World of Arken [Original Fiction] (Patreon)
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King’s Man
Intermittent scuds of rain had been blowing down the street for the best part of the day. Clouds loomed overhead, rolling ominously and occasionally letting out a distant rumble of thunder. The day was dark and gloomy; inside the tavern it was even gloomier. There was a fire in the hearth and oil lamps about the room, but they quite failed to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the regular patrons sat about the taproom, drinking and eating as the fancy took them. Behind the counter, the overweight tavern owner, red-mustachioed and balding, served drinks. His equally overweight wife and three younger girls, one of whom was possibly his daughter, brought drinks and meals out to those who had ordered them.
The door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold, rainy wind, and grey daylight. Pausing in the doorway, the newcomer allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness before stepping inside. Before the door quite had a chance to close all the way, a massive hairy form nosed its way in as well. It sneezed once, then shook itself thoroughly, spraying tiny shimmering droplets of water over everything within a ten-foot radius.
Kaelim of Haven Home was not a tall man, but he had breadth in the shoulder to make up for it. His closely-cropped dark hair was just starting to show grey at the temples, also reflected in the week’s growth of beard on his face. Heavy lines had etched themselves here and there on his features, while a once-serious scar, grown faint with age, traced its way down past his right cheekbone.
He eased out of the heavy rain cape, shook the water off, and slung it over his arm. Under it, he wore a lighter cloak over a heavy dark leather cuirass, with the hilt of a shortsword just visible on the left side of his belt.
No-one in the taproom took much notice of his arms or armour; while the Kingdom of Mornas had been established almost three hundred years ago, it was still wise to wear armour and carry a blade in the wilder regions. And south of the Cloudpeak Ranges, well, such as he was wearing would likely count as being under-prepared for some of the menaces that could be encountered there. Laughably so, if one ventured to the western end of the Cloudpeaks, and dared Firedrake Mountain.
Kaelim made his way over to a table, as yet empty, set up against the wall. His heavy boots clumped on the floorboards, but that was not what drew the attention of most of the patrons. The centre of attention was instead the oversized wolf, more than three feet high at the shoulder, which padded almost silently behind Kaelim. The only sound of its passage was the clicking of its toenails on the well-worn wood.
He scraped out a chair, and eased himself into it, automatically adjusting the hang of his sword so that it did not catch on the chair or snag on his cloak. The wolf padded up to the table, then settled itself down with a whuff into a semi-somnolent pile of fur alongside Kaelim. Dark eyes surveyed the room, gleaming softly where the firelight caught them.
After a short discussion with his wife, the tavern owner himself came out from behind the bar to approach the newcomer and his unusual companion.
“Ahh ... beg pardon, sir,” he began, then broke off as the wolf lifted its too-large head to regard him steadily as he approached. He forgot entirely what he had been intending to say, and instead blurted out, “That’s a dire wolf, isn’t it?”
Kaelim looked him up and down, and then at the mass of fur at his feet. “Why yes, I suppose he is,” he said gravely. “I thank you for bringing it to my attention. I had not quite realised that fact before now.”
The tavern owner flushed, aware that half the patrons in the taproom had heard the question and the answer, and were now chuckling over the latter. “Ah ...” he said, “I generally have a rule ... no pets, sir?”
Kaelim leaned forward slightly, as if to impart a confidence. “Furball here’s a dire wolf, sure and true,” he said. “Now, have you ever heard of someone making a dire wolf into a pet?”
The tavern owner blinked. “I would say that I have not,” he said at last. “Excepting this one here, of course.”
“He’s not my pet,” Kaelim corrected him patiently. “He wears no collar, tolerates no leash. He’s my travelling companion. He chooses to go where I go, and I choose to let him.” A tired smile spread across his weathered countenance. “If you intend to have him tied up outside, then I would advise you to bring stout rope indeed ... and to notify the local healer, so that he may attend your wounds ... if you survive the experience.
“If you leave him alone,” he continued in the same quiet, patient tone, “then he will bother you not, nor your patrons. He only wakes up if someone is causing trouble.” He nudged the enormous wolf with the toe of his heavy boot. “Isn’t that right, Furball?”
In answer, the beast let out another whuff, and rolled on to its side, jaws half-opening to reveal gleaming fangs and a large pink tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. Kaelim rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth along Furball’s ribs; the immense animal yawned, showing even more fangs and tongue than before. Looking up at the tavernkeeper, Kaelim added, “I’ll have two plates of your best stew. Make it an extra-sized bowl for Furball here. Plus a pitcher of your ale, and a bowl of water.”
The tavernkeeper thought to object, then looked down at the dire wolf, and at the man who so casually used a boot to scratch its ribs. There was a glint in the man’s eye as he looked back at the tavernkeeper, and he had the sudden thought that the man may well be as dangerous as the wolf.
“I-I’ll get it done, immediately,” he promised, and hurried away.
“Another small town, another small mind,” Kaelim mused to his companion, even as he reached down to scratch the dire wolf behind one exceedingly large ear. “At least this one didn’t try to give you any trouble.” He straightened up and looked around the taproom, his brow furrowed. “But by all the Ancients, where is that cursed girl?”
* * *
Time had passed. Some patrons had entered, while others had left. Kaelim had enjoyed the stew, as had Furball. He was on his second mug of ale, still looking around the taproom, still wondering where his contact was.
And then his eye lit on the serving girls. Of course. The tavernkeeper’s wife could be ruled out, of course; she was too old. The redhaired girl, in her first blush of womanhood and well aware of it, could well be the one he was looking for, but she took too much after the man and woman who owned the establishment; the girl he was after would be working under an assumed name, a false identity. Not her, then.
Which left the other two. One was beautiful, with raven-black hair, dark flashing eyes, a bold smile, and a manner which drew the eye. She had shot him a look of interest at one point; was she interested in him, or what he stood for? He had not had the chance to speak with her.
The third serving girl was bland, drab, self-effacing. Her hair, so pale brown it was almost grey, hung partly over her face. Her figure, while feminine in its own right, was so overshadowed by those of the redhead and the dark-haired girl that she looked almost boyish in comparison. She had barely paid him any attention at all.
A new party spilled into the tavern, laughing and boisterous, as the dark-haired girl crossed the taproom to retrieve the bowls which had so recently held stew and water. Kaelim obligingly helped her stack them on to her tray. As he did so, he said casually, “I’ve just come north from the Cloudpeaks. The road is long.”
She responded with a look of intrigued interest, leaning over slightly to allow him a view into her bodice, if he should choose to look that way, and said breathily, “That must be a very long way indeed. Did you meet any bandits along the way?”
He blinked, not expecting that response. Is she not, then –
And then, over her shoulder, he saw the other serving girl. She was looking directly at him, and her hand was forming a particular gesture. A gesture that he recognised all too well. And in that moment, he knew two things. One was that his contact was not the alluring servant girl before him; her interest in him was purely personal, or perhaps financial. The other was that he was in direct and imminent danger. For the gesture he was reading meant Get down!
Lunging from his seat, he caught the dark-eyed girl about the waist and flung her to the floor, falling atop her and driving all breath from her lungs. The tray of bowls clattered to the floor; Furball awoke from his doze with a whuff of surprise and looked around.
Across the taproom there came the twang of no less than four crossbows releasing their bolts. Overhead, four deep thuds sounded as the bolts hit the wall and chair, approximately where he had been sitting.
Rolling to his feet, Kaelim drew his shortsword with the expedience of long training. He found himself facing four of the six men who had entered the tavern moments before, each holding an empty crossbow. Two more held swords, which they were apparently using to menace the other patrons into immobility.
Four crossbows were dropped, to swing to their owner’s sides upon short leather lanyards. Four swords, of varying lengths and types, scraped from sheaths. Six men, all armed with sharp steel, stepped forward with purpose.
Kaelim likewise stepped forward, his teeth bared in a grin that had not the faintest relation to humour. In his left hand, drawn without any conscious thought on his part, was his long-bladed knife. At his side, moving as silently as a shadow on a moonless night, appeared Furball, eyes slitted and fangs bared. A rumble of a growl, sounding like the distant thunder of the clouds overhead, was all the sound that the dire wolf made.
The appearance of the massive beast caused a couple of the men to look somewhat apprehensive. Kaelim decided to capitalise on that. “Gentlemen,” he said into the silence that had fallen across the taproom. “I know not who hired you, nor what he told you about the man you were meant to kill.”
He shrugged the cloak back from his left shoulder, so that firelight glinted from the metal badge attached to his armour there. It portrayed a hand holding a blade, upthrust through the circle made by a royal crown. “I am a King’s Man, sworn to protect the Crown and uphold the security of Mornas. Petty criminals such as yourselves matter little to me. Walk out of here, leave town, and I will think no more of you.” The glint came into his eye once more. “Face me with steel in hand, and I will kill you. The choice is yours.”
Two men stepped back, ostensibly to ensure that the other patrons did not interfere. The other four moved forward with grim purpose. Kaelim took a deep breath, and let the calm of the Way seep into him.
The world seemed to slow down. Each movement of the would-be assassins was outlined in cold fire; he could divine each man’s thought processes from his very stance. That one was fearful, but would attack when the others did. Another considered himself the leader, and dared not back down. And so it went.
Kaelim moved forward, his steps smooth and gliding, his balance always sure. Two of the men facing him wore armour under their tunics; he could tell from the way they held their arms. The other two were not thus encumbered, but were quicker-moving because of it.
No matter.
Abruptly, he flipped up the long knife in his hand, caught the tip, and threw it. It turned over once, and the razor-point sank inches deep into the throat of one of the men who wore armour. He went over backward, clutching at the dark blood that welled up around the blade in his neck.
One down.
Another rushed him with a yell, sword held high. Kaelim hooked his foot around a chair leg, and skidded the chair into the man’s path. The man stumbled over the chair, tripped, and went down, his sword sliding off to the side. He tried to climb to his feet but never made it; Furball got to him first. The massive beast bore him down, gleaming fangs causing the bubbling scream – and the man – to die quickly.
Two down.
The two that remained closed to sword range. Kaelim parried one sword and ducked under a wild swing more suited to harvesting wheat than serious combat. Straightening, he drove out a side-kick that caught his incautious opponent on the side of an unguarded knee. Cartilage crackled and the man screamed as his leg collapsed under him. At the same time, Kaelim’s sword darted out in a move made ghostly and nebulous by the flickering lamplight. The swordsman facing him parried one way, and got nothing. Then he realised his mistake, just as the first five inches of Kaelim’s blade found his vitals.
Furball caught up with the man whose knee Kaelim had ruined at about the same time the last two tried to close in on him. A knife flashed in the crippled man’s hand, but he was too slow. Furball’s jaws closed over the wrist and bore down; bone cracked, and the man screamed high and loud.
Four down.
The last two tried to crowd him; they obviously realised that standing off gave him the chance to take them one at a time. One got behind him; he felt rather than saw the presence, and dodged abruptly to the side. A blade whispered past his ear; his elbow drove back savagely in response, and he felt something crunch under the blow. Behind him, the would-be backstabber stumbled back, hands clutched to his shattered nose.
Meanwhile, in front of him, the last sellsword seemed to actually possess a modicum of skill. Unfortunately, he tried to let enthusiasm and energy take the place of training and common sense. Kaelim had training; he had learned under most exacting masters, and had been honing his skills since before this gutter-rat had been born. Quickly, efficiently, professionally, he parried three wild blows, forced the sword well out of alignment, and slashed the man’s throat, turning away almost before the body finished crumpling to the ground.
The man with the smashed nose was the only one still standing. He saw Kaelim moving toward him, and lunged for the door. Bending, Kaelim swiftly plucked the long knife from the throat of his first victim and threw it after the retreating assassin. His aim was just a little off, or perhaps the man was a little faster than he’d accounted for; the knife struck the doorframe, sinking in at heart level with a deep thunk.
“Curse it!” Kaelim ran for the door. At the best of times, he was not a fast runner, but he had to make the effort.
As it turned out, he did not have to run far. Even as he reached the door, the same man backed through the doorway, hands up, a slender rapier-like blade almost touching his left eyeball. Kaelim looked at who held the blade, grunted with no little amusement, and dragged the man back into the tavern, slamming the door closed. He plucked the knife from the doorframe, and turned to the tavernkeeper.
“Call the guard, or watch, or whatever you have in this town!”
The tavernkeeper nodded. “Aye. Already sent Marella to fetch ‘un.”
Kaelim grinned darkly. “Just so.” He took his prisoner and slammed him up against the wall. “Who paid you to kill me?” Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Furball padding up behind. “Answer, or I feed you to the dire wolf.” On cue, Furball growled, deep and menacing. The man blanched. “Feet first.”
He talked.
As he did so, the tension of the Way wore off; objects regained their softer hues, and it no longer seemed to him that each breath, each movement, was something to be pondered over.
The story was a depressingly familiar one; a cloaked man, an anonymous meeting, a sack of coins, a reasonably complete description. No questions had been asked as to why they wanted him dead, and no explanations had been given. Nor had Furball been mentioned. So, someone knows me, but only by hearsay. And they knew I was coming here. And they would chance to kill a King’s Man. They must be desperate.
He was left to mull that over when the town’s single watchman on duty arrived and goggled at the bodies strewn over the floor of the tavern. “This man,” grated Kaelim, pushing the living prisoner at the watchman, “goes into a cell. He speaks to no-one. No visitors.” He glowered at the watchman. “Not his dear old grandam, not his sweet little daughter, not even a King’s Man, save it be me. Are my words understood?”
Such was the tone of his voice that the watchman stuttered and agreed without any demur. He hooked his thumb at the ceiling of the taproom. “I will be taking a room above. I have a powerful urge to sleep. Disturb me at your peril.” With more assurances, the watchman led his prisoner away.
Turning, Kaelim surveyed the room. There was, in truth, very little blood. Likely, more had been spilled in the last brawl this place had held. He approached the counter, and counted coins from his pouch; copper and silver, small and large. “These should pay for cleaning, my meal, and a room for the night. Someone should be along for the bodies.” He smiled grimly. “I apologise for the mess, but think of the tales you can tell of this eve.”
Upon gaining his room key, he turned and mounted the stairs, Furball padding after. The room was middling sanitary, with a window that opened on to the narrow alleyway behind the inn. The bed was narrow and lumpy, and he suspected the presence of bedbugs. A good practitioner of the Art could have cleared them out, but he suspected the owners did not wish to have that expense put upon them.
Outside, the rain had stopped – small mercies there – the sun had set, and the full moon was just rising, huge and round and silvery. He nodded. It would give light for tonight’s efforts.
As narrow and lumpy as the bed was, it was almighty tempting, especially to one as tired as he was. But he had another duty to perform. So, opening the window, and bidding Furball to mind the majority of his possessions, he carefully climbed down from the upper storey. From there he found a patch of shade that the moonlight would not dispel until well after midnight, not too far from the rear exit of the tavern. He settled down to wait; this could take some time.
* * *
In fact, it was a little over an hour before things began happening. Shadowy figures, four in number, crept along the back street, and into the alley that served the back of the tavern. They situated themselves in the various hiding places that could be found there. One, indeed, came sidling into the very patch of darkness that Kaelim inhabited. He kept so still that the man never knew he was there; not until a very brawny and immensely strong arm encircled his neck and made sure he never knew anything ever again.
And then the event occurred, the one that Kaelim and the other three had been awaiting, but for different reasons. The rear door creaked open, and the younger serving girl, she of drab appearance and light-brown hair, appeared. She who would not be noticed in a crowd, or in a servant’s garb. He chided himself for not realising earlier, then reminded himself that this was because she was so good at blending in.
She stepped out, moving carefully past the puddles the rain had left. Kaelim had not found a crossbow on the body he had laid carefully in his hide, and had not heard the creaking of tight-drawn strings from other places in the alley, so he was reasonably sure that they would try to capture her, take her away, question her ... and then she would never be seen again.
And so, they moved out of cover to surround her. Blades dulled with lamp-black, the edges glittering with moonlight, were drawn to menace her. But as smoothly as they moved, she moved even more so; the slim blade, owned and used by just one type of person, leaped from its concealment and wove a deadly skein of light in the air.
One of the ambushers staggered back, clutching his eye, from whence blood welled black in the moonlight. But there were yet two more ... and Kaelim. Kaelim, who stepped from concealment and laid hands upon one of the erstwhile attackers, and picked him up. Spun him around and slammed him face-first into the wall of the tavern with tremendous force, from where he slumped to the muddy ground with barely a groan.
That left one able-bodied attacker; he looked at the odds arrayed against him ... and bolted. Kaelim brought out his long-bladed knife, and threw. This time, his aim was better; the man went down with the hilt protruding from between his shoulderblades. Kaelim tramped over and retrieved the blade, wiping it on the man’s clothes. He returned to find the ‘serving girl’ going through the pockets of the other two, her slim and deadly blade returned to its hiding place.
“The road is long,” she said conversationally, as he rejoined her.
“And the way is hard,” he replied, checking for life signs in the man he had thrown against the wall. There were none; a broken neck will do that.
“But not with true companions to share the journey,” she finished. “Well met. Palara, local name Marella, of Chapter House Seven in Kowsom.”
“Well met,” he responded. “Kaelim, from Haven Home barracks.”
“It took you long enough to get here,” she observed, tucking away various things she had found on the bodies. “I sent three messages. I was thinking I may have to repeat Isel’s Ride.”
“I got word two nights ago, and have been on the road ever since,” he replied, thinking about her words. Isel’s Ride.
It was the stuff of legends. Isel had been half-sister to King Morn, the first in the line of the ruling dynasty of Mornas. Traveling incognito, she had uncovered treason; with no-one to turn to, no-one she could trust, she had been forced to take matters into her own hands. Stealing a horse, she had ridden halfway across Mornas, stopping for neither food nor sleep, until she reached the palace. When she got there, she was more dead than alive, but yet able to tell her tale. A tale which had set an army on the march, and saved a kingdom. The first, the originator, of the Order to which Palara belonged.
Palara would have upon her the badge of her order, a small silver medallion which portrayed Isel herself; a cloaked woman upon a galloping horse beneath a full moon, riding forever across the plains of Mornas, bringing word to the Queen.
“So,” he said conversationally, “how long have you been a Queen’s Rider?”