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- Herausgeber: Dragonfire Press
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Dragons of Isentol
- Sprache: Englisch
Two souls, one destiny.
Their royal parents assassinated, two young siblings are separated and hidden to protect their future and the future of their kingdom. Only when their adoptive families are murdered do they discover the truth of their heritage. Now it is time to reclaim what is theirs.
But to do that, they will need an army - and magic. With many interested in their royal roots, they must decide who can be trusted ... and who is trying to kill them.
Throne of Deceit is the first book in the series Dragons of Isentol, a tale of dragons, magic, and a growing rebellion against tyranny.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 248
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Throne of Deceit
Dragons of Isentol Book 1
Richard Fierce, pdmac
Throne of Deceit © 2020 by Richard Fierce and pdmac
This is a work of fiction. All events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form without the express permission of the publisher.
Contents
The Seven Stars inn was busier than normal.
That was good for business, but it also meant that Gwen had been rushing around most of the evening, filling tankards and delivering steaming food. It was warm, uncomfortably so, and Gwen was glad the night was almost over. The air was thick with pipe smoke and boisterous laughter, a rarity these days.
Gwen spotted a man waving his arm, tankard upside down on the table. She heaved a weary sigh and hurried to the table, forcing a smile.
“More ale?” she asked.
“Yes, and keep it flowing,” the man replied.
Gwen could tell by the way he slurred his words that he probably already had too much, but she nodded and refilled his tankard. The inn would be closing soon, so not much more ale would be “flowing” anyway. Gwen’s father had been in the kitchen since opening, fulfilling the endless stream of orders and cursing when he burned himself, which was quite often.
A bard began playing a cheerful song, his fingers flying over the strings of his lute with a practiced ease. Gwen liked the melodies he played, but he was passing through and tonight would be his last performance at the inn. She did another loop of the tables, making sure the patrons were taken care of, then sat behind the bar and listened to the music.
Gwen found the bard handsome. He was young and energetic, his face clean shaven, and his brown hair trimmed short and neat. Her father would never allow her to marry someone with a profession that required constant travel, but she didn’t see any problem with admiring the man’s attractiveness. Besides that, it was common knowledge that Gwen would take over the Seven Stars once her father retired.
As the bard finished his song, a commotion outside the inn caught Gwen’s attention. She looked to the windows, but it was too dark to see anything other than vague shadows. The noise drew the attention of the inn’s customers as well, and the people quickly congregated in front of the windows. Those who couldn’t squeeze in among the others exited the doors to see things up close.
Gwen heard angry shouting and groaned. Drunken men fist fighting one another wasn’t uncommon, especially when the place was busy. She removed her apron and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall, then walked to the door and cracked it open, peering out into the night.
A single man was surrounded by a group of the king’s soldiers. Their black leather armor made them blend in with the darkness, but Gwen knew the attire. The soldiers had become a common sight around the inn, and around Dawsbury in general. Rumors of war had been circulating for years, but now there were signs of it. Aside from the presence of the king’s men, there were also whispers of dark magic and sightings of dragons.
Gwen didn’t know what to think about any of it. She lived a simple life working at the inn, and she wanted it to stay that way. The king could make war on the surrounding kingdoms if he wanted to, so long as Gwen’s way of life wasn’t impacted. Her attention jerked back to the present when one of the soldiers kicked the back of the man’s legs, knocking him to the ground. The man being harassed scowled and tried to get back up.
“Stay down, dog,” one of the soldiers said.
“Yeah,” chimed in another. “If you know what’s good for you.”
Someone bumped into Gwen from behind and she looked over her shoulder to see Tobias, the baker’s son.
“What’s going on out there?” he asked.
“Some of the soldiers have taken an interest in Garre,” Gwen replied. “Garre’s angry, but I think he’ll keep his temper under control.”
“I can’t stand those soldiers,” Tobias muttered. “They think they can come to our town and do whatever they want just because they wear the king’s emblem.”
“As long as we stay out of their way, we don’t have anything to worry about,” Gwen said. “They’re just following orders.”
Tobias snorted but didn’t say anything.
Garre was glaring daggers at the soldiers, but he stayed where he was.
“Good dog,” one of the soldiers goaded. “Now lick the dirt off my boots.”
“Screw off,” Garre spat.
The soldier who’d spoke drew his sword and leveled the tip at Garre’s throat. “What was that, dog? Did I tell you to speak?”
Silence fell over everyone in the inn. Gwen watched intently, her heart hammering in her chest with anxiety. “They can’t kill someone for no reason,” she whispered.
“That’s what you’d think, anyway,” Tobias said. “When left unchecked, that tyrant’s hired hands will do anything, including murdering innocent people.”
“Watch your words, boy,” one of the patrons said. “You’ll bring the king’s wrath down on us all.”
Gwen watched with bated breath, silently praying that Garre wouldn’t be hurt. She wasn’t friends with him, but she knew who he was, and they’d never had any issues. Even if they had, Gwen would never wish harm on anyone.
“Get to licking,” the soldier demanded, lifting his boot near Garre’s face. For a moment, Gwen thought he was going to lick the soldier’s boot. Instead, Garre grabbed onto the soldier’s leg and pulled, forcing the soldier to fall onto his back.
“Yeah!” Tobias shouted. “Give him what for!”
Gwen had a feeling something terrible was about to happen. The soldier scrambled back onto his feet and kicked Garre in the face. Garre crumbled backward awkwardly, his legs tucked under his body.
“Gods,” Gwen said, flinching and looking at Tobias.
“Someone has to do something,” Tobias said. “They’re going to kill him.”
“Don’t say that,” Gwen replied.
Tobias stared at her, jaw clenched. “No more,” he said.
Before Gwen could figure out what he meant, Tobias drew a dagger and pushed past her. He sprinted toward the soldier that had kicked Garre and leaped onto his back, driving the small blade into the soldier’s chest.
The world froze.
Gwen’s eyes widened in horror and surprise. She screamed, and the world began moving again, but now it was a blur. The other soldiers grabbed Tobias and forced him to the ground, wrenching his dagger away. The soldier he’d attempted to stab was uninjured.
“Some dogs don’t understand loyalty,” he said, then lifted his sword up threateningly. With a sudden grunt, he staggered forward as Garre pushed him from behind. Another soldier drew his sword and thrust it into Garre’s back.
Gwen stepped back from the door, shaken. Garre screamed and fell to the ground, writhing in the dirt. There was confusion among the rest of the soldiers as they glanced at each other with uncertainty. Tobias broke free of the men holding him and sprinted to the left, running down the alley beside the inn.
The apparent leader threw his arms up. “Don’t just stand there, get him!”
The others chased after Tobias and Gwen quietly shut the door and returned to the bar. The patrons slowly went back to their tables, but the mood had changed. The bard had stopped playing his music and the conversations became muted.
Gwen wrung her hands together nervously, not knowing what she could do to help Garre. Should she help him? What if he had done something to warrant the interest of the soldiers and she wasn’t privy to that knowledge? She started to head around the bar when the kitchen door flung open and Tobias ran in, followed by Boris, Gwen’s father.
“What’s going on?” Boris demanded.
“I need somewhere to hide,” Tobias replied. He looked around the inn, frantic. Gwen thought he looked like a frightened deer, ready to flee at any moment.
Boris looked around the room, noting the patrons, then grabbed onto the edge of the bar. “Help me, will you?”
Tobias grabbed the other end and, together, they heaved the stout wooden structure forward. Gwen was surprised to see a trap door hidden in the floor.
Boris opened the small door and motioned to the darkness within. “Go,” he said. “Hurry.”
Tobias didn’t question the order and hurried down into the hidden space. Boris closed the door and tried to move the bar back into place, but it was too heavy. He looked at Gwen, then changed his mind and turned to the customers.
“Someone give me a hand!”
A few people leaped to their feet to help and, within a few moments, the bar was back in place.
“Father,” Gwen said softly, following him into the kitchen. “You never told me about that door.”
“Forget that you ever saw it,” Boris replied, washing his hands off in a bucket of clean water. He went back to preparing meals as if nothing had happened.
Gwen watched her father work, wondering why his demeanor had changed so suddenly. There was something he wasn’t telling her, that much was obvious. There was shouting in the common room and Gwen rushed out of the kitchen. The soldiers had entered the inn and were harassing the customers.
“Gentlemen,” Gwen greeted loudly, offering the largest smile she could muster. “Drinks?”
“We’re looking for a criminal,” one of them said. Gwen turned her attention to him and recognized him as the leader of the group from outside.
“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone shady in here, but I’ll help if I can,” Gwen said cheerily. She was surprised her voice hadn’t cracked.
“This person is an enemy of the king. He’s dangerous and we need to remove him from the streets. He’s about my height and build, with black hair.”
Gwen put a puzzled look on her face and slowly shook her head. “I can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that in here. Would you like a drink while your men ask my customers?”
“I’d love one, but I must refuse. I’m on duty.”
“Right. Can’t have you out there staggering around on the job.” Gwen laughed. The soldier didn’t share her mirth. The kitchen door opened as Boris came out, carrying a tray full of food. The soldier jumped, obviously startled, then calmed when he saw there was no threat.
“Evening,” Boris greeted as he passed them, delivering the food to a table by the windows.
“If you see anyone matching the description, please report it to the local constabulary. They’ll get word to us.”
“I will,” Gwen replied.
The soldier turned his back to Gwen, and she noticed the uneasiness of the customers. Most were minding their own business, but a few people were staring death at the soldiers. Boris returned to the bar and the lead soldier stopped him.
“Are you the owner?”
“I am,” Boris replied, offering a grin. “It’s a humble place, but it’s served me well.”
“It’s a dump,” the soldier grunted. “I’ve also heard that it’s a den of protection for the king’s enemies.”
Boris looked pained. “I hope no one questions my devotion to the king,” he said. “I’ve been a staunch supporter all my years.”
The soldier stared at Boris intently, then nodded, seeming satisfied.
“Anything?” the soldier asked his men.
“Nothing,” someone answered.
“Let’s go, then.” The lead soldier looked from Boris to Gwen, then headed for the door. His men followed after him and they exited the inn. Gwen sighed in relief and leaned over the bar.
“That was close,” she whispered.
There was a pounding noise at the door and Gwen realized that the soldiers were securing it so that no one could leave.
“Father, what’s happening? Why did he say we’re hiding enemies here?”
Boris suddenly looked older to her. Deep lines spread across his face and there were bags under his eyes.
“There are things I haven’t told you because I wanted to keep you safe,” Boris replied.
The customers of the inn began to panic and started kicking at the door. A few others picked up chairs and broke some of the windows, but they were greeted with flaming torches that were thrown into the inn. People scattered out of the way, knocking over tables and spilling drinks. Alcohol hit the torches and flames spread across the floor.
“We’ve got to get out of here!” Gwen shouted.
Boris grabbed her hand and led her through the kitchen to the back door, but when he pushed on it, it didn’t budge.
“They’ve blocked us in,” Boris said grimly.
Shackled to the thick iron rings hammered into the granite walls in a dank prison was not the outcome Conal had in mind when he agreed to lead the latest raid on the market city. Once again he berated himself for ignoring his gut feeling.
“It’ll be easy,” Oscon had said. “A walk in the park. Get in, get out and by the time yer back here they won’t know what happened.”
“Why me?” Conal frowned at the bandit chief, a hulking lummox of a man, beetle browed with a sneer for a smile.
“’cause nobody’d expect you. Ya got that baby-face look like yer a choirboy.”
Conal’s first instinct was to ask him the real reason for this sudden elevation to lead a raid. Until then, he had been little more than a gopher or a lookout. It wasn’t until he overheard Oscon talking about moving on because they had pretty much skimmed all they could from the area towns and cities and the constabulary and soldier patrols were becoming too frequent that caused Conal to wonder why do another raid? When he heard Oscon talk about thinning his herd, he knew something wasn’t right.
But vanity overruled his misgivings, and when Oscon poked a thick finger at him and said, “Yer gonna lead this one,” Conal had squashed his reservations and stepped forward. His uneasiness was somewhat allayed when Oscon selected a few of the best men and women to go along.
The setup played out to perfection.
Once in the town, Conal had been recognized and immediately surrounded by four guards and four swords pointed much too closely at various parts of his body. When looked for help, there was none. The six men and women who had so assiduously listened to his plan and followed him into town had melted away like morning dew. Had Conal paid more attention to his followers, he might have noticed them disappearing one by one that by the time he was in the market center by the tax boxes, he was quite alone.
The ultimate insult was when he swore the voice calling out, “I know him. He’s a bandit,” belonged to his second in command, Jestyn.
And now here he sat amidst the overlapping stench of unwashed bodies and the layered decay of the dead, wondering why Oscon had decided he was no longer useful, and vowing that he would hunt him down if it was the last thing he ever did, which by the look of things might be a tad difficult.
His broodings were interrupted when he heard the far cell door grind open and a nobly dressed man, flanked by several guards eased his way through the cell, holding a handkerchief at his nose and mouth. Conal watched as the man occasionally stopped and pointed whereupon two guards would grab the prisoner, unshackle him or her before handcuffing them and leading them away.
When the man stopped in front of him, Conal flashed a loopy smile and received a pointed finger in return whereupon he was yanked up, unshackled and handcuffed, and led through the squalid mass of bodies, out through the door and recesses of the prison keep to finally emerge into the mid-morning fresh air.
Conal inhaled a deep satisfying breath then glanced to his left and right at the other prisoners lined up on both sides of him. There were ten of them, six women and four men, all young and healthy, all handcuffed.
The sergeant of the guard stood imperiously before them. He was a toad of a man, all body and skinny legs wrapped in an ill-fitting uniform of the town’s constabulary: crimson jacket with gold buttons, straight tan cotton trousers tucked into calf-high boots, and a leather helmet capped with a bristle that looked like someone had lost a shoe brush.
Behind him the noble man stood, aloof bordering on ennui, the handkerchief still at his mouth. He wore a long-sleeved white silk shirt, covered by a white cream-colored vest of the finest calfskin. His ebony trousers were handcrafted from rabbit skin, and his boots a work of art in reptile skin. He eschewed a hat, and his full-bodied blond hair fell about his shoulders, framing a handsome face with square jaw and dark brown eyes. Conal guessed him to be closing in on 40.
“In accordance with Kingdom Statute 43 dash 12,” the sergeant bellowed, reading from an unfurled parchment, “and with the honest and whole-hearted concurrence of the Burgomaster of Hemlyn, you have been redeemed by Lord Pharyl. Your death sentences have been commuted to a life of servitude until such time that you die or are provided your freedom according to the wishes of Lord Pharyl, Prince of the realm of Vandyr. You are henceforth to be branded so that all may know the depths to which you have fallen. Should you choose to escape, know that you are subject to the laws of exile and retribution. Anyone finding an escaped slave may kill him or her.”
Pharyl. Conal knew the name. The man ruled this part of the kingdom with an iron fist inside a velvet glove. He could be as cruel as he was generous. Conal felt a flash of relief, knowing he would stay alive if he played his cards right. Those poor fettered souls left behind in the prison were as good as dead.
Rolling up the parchment, the sergeant nodded to the guards who force-marched the newly anointed slaves to the center of town so that the entire populace could witness their debasement. Men, women, and curious children stood in a thick circle around the branding pit, the heat from the fire keeping them back while providing enough space for the guards to hold the victim down for the Branding Master who instructed the poor soul to stay as still as possible. Moving while being branded caused a bad brand, requiring a second one. The normal location of a slave brand, concentric circles the size of a large coin, was on the cheek.
Despite the rising fear of having his face forever marred, Conal noticed there were four irons in the fire. He knew the reason. Some slaves had a different brand placed on the outside of the right shoulder – the death’s head, a skull with horns. These slaves were bound to protect the master with their lives. Two other branding irons consisted of a viper and a rose.
The viper brand was placed on the upper left arm. Vipers were the master’s enforcers, assassins, and muscle. They lived well and it was considered an honor to be a viper, for vipers could marry and the children of the marriage were considered freeborn.
The rose brand was placed on the right thigh. A rose slave was a pleasure slave. Conal prayed to whatever god or gods were out there that he would not be a rose slave, for he knew what happened to rose slaves. Sure, there were the few who had pleased their masters and allowed to live a life of privilege in the harem. But the majority of rose slaves, those whose beauty had faded, were sent to the farms to spend the rest of their lives in back-breaking labor.
The fourth iron? Conal frowned in puzzlement for only a moment until his attention was diverted by Lord Pharyl who causally strolled down the line to stand in front of the first person, an attractive blond woman about Conal’s age.
Staring at the woman for only a moment, Pharyl dipped a finger at her. “Rose.”
As the woman was dragged off to be branded, Pharyl side-stepped to the next slave, a tall strong teenager. “Death’s Head.”
Conal was seventh in line and his prayers increased in urgency and pleading as Pharyl continued down the line, announcing, “Rose.” “Death’s Head.” “Rose.” “Rose.”
Pharyl stopped to appraise Conal as though he were judging a good horse. Folding his arms, he scrutinized the young man, impressed that the slave didn’t avert his eyes or appear to grovel. Instead, the young man stood firm, appearing to be unafraid.
“Either you’re a sheep who has no clue of what’s going to happen, or you’ve resigned yourself to fate. Which is it?”
“Fate, m’Lord.”
“You answer with a strong voice,” Pharyl said with a slow nod, noting the young man didn’t call him master as was required. “Men like you tend to be wild, like a stallion that needs to be broken. They’re too high-spirited. Are you high-spirited?”
Conal smiled at him. “It all depends upon the rider, m’Lord. A skilled rider knows his mount, knows how to direct and coax with just the right words. A gifted rider and mount are a team to be envied.”
A smile flitted across Pharyl’s lips. “You talk as one educated. Are you educated?”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
“Where was the failure then that you end up like this?” Pharyl looked down his nose at him.
Conal shrugged. “Bad crowd, bad choices. Not everyone who calls you friend is one.”
“Well spoken,” Pharyl acknowledged. “You’re too pretty to have your cheek branded, and you’re not big or strong enough to be a Death’s Head.”
Conal’s hopes took a nosedive, especially with the “too pretty” comment. What was it with these people and his looks? There were plenty of men who were better looking. Why couldn’t people see that he was smart, that he had a brain? Steeling himself for the inevitable and already dreaming of a way to escape, he was startled when Pharyl gently pushed a finger into his chest.
“Viper.”
Without thinking, Conal did a fist pump and exclaimed, “Yes,” causing Pharyl to smirk and flash a bemused glance at this curious fellow. He started to sidestep to the next one in line when he stopped and turned back to Conal.
“What is your name?”
“Conal, m’Lord.”
Pharyl nodded and continued, the next three all designated a “rose.” With the choices decided, Lord Pharyl stepped away to watch the branding, noting the demeanor of each slave. Amidst all the shifting and squirming and fear, only Conal seemed unaffected. In fact, the man seemed more than ready to get branded.
After the woman before Conal had the rose mark burned into her skin and went sniveling to the medicine tent, Conal marched up, sat down and pulled off his shirt, revealing a wiry and strong body, which elicited some whistles and catcalls, causing him to scowl. Bracing himself for the pain, he clenched his jaw, determined not to show weakness.
“Hold,” Lord Pharyl commanded as the Brand Master withdrew the glowing red-hot Viper iron. He pointed to another iron next to it. “Use that one.”
Suddenly fearing Lord Pharyl had changed his mind, Conal struggled to determine which iron held the rose brand. His anxiety elevated as his gaze narrowed on the Brand Master carefully retrieving the branding iron then approached him. The head was small like a rose, yet the design was wrong, and he frowned, twisting his head to glance up to Lord Pharyl.
“The cobra,” Lord Pharyl calmly answered. “Do not disappoint me.” He turned and walked away, the guard sergeant hustling up next to him, obsequiously nodding and agreeing with the lord’s softly spoken conversation.
The Cobra.
Conal’s fear morphed to confident elation as he watched the not-so-subtle change in the crowd. Some were immediately intimidated, others unsure, and still others scoffed that so inexperienced a man should be chosen as a Cobra. Yet they knew the reputation. The Cobra was a leader among assassins, the silent unseen killers. Still, a sense of relief spread through the crowd for they knew this man would be taken away from here, for he was known.
Conal flinched then strained to remain immobile as the hot iron burned his flesh, the smell of burnt skin and the pain on his arm causing tears to well up in his eyes. Yet he sat rooted like a statue, grimly enduring the suffering.
Finally, the Brand Master pulled the iron away and surveyed his work. “Looks good. A good image.” He dipped his head in admiration. “You sat very still. Go to the tent for them to bandage your arm.”
Conal was halfway to the tent when he heard the screech of the next victim, a woman given a rose brand. Inside the tent, three healers applied salve and bandages to the branded areas. All too soon, the ten slaves were again in line, no handcuffs this time. The crowds had drifted away, and few remained to witness their departure.
Lord Pharyl sat astride a magnificent, dappled stallion at least 17 hands high. He waited as the slaves were loaded into carts, leaning forward when Conal made ready to grab the wagon rail and climb aboard.
“You, young Conal.”
Conal lowered his leg and turned to face his new master. “Yes, m’Lord.”
“Do you ride?”
“Yes, m’ Lord.”
Pharyl nodded and flicked two fingers at his travel steward, a tall lean man with close cropped hair and beard. A few moments later, a servant led a sorrel mount almost as tall as Lord Pharyl’s steed to stand next to the Lord and Master.
Pharyl narrowed his focus on Conal. “You will ride with me.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
With practiced ease, Conal swung up into the saddle, took hold of the reigns and slipped his feet into the stirrups.
“We are ready, m’Lord,” the steward announced.
“Then let’s get started. I want to be in Denhelm by dinner time.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
The steward bustled up to the first wagon and climbed aboard, ticking his head at the driver who flicked the reins causing the wagon to lurch forward. Soon, four wagons containing nine slaves and supplies surrounded by a dozen men at arms, their Lord and Master and the newest Cobra plodded out of the city. Conal rode next to Pharyl who remained silent until they were out of the earshot of the city walls.
“It’s a three-day ride to my castle,” Pharyl spoke. “We have plenty of time to get acquainted. You will tell me everything there is to know about you, and I will tell you what I expect of you.”
“Yes, m’Lord.”
“You may perhaps wonder why I chose you to be a Cobra when you have so little experience.”
“The thought did occur to me, m’Lord.”
“I have an eye for talent, and I believe you have the gifts I require. Do not worry, you will be trained as required for a Cobra. You perform well for me, and I will consider giving you your freedom.”
Conal reverently tipped his head. “It will be an honor to serve you, m’Lord.”
“Yes, I know,” he replied with an indifferent nod. They loped along in silence for a bit. “Tell me, young Conal, what is the first thing you wish to do as a Cobra?”
Conal didn’t have to think about the answer. “Find a certain outlaw… and make him rue the day he was born.”
Pharyl chuckled. “All in good time, my young friend, all in good time.”
Gwen digested Boris’s words and realized that they were likely going to die.
“What about the trap door? Where does it lead?”
Boris grabbed a long knife from a stack of cutlery and led Gwen back into the common room. The customers had put the fires out, but the soldiers were still outside. He surveyed the damage and shook his head.
“There’s a few things you should know, but now is not the time. If we get out of this alive, I promise I’ll tell you everything. For now, know that the trap door is one of a few entrances into an underground tunnel that leads to the cemetery.”
“That’s outside the city,” Gwen said.
“Exactly,” Boris replied. “It’s an escape route.”
“An escape from what?”
Boris looked at the soldiers waiting outside, and Gwen followed his gaze.
“Why would we need to flee the king’s soldiers? They’re supposed to protect us. None of this makes any sense.”
“Gents, someone help me. The rest of you, block the windows so those brutes can’t see what we’re doing.”
