A Kingdom Besieged

Feelings?

She paused. Strange sensations in the pit of her stomach and rising up into her chest and throat visited her, but she had no name for them. For an instant she wondered if she was in danger from them, like poison or exposure to dangerous magics.

Something tickled the edge of her consciousness. She paused and considered this unfathomable material. From the knowledge she had gained from the Archivist, she understood that memories were either there or not. To have memories from those devoured, yet be unable to reach them, was unheard of; so this must be something else.

But if it was something else, then what was it?

Still not enough knowledge, she thought, and certainly not enough power. She must hunt. She must grow stronger, more powerful.

There was a stirring above and suddenly another flyer dropped out of the evening sky. Without thought, she reached out a hand, but not in the clawed defensive position. Instead, her palm faced the attacker and a searing bolt of energy shot from it and slicked cleanly through his neck, severing the head, which dropped at her feet as the body crashed into the rocks a few feet away.

The child felt only mild hunger, but knew she needed more food to become more powerful than she was.

She hunkered down to begin eating the flyer’s head. ‘Magic,’ she said softly to herself. But she had not encountered a spell-caster, let alone devoured one. Even more softly she pondered, ‘Now where did that come from?’

Then she set about eating the creature’s brain.

• CHAPTER ONE •

Hunt

THE HORSES REARED.

The two young riders kept them under control, their long hours of training used to good effect in the face of the unexpected attack. From the brush behind them came the shouts of the men-at-arms and the baying of the dogs, signalling that relief would be there in minutes. Until then, the two youthful hunters were on their own. The two riders had come through an upland scrub of gorse and heather, growing in a swathe of sandy soil that had been denuded of trees in ages past.

Searching for wild boar or stag, the brothers from Crydee had stumbled upon something both unexpected and terrifying: a sleeping wyvern.

First cousin to a dragon, the green-scaled beast was far from its usual mountainous hunting grounds, and had been asleep in a deep gully masked from their approach by tall ferns and brush.

Now, disturbed from its rest, the angry beast rose up, snapping its wings wide to take to the sky.

‘What?’ shouted Brendan to his elder brother.

‘Don’t let it get away!’ replied Martin.

‘Why? We can’t eat it!’

‘No, but think of the trophy on the wall!’

With a grunt of resignation, the younger brother dropped his boar spear, threw his leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground, nimbly removing his bow from his shoulder as he did so. His horse, usually a well-trained mare, was all too happy to run off as fast as possible from the large predator. Brendan drew a broad-tipped arrow from his quiver, nocked his bow and drew and fired in a matter of seconds.

The arrow flew truly, striking the emerald creature squarely at the joint of shoulder and wing, and it faltered. Slowly, the wing drooped limply.

Martin leapt off his horse, gripping his boar spear tightly, and his horse sped off after Brendan’s mount. The injured wyvern snarled and reared up and inhaled deeply, making a strange clucking sound.

‘Oh, damn!’ said Brendan.

‘Down!’ shouted his brother, diving to the right.

Brendan leapt to the left as a searing blast of flame cut through the air where he had been standing only a moment before. He could feel the hair on his head singe as the flames missed him by bare inches. He kept rolling, unable to see the wyvern, though he could hear it roar and smell the acrid smoke and blackened soil as it attacked wildly.

Having clutched the spear to his chest, along the same axis as his body so that he could come swiftly to his feet, Martin launched himself upright. The wyvern seemed momentarily confused by having two antagonists moving in different directions. Then it fixed its eyes on Brendan and started to suck in more air. From what Martin knew of wyvern behaviour, his brother was about to be targeted again with another blast of flames. He cast the spear despairingly, but the range was too far: it fell agonizingly close, but short of the creature.

Suddenly, miraculously, an arrow sliced through the space between the brothers, taking the wyvern in the throat. The creature gagged, choked, and staggered backwards, then shuddered and began to thrash in pain. Reprieved, the brothers raced forward. Martin retrieved his spear and impaled the creature upon it, while Brendan took careful aim and loosed an arrow into the exposed joint between the wyvern’s neck and torso, straight at the creature’s heart. It thrashed for another long moment, then fell still in death.

Looking to see the author of the saving shot, the brothers saw a young woman in leather breeches and tunic, knee-high riding boots, standing a little way away from them. She wore a short rider’s cape thrown back over her left shoulder for quick access to the quiver slung across her back. Her bow was a double recurved, compact and easy to shoot from horseback or on foot, evolved from an ancient Tsurani design, but no weapon for a beginner. Only the traditional hunter’s longbow had more power and range.

Brendan’s face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Lady Bethany, a pleasure as always.’ He shouldered his own bow and wiped perspiration from his brow and grinned as he glanced over at his brother and saw how Martin attempted to rein in his expression of annoyance and replace it with a neutral expression.

Born a year apart, the two brothers might as well have been twins. Unlike their older brother, Hal, who looked liked their father, being broad of shoulder and chest, dark of hair and six inches above six feet in height, these two brothers took after their mother. Their hair was a lighter brown, their eyes were blue rather than dark brown and they were lithe in movement, slender of frame, and four inches shorter than both their father and Hal. They had a whipcord strength and resilience rather than brute power.

Bethany’s dark red hair fell to her shoulders and her face was elegant and finely formed. Her smile carried a hint of something akin to condescension as she walked in measured steps, leading her horse towards the fallen beast. ‘You looked as if you could use a little assistance,’ she said with barely veiled humour. Like the brothers she stood on the verge of adulthood, glorious in her youth and taking it for granted. She would be nineteen years old at the next Midsummer Feast, as would Martin. The three of them had been friends since babyhood. Her father was Robert, Earl of Carse, vassal to their father, Lord Henry, Duke of Crydee. She was the tallest woman in either Carse or Crydee at six feet.

Martin frowned. ‘I thought you said you found hunting a bore?’

‘I find most things a bore,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I changed my mind about hunting and decided to catch up with you louts.’

Noise from behind her indicated that the rest of the Duke’s hunting party was closing in. A moment later, three horses burst through the underbrush and the riders reined in as they regarded the three young hunters and the dead wyvern.

The rider in the middle was Duke Henry, known as Harry, since his father had also been named Henry. He grinned at the sight of his two boys and the daughter of his friend standing without injury over the fallen monster. His face was sunburned and weathered, making him look older than his forty-nine years, his dark beard showing shots of grey. ‘What do you think of that, Robert?’ he asked the rider on his right.

Robert, Earl of Carse, reined in. His blond hair had turned grey at an early age, so it looked nearly white in the mid-afternoon sun. Like his companion, his face was sunburned and weather-beaten. That his daughter was as good an archer as any man in the west pleased him. ‘I think my daughter’s arrow did the honours,’ he answered. Then his expression darkened. ‘But riding unattended from the castle was the pinnacle of foolishness!’

The woodlands around Crydee had been pacified for generations, but they were still not without risk. He took a deep breath of resignation; Bethany was his only child and had been much indulged. As a result she was wilful and impetuous at times, much to his despair.

Bethany smiled at her father’s ire; she had been a nettle as often as a balm since her mother had died. Raised in a household of men, she had developed a combative nature. ‘I grew bored with the chatter of the ladies of Crydee.’ She smiled and nodded at the Duke. ‘No offence is intended, my lord, but I have only so much interest in needlework and cooking, to my mother’s chagrin. My limit was reached, so I decided some sport was needed.’ She glanced at the fallen creature. ‘Though this sport did end abruptly.’

‘Ha!’ said the Duke, and he laughed. ‘so one should wish, Lady Bethany. A wounded wyvern is a dangerous beast. Most would give the creature a wide berth.’

The trackers and beaters and dogs had arrived, and Huntmaster Rodney motioned for the beast to be secured.

Brendan said, ‘We all took a hand in killing the wyvern, Father, but I’ll concede honours to Bethany. Her arrow spared me a scorching, I’ll avow.’

Martin nodded in agreement, as if who claimed the kill was of no importance to him.

‘What do you intend to do with it?’ asked Robert. ‘You can’t eat it.’

The brothers glanced at the repeat of the oft-repeated joke. The nobility in the east might hunt the big predators for sport, but along the Far Coast they were nothing more than a nuisance, a menace to herds and farms. Years of controlling the population of big cats, packs of dogs and wolves, and dragon-kin such as the wyverns, had kept their incursion into the lowlands a rare occurrence. Most of the Duke’s hunting was for giant boar – as it was today – elk up in the foothills, deer in the forest, and giant bears.

‘I think its head on the wall would make a wonderful trophy for my room, Father,’ said Bethany, shouldering her bow.

Lord Robert glanced at his host, who shook his head, barely containing his mirth. ‘Not one for finery?’ asked the Duke.

‘Silks and oils, gowns and shoes are lost on my Bethany.’ Turning back to his only child, he said, ‘It will hang in the trophy hall in the keep, not your quarters.’

Martin cleaned off the head of his boar-spear in the tall grass, then handed it to one of the men-at-arms.

Brendan grinned. ‘Remembering her attire at the last Midsummer Feast of Banapis, I don’t think finery is entirely lost on her.’

Even the usually dour Martin was forced to smile at this. ‘It seems you took note.’

Now it was Bethany’s turn to look slightly annoyed, and the colour rose in her fair cheeks. It was a poorly-kept secret that everyone expected the Earl’s daughter eventually to become the next Duchess of Crydee when Henry’s eldest son, Hal, became Duke. The politics of the Kingdom required all such alliances to be approved by the King, but as the Duke and his family were distant kin to the Royal House of conDoin it kept things simpler if no strong alliances were formed between those nobles on the Far Coast and the powerful noble houses in the distant Eastern Realm.

‘How fares young Hal?’ asked Robert of his host.

Harry’s expression revealed his pride in his eldest. ‘Very well, according to his last missive.’ The younger Henry was away at the university on the island kingdom of Roldem. ‘His teachers grade him well, his presence in the Royal Court does honour to our house, and he only loses a little when he gambles. He writes that he intends to enter the Tournament of Champions.’

‘Bold,’ said Robert, watching as the three youngsters retrieved their respective horses and mounted up. ‘The best swordsmen in the world vie for the title Champion of the Masters’ Court.’

‘He’s a fair hand with the blade,’ offered Martin as he rode over to his father. Martin often understated things, sometimes from a dry sense of humour, at other times from a sceptical view of the world. He was always reserved in his praise or condemnation, rarely smiled or displayed displeasure, keeping his own counsel on most matters.

Brendan could barely contain his delight. ‘He’s the finest blade in the West. Only Martin here can press Hal. According to family lore he’s a match for our ancestor, Prince Arutha.’

Brendan was the youngest, seemingly set loose in the world with but one purpose, to plague his siblings. He had been a happy baby and a rambunctious child, always striving to keep up with his older brothers. There was rarely a circumstance that found him unsmiling or unable to wrench humour out of the situation.

‘A legendary name,’ said the Earl with a polite nod.

‘Now, if he could only learn to master the bow …’ Brendan added with an evil grin. Martin had never been well suited to the weapon and had shunned it for the sword.

Robert saw the brothers eyeing one another. He had known all three sons of the Duke since they were born and was used to their constant rivalry. Should this discussion continue, he knew it would become an argument with Martin growing more frustrated by the moment, to Brendan’s evil delight.

Sensing that his sons were on the verge of another of their many confrontations, the Duke shouted, ‘Bearers, bring the head of the beast to the keep. We’ll make a trophy of its head for Lady Bethany!’

Her father’s scowl caused a grin to return to the girl’s face.

The Duke continued. ‘And you two—’ he pointed at first Martin then Brendan ‘—behave yourselves or I’ll have you riding night patrol along the Eastern border.’

Both boys knew their father wasn’t joking as each had had to endure more than one night with the garrison’s night patrols, wending their way through treacherous forests in the bitterly cold dark. ‘Yes, Father,’ they replied, almost in unison.

The Huntmaster set his bearers to work, while the nobility started the ride back to Crydee Keep.

As they made their way among the boles of the forest, seeking the game trail that would lead them back to the road to Crydee, Bethany said in a falsely sweet tone, ‘Too bad you boys didn’t find a boar.’

Both brothers exchanged looks, and for a rare moment, Brendan’s sour expression matched Martin’s.

Supper was festive despite the furious storm building outside. The mood was abetted by a roaring fire in the great hall, ample wine, and a sense of safety from the fury of the elements. The banter around the table was predictable; the two families were close and the meals shared uncountable.

Formal seating had been abandoned years before, as the two wives, the Duchess Caralin and the Countess Marriann, had quickly become like sisters, and had talked across their two husbands until the Duke had decided that comfort outweighed protocol.

So the Earl Robert sat in the seat tradition gave to the host’s wife, while she sat in his. The two men could chat, as could their wives, and harmony was ensured.

The Duke’s two sons sat to the right of the Earl, while Lady Bethany sat to her mother’s left. After most of the meal had been consumed, Brendan elbowed his brother lightly. ‘What is it?’

‘What is what?’ said Martin, his brow furrowed as if irritated by the question.

Martin’s dour expression made Brendan’s grin broaden, as if he sensed another opportunity to vex his brother. ‘Either you’re dying to overhear Mother’s conversation with Countess Marriann, or there’s something on the end of Bethany’s nose.’

Martin had indeed been inclining his head in that direction as his brother spoke, but his gaze returned with a snap to his brother. His expression was one Brendan had seen only rarely, a deep and threatening look that warned the youngest brother that this time he had stepped too far over the line. Those previous experiences usually resulted in Brendan running very fast for his mother’s protection when he was very young, or his father’s or his brother Hal’s when older.

But rather than erupt in the rage that followed that particular black look, Martin simply lowered his voice and said, ‘You saw nothing.’

His tone was so filled with controlled anger and menace that Brendan could only nod.

Sensing something between his sons, Duke Harry said, ‘If this storm gets worse, we’ll have a lot of work to do in the town for quite a few days.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I’ll want you to take a patrol to the north and north-east, to see how the villagers fare.’ Then he said to Brendan, ‘And you’re old enough to lead one as well. To the south and south-east.’

‘I can see to those villages on my way home, your grace,’ said Earl Robert.

‘Linger a few days more,’ said Harry. With a warm smile he glanced to where his wife sat in animated conversation with the Countess and added, ‘They do so miss one another.’

‘True,’ said the Earl. ‘We do seem to have less time for visits.’

Leaning over, Harry asked, ‘You have closer ties with kin in the east. What do you hear?’

The Earl knew exactly what the Duke referred to. ‘Little. It is as if people are suddenly cautious to the point of silence.’

Almost since the creation of the Western Realm of the Kingdom there had been rivalry between West and East. Everything east of the small city of Malac’s Cross was viewed as ‘the real Kingdom of the Isles’ to the majority of citizens and the ruling Congress of Lords. The West was often seen as a drain on national resources, since much of it was empty and mountainous or, worse, inhabited by non-humans, dwarves, elves, trolls, goblins, and the Brotherhood of the Dark Path. Administration costs were high relative to the amount of revenue generated for the Crown, and there was almost no political advantage to be had from serving in the West. Real military and political advancement came from serving in the Eastern Realm. Hunting down raiding bands of goblins or trolls was not a path to promotion; fighting against Keshian raiders or border skirmishes against the Eastern Kingdoms was.

‘I count on you for something more dependable than what comes through Krondor,’ said the Duke. ‘Your family is new to the Far Coast, while my house …’ He let the sentence trail off.

The history of House conDoin in Crydee was well known. A brother to the King had conquered the Far Coast, once Great Kesh’s most far-flung frontier, and annexed it to the Kingdom, almost doubling the breadth of the nation in less than five years. Liking the area where he had ended up after his struggles, he had persuaded his brother to give him the Far Coast and built the very keep in which they now dined, Crydee.

Carse, the Earl’s home, was actually the more critical trading and commerce centre, being blessed with a far better harbour and sitting squarely at the heart of the coast, with all farming, mining, and foresting materials bound for export eventually finding their way to Carse’s docks.

Earl Robert’s father had been given the office of earl by Henry’s grandfather, with the King’s blessing, when the previous earl had died without issue. As no estate on the Far Coast was considered desirable enough for any Eastern noble, the award went unchallenged. More than once Lord Henry had considered that he, Earl Robert, and Morris, Earl of Tulan, were almost an autonomous little kingdom unto themselves. The taxes paid to the Crown were modest, reduced by half by what the Prince in Krondor took, but the requirements were meagre as well, so for the most part the Far Coast was ignored.

‘One hears rumours,’ said Robert, leaning over. ‘The King’s health is poor, according to one cousin I consider reliable. It’s said that healing priests are required frequently for maladies that would be counted mild in most men his age.’

Henry sighed as he sat back, lifted his goblet of wine and took a sip. ‘Patrick was the last true conDoin king, in my judgment. Those who have come after are like his wife, vindictive and manipulative, always plotting: true Eastern rulers.’ He set down his wine. ‘Mark you well, if the King dies without male issue, we may be sucked into conflict.’

Robert’s expression clouded. ‘Civil war, Harry?’

Henry shook his head. ‘No, but a political struggle in the Congress which could keep the throne vacant for a long time. And if that happens …’ He shrugged.

‘A regent. Who do you think the Congress would be likely to appoint?’

‘There’s the rub,’ said Henry. ‘You’d have to ask your Eastern kin. I haven’t the foggiest.’

The Duke retrieved his freshly-filled cup and drank slowly as he reflected. What he had said about the last ‘true’ king was a dangerous remark should any but the most trusted of friends, like Robert of Carse, overhear it.

The conDoins were the longest line of rulers in the history of the Kingdom of the Isles. There had been petty kings on the Island of Rillanon before the rise of this dynasty, but it had been a conDoin who had first planted the banner of the Isles on the mainland and conquered Bas-Tyra. It had been conDoin kings who had forged a nation to rival Great Kesh to the south and kept the pesky Eastern Kingdoms in control and forged a close relationship with the island kingdom of Roldem.

Robert noticed his friend’s thoughtful expression. ‘What?’

‘Roldem.’

‘What of Roldem?

Henry leaned over, as if cautious of being overheard, even here in the heart of his own demesne. ‘Without an acknowledged heir, there are many claimants to the throne.’

Robert waved aside the remark. ‘Your family has more distant cousins than a hive has bees, but there are only a few of royal blood.’

‘There are three princes—’

‘Seven,’ interrupted Robert. ‘You and your three sons are of the blood royal.’

Henry grimaced. ‘By grace of our ancestor, we’ve renounced claim to the inheritance of anything but Crydee.’

‘Martin Longbow may have, to avoid a civil war with his brothers, but that was then. This is now. There are many in the Congress who would consider you a worthy claimant to the throne should the need arise. They would rally to you.’

‘You speak boldly, Robert. Many might say you tread the edge of treason, but I have no interest, for myself or my sons. Back to the truths of the moment: there are three nephews who would vie for the crown: Oliver, the King’s nephew is closest in blood, but from the King’s sister’s marriage to Prince Michael of Semrick, and that makes him a foreigner in the eyes of many. Montgomery, Earl of Rillanon, and Duke Chadwick of Ran are both cousins to the King, though distant.’

Robert sat back and let out a long sigh. ‘It’s a shame King Gregory wasn’t the lady’s man his father was. Patrick left a litter of bastards along the way before he married. Still, he has managed to sire one son.’ The Earl paused, then added, ‘Prince Oliver’s a good lad, and you’re right, he has as much conDoin blood in him as any, and he’s betrothed to the Duke of Bas-Tyra’s second daughter, Grace. Since the Tsurani war the houses of Bas-Tyra and conDoin have stood close, more than a hundred years as one.’

‘That’s a powerful faction,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But Gregory has yet to name Oliver as his heir. The lad is approaching his twentieth year and Gregory is not likely to produce another son, no matter how hard he and that girl he married try.’ Both men chuckled. After the unexpected death of the Queen, the King had chosen to marry a girl barely a year older than his son. She was the daughter of a minor court noble, who had been raised up in rank by the auspicious marriage. The girl’s only grace was her stunning beauty, and it was reported she kept the king very happy, but other than that, she seemed a simple soul.

Rumours abounded that the King’s health was not as it should be. Given his age, barely fifty years, and his short rule, only five years since the death of his father, the potential for instability in the Kingdom was higher than it had been in a century.