The King's Blood Read online

  Index

  Title Page

  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 16

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Notes

  The King's Blood

  S.E. Zbasnik

  THE KING'S BLOOD Copyright © 2013 by S.E. Zbasnik. All rights reserved. No part of this book my be used or reproduced in any manner without explicit permission of the author except in the case of quotations embedded in critical reviews. Any resemblance to people, creatures, or rather tasty pies is purely coincidental. I tried to form my own parallel universe where it did exist, but the chipmunks kept catching on fire and exploding. Chipmunks are not team players.

  DEDICATION

  I'd like to take this entire blank space to thank my husband, for putting up with me losing weeks creating this tale and then letting me talk about it;

  My dog, for understanding that I can't throw her damn ball when I'm supposed to be editing;

  Dawn, the best beta reader a writer could beg for;

  GrapeMan, for always encouraging the encouragement;

  And everyone who told me to put myself out there and reach for the burning balls of gas.

  Please forward all complaints to them.

  Candy is hidden inside this book.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Banners stripped of their golden embroidery rattled in the buffeting winds, trembling the Great Bear as it flapped above the crumbling edifices. The castle embraced better centuries, but the resident Lord was a rare welcoming face to the King's cavalcade after so many cold shoulders and colder moats.

  Another blast of wind sent the poorly fitted helmet spinning upon the underage head peering to the ground below. The mountains were especially quiet tonight, a fact that would have sent any local charging into the darkness with oversized torches and pitchforks. But the D-squad for the King's guard merely shrugged into the unblinking darkness and turned back to his companion. "Winter's coming."

  "No shit, Sir Lock. Ya gonna prophesize the sun risin' tomorrow too? Now call."

  The young guard laid his standard issue petard down upon the quickly freezing stones. His companion, glinting out of his one eye, kept challenging the young whelp to a seemingly un-winnable game of cards. Rutager glanced at his wooden circles, most of the letters unrecognizable to him save for a few of the really jagged ones, and laid them upon the table.

  Wizened Aldis grinned, displaying the gap he claimed came from taking a Dunner's hilt to the mouth, and laid out his own circles. "I was right, I knew it had to be Ms. Dragon in the Alchemical Lab with the Chamber Pot!"

  Another torrent of wind whistled through the scraps of armor Rutager managed to amass out of the armory house before the company ventured forth on this mad trek through the sprawling kingdom to "maintain network contacts." The boy glared out again at the perfect silence blanketed beneath the near impenetrable mountains.

  There! A light flickered into existence deep within the woods advancing upon this small hold. A breath caught in his throat as molding tales of wisps tricking greedy men to their swampy death swam through his head.

  But his companion took it as another grievance, "You keep complainin' about the weather, but i's gonna be even colder when we head home."

  Rutager turned back to watch Aldis shuffling up the cards and carefully marking Mr. Mutton with his fingernail. "At least they have braziers at home. And bed warmers, and hot rum. Here it's just stone, rock, and leftover horse hide."

  A laugh reminiscent of warm desert winds chuckled out of the darkness. The flickering torchlights licked upon the haunting eyes and bright smile as the "Dark Knight" seemed to fade out from the very shadows that eternally cloaked his skin.

  "You forgot the damp. The river is most unforgiving in the late autumn."

  The young guard nodded, uncertain if he should salute or demand it of the "Dark Knight." Aldis stuffed some of the dates they managed to sneak from the feast into his mouth and chewed down, unimpressed by the interruption.

  "I came to inquire how the night is going," the intruder demanded. His armor was simple splintmail, worn hard over the years, but kept in better condition than most of the decorated knights drunkenly wandering the halls. None in the King's regiment knew what to make of the "Dark Knight" who served faithfully -- and some say spectacularly -- Sir Albrant, the Lord of this dump they were forced to camp at for the fortnight. Most fell back on ignoring him, especially those who served close to the western Dunlaw border and only saw their dead war buddies in that dark skin.

  Rutager looked back out into the night, his wisp nothing more than a fevered vision brought on by a frozen head and a mead belly. "Nothing so far, Sir." The "sir" slipped out before he could catch his tongue, but the "Dark Knight" simply smiled, his bright teeth more menacing than reassuring in the dance of torchlight fire.

  Aldis snorted at the young guards bootlickin', "Been a babe's watch tonight. 'Bout the only thing the King need worry about is a squirrel invasion."

  The "Dark Knight" nodded, his eyes trying to pierce the darkness, but contrary to some rather pesky rumors, even he could not see through shadows. He smiled once more and vanished back to the revelry inside, only a loud chorus from some knights on "58 casks of mead on the wall" as the door opened announced his departure.

  Aldis shuffled the cards once more and looked upon the young lad, whose face seemed frozen in concentration, "Don't mind the Darkie; he'll only rip your soul from your body if'n ya don't say your prayers tonight."

  Rutager's hollow eyes turned upon the old man whose Dunner scars gleamed in the lamplight.

  Aldis cracked a hard laugh, braying like a mule that figured out how to toss the entire pack on his back down the mountain, and tipped his chair, "Nah, I'm just shitting ya. Now close yer mouth before'n any demons go flying in."

  Rutager's legs folded as he plopped down once more, uncertain if he should mention the wisp he saw momentarily dancing upon the roads, but his Sergeant was already dolling out the cards and picking at his remaining teeth. Putting the light out of his mind, he inspected his own hand (he had three different women, all of them in fancy feathered masks, an axe, a horse, and what looked like some place where large stacks of vellum were stored). But his hand, realizing the brain wasn't doing its damn job, instinctively reached for his petard and laid it across his lap.

  The wisp went unnoticed by all sequestered warmly in the rollicking castle except one pair of eyes waiting for just this signal.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Glasses, hard to scrub even in the best of conditions, clinked upon each other, causing even more unsavory cracks, as the "guests" called for yet another toast to the ever-widening ass plopped in the middle of the dais. He, however, was already about as deep
into the wine as one could get without drowning. Jowls, frosty with age, shook as the mighty King Edric tried to holler above the growing clamor of inebriating men in tin cans.

  The elegant bird in bright red plumage, ruffled her feathers beside him and plucked open her beak. "Let us call for the Story!"

  The Queen's voice, hard as flint, carried across every grunt and murmur. A complete opposite to her husband's mumble that couldn't make it down the stairs to Lord Albrant, who was perched precariously upon his chair, ready to leap to Edric's assistance should the King's makeshift throne finally commit suicide.

  Like bleating sheep, the Queen's request carried across every tongue.

  "Yes the Story!"

  "Tell the Story!"

  A specter watched from the midst of the ruckus as a small man who couldn't have gotten dressed in the light was pulled into the room and forced upon the box the bear juggler previously evacuated. The Bard, in a pair of polka dot and bile green striped pants, slipped a bit in the blood and smiled like the canary that caught the cat.

  Invisible the way only a servant can be when all who need serving are to the point they aren't even certain if they require air anymore, Ciara sighed loudly to herself. "Not this one again."

  But of course, it was this one again. It was the only one the Bard knew outside of "Teeny Weensy Arachnid" and "Shine and Pine Little Star."1

  "I Sing the Song of Casamir,

  He Came From The Land

  Of Frost and Snow

  To Bring the Dragon's End."

  But the crowd was much less discerning than Ciara and erupted into applause, some already mouthing the words along with the Bard. There wasn't a babe born to the northern kingdoms who didn't know the entire tale of Casamir, Dragon Slayer, Might Legend, and local boy.

  "His Beard, How Mighty

  His Enemies How Charred.

  His Appetite So Powerful,

  His Sword How Hard.

  (Insert waggle of eyebrows here)."

  She suspected that the eyebrow waggle part wasn't supposed to be spoken aloud, but it became such an integral part of the song one Bard who dared to leave it out was tossed to the wolves. This was done in the middle of the town square so he mostly got up, dusted himself off, and went back to the bar, but the message was clear. It was no Song of Casamir without including every single stage direction.

  Ciara lowered her ewer, the good metal one with the rose emblem that was a trap for wine residue, and turned to look upon the Royal Guests who took up most of all of her and the other servants duties. The King was tapping his foot wildly, his feet the only ones around the tables bagged in just hardened leather. Being a trueborn Ostero, the cold winds creeping off the mountains were little more than late summer breezes. He'd left his ermine and velvet back at his main castle in parts of the map Ciara never paid any heed to.

  Instead, he favored light linens, still embroidered with delicate gold stitching of the Ostero's long adopted symbol, the Dragon's head locked eternally in a block of ice. The woman beside him; however, refused to give up her hard won trappings despite the arduous miles and summer months lost canvassing across the remaining free lands of Arda.

  Despite being closer to the ever creeping hand of the "Empire" and their church, the war was never felt in the small hold of Astern wedged securely within the mountains. Lord Albrant would often laugh and dare the Emperor's army to try and cross the treacherous falls of the Caddatch southern arm or risk the mighty Ostero army's swords at the pass.

  Her father; however, always wondered quietly at night, when he believed he was alone, whether the army couldn't simply come down through the neutral Northern Pass. But he never brought that concern up with his Lord. He never brought much of anything up with anyone for fear of shaking the keep.

  "For Lo, When All Seemed Lost,

  Casamir Raised His Swords

  Calling To Argur To Guide Him

  He Sliced Through All Ten Lords!"

  The crowd's cries of joys turned to rage, the Bard realizing he'd dropped a verse. He tried to dodge some tossed mugs, the few ceramic ones shattering upon the floor while a leather one slapped across his face. Mumbling, he tried to dance away as though he hadn't forgotten this was Scepticar country and any mention of that heathen god was a sure way to meet your kidneys.

  "Ah, And With That False God's Help

  He, uh, um, Did Trick the Trickster

  And Grinning Widely as the Moon

  Argur's Lords He Did Murder!"

  He wiped his brow after that quick improv, but the crowd barely noticed, erupting into wild applause, some calling for a verse encore while others repeated it loudly from the back. Nothing got the drunken knights going like some good ol' god bashing.

  Ciara, still watching the rhymer in shredded tights dancing for having escaped the noose, stepped back right onto a hardened leather shoe. A small cry erupted from behind and she spun into the tranquil lake eyes of the crowned prince. Though a storm brewed behind the lake as he realized just what impeded him.

  Her peers beneath the stairs had been all atwitter over Henrik. They'd swoon over his dusty hair, flopped boyishly over one side. Whisper behind their hands about the way his form filled out a jerkin nicely. And, when they were certain mistress Bralda wasn't listening, go into nearly anatomical detail about the contents of his codpiece.

  He was what people pictured when they thought of Princes rescuing various damsels who get themselves into incredibly stupid predicaments from their parents refusing to invite Dragons to afternoon tea. And she'd just trod all over him.

  "I'm so sorry Milord, I was being clumsy. I, uh," she stammered worse than the Bard, who was now waving his arms around, trying to get the crowd to chant his fictional verse in waves.

  The royal sapphires glared down, at first seeing servants as little more than walking furniture, but then he took in the darkness upon her skin highlighted by the pale tans of her dress and shawl. The storm passed and sunny skies peeked out from behind his eyes, "It's quite all right, my Lady. I'm afraid my foot has a terrible tendency to go where it wishes without my consideration."

  Henrik bowed deeply, his eyes flickering up to watch his father and not mother enraptured with the storyteller.

  Ciara giggled, gods she did not just giggle, and tried to curtsy, causing the metal ewer to slip from her fingers and clatter to the ground. She dropped to her knees, losing sight of her first crush, while her fingers brushed across freezing stone in a vain search for the jug.

  Even as the royal ruckus continued around her, Ciara's mind traveled far away to a land she'd never visited before, full of falling rose petals and what would normally be a disturbing pink sky were it not for a teenagers lust addled brain. A place where he wasn't the prince and already betrothed to that cow from Hammiter, princess Penelope. And she, she wasn't some half Dunner servant scrounging under tables, her knees coated in what she prayed was just mead run off and not something that took a trip through someone's digestive tract.

  As her fingers curled around the edges of the metal still rocking back and forth from its experiment with gravity, a hand, as hard as Casamir's but much less hairier, grabbed her collar and yanked the girl back into the cruel world.

  Through the not-so-great hall, common sense and decency filtered from the royal point out into a cone of drunken debauchery. It traveled from the true Knights, who actually owned a bit of land and could claim some Lordship in their blood, to the hired "Knights" who were found to be quite good with the blade, generally as they were stabbing their patron's business companion in the spleen. Past the pike men, the banner carriers, the handful of fifers, a few pig farmers who thought believed they wandered into the local turnip carving festival sat a lad not much past his fourteenth summer.2

  Wiping across his face with his light hand, sticky with what passed for mead in these back trenches, the boy tried to sit even higher. The mercenary missing a few teeth and fingers, grinned down at the lad in purple velvet and knocked him on the back, coating the
floor in a fresh slime.

  "Whance ya getz zer hore all settled ya getz ta frommagin ta piz!"

  He nodded, understanding not a lick of what dripped from this lowlife's mouth. Uncertain if it was the flammable levels of alcohol or the thick foreign accent that strangled the man's tongue, Bonaventure Aldrin Othero, second in line to the frozen throne, nodded along anyway. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself, a skill he was becoming quite prolific at.

  Limbs more favorably compared to reeds, with muscles knotted upon the ends, Aldrin (as he preferred to be called whenever he could get as far from "Bonny" as possible) did not strike confidence in those already eyeing a King entering his 55th year. While his brother, already fresh upon manhood, had both maidens and the gentry swooning over. A skilled tactician in field and close combat, with that rock hard jaw, nearly translucent hair, and clear eyes that made the Othero bloodline strong, Henrik was almost a mirror image of the man who helped form the tenuous alliance butting heads against the "Empire."

  Most would look down at little "Bonny" and remark upon his cobweb hair, his muddled eyes, his vanishing chin and the fact the poor boy only came up to most men's bellies that, well, at least he wasn't born with a hunchback or something. For every famous Othero mark his brother received, Aldrin got the mirror opposite, to the point that even his father suggested it might just be best if lil' Bonny be kept away from anything sharp lest he hurt someone and then maybe himself. So, while Henrik sparred in the yard, Aldrin sat invisible upon the walls and watched. He got so good at watching, most didn't realize he was standing in the room, sometimes right in front of them, until the air they tried to walk through suddenly became heavy with royal prince.

  In a flush of teenage rebellion, Aldrin took every chance he could during this summer vacation to bond with the cast offs of the wagon train. While his Step-Mother was busy with her maps and little pins, he'd slip from the front upon his small pony and journey back to follow behind the knights3, then the mercenaries4, and a few times on accident, the pig farmers5. He would easily lose days falling in with the crowds the royal family were supposed to be exempt from ever dealing with, but then someone would get wise and realize a prince was missing and go looking for him.