Chapter 4: A King’s wish

Sir Lucius Alden

A King’s wish

 

 

Lucius thought it was her laughter he’d heard coming from the docks that caused him to change direction. At first he walked towards the sound, before realizing he couldn’t recall her laughter at all. It was the hair, he decided standing at the edge of the river docks to watch her better; red like a scalding fire in the night and that darn accent.

The wench turned, teasing eyes searching, the poor sailor suddenly not as interesting as the lord watching but also careful not to make a rush move that will bring displeasure. Lots of strangers in town and this Northlander wench didn’t know them all. Issirians and Lorians even Northmen and a few Cofols from the lands beyond the Shallow Sea. Riverdor was booming, people were streaming in for the tourney and the many fairs. The opportunity to make enough coin to live out the winter without worrying for the next meal too tempting to ignore.

What are you doing? Lucius asked himself pulling away from the busy docks. They were set on the banks of Serpent’s-Tongue River’s right limb that run all the way to the Smallake, one of the two great Lakes at the heart of the Kingdom of Kaltha. He caught another glimpse of the Northern wench as he turned away and walked towards his horse Stormbolt. Roderick his bodyguard and part-time squire was waiting for him, atop his own palfrey named Butter.

“Found anything worth the bother?” The old sword asked with a look of disapproval marring his aged face. Roderick had squired for his father King Alistair for twenty years and had agreed to help him, when his own squire Tobias had died five years back. Lucius didn’t know if it was at his father’s orders but since he’d known Roderick all his life he agreed and never came around asking him.

“Rivers stunk more than the sea.”

“Aye. Could’ve told ye that.” Roderick looked towards the docks, where the wench had been but Lucius didn’t fall for the bait. “Wanna stick around a bit?”

“Ralph will probably start a war.”

Roderick spat down and then offered him the reins.

“Your brother can take care of himself. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Lucius jumped on his horse deftly.

“I’m fine.”

“Aye. And I’m hungry but ye couldn’t tell it, if I hadn’t told ya.”

“Remind me why I’m bringing you along again?”

“You got no squire.”

“Hadn’t my father knighted you?”

“Didn’t let him.” Roderick deadpanned. Then seeing him thinking about it he added. “Knighting comes with a ton of rules ye are not supposed to break. And I hate rules as much I hate breaking them. Like ye.”

 

 

“Ralph can go.”

King Alistair Alden sat tall and imposing on the old throne of Regia. Gaunt face and piercing blue eyes under a carefully clean shaven skull. Taller than Lucius and even now, in his fifty-fifth named year, thirty years into his reign, King Alistair resembled the ferocious man he once was and his mind remained as sharp as ever.

He wore a dark red leather doublet, fastened with nine gold buttons at the front; a black tiger on a crimson field, the Alden coat of arms was sewn on the right side of his chest and he wore only one piece of jewelry. A great gold ring molded into the head of a roaring tiger with small ruby eyes. The hand wearing it clenched into a fist and his lips were pressed into a thin line after Lucius’ answer, but kept his silence.

Lucius stared at his own hands as the silence weighted heavy inside Cartagen’s palace hall. Small nicks and cuts broke the skin, long swordsman’s fingers strongly built, soft-leather sleeves adorned with silver thistle buttons, his own doublet worn tighter than his father’s over his muscular frame. The silence dragged.

“What do you want me to do?” Lucius broke it finally without looking at the throne.

“I want an heir with the Alden name,” Alistair snarled, his words slapping Lucius in the face. “I want one of my sons to win this tourney. The Issirian cunt brought to Regia and worked vigorously until she pops out another dark-skined Alden. This one an heir to Kaltha gods be willing,” He eyed him with such intention, Lucius felt two drills bore into his skull. “I want an Alden on the Wyvern’s throne, ruling the three kingdoms.”

“Ralph is perfectly capable—” Lucius started but Alistair didn’t give him the chance to finish.

“Ralph isn’t the problem! Nor is he here now. You are. You are my heir,” Lucius grimaced trying not to lash out. “I need you married. Not with some Northern whore, but with a proper lady. This family needs you to get your head straight. Forget the past. Bathe in glory. Yes glory, but not for you. Not for me. Not for some vague and misbegotten sense of honor or duty. Do it for your family. For your country. Win the tournament for Regia. Don’t leave it on the shoulders of your little brother. Be the man we all want you to be. A champion. An Alden.”

“Ralph wants this more,” Lucius said with difficulty, blood boiling in his veins.

“You will refuse your father?”

Lucius raised his head. Kept his voice steady. “No. I will go to Riverdor.”

King Alistair sat back on his throne. Whether he was pleased or not Lucius couldn’t tell. He felt worn out himself. “You will leave at once. Take Roderick with you and keep your brother out of trouble. You’ve been a knight since you were born. You know what to do.”

 

 

The suckling pig had lost its taste in his mouth. Lucius dropped the piece in his plate and wiped his hands with a soft towel. He could feel Roderick’s eyes on him and the heat of the place had become as uncomfortable as the memory. His mind wandered, an image of the girl with the red hair on the docks appearing again and he forced it away grinding his teeth.

“I checked the lists.” The loyal man said carefully sensing his mood. “Some new names. Good fighters all probably. Some better than others. Some worse than they think.”

“The De Weers?”

“Rik. Gust hurt his leg on a wild boar, they say.”

“Should’ve used his thick head instead.”

Roderick nodded with a grin. “Rik is a better tourney fighter. Won the tourney at Scaldingport last year.”

Lucius wasn’t of the same opinion.

“Were his opponents drunk or bought?”

“Does it matter?”

“Ralph unhorsed him in Asturia. He fell like a sack of rocks.”

“His billet strap broke. Blamed his squire.”

Lucius laughed at the memory.

“He gutted the man,” Roderick pointed and the smile froze.

“I didn’t know that. Savages.”

“Aye. Having the old Crow as a father would do that to you.”

Lucius grabbed the list, read the scroll for a moment then gave it back.

“What about this Prince?”

“Nobody knows anything of worth. I’m more worried about the Crull lad. Nasty warriors the lot of them. Half Issirians, half Northmen.”

Lucius sighed. “You think I will lose? Is that it old man?”

Roderick closed the scroll and examined him for a long moment before replying. “Only if you want to.”

 

 

Ralf had his long hair styled in a two braid bun, was freshly shaven, clad in a crimson and light-grey details doublet, the silver headed tiger embroidered on the right side of his chest matching his eyes. Almost as tall as his bigger brother, he cut an arresting figure with the inn’s patrons as he sat down opposite Lucius in their private table.

“Pork not to your liking Luci?” He asked taking a bite at a discarded piece from his plate and chewing it vigorously. “Gods, I’m famished.”

“Must be all the fuckin’,” Roderick commented.

“Oh, I fucked a lot,” Ralph said looking at his aged face. “Trained some too in the tourney grounds.”

“Pfft. Was it against your squire?”

“Haha. The fucking part no. Naosis favors this city with some splendid brothels old hand,” Lucius shook his head and Ralph seeing his reaction paused. “Brother you disapprove?”

“Father won’t be happy,” Lucius said reaching for a bottle of fine red to refill his goblet.

“King Alistair ain’t here, there’s a saying…” He thought about it some, quite theatrically. “What happens in Riverdor…”

“There’s no such saying,” Lucius pointed.

“Think I heard it in relation to Valeria,” Roderick added. Valeria was a small island in the Canilta Sea across Asturia. Ralph waved them off with his hand.

“Bah. You two are like old wives.”

They all laughed at that and moments later Lucius pushed back on his chair still smiling, his mind wandering to older times. He raised his goblet to drink idly, eyes watching the wine move in small waves, red as the girl’s hair as she turned to look at him. Her face though that of another. You think you won? Macia said, voice filled with hatred. That is over? He’s in me. Growing. Soon I’ll have him in my hands again. Lucius gasped and almost dropped the goblet.

“You had too much Luci?” Ralph asked him, eyes suddenly sad.

“Aye. This heat isn’t helping.”

“Wanna practice your sword hand?” His brother offered.

“You can’t beat me Ralph.”

His brother’s face turned serious. “I will this time.”

Roderick sniggered at his conviction. Lucius smacked his lips, memory pushed aside and got up. “You are gonna try,” He said simply.

 

 

Ralph came at him with a low cut but he stopped it and turned it into a high attack that almost caught him on the side of the head. His brother jumped away and grinned.

“You missed.”

“I stopped,” Lucius said, blunted blade resting on his right shoulder. Ralph launched another attack going for his stomach but he side-stepped, brushed the blade aside and pushed him back with his left hand.

“Too slow.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ralph replied, stopping to wipe sweat off his face with a towel.

“You are better with the lance.”

“Hmm. You think?”

Lucius pretended to think about it. “Nah.”

“Cocky,” They both smiled. “You seem in a better mood,” His brother noticed.

Lucius nodded testing his sword hand with a couple of hard swings. He felt better.

“Practice helps. Wakes up the muscles.”

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“Princess Elsanne can do that too,” Ralph taunted giving his blade to a young squire. Around them Knights and fighters were working on their skills or fooling around. The tourney grounds were bustling with activity. “Wake up certain muscles.”

“Haven’t seen her in a couple of years,” Lucius admitted.

“I’ve seen her yesterday. She was always exotic but now she has filled up nicely.”

Lucius surrendered his blade as well and followed his brother outside the grounds. He could see the city gates behind them at the distance.

“You like her?”

Ralph stopped to examine his face. “Luci. She’s a catch. I could stare her for hours.”

“You know she’s probably never going to inherit the throne right? King is young, he has an heir. He’s not stupid.”

“She’s a princess,” Ralph said simply. “Not everyone is destined to become a King, dear brother. Some like simpler things.”

“You like simpler things,” Lucius shook his head in disbelief as they walked past the big gates, along a large number of common folk and merchants.

“I want to win the hand of a Princess. As much glory as a second son is ever going to get,” Ralph explained sounding hurt. “You are here because father asked you. He doesn’t think I can win.”

Lucius stopped before a merchant table as they had reached the walled city market. Glanced at the wares for a moment, his face skeptical on the quality of the tools the man was showcasing. His mind working on his brother’s words.

“You are wrong,” He said finally. “Our father wants to ensure a win for our house. He doesn’t distrust you. On the contrary, it is me that has failed him.”

“Why fight? Just tell him no. If its marriage he worries about, you can find a bride again.” Seeing his expression souring, he added hurriedly. “When you want to.”

“Princess must be really something,” Lucius teased him, switching the subject. “Maybe I will like her enough.”

“You will not win,” Ralph said, sobering up. “You don’t want it as much as I do.”

“It’s skill that matters.”

“I can beat you Luci. If I want to. I can.”

“I’m not the only one competing Ralph,” Lucius watched the people buzzing around them. “It might not be that easy.”

“Never said it would be easy,” Ralph replied, a smile lighting up his face. “That is why I will enjoy it so much.”

 

 

Later that evening Lucius took a stroll down the North wall of the city and the richest villas housed there, the ‘purple district’ as the locals called it due to the distinct color of their tiled rooftops. Directly across stood the sturdy mass of the Riverdor Keep wedged at the corner where the North and West walls met. Riverdor was a walled city located between the two appendages of the great Serpent’s-Tongue river and had a separate castle on a cliff located four miles south guarding the only approach to the city.

You could bypass it had you wanted to lay siege on Riverdor, Lucius thought walking next to an equally silent Roderick. But then the castle defenders would be at your back. And if you elected to attack the castle first, the city could rally to its defense at any time.

“You’ll need two armies,” He decided speaking aloud and Roderick stopped and stared at his half hidden in the dark face.

“For what?”

“I was thinking… well, not really,” Lucius stumbled not comfortable with discussing it in the open.

“I don’t even want to know,” The older man said looking at the quiet neighborhood around them, probably guessing his mind.

“I would,” A soft voice said. They both turned to see who it was and there sitting on a bench outside a well-lit villa, a goblet in hand was the girl from the docks. Lucius noticed she wore man’s leather pants, boots and a vest that had too many buttons loose. A mass of red hair cascaded over her left shoulder as she tilted her head to keep them in her field of view.

“You go along now,” Roderick told her gruffly.

“I like to spend the nights outside,” The girl purred with a distinct Northern accent. “Too warm for me.”

“You should learn to address your betters—” Roderick snapped, irritated at her wit. Lucius put a hand on his arm to cut him off.

“It’s okay Roderick,” He sized her up and she returned his stare relaxed but for a mischievous grin at the corner of her well-shaped lips.

“You’re staying here then,” He told her, pointing at the large house in the back and that grin turned into a smile.

“Don’t be ridiculous—” Roderick growled but they both ignored him.

“What gave it away?” She asked.

“The man at the docks.”

“What of him?”

“He appeared guarded in your presence, when he should’ve been—”

“Aroused?” There was that impish look again. Lucius was sure she was flirting with him. He was impressed.

“Awed,” He said simply.

“Oh, for Uher’s sake,” Roderick complained not liking where this was going.

“I’m Zofia of Lundr,” The woman said. Lucius could see her better now and she looked seventeen, maybe older. He pushed his wild black hair out of his face.

“I’m Lucius of Alden,” He said leaving a lot of stuff out, voice caught in his throat. Half of it fear, half of it remembrance. With a tiny sliver of hope mixed in between. Zofia drained her goblet before answering him.

“Oh, I know who you are,” She said getting up, her face suddenly serious. “Sir Lucius Alden, heir to the Kingdom of Regia, Lord Cardinal of Alden. Famous ‘bloody tiger of the South’ and slayer of pregnant women.”

 

 

Tourney was almost upon them and the main Hall inside the Riverdor Keep was filled to capacity. Being a smallish Hall and all; this another hot morning, no one was particularly pleased being crammed inside, air smelling of sweat and chairs too close to gain much needed space for… more chairs. It was a noble goal to fit everyone in and it was accomplished as such, solving one problem by creating two.

On the best chair in the room, which as it happened was the throne itself, sat the Lord of Riverdor and the Foremost King’s Shield, the venerable Albert Van Durren. The man holding two titles. Here too a problem was solved by sheer luck, since this simple coincidence spared them the need to produce a second throne, or of equal quality chair. That is unless the King makes an appearance, Lucius thought.

He’d barely slept all night, twisting this way and that, sweating his underclothes and then the mattress when he shed them to sleep in the nude. It wasn’t the wine and he had a good deal of that in the inn they ended up. It wasn’t Roderick’s words, a constant buzz in his ears, he didn’t remember, or paid much attention to. Or at least that was what he wanted to believe. Trying to rile you up, was the gist of it. The old man meant well.

It wasn’t the wench’s words either, though she was speaking the truth, much as she knew it. It was the memories coming back, never too far. A soft gasp, blade cutting through flimsy cloth -yer southern lassies wear next to nothing husband. And the color. Sun-kissed rubicund on her hair, dark wine-red on her dress, a vile crimson where it pooled under her bare toes. The image had burned itself in his brain and he couldn’t shake it.

Lord Albert was talking, short white hair framing a gaunt face. Silk purple doublet the only extravagance on his lithe frame along with the gold brooch on the right side of his chest. Lucius had no idea what he was saying, his mind elsewhere, until he noticed Sigurd Bach dressed in his Silent Servant’s black, first a Priest of Ora and then a Master of Silence frowning heavily, eyes pinned at a point behind him.

Lord Albert had stopped talking.

Lucius turned his head towards the doors leading inside the Hall and all the commotion right as they swung open and a man walked in. Chainmail covered in caked mud and dust, wild red beard on a dark-skinned face, eyes the color of bronze. The face of a killer. Two guards run after him, one missing a helm. Tackled him not four feet from where Lucius sat and watched, his mind at last freed.

“My Lord,” One of the guards said holding the man’s left arm, which he’d managed to secure with a good two-handed grip.

“Gah!” The other cried as he got backhanded from the man’s right, which he hadn’t secured as well. Lucius cracked a smile.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sigurd said probably saving the stunned into silence Lord Albert from mumbling some idiocy he’d soon regret. “Explain yourself.”

The man raised his hands high, getting free from the second guard and glared at the filled to capacity hall.

“It would be wise to speak now lad,” A voice said coming from one of the Lords present.

“Aye then,” The man said. An Issir warrior, Lucius thought. With a heavy Northern accent. “I… apologize for the tumult,” He searched inside his right glove pulled something from it and showed it to the visibly recovered Lord Albert. The old-man, the Foremost King’s Shield was sixty, narrowed his eyes.

“Approach son, you can’t expect me to see that far,” He said to him and to the embarrassed guards, “Let him.”

The man walked towards the throne but before reaching it he got intercepted by Sigurd, the man moving swift as a cat. He got ahold of whatever the warrior had and proceeded to give it to the expecting Lord Albert.

“A letter from Lord Floris Vanzon,” The old man said after a tensed silent moment. “and his signet ring. It says the bearer, one Dirk Curd, speaks for him.”

“That’s quite right milord,” Dirk said. “I’m his sworn-sword.”

A murmur came from the Lords present.

“This is an unusual term in these lands,” Sigurd pointed out deictically. “And highly irregular. Why not use a bird? Surely the North has some available?”

“What is the message?” Lord Albert asked impatiently before the man could answer. Sigurd grimaced showing his displeasure at being interrupted.

“A warband sent by the O’ Dargans attacked my Liege’s son hunting party near the Lund river, cut down a dozen of ‘em, left the lad injured.”

“I hope he’s okay.” Lord Albert said with a frown. “Is this why your Lord isn’t present?” Lord of Krakenhall Floris Vanzon was also in the King’s council, his Master of Sea. Lucius took in the news calmly. There was always trouble brewing in the North.

“He intents on striking the O’ Dargans hard,” Dirk said. “Whether the lad survives or not.”

“The King should be informed before an action is taken.” Lord Albert said reproachfully.

“Which side?” Sigurd asked.

“Sir?”

“Which side of the river?”

“Ours,” Dirk replied after a small hesitation. Probably surprised as if not expecting the question. “Near Lundriver Castle.”

“How brazen,” Sigurd remarked.

“We will send word to Lord Vanzon to stop any reprisals,” Lord Albert announced.

“My Lord, we need to move swiftly before the snows come in,” The man argued.

“It’s still summer.”

“Not where I’m from,” Dirk replied to the amusement of the watching crowd, adding. “My lord.”

“Good man we’ve tourney here,” Sigurd intervened. “Our King will give the hand of his sweet sister to the winner. We can’t up and go to war, surely your Lord understands this!”

“My Lord needs no help to avenge his son,” Dirk insisted simply to the loud protests of those present. Lucius bit down on his lip. This didn’t concern Regia. His eyes found the face of the Master of Silence. He’d a calculating look on as if there was another way, which Lucius couldn’t see. He never liked politics, but the firstborn of King Alistair wasn’t stupid.

“My Lords,” The priest of Ora the dark said but not everyone paid him much attention. The dark skin on his shaven skull gleamed in the light coming from the large open windows, but not as much as his ashen-grey eyes. “We could perhaps, solve this in another manner.”

Lucius tensed up instinctively, his body reacting before his brain caught up.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Sigurd continued stubbornly amidst the general ruckus of many people talking at the same time. “We have an O’ Dargan here in Riverdor,” And this finally silenced the packed Hall.

“An envoy? Surely we can’t…” A Lord asked. But Lucius knew what the cunning man meant; what he didn’t know was the name of the man, or woman involved.

“A merchant,” Sigurd replied his pleasure difficult to conceal. “His daughter.”

And then he knew that too.

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