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theEvilOne · 17/11/2009 11:56 AM

Here's the new book I'm working on, this is just a preview so you will not know what the plot is by reading this chapter, but I do find this chapter to be pretty epic (especially at the end), so have fun if you choose to read this.

Some of the editing is going to look wrong (ie paragraphs, indents, thoughts) because it doesn't show up right when I copy and paste it, and I don't feel like taking the time to fix it all for this post.

Spoiler for Chapter 3:

The king is in high spirits tonight.
He hoped it was just the ale, brewed too thick and strong for his own liking, but the thought of the king in a good mood was almost incomprehensible. And why do I question this now? he thought, and looked down at his plate; quails drowned in butter, a lively salad of greens with diced tomatoes, corn, peas, and tiny strawberries. Another plate in front of him proved more appetizing, although over the years he had grown bored of roast beef and the trenchers of gravy with onions and garlic and peppers that always seemed to compliment it. Now he had lost his appetite, but he knew not why. I should be reveling with the rest of them, he thought gloomily, gazing at all the dancers and their happy, laughing faces. He would not be one of them tonight.
Today had been his sister’s wedding, and after the dinner feast the king would definitely be drunk. Not only did he want his sister to have a most enjoyable experience, but he needed a chance to talk to the king alone, and while he was not being himself, which was cold-hearted, one-sided, a monster, and even to some, a traitor. Now would be a very good time to approach him, Maximillian reflected, looking down the dais to his right where the king and queen shared the middle of the long table. His was given a place of honor, as befit his status within the council, at the bench between Shon Illescas, the king’s dark-figured sage, and Quelarn Fironil, the king’s Councilor of Laws, while Maximillian himself was the king’s Councilor of Expenses. Across the hall next to the musicians was a separate table of honor, reserved for the bride and groom only. He would have gladly given up his own seat to another high lord to be sitting at that table with his sister, but he dared not upset the king.
A sudden voice in his left ear drew him back into reality. “Max, you look pale. Have you taken ill? You’ve hardly touched your plate.” Quelarn was ever smiling, the quickest to laugh at the right jest, but he knew how to hold his silence when needed. And that was often, Max noted. He was surprised to hear the man bring up small talk.
“I fear I have lost my taste for such delicacies, my lord.” He couldn’t help but smile. He had not many a friend at court, but he knew this man was likable enough by the commons, unlike Shon who sat at his right hand. I might be able to win Quelarn over to my cause. “Have a taste, if you would like.” He held his hand out over his untouched plates, but Quelarn was quick to reject, he too also full from the first many plates brought out for the feast. Reaching out, Quelarn grabbed a bottle and refilled his wine cup, and when Max held his cup out his new friend was imposed with no other choice but to fill it to the brim.
“To your sister,” Quelarn announced, holding his cup up for all to see, but no one was paying them any mind, the clatter of fudge and knife on plates, the echoing of small talk, and the sound of music drowning their proposals out from everyone who wasn’t in their immediate vicinity.
“To Serina and her gallant and noble knight of a husband, Ser Adam Waltren,” Max praised, also holding his cup on high. “May they live happily for the rest of their days together.” He and Quelarn both drained their cups, and already Max was thirsting for more. Enough drink, I must have my wits about me when I face the king, and sooner is better than later. Out across the large feasting hall, past the trestle tables full of the men and women of the lords and ladies of the court and their families, be they children, squires, knights, or wizened old grandfathers, it made no matter; the king’s personal trio had began their next song, and one and all were slowly making their way to the empty side of the hall to revel and dance in celebration. The first to get up when the musicians first came out had been his sister and her new husband of course, and now both were red faced and laughing, but already Maximillian’s head was ready to burst from the piper’s piping and harp player’s plucking. At least that fool Zachery is keeping quiet. He spied the motley fool walking in circles, looking for guests to entertain. For now.
“‘Tis so sad,” Shon Illescas suddenly piped up next to him, and for once Max was almost startled to hear him speak up. Almost. The sage was also watching Serina dancing with the knight, more and more guests of the feast starting to surround them.
“What is?” he asked, not knowing whether to take offense at the man’s words.
Max watched the sage’s eyes move back and forth, following his sister’s movements around the dance floor, and it wasn’t until a few moments later that he replied with, “I see your sister, such a lovely and innocent young woman, but tonight she will surely lose such innocence.” Illescas turned his head and looked Max straight in the eyes, the evilest of grins spread across his lips.
“You would do well to guard your tongue, wizard,” Max warned him, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, his anger rising by the second. “Do what you want with the kingdom, but I swear, if you speak ill once more of my sister, I’ll—”
Quelarn on the other side of him burst out laughing, slapping him on the back with such force that he was bound to fall off his chair. And what a terribly high chair this is. Instead he shifted his position on his cushions, for his bottom was threatening to fall asleep, and glared at the man to his left. “What is the meaning of this, my lord Quelarn? You find this funny?”
“As a matter a fact, I do,” Quelarn said through a mouthful of bread, and in his hands he was tearing off pieces of a large black crust, flakes of the fleshly baked dough falling onto the table. The man pointed a thumb and forefinger full of bread at his sister on the dance floor. “And so does she.” On his other side, Shon Illescas tittered to himself, almost a squeak of a laugh.
“You wound me,” Max told them through ground teeth, but he forced a smile and glanced down the hall at his sister, who was now making her way over, the biggest of grins on her face. Only then did he understand.
“Big brother!” Serina greeted airily, bending over the table to kiss his forehead, and her knight stood watching at her side. “I take it you’ve fallen for their little trap?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he told her, fidgeting in his seat, trying to rise up higher. He was most definitely the shortest man in attendance to the entire feast, seeing as how he was a dwarf. No, you’re a warlock, and why shouldn’t you be? he told himself. All you’d have to do is paint yourself blue and you’d fit in with the rest of them. Max didn’t have time to keep putting himself down, so he looked up at his sister from his chair and smiled. “You are cruel to frighten me with such ungainly jests, sweet sister. Remind me again why you’re marrying this handsome young man?” His eyes passed over to the knight, who met his gaze with an impatient smile. Yes, but impatient for what, I wonder? Of course he knew the answer, but he didn’t want to think that this newly made knight and husband was soon to be sharing the sheets with his sister, his own flesh and blood.
“You must forgive me, brother, for I am only a shy maiden, playing silly games with those I love,” Serina said, wrapping an arm around Ser Adam. You won’t be a maiden for long, my dear, Max thought, suddenly sad. His sister was going to be a woman soon, and would never again be the little girl he used to take care of back at their home in Ironhollow Castle, for their father had passed soon after she had been brought forth into the world. Their mother had blamed herself, and was beside herself with grief, even to this very day. The healers keep telling her that it’s not her fault, and that her husband had died of the flux.
Suddenly an image came unbidden to his thoughts, that of his sister and the knight at their pillow play, and he clumsily reached for his cup, knocking it over; his sister had exclaimed in surprise, but when it fell it merely shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor, no wine to be seen to stain the ground. Get a hold of yourself, you drunken fool, lest you be commanded to switch seats with Zachery. By the large doors that led out of the feasting hall into the gardens, the jester was busily entertaining a few of the younger guests, merrily hopping from one foot to another, the bells in his hat ringing ding-a-ling, ding-dong-ding, over and over until Max prayed he’d go deaf. Behind the fool, two guardsmen stationed outside the doors were talking quietly to each other, glaring at the jester every so often, seemingly annoyed of his jangling as much as Max was.
His attention was brought back to his sister when he looked upon her face and saw her eyes go wide in sudden fear. A hand clasped Max on the shoulder, and he craned his neck around to find himself face to face with the king, Edmon Mordred, who was well and truly drunk; his breath gave part of it away, and the fact that he couldn’t stand up without holding half his weight on Max’s shoulder was all the proof he needed. He gritted his teeth in discomfort, but the king soon swayed around his other side and held himself against the table between him and Quelarn, who was watching the king with a fascinated look on his face.
Before anything was said, Shon Illescas spoke up yet again, saying, “Your Grace, I may know a few many things that no one else has a right to know, but it doesn’t take an old man like me to see that you have drunk a few too many cups of wine.” He grinned. “And ale, I have no doubt.”
“What I choose to drink and how much of it I consume is of no concern of yours, Illescas,” the king roared, although not angrily, but the music had stopped and the hall grown quiet; all eyes were upon him, but he paid them no heed. “I’m the king, damn it, and I’ll drink to myself into my own grave if I choose so.” Shon bowed his head stiffly, nothing more to say to his king who then rounded on Max. “Max the Dwarf…you may be smaller than the meekest child here, but sometimes I think it’s you who takes care of Dornesse for me.” Again Max had no choice but to smile and laugh at the king’s jests. “I don’t know how you do it, little man. You could pull a few gold coins out of a whore’s donkey and she’d never notice.” He laughed to himself, as if realizing the truth of his words. “So that’s how you do it, then? Fuck a few wenches, pay them with your seed, and in kind they pay you back with a few gold coins. I bet they don’t know about the change they’re giving you, though!” The king threw back his head and barked his laughter, slamming his fists on the table.
Maximilian grimaced, watching his sister’s horror-stricken face. It took a great deal of years to grow accustomed to the king’s mannerisms, and Serina had only just moved into the city no more than three fortnights past.
“Your Grace, pray forgive us, but do wee have your leave to return to our places?” the knight Ser Adam begged, holding his newly wedded wife in his arms. She was deathly afraid of the king by now, her face buried into her husband’s sleeve.
The king gave them a look that was half disbelief, half contempt, and he said, “No, you do not have my leave. None of you do.” He tilted his head, taking in Serina’s figure. “What was your name now, sweet lady? Selina?” He coughed, hacked up what seemed to be a mouthful of phlegm, and spat it into the rushes behind him. He gazed upon the knight. “You’re one lucky man, my boy. Might be I’ll have to take turns with you tonight in your wedding bed.”
Max was half tempted to grab his carving knife and plant it deep into the king’s belly, but the King’s Keeper had appeared next to Shon Illescas. “Edmond,” he said, his voice ringing full of his authority. It was said that the king ruled the kingdom with body, soul, and mind, but most forgot the fourth tier in the matter, which was truth. And the truth was that the King’s Keeper was the true ruler of Dornesse. That never was the case, but there was something strange about the current King’s Keeper; Max had not once seen him during a Council Meeting, and rarely came across him in the castle halls. The only time he ever came across the King’s Keeper was at dinner, much like this one. He was the only person that could get away with calling the king by his name. The last person to call the king “Edmon” and not “Your Grace” had lost his tongue for his troubles. That man was Olen Whyte, the king’s former drinking mate, and they had both been drunk, but he had been forgiven and made the Commander of the City Patrol by Chadwick Cierpke, the King’s Keeper.
The king squinted at him with narrow eyes, his anger easy to see, but he did not challenge him. Instead he turned back to Serina and bowed, swaying in the process. “Forgive my, child. The wine does terrible things to me, and I am in no fit state to see out the rest of this feast. Please enjoy the rest of your night, the both of you, and pray excuse my rude behavior. I will be retiring to my tower now, so I bid thee goodnight.” He nodded his head, and the musicians at the back of the hall deemed it a proper time to start their squawking once more, to Max’s astonishment. Of course, he thought, and behind him the king and the King’s Keeper began their retreat.
“Forgive me, sweet sister, but I fear I must ask you to excuse me also.”
She smiled, despite the recent events. “I will talk to you on the morrow, brother.” With that she took her knight by the hand and led them through the guest tables and back over to their own.
Max pushed himself down from his chair, waddled around it, and pushed it in. He wasn’t one to forget his courtesies. “Where are you off to, Max?” Quelarn asked inquisitorially. He was leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “Not off to one of them whore houses so soon, are ye?” He and Shon resumed their laughing from earlier, and he left them there without another word.
Walking down the dais, behind all the guests, he noted where everyone important had been seated for the feast. In the middle had been the king, but his chair was empty with the queen lingering in her own next to his, staring aimlessly at her uneaten food. He walked past her without a word, thinking, well, now wee have one thing in common.
Next to the queen had been Chadwick, but his seat was empty now also, he and the king now slipping out the side doors into the garden, flanked by the king’s personal guard, the King’s Three. His tiny legs would have to work double time if he wanted to catch up to them.
Next down the dais was Kelisra Davda, the Councilor of Warfare. The first day she had been announced to her position, Max had been baffled, along with half the city. A female in the seat of a warlord? It was unspeakable. The next day in the training yard, he saw why she had been hired; she was the best swordswoman, rider, and all around warrior he had ever seen. Even ser Karl Mordred, the king’s own son had fallen before her, and there were only a select few who could stand a chance against such a knight. She would surely be a knight, Max thought, and he thought he could actually smell her beauty as he passed behind her chair. If such things were allowed. Not only was she a great warrior, she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and he had seen—and lain with, he thought—a vast selection of beautiful women, despite the fact that he was, truthfully and painfully, a dwarf. If the gold is good, they care not who they bed.
At the end of the table was Frederick Woelfel, the Councilor of Sails. He was a hardy man, born and raised on a ship, it was a said, and he remained on the mainland for as short a time as possible. “I like the feel of good wood under my feet, the crashing of the waves all around me,” he always said, but to that Max had replied, “I prefer the feel of my wood under a wench or two, with the sounds of their delight all around me,” and they had many a laugh on the matter. Max patted him on the shoulder on his way down from the dais, and the man nodded his head at him, but his attention was short lived and returned to his plate.
Something is wrong, Max knew as he waddled down the steps, took a left, and then headed for the doors to the gardens. He looked back at the dais and only then remembered that the Grand Councilor Rowan, the Councilor of Health, had been sleeping in his chair on the far side of the dais, right next to Quelarn. Max chuckled to himself. The old get older, and I am soon to join them.
He went out the doors and stepped out into the night, the cool air a delight to his skin; it had been unbearably stuffy in the hall from all the guests and smoke from the food. He hurried along on his way, not stopping to smell any of the roses, crossed the bridge that sloped upward over a small stream and narrowed down to a single-tiled pathway, leading straight to the King’s Tower. He could see the king and his loyalties all about him in the distance, and he shouted at them, but they either couldn’t hear him or pretended not to. He didn’t want to know which one of it the truth was.
Max began running on his stinted legs, and he soon began to catch up, the trees starting to press in close around the path, making it ever darker. “Edmon!” he shouted angrily, although he did not know why or who he was angry with.
“What is it, Max?” Alexander Tagliarini asked, the Commander of the King’s Three. His two brothers Kelley Reazer and Gavin Candle, who both happened to be bastards, were in front of the king and his Keeper, while Alexander drew up guard from the rear. What they were protecting them from, he couldn’t even guess.
“I need to talk to the king, it’s of the utmost importance,” he declared, breathless, and with those words the man called the party to a halt.
“What do you want, dwarf?” the king asked, turning around long enough for him to catch up on his short legs, and then they resumed their march to the King’s Tower. “I’m in a fine mood, if you could tell.” Gavin of his Three laughed.
“Wee need to talk about the Royalty Expenses,” he told him, trying to put it as lightly as he could; he didn’t want to blame the king himself, but in truth it was the king who was spending all of the kingdom’s gold.
“You presume to tell me what to spend my gold on, runt?” the king groaned without looking back. Max followed his steps behind him, although each one of the king’s steps were equal to three of his own; the king was a prodigious man, and compared to Max, he was a giant, a God. He is not Falcrose, Max reminded himself. A guest of wind blew in from his right, cooling his senses, and he thanked his God for responding so fast. He was even oblivious to the fact that the king had called him a runt.
“I’m not blaming you, Your Grace,” Max told the king, trying to win him over, “but I am running out of resources. I’m afraid in less than three years time wee will be bone dry of gold.”
The king snorted back laughter. “Where’s a whore when you need one, huh?” He had said it to no one in particular, and only in jest, but still it angered him. This fat man who thinks he can eat and spoon his gold wherever he likes will soon come to realize that he needs me to keep his precious throne.
“I know there’s something else happening,” Max blurted, and for a moment the king stopped in his tracks. He gave a sigh and continued on again.
“Let’s just say wee have less than a year before the gold in my vault is depleted,” the king muttered, looking down at the ground. Is he ashamed? Max couldn’t believe it. “Thanks to your sister, the gold I let you borrow for the entire ordeal has cleaned me out. I’m broke, my wife won’t let me near her, nevertheless fudge her, and—”
This time he did stop in his tracks, and Max collided into his backside, shouting out in surprise. “There’s someone in your chambers,” Chadwick told the king quietly.
“I can see that, Chad,” he retorted, looking up at the window at the top of the tower, light escaping it’s panes from a hearth or candle burning inside.
“The Queen is still at the feast,” Max said, confused beyond a doubt. “Who else would be permitted to your personal chambers…unless it were—”
“My son!” the king roared, his dull mood suddenly brightened. The only time the king was in a good mood was when he was drunk, or when he was in the presence of his son.
Max peered around from behind the king and found the king’s son, ser Karl Mordred, leaning against the wall next to the archway that allowed access to the tower, guarded by two men with spears.
“Father,” Ser Karl greeted, although his welcoming wasn’t as warm as his father’s. The king came upon him and embraced him, and it seemed quite an oddity; the king wasn’t a loving sort of person, not even with his own wife. His son was all work and no play, as always. “Father, I have completed my task, and have delivered you your pet. Do I have your leave to retire for the night? It’s been a long ride.”
“Very well, my son,” the king said without a second thought, but before the knight could pass through the archway into the tower, the king caught him by the shoulder. “Where is he? Where is Theridor?” The king crossed his arms angrily. “I’d like to have a word with him.”
Max’s eyes went wide. Theridor, as in the Theridor, the assassin? What does Edmond want with him?
“Here,” a voice said behind Max, and he felt the cold kiss of steel against the apple of his throat, held tight. “Let’s have this talk.”

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Night Shadows preview Yes, yet another book that no one cares to read
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