The Kingdoms of Felspar, page 5
part #1 of The Curse of the Dragon Bloodline Series
“Good evening, Majesty,” Kern greeted with a smile as he stopped before them. “Here for the fish stew?” As he said this, he nodded toward a table set back in the corner of the room.
Turning his attention to OlvéR, Rúne nodded, and then scanned the door where Sefi awaited his signal. Finn sat at the table with a few other young lads, waiting for this Shadow person, no doubt. Now, all that was left to do was wait.
After several minutes passed, they grew impatient. Rúne mentioned as much to his companions at the bar as Kern brought them a round of ale. Before Rúne could stop him, OlvéR pushed himself away from the bar and headed in Finn’s direction.
“Finn, my boy, how has the training been going?” OlvéR asked loudly as he approached the table.
Finn looked up at OlvéR with uncertainty. “Er . . . fine.”
It was difficult to see in the faint light of the room. Though, it appeared that OlvéR had said something more to the young man. Before Rúne could give this anymore thought, OlvéR looked back at the bar and nodded toward them, signaling to Sefi. The lad opened the door and motioned for the guards.
As the guards entered, they followed their king as Rúne made his way through the mob toward the back corner of the tavern. Disregarding the gawking crowd, he faced the young man as the guards surrounded him. It was time to put an end to this Shadow business once and for all.
“You’ve one chance, Finn, to name this Shadow,” Rúne warned him. “Speak the truth and no harm will come to you. Should you lie to me, it will be your fate to meet the end of my blade.”
Anxiously, Finn searched the faces of the men before him, lingering momentarily on the guards. He lowered his head in defeat. “It is I, sire.”
“You?” Rúne howled incredulously. “You are behind this charade?”
“Aye.” Finn nodded, unable to meet Rúne’s eyes.
“Codswallop!” declared OlvéR, exchanging a look with both Rúne and Auđin. “Surely you do not believe this drivel, Your Majesty?”
“‘Tis truth!” Finn retorted firmly. “You presume to be such a great leader?” His tone dripped with spite. “I was there in your last raid, and you do not even know me. So insignificant that you invite me to join a force that I was already a part of!” he snapped vehemently, banging his fist on the table. “I may be small by comparison, but I too am a great hunter!”
Fighting back his laughter, Rúne regarded the boy who wished to challenge a king. It was obvious that he needed a good lashing. Perhaps he was a bit spoiled by his parents.
“We are well aware that you are no challenge for me. What was your purpose?” Rúne demanded, though certain that he already knew the answer. “To cause so much unrest that anyone would step up to challenge me for the crown?”
“Aye!” Finn snarled, lifting his chin defiantly.
Relieved that the so-called uprising was nothing more than false gossip, Rúne felt a touch of remorse for Finn. He would pay dearly for his own stupidity. “I cannot overlook the damage you intended to cause, Finn. Moreover, I will not tolerate treason among my people.” Rúne motioned for the guards to take Finn and his men.
“What do you think, Auđin?” Rúne looked to his brother.
“A few years in the dungeon ought to straighten them out,” Auđin said, pursing his lips.
OlvéR looked at Finn in disgust before turning to the guards. “Take him away! Get this fool and his band of cohorts out of my sight before I decide the dungeon is too good for them.”
“A drink, anyone?” Sefi offered, as the guards removed the rebels from the tavern. “Undoubtedly, Kern is pleased that his tavern is still in one piece. I’d wager he’s been sweating the outcome for a bit.” He spared a glance at the bar. “Mayhap we should buy some ale to celebrate our victory and Kern. He did help us.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, young Sefi,” Rúne said, placing his arm around Sefi and Auđin’s shoulders as they headed back to the bar.
The tavern was lively, and the celebration was grand as Rúne and his men toasted their victory. Still, it was hard to believe that Finn had worked so hard to stir trouble in the village. It made him curious as to why the young lad hated him so much.
There were far too many people in the village for Rúne to know each one, and he did not know Finn, nor his parents. Perhaps his father had been killed in a dragon raid. Whatever he had done to cause the young man’s hatred was certainly unintentional. Time in the cell would help cool his young temper.
Rúne decided that only time would tell. However, the rebellion had been exposed. With any hope, all those who’d witnessed today’s events would be none too eager to start another rebellion anytime soon.
Although he was angry about the attempted rebellion, Rúne could not help the feeling of regret that nagged at him. Finn was such a young lad, and he hated to end his life before it began. Although he had not released him or the culprits; treason was a serious crime, and they were lucky that he’d allowed them to keep their heads.
The whispered rumors of a rebellion had gone silent shortly after Finn and his accomplices were arrested, and Rúne was beyond relieved. Although his quest for power had been put on hold while he concentrated on the birth of his heir, he was content. For the time being, that was where his focus must remain, though he was not giving up on his ultimate goal; merely delaying it for a while.
It was a joyful day as Rúne gazed upon his queen while she cradled his newborn son. In that moment, life could not be more wonderous. His wife had blessed him with a son, and peace reigned in the City of Ungolia.
“AnBjörn,” Rúne announced softly as he sat on the edge of the bed beside them. “A strong name for my son.”
“AnBjörn,” Dalli repeated, gazing lovingly between her husband and son. “Aye, ‘tis a proper name. Want to hold him?”
Gingerly taking his son, Rúne inspected him thoroughly. His son’s light coloring was much like his brother Auđin and their father. His tiny head was topped with downy reddish blond hair, and his eyes were green like the forest. Upon closer inspection, Rúne noticed a beveled strawberry birthmark on his shoulder. It resembled a crescent dragon, similar to the crest of Naulyb, yet scale-like. The mark concerned him at first, but the more he thought about it, Rúne decided that it was fitting. After all, AnBjörn was the son of a dragon slayer.
While he held his son, his wife unfolded a piece of linen, revealing a petrified golden-brown dragon eye.
“This amulet will protect you, my sweet, for all the days of your life.”
As she placed it upon him, the babe began to wail uncontrollably, as though it caused him pain. Shocked by his reaction, Dalli looked to her husband, and then the midwife for an explanation. The amulet had been hers, passed down from her mother.
“‘Tis too soon for trinkets, milady,” the midwife hastily answered. “The child’s skin is still sensitive.”
Nodding, Dalli hurried to remove it, which instantly quieted her son.
“Aye, too soon,” Rúne agreed, silently puzzled by the experience. “He is beautiful, ma’ love.”
Leaning in, he placed a tender kiss on his wife’s forehead and then stood. He swung the balcony doors open and stepped out, lifting his son for the awaiting crowd to see.
“Behold your prince AnBjörn, our protector and keeper of the land.”
The announcement was met with a roar of praises, and Rúne’s heart swelled with pride. After allowing the people a good look at his son, he took the babe back inside to his mother. It would soon be time for her to tend him.
As he left his wife and son to rest, Rúne contemplated the future of his son. Although one could not be born into the succession, he was certain that his son would win the heart of Ungolia. Rúne’s father, and his father before him, had been King of Ungolia. Being raised in the palace and learning what was necessary to run a kingdom, had played a major factor in him gaining the support of his father’s people. This knowledge and the respect for his father had won him the crown upon his father’s death.
Although he could not be born a king, he could be chosen by the people because his father was king. His son would be taught, just as Rúne had, and through their respect for the father, the people would support the son.
This was his hope for his son AnBjörn.
5
The Arien Forest
Seven years later
STENOFAGGER MENTALLY SHOOK his head at the irony of his situation as he sat among the ragtag bunch that he considered his people. Even though he had abandoned his own kingdom and its politics, it seemed that he was destined to lead. Even now, amid this band of rebels, he was continually given the task of decision-maker.
There were those among the kingdoms of Felspar who had grown tired of the tyranny of kings. In particular, kings who sought to possess the power of dragons in order to preserve their reign. Those daring enough to leave their dwellings in the villages had made their home in the Arien Forest. Nevertheless, a ruler needed to exist in any faction—one elected by way of supporters was still a leader, even if he was not a king.
Though he was reluctant to accept his appointed role as the leader of this group, the sentiment was futile. Mayhap that was because Stenofagger had a weakness for those loyal to him. Their loyalty warranted his trust and devotion. The compensation for that loyalty presently found him and his comrades at the northernmost edge of the Arien Forest. Situated west of the channel, shrouded by the foliage, they lay in wait for their quarry.
It was customary for the city of Ungolia to receive a wagon of trade goods from Jan’fadar, which was to the southwest. Due to the dangers of bandits in the Arien Forest, this voyage only occurred once in a sennight. Their scout, Greyhawk, had informed them that this particular wagon would be loaded with apples, hops, and whey. The people of the Arien Forest had gone long enough without ale for celebration of their freedom.
A caravan would never willingly enter the Arien Forest, lest they be stripped of all wares and the merchants left wandering home on foot. Not for the sake of cruelty; the forest dwellers had no care to harm the innocent and only took what was necessary for survival. Ale was a necessity for their celebration. Their rebellion was only against those who threatened their cause for a peaceful Felspar, a realm free of tyrants seeking power over dragons and humans alike.
As the kingdom that had once belonged to Stenofagger, they only plotted to raid the wagons from Jan’fadar. Rich in textiles and fruits, their farms were plentiful, thanks to a tyrant’s daughter who possessed the gift of cultivation. Relieving the sitting king of his wares was the least they could do.
The mere thought of Jan’fadar’s sitting king, Balor, was enough to make his blood boil. Once rulers of a lesser kingdom, King Balor and Queen Orellia of Bhutan had visited him in Jan’fadar. They’d claimed to come seeking to join Bhutan and Jan’fadar, an alliance in warfare and trade. To seal the pact, a betrothal to their daughter was offered.
It was in that moment that Stenofagger had been introduced to a goddess. Onyxxea was the essence of inner peace and remarkable beauty, and he had fallen for her quite suddenly. It wasn’t until much later when he realized that his lovely betrothed was merely a pawn. An exquisite distraction used to blind him as her parents stole his kingdom out from under him.
Stenofagger despised men like Balor, whose lust for power knew no bounds. He and Orellia made an evil pair indeed. It was their very greed that had led him to make one of the most difficult decisions of his lifetime, although after that witch queen had cast her poisoned curse on his crown, he could have given up and allowed it to kill him.
Alas, he had not been ready to die. In the face of his imminent death, Stenofagger had illicitly sought out a blood peddler. It was a daring attempt to cure himself or die trying. Ostensibly, he was too stubborn to die, as a rare miracle occurred, and his body fully adapted to the infusion. In his effort to save his own life, he had traded one curse for another—a poisoned crown for a poisoned bloodline.
The sound of a bird squawked distinctly in the distance, bringing Stenofagger back to the moment at hand. The sound came again, and then a third time. A signal.
“The wagon approaches soon,” Greyhawk quietly affirmed in the silence of the forest.
“How do you propose we handle Balor’s merchants, Sten?” asked Theoldrig as he untethered the horses.
“We let them go. They are not the target,” Stenofagger stated, effortlessly hoisting himself up onto his mount.
“When do you plan to attack the target?” Theoldrig prodded as he mounted his own steed. Once situated on the horse’s back, he pulled his long golden hair back and tied it with a strip of leather cord.
Childhood friend and brother by fate, Theoldrig was a bear of a man. Broad in the shoulders and nearly a head taller, Stenofagger looked up to meet his eyes. “Harming Balor would also hurt her. It is for that reason I did not return to claim my throne. I could not bear to be the cause of her sorrow.” He ran his fingers through his dark hair, pushing it out of his face. “Balor will die soon, anyway, if he hasn’t already.”
“How can you be certain?” Theoldrig raised an eyebrow.
“He killed Dragoona’s offspring Shulan and took the dragon’s blood. In all my wanderings, I have never known any man to survive it,” Stenofagger said gravely, shaking his head.
“You did,” he countered matter-of-factly.
It was the truth. He had survived. It could be possible, Stenofagger supposed, for more than one man to survive the poisoned bloodline. Another forest creature howled, cutting his thought short.
“This is it.” The excitement in Theoldrig’s voice was evident as the wagon came into view. “Steady,” he instructed as they prepared to advance.
As the trade wagon rounded the top of the forest, the brigands charged forward onto the path to Ungolia, blocking their travel. The horses reared as the driver jerked back on the reins, jarring the wagon’s contents as it came to a stop.
“Where ye headed, milords?” Theoldrig called out to them, disguising his voice.
Stenofagger stifled a chuckle at Theo’s theatrics.
“What can we help you with, sir?” one merchant replied, his tone heavy with apprehension.
“Well, ye see,” Theoldrig said in his disguised voice. “We were sent to bring that there wagon to Ungolia and send you back to Jan’fadar with a message.”
Clearing his throat, Stenofagger tried a new voice. “Aye, ‘tis as he says.” His lips twitched as he struggled to suppress his amusement.
The merchants exchanged a confused look.
“Sirs, I believe you have us mistaken for someone else. This is our wagon,” the other, older merchant announced.
“Nay, ‘tis no mistake, milord,” Theoldrig cautioned as he menacingly drew closer.
The younger of the two merchants moved his hand toward the hilt of his blade.
“‘Tis not the wisest decision ye could make today, young lad,” Stenofagger interjected quickly, retaining his disguise. “Lest ye forget where ye be.”
Appearing to think better of his decision, the young man placed both hands, palms forward, in front of him. Stenofagger did not take pleasure in the lad’s fear. The only satisfaction he allowed himself was the knowledge that what they were pilfering had once been rightfully his.
“Does the Lady Onyxxea still reside at the palace?” Theoldrig probed, unaware of the sudden daggers of Stenofagger’s stare. If looks could kill, he would have been a dead man.
The older merchant furrowed his brow as he shook his head. “No, milord. The lady left the palace not long after her betrothed, the former king, was exiled.”
Theoldrig shot a questioning glance at Stenofagger, then turned his attention back to the merchants. “Tell ye what. Ye leave that wagon, and we shall leave yer heads intact. In fact, it will be returned to this very spot on the morrow. Empty, naturally, but yers nonetheless,” he finished gregariously.
The merchants contemplated their options, ultimately deciding that they would relinquish the wagon and its goods to the bandits.
“Now what?” said the older merchant in a defeated tone.
“Ye get to live yet another day, milord,” Theoldrig announced gleefully. From his mounted position, he gave a mock bow. “Thank ye for yer cooperation.”
Wordlessly, Greyhawk dismounted his horse and tossed the reins to Theoldrig before climbing up onto the wagon. Theoldrig had met Greyhawk by accident several years before when he had gotten himself caught in a beartrap in the timberland. Greyhawk, a mere boy at the time, had found Theoldrig and released him. He was a bit of a loner and never spoke much, just showed up from time to time. Eventually, he’d taken his place among the freemen in the forest. Though not much for conversation, Greyhawk had proven to be an excellent marksman with a bow and arrow.
The merchants looked dumbfounded as they struggled to figure out what had just happened. Undoubtedly, they were not overjoyed with the prospect of walking back to the kingdom. Arguing with each other, they walked away from the forest and in the direction of Jan’fadar.
“Oh, tell King Balor hello for us, will ye?” Theoldrig yelled, waving cheerfully as if he were an old friend.
“The king is dying.” The younger merchant stopped to look back. “They are looking for a new successor to take his place,” he supplied, with no regard for gossiping with bandits.
“Hush, lad! Don’t tell them anything else,” the older man admonished as he grabbed the other merchant by the arm and tugged him along.
Once the merchants were well on their way back to Jan’fadar, Greyhawk set the team into motion, the others followed as they headed back into the forest. Stenofagger grinned with satisfaction as they rode on toward the stronghold.
The merchant’s news that Onyxxea was not at Jan’fadar matched Greyhawk’s revelation that he had seen her in Bhutan on a recent scout. Many times, Stenofagger wondered what had become of her. Part of him wanted to believe that she no longer wanted him after he’d lost his kingdom to her wretched father. Yet there was another deeply buried part that believed what they had shared was authentic.
