dark images formed in Kull’s mind. Burying his father. Caring for his sick mother. Being alone. Kull’s terrible daydreams were interrupted by the sound of a railcar blasting its horn, announcing its approach.

  “Finally!”

  Kull shot down the hill, rocketing toward the station, trying his best to breathe in the icy air. A ribbon of smoke began to wind over the hills. Kull could see as one puff of smoke gave way to another, and the familiar sounds of a panting motor and grinding wheels soon joined the chorus; the old engine was getting closer. The railcar that made rounds to Cotswold was older and slower than others, but the sight thrilled Kull just as much now at seventeen as it did when he was a young boy. Grift used to lift Kull to his shoulders to help him get a view of the hulking old engine approaching the small logging town, bringing loads of migrant baggers trying to get a season’s work. The odd baggers used to excite Kull as they always brought fresh fruit and exciting stories with them, but the arrival of his father was far more thrilling. The image made Kull smile as he watched the approaching railcar.

  He reached the platform panting, trying to regain his composure, wiping the sweat from his brow. His father’s letter said he would be coming from Faylon, the small city that rested right on Lotte’s border with the Groganlands. A small crowd of other villagers began to gather, anxiously awaiting the railcar’s arrival. It dawned on Kull that he wasn’t the only one to lose a family member to the war. His arms tingled with anxiety as he waited. He smiled to himself as he pictured his father stepping down off the tracks full of life; his gray eyes glowing and his booming voice filling the station. His daydream was interrupted by a young toddler next to him.

  “Uh oh, broken,” she stammered as she pointed to the oncoming engine.

  Someone in the crowd responded, “Girl’s right. Something is wrong. Look at that thing!”

  The people began to shuffle as everyone pushed in on the platform to try and glimpse the car. As it slid closer and closer, the villagers saw that the arrival was not what they had expected.

  “That thing is riddled with holes!”

  “How is it even rolling? The engine is smoking like the Fire Fields!”

  As the car screeched and stuttered to a stop, the doors that were still intact flew open.

  “Gods above, what is happening!?” someone yelled.

  Kull’s mind exploded with shock and revulsion as a throng of wounded poured out of the car. The passengers had clearly just escaped a massacre. Many were missing limbs, while others bore wounds that were haphazardly patched up. Women and children wailed in a frenzy, wearing ash-covered clothes. Blood trickled out of the car’s floor and onto the ground.

  War had come to Cotswold.

  “Dad!” Kull screamed, shocked at the sound of his voice. He had to find him. He had to be in the railcar. He threw himself into the ruined crowd of refugees, searching for his father. The men and women he faced were a mad blend of hollow and wild eyes and uncontrollable screaming.

  “Help me, son!” A bloodied old man grasped at Kull’s arm, pulling at him as he screamed.

  Kull shook free; shoving his dirty hands off, but then lost his balance and fell to the gravel ground. Kull realized the car was almost empty and there was no sight of Grift. He lifted himself from the ground, surrounded by the bloodcurdling wails of the injured collapsed around him. He looked up and saw a herd of people running, limping, and crawling, not into the town, but away from it. They were making for the forest that bordered Cotswold, running for their lives, abandoning everything for the safety of the trees. Dread washed over him. Something else is coming.

  In the chaos of the first railcar emptying, Kull looked over the horizon and saw a second, smaller service car barreling down the tracks. He braced himself for an attack, but quickly saw that the car was carrying a few members of Lotte’s civil guard. A surge of relief washed over him as he was able to make out the outline of what could only be his father riding alongside them.

  The car slammed to a stop behind the larger engine and Grift jumped down to assist those who were still emptying from the first transport. Several guards also exited and set their weapons sights on the track line’s horizon. The others tried to pick up the wounded that were sprawled out along the station deck.

  Grift rushed to usher
the frenzied crowd toward the shelter of the woods.

  “Run! Do not go to your homes! Seek shelter in the woods! You are not safe here!” Grift’s voice boomed over the crowd as he attempted to push the mad scramble towards safety. He repeated the speech over again, yelling over the riot of people.

  “Listen to me! Turn and run! If you want to live, head for the forest!” Kull swelled with pride at the sight of his father leading the people. He attempted to push against the crowd once again, but the mass of panicked citizens was surging frantically toward the tree line at Grift’s instruction. Kull’s eyes caught his father’s through the crowd, and the two of them stood frozen, their eyes locked on one another. Grift shot a grin at his son, and Kull could not help but smile back.

  Suddenly, a deafening explosion went off to Kull’s left sending dirt and fire spewing into the sky. He strained to make sense of the chaos as the first explosion linked with another and then another, a fiery showcase of synchronized destruction. Cotswold’s humble buildings buckled under the attack like eggshells in a hail storm. He strained over the roar to hear what his father was screaming. “Run!”