The King, page 1
part #4 of The Jester King Series
THE KING
The Jester King Fantasy Series:
Book 4
K. C. Herbel
Epic Books Press
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA
Copyright © 2016 by K. C. Herbel.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
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Quinton, Virginia 23141
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover Artist: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Viergacht
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017940784
The King / K. C. Herbel. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-944314-18-7
Contents
The Dead of Night
Shadow of the Deep
Guilt and Love
Grave Business
Ghost of a Chance
The Wedding Gift
Flight
Conspiracy
Desperate Call
One Man’s Demon
The Thunder of Captains
The Calm before the Storm
When the Battle’s Lost and Won
When the Hurly-burly’s Done
To Every Thing, There is a Season
And a Time to Every Purpose
The Jester King Fantasy Series
The Innkeeper’s Son
The Jester
The Prince
The King
To my dearest, Mary Anne,
whose patience I have stretched beyond human limits.
Book Four
THE KING
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
―WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Dead of Night
Fire burned in the fountain of Dyven’s town square. The blackened, granite fish, which once bubbled water from its mouth, rose up above the flames to gasp at the starry sky. Two Gwythian soldiers ambled across the cobblestones, accompanied by random chimes from pottery shards strewn beneath their feet. Their long shadows made haste from the flickering light and charged ahead of them up the street.
Hugh retreated into the welcoming darkness of an alley. He hugged the wall with his back and held his breath. It stretched his belly wound to stand so erect, but he held his tongue as blood seeped through the bandages.
This was the first time he’d dared to leave his hole in the wall. He had wandered the streets of Dyven since his youth, but now they were as strange to him as hell to an angel. If he had not stumbled across the fountain, he would still be lost amid the gloomy labyrinth of gutted buildings, broken walls, and rubble-clogged streets.
He scolded himself for leaving without Aeth as the Gwythies strolled into the alley. The first soldier stopped and halted his companion. He stared directly at Hugh, whose entire body clenched.
The second soldier looked about. “What?”
The first soldier handed his spear to the second and shuffled into the shadows, fiddling with his drawers.
“Oh, not again!” the spear-carrier groaned.
“What?”
“Didn’t ya go back a’the tavern?”
“Well, the decurion forced me to drink all them ales.”
“Oh yeahr. I caught a wink at his knife in yer back.”
The man relieving himself in the shadows guffawed. “Ha-ha!”
“Wha’s ole Rusty Bottom so worried ‘bout anyways?”
“The execrution—execution detail.”
“What, that?”
“It’s less than a day off.”
“So why don’t Hereweald just kill the kelpie-woman and let’s be done about it?”
“There are procedures, my friend. Pro-ced-ures.”
“Twaddle.” The second soldier rested one spear in the crook of his arm and put both hands around the other to demonstrate his proposal. “The prince walks in, grabs her scrawny neck, and wrings it like a goose. End o’procedures.”
“Ya can’t do no noble lady like that!”
“Why not?”
“Lady Cyndyn must be made an example of. ‘Sides, I don’t think Hereweald is done wif her yet.” The man laughed and punctuated his words by thrusting his hips back and forth, in crude mockery of lovemaking.
“Example of? You think after what we done to ‘em, these wretches are gonna care ‘bout her?”
“Look, you an’ me will spit on the trollop’s grave when this is done, but to them people she was their—”
The first soldier looked down at the knife protruding from his chest. His drunken eyes had not seen the quick hand that had taken it from his belt, nor the man in the shadows who wielded it. He stared at it and said, “Knife.”
His companion turned to him. “She was their knife? What does that mean?”
Hugh’s voice replied from the darkness. “It means I put the knife in the right spot.”
At that moment, his dark form leapt from the shadows. Though the second Gwythian had two spears at his disposal, neither was of any service. In his surprise, he dropped one and tripped on the other. He fell back against the wall of the alley with the man from the darkness upon him.
The Gwythian hit the wall with a crack. His eyes popped open as the blade went in, but his attacker corked his scream behind a firm hand. He struggled in vain to pry at his assailant’s steel grip. With each hanging moment, the soldier’s blood spilled out on the cobblestones.
The man from the shadows released his prey and fell to one knee, holding his middle. The soldier slid to the ground, just inches from his face. He stared up at his killer and whispered, “Who are you?”
Hugh looked him in the eye. “Someone who loves Lady Cyndyn.”
Hugh stood as the Gwythian sighed his last breath. He then staggered around the corner, entered the market square, and scanned the buildings to get his bearings. It was difficult. The houses and shops here were in unrecognizable ruin. They had received special attention from the vengeful Gwythies. However, the Turret of the Guard, which had loomed over the skyline of this neighborhood for years, still stood. Upon sighting the tower, Hugh started across the square.
He reached the far side before he realized his hand was shaking. The firelight that followed him up the street revealed a red stain running from blade to wrist. He stared at the unfamiliar fist at the end of his arm and recalled the two men he had delivered to Death in the alley. Am I a murderer, then? Do I serve Death?
The rumble of cartwheels on cobblestone echoed from the street Hugh had chosen. He crept back to the square and waited in the ruins of the corner shop. When the carts grew nearer, Hugh heard the crunch of boots and the tinkle of chains dragging across stone.
“Psst.”
Hugh spun and tackled the small man who had snuck up in the darkness behind him. He clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and raised his newly acquired knife. The man clutched Hugh’s wrist, and they tumbled. As they rolled to the moonlit floor, a very singular eye stared up at him. The eye shifted between Hugh and the trembling blade, just inches away.
“Aeth?” Hugh withdrew his weapon. “What are you doing here?”
The boy pushed Hugh’s hand aside. “Keepin’ an eye on you. And it weren’t easy. You took the crookedest ...”
Hugh covered Aeth’s mouth again. “Shh!”
He got off Aeth’s chest and returned to his dark corner. He peered around the opening where a door once stood, being careful to remain in the shadows. His companion kissed his locket, picked up his walking stick, and took up a position on the opposite side.
The sound of the wagons grew louder, and so Hugh risked a whisper, “Did I hurt you?”
“No harm done.”
“Are you well enough to travel, then?”
“Guess so. Why?”
“I may have need of your services tonight.”
A moment later, Gwythian soldiers prodded a group of ragged men into the square. The men had chains around their bare ankles, and their guards forced them to pull a pair of heavy carts, piled high with corpses. The smothering reek of death descended on the square. Both Hugh and Aeth turned away, struggling to keep the meager contents of their stomachs.
The wheels of the front cart lodged on some debris, and it came to a sudden stop. The prisoners groaned, and many of them collapsed where they were. The second cart, still half in the alley, was forced to stop. The prisoners pulling this cart did as those in front.
“Look alive there!”
“Get up!”
“Come on, you dogs!”
Hugh pulled the neck of his tunic over his nose and looked back to the square. Just a few feet away, the guards yelled at their prisoners, kicking them and jabbing them with the butts of their spears. Some of the poor wretches got to their feet and tugged at the carts, but without all the men, it was pointless.
“You! Brute!” the decurion in charge yelled. “Get on your feet and push the front cart.”
The prisoner he addressed didn’t budge.
The decurion kicked the man. “Get up! I say, get up!”
Still the man didn’t move.
The decurion tore off his helmet and bashed the prisoner on his head.
The man rose and kept rising. Once on his feet, Hugh could see that he was as large as two men and a good two feet taller than the decurion. The giant frowned at the little man before him, and then crossed his arms. At that moment, Hugh recognized him as Camion, the only other survivor of the Gyldan Mene.
Three guards came to back up their leader. They glared at the giant, and then—one by one—drew their swords.
“Please, just a moment, sirs.” Another prisoner stepped in-between the antagonists. “Surely, we could all stand a wee break from this morbid drudgery.”
Hugh could not see this man through the crowd, but found his voice familiar. And that accent. ... He’s from Caithness Shire.
The man continued in his highlander brogue, “I’m sure my large friend here would be pleased to push your cart again, once he’s had the opportunity to catch his breath. I’ll even juggle for ye while ye wait.”
Hugh heard the pitter-patter of juggling and watched in awe as the Gwythies backed away and sheathed their swords. The smooth talking entertainer was none other than Malcolm the Magnificent. Hugh smiled to see his friend still alive. The decurion, on the other hand, frowned. When he realized he was standing alone against the dour giant, he snorted.
“Fine. Your friends shall have a rest, for as long as you can juggle these.”
The decurion opened up a large leather pouch and presented three nasty-looking caltrops. Cruel, sharpened spikes, designed to cripple a horse, jutted from the iron balls.
Malcolm made his juggling balls disappear and eyed his tormentor’s treacherous toys. He then picked up the caltrops and felt their weight.
“Well? What ya waiting for?”
“Why, for my audience to sit down, of course. They aren’t a rest yet.”
“Si’down, si’down,” the little tyrant ordered.
The prisoners sat, as did several guards. Camion ambled to the building next to the second cart.
The decurion called after him. “You! Brute! Where ya think you’re goin’?”
Camion turned and sat upon the steps with his back to the corner. “To sit comfortable. Malcolm juggles long time.”
“We’ll see ‘bout that!”
“One, two, three.” Malcolm began to juggle the caltrops. He moved carefully at first, his already sweaty brow wrinkled in concentration. One wrong move could wreck his hands. More than once, he made a misstep and then recovered with only a minor scratch. His audience applauded.
Hugh leaned forward and whispered into Camion’s ear. “Don’t speak and don’t turn around.”
The giant flinched and turned his head, but covered by scratching his chin. He stared into the shadows behind his shoulder, attempting to see who was talking.
“It’s Hugh. Sir Hugh. Give me your hand.”
Camion shifted his weight into the doorway and turned his face back to Malcolm. He then put his hand behind his back and slipped it inside.
“Squeeze my finger once for yes and twice for no. Do you understand?”
The giant squeezed Hugh’s finger.
“Not so tight!”
Camion gave a lighter squeeze.
“Do you know where they’re keeping Lady Cyndyn?”
One squeeze.
“Is she still in Cyndyn Hall?”
One squeeze.
“Are you taking those bodies anywhere near Cyndyn Hall?”
Two squeezes.
“Are you taking them out of the city?”
Two squeezes.
“Are they to be burned?”
Two squeezes.
“Buried then?”
One squeeze.
“Where could they bury ... are you taking them to the abbey?”
One squeeze.
“The old orchard graveyard?”
One squeeze.
“That’s perfect. Look, I need your help to rescue Lady Cyndyn. Will you help me?”
At that moment, Malcolm yelped as one of the caltrops cut him. The decurion cackled, and Camion leaned forward. Despite the damage to his hand, Malcolm soldiered on and kept the caltrops flying.
Hugh repeated the question. “Will you help me?”
Camion still hesitated.
Malcolm slipped up again, and his sadistic juggling balls wounded him. He was tired already, and each wound made it even harder to concentrate. However, he was determined to keep the caltrops up. The guards cheered him while the decurion crowed.
Camion leaned back and gave Hugh’s finger a single, firm squeeze.
“Good. Here’s what you need to do ...”
*
Camion stood and bellowed, “Enough!”
The Gwythian soldiers and those they had pressed into service jumped with a start. Two of the caltrops Malcolm had been juggling clanked on the cobblestones while the last landed with a thud on the decurion’s foot.
The decurion yelped and pulled the spike out. He got up and hobbled over to Malcolm.
“You fool!” The decurion wagged his caltrop at the highlander. “Look what ya done to me foot!”
The men snickered, and the decurion threw the caltrop at Malcolm’s feet. The highlander skipped away, and the weapon skittered harmlessly across the stones. The decurion reddened.
“Shudup! Shudup! It’s not funny!”
The louder the decurion shouted, the more humorous the situation became to his prisoners, and his men. Their stifled giggles grew harder to contain until the decurion, consumed by anger, stomped his punctured foot on the ground with all his might. The decurion’s face took on the appearance of rotting apples, and the men’s laughter exploded.
Prisoners and guards gathered around the decurion to gape, laugh, or offer help to their commander. Two guards knelt before the decurion and tended to his foot while several prisoners tore strips from their ragged clothes to bandage the hands of Malcolm, their newfound hero. Both groups chewed the fat amongst themselves, each appearing unaware of the other.
The decurion kicked the soldier bandaging his foot and stood. He then shoved his men back with a growl.
“Where’s the oaf what started this mess? Where’s that blasted giant?”
The prisoners glanced about, and their guards fanned out to herd them together. There was no sign of Camion.
“Where’s the giant?” The decurion frothed at the lips.
The brutal guards jabbed the prisoners and threatened them with further violence if they refused to tell where the giant had gone. The prisoners were frightened and confused.
At that moment, Camion strolled out of the alley from behind the rear cart. He straightened his belt and coughed.
The Gwythies jumped again and turned to face him. They circled around him, shouting and shaking their spears.
“What ya doin’ back there?” One of them smacked the giant across the back with his spear.
“I had to go.” Camion indicated his privates.
Another guard thumped him on the arm. “No one goes lest he’s got permission, see?”
“I see. I see.”
“Quiet! Quiet!” The decurion remained red faced.
As the men hushed, the clatter of horse hooves echoed from the alley. The footfalls were plodding and irregular as if the animal were tired or strained.
“It’s him! Get to ya posts,” the decurion hissed.
The guards beat their charges into position around the carts and prepared to start off again. At that moment, a man on a black cob squeezed by the rear cart and entered the square.
“What’s all this about, Decurion?”
The decurion sat upon a pile of rubble fumbling with his boot, which was too small to fit over his bandaged foot. He scowled at the corpulent rider and returned to his footwear.
The horseman stopped his overburdened mount at the decurion’s feet. He adjusted his unkempt cloak and leaned over to look down upon him.
