The Unfortunate Read online

  The Unfortunate

  The High King Chronicles: Book I

  J. M. Shaver

  THE UNFORTUNATE Copyright © 2019 by J. M. Shaver. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover artwork, Tristan and Isolde, by Hughes Merle

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  J. M. Shaver

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  Independently Published

  To my parents

  THE KNOWN REALMS

  CHARACTERS OF IMPORTANCE

  AENGUS: king of Drunacht

  ATELIC: a member of Gildas’ fighting academy

  AURNIA: mother of Jenniver, a village woman who was helped by Queen Marlisa of Armania

  AWIERGAN: a member and champion of Gildas’ fighting academy

  BANAN: prince of Armania, son of Beadurof and Marlisa

  BEADUROF: king of Armania, husband of Marlisa, father of Banan

  CYNRIC: prince of Yorcia, son of Ryce, brother of Eadlin

  DEOGOL: a commoner, former sworn shield in service to King Beadurof

  DERIAN: a member of Gildas’ fighting academy, attempted to steal from King Beadurof of Armania

  EADLIN: princess of Yorcia, daughter of Ryce, sister of Cynric

  EAMON: a lord and elder of the Drunish nobility

  ENGLE: wife of Gildas

  GILDAS: husband of Engle, owner of a fighting academy, former warden of Winnix

  GRUAGH: a member of Gildas’ fighting academy, imprisoned for being a Drunish spy, cousin of Molan

  JENNIVER: daughter of Aurnia, a handmaiden in service to Queen Marlisa of Armania

  MARLISA: queen of Armania, wife of Beadurof, mother of Banan

  MOLAN: a member of Gildas’ fighting academy, imprisoned for being a Drunish spy, cousin of Gruagh

  PLEOH: advisor to King Wyman of Winnix

  RAEDAN: advisor to King Beadurof of Armania

  RYCE: king of Yorcia, father of Cynric and Eadlin

  WYMAN: king of Winnix

  YRRE: a member of Gildas’ fighting academy, former guard in service to King Wyman of Winnix before having been imprisoned for rape.

  PROLOGUE

  It was early spring, and a storm was approaching. Occasional flashes of bluish-white light illuminated the clouds that blanketed the sky. Shallow but still menacing rumbles of thunder echoed in the distance. The smell of rain loomed heavy in the air, and it intensified briefly with each gust of wind. With the moon having begun its cycle anew, and with the addition of the dense cover of clouds, the night was the dimmest pitch, and shadows all but blended into the darkness. Without the assistance of a torch, it would have been difficult for one with even the keenest sight to discern shapes and features. The environment would have been dangerous for one unfamiliar with the layout of Caberton and its surroundings, especially if that individual were to attempt travel in the uninhabited countryside. Even for the locals, there would have been a risk, but for one man it was an ideal night. The combination of the new moon and an approaching storm ensured no one would be wandering the streets of Armania’s capital, and especially not the countryside. It was the perfect setting for the deed that had to be performed.

  The man continued to progress at a steady rate, and from time to time he would glance quickly to where he had been. It was not entirely due to a concern of being followed. He wanted to know how far he was from the city, and satisfied that he had retreated to a safe distance and being certain he was alone, the man gently removed the satchel that hung from his left shoulder, lowered it to the ground, and removed its contents. Momentarily he held the newborn child as he deliberated what would occur next.

  Having been raised in a monarchial society, he was aware of the horrors that accompanied raids and the aftermath of another monarch being conquered. He knew the men would always fight until death had claimed them or their opponents. It was a centuries-old trait ingrained in not only warriors but also those who were expected to protect the weak. A man was required to ensure the safety of his family, and if he were in the army, the welfare of his people and lands. It was a duty that carried with it a degree of honor, but it was not permanent. After months and even years of campaigns, it was not a rarity for honor to be forgotten, especially during the absence of a commanding officer. Having no protection and often being unable to fend for themselves, the women were captured as spoils of war. Yes, he was all too aware of these immoral practices, but the true victims, or so he believed, were the children. On most occasions they were only tormented by the drunken warriors with the result being bruises and scrapes. On rare occasions they were introduced into lives of slavery. If a child were the son of a conquered king, however, he was offered little mercy. The infant, if fortunate, would receive a swift death.

  The man knew all of this from experience, but he had never become accustomed to the routine. It was not the first time he had murdered a child. He still was hesitant, though, but he knew it was necessary. The man dismissed his scruples and again glanced to the child. Time elapsed in seemingly delayed intervals before he at last laid the infant on the cold ground and removed the cloth that covered the child’s neck. He then reached for his belt, unsheathed his dagger, and advanced the blade, but before he could finish, the boy opened his eyes and smiled.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  King Beadurof of Armania quickly opened his eyes. His heart rate had quickened, his breathing had intensified, and beads of perspiration had begun to form along his brow. He remained still briefly, not knowing what to think, and as the remnants of drowsiness continued to fade slowly, he did his best to contemplate what he had experienced.

  “A dream,” he eventually assured himself. “It was only a dream.” He lay still several lengthy moments and waited for his breathing to subside and for the feeling that his heart would burst from his chest to cease. It was not until he had regained his composure that he finally moved. He first used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his forehead. Then needing to calm himself further and to clear his mind, the king pushed the blankets away and inched to the side of the bed. He sat momentarily before exhaling deeply and standing to his full height. Whatever the reason for the dream, he still did not understand. There had to be a purpose for the vision, but the truth would have to wait. In time it would be revealed. The king was certain. There were matters of diplomatic importance that required his attention. Having expressed another deep sigh, he walked across the room, but before he could enter the adjoining chamber, the alarm bell sounded. And in those few seconds, the odd dream had become the least of his worries.

  DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG!

  The alarm bell rarely indicated an existence of absolute danger. During Beadurof’s life there had been only two occasions when an attack had occurred that could have been considered reason for concern, and those instances had been when he was still a boy. Lesser uprisings such as angry mobs were to be expected annually, but they never escalated to more than a minor brawl between the guards and the rioters. Nevertheless, no matter the situation, the king never underestimated what it could be or what danger awaited.

  DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG! DONG DONG!

  As the bell continued to announce its warning, Beadurof pushed open the door, rushed through the next room, and did the same for the door that led to the main passage. The king quickened his pace, and he almost slipped as he sharply turned a corner, but it was not the near fall that caused his heart to return to an i
rregular tempo. Despite the momentum he had developed, Beadurof halted when he saw two dark forms emerge from the shadows, but he soon recognized the intruders as his advisor, Raedan, and one of his sworn shields.

  “I was coming to wake you, Your Majesty,” Raedan explained. “There is something requiring your attention.”

  Wake me? As if the bells had not been enough? But he kept the thought to himself and instead inquired, “What of Marlisa?” The king’s concern for his wife was spoken hastily.

  “No. The queen is safe.”

  “Then what is awry?”

  “A thief,” Raedan answered, placed a hand on the king’s shoulder, and guided him toward the great hall.

  “How is this possible? Are there not guards monitoring the perimeters?”

  “There are. Every twenty paces as you ordered, but—”

  “I want you to find who is responsible,” the king interrupted with heightened aggravation. “And see to it that he is punished.”

  “As you see fit.” The advisor nodded to the trailing knight who quickly pivoted and disappeared into the darkness of the passageway.

  Beadurof remained silent a moment, but he did not avert his vision as he continued to pace briskly. Numerous questions raced through his mind, and he eventually expressed one of them to the advisor. “Have you spoken with this thief?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He claimed no harm was intended.”

  Of course the thief had proclaimed no harm had been intended! Has an intruder ever admitted to his wrongdoing? The king snorted sarcastically. He wanted nothing more than to expose his advisor’s witlessness, but he again kept his thought private and instead inquired, “Then what was his purpose?”

  “Food. Gold. Weapons. Perhaps clothing. I do not know.”

  “Did you not ask?” By this point Beadurof had had enough of his advisor’s vagueness, and he was prepared to make his distaste known. One more pathetic response, and I shall!

  “Forgive my lack of information, but I thought you would prefer to question his motives,” Raedan replied with a smile before pushing open the doors of the great hall.

  The king of Armania nodded before glancing toward the far end of the great room where a small group had gathered, and he hurried to join them. He went first to his wife and embraced her. “Are you hurt?” He could feel her still trembling slightly, but he knew she would never admit her true feelings. Never had she displayed weakness.

  “Startled but nothing more.”

  He nodded and kissed her brow. Beadurof kept his arm wrapped around Marlisa as he turned to the guards who had gathered. He noticed they all had swords drawn and all the blades were pointed at a young man who knelt. Initially the king almost howled with laughter because of the absurdity of the situation. The so-called thief did not appear to be able to fend for himself. It was more than apparent that he was not able to wield a sword properly let alone any weapon. In a way Beadurof almost pitied the man. Had the thief been caught, depending on his determination, the guards would have been cleaning blood and carrying away his corpse. The man would never have survived a fight. Despite such feelings of sympathy, which were only minute, the king did not tolerate those who opposed justice, especially if it were he who had been wronged. He quickly dismissed his thoughts, and in a tone that clearly suggested authority, Beadurof inquired, “Do you know who I am?”

  The thief kept his head lowered and did not answer.

  The monarch knew it was an act, but he remained calm and offered a different inquiry.

  “Did you not hear me?”

  Silence.

  Now it is more than an act. One thing he could not stand was ignorance, and worse still was intentional ignorance. Stubborn piece of filth! His patience had been worn thin, and he quickly left his wife’s side, approached the man, forced him to alter his vision, and exclaimed, “I am King Beadurof of Armania, and your kind is unwelcome!” He almost concluded with a spat but stopped himself.

  “My kind?” The thief finally spoke. “I know who you are, Your Majesty. I have lived in Caberton my entire life.”

  The response was startling. Beadurof would never have expected a local to be so foolish. The king would never have thought one, a native or not, would attempt to steal from a keep known for being more secure than most others, but Beadurof made sure his surprise was not revealed. He was the king. He held the upper hand. He was not going to let a lowlife scum best him even for a moment, and he was quick to add, “Then you are aware of the punishment for theft?”

  The man nodded. “I am, but I beg your mercy. No one was harmed. My intent was not to murder.”

  Beadurof again thought of his consideration of the man as a weakling, and he nearly laughed again, but he was in no mood for either merriment or sympathy. He simply retorted, “Then what was your intent?”

  “I …” The man’s expression was one of absolute fear, and it became more pronounced as he fumbled with his words. “I—I do not kn—”

  The king knew the man was his to control, and he smiled as he thought of words he had learned from years past. At times fear can be deadlier than steel. Fear can make a man helpless. Even if he is stronger and better armed, untamed fear can lead to his demise. “You must think me a fool!” the king exclaimed. “Would you have me believe you were enjoying a stroll, and you somehow failed to realize you were approaching Caberton Keep?”

  The thief remained silent as the monarch continued to rant.

  “But it does not end with that! Would you also expect me to believe that my guards welcomed you without question? Is that what you would have me believe?”

  No response was provided.

  “ANSWER ME, YOU FOOL!” Beadurof punctuated his outburst by slamming his fist into the man’s lower jaw. “ANSWER ME!”

  “Please, Your Majesty,” the man finally responded and wiped blood from his lip. “I swear I intended no harm.”

  There it was again, the plea of not intending harm, but by now the joke was no more. Beadurof was past wanting to deal with the man. He did not even want to think about a suitable punishment. For the sake of creating suspense, the king pondered extensively, and he waited several additional moments before answering, “You shall remain in the dungeons until I decide a fitting punishment.”

  PART I

  SPRING

  One Month Later …

  CHAPTER ONE

  AWIERGAN

  Although the major sporting events were reserved for the Dorstor Arena, that did not prevent the local fighting pits from hosting weekly affairs. In a way it was beneficial to those who lived for the thrill of gambling. They did not have to wait two or more fortnights between events, and with the existence of minor venues, there was rarely a shortage of excitement. Archery contests, sword fights, and wrestling matches were among the popular games sponsored for shows of skill and strength, but the most captivating events were the blood sports. Animal bouts, particularly bear-baiting, was a favorite, but dogfights were among the most common because there never was a shortage of strays. At least that was the reasoning offered by those who sponsored the games, that it helped to keep the city’s streets free of master-less mutts. Equally as popular but not sponsored as often were fights between two men, and they ranged from the winner being determined by whoever drew first blood to death matches. More often than not, the rules allowed only one man to live.

  Along with several other fighters who he gladly considered his brothers, Awiergan stood and peered through the barred door of the holding area. The small, round pit was no more than twenty-five paces in diameter. The walls, while being roughly constructed of oblong timbers, were higher than two men grown. Above the fighting area, like thunder clouds lingering above a mountain, was the balcony full of cheering and likely-drunken spectators. As with the crowd, Awiergan’s focus was not the specifications of the fighting pit. All of them were concentrated on the two men in the center of the ring. Awiergan watched as the men patiently waited for the event’s ma
ster to bring forth a leather bag that contained folded pieces of parchment. Having been to such events in the past, Awiergan knew what to expect. Each piece of parchment had inscribed the name of a weapon, and one could only pray his opponent did not draw a battleax when he had only a knife.

  “Who do you favor, Awiergan?” one of the other men inquired.

  The fighter who had proven himself the champion of the academy a year prior offered the eventual combatants in the pit a final evaluation before replying, “It is difficult to tell with these types of fights. I shall have to know what weapons are assigned.”

  “But you have always claimed to be able to judge men so well.” It was another man, Awiergan’s closest friend, Atelic, who had spoken.

  “Yes, and I have always argued that skill, sometimes paired with a hint of luck for good measure, could overwhelm strength.” He paused briefly before adding, “But in this case, luck will have to outdo both.”

  “Fate guide me. I hope I receive luck,” Atelic offered in a less-than-serious tone, but Awiergan’s concentration had been directed to the event’s leader who had received the scrap of parchment from the shorter of the two men.

  “The weapon is … the longsword!”

  Cheers erupted from the crowd.

  “And for the second, the weapon is … the chain mace!”

  “Do you have your pick yet?” Atelic inquired, and he had to yell to be heard over the crowd.

  Awiergan nodded. “The smaller man.”

  “I think you are wrong this time. I doubt he will even last a minute.”