Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Gant and Chamz continued eastward through the old forest. The sun dropped lower and the day’s heat waned. Slanting flickers of sunlight barely penetrated the fluttering leaves.

  Chamz finally broke the silence. “I think the king should rethink the law when it comes to you.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Why? Because he’ll need every warrior he has including you. With Barlon taking the Mountain Castle, it’s only a matter of time before Netherdorf will be at war. He’ll attack us next.”

  “And for that you think King Tirmus should ignore the law that outlaws swords from commoners. A law that’s a hundred years old?”

  “Yes. A law that never should have applied to you. I mean, your mom’s related to the king. How much more noble do you have to be?”

  Gant didn’t have an answer. What if this went badly for his mother and father? He couldn’t change what he’d done. All he could do was hope his parents were all right and make the best of things. Maybe he’d see his parents again someday.

  “I'm telling you he'll call you back with a full pardon,” said Chamz, carrying on the conversation without Gant. “Your mother's a noble. You're half noble. The king's made a mistake. And he'll see that when he's under attack.”

  Gant shook his head. “The king will do what he has to do. Stability within the kingdom is more important than I am. I’m sure there are plenty of nobles crying for my head right now.”

  Chamz laughed. “Mark my words those same nobles will be crying a different tune when Barlon comes down out of the mountains.”

  “And exactly what makes you think Barlon is going to attack Netherdorf?”

  “Don't you ever go to the pub? Almost everyone there says it's just a matter of time. Barlon is power hungry and we're next. That's what they say.”

  “Pub talk,” scoffed Gant and shifted the sword on his back to alleviate the irritation.

  They walked on. Gant thought again about his fight with Wendler. He had violated the law. What was he supposed to do? He couldn’t let Gwen be raped. Could he have done something different to stop Wendler? Nothing came to mind.

  And what about Gwen? She'd been Gant’s friend since they were toddlers. They’d played together in the fields, behind the smithy, around the chicken coups at her house. Gant was going to miss her. Maybe one day, they’d see each other again.

  Chamz rattled on. “Wendler deserved it,” he said with conviction. “He's been trying to pick a fight with you for years and now he got one. I think he hated you because the king allowed you to attend Uric's classes in the castle. And for knowing the answers when he didn't.”

  Gant stopped, grabbing his friend by the sleeve. “How would you know who knew what in Uric’s classes? You weren’t there.”

  “I hear things,” said Chamz laughing. “There are plenty of commoners working in the king’s castle and we aren’t blind or deaf. Come on, hurry up or we’ll never get to Blasseldune.”

  Gant hurried on, thinking about the times Wendler had tried to goad him into a fight. Mostly in the schoolyard. And how Uric, the schoolmaster, had always been there to stop it before it got started. “So what if Wendler did try to get me to fight him? It doesn't change my crime.”

  “Crime! If there's been any real crime Wendler's done it. He's one sorry excuse for a man. They say he's forced himself on every peasant girl working in the castle. He's sick, I tell you. There are more than a few who wish you'd killed him instead of just putting a knot on his head.”

  “Enough. Commoners do not kill nobles.”

  “Then we ought to do away with nobility,” mumbled Chamz.

  Gant let it go. Instead he turned his thoughts to the coming night. Where were they going to sleep? There was a single inn on the road halfway between Netherdorf and Blasseldune. Soldiers would look for him there so better to camp in the woods. The old forest grew up so thick and close to the road that the tree trunks presented an impenetrable barrier. If they found any break in the trees, Gant decided they would stop.

  Twilight fell. Rustling noises in the leaves followed them as they walked along the now deserted road. Other travelers had found shelter. Gant wondered where. They continued steadily east looking for anything that resembled a campsite. A light fog filtered onto the road. Eerie shadows played tricks with their eyes. Gant and Chamz moved more cautiously remembering stories about bandits on the road. There were no patrols here, which meant no soldiers to arrest Gant but no protection against thieves either.

  From behind them they heard the growing sound of hoof beats. Gant turned. The riders were out of sight behind a bend in the road.

  “Behind us,” said Gant. “Soldiers, maybe.”

  “No, it’s a lone rider,” said Chamz peering back into the fog.

  Around the bend came a single shadowy figure on horseback. As the rider thundered closer Gant's hand went to his sword. A horseman at this time of night was unlikely to be an innocent traveler. The figure moved closer and Gant recognized Wendler’s shadowy outline. Approaching cautiously, Wendler slowed his gray warhorse and set it prancing sideways toward the pair. A great shield painted with King Tirmus’ emblem hung from a loop at the rear of the saddle protecting Wendler’s side. One arm was in a sling. The other held a heavy sword, one Gant recognized as his father's work. Wendler wore serviceable chain mail armor that showed signs of use. Wendler wasn't wearing a helm and Gant wondered if he would risk combat without it.

  Nonetheless, Gant had his sword out. “Stay behind me,” he whispered and shoved Chamz back with his free hand.

  “Hey Wendler,” shouted Chamz over Gant's shoulder, “come for the rest of the beating you should have gotten before?”

  “Chamz, shut up,” hissed Gant, staying focused on the advancing swordsman. “What do you want,” he demanded, warily eyeing the horse. Fighting Wendler was one thing, bringing down a horse to do it another.

  “Your head on a pike. The king's a gutless excuse for a ruler. His soldiers are slower than dead men. They should have run you down at a full gallop. And then beheaded you in front of your less-than noble mother and father.”

  “You think you can do it for him?” Adrenaline rushed through Gant until his fingers shook.

  Chamz stepped back. Good, thought Gant, glad Chamz wouldn’t get caught in the middle.

  “Maybe. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you left town like a good little boy.”

  That stung. Wendler was two years older and had always gotten away with calling Gant “little boy” in Uric's classroom, though not when Uric could hear. Rage burned in Gant. He controlled it. Being an outlaw was bad enough. He did not want to add murder to the charges.

  “I broke your arm with a stick and this isn't a stick,” said Gant pointing his sword at Wendler.

  “No, but it doesn't really matter. Netherdorf will soon have a new king and I'll be a knight. You'll be an outlaw with a price on your head and I'll come to collect.”

  With that Wendler reined his horse closer. He leaned forward and spit at Gant. Gant dodged it easily. Wendler circled, dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped back toward Netherdorf.

  Gant and Chamz watched him disappear into the swirling fog.

  Chamz turned toward Gant. “What do you think he meant?”

  “I don't know unless his father is stirring up the nobles against the king.”

  “Do you think he could get enough support to depose King Tirmus?”

  Gant thought about it. “I don’t know.”

  “Between your uncle and mother, don’t they have enough noble friends to stop Wendler's father? I think the king should just recognize your nobility and be done with it.”

  “It’s not that easy. There would be plenty of opposition to allowing every half-noble kid to have nobility status. Think about it.”

  A look of mischief crossed Chamz’s face. “Yeah, every bastard in the castle is probably half noble. Too many of the nobles can’t keep their hands off the maids.”

  “I hope this doesn’t bri
ng on a civil war,” added Gant. The thought of the king replaced worried him. Not for his own sake but for what would happen to his parents, to his uncle.

  They shuffled on in darkness. Without a torch they couldn't see their way but carrying one would be a beacon inviting bandits to attack. Gant touched Chamz’ shoulder bringing them to a halt.

  “Let's camp here,” said Gant.

  “Where? I can't see a thing.”

  “Me either, just push through the underbrush and we'll get under the big trees. Roll out your blanket on the first soft spot you find and we'll sleep right here.”

  “Aren't you going to build a fire?”

  It would be easy for Gant to build a fire. He’d spent years starting forge fires for his father who had taught him all the tricks. But a fire was not a good idea.

  “No fire.”

  “Okay,” said Chamz glumly.

  The two of them pushed through the roadside bushes, thorns stinging and pricking exposed skin. Once through the thicket, they found themselves in the old forest. Dead leaves cushioned their footsteps and they both managed to find an area free from sticks to spread out their bedrolls. Gant shared his food with Chamz and they both drank some water. They rolled up in their bedrolls and just before falling asleep they heard horses’ hooves pound past at a full gallop. Soldiers, thought Gant. It’s a good thing we got off the road. In the quiet that followed they both fell asleep.

  Gant dreamed of sword fights with Wendler, of the king's armies in battle and Gant a knight like his uncle. Overshadowing it all, he dreamed of an evil that pervaded everything.

  Chapter 3

  Gant woke tired and sore. The ground wasn't nearly as comfortable as dead leaves should be and strange dreams kept him tossing and turning all night. Streaks of sunlight filtered through the canopy of leaves. It was time to get up.

  Chamz rolled out of his blanket and sat up. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “I still have some meat, bread and cheese.”

  “Good enough. You planning to share?”

  “Sure,” said Gant, rolling up his blanket and tying it to his backpack. “We can eat while we walk.”

  “Yes, the sooner we get to Blasseldune, the sooner we get jobs.”

  Finding a job in Blasseldune was not going to be easy, thought Gant. He wasn't going to work as a blacksmith or weapons maker. If he had wanted to make swords he would be at home working for his father instead of an outlaw.

  Gant wrestled his pack up on his shoulders, fighting with the straps until the pack settled. Finally, he slung his sword over his shoulder and they started off. He pulled the last of the meat and cheese from his pack, tore the beef into two pieces, broke the cheese in half and shared with Chamz. He broke the last hunk of bread in two and handed a piece to Chamz.

  They ate in silence, both still trying to wake up. The road wound through the forest, slanting rays of sunshine casting shadows that danced with them as they walked. Gant’s thoughts turned to Blasseldune. He had the few coins in his pocket that should be enough for food and a room for a night or two. After that they would have to find work or stop eating.

  He also thought about home. He wondered about his father. Was his father in trouble with the king because of Gant? That was the last thing he wanted. From now on Gant promised himself that he would make his father proud, even if his father never knew.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they passed the stone marker set at the eastern boundary of Netherdorf. It might be the border but he wasn’t safe yet. There was no one to prevent the soldiers from chasing him all the way to Blasseldune. Gant picked up the pace.

  Chamz finished his breakfast and said, “You know, if what Uric said is true you're going to be a hero.”

  “Some hero.”

  “Not now. But Uric thinks you are the one in the prophecy. If that's true, the king will have to pardon you. You'll have saved us all.”

  “Uric's a dreamer. He's filled us with ridiculous stories about dragons, knights and wizards. Fairy tales for children. And prophecies are nothing more than the wishful thinking of old, dead men.”

  “Then how do you explain Barlon Gorth taking over the Mountain Kingdom? That’s in the prophecy.”

  “It is not. The prophecy doesn't say anything about Barlon.”

  Chamz took a drink from his water skin. “Not exactly. But you loved Uric's stories. You always said you'd grow up to be the best swordsman ever. That's why you trained so hard with your Uncle Jarlz. And you are good. You beat Wendler with a stick.”

  “I was a little boy listening to those stories. A lot has changed. I'm not a knight. I'm not even a decent commoner anymore. I'm a criminal. I have no family, no friends.”

  The look in Chamz's eyes stopped Gant.

  “I'm your friend,” mumbled Chamz.

  “Yes, you are. And a good friend, too. I'm sorry.”

  Chamz clapped Gant on the back. “Okay. But don't ever say anything like that again.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked on. Morning turned into afternoon and the forest finally began to thin. Open spaces appeared, small fields with crops and farmers working to keep out the weeds. Farmhouses became more frequent and soon they were passing the large estates of wealthy merchants and tradesmen.

  “It won't be long now,” said Chamz as they passed another big stone house surrounded by stone walls with heavy iron gates. “Are you nervous?”

  “Not exactly. Excited I think is more like it.”

  “I'm scared. Remember the stories your uncle told us about Blasseldune?”

  Gant certainly remembered sitting in the smithy while his father repaired armor listening to Uncle Jarlz tell adventure stories. Often Chamz would be there too. They'd sit and listen instead of playing outside. Blasseldune had seemed like a fairy tale. Now those stories seemed more ominous. He remembered tales about inns that never closed where they served the best mead and ale, about the wild women (a fact Uncle Jarlz left out whenever Gant’s mother was around). Mostly he remembered the street battles that left men dead.

  “Mostly just stories, I expect,” Gant finally answered.

  “Maybe. But then why did so many travelers who stopped at your father's smithy tell the same stories?”

  “Then maybe it is true. Either way there's no place else to go.”

  Chamz thought about that a moment, shrugged his shoulders and said, “So I guess I'm lucky I'm going with you.”

  Gant chuckled. Chamz always looked at the bright side. “How's going there with me lucky?”

  “Because if there's any trouble, you'll take care of it.”

  “Let's hope there isn't any trouble. Instead let's hope we can find someone who will give us a job so we continue to eat.”

  “Jobs? Hmm, what kind of job can I get?” Chamz pursed his lips in serious thought. Then he said, “You hire on as a guard, soldier, city watch and I'll be your sword polisher.”

  “More likely we'll end up loading wagons or something.”

  “Hey look, there's Blasseldune,” said Chamz as the pair rounded a bend in the dusty road.

  Gant looked up. Just beyond the last few outlying homes stood the fortified wall surrounding the town proper. Gant noticed the wealthy homes outside the walls were more like fortresses with guards at the entrances. Maybe he could hire on as a guard.

  They passed the last house outside the city and reached the archway through the walls. Hinged at either side were huge, wooden gates that stood open.

  “Do you think someone will stop us?” asked Chamz.

  Gant looked around. “I don't see any city watch. I guess this really is a wide open town.”

  They walked under the arch and for a moment the thick stone overhead blocked out the sun. No one challenged them. They entered through the moss-covered stone walls and got their first glimpse of the city. On the inside, tattered, little wooden hovels piled up against the wall, squeezed there by rough log huts that seemed to push out from the center of town. Each of the huts had straw-o
ver-log roofs. Here and there dirty, half-naked children played in the street. Beside the front door of one of the huts an old woman sat on a tree stump. Her white hair was matted to her head and soot covered her face and her hair. She watched without expression as they passed, picking at an open sore on her leg.

  “They certainly don’t care who they let in, do they?” noted Chamz, glancing back over his shoulder.

  “Uncle Jarlz said it was an open town. I guess he wasn't kidding.”

  They walked deeper into Blasseldune. The huts disappeared abruptly and shops took their place. Foodstuffs, armor, tools, weapons, clothing, leather goods, jewelry, furniture, everything could be bought, sold or bartered for in Blasseldune. In Netherdorf there were only a few craftsmen who plied their trades with the king's blessing. Here it seemed that anyone and everyone had a shop. Most of the commercial buildings were hand-hewn logs shaved to present a flat front. The sloped roofs had slate coverings. Occasionally a stone building rose massive and haughty over the squat log structures of the less prosperous.

  The streets bustled with people. All kinds of people. Farmers, merchants, and armed men with grim faces. The heart of the city clamored with the noise of humanity going about their business. The few women were all escorted by gruff looking men.

  “Hey, look at that bunch,” said Chamz as they passed a grimy tavern.

  Gant examined the tough-looking group of men huddled in front of the inn. They had wild, unkempt black hair down to their shoulders and bushy beards. All were armed with swords, axes, spiked maces or spears. Thick leather breastplates covered fur undergarments.

  “Glad we don't need to ask directions,” said Gant.

  “We don’t? Then where are we going?”

  “The Drake.”

  “The Drake? What's that?”

  Gant chuckled. He finally had one on Chamz. “An inn I heard my uncle talk about all the time. He used to stay there, if I remember right.”

  “So where is it?”