Dishonour by Dee Carteri (simple e reader TXT) 📕

willows. Their altars would be desecrated and buried. Their children, the-," Nesel paused, his hands and voice shaking with dread of his dark vision.

"My lord?" asked Maceol, concerned.

The noble grabbed Maceol's shoulders and uttered in a tense whisper uttered, "That is why I need you, Maceol. I need all those loyal to you. Please, for the love of Gaia, help me. If not for me, than for the innocents of the Westerlands. If not for them, for the honour and dignity of Octania."

Maceol stared, shocked, into the young man's eyes. He saw for the first time the fear in those eyes. This was but a youth, probably more concerned with finding a wife than matters of politics. He had, at a stroke, shouldered the responsibility of not only the homeland, but also of a dozen lesser kingdoms, and possibly the fate of the entire Middle Continent. This lord feared failure more than all the armies of hell.

Please, he mouthed.

Sir Maceol promised, "I shall be strong for Octania. We both must be strong for Octania. We will be strong for all of Gaiadom.

Kay, carrying Maceol's shield and folded banner as all esquires on formal equations, chose most awkward possible time to intercede. "Master, I,"

"Dismissed." Maceol cut the boy off sharply. He was in no mood for formalities.

Kay shrugged and walked off, feeling he could better mourn the king's death over a mug of ale with a few old friends at the King and Castle. He left the banner and shield with a royal page and walked through the cracked flagstone streets lined with looming two-story buildings with shuttered windows until he reached the western gate in the inner city wall. The guard on duty was uncommonly alert, due to suspicions that some Shadow-worshipping assassin may take advantage of the sombre occasion. Kay showed him his esquire's emblem before passing through the gate to the outer city and the Second square. He walked a few houses to the right until he saw a familiar cellar door on which a tower wearing a red gold necklace was painted. He opened the door and strode home.

"Kay, is that you?" shouted Taki, an old friend. "Hey everyone! Kay's back!" This was met with shouts of approval from the regulars. Kay dodged through the room, assaulted by furious applause and pats on the back. He settled down at the old cherry wood bar, ordering his usual, a lager brewed just outside his childhood home in Yantsima. The bartender, a lanky amiable man named Oranic, was beaming.

Kay suddenly found himself in the middle of two duelling groups striving to tell him the best news first. Taki's group began with the revelation that Sela and Arren had finally settled down and got married, enthusiastically countered by Mari's cows getting sick and her having to move into the city to work as a cloth-maker, with a rather defeated first group mentioning that Frian the mason had made a fortune off of his new design for repairing the outer city temple and moved into a new house in the inner city, but still sometimes came back to the old pub once in a while. Good Gaia, I missed this place thought Kay.

"It's good to see you all again," he smiled.

Oranic spoke, "It's always good to see regulars come back whole from the war," he said joyfully, but the tavern fell silent.

Taki said "Perhaps if Lakent wins the throne the war will cease."

A serving-girl delivering soup from the kitchen noted softly, "You would abandon all the people of the west?"

"Better them then us!" shouted Mari from across the room, for whom argument was a grand pastime.

Oranic hushed the verbal combatants. "What do you think, Kay?"

"I think," stated Kay as he stared at his beer mug, "that if we let them conquer the west, then soon they will bring the war to us."

Taki said, "But is it worth all this hardship? I heard one of Lakent's proclaimers say the tide has been turned, and it's time to lessen taxes, and call our soldiers home."

"Then Lakent's a bloody fool. The Shadow worshippers have three harbours, and a new ship lands every day. I've seen they're armies massing. If they cross the fords, the war now will look like a training exercise next to what will follow."

"Say what you will, but Lakent's a great man. They're planning a rally in front of his guest home, and I'm going."

"Well, while you were off saving the world, you missed one hell of a pigskin season," said Oranic in a frantic attempt to change the subject. Pigskin was a rough game played by the soldiers and artisans of the city. The rules were simple. One team carries a pig's skin stuffed with grain weighing about forty pounds. The pigskin bearer, burdened by his prize, was overbalanced and easily knocked down. Therefore the team possessing the skin had to wrestle the opposing team out of the way to form a clear path for the bearer. Were the pigskin taken by the other team, one member, usually the most hurt, of the first team would leave the field immediately so that the wrestlers were matched one to one. The first team to get the skin over a seven-foot tall fence at the opposite end of the field won the game.

A burly man name Darek scowled, "We were annihilated by the Blacksmith Guild official team without you, Kay." The Guild's players were stronger than any other due to endless years pumping bellows, and usually bulled through other teams. Kay was never the strongest on the West garrison's team, but he had been raised all his life to be a knight, and knew several wrestling tricks that could easily cast down the unskilled blacksmiths. After grappled to the ground the Guild's players were easily kept there by stronger players. In the year before he went to war, Kay had brought four men down in one play in their game against the blacksmiths.

Nesel asked, "Who won the Pigskin Chalice?"

"The North garrison, like the year before." The pigskin championship usually ended in a match between the North garrison?s team and a team put together by a large group of waggoners usually referred to as the Skin of Octania.

"So what brings you back to the homeland?" Asked Oranic.

Kay simply stated, "The king."

"Ah. The best of times can often be the worst of times," Taki quoted.

Mari questioned, "So you'll be leaving soon?"

"Who knows? I expect Master Maceol will stay for at least a few weeks to sort out the succession issue."

"Well, in that case," Darek spoke enthusiastically, "We're having an out-of season game on September the twenty-second against the Questors. Just to practice. Want to come along? We need all the skill we can get." The Questors, mercenaries who operated in small groups, tended to by highly skilled in every art of war. They belonged to a loose guild that ran hostels and meeting halls for Questors to stay in until they acquired another contract. Guild dues were low, but certain ethical restrictions were placed on members. He talked with them until the sun went down, then, more than a little tipsy, said goodbye and wandered back towards the barracks.

"What do you mean you 'led the charge'?" Amelie, Daken's wife, screamed in outrage.

Daken replied humbly, "I am the Lieutenant of the Fist, dear. I didn't get to my position by showing cowardice."

"Well I didn't marry you just to see you killed gallivanting into danger just to prove your bravery!" Nearby objects seemed to shrink away from the woman's wrath.

Daken started to voice a thought, but was cut short by a babe's cry from the main room of his house. He almost fainted.

"Little Patrick was born in March," said Amelie, obviously amused by her husband's surprise. "I tried to send word, but no messengers could locate your company."

Daken made a feeble attempt at speech. "We? we had to move around a lot. Mobility is key to success you know," he blurted out.

Amelie moved aside and Daken entered the room where a white cradle stood upon a table. Patrick stopped crying immediately when he saw the figure of his father, clothed in shining armour and a cape of gold. Daken removed his mail shirt and carefully lifted his son, hugging him awkwardly to his chest. He placed Patrick gently back into the cradle, singing a troubadour's lullaby and missing every note.

"How long until you have to go back?" whispered Amelie.

Daken's eyes never left his son. "I can probably stay until a new king is chosen."

"Then let's hope for civil war," said Amelie.


Moon’s Day, September 1, 1268 A.R.


The Hall of Kings was abuzz with talk. The usually haphazard placement of dinner tables had been replaced by precisely ordered sets of tables divided into two opposing sections far enough apart to prevent swordfights from spontaneously breaking out. A few tables were set at either end of the hall to seat neutral parties. On the side supporting Nesel sat the leadership of the Knights of the Monastery, represented by Sir Iaec and several of his chaplains, the armies in the West, represented by Maceol and Rodul, and the lords of Octania, represented either by the dukes themselves or a high-ranking emissary. Archdeacon Gelir sat on this side with a few loyal Archbishops. Jaku and Maruc were present. Although they had no official right to attend, all knew that, in truth, they had far more influence than many present. Seated across from them were four of the Five Great Guilds, represented by their respective guildmasters, and the majority of Archdeacons, Deacons, and Archbishops or their representatives. At the neutral tables sat delegates from the Questor’s Guild, the Wizard’s Guild and the Blacksmith Guild. The Wizard’s Guild was given the difficult task of maintaining civility during the debates.

The wizard guildmaster, a young blond man named Oni, was the complete antithesis to the typical wizard stereotype. He wore a long red-brown tunic over black linen breeches, not at all like the exotic robes and outlandish charms many of his contemporaries wore. The only jewelry on him was a thin gold chain about his neck. Those who understood the obscure arts of wizardry acknowledged that he was a master of augury, and could fashion objects and forces from air or water, or nothing at all. Of course, wizards could not actually weave magiks, being Godless Ones, but could invoke magik latent in their surrounding environment by use of rituals, herbs, scrying pools, and other means. They made profits by selling potions and charms to the public, most of which worked to some extent. Their actions were monitored carefully, especially since the wizard baron of Gartu was found brewing elixirs with the blood of slaughtered peasants. The vampire’s capture sparked a wave of anti-wizard sentiment that the guild had neve r quite recovered from.

Despite being neutral, the wizards would probably be more generous towards Nesel’s supporters. The wizards made far more money during times of war, when soldiers would pay outrageous prices for charms of protection or potions of strength. Also, nowhere in the world, except perhaps Lecoy, was the antagonism between wizard and magus more apparent than in Octania. Some half-expected the wizards to take Nesel’s side simply because the Seers had taken the other.

Oni stood and gestured the crowd to silence. Rather than beginning with a review of past events, he simply said, "I open the floor to Duke Elmwood of Upper Silat."

The Duke, a vigorous young