Bloodmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #2) Read online

  By Jean Lowe Carlson

  The Kingsmen Chronicles, Book Two

  Copyright 2017 Jean Lowe Carlson

  First Smashwords Edition

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright 2017 Jean Lowe Carlson. All Rights Reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  First Smashwords Edition, 2017

  ISBN 978-1-943199-21-1

  Edited By: Jean Lowe Carlson and Matt Carlson.

  Proofread By: Matt Carlson and Anders von Reis Crooks.

  Cover Design: Copyright 2017 by Yocla Designs. All Rights Reserved.

  Maps: Copyright 2017 Jean Lowe Carlson, edited Matt Carlson. All Rights Reserved.

  Chapter Graphics: “Typo Backgrounds” by Manfred Klein: http://www.dafont.com/ Free Commercial Use.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To everyone who made this labor of love come true, you are awesome! Special thanks to Ben Rayack for helping craft languages, and to Anders Reis von Crooks for his proofreading. Love to my family Steph, Wendy, and Dave for their encouragement. Thanks to my friends Marco and Claire, Josh and Lela, Sam and Ben, Anders and Nadine, and Amber for their constant support. Thanks to the amazing author J. Thorn, who teaches me more everyday about being generous in this world, and to author Nick Stephenson, marketing brilliance extraordinaire.

  Special thanks to my amazing Launch Team - Anders von Reis Crooks, Kim Taylor, Brad Reynolds, Marco Cabrera, Rob Alspaugh, Tonja Carlson, Amber Byers, Sue Twiss, Gabrielle, Matthew J. Yancik, Jules Green, Brian Robinette, Valerie Jondahl and Kathryn Kelly - you guys rock!!

  But most of all, thanks to my incredible husband Matt Carlson. I honestly could not have done this without all your plot twists, fight scene suggestions, editing details, mapmaking abilities, heaps of encouragement, and so much more! You are the best, baby, and I love you more everyday!

  Join Jean Lowe Carlson’s New Releases newsletter and get a free copy of Blackmark, The Kingsmen Chronicles Book 1. Click here to get started: http://jeanlowecarlson.com/promo1ef/

  OTHER WORKS BY JEAN LOWE CARLSON

  The Kingsmen Chronicles

  Blackmark

  Bloodmark

  Goldenmark (Winter 2017!)

  Three Days of Oblenite

  Breath

  Tears

  Blood

  Short Fiction

  The Man in White

  The Family

  The Grasses of Hazma-Din

  PROLOGUE – TEMLIN

  When men call for blood, nothing else will do.

  Surveying the throng from his perch atop the wagon’s ale-barrels, Brother Temlin den’Ildrian’s belief in humanity plummeted. Humidity smothered the noon hour as the mob surged beneath the summer sun, roaring for bloodshed. The plaza before Roushenn Palace’s main gate reeked of acrid sweat. Feet stamped in unison, voices brayed. Rhythmic clapping knifed his ears.

  The entirety of the King’s City of Lintesh, turned out to watch the spectacle.

  Sweat slid down Brother Temlin’s neck beneath his black robe, his cowl up in the hopes that he wouldn’t be associated with this madness. Taking a swig of ale from his pewter tankard, he tried to quell the sickness that clenched his gut. A cabbage went sailing over his perch toward the hangman’s scaffolding under the blackiron teeth of the palace gate. From his vantage, Temlin watched Palace Guardsmen in their cobalt jerkins jostle the seething crowd back, keeping the barrier before the scaffold.

  A clarion fanfare sounded.

  At last, it was time for the entertainment.

  Paraded out by Guardsmen from the palace yards, the hooded and manacled accused shuffled forward along the cobbled promenade. Booing surged as the Elsthemi captives from the Queen’s assassination one week ago were marched up the stairs into a row upon the platform, then turned to face the gallows.

  The crowd roared, eager for blood. Another cabbage went soaring over Temlin’s head, followed by wilted summer kale. They hit a Guardsman. He scowled, pointed past Temlin’s cart toward the nuisance. Two Guardsmen in cobalt leather began shouldering their way through the roaring ocean. But they might as well have been minnows fighting the tide for all the good it did them.

  From the shade of his hood, Temlin gazed up to the parapet above the gate. And there they were, the two-bit ringleaders. Conniving bastards, the King’s Chancellate. Clad for state function in black velvet doublets with draping cobalt robes, they stood serene before the thunder. Temlin cussed, gave his ale another deep swig. He’d lost count of how many tankards he’d had, furious at this sham justice.

  Furious that innocent men and women waited on those gallows today.

  Temlin’s old limbs filled with vigor, fueled by hatred. Four of the seven King’s Chancellate members were suspected Khehemni Lothren, the smug bastards, though none of the Alrashemni Shemout’s suspicions could be confirmed. Sticking a knife in the Alrashemni for generations, deep in the shadows, the Lothren were the central organization that led the Khehemni, bitter enemies to the Alrashemni. Rage blistered Temlin despite his advancing age as he stared up at them, and he drank off the rest of his ale in a rush.

  Surveying the Lothren’s ringleaders, he noticed Chancellor Rudaric den’Ghen, the golden-maned pretty boy. A rose-scented git, though the man’s political record was as immaculate as his artfully-sculpted hair. While Chancellor Jhik den’Cammas, he had the stature of a thug, now didn’t he? Black hair, dark eyes, one might have mistaken him for Alrashemni had he not had a list of crimes a half-league long behind his family. All cleverly disguised, of course.

  And Chancellor Theroun den’Vekir had been a Khehemnas for years, Temlin was certain of it. Upright and wiry, with iron streaks at his temples and in his military-short beard, Theroun had the stature of a hard man of battle. His gaze of cold disdain could have decimated the throng below. The once-General had been resurrected into politics after his murderous disgrace upon the Aphellian Way ten years ago. Slaughtering Blackmarked Alrashemni, he’d not spared even those within his own army, though he’d claimed madness at the time from a dire wound. He’d been recalled personally from the battlefield by his King. And for some ungodly reason had been given a royal pardon.

  Which left their ringleader, Chancellor Evshein den’Lhamann. His white hair wafted like dandelion fluff in a breeze that touched the ramparts but not the crowd below. So innocent he seemed, with his frail, grandfatherly charm. But he was the worst of the lot. One of the hydra’s heads who had brought down not only a King, but his son, and now his daughter and last remaining heir.

  And today was a farce, a fiction, all because of these men.

  But Temlin had no proof.

  Raising skinny old arms beneath his black robes, Chancellor Evshein’s gilded embroidery caught the sun. “People of Alrou-Mendera!”

  A trick of Roushenn’s acoustics made the Chancellor’s reedy voice slice the air. The crowd settled, attentive, even the inebriated like Temlin. “We are gathered here today to witness punishment for the most heinous of crimes! The assassination of our Queen upon the very day of her coronation!”

  The crowd surged in booing, curses. Voracious as wolves, they crowded close, eage
r to tear the flesh of those hooded upon the platform. Guardsmen pushed back, holding the line.

  “This is a serious offense to our nation!” Chancellor Evshein continued, not bothering to soothe the rancor below. “And for this offense, judgment has been swiftly passed! Let all ears hear the decision of the King’s Chancellate, who act in stead of the Crown until a suitable heir to the throne can be found. Chancellor den’Ghen, if you would.”

  Golden-maned den’Ghen stepped forward, unrolling a scroll with due solemnity. “For the crime of plotting against the crown of Alrou-Mendera, we as a nation hold the Highlands of Elsthemen responsible! For the actions of Elsthemen’s First Sword Devresh Khir, now deceased, we as a nation hold King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen responsible! For the attempted and successful assassination of Queen Elyasin den’Ildrian, we as a nation hold the late Devresh Khir responsible, and by proxy to King Therel Alramir. For the theft of the Queen’s body as an Elsthemi war-trophy, we hold King Therel Alramir responsible. And for the duplicity and crimes of Elsthemen, we hold these Elsthemi and the two spies they placed in the palace to be personally responsible! The punishment for these crimes, done by Elsthemen unto our nation, is to be hanged from the neck until dead.”

  Chancellor den’Ghen stepped back, rolling up his scroll to a fresh wave of noise. The deafening roar was muted by the booze ringing in Temlin’s ears, but not by much. The crowd surged forward. Guards scowled and pushed back, but the frenzy was reaching its peak.

  Temlin turned, disgusted, filling his tankard afresh at the topmost barrel upon the wain. He tried to catch Abbott Lhem den’Ulio gaze, sitting next to him upon the barrels, but the fat walrus was riveted to the scene. Combing his plethoric white mustachios with thumb and forefinger, a vicious fervor riveted Lhem’s posture. Temlin scoffed, swigging his ale. He’d known Lhem was eager to see history turn today, but all the same, it was sickening.

  “Can you believe this horse shit?” Temlin gestured toward the platform as the prisoners were unhooded, allowed to see their death coming at last. The crowd roared.

  “This is how justice is done, Temlin.” Abbott Lhem spoke, fingers combing his mustachios.

  “Justice! Bah!” Temlin snorted, swigged his ale. “This is a circus. Any sensible idiot should be able to see that, Lhem. This sham, this blame of Elsthemen for an atrocity they didn’t commit.”

  “Elsthemen’s First Sword ran our Queen through, right in the middle of her coronation.” Abbott Lhem turned to Temlin, giving him a stern eyeball. “There’s no evidence that killing her wasn’t an Elsthemi plot.”

  “Crap and bollocks.” Temlin growled. “No sensible King would try to kill his bride during their wedding ceremony! If he’d wanted to control Alrou-Mendera, King Therel Alramir of the Elsthemi Highlands would have waited until they made their nuptial tour through Elsthemen to do that deed.”

  “Men have rash deeds done to garner power, Temlin.”

  “This was no power play, Lhem. Why would King Therel take my niece Elyasin’s body while he was being pursued? Because she’s not dead! War-trophy my ass. Any King worried about his skin after an assassination would have dumped the body and saved his own hide!”

  Temlin’s gaze flicked back to the platform, where the Elsthemi accused were being urged by guards to step up onto cendarie benches and thread their heads into the nooses.

  “Careful, my friend.” Lhem boomed low at Temlin’s side. “Rumor has it Queen Elyasin died.”

  “Rumor put out by them,” Temlin nodded up at the ramparts, where the King’s Chancellate gazed down upon the proceedings with fervor in their eyes. Though that old war-General Chancellor Theroun den’Vekir simply looked stony. “We know a number of them are secretly Khehemni, Lhem. That they plotted this. Maybe not all the Chancellate, but enough to make this come to pass. Usurping the throne to put their own lily-white asses in control of the nation in lieu of any rightful monarch.”

  “In the absence of a direct heir to make claim upon the den’Ildrian throne, the King’s Chancellate rules by law.” Lhem intoned. “You know that.”

  “But they’re Khehemni Lothren, dammit!” Temlin gestured to the ramparts with his ale. “And all this happened because you and I and the rest of the Alrashemni Shemout were too slow to protect my niece!”

  “Shut it, Temlin!” Lhem’s thick hand gripped Temlin’s arm, fierce. “We’re Jenner Penitents representing the First Abbey! Close your drunken mouth, man!”

  Temlin shut his mouth. He’d not meant to admit to being Shemout Alrashemni in public. A faction of Alrashemni that wasn’t supposed to exist. But the roaring crowd was so fierce now as the nooses were cinched tight, that he doubted anyone had overheard such sensitive information. His gaze flicked to the wide gallows platform. Roushenn’s gate yawned like teeth above the accused, jaws wide and ready to snap.

  Ready to claim innocent lives, just like that bloody palace had done for years.

  Temlin’s attention returned to the platform, to the prisoners now ready for the drop. Only ten Elsthemi had been caught alive. All had the look of Highland warriors, fur-clad and weather-beaten. Except for the spies. That well-built youngster in the cobalt jerkin with hard grey eyes and bluebottle Alrashemni curls. And the impressively beautiful blonde woman in colorful Tourmaline silks, now besmirched with bluestone grit and blood. Both seemed surprised to be where they were, standing out among the Elsthemi.

  Temlin narrowed his eyes, perusing the haughty face of the blonde. Something about her seemed familiar. A fanfare sounded above. Temlin looked up, just as Chancellor Rudaric den’Ghen stepped forward with another scroll.

  “The names of the guilty will now be read. Ghersus Mennir. Claydi Hafthein. Urso Hemmen. Petre Fuhss. Gerta Bashti. Lekki Heim. Reingalt Cladir. Shara den’Lhoruhan. Gherris den’Mal. Let justice be done.”

  Temlin blinked, startled to hear Menderian names of the two spies. But he had no more time to ponder as the executioner started down the line, kicking stools out from beneath feet. Like a series of pounded pegs in a workbench they dropped, a sudden punctuation to the screaming fervor. One by one, they strangled, twitching, shuddering, faces purpling. Bodies trying to stave off their final journey with the grim desperation of fish caught on a line.

  And one by one, they all came to stillness.

  The roaring of the crowd hit its zenith, bloodlust satisfied at last.

  “Justice.” Temlin spat, scathing. “Mass murder of innocents is what it is. Mass murder that is going to start a goddamned war.”

  “The sentence has been carried out.” Chancellor Evshein’s reedy voice sliced down through the plaza like garroting wire. “Let the Highlands of Elsthemen know that the great nation of Alrou-Mendera will suffer no injustice. Let King Therel Alramir know that we call for his surrender, and that any and all blood shed today, or over the course of our reprisal upon Elsthemen, is his to bear. As of today, we declare war upon the Highlands. Until such time that King Therel Alramir of Elsthemen is caught or killed, or voluntarily surrenders his throne. This is our verdict, this is our law.”

  The old man lowered his spindly arms. With a flourish of hunting-horns, the Chancellate turned and departed from view upon the parapet. Temlin narrowed his eyes, watching the King’s Castellan Lhaurent den’Karthus go. The tall, dismissive man had been in silent attendance in his regular grey silks, and now moved languidly away to attend the Chancellate’s needs. He served them now, rather than serving any King.

  “No one to claim that fucking deathtrap of a throne but me.” Temlin murmured into his ale.

  “Temlin, old man, don’t make it worse.” Abbott Lhem turned, attentive to Temlin now that the show was over. “We can’t have you coming out of the woodwork now and laying claim to the throne.”

  “Well why the fuck not?” Temlin slurred. “I don’t see the problem with it. I’m the last den’Ildrian left, dammit! Don’t imagine I’d last long in the position, anyhow, shoddy job as the Shemout have done protecting the rest of my family.”

 
Milling away from the scaffold, people had begun to crowd the wagon, calling for drink in the sweltering heat. “Ale’s out! Go find a tavern!” Temlin snapped in irate response. It was partly true. The lower barrels had already been emptied into the gullets of the throng earlier. Only the topmost barrel had a bit left, and Temlin was doing a fine job on that one. Temlin began to clamber down to the driver’s seat, making shooing motions. “I said go, dammit! We’ve got none left!”

  “Temlin, old man, don’t be a grouch.” Lhem settled his ample bulk next to Temlin, the old driver’s bench protesting with a groan. People were getting the hint, and had begun to clear from the sides of the wain. Temlin took up the reins for the draft horses, when someone odd suddenly caught his attention, thirty paces away by the shops.

  A frightfully tall fellow, he was dressed entirely in black, not Alrashemni charcoal greys but a true, flat black that ate the summer sun. His jerkin’s deep hood shrouded his face as he leaned at an apothecarist’s shop, arms crossed, watching the crowd. His leathers had a weave in a foreign herringbone pattern, and as he lifted his gaze to the ramparts, Temlin’s blood ran cold to see a terrible scar ripping across his neck. Not a clean scar like a blade might have done, but torn like he’d been mangled by some frightful creature.

  The man’s attention moved to Temlin, as if he felt Temlin watching. The man tensed. Reaching up, he lifted his hood, drawing it back to reveal his face. Dark eyes bored into Temlin. Black like onyx, not grey like the Alrashemni. Straight dark brows and an unruly shock of thick black hair gave the man a brooding look, though his handsome face with its high cheekbones was exquisitely aquiline. Temlin had a moment to think he looked northern Greccan, or perhaps from the Unaligned Lands, when he suddenly felt lightheaded.