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

  “Ride!” King Therel roared above the crash of thunder. All around him, Highswords mounted up in haste. Elohl helped Therel lift the Queen up before him upon his tall black charger, binding her unconscious form close with a belt so Therel had his hands free to manage his horse. A horn sounded. A second wave of cobalt-jerkined guards rushed around the edge of the stables, bristling with weapons in the downpour.

  “Yah!” King Therel wheeled his horse. Whipping it into a rear, he charged the open stable-doors. Guardsmen stumbled back, shouting. Therel’s retinue thundered through the break in the guards, churning muck, splattering Guardsmen. Elohl slung up fast to the only horse left, a heat-eyed grey who pranced sideways and tried to bite. Saying a quick prayer for Olea’s safety, he reigned the beast, hoping Vargen and Aldris were as good as their devotion to her. His heart sundered to leave her behind when they had just been reunited.

  But there was no time. He’d be cut to bits if he lingered. Wheeling his horse, he charged after Therel’s line, charged the Guardsmen trying to block his way. Guardsmen readied swords to stab at his legs. Elohl drew his longsword from over one shoulder, protecting himself and his horse as he galloped past, clashing blades in sparks that lit the dark afternoon. He glanced back as he charged out, to the palace side-door. Hoping against hope to see Olea come bursting through it.

  But there was no one. Not even Fenton, who had stayed behind to save them all. Burying his emotions, Elohl dug his heels in, charging his horse after the Highswords fast as thunder in the driving summer rain. Sleet slashed his face, driven by the wind. Elohl leaned down tight to his horse’s withers, kicking it hard past the gate to the Fourth Tier. Decimated by Therel’s men, cobalt-jerkined guards lay motionless in the dappled puddles, blood spreading from them like ink stains. Up onto the narrow palace hunting-trail Elohl sawed his mount, following churned-up hoof prints. The grey stallion was full of piss, heaving them over boulders to take the trail up into the cover of evergreens, hot with speed in the driving rain.

  Elohl kicked it harder. It snorted, bucked beneath him, but gave more speed, racing up the switchbacks as the trail climbed the mountainside, catching up to the main retinue. Their party was grim, silent, Highswords glancing back with hooded eyes to check for pursuit as they struggled upwards, horses slipping in the muck of the narrow trail. Rain drenched Elohl, sliding down his collar, soaking his undershirt. Flicking it out of his eyes, currying rain out of his hair, he followed at a brisk gallop as the trail leveled, following the curve of the Kingsmount’s southwestern slope up and up. Branches scratched out, catching at his leathers. Lightning split the heavy green sky, eerie in the false darkness of the day.

  Elohl pressed his beast hard, trying not to think about everything he was leaving. Trying not to think of Olea, Eleshen. Ghrenna. Olea fell further behind with every heave of his horse’s flanks. Ghrenna fell further behind with every roar of thunder. Elohl gazed up at the terrible sky, roiling with fury, with agony. His golden Inkings burned with every flash of lightning. His stomach churned, his throat clenched hot and tight.

  Gritting his teeth, Elohl struggled against the pain that was rising. Rising like a demon, like the beast that had smote them in the halls. Bubbling up his throat, it came out as a scream, drowned in a sudden flash of lightning and a roll of thunder. Elohl let his head fall back, rain pelting his face as he hauled in a great lungful of air and screamed out again. His horse whickered in alarm. Highswords looked behind, eyebrows raised. But Elohl’s roars of agony came like the thunder, rolled from him like the rain, until he had nothing left. Until he was empty inside, silent. Until everything that had frozen him for so many years, everything that had burned, was utterly still.

  At last, he heard nothing but the patter of the rain and the hard breathing of his horse as he rode. Elohl felt the heat of his own breath curling away in the chill air. He opened his eyes, seeing the vastness of the forest, dark and brooding in the dim light. Stillness slipped into him from every bough. Stillness dripped into him with every patter of rain upon leaves. Stillness moved him, rocked him with the rhythm of his horse’s muscles. Stillness came to his Inkings, a deep quiet that opened Elohl’s heart.

  And suddenly, he could feel. Everything. His heart breathed in that moment, opening outward, expanding through the storm. Expanding until it touched the city now far behind. Until it whispered softly through those he loved. He could feel them. If he breathed softly enough, he could feel them. Moving his horse into a better line, Elohl came to quiet at last. His focus shifting, he listened to the forest, touched out with his sensate sphere to the back-trail, feeling for pursuit. Focusing on the now, on surviving for today, he let the past go. All of it. Everything. All the pain, all the passion. All the certainty of how his life would go. All the rage at how it had been arrested.

  He let it go, listening to the rain, breathing deeply in the soft silence, riding hard.

  * * *

  They rode out to the northwest in the towering midsummer storm until nightfall. Circling the base of the Kingsmount, on a craggy hunting-track upon the western slopes, they pushed the horses hard. Climbing towards the high-country along the rough, little-used track, they avoided the valley. Scouts had been sent ahead and lingered behind, but no news came of pursuit. Rain churned the steep trail to muck. They galloped where they could, but even the resolute warhorses were hard-pressed to maintain a continuous trot, sliding and shying from mud over rocks.

  Suddenly, the column pulled up short at a broad spot in the trail. Elohl rained in, pacing up alongside one broad-shouldered beast of a Highsword with long red braids and a braided red beard, a man he recognized from their flight in the halls.

  “What’s going on?” Elohl murmured.

  “Treating the Queen.” The man was brief, nodding towards King Therel’s black charger. Elohl could see that Luc had pulled alongside and was reaching over, his hands settled to Queen Elyasin’s abdomen. Therel had wrapped her in his crimson cloak, keeping her warm, but even so, Elohl could see how pale she was. Deathly pale. And as Luc moved his hands, he saw how much blood had soaked the pale blue of her silk gown.

  “We need to stop for the night,” Elohl heard Luc murmur through the susurration of the rain. “Get her off the road. I can’t make the wound close if it’s constantly shifting and pulling.”

  Luc’s face was grim. Therel glanced at the light above the trail, the sky now heavy with impending nightfall. He narrowed his eyes on the horses, and Elohl saw what the King saw, that all the chargers were heaving and blowing hard from their fast climb up the mountain, their stamina nearly gone.

  “Off the road!” Therel barked at last. “We’ll camp in the trees.” Sawing his horse to the side, he walked it off the trail to the north and into the thick vegetation, the trees dripping with moss, the groundcover thick with ferns. But just as the retinue led their horses from the road, the sound of hooves came behind them, hitting the trail hard in an earth-churning gallop. Elohl heard King Therel curse his rear scouts. Steel rang in the damp air as Therel drew his sword in a rush even with his Queen yet slumped over his pommel. Wheeling his horse hard, he faced the oncoming enemy with his Highswords bristling at his sides.

  But as the dark bay neared, lathered in sweat and rain, Elohl picked out a familiar face wearing the blue jerkin of the Palace Guard. He raised his hand, fast. “Hold! He was with us in the halls! Fenton den’Kharel, one of my sister Olea’s best lieutenants!”

  King Therel cursed again, a blue streak in his native Elsthemi. “Tell him to not sneak up, Aeon dammitall! For fuck’s sake!”

  He wheeled his horse, and in a vile temper, stalked it off further into the trees, Highswords at his hocks. Elohl held his temperamental stallion in place with a determined rein, waiting for Fenton. The man slowed his lathered beast to a trot, then to a walk thirty paces down the weathered path. Elohl saw the relief upon Fenton’s face as he neared, and the pain. Disbelief moved through Elohl as his gaze flickered over Fenton’s garb, seeing the massive rent in the
abdomen of his leather jerkin, and the torn shoulder like the beast had savaged him. And blood, soaking everything. Just everything. Elohl’s eyes went wide as Fenton reigned in, stopping his blowing mount.

  “Aeon fuck me…” Elohl breathed.

  Fenton was breathing hard, ashen, exhausted, drenched. He had tied himself to his horse as he rode, lashed himself to the saddle with a length of spare leather rein. Men didn’t do that unless they had to stay mounted with a deadly wound. Elohl’s gaze flicked over Fenton’s bloodsoaked leathers. “Can you ride?” He murmured, at a loss for what to say.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it riding, more like getting fucked on horseback.” Fenton’s mouth was a hard line of pain, but still, it quirked up at one corner. Soldier’s humor. “I’ll make it a bit further. Lead the way.”

  Elohl nodded. Who knew how bad Fenton’s injuries were under all that mess? Who knew how he’d faced down that creature in the hall? But like a true soldier, Fenton was already focused on the next problem, and that didn’t include tending his wounds or wasting time discussing a previous battle. So Elohl just nodded again, clucking his tongue and kicking his heels lightly into his horse’s flanks to make it walk on. Leading it down into the gully beside the track and off into the forest, he followed the muddy hoof prints of Therel’s company.

  They rode in a thick silence for a while. As soon as it became obvious that Therel meant to lead them far off the trail and through the wildland until dusk, Elohl chanced a look over. Fenton was reeling in the saddle, lurching a bit too much with every hoof-fall of his horse, not able to keep himself upright very well. He’d taken a deep injury, something dire. His eyes fluttered shut a moment. Elohl though he heard the Guardsman hiss softly through his teeth.

  “Bad?” Elohl murmured.

  Fenton glanced over. “Bad enough. I’ll live.”

  “How did you best it? The creature in the hall?” Curiosity had overcome Elohl at last.

  Fenton glanced over again, a wry twist to his lips. “I didn’t. I dodged a few turning walls and the damn thing followed me. Got itself squished. Not before tearing me up a bit, though. Took me a while to get myself out. Then I had to hide until the stables weren’t watched, to steal a horse and get out.”

  “How did you know I could lead the others out? About my gift?” Elohl murmured. That statement in the heat of battle had not escaped him. Nor had the speed of Fenton’s movements fighting the creature.

  Fenton glanced up, holding a hand to his middle. “Your gift? Olea told me.”

  “You two were close?”

  Fenton smiled a little more. “Not like that. Just good friends.”

  Elohl nodded, changing the subject, the topic of Olea too hard yet to bear. “We’re losing the light. We should pick up the pace. Catch up to the main host.”

  “Lead on, den’Alrahel. I’ll follow.”

  Elohl kicked his horse, taking a trot to follow the pulped and muddy hoof prints through the thickening vegetation. Conversation ended as they moved faster through the trees, until at last the main party was in sight. King Therel and his men were stopped now, dismounting in a small clearing ringed by tall cendarie evergreens that would serve as camp for the night. But as Elohl sawed his bad-tempered grey to a halt within the copse, Fenton suddenly slumped over his pommel in a dead faint.

  Quickly, Elohl leaped from his horse, rushing to catch Fenton as the wiry man slid sideways out of his saddle. Elohl hauled him over beneath a broad cendarie, laying him out upon the dry needles. Luc was there in a trice, his hands already at Fenton's abdomen, feeling, lifting away a dark grey wrap soaked in blood, peering beneath. But strangely enough, the gash in Fenton’s abdomen, though it was wide and ragged, was not deep. Not even down through the muscle, it seemed hardly a scratch for a fighter as fierce as the Guardsman. But Luc tended it anyway, though he was drained and it showed. Luc’s breathing was a harsh rasp, his hands trembling as he attended to Fenton. After a few minutes, he took his hands away, rubbing sweat and rain from his brow.

  “He’ll live. He’s got some deep wounds, worse than we can see, but I’ve fixed what I could. I've got to tend Elyasin.” Luc rose, stepping away with haste.

  With nothing better he could do for the unconscious Fenton, Elohl left him for the moment beneath the cendarie, going back to the horses and fetching their leads, tying them up to a tree out of the rain. Therel’s Highswords were already establishing a rough camp of lean-tos beneath the evergreens, from what they had pilfered from the stables. Oilcloaks made coverings, lashed between trees with rope. Lanterns began to flicker in the damp nightfall, lashed to some of the lean-tos. A fairly ample oiled canvas stretched over a patch of moss between two towering cendaries, oilcloaks covering the ground. It was there that King Therel had taken Elyasin. A shabby palace of exile, a sad, wet abode for them to share their first night together.

  But as Elohl finished with the horses and approached the King’s tent, he saw there would be no wedding night for the royal couple. Crouching next to the unconscious Elyasin, her pale hand pressed between his, King Therel was a picture of disheveled distraction and wretched exhaustion.

  “Save my sweetgrape, physician…” Therel Alramir’s voice was raw with anger and a plea, his pale blue eyes hard and miserable. Luc merely nodded, setting his hands to Elyasin’s wounds. Elohl hunkered nearby as the healer dipped his chin and closed his eyes. Time ceased beneath the lean-to, the moment trapped in a cast of sorrow.

  “My Liege.” The big Highsword Elohl recognized from the road, clad in a hulking bearskin and ragtag buckled leathers, stepped up. Hunkering next to King Therel, he combed a hand back through his long, wet red braids, then shucked water from his braided red beard with his fingertips. “We’d go faster on the main road, down in the valley.”

  Therel’s lupine blue eyes were still pinned to Elyasin. He shook his head. “I’ll not take her through the Valley of Doors, Lhesher. It’s too exposed. The walls of the canyon are too steep. Any pursuit could flush us out faster than we should ride with her injured.”

  “We could have an escort of keshari. We have scouts watching the border. Transfer her to a cat and ride hard for Lhen Fhekran.”

  Therel paused this time. But again, Elohl saw him shake his head with a growl. “We can’t assume our scouts are still alive, Lhesher. This betrayal was organized. And if there are no cats waiting for us at the border, we’ll be caught in the valley. I won’t risk it. We ride on, up over the western side of the Kingsmount. We’ll go slow, give Luc time to heal her. Ride gentle, pace the streams to throw off any dogs in pursuit. I will make it back to Lhen Fhekran with my Queen alive. By all the gods, I swear it.”

  The big man, Lhesher, nodded solemnly, then clapped a sturdy hand upon Therel’s shoulder. Therel nodded, his eyes never leaving Elyasin. Seeing no more he could do, Elohl rose and returned to Fenton beneath the evergreens, to find that the big northerner Lhesher had erected a lean-to over Fenton. Elohl nodded to the big redheaded Highsword. The man nodded, scooted over on some cendarie boughs he’d cut down with his belt-hatchet, making room for Elohl to sit. Together, they stared out over the camp, watching Elsthemi swordsmen tend horses and weapons in the dripping dusk, settling in to make what they could of the wet camp beneath the trees. Elohl sighed, leaning back against the cendarie evergreen, soaked to his bones and without a stitch of his Kingsmen greys, nor his High Brigade gear.

  “Lhesher Khoum.” The Highsword next to Elohl extended a massive paw of a hand.

  Elohl clasped his wrist. “Elohl den’Alrahel.”

  “Fuck-all of a day, huh?” Lhesher pulled out a pipe, stuffed it with some leaves Elohl didn’t recognize, and lit it with a dry phosphor match. Taking a few draws, he held it out to Elohl, who accepted it. The smoke was mellow and smooth, with a slight flavor of cherries. Puffing in silent gratefulness, Elohl watched the lamps stolen from the stables flickering among the lean-tos like fireflies in oblivion.

  His heart reached out, searching in the night. For Olea. For Elesh
en. For Ghrenna.

  Cerulean eyes surfaced in his vision. A lake of blue, seeking him. Calling.

  Handing the pipe over with a nod, Elohl dropped his head back against the tree trunk behind him, exhausted. “Yeah. Fuck-all of a day.”

  CHAPTER 38 – JHERRICK

  Jherrick stood in the flickering torchlight, hands clasped upon the pommel of his sword at his post in the Upper Cells. Before him in her dark cell, Olea den’Alrahel was like a fine blade in a midden-house. Even with days of dirt and sweat-rumpled with disgrace, she shone like freshly-sharpened throwing knives, pacing her bars like a tigress in the torchlight. Ripping a hand through her black curls, she displayed a heightening unrest. An unrest Jherrick resonated with. A tight knot of worry had grown in his gut over the past hours. The coronation was proceeding in the highest Tiers of Roushenn. The Dhenra would be signing her Writs right about now.

  The First Sword would be making his lunge.

  Suddenly, the palace erupted in sound. Jherrick and Olea both froze to hear the clanking rush of heavily-armed Guardsmen sprinting in the hall at the top of the stairs. Within Roushenn, the Upper Cells lay close to the formal halls, not so very removed from the palace proper. Shouts were being raised in the level just above. Jherrick’s ears strained. He heard raised battle-roars. The crash of metal on shields. The rattled thunder of men slamming into each other. Screams. The kind of screams you get when men are pierced and dying.