Blackmark (The Kingsmen Chronicles #1): An Epic Fantasy Adventure Read online

  But his fingers still tingled with an urge to climb.

  “That’s it?! What was that? Are you jesting with me?” Eleshen’s hasty feet strode up behind him. Wordlessly, Elohl found some mutton jerky in his pack and a roundel of cheese. He tugged them out and sat down upon his pack, chewing slowly to moisten the jerky. When one found oneself stymied upon a climb, it was best to take a rest and feed the belly, use the time to think. Eleshen dumped her own pack next to his, the both of them staring up at the towering, silent byrunstone.

  “I don’t get it,” she huffed at last. “You’re a Kingsman! Why didn’t it work for you?”

  “Alranstones are unpredictable, Eleshen.” Elohl bit off another piece of jerky, suddenly hungry as if he’d been ice-ascending all day. He could feel his wounds now, a throbbing, searing menagerie of pain. “They’re a cautionary tale among the Alrashemni. Three hundred years ago, there was a war in one of the Valenghian border passes. Rakhan Tourliat den’Tharn led a great host to one of the Stones rather than towards the battle, because he thought they could make better time. But it wouldn’t open for him. Every man and woman in his host tried their hand, and the Stone remained quiet. They lost two days trying to get the bastard to open, then had to turn around and trek into the mountains. The battle was over when they arrived. The pass was lost, and they had to fight in the Longvalley. It was a bloody skirmish, lasting a full summer, when it could have been solved in days. Rakhan Tourliat lost his life that summer, as did most of the five hundred he led to war. All because of the byrunstone.”

  “Aeon be merciful,” Eleshen murmured. “But you said you’ve traveled by one.”

  Elohl gazed up at the seven eyes, still serenely closed. Emotions roiled him, deep down. And he still had the itching urge to climb the damn column and put his face right up next to that topmost eye. “Our need was great. It is said that need allows them to see you. But not always. Sometimes they’re asleep, so the stories say, buried so deep in dreams that they don’t recognize you. Sometimes they’re awake, but they deem you unfit to travel. Tourliat needed to protect the border pass for his King, but even the need of five hundred Alrashemni was not enough. And my need now? To find a sister who might be dead? To look for a scattered remnant of a people ten years gone? To escape a veritable flood of assassins that are apparently after me now? My need isn’t enough. Apparently.”

  Eleshen’s hand settled upon his arm. “I’m sorry, Elohl. I didn’t know. Did you feel anything from the Stone? Anything at all?”

  “I felt its awareness. But… it passed on.” But even as he spoke, the tingling speared his hand and wrist again, and the fingers cramped as if they were already climbing.

  “Does this stone look like the one you used before?”

  Elohl shook his head. “No. All the stories I’ve heard, all the sketches I’ve seen, the most eyes any stone has ever had were three. One to direct the awareness of the Stone, and one to focus the energy in some way, so two minimum. And there is a third, sometimes, that provides visions to those with seeing abilities.”

  Ghrenna’s face surfaced in Elohl’s vision suddenly, her lake-hued eyes with their strangely long and curling eyelashes drowning him. Her white-blonde hair was back, gathered into a loose bun, a few wisps coming loose by her high cheekbones. Her head turned suddenly, as if she was listening, baring her slender white throat and fine jaw. The movement was at once elegant and alert, with the stillness of precision that had so drawn Elohl to her all those years ago. Her white-blonde hair was ornate, done in thick braids wound round and through each other like she belonged among the wild kings of the north.

  But Ghrenna had never worn her hair in braids, not like that. Elohl blinked, confused. A wind blew through him suddenly, like a northwesterly over icecaps, and the image of Ghrenna passed.

  “So what do the other four eyes do?”

  Elohl shivered, unnerved by the sensations he was having near this Stone. He glanced over, to see Eleshen staring up towards the top, shading her sight with one hand from the late-afternoon sun.

  “Truly?” Elohl gazed upwards also. “I have no clue.”

  CHAPTER 12 – THEROUN

  Chancellor Theroun den’Vekir gazed down at the map, blurred around the edges now by the fire’s mesmeric flicker. His jaw was tight and his green eyes strained from too many late hours studying trade routes, despite the lamp in its iron-wrought stand casting a steady illumination upon his plain cendarie desk. Rubbing a battle-hardened hand over his temples and down his grey-flecked blonde beard, he massaged out tension in his weatherworn face. His nights had become an endless tirade of this, here within his sparse quarters in Roushenn Palace. Though it was a familiar routine, staying up late as he’d once done upon war-campaign, pouring over supply lists and reports. But these were lists of trade items from Alrou-Mendera’s neighbors, not war reports. And Theroun’s job was cross-checking each painstakingly with the Houses who had come to court the young Dhenra Elyasin, searching for the Dhenra’s best advantage for an upcoming marriage and alliance.

  Which was a ruthless sort of battle all its own.

  “Tell me about the Tourmalines, Thad.” Theroun barked casually, in his usual manner. “The Islemen control the Straits of Luthor. How much of our spices come through them?”

  Thaddeus den’Lhor, Theroun's secretary-lad, shuffled through a few papers from a stack upon the far side of the stout desk. Papers were constantly flooding Chancellor Theroun’s desk these days. He rubbed the tension in his jaw again, with a once-calloused hand grown soft from too many years in Roushenn. His right side twinged. He shifted his posture at the desk, breathing smoothly into the pain. He still had most of his health, fortunately, despite this old wound. His body was lean, his diet rigorous. But that knife through his ribs had ended his career permanently. He wasn’t able to move like he used to. Walking was painful, mounting a horse almost impossible. Standing made his side ache from where his lung had collapsed with blood, but he wouldn’t sit. Battle-hardened with discipline, Theroun still moved through his sword forms daily, breathing into this wretched pain just as he was doing now.

  What he wouldn’t give to be out commanding armies again at the Valenghian border. But here at the palace was where Theroun was needed, supposedly.

  One old General put to pasture.

  Thad, still attentive despite the late hour, snatched up a document, his spectacles reflecting the lamplight. “The Islemen send us thirty thousand bales of hopt-blume, fifteen thousand barrels of fennewith. Not to mention a decent amount of wesl-root and bitterbark. Most of the apothecaries in Alrou-Mendera are stocked at least half through the Straits. And the Tourmalines grow nearly all of our essenac and threllis. That's a lot of healing-herbs, sir. And Jadoun controls all the seeproot, vheldan, and morris-blossom. Another quarter of your average battlefield apothecary gone, if we can’t get it through the Isles.”

  Theroun ground his jaw, remembering how rampant fennewith-addiction had been through his ranks. Chewing enough for severe wounds made men lazy, useless in battle, not to mention hallucinating out of their gourds.

  “So if the Dhenra turns down King Arthe den’Tourmalin of the Isles,” Theroun growled, “you’re supposing they’ll cut us off. That our regiments will take a hit in Valenghia. Dying soldiers unable to be healed because our herbs are controlled by the Isles?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Theroun gave a harsh bark from his lean, battle-hardened frame, startling his apprentice. “How likely do you think it is that the Dhenra will accede to King Arthe of the Isles?”

  Thaddeus blinked, owlish behind his spectacles. He scrubbed his wild blonde hair with one thin-boned hand. At twenty-two, he had never been a fighter, and his lanky frame showed it. But his green eyes were cunning, and the wit in that mind was something Theroun had wanted to see in his own sons, who had never reached their maturity.

  “I don’t think likely, sir,” Thaddeus murmured at last. “King Arthe is too much like Uhlas was. He’s old and he’s been marri
ed once already. Marrying him would be like Elyasin marrying her own father. Sir.”

  Theroun chuckled, scanning the trade routes through the Isles. “You’re all too right, Thad. But see here… the Islemen control trade from Luthor, Jadoun, and Perthe, to the whole Eastern Bloc. If they halted trade to us… well, let’s just say it’s most unlikely. Cutting off us would mean cutting off all the eastern nations. And what happens when official trade is halted?”

  Thaddeus blinked. “Trade goes underground. Smuggling.”

  “Yes.” Theroun agreed. “The ships that come through from Perthe and Jadoun are old smuggler’s vessels from the Perthian Rebellion. The men who captain them are practiced smugglers. The Isles would rather reap taxes by proper shipping through their straits, rather than force it to go underground because of a slighted marriage with Alrou-Mendera.”

  “So we can do without the Islemen, if Elyasin chooses someone else?” Thad ventured.

  Theroun shook his head. “Just because the Islemen prefer harmony doesn't mean we can do without them, Thad. Control the Straits, control the Western Bloc, which they do. They are powerful allies. They make our lives easier in every way, from the wool carpets beneath our boots to the porcelain basins we use to shave, to the medicine we take. Careful alliances have been curried with the Isles, for generations. They are perhaps the strongest nation in our part of the world, despite having so few people and such little land.”

  Thaddeus shuffled to another paper in the stack with his thin fingers. “They rely upon us for millet, silth, and wheat. And cendarie for ships.”

  Theroun folded his arms over his chest as if studying for a battle. “The grains they might get elsewhere. But not cendarie. Does any other nation supply them with cendarie?”

  Thad shuffled through a number of papers, glancing quickly at each one. He looked up, stunned, blinking through his spectacles. “No…”

  A smile lifted one corner of Theroun’s mouth. “No. King Thronos den’Ildrian secured that trade, Uhlas’s grandfather. The Islemen can make ships out of leavonswood, bairn, and ironwood, but they prefer cendarie. The Elsthemi have plenty, but they have few accessible harbors, ice-bound half the year. Valenghia and Praough have inferior milling techniques for shipbuilding. Remember that, Thad. Control the wood for the ships, control the Isles. They’ll not abandon us if we turn down their King for an alliance through marriage. We already have a true alliance, stout as my desk here, and made from the very same wood.”

  Theroun slapped one yet-strong palm upon the stout red wood of his desk, making Thaddeus jump. But the lad recovered well, only adjusting his wire-rimmed spectacles further up his nose in thought. After three years as Theroun’s secretary, timid Thaddeus was getting used to the martial manner of his superior. Thaddeus coughed discreetly, and Theroun understood the lad had something to say.

  “Speak.” Theroun barked casually.

  Thaddeus sat back, taking his spectacles off and dangling them from the fingers of one hand, lipping at the ends of the metal that wrapped around his ears. It was one of the lad’s few tics. Theroun liked that look. Thaddeus was being shrewd when he did that, and surprising things often emerged from his mouth.

  It was one of the reasons Theroun kept him close.

  “Sir,” Thad began, still lipping at his spectacles. “Why are we still in a war with Valenghia? We’ve had them stymied at the border for years. Neither army is really able to invade the other, we all know that by now. Your lance along the Aphellian Way was the greatest push forward into Valenghian territory in all ten years of the war. We’re exhausting men and resources on both sides, preventing mutually-beneficial trade. What for?”

  Theroun crossed his arms over his chest, ready to test Thad’s wits. “If we cease our attentions at the border, the Vhinesse will invade us. She wants the borderlands.”

  Thad shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. The border is poor farming. Just one bitter valley snuck right between two impassable bogs that stretch hundreds of leagues. And the Longvalley and Highmountains? Rocky soil, glacial moraine. The Vhinesse has plenty of ripe tilth, especially now that she’s annexed Cennetia and Praough. The city-states of both southern nations were weak in militia. We’re not. She’s wasting her resources attacking us. I think it’s something else.”

  “Like?” Theroun pressed. He knew the answer to this riddle, but Thaddeus didn’t.

  Thaddeus chewed his metal like a horse nibbling the bit. “Like… maybe there’s something behind the war?”

  “Continue.”

  Thaddeus shrugged, his visage taking a faraway cast. “I don’t know. Say, a secret cabal. Ever read the history of Cennetia? They had a secret order called the Illianti that manipulated the Centos of each city-state for hundreds of years, pitting them against each other to benefit the order. They were finally routed in 1120 by Centos Lugro Apante, who made an alliance with Centos Revio Duonti. Duonti provided the key, discovering the Illianti mark, a brand upon the inner ankle. Through Apante’s military might, they put the Illianti to the torch.”

  “I’ve read Qentus Atolychi’s Inner Sanctum.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Thaddeus looked chagrined.

  “Continue.” Theroun still wanted to see how far the lad would take it.

  Thaddeus looked up. “Could there be something like that happening here, sir? On both sides… manipulating the thrones? To keep the war going?”

  “Could be. What makes you think I know anything about it?”

  Thaddeus shrugged. “You knew King Uhlas. Some speak of you as close as brothers. And you were on the Valenghian front for a long while, at his orders.”

  “I was also removed from the Valenghian front at his orders, Thad. Dishonorably.”

  Thaddeus blushed in the fire’s light, and chewed his spectacles. “Sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary. I deserved to lose my station.”

  A long silence passed between them, which at last Thad broke, his curious green eyes sweeping up to meet Theroun’s. “Were there Alrashemni Kingsmen in your army, sir?”

  Theroun nodded. “Many. They kept it quiet, but there were those who wore the Blackmark, hiding in the military after the Summons.”

  “Did…” Thaddeus licked his lips. “Did you have them crucified, sir? With the rest?”

  “Strung up.” Theroun corrected. “Only some were crucified. Only in places where the Monoliths along the Aphellian Way had toppled.”

  Thaddeus swallowed, but the lad had gumption. “You desecrated the Monoliths of the Way, so it's said.”

  “And so I did.” Theroun growled conversationally. “I strung up Alrashemni Kingsmen from both sides of the Aphellian Way, three to four on every Monolith. The effigies of the ancients ran red with blood for weeks.”

  “Bronze that never tarnishes, copper that never turns green. Limestone that never erodes, and obsidian that never flakes. You defaced them, each and every Monolith, for leagues. They were stained brown from blood for years. Ancient holy effigies of worship, for peoples of three different lands, made by gods long forgotten, all along the Way. You defaced them... with corpses.”

  “Most of the Alrashemni were still alive when I strung them up, Thad. Get your history straight.”

  Thaddeus was silent a long moment. Theroun could see the line in the lad's forehead as he weighed this information, and Theroun's forthrightness about it.

  “Did you kill Alrashemni from your own legion, sir?”

  “Not many. But I would have. Most of our own Blackmarked Kingsmen deserted, fled in the night when they realized what I was doing. Most of the ones I managed to catch were Valenghian, as my army drove hard up the Thalanout Plain and deep into the Valenghian Vhinesse’s tilthland.”

  “But you killed some of your own men. Soldiers of Alrou-Mendera. King Uhlas’ soldiers. That was treason.” Thaddeus went pale, his fingers jittery upon his spectacles. But Theroun was impressed with the lad’s courage. Thaddeus had never had the guts to ask Theroun before, about the details of the Ap
hellian Way. The young man was growing bolder in his statecraft.

  “There’s a reason I got the nickname Black Viper of the Aphellian Way, Thaddeus,” Theroun murmured. “A viper will strike anyone when enraged. Friend and foe are not viewed separately to the viper. And the viper cares nothing for holy relics of a bygone age. A viper only reacts.”

  Thaddeus met Theroun’s gaze by the fire’s light. “Do you regret it? What you did?”

  Theroun had asked himself that question a hundred thousand times. There was really only one answer. “No. I do not regret lynching and crucifying Alrashemni, even the ones in my own regiment, after the bastards killed my family. But I regret how it pained King Uhlas. My heart was mad with rage, at the time. I thought it justified, that those who had been so treasonous to their King and escaped his Summons be punished for it, severely. And in my grief… well. Grief plus fever-wounds makes rage run hot like tundra-wolves.”

  “And now? Do you still hate the Kingsmen?”

  “The Kingsmen are gone, Thad.”

  “Not entirely. Captain Olea den’Alrahel wears the Inkings. And if she’s alive… there are probably others. Hiding. Somewhere.” Theroun’s lips quirked in a smile, proud of his apprentice’s reasoning skills. Thad sat forward, intrigued. “They are. There are Kingsmen still out there! Hiding. Living ordinary lives?”

  Theroun nodded, very small. His back was facing the wall, his face hidden in the shadows of the fire so only Thad could see. He knew Lhaurent kept an extensive network of spies in the palace. And like any palace, Theroun was nearly certain there were hide-holes for watching and listening, though he'd never had his suspicions confirmed.

  “Holy Aeon,” Thaddeus cursed softly. “Where?”

  Theroun smiled a little wider, a viper’s grin. “Where would you hide if you were one of the most elite warriors ever to walk this land?”