A Mark of Kings Read online

  That only made her grip harder, refusing to let go.

  “Abegale, please,” he pleaded, and this time the words came broken, his resolve clearly fraying. “Please. You need to go. Take Declan and go.”

  She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She refused, abjectly refused to release her husband’s hand. She had him, here, now. She wouldn’t let him go for all the world and all the wonder and misery in it.

  Abegale.

  Ryn’s voice was gentle across her mind, a soothing spell that pulled at the tension in her soul, drawing it out slowly. As he spoke, the tightness faded, the fear receding gradually as if guided away by some unseen hand, but she still wouldn’t release Ertus’ hand.

  Abegale, let him go. This is a choice he’s making for you. He’s right. Not even I can do much if the entire mountainside gets overrun by the beastmen.

  Abegale shook her head in violent denial. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the voice, feeling the tears leak from them and trace her jaw as she buried her face into the folds of Declan’s blanket.

  Abegale, he’s doing this for us. For you. For both of you. Let him go.

  For a long time, Abegale did nothing. She sat there, atop the stallion’s back, clinging to her husband’s calloused fingers, feeling their son squirm and cry against her bosom. She could sense the shaking in Ertus’ touch, sense the fear there, just as present as the conviction. For a second more she held on, begging that the Mother and Her Graces would allow the moment to last for eternity, would let them stay like that, together, forever.

  Then she slacked her grip, and felt Ertus slowly draw his hand from hers.

  She didn’t look up until he said her name again.

  “Abegale.”

  She lifted her face, knowing that she could not stop herself from crying now. The ache twisted in her throat, in her cheeks, as she fought off a sob and met her husband’s blue eyes. With a thunk he planted his bloody sword into the frozen ground, using his right hand to fumble with something around the index finger of his left. Pulling it loose, he paused, staring at the thing in his palm for a moment.

  Then he held it up slowly.

  “For Declan… When he’s old enough…”

  With shaking fingers, Abegale picked up the plain, cold band. It was an old, worn ring of battered gold, with little ornation to its face other than a simple black stone, wide and flat, set into the thickest part of the metal. Ertus had worn it for as long as she had known him, had never removed it, even on their wedding day.

  To have it now, empty and solitary in her shaking fingers, brought the reality of the moment crashing down on Abegale in a way even Ryn’s voice wouldn’t have been able to.

  With a gentle press, Ertus closed her hand around the ring, then gripped her wrist and pulled her down towards him, as low as she could come. On bare feet he stood on tiptoes to kiss her, his lips meeting hers hungrily, desperately. She closed her eyes again, feeling the sadness grip her once more. They stayed like that, seconds ticking into each other, neither willing to separate from the other.

  Finally, in the end it was Ertus who pulled away.

  “Take care of them,” he told Ryn, using one hand to pull the horse’s head around and press his forehead to the animal’s cheek, still not letting go of Abegale’s with the other. “For me, will you?”

  Even Ryn, it seemed, could not gather the right words in that moment, because he only closed his white-gold eyes in response, nodding into the embrace.

  Then, at last, Ertus released Abegale’s closed fingers, yanking his sword from the ground.

  “I love you,” he said hoarsely to her through glistening eyes, backing away with blade bare. “Both of you.”

  And then he was gone, turning to run headlong back into the blaze of the village limits, leaving behind his wife, child, and the dead, dull ring of lifeless gold she kept clutched in her palm.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1076p.f.

  “Beware the idle scoundrel, friend. It is not the cautious or the wary warrior you must need guard yourself against. Rather, it is the indolent and the lax, the swordsman whose blade is lifted only when necessary. In this, our profession of blood and violence, there are only two types of men whose souls are calm enough to smirk down the length of sharpened steel: the mad, and the truly dangerous.”

  -Cassandra Sert, Iron Wind Guildmaster, 1072p.f.

  A cool breeze blew through the forest, stirring the summer leaves and gently persuading Declan Idrys to open his eyes. He’d been dozing under the shadowed eaves of a maple tree, the soft rush of the creek below soothing him better than any lullaby ever could. Shaking sleep away, he shifted to sit more comfortably against the mossy trunk of the maple at his back, stretching with a groan before gazing up at the speckled patches of blue sky he could distinguish between the entwined branches overhead. All around him sunlight poured through the woodland canopy, coloring the hill in a pattern of glowing amber and green grass. The wind ruffled his dark, shoulder-length hair, and he reached up to free a wild strand from his stubbled cheeks with a loose hand. Below him, the broad stream ran its course, winding gracefully through the woods as it flowed eastward, towards the distant sea, churning and bubbling in the song that had lulled him so effectively some hour or so before.

  Ryn, once again, had been displaying his ever-present knack for knowing things he shouldn’t when he’d suggested they make camp nearby. It made for a good spot, ideal to hole up in for the job.

  A small splash resounded from below, catching Declan’s attention. He turned back to the makeshift net now stretched across the creek down the hill, ends lashed to a pair of branches staked firmly into the sandy riverbanks. So far all the fish he’d made out beneath the shimmering waters were too small to get caught in the knotted vines, but it was doubtful any of them would have made good eating regardless. He scratched at his day-old beard with the edge of the old gold ring on the middle finger of his left hand, watching yet another slim, silvery form slip through.

  Life of a wanderer, he thought with a smirk, leaning back against the maple again with a satisfied sigh.

  Despite his content, after another quarter-hour Declan began to wonder if he might have been wasting his time. The bounty papers felt hot in the breast pocket of his sleeveless traveler’s vest, and Ryn was off foraging for other supplies as it was. Maybe Declan should have been doing some scouting, or at least getting to know the surrounding forest. They’d stopped that morning at a nearby hamlet—one of several local municipalities who’d thrown together the coin needed to post the notice—and the villagers had been quite eager to point him towards these parts of Viridian’s western woods, saying it was the direction the tracks always led and disappeared into. Frowning down at the stream, Declan reached out to absently pluck a blade of grass from the hillside, setting it between his teeth to chew.

  Just a little longer, he told himself.

  Fortunately for their supper that evening, his procrastination paid off.

  Creak.

  The sound of straining wood, not two minutes later, dragged Declan’s thoughts out of the clouds and earthward again. He leapt up, finding the net suddenly stretching inward, the water at its center churning as fin and tail thrashed about. In an instant he was rushing down the hill with a triumphant exclamation befitting a boy ten years young, holding tight with one hand to the longsword at his hip, keeping it from catching between his legs. The moment his already-bare feet found rocky bank he unsheathed the hunter’s knife on his belt. Reaching the branches, Declan slashed the supporting vines loose, holding them tight so the net wouldn’t be swept away in the current. With a shiver he waded across the thigh-deep flow, gripping the knife between his teeth and stepping high over the water, hauling the meshed ends with both hands alongside him. The rush was cool about his knees as he moved, and his feet guided him to the far side with practiced ease. Checking that his catch was still secured in the tangles, Declan began to reel it in, struggling somewhat while the heavy fish did its best to get loose. When it reached the shallows of the bank, he yanked sharply on the vines to drag it free of the stream. Declan found himself grinning when his prize began floundering against the stony ground, recognizing the blood-colored stripe running down the animal’s back.

  Redfin was widely considered a particularly sumptuous roadside feast.

  Pulling it away from the water’s edge, Declan took the knife from his teeth and sliced through the mass of tangles until he’d freed the thrashing fish. Tossing aside the now-useless net, he pinned his meal to the damp ground with a free hand and slid the blade into the base of its slim skull, finishing the job quickly. Once the redfin was still, Declan wiped his blade clean and sheathed it again, then carried the limp catch over to wash off in the stream’s clean flow. He’d just finished, and was in the midst of standing up again, when a voice in the back of his mind caught him by surprise.

  Anything good?

  Gaining his feet, it took a moment for Declan to shade his eyes and find the speaker against the late afternoon sun. Ryn stood behind him, having appeared along the ledge of the steep embankment at his back, looking down from some ten feet above the scene. Completely black from nose to tail, the stallion’s coat shined almost metallically in the day’s light, looking more like smooth, sleek skin than fur. His long tail swept from side to side, batting away the pestering flies that insisted on accompanying a wave of late-season heat, and his narrow ears flicked this way and that with every subtle sound of the forest around them.

  In answer, Declan hefted the fish above his head, showing it off with a laugh. “Caught this guy just a minute ago. Any luck on your end?”

  Ryn’s mouth twisted into what Declan had grown up knowing to be a pleased grin. Craning his neck back, the horse bit down on one of the leather flaps of his saddlebags, lifting it up to reveal a healthy assortment of large, red apples.

  There’s a sizable tree between here and the camp. Plenty of nice ripe ones, too.

  “I take it you mean there were plenty of nice ripe ones?” Declan asked with a snort, throwing the fish over his shoulder and making his way towards the horse.

  Ryn let go of the flap and turned to help his friend up the sharp incline of the bank. I saved enough for you, don’t worry, he promised humorously, bending down so Declan could grab the side of his halter before hauling him up and onto more even ground.

  Declan raised a curious eyebrow at the creature as he found his footing, but the horse said no more, a smile playing at his dark lips that made his strange eyes—their faint, white pupils vertically slit through a pool of gold—shine mischievously. Instead, Ryn turned and trotted back in the direction of their campsite, leaving Declan to follow and repress his own chuckle. When it came to this horse and food, it was best not to get in the way lest you be trampled to death by the ever-famished animal.

  Declan gave up trying not to laugh, though, when he passed the tree in question. Sure enough, barely a single decent apple was left.

  Not even—to his great amusement—amongst the topmost branches.

  Ryn looked up when Declan Idrys finally strolled into camp a minute or so after him, redfin still hung over one shoulder. His companion was a broad, handsome youth, and taller than most men had any right to be. His dark brown hair hung loosely around his wide shoulders, and his blue eyes—so much like Ertus’ and his mother’s before him—shined cheerfully while he whistled some old tavern yarn, heading for a stump near the center of the clearing where they’d left their things a couple of hours before. From Declan’s waist hung both his hunting knife and longsword, lashed to the leather belt he’d strapped at a rogue’s tilt around his hips, his free hand—one finger of which glinted with a plain gold ring adorned by a single black stone—resting comfortably on the pommel of the larger weapon. The rolled-up sleeve of his left arm revealed a scarred, well-muscled forearm and a faded arrow tattoo, hinting at the swordsman’s body that had been forged by years on the road and staggered employment among the Alethan mercenary guilds. His strong fingers were long and rough, callused by the practice and training that had been part of his daily routine from the moment Abegale had allowed Ryn to talk her son through how to handle a sword properly.

  Herst would have been proud of this one, Ryn often found himself thinking privately.

  Declan was grinning as he approached, but didn’t offer any reason as to why. Ryn watched his friend unlatch his sword from his belt, resting the weapon against his pack near the unlit pile of kindling they’d gathered earlier, before taking a seat on the felled tree. Drawing his knife, Declan slapped the large fish down across his lap and began scaling and gutting it as he set about preparing dinner for the both of them.

  Satisfied that a meal was on the way sooner rather than later, Ryn turned back to his own tasks.

  He’d been able to gather plenty of extra wood around their little clearing—fallen branches that had died and dried out in the summer sun—and everything was stacked nearby within easy reach. Checking that the flaps of his saddlebags were securely pinned down, Ryn undid the harness straps with his teeth and pulled the satchel off his back, depositing it on the ground beside Declan. Finally free of the load, he trotted back through the trees to the stream for a quick drink.

  By the time he returned, Declan had finished with the fish and was already slicing up several of the apples, as well as a handful of wild onions and edible mushrooms Ryn had found while foraging. The smell made his mouth water, and he let out a groan of anticipation when a teasing waft played with his nose, fanning the flowered scent his way. Looking up, Declan laughed and tossed half an apple to him, which Ryn deftly caught.

  “Ease up,” the man said, returning to his chore and wiping thin layers of mushroom into their traveling pot set between his feet. “At least let me cook the stuff before you wolf it down.”

  Ryn huffed at that. I’ll take it raw, he snorted, trotting over and sniffing at the emptied fish beside the stump. Not like it will bother me.

  Declan made a face, picking up another apple and starting to dig out a bad spot. “It’ll bother me, and my mother would have had both our hides if she’d ever caught me letting you eat uncooked fish. Patience. It won’t be long.”

  Ryn grumbled a concession under his breath, and settled in to wait.

  An hour later, Declan was turning the fish over a healthy fire as Ryn lay down lazily nearby, snuffling at the grass, his tasks done for the evening. Declan smiled, watching his friend doze off in the dimming sunlight of the fading afternoon. With his eyes closed, Ryn might almost have been any other horse lounging about, waiting for night to fall. Declan had long since given up wondering at the beast’s origins, having figured out at an early age that it was better not to voice such curiosities aloud, especially since Ryn himself consistently seemed to go mysteriously deaf at such questions. Declan’s own mother, too—when she’d still lived—had always scolded him for asking, and in the end he’d learned to take Ryn’s presence in his life in stride, finding himself caring less about the strange creature’s past as time went on.

  Giving the fish another quarter roll, Declan turned his attention back to the papers he held in his left hand, reading them over again with a grumble of frustration. The notice was the sort of bounty he’d always hated taking, and the kind Cassandra Sert—or any of his other old employers—would have laughed at him for so much as considering. It was vague and unspecific, largely lacking in any of the details he would have preferred to have on hand before starting a contract like this. Still, the money had been paid up front—not to mention ten gold levers and twice that many silver lehts would add nicely to the accounts they still held with the Iron Wind—and the locals had at least been able to give he and Ryn a place to start, pointing them towards the woods they now camped in.

  “We’ve done more with less,” Declan muttered to himself, glancing at the fish absently to make sure it wasn’t burning.

  It was true, but that didn’t make the current situation any simpler or surmountable…

  Missing villagers. That was largely the extent of what they had to go on. For the last several months there had been odd disappearances in and around the region’s municipalities, dozens over the course of the last half-year, all with frustratingly little consistency between them. The first had occurred at the end of the past winter, when a boy was taken while clearing the family fields for tilling after the season’s late snows. The next, though, had been a grizzled hag of ill repute from a village a mile to the north of the farm from which the child had been stolen. Then the third had been a grown man, a barkeep at a merchant’s outpost a half-hour to the south. It had continued like that, apparently, up until the most recent vanishing not a week before, in which a young woman had been taken on her way home from the baker’s shop where she worked as an apprentice.

  This girl, however, had been the granddaughter of one of the town elders, and the old woman had pulled every string she could to gather the funds they needed to get a bounty posted in every major town and rest within three days ride of the area. Declan and Ryn had stumbled across the listing not two days before, tacked to the wall by the inner door of an inn on their way north from Kanrys, and it hadn't taken more than the absent weight of their near-empty coin purse to convince them of looking into the matter. Now, there they were, a pair of fools out in the middle of the wilds, about to go on a likely fruitless search through some of Viridian’s densest forests in order to pick a fight whose odds they didn’t even know.

  Fortunately for them both, Declan had already figured out where to start their hunt, and Ryn offered them one or two unique advantages all his own…

  The fish sizzled and popped, and Declan swore as he realized he’d drifted off with his thoughts, forgetting to turn the make-shift spit. One side of the meat had dried and darkened over the flames, and he spun the redfin over quickly before it burned beyond saving. The sound of his cursing roused Ryn in turn, the horse blinking and looking up, eyeing the fire with distinct anticipation.