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

  “He was fat and slow,” Dherran dismissed, embarrassed that the odds against him had been so bad.

  “He was thick and fast,” Grump challenged. “You were faster. And because of it, I got us nineteen and eighty-two Rou. Best that, kiddos.” Grump was smug, striking flint and steel into his bundle of tinder and blowing on the flame.

  Khenria laughed, jostling Grump by the shoulders. “Do I get a horse now?”

  Grump waved her off, still blowing on his smoking bundle. “Anything you want, dear heart.” He came to all fours as he tucked his small flame into the tinder of the cone, blowing gently to get the fire licking upwards. “We have plenty now for a third horse, and a number of months room and board to boot. We won't have to live out here in the woods over the winter.”

  “Good thing everyone hates a Kingsman.” Dherran growled, pouring water from one of their bladders into a pot to make their evening tea. Something of his rage rekindled, thinking about all those hateful faces in Rhaventia.

  “Not everyone hates a Kingsman. Don’t you ever say that.” Khenria’s voice cracked like a whip through the forest.

  Dherran looked up, catching her dark look, feeling her intense stillness. They stared at each other, aware of each other’s simmering anger. Khenria had plenty of it, a match to Dherran’s in every way. Ferocity was always there in her set lips, in the defiant angle of her sharp chin, a hawk-eyed woman beneath her lanky youth. More and more, Dherran saw the steely strength of the Alrashemni in Khenria. And something in it cooled him. She was beautiful, in a vicious, young sort of way, very much like Suchinne had once been. Khenria's dark grey eyes held his in the fading light of the forest, glinting now that the fire had begun to burn high and bright. Her brush-cut black hair caught the fire’s light, blazing with blue highlights, and Dherran mused for a moment on how utterly Alrashemni she looked, like Olea at that age.

  “Not everyone hates you, Dherran.”

  “I know,” Dherran murmured softly, his heart softening, something about her words causing him to ache.

  “But sometimes you're a git for getting us kicked out of nice lodgings.” Khenria's lips quirked. And though the ache flushed deeper in Dherran’s chest, it was a calm kind of sadness, of delicate things lost and a safe way of living forgotten.

  “I owe you a soft feather mattress, don't I?” Dherran murmured, his joke more than half-true. He owed Khenria a lot more than that. Dherran himself didn’t look Alrashemni. He had his mother’s coloring, the straw-blonde hair with green eyes that was gradually drowning out the elegant darkness of the Alrashemni. But Dherran had Inkings, and Khenria had recognized them when she and Dherran had had their encounter at the stream two years ago. He was naked, soaking clean in the river. She had been hiding in the forest’s fringe, watching him.

  But she had approached him because of those marks, because of the trust she put in them, the life she remembered. And from a solo journey of misery he’d lived since he’d defected from the Stone Valley Guard after Suchinne’s death, Dherran had suddenly acquired a family.

  He owed Khenria everything because of it.

  Especially the training she had been denied.

  But Khenria took on a thoughtful cast at his comment, rather than laughing. And suddenly, Dherran thought he had said something wrong. Unlike Suchinne had been, Khenria was moody, sometimes ferocious as a keshar, sometimes playful, sometimes distant. She'd had a hard life after the Summons, a childhood of abuse and desperate living. Dherran felt distinctly uncomfortable now, as if he'd triggered something for her. His gaze broke from her hawkish steel, flicking around to find Grump.

  But as usual, Grump had melted away once the fire had been started, to fetch the bounty of the forest. Dherran made himself busy in the awkward silence by pouring herbs for tea into the pot and watching it boil. Khenria was silent, organizing their bedrolls, erecting a lean-to of oiled canvas between the trees in case of rain.

  At last, Dherran heard the tripping gait of Grump’s light feet returning. Grump could move without a sound in the forest, and only made his presence known for their sake. Dherran turned, noting that Grump’s gather-pouches were full to bursting as he stepped into the fire's light from the evening gloom, two fat rabbits slung over his shoulder.

  “Summer bunnies are out!” Grump shed the rabbits to the moss.

  Finished with the lean-to, Khenria snatched them up, using her belt-knife to skin and eviscerate them with stunning alacrity. Dherran forgot, sometimes, that she had been starving and wild when Grump had found her at age ten, adopting her to his nomadic ways. She had escaped an abusive miller’s family and managed to stay alive a number of months on her own, but had been close to death as autumn had turned to winter. Grump had taught her woodscraft and kindness, and his sweet chatter had re-socialized her.

  Somewhat.

  “Soon it will be all bunny-stew,” Grump was picking through his gatherings, a number of wide leaves and a pouch full of yellow chandria mushrooms. “Bunny-jerky, bunny-pies, now that we have money for flour, and salted bunny-crunch wraps! Gotta wait for the dragon-snaps at the end of summer for that, though.”

  Grump mumbled to himself now as he tended to the cooking, and Dherran smiled to hear it, helping slice up the mushrooms Grump had foraged, as Khenria tore up the bitter greens. They hardly ever needed supplies from town when they lived rough with Grump. Dherran was an adept hunter and occasionally went out with his bow, and Khenria had learned Grump's foraging and edible identification. In a little while, a fragrant stew was bubbling heartily in the pot.

  Khenria sat near the fire, honing her knife when at last Dherran motioned her up. She sprang to her feet with a brisk litheness, and Dherran tossed her the extra practice sword from his bedroll, which she snatched from the air like a cat. Dherran lunged, and their regular evening bout began.

  Even in his youth, he had been an expert swordsman, a capable teacher of his peers when he wasn't busy getting pissed off. He took Khenria through combinations to get her heated, until she was breathing hard and damp with sweat. At last, she gave him a wide opening from her fatigue, and Dherran moved in. One fist to her chest, he knocked out her wind, his blade sliding to her throat. But the little hawk was handy with steel, and even as she doubled over coughing, Dherran felt her well-honed boot-knife prick his ribs.

  He laughed, stepping back. Khenria glowered, rage heated in her fine-boned features. Womanly and feral, it made Dherran’s chuckle falter. She continued to glower, cheeks hot with wrath until he inclined his head.

  “Fair enough. It was a dirty blow. But you have to expect your opponent to fight filthy sometimes, Khenria. You did just right. When someone begins to fight like a caged keshar, you do the same. And if you really feel your life is in danger,” his hand whipped to a fly-blade in his leather jerkin, throwing it faster than a viper. Khenria reacted, slipping to one side as the knife brushed past her cheek and buried itself in the tree behind her.

  Her lips dropped open, realizing what he’d just done. “You could have killed me!”

  “But you felt it. Good job.” Dherran inclined his head. “We’re done here.”

  He turned, making for the fire. But something, like a breath upon the wind suddenly, raised his hackles and honed him to lance-sharp readiness. Dherran spun, catching Khenria’s unseen attack upon his blade, sliding past her in a two-handed upward parry that left her spinning to an uneven seat upon the moss. Dherran whipped the tip of his blade to her throat.

  Khenria’s eyes glittered coal-dark in the firelight. “I almost got you.”

  Dherran’s sword-tip didn’t waver. “Test me, Khenria, and find out what I’m really made of.”

  “I’ll test you,” she breathed. “Just you wait.” Her eyes had changed to a dark smolder that left Dherran rattled. He pulled his sword up and thrust it back in its scabbard. He didn’t offer Khenria a hand up, merely gazed at her a long moment.

  “Stew's ready! Come and eat.” Grump suddenly chimed in.

  Dherran moved away
and sat upon a spread hide on the moss before the fire. Khenria sat at his side, fetching her bowl and fishing for the ladle, portioning her fill. They ate in silence. Dherran suppressed the urge to glance at Grump and see if the man had noticed anything odd in Khenria's demeanor. But Grump prattled on about nonsense, apparently oblivious of the sudden tension in their camp.

  Dherran felt Khenria staring at him, venomous, and he felt like a rabbit beneath the gaze of a hawk. Suchinne’s gaze had pierced him like that, like talons. And now there was another hawk in Dherran’s life, a tempestuous one that was far less predictable. Dherran hunched his shoulders in the deepening night, and hunkered closer to the fire, draining the dregs of his bowl.

  CHAPTER 6 – OLEA

  Olea strode a straight route from the infirmary to where her rounds began at the West Guardhouse, down a few sets of grandiose staircases to a shortcut through the deepest labyrinthine halls that would avoid the palace bustle. Even at the height of the morning there were few folk about in the deepest halls of Roushenn, the labyrinthine corridors echoing and silent. Turning right, Olea entered the vaulted reaches of the West Armory, which had a passage that led up to the West Guardhouse on the far side.

  It wasn’t an armory, merely a hall of antiquities from the martial history of Alrou-Mendera. Iron racks holding suits of armor, glass cases full of weapons and medallions of bravery, massive tapestries of lord’s crests adorning the walls. And though it was intriguing, all evidence of Alrashemni Kingsmen antiquities had been removed from the hall, and their absence was notable. Olea walked the vaulted space slowly, her soft footsteps echoing in the silence. Gazing at the armor upon their iron displays, she saw countless niches barren, entire suits having been removed from the hall. Sword-displays hung empty for ten paces. Glass cases were pocked with dented blue velvet where medallions of bravery and honor had once lain but had been removed.

  Olea had never seen evidence of the Alrashemni honor here, even in her first year at the palace. All of it had been removed in the week after the Kingsmen's disappearance. Gazing around now, a feeling of barrenness arose in Olea. An aching feeling of loss deep in her chest. Here had been evidence of how her people had served their kings, and now only their absence remained like a hole in her heart, and a hole in the heart of Roushenn. Kingsmen had been all but erased from Alrou-Mendera's history, as if a hand of destiny had swept them from the continent.

  Olea’s chest clenched. She turned away. This was no place to linger, not today, not with everything else she was thinking about Elohl’s discharge. He’d not be honored any more for his service, if he was still alive, than she was for being a Kingsman at her loyal post. And that was all too plain here, staring at her from every empty display.

  She was about to leave the hall, when something like a sigh caught her attention, from far up in the hall and to the left. As she moved slowly toward the sound, she heard a hot curse issue from behind a suit of gold-plated armor. Close enough now to glance behind the iron-wrought stand, she saw a young woman in a long pale green silk gown sitting in the small niche. The woman looked up, startled and angry, but her milk-smooth features and fierce green eyes relaxed as she noted whom had found her.

  “Dhenra Elyasin.” Olea dropped to one knee, bowing her head, her hand to her sword, just halting the other hand in time and moving it back to her side rather than pressing it to her Inkings. It was a hard habit to break, bowing like a Kingsman, even after ten years.

  Elyasin den'Ildrian smiled ruefully, her tear-stained face splotchy and cheeks flushed, eyes all the more brilliantly green for the red that rimmed them. “Captain-General. As you were.”

  Olea lifted her head, but did not rise. “Are you all right, Dhenra?”

  “Oh, fine! Just fine.” The young woman laughed, harsh. She leaned her golden-blonde head back against the armor, her words biting. “Fourteen suitors who would be King, all of them trying to manipulate me with trade agreements. And whichever I choose provokes the chance of war with all the others! My father’s Chancellors, always in my ear! And Castellan Lhaurent, what a waste of my time! Why must I supervise the palace household when I have a kingdom to run and a war to manage!” Elyasin rested back upon the armor again. “Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

  “You are unguarded, Dhenra.”

  Dhenra Elyasin looked up, feisty and vicious, with the same rash temper her brother Alden had once possessed. “And who is going to accost me here? The Ghost of Roushenn? No one uses these halls… it’s why I come down here.” Scrubbing her fingers through her lush golden hair, she combed her bright waves over one shoulder angrily, then gave a vicious growl. “What am I going to do, Olea? A marriage? Aeon's tits! This is harder than managing the war in Valenghia…!”

  A tear leaked down the Dhenra’s face. She scrubbed it away. Olea knew that gesture. The Dhenra was in a temper and angry with herself. Elyasin had never enjoyed weakness. Olea was reminded of the high-spirited girl who used to stare upon the practice grounds, mouth open and gaping. Of when nine-year-old Elyasin, fascinated by Olea’s Inkings, had demanded to learn the sword and other arts of the Kingsmen. Olea had at last relented, and taught her Dhenra in secret.

  A secret the two still shared twice weekly.

  “Take your time. Consider your options.” Olea murmured gently, stirred by the rash fury of the young woman before her. “A Queen must be thoughtful when she has the luxury. Take the advice you require to gauge trade agreements. Walk among the people in Lintesh, ask what they need. Your coronation is still a month away at Highsummer. Even so, weddings and treaties can wait. Alrou-Mendera has had unwed queens before. Foster goodwill in the wake of your father’s passing, and your people will stand by you no matter how you choose to rule.”

  “You say my father taught me?” Elyasin's golden brows lifted, her tears drying. “I say you have. You give me the best advice, yet again. Unsought-for.”

  “Kingsmen always speak truth to our liege, Dhenra.”

  Elyasin had settled, and now was gazing at Olea, thoughtful. Shrewd. “Everyone wants something from me. All my suitors, the Castellan, the Chancellors. They all look at me as if I’m supposed to do what they say. They offer counsel expecting me to be their puppet because I'm young, and a woman. No one offers advice freely. So what do you want from me, Captain?”

  The question took Olea aback. Her face opened in honesty, even the suggestion that she might be manipulating her Dhenra abhorrent. “I want nothing from you, Dhenra! All I’ve ever wanted is to see you succeed. You have strength and a keen mind. And I would like to see a powerful, outspoken Queen ascend the throne.”

  The Dhenra smiled, wry. “Won’t that be the day? The dour suspicion of my father King Uhlas, followed by an outspoken Queen.”

  “Your father was a man of deep and unfathomable plans, Dhenra.”

  “And yet, for all his planning, I feel I am surrounded by wolves and not allies!” Elyasin snapped, rising in one lithe movement from behind the armor, her green silk gown pouring down her young body like water to puddle at her feet. One hand settled to the jeweled dagger that always rode her waist, her jade eyes flashing fire.

  “I don't even know who my true allies are, Olea! My father kept his own counsel and his secrets were known to none. And now I know nothing! And these past nine months, since his death, I’ve not known where to turn. Once the Kingsmen were allies to the Crown that could always be depended on, fighters, counselors! He spoke so highly of them when I was a child, calling them his truest vanguard! And then he reaped them down and no one knows why...!”

  Olea went very still. Her heart was racing, hearing her soon-to-be-Queen raging upon this line of inquiry. It was one thing for the common folk to speculate on what had happened to the Kingsmen, but for the Dhenra herself to know nothing, that was dangerous. Everything inside Olea rose up in shock, in fear, her hackles high, that Elyasin knew so little of such a definitive event in her own nation.

  Something must have shown upon Olea’s face, because Elyasin was watching
her, her hard gaze every bit as shrewd as her deceased father King Uhlas. “Does anyone know why my father charged the Kingsmen with high treason? Do you?”

  Olea knew she had to answer her Dhenra. But horrors were surfacing, burned into her mind as that awful time was resurrected. The clench of her stomach as she looked into Elohl’s belt-purse. The caving feeling of dread in her belly as they ran back to the Alranstone. Her mind being sundered by that man riding the scorpion.

  When they’d returned to Alrashesh, fatigued and empty-handed, they’d found that the rest of the Alrashemni youths had already left for the safehouse, the fortified ruins of Kepsburg-on-the-Rhine, taking the livestock and provisions with them. Olea could still smell the dry peat of the yards, the empty silence of the stone battlements, the training quadrangles and the merchant circles. They’d run through the main training amphitheater to pack supplies, intending to trek back to Lintesh against their elder’s orders, when that Aeon-awful creak of a hundred bows drawn all at once had lanced Olea’s ears.

  Bowmen had ringed the upper ramparts of the practice yard's amphitheater. Hidden, and somehow also concealed from Olea’s hearing. Waiting for someone to make the vast mistake of coming back to Alrashesh. Someone who could tell them the location of the Kingskinder. Olea and Elohl and their companions had formed a bitter ring in the middle of the dusty training amphitheater, weapons drawn. And then, the same tall man in black foreign armor with a herringbone weave that had accosted them in the Alranstone clearing had stepped forward from the ring of archers and swordsmen.

  And when he did, Olea's world had been torn apart.

  “Olea?” The Dhenra's murmur broke into Olea's memories of that bitter morning.