Dishonour by Dee Carteri (simple e reader TXT) 📕

Polaris' Day, July 19, 1268 A.R.


The forest watched in horrified silence as the two warbands clashed together up on the road that was quickly being washed of it's spilled blood under the torrential downpour. Lightning momentarily scraped away the eager darkness exposing an orchestra of swords, spears and shields clanging together in a cacophony of determined hatred that was played against the melody of the fearful screams and cries of the agonized dying soldiers. Riderless horses dashed away whilst carrion birds hurried towards the meal being laid out with each thrust of a spear or slash of a sword.

Maceol was fighting near the heart of the nightmarish skirmish when the enemy began to retreat in full rout, rushing over the bodies of the fallen and forsaking the pleas of the wounded. Maceol stumbled, feeling the deep wound in his left thigh for the first time. Looking out from the mud through dimming eyes, he perceived the trampled banner of the enemy. The black hood of Shadow, inset in bronze flame peered outwards from the banner with invisible eyes. That hood haunted Maceol's nightmares night after night, scouring his mind with hidden eyes and burning his soul in bronze flame; forcing him to recall the cries of the shattered hearts of parents who lost their children, the tales of the broken spirits of rescued prisoners, the fearful denials of the dying, the burning villages, the burning bodies, the burning souls?

The lightning flashed, once more illuminating the watchful banner before all sank into darkness.

Sun's Day, August 12, 1268 A.R.
Across the bridge lay the city of Whiterift, its brilliant white banners shining beside the red flags of Octania. A few houses had been constructed beyond the outer wall, and their residents seemed a carefree folk, their children laughing and playing in the river as it babbled in the joyous yet indecipherable language of such meandering waterways.

Near the western edge of the city a quaint wooden mill, still active as farmers came to process their early harvests, was overshadowed by a massive stone bridge bearing six waterwheels that spanned the Angelos. Blacksmiths filed out of a large building built upon the mill bridge, cheerfully returning to their homes and anxiously awaiting their midday meals. Most stopped to wash the soot of the furnaces from their arms and faces in the river.

The road wound up to a wide gate watched by four sentries clothed in the full livery of the Marquis of Whiterift who were idly lounging about, smoking and eating and laughing. Their helmets and cloaks lay forgotten as they strove in a futile quest to stave off the summer heat. The grey stones of the thirty foot high wall seemed to blend with the bright green grass of the hillock naturally, as if the wall were a rocky cleft instead of one of man's many constructions.

On top of the wall men at arms on patrol duty were perched upon battlements, basking under the clear blue sky. Within the city could be seen the towering inner wall groaning under the weight of bastions and guardhouses in it's tireless duty to protect the inner city. While taller than the highest redwood, this wall was nonetheless dwarfed by the ancient castle of Whiterift. Streaming red banners adorned the top of eight round towers joined by walls a dozen yards thick. Within this fortress was the heart of Octania itself, the great Hall of Kings where Lord Garek Trunam VIII kept watch upon his realm.

A lone horseman wearing a luxurious red doublet paid the toll-man and rode leisurely across the bridge and into the city. It was Sun's Day, market day, and the city's market squares were overflowing with peasants, merchants and thieves grappling together in a great battle of commerce. Even the courtyard of the great Angelos Temple of Gaia had been opened to market. The rider rode through the outer city, stopping only to idly purchase a pouch of tobacco from a man in the Third Square. He arrived at a great stone building roofed with plates of lead and surround by men of steel. A doorwarden greeted him.

"Ah, Esquire Maruc. So good of you to come. How was your trip to Lecoy?" the doorwarden said politely.
Ignoring him, Maruc stared ahead into the doorway and asked, "Have the others arrived?"

The servant obediently answered, "All but one. Guildmaster Cirgan had a prior engagement in Hitali."

"Trust the blacksmiths to stay aloof. Well, no matter. Show me inside," the squire replied.

The other merchant kings sat on their thrones about a large oak table in an open room on the third level of the building. Ample light shone in from large un-glassed windows. Maruc exchanged greetings with the Guildmasters Guilliane, of the Mason's Guild; William Kurinson, of the Miller's Guild, the host of the meeting and owner of this manor; Jaku, of the Carpenter's Guild and Andir, of the Shipwright's Guild. He sat down in an empty chair beside Jaku, unstrapping a short sword and placing it beside him.

After a brief discussion about business of late, Andir held up his hand. "Perhaps William would like to tell us why be summoned us here. I did not travel for six days simply to muse over common misgivings." The suggestion was met with general approval and William stood up.

"The king is ill. He is expected to die within the week." A wave of excitement passed through the room.

"Are you sure? Your men are prone to exaggerate information," asked Jaku.

Maruc retorted more for the sake of sarcasm than any real affinity for William. "At least his men do not exaggerate orders, Jaku. How did they manage to hide the bodies, anyway?"

"That," replied the lord of woodwrights, "is not your business, noble." Maruc missed, or seemed to miss, the emphasis on the word noble. He had been named Swordthain to the King three years earlier for economic services and still wore the title squire with pride, seemingly oblivious that it had become an object of widespread mockery among his peers. Jaku glanced quickly back at William. "I, at least, made my own fortune." Maruc's father, the Sheriff of New Castlen, had somehow acquired a vast sum of money before his early death, which he left to his two sons.

"The king is bedridden with a peculiar ailment of the lungs. The paladins cannot save him."
Maruc knew the paladins, the spies of that meddling city-state to the north, Lyn'quo. He knew the white hawks, roaming the lands regardless of law, stirring up trouble, murdering without cause. He remembered when he had two of his best men abduct the owner of a large flax plantation. Those Gaia-cursed white knights happened upon their hideout while Maruc was away. One of those men, a good and loyal man if there ever was one, was slain in the struggle by those "holy" butchers. The other disappeared for almost a year, and was a changed man when he returned. Nobody every found out what they did to him, but he sold everything he owned and took to wandering from town to town like a broken spirit, under the guise of a wandering healer.

Guilliane smiled, a rare and rather grotesque and unnatural sight. "Whose man did it? My assassins could never get so close."

William laughed. "As far as my sources can tell, this is actually a real illness. I'm afraid that nature has gotten one over us, my friends."

Amidst the ensuing chuckles a serving maid entered the room and deposited several goblets and a pitcher of paign, honey-wine, on the central table before abruptly hurrying out. Maruc poured himself a cup and held it between his thumb and forefinger, the only remaining digits on his left hand. The cup was made of almost half a pound of polished silver. William loved showing off his wealth. The cup was even embroidered with fine gold wire in a stylish motif of a ship on an angry sea. Maruc shuddered. He hated ships. He let his right hand, still whole, drift to a reassuring hold on his gladius-style sword propped against the chair.

"So the war is to end?" asked Jaku hopefully.

Andir scoffed. "I doubt it. The next in line is Nesel, his nephew. A knight." They all knew well the warlike tendencies of the nobility.

Guilliane's face broke into a scowl. "Six months ago, he advised the king to force everyone, even freemen, between the age of fourteen and twenty-five to fight as infantry in the war."

Andir shouted, "Half my workers are that age!"

"Calm down, Andir," said William. "I'm sure that all of you understand the catastrophe this would cause for our guilds.

William, worried that Andir's heart may give out, decided to make his point. "Nesel is but a headstrong boy. I expect he will face formidable opposition in order to assume power. I wish to nominate Lakent, Patron of the house Bolare to succeed Garek."

Maruc argued, "He's not of royal blood. He's isn't even a noble."

"Garek's marriage to the Lady Bolare technically makes the Bolare clan royalty. While Lakent's not a noble, he is a learned man with a dislike for violence. That is all he needs to be placed in power."
"But Iaec and the Knights of the Monastery will support Nesel, not to mention that filthy butcher Maceol. Even with our financial support, he wouldn't stand a chance."

Kurinson stood with gleaming pride and indicated the door. "Then may I present His Excellency Archdeacon Molach of the Seerhood," he beamed as a tall thin man dressed in flowing green robes strode proudly into the room.

Maruc shook his head in distaste. William always had a penchant for unnecessary showmanship. However, the fact that William managed to coerce the Seers to his side is a proclamation to how far charisma and exaggeration could take you.

The Seerhood of Gaia was perhaps the most powerful political force in Octania, wielders of magiks and commanders of nature. Obviously, they couldn't see future events or persons, as their name implied. The name came from ancient times, when their knowledge of the ways of Gaia helped them predict matters of weather and agriculture, and gauge the success of hunting or fishing parties. An Archdeacon was a person of great importance, only three political tiers below the Seerlord himself.

"The Seerlord feels that Lakent Bolare embodies the wishes of our order. We proudly commit our assets to the cause of peace," Molach declared with feverish disinterest.

Maruc would have laughed aloud had his mind not been dwelling on the inlaid ship carved into both his cup and his soul. It had been a good many years since the Seerhood had accomplished anything for purely humanitarian or dogmatic motives. He made a mental note to have his people inquire into the targets and nature of William's bribes and threats. From the silence in the room, it seemed most people were considering the same concept.

The hours dragged on, filled with random plots and implications. Maruc kept to himself, knowing the pointlessness of such conversation. They had the Seers. The people would follow. They would win.

The score of horsemen continued riding through the rain. They had left in a hurry, taking almost no baggage and only three reserve horses. At their sides and in their packs were halberds, spears and swords carried openly along the road. Only the largest or most careless groups of bandits would dare attack twenty