The Death of Kings

Fields of Battle, Part 1

The Death of Kings

A novel of the Count of Trall

Marcus Pailing

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Marcus Pailing

Further books in the Fields of Battle trilogy by Marcus Pailing:

Book 2: The Demon’s Consort

Book 3: Fields of Battle

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. 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 Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Death Of Kings

Chapter One

In this year Raegin, the king of Luourn, died on the day of the autumnal equinox and was succeeded by his cousin, Rothgar.

Luourn, The Longspar Annals

Through the otherwise deserted streets of Truina, a slight sweat mingling with the grime of a day's labour, a man was running, swiftly and with apparent ease. No youth, he was not yet past his prime either, so this vigorous exercise was not a problem for him. He did not run for pleasure, for hard behind him followed two more, dressed in the mail and surcoats of the city guard, with drawn swords in their hands and grimaces of painful exertion on their youthful, indeed too youthful faces. While their quarry was a practised runner, and clearly fit, these boys were in poor condition and their breath laboured in chesty gasps. They were unshaven, the soft down of youth covering their chins and upper lips; their hair was greasy and unkempt, not at all in keeping with the standards demanded by their captain. They seemed unused to armour, too, for they loped along awkwardly, weighed down by their coats of mail. It was no wonder, then, that their prey drew gradually further from them, so that when he turned into the labyrinth of squalid streets and alleys near the city's west wall, they were a long way behind.

The young, poorly turned-out guardsmen ran for a while through the winding maze of streets, casting about with their eyes as they ran. Finally they halted, wheezing for breath, at the mouth of a narrow, dark alleyway, which ended at a high stone wall.

He must be down here, gasped one of the youths. Let us flush him out quickly.

They stumbled along the alley at a more leisurely pace, sure of success, and were soon enveloped by the dark shadows. There was a scuffle of movement at the far end, by the wall. One of the boy-soldiers gave a short, nervous laugh, sounding supremely unconfident for all his efforts. When they reached the wall, however, the grins vanished from their faces - their quarry, whom they had pursued diligently for half an hour, had vanished, disappeared completely into the stale, rancid air of the city's poorest quarter.

Where could he have gone? demanded the first lad, he of the nervous laugh.

How in Luour's name should I know? snapped the other, calling upon the eponymous deity of the kingdom.

Disappointed, disorientated, the two vainly searched the alley, jabbing their blades into the darkest corners and recesses. However, apart from a skewered rat and a sudden release of foul gas from a disturbed cess-heap, they found nothing.

This is useless, the first lad said, the younger of the two. I reckon he’s a witch.

Don't be stupid. He probably never came down here. He slipped off somewhere else.

He definitely came down here. I say he's a witch, or a sorcerer.

There's been no witchcraft in Luourn for hundreds of years, not since the Red Sorcerers. Everyone knows that. Anyway, he can’t have disappeared as completely as that, not for all the witchcraft in the world.

So, you reckon he slipped past us in the dark? suggested the more credulous youth. His companion's snort of derision was ample enough reply. So, the lad said triumphantly, he magicked himself away, didn't he!

Still arguing, the two young guardsmen sheathed their swords and made their way back to the main road which led all the way up to the castle mound and to the guard barracks beyond it, nestled beside the northern wall of the great city. Scattered about the muddy pavings were baskets, sacks and other discarded objects which told of a hurried evacuation of the area. There were also one or two bodies lying in the road, already beginning to swell and smell – victims of the recent uproar in the city, a curfew imposed on the townsfolk by the returning army.

The elder of the two youths heaved one of the corpses over with his boot. It was the body of a middle aged woman, cut down mercilessly where she had by accident impeded the advance of a more ruthless soldier, one of the prince’s mercenaries, no doubt. He spat viciously into the road, where the pavings were stained with the woman's lifeblood.

What is this all about, anyway? No sooner do we join up than the king dies of a flux, suddenly, and we have to keep order in the city until the new king is crowned. And we haven't seen any of the handsome pay we were promised, either.

We don't even need to keep order, the other responded sullenly. Everyone was in mourning for King Raegin.

I can't say I like it, nor do I understand it. But until we are permitted to go home we don't have to understand it, just follow bloody orders. Our lord the prince is to be king, did you know that? He is Raegin's cousin and since Raegin's brother died last year in Gourod, Rothgar is to be king. Now, if he is to rule Luourn I'm not disobeying any orders, not for all the silver in the world. Come on, we had better go. We both need to wash, or the captain will cut off our balls. Did you hear what happened to Varien yesterday?

The two guardsmen shuddered at the thought (wisely) and began to trudge wearily along the street towards the castle, which stood etched on the slowly darkening skyline high above the silent, seemingly empty city.

For a full ten minutes after their departure the fugitive remained quiet and motionless, lying on the flat roof that overlooked the alleyway. Only then did he breathe easily. He had indeed turned off into a different lane, climbing up to the roof of the building by way of a rope that he had left dangling there two days ago, in anticipation of a moment of need such as this. He had drawn it up after him and moved along to watch his hapless pursuers, smiling to himself as he heard their talk of witchcraft and sorcery. It was always useful for one’s enemies to bring to mind their normally sub-conscious fears.

He now crouched on this roof top, sixteen feet from the ground; but he was not concerned, for he was exactly where he wished to be. The houses of Truina, particularly in this poor quarter of the city, had only very gently sloping roofs, and with the roads and lanes so narrow it was easy to travel great distances without ever touching the ground. It was also much safer, for people were used to keeping their eyes cast down and never thought of looking up.

Keeping low, to be less conspicuous against the skyline, he set off at a loping run, leaping nimbly across the gaps between the buildings. He maintained an easy balance, for he knew this path well and had travelled it a few times before now. He only halted when he reached a wider gap than any before, where Copper Street cut through the maze of dark lanes. It was not a major obstacle, for the houses were crammed together to economise on space and to hold the ever growing population within the protective boundary of the city walls. Upper storeys protruded so that they almost touched their neighbours across the street, ensuring that the roads themselves were kept in virtual darkness even during daylight hours. So even here he had to cross no more than seven or eight feet of empty space. With a short run and a well-practised leap, he landed comfortably on the flat roof on the far side, dropping to a roll to break his fall. He lay there for some minutes to collect his breath, before continuing on his way.

This man was a little above average height, tall therefore for one of his lowly class; and he was slim to the point of thinness, which gave him an even loftier appearance. His hair was fiery red, an uncommon colour in Luourn, where folk were as a rule darker. He sported no beard and his age was not easy to tell, though his body had the tautness of a man approaching or within his prime. Across his brow ran a long white scar, made by a sword or a knife some years ago, which showed up against his naturally ruddy complexion. His clothes were plain, typically those of the class of folk who worked hard for little thanks or gain - a rough woollen tunic and leggings, shabbily patched, and a pair of decrepit shoes whose soles were worn with age. His tunic was pinched at the waist by a plain leather belt from which hung a short knife and his pouch. His hands were callused, and a perceptive observer would guess that he was a fletcher, a craft that yielded steady work at least, if not a large income. At least he had a craft, rather than having to slave away in the fields to scratch a living.

After his short rest, the fletcher got to his feet and started off again across the rooftops. It was not far to go now and in a few short minutes he reached his goal, overlooking Copper Lane. Set into a gently sloping roof was a small trapdoor, which he pulled open and laid back on its hinges; then he dropped through to land in a heap of dirty straw in the small room below. The chamber was lit only by the last beams of fading sunlight that found their way in through the hole he had opened up; and in this weak shaft of light particles of dust and chaff eddied in the disturbed air. A pervading odour of stale urine and sweat filled the room and he wrinkled his nose, too used to the fresh air of outdoors. In one wall of the room was a small door and he opened this with a key that he fished out from the pouch at his belt. Locking the door again behind him, he stuffed the key away for safe keeping.

He now stood in a short corridor, at the end of which was a flight of wooden stairs. When he reached the bottom of these he found himself in the common room of an ale shop, of the sort where men went during the day if they had no work and at night as a matter of course, to waste the little money they had on drink. It was not the kind of tavern where artisans and men of substance came, that much was evident. A bar ran along one wall, protecting the entrance to the tap room where the drink was stored and served. Although it was the end of the day only a half dozen people were here, wastrels with no place to go; and each man sat alone, moodily staring at the dregs in his cup. The taverner stood behind the bar, gloomily surveying his sorry business. He grinned mirthlessly when the fletcher appeared.

Good day, Hroar.

Hroar the fletcher shook his hand in greeting. I would ask how business goes, but I see the answer around me.

The taverner nodded. This bloody curfew. As if the death of the king is not bad enough. All the taverns are empty save for the few poor wretches like these, who have no other place to go. Have some ale, Hroar. What brings you to this part of town, anyway?

I have to meet Taerl. He knows more than I do and even then I'm sure he only knows half the story. Come and sit with me for a bit, and I will tell you what I know.

The taverner fetched a jug and two mugs and they moved over to a shadowed corner, well away from the other drinkers. Sitting at the table they poured the drinks and Hroar began his tale in a low voice.

As you know – as all of Luourn must know by now – King Raegin is dead, struck down by disease on the day of the equinox festivities. Everyone saw it happen and can swear that no assassin struck at him. Because Prince Rarden is already dead – Luour keep his soul – only his cousin, Prince Rothgar, stood in line for the throne. Rothgar returned to Truina yesterday, very conveniently, and took control rather ruthlessly, as you can tell by the dead in the streets. The word is that Rothgar recruited many country folk into his army, who swore to serve him. He also bought the fealty of the barons of the north, who swelled his ranks with their cut-throats. Others of the powerful lords are behind him, too.

I had heard that, too. Why should Rothgar need to do all this, if he is the only heir?

Hroar shrugged. Perhaps he had a hand in Raegin's death and needs to show the more scrupulous lords that he will brook no argument. Apparently, some of the lords in the south are less than happy and are threatening to cause trouble for him, although how they already know what happened I cannot guess. With these new supporters Rothgar can counter anything they do.

So, why are you abroad on business? And why use the roof entrance?

Taerl said to meet him here, that is why I have come. I don’t know what he wants. As for my entrance – well, I ran into a couple of the prince's new recruits in the streets. They were raw and untrained, but eager to do their job well. I could have outstripped them easily, but I decided to give them a bit of a scare. It is always good to make the country folk a little afraid of the city.

The taverner smiled, knowing that Hroar was originally a country man himself, that he had been mortally afraid the first time he set foot within Truina's walls.

After talking for a few minutes more, the taverner left to attend to his other guests, such as they were. Hroar sat alone in the shadows, nursing his cup. In the darkened room, only a man peering very closely would even have noticed he was there.

Hroar was forced to wait for nearly a full hour before Taerl arrived, swiftly and silently, closing the door hurriedly behind him after a furtive glance around the empty street outside. He was a little shorter than the fletcher, but of the same build - lean and wiry. His clothes were much better quality, but he kept them hidden under a long grey cloak. Taerl took a cup from the taverner and came straight to the table where Hroar sat, taking the seat recently vacated by the innkeeper. He took a sip of the watery ale, wiped the froth away with the back of his hand and reached across to take the fletcher's hand.

Good to see you, Hroar. Thanks for coming. The newcomer spoke softly but with some urgency.

Good to see you, Taerl. I see you ran into trouble as well.

Taerl fingered a small cut on his cheek and grinned. A young lad of poor quality, a recent hireling who knew no better. He will wake up in a cess-heap on the other side of the city, with a sore head.

You are the lord Draerl's man. Does that not mean anything?

Taerl shook his head. Not for a while, it seems. None of the high and mighty are abroad at the moment, nor are their couriers free to come and go. I took a great risk, slipping out of the castle, but mercifully the place is guarded by the men brought down with the robber barons. They are savage fighters, true, but they are more concerned with women and wine than with keeping a good watch on the prince’s person.

So, what is the news?

We are sure that Rothgar had a hand in the king's death, although we have no proof. My master is convinced that he also had Rarden murdered, in Gourod, either with or without the complicity of Gourod's king, so that the steps to the throne would be uncluttered on Raegin's demise. Many of the more powerful nobles are now in the castle, virtual prisoners as Rothgar takes oaths of homage and fealty from them. He is to be crowned after Raegin's funeral, whenever that may be. So far, all have pledged support – they are not fools. Only the earls of the south have not arrived, but they have a long way to come. I do not doubt that they will do the wise thing. My lord wants them to rise in rebellion, but I do not think they are strong enough now.

Lord Draerl has agreed to support Rothgar?

What else can he do? He cannot escape Rothgar's clutches, so he must agree or find himself imprisoned – or dead. He will do Luourn no good as a dead man, and he knows it. He was a good friend to the king, but the king is dead.

Hroar nodded. He was not of the noble class and he had never even seen the inside of a castle. Moreover, he knew Rothgar only by reputation, so he was slow to realise the real situation, let alone the implications of the events of the last couple of days. So, what must I do? he asked, preferring to return to matters in which his involvement might be meaningful.

Taerl poured some more ale and leaned over the table. We need you to steal someone out of the city, tomorrow night. Get him to Mainport and onto a ship away from Luourn.

Who?

There are many people who must now leave Truina if they wish to live, Hroar. These men will never bow to Rothgar, if indeed Rothgar will even bother to ask it of them. You are to fetch a horse from Draerl's manor, north of the city – you know where it is – and hide it in Ashwood before midnight tomorrow. Stay there to guard it. Have a travelling pack prepared by my master's steward. Here is a letter for him, detailing what you will need.

I will do it, it is not such a hard task. What do I earn from this piece of work?

Taerl smiled. Hroar was a good and trustworthy man, but no-one undertook tasks like this for nothing. Twenty shillings in silver. Hroar's eyes widened, then widened still further when Taerl put the coins on the table.

This must be an important man we are to rescue.

Now, Taerl continued, ignoring the fletcher’s comment. Remain in Ashwood until dawn. If we have not come by then, return everything to the house and forget all about it. If we do not make it by dawn, we shall have failed.

Hroar nodded and Taerl stood up. With a nod to the taverner he left the inn, his second mug of ale unfinished. He opened the door and peered out, displaying the same caution he had showed on his entrance. Hroar remained at the table a while longer, then went back upstairs, to make his exit via the roof door. He was not about to try the open streets quite yet.

The city of Truina was divided into three parts, unequal in size, through the middle of which ran the broad main road that led from the main city gates to the castle mound. The south western sector of the city was the most densely populated, the disordered maze of streets and lanes that accommodated the common populace: the artisans, traders, thieves, murderers, whores and panderers who made up the bulk of the citizenry. A sprawling, noisy, smelly area normally, it inevitably spilled over the main road into the area in the south east, held at bay only by the fact that there was no room to build any more. In the rest of this eastern sector were the houses of the rich, and the churches, nearly a third of the city owned and inhabited by a small number of men and their households. The largest houses here belonged to the merchants, for noblemen stayed for the most part in the castle when they came to the city. The church of Luour was in the northern part of this quarter, surrounded by its walled garden. Around it were clustered the smaller churches, dedicated to the other deities of Gilderaen, where the priests did little more than provide a service for the few devout foreigners who came to Truina. So the church of Husan stood next to that of Hogra, and Ghyllia next to that of Cugalla, a happy community of prayer and worship.

The churches bordered onto the east side of the market square, a huge open area where all civil business was conducted daily. The main road, known to everyone as King's Road, fed onto this square, which stood at the foot of the castle mound, the third and most northerly section of the city. It was this mound, and the edifice that crowned it, that held a visitor's gaze from the approach and entry to the city. The mound itself rose to a level of fifty feet above the rest of the city, but the high walls of the castle keep rose a further sixty feet, making it stand out above all else. It was an imposing structure with ten soaring towers, and it covered a large area of the mound, right down to the city walls behind it. This was the seat of the royal house of Ishguarl. Whether the king was loved or hated by the people it was his impregnable seat and the people looked to it for support and government.

The castle was crowded, as always, but more so today than was usual and for most of the denizens there was to be no immediate exit. The gates were closed to all save Rothgar's mercenary captains – and that included the cooks and the grooms, cellerers and clerks, even the toothless old woman who sat by the hearth all day, doing nothing but poking the flames with her stick. All the merchants had come to Truina for the festival of the equinox, and once they were there they had been forced to remain, with their families but without their freedom. After all, the one thing that Rothgar needed right now was money, and these were the men who could provide it. So far, the lords and rich men of Luourn had been segregated from the mercenaries, but already the robber barons were casting greedy eyes over the jewels and fine clothes that were very much in evidence, and over the wives and daughters who were no less on show. There was no danger to them yet, but Rothgar would undoubtedly have to do something to prevent the lascivious glances of his lackeys from becoming more.

How long they were to be there, none could say. They had certainly lost none of their liberty within the confines of the castle, but it was painfully clear that, until Rothgar's position was secure, they would not be permitted to leave. So all the rooms in the castle were occupied to capacity, some of them by two or more men or women, making the best of the cramped quarters and taking care not to complain too much.

High up in one of the lofty towers, far above the noisy bustle of the hall where the castle's inhabitants milled about aimlessly, as they had done now for two days, the king's counsellor Draerl, lord of Baradan, sat at his desk, shuffling through a pile of parchments, irritation and boredom evident on his features. Normally he would have had one or two clerks to help him in his work, but these had been taken from him and his reading and writing were none too fast and accurate. Cursing hotly and often, his quill scratched on parchment as he laboured over the documents he was drawing up, grants and covenants for those who had ridden into Truina at Rothgar's back.

Draerl was a tall, dignified man in his fifties, with silky grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard, a hooked nose and sharp, narrow eyes. His clothes were rich and colourful; indeed, many at court considered him effete, although none would have risked offending him by voicing his thoughts, for he was a dangerous swordsman and few men in those days suffered insults lightly. He had shared a birthday with Anardl, Raegin's father, and the two had grown up together close, even though Anardl had been his elder by eight years. His commitment to the throne was lifelong, as a result, and he had supported Anardl through his often turbulent reign; and upon the king's death at the age of sixty he had continued to provide invaluable support to Raegin, who had ascended the throne at the tender age of twenty-one. For a long time Draerl had been wary of Rothgar, mistrusting his ambitions, and finally his worst fears had come to pass in what he suspected to be a treacherous manner. But Draerl had not spoken out as Rothgar seized the reins of power and he had even pledged his support to the new regime, albeit reluctantly. Why, only he and Taerl knew, for he saw it to be in Luourn's best interests if he retained his life and liberty, and his position at court if he could. It galled him to think of kneeling to Rothgar at his eventual coronation, but he considered it to be his duty. It was certainly not purely out of a natural desire for self-preservation – Draerl was too old to deem that to be of paramount importance.

Draerl's suite of rooms was spacious, one entire half of the tower divided into two rooms with an adjoining privy – a clear indication of the man's status, even though he could not be considered one of the king’s most powerful barons. A log fire blazed against one wall of the study, casting a flickering light over the chamber. Above the fireplace hung a large tapestry which covered virtually the entire wall, depicting the court of an early king of Luourn. Draerl himself sat at an oaken table with a finely polished top, around which were ranged six chairs, also of oak and with leather seats, studded with brass. Poking up from amidst the mountain of parchments were two silver candlesticks and by the poor light of these he strained his eyes as he attempted to work.

Draerl looked up from his work with a scowl as he heard the tramp of booted feet in the corridor outside. People only came along here if they were on their way to Draerl's rooms. Sure enough, a moment later the door opened and two men entered, neither one bothering to knock or otherwise seek permission. The first into the room was a squat, thickset warrior, his huge shoulders and arms evidence of tireless strength. His short-cropped hair was tight against his scalp, flattened by the constant weight of a helmet; and the rich clothes that he wore were ill-fitting and obviously less than comfortable on him. His companion was taller but equally bullish and his features were twisted by a long scar that scored down his cheek and through his lips, giving his features a permanent grimace. Both of these ruffians were members of the mercenary force that Rothgar had brought to Truina, robber barons and their retainers from the wild north of Luourn, where the civilised lands merged with the barbarous tundra that lay beyond. They were manormen, lords of the kingdom, but in truth they were no more than bandits who preyed upon honest folk for pleasure and riches before retreating to their fortresses in the hills whenever the armed forces of the kingdom came after them. Rothgar had been their enemy for years, yet now he had come to an arrangement with them, bringing them south with inducements to consolidate his position. It was a move unlikely to endear him to the people and the more honourable lords of the kingdom, but there was little doubt that, with their strength behind him, few were in a position to argue the toss.

Has no-one ever taught you manners? Draerl asked caustically. You will have to make some changes now that you are in civilised lands.

The scarred man laughed and flung himself into a chair. You should do the learning, my friend. We are close to the king.

Only because he pays you well. It will never make you gentlemen. Leave those alone! Draerl snapped at the squat man who was busy shifting through the parchments. The man could not read, of course, but his fiddling annoyed the meticulous courtier.

What do you want, anyway? he asked, more sullen now, as the meddler ignored his commands.

Scarface shrugged. We were bored, so we came to find out if the grants to our new lands are ready yet.

If my clerks were returned to me, I might finish more quickly. No, they are not, and I hope I never manage to complete them.

Don't you like us, Draerl? laughed Scarface.

Tell you what, the squat one said to his companion, suddenly forgetting the papers through which he was idly leafing. "Did you see that merchant's girl, Rhianne? What a beauty! She's ripe for a tumble, I'll bet. I'm going to have her, sometime."

Scarface leered. You'll have to share her. I'd say most of the lads will want their turn, too. No doubt Angnaer will want her too, then we won’t get a look-in. They laughed lewdly, and made more comments that brought a flush to Draerl's face.

You scum! he exploded. I will not suffer this. Get out of my rooms, if you value your worthless lives. He leaped to his feet, seething with rage. They looked at him, astonished. Much as they had wanted to provoke him, they had not expected such a reaction.

Kiss my arse, grinned Scarface. But the smile vanished from his face when he saw the long, slim rapier that appeared, as if from nowhere, in the lord's hand. Neither of the bandits was armed and Draerl looked as though he could use his blade. Had they known him better, they would have had no doubt that he could. Swearing, they sidled towards the door, their gazes fixed warily on the shining steel in Draerl's firm grip.

The king shall hear of this, blustered Scarface, disturbed when his threat provoked only a sardonic smile.

Undoubtedly. He shall hear it from me. If you wish to remain in Truina and with your lives, you had better learn how things work around here. This is a friendly warning, but if either of you comes into my rooms again I shall slice off your worthless manhoods and feed them to the dogs in the stables. Now, get out!

They all but ran from the room and Draerl tossed the rapier to land with a clatter onto the table, ignoring the papers that went flying to the floor. He sank back in his chair and dropped his head into his hands. He looked up only when Taerl emerged from the bedroom, where he had been keeping himself scarce.

You will have to watch yourself with them, my lord, Taerl commented, only slightly reproachful. Draerl was, after all, his master.

They will do nothing. They are scum, that is all. Rothgar may be a hard man but he will not do anything foolish, even if they do go bleating to him. He relies on them for his power for the moment, but he knows where the real power of the kingdom lies. He looked sharply at Taerl. Did you speak with your man, the fletcher?

Yes, my lord. He took the letter and will have the horse in Ashwood by midnight. He is trustworthy, as always.

What about an exit from the city?

That is taken care of. All you have to do is to meet me at the end of the bolt hole, and I shall do the rest.

Draerl nodded and stood up, drawing a tired hand across his eyes. I will go down an hour after midnight. Everyone will be asleep by then.

I will be gone well before then. I have some men to gather before we meet.

Go carefully, Taerl, Draerl said.

Taerl grinned as he opened the door. Do not worry, my lord. Poets do not sing about cautious men and I have no wish to be remembered ... or dead.

It was past midnight and a strange calm lay over the city of Truina. One would normally have expected there to be some noise as the night life of the town continued, for the hours of darkness were the property of the thieves and murderers, the whores and the drinkers who emerged at twilight like moles from the earth. But tonight, with the new king's curfew still in force, no such activity went on: no-one was abroad, so the brothels received no clients and therefore the cutpurses and throat slitters had no prey. Even the soldiers were confined to their barracks, save for those who policed the streets to enforce Rothgar's orders and those who patrolled the city walls, keeping a weary watch in the dead of night. In the castle everyone slept, from the king himself to the lowest scullion, the mercenaries bloated with drink, the lords and their families glad to surrender to the oblivion of sleep, banishing the troubles of the kingdom from their minds.

In the middle of the still, death-like silence of the usually bustling keep a slim, tall figure crept down the staircase of one of the towers, hugging the rounded walls of the spiralling stairwell. He was clothed entirely in black, his soft leather boots making no sound as he tiptoed down the heavy stone steps. He carried a rapier in his left hand, still sheathed, his right hand never far from the hilt. A silken mask covered his head, with holes cut for his eyes; beneath this he was sweating hard, although it was cold in the draughty tower. He moved along as silently as a cat, a mere shadow slipping through the darkness of the unlit stairway.

At the foot of the stairs he stepped out into a long corridor, dimly lit by the flickering torches that hung in cressets along its length. He waited for a while, for he was near to the doors of the great hall, where many of Rothgar's mercenaries were sleeping. It was a great temptation to go in there, to slit their throats as they lay unconscious; but it was risky and, besides, he had a greater purpose tonight. Assuring himself that the way was clear, he ran lightly down the passage towards the doorway at the far end. Here was another stair that spiralled downwards, into the earth of the castle mound, beneath the keep. There were no lights on the stair, but he did not take a torch, for he did not wish his arrival to be heralded in the rooms below.

Down there were the dungeons, and it was one of the prisoners incarcerated within that drew the black shrouded man to creep around the castle in the middle of the night, sword in his hand. He paused once more, just before turning the last corner into the guardroom of the dungeon area and he cocked his head, listening for noise. There was no sound except for the heavy breathing of a man asleep, and the night stalker peered around the corner, holding his breath and tense.

The guard room was large, lit by two braziers against the walls and furnished with nothing but a solid wooden table along with two stools, placed in the centre of the floor. A man sat at the table, facing the stairs, but he was fast asleep, his head cradled in his arms on the board before him. The gaoler wore a leather jerkin and a felt cap, which had slipped from his greasy head to wilt on the table. His breathing was slow and heavy, a faint line of dribble extending from his slack mouth.

There was a slight rasp as the rapier slid from its sheath and the night stalker stepped stealthily into the cold chamber, his senses alert for any sound that might betray another guard. He crept around the walls until he stood behind the gaoler and then he looked down the passageway, where the doors to the cells lay silent and closed. There was no other guard. He resheathed his blade and slowly eased it through his belt to leave both hands free; then he drew a long, razor sharp knife from his boot. The gaoler did not wake as he stepped up - then he struck. His left hand slapped the sleeping man's head down on to the table and in the same moment he slashed the knife across the exposed throat, tearing out the artery. He leaped back to escape the spray of blood that erupted from the severed jugular.

The gaoler woke as his head was knocked into the wood and he was already trying to move as his throat was cut. He flung himself back on his stool and his hands clawed the air as he tried to catch the blood that jetted from his neck. But this was purely a reflexive action and he tumbled over the back of the stool to crash to the flagstones, his eyes wide and pleading.

The killer ran back to the stairs and waited, listening for sounds. The noise of the dying man seemed loud to him, but although he waited for some minutes he heard nothing to suggest that the din had been carried up the stairs. The dungeons had been burrowed deep in the castle mound by its maker, the long reigning tyrant Ishguarl III, who had died just over a century ago and three years after the castle was completed. Ishguarl had not wanted the screams of his prisoners to be heard by others in the main keep – and the builders had obviously executed their job well.

Carefully avoiding the spreading pool of dark blood, The black-clothed assassin went to the now still body and wrested the keys from the dead man's belt. Then he made his way down the passage, peering into each cell as he came to it. The one he sought was at the far end, naturally, and he looked briefly through the grille before fitting the key to the lock. The occupant of the little cell woke up as the iron key rattled in the lock and half raised himself from the dirty, foul smelling straw to push himself against the far wall. He cowered in fear as the door swung open and the shadowy figure of the man entered. It was easy to believe that this was Death, come to visit.

Praise Luour! breathed the black clothed newcomer, ripping the mask from his head. "You are alive, Sire."

Raegin of Luourn stared, his mouth moving without sound. He did not know what to think, seeing his father's friend appear in this way.

Do not say anything, Sire, Draerl said urgently. Can you walk?

Raegin nodded dumbly and allowed Draerl to help him to his feet. The courtier dragged his king into the passage and back into the main chamber, where Raegin stared at the dead gaoler and the sea of blood that enveloped the corpse. Draerl dragged Raegin over to the wall by the stairs where there was a small hole between the wall and the floor. Through there, quickly, he said and all but pushed the young man down.

It was not a large hole and even Draerl, who was a slim man, grunted as he forced his way through. Raegin, too, was made leaner by his confinement, but he had always been well-fed and he struggled hard to fit. Once through, they dropped a few feet to land with a splash in a stream of filth. Raegin stumbled and Draerl threw out a hand to support him.

Take my arm, and follow me for a way, Draerl instructed the king and they set off in pitch blackness, away from the small light that came into this place from the dungeon chamber. They were in a tunnel, a sewer by the smell of it, and they splashed through the streams of detritus for some way before Draerl called a halt. He fumbled about in his belt and produced a candle, which he pressed into Raegin's hand while he struck a light with a flint and tinder. At least now they could see, if only within a tiny radius of light.

So, we go on, Draerl said. When we get to the edge of the mound, there will be men waiting.

Raegin did not say anything, content to listen and follow. It had briefly occurred to him that this might be one of Rothgar's tortures, of course; but if it were, he would let it run its course – he was too tired, too hungry and too despondent to care any more.

At last they reached a grille, set in the stone ceiling above them, while the sewer continued on its way. Raegin recoiled at first, the memory of his cell suddenly leaping to mind, but Draerl's strong grip on his arm steadied him. The courtier raised the candle to the iron bars and they heard a muttering above them, followed by the sound of booted feet. A screeching and clanking signified the lifting of the grille and faces peered in at them, hooded and dark, but friendly.

Reach up with your arms, a voice hissed. Quickly. We cannot stay here too long.

Raegin did as he was instructed and his wrists were gripped by strong hands, hauling him up and out, into a narrow street with the cool breeze of night on his face and the stars above his head. Those wonderful stars, that he had not seen for four nights!

Draerl followed him out and the grille was replaced. Immediately they were made to move again, hurrying down the lane until they reached a doorway that opened up into a small house, lit with candles. The shutters on the windows were closed and the door bolted behind them.

Raegin could hardly stand. Draerl helped him to sit in the one chair that stood in the room. A cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and a cup of hot wine thrust into his hands. He drank a little, relishing the smooth sweet liquid, but after a couple of sips his friend took it from him.

Not too much, Sire. It is not good to drink too much. Have you eaten anything?

No, the king croaked. The last I had was a crust of bread before they changed the guard, which must have been before noon.

He looked about him. There were three men here with him, other than Draerl. When they saw him regarding them, they threw back their hoods and knelt before him.

Who are you? he asked.

Loyal men, Sire. Men who would see their king alive and well.

Rothgar is king now, he responded bitterly.

Only for as long as it takes you to reclaim your throne, Draerl said. We shall speak of that soon. But first you must wash and eat, and put on some better clothes.

Raegin was led into an adjoining room where a bucket of warm water was placed with some plain but clean clothes. He was left to clean himself up and when he came back into the main room he found food laid out on the little table, along with the rest of the wine.

Only eat a little, to begin with. You have been starved and your stomach will explode if you cram it full too soon.

Raegin did as he was told and ate sparingly. His stomach cramps, which had been a part of life for the past four days, did not pass immediately, but he began to feel stronger and well enough to speak without the effort it had taken before.

What can I do, Draerl? You talk of reclaiming my throne, but I can hardly do that. Rothgar holds Luourn now and he wants me dead. He was going to starve me to death in that cell. All the other prisoners were slain out of hand, so that I would be alone in there. Raegin was almost weeping. He was only twenty-three and the sudden and violent change in his fortunes had been a massive shock.

Draerl was practical, and he made no move to comfort the young man. You must leave Luourn. You will not be safe while you remain in the kingdom.

Does none support me here?

The southern lords would, I think. They have been slower to respond to your cousin's summons. But Rothgar has much support and while he holds Truina I fear that many others will be too afraid to stand up to him. Do not forget, also, that all of Luourn thinks you are dead.

Raegin laughed grimly. Oh, yes, that mysterious flux. Then I truly am a fugitive. I must seek sanctuary, in Ghylliar, or Gourod.

Draerl shook his head. No, you would not be safe. Rothgar has many agents there and he would find you. You must go further afield.

But I am the rightful king. Surely Gourod would welcome me.

Oh, Gourod would be well pleased. Indeed. You would be held as a pawn in the hand and used as an excuse to invade Luourn for Gourod's own ends. Then, when you had served your purpose ... Draerl did not finish, leaving the dangerous truth unspoken. You would not be welcome in Cugallach. The people are proud and warlike, as we know, but they are afraid of Luourn and they would sooner hand you back than risk facing invasion once Rothgar knew of your presence there. Nor is Ghylliar safe: the king is getting old and is mad, by all accounts. His two sons bicker over the succession. There will be war there soon, I am sure of it. No, Sire, there is only one place where you can go and be safe – Trall.

Trall? But that is an island of lawless pirates and brigands. Their ruler is a notorious man. Are you trying to have me killed, Draerl, to propose such a place?

Draerl smiled and leaned close. Trall is the one place on Gilderaen where you will be truly safe, Sire. I swear it. I know the count of Trall. He is notorious, yes, but much maligned. You do not have to go, but I guarantee that it is the only safe place. Also, from Trall there is a chance that you will regain your kingdom and all that is now lost to you.

How so? What do you mean?

Draerl stood up. Go to Trall, and see what transpires. Speak with the count and hand him the letter that one of my men will give to you.

Raegin looked at his friend and managed to smile. I will go. I have always trusted you and this is a poor time to stop doing so. Thank you.

Taerl! called Draerl and the man appeared, bowing low to Raegin. Sire, go with this man and do as he says. I will stay here, for I must be back in the castle before anyone misses me. Rothgar cannot be allowed to suspect me, with a guard dead and you disappeared.

Raegin took his faithful friend's hand and nodded his gratitude. He was feeling stronger now, with some food and drink inside him. Then Taerl beckoned to him and they left the little house.

The city walls are poorly guarded tonight, his guide said as he led the way through the winding streets. My friends will keep watch and see us safely outside the city. Just move when I tell you to and you will be all right.

All his life Raegin had been addressed with deference, as befitted a prince and a king. He had never been spoken to as this man now did, eschewing the proper and accepted forms of address; but no angry retort came to his lips and he nodded, signalling obedience. Raegin was young, but he was not proud any more – four days in a prison cell had seen to that – and he understood the risk these men were taking on his behalf. So now, in all things, Raegin acknowledged Taerl as master.

They reached the walls without incident and they crouched in the shadows by the steps that led to the parapet. Taerl had been right: there were no patrols to be seen, neither to the right nor the left. Draerl’s man said they should wait, however, so they did.

After a while they heard a whistle and they moved, swiftly, running up the steps to the parapet, where they found the two other men uncoiling a rope to hang down the outside of the wall.

I hope you can climb, said Taerl, although he did not wait for an answer; instead he grasped the rope with both hands and swung a leg over the crenel. I will wait at the bottom, Sire. Do not come down until I whistle. Then he disappeared over the edge.

When the call came, Raegin did not hesitate. It was a hard climb. Even though he had now eaten he was still quite weak and the weight on his arms was almost more than he could bear. But he hung on grimly and gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulders and wrists. The city walls were no more than thirty feet high and soon he was on firm ground, gasping and sweating. Taerl patted him on the back and murmured a word of encouragement.

They watched the rope slither back up the wall and then they set off at a loping run, heading north to where the dark silhouette of the wood showed up against the night sky. It was a little over half a mile and Raegin almost did not make it, Taerl all but dragging him over the last two hundred yards until he collapsed beneath the branches of the tall ash trees. Taerl gave a low whistle and his call was answered from further inside the wood. In a few minutes a red-haired man appeared, leading a good horse, already saddled and bearing two bulging saddlebags.

Hroar looked at the man Taerl had brought along, appraising his gaunt features and unkempt beard. Someone important, Taerl? he asked sarcastically.

Shut up, Hroar, Taerl answered and knelt down by Raegin. Here, he said, "have some more to eat, otherwise you will not be able to ride. You must go to Mainport, as fast as you can, and seek passage on a ship. There is a ship called the Sea Sprite - if she is there, and she should be, take her and none other. There is money in the saddlebags."

Thank you, Taerl. Must I ride alone?

I fear so. But it will be safer that way, if you do not shave, or wash too often, he chuckled. There is a sword and a knife on the saddle as well. You may want them. Raegin nodded and stood up. One last thing, Taerl said. Here is a letter for the count of Trall. Make sure you give it to him.

Raegin tucked the packet into his tunic and took Taerl's hand. Thank you, Taerl. I hope I shall be able to repay you someday. Keep safe and keep Draerl safe, if you can.

Taerl nodded. Go now. You have many miles to cover and the night will not last for ever.

Raegin climbed into the saddle and kicked the horse's flanks. He was glad to be mounted, at least, for he was a good horseman and he felt more comfortable and confident this way. Waving to his saviours, he rode out of Ashwood and urged the beast into a canter across the countryside, heading west towards Mainport and freedom.

Taerl watched him go, then turned to Hroar. Good man, Hroar. You did well.

I would do anything well for the money I was paid, returned the fletcher. Was that ...? He had guessed, of course: Draerl and his servants did not use fools as their agents.

Never you mind, Taerl said, a warning tone in his voice. Forget about tonight. Just pray to Luour for better days ahead.

It was not yet four hours after midnight when Taerl arrived back at the city walls, calling for the rope to be let down. The deposed king of Luourn was already far away, on his way to safety.

~ ~ ~ ~

Chapter Two

The day dawned bright and sunny, though with the inevitable chill of an autumn morning. A cold, sharp wind blew in from the sea as the main port of Luourn slowly received the first rays of the welcome sun, rising far away in the east. The arrival of the sun was a signal to the town to wake up, those citizens who were not already hard at work; and, with the usual din and bustle, Mainport came alive with the start of a fresh day.

Mainport, being a harbour town and the largest of Luourn's ports, was naturally allowed to hold a market and, into the town square, not too far from the docks, the people of the town descended. Here the men who sold bread and fruit were already at their stalls and the womenfolk of the town came away with freshly baked loaves and baskets of apples, scurrying with them back to their homes where their families eagerly waited. Elsewhere in the square, other stalls were hastily erected and porters ran to and fro with baskets, chests, pots and jars. This was the first market day since the equinox festival and a large number of traders were in town, eager to shift their stock before returning to their homes, or going to another port to buy and sell more goods, or merely to winter. Mainport was just another staging post in the endless cycle of trade and the citizens were cows to be milked. But the foreign merchants knew that these were cows that gave cream, for Luourn had had good years and there was a lot of silver to be earned here. In Mainport it mattered to no-one if there was trouble in Truina, for this was the centre of the trading universe as far as they were concerned.

Mainport was not a very large town, containing perhaps three thousand people, some of these actually living outside the town walls. But it constantly hosted a transient population that swelled it to bursting: sailors and merchants, travellers and mercenaries, not to mention the hordes who flocked to the town from elsewhere in Luourn to take advantage of the commerce that went on. Today was no exception and within an hour of sunrise the place was a roaring babel of street noise.

It was into this good-natured fray that Raegin rode at last, two hours after dawn, exhausted and shaking. His horse was equally tired and its flanks were lathered and heaving as its rider slid from its back, just outside the town gate. The men who stood guard there took only a vague interest in the young traveller, hardly caring as they reproached him, casually, for so ill-treating his mount. He replied with a nervous laugh and hurried on into the town. He could not ride in the streets, even if his horse could have carried him a step further, for the roads were filled with people, a jostling crowd that ignored him as he struggled to pass. This, small though the town was, was a totally new experience for the young man: all his life he had had guards to clear a path for him and men and women would hurry out of the way of his progress. Now, people did not recognise him and his shoulders were soon bruised as he was shoved and pushed by the preoccupied townsfolk. This made him angry and hot words rose to his lips. But his anger did not last long, for he was young and it was too much of an adventure for him. So he began to push back and soon he was making some headway, albeit slow.

He did not even attempt to pass through the market square when he saw how crowded it was. Instead, he went around, pleased to find the surrounding lanes all but empty, and he soon emerged on the quay side. There were at least a dozen ships at anchor here, of all sizes, from a small craft designed for short journeys between the ports of Luourn, to the massive ship that had come here all the way from Hussania to trade, along many hundreds of miles of coastline. Everywhere there were sailors and porters, loading and unloading chests, casks and bales, bending to their work under the abusive but good-humoured shouting of their captains or the ships’ mates. The breeze was brisk and salty and the powerful stench of fish pervaded the air, for Mainport was as much a fishing town as it was a merchants’ haven. Along the dock there was a multitude of alehouses, warehouses and brothels, also filled to the seams - even the bordellos were in business, despite the early hour, for two of the ships had put in only at daybreak and those sailors were eager to find their shore legs in a cosy atmosphere, after so many days at sea without sight of women. The prostitutes of Mainport must earn good money, the fugitive thought, although they obviously worked hard for it.

Raegin's experience with women had been limited, for the throne had beckoned him early: while others his age were still discovering the joys of female company, he was called to higher things. As king, he had to maintain a certain decorum and, while a succession of high born matches had been pondered and weighed by his courtiers, none had been decided. In the meantime he had slept alone, permitted to experiment very occasionally and more often than not left to remember his fumbling escapades of some years ago.

He blushed when a painted whore called to him from an upstairs window and he was at last glad of the ragged beard that covered his face to hide the flush of his cheeks. He hurried