A Kingdom in Chaos (A Kingdom Divided Book 3) Read online

  A Kingdom in Chaos

  Published by Samuel C. Stokes

  Copyright 2017 Samuel C. Stokes

  1st Edition

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  Prequel: A Woman in the Wind

  Book One: A Coronation of Kings

  Book Two: When the Gods War

  Book Three: A Kingdom in Chaos

  An Introduction from the Author

  Welcome to A Kingdom in Chaos, the conclusion to my first trilogy. In A Kingdom in Chaos you’ll experience my universe like never before. As you’ve come to expect from me, the pace of the novel is frantic and exciting. A Kingdom in Chaos is packed full of the action you know and love, but I hope you will feel the struggle as your favorite characters suffer through this tumultuous adventure.

  I know many have been eagerly waiting to read some of these scenes, several of them hinted at since A Coronation of Kings. I hope you find them worth the wait.

  While the book features a romantic encounter or two, it contains no sexual encounters of any variety. This is intentional—I want readers of any age to be able to pick up my work without having to worry what they will come across in their reading.

  I hope you enjoy A Kingdom in Chaos. There is more to come: I am eagerly plotting the next installment in this series. If you have any thoughts or feedback, please connect with me via Facebook or email—I would love to hear from you.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel C. Stokes

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Map of Valaar

  Can be viewed at full size here

  Map of Sevalorn

  Can be viewed at full size here

  Chapter 1

  The Tournament Field, outside the walls of King’s Court

  Jalen groaned in pain as he struck the ground. His shoulder had had taken most of the impact, an unpleasant but necessary sacrifice. Having drawn his body into a tight ball, Jalen half-rolled, half-tumbled across the dirt. He scrambled to his feet and looked up in time to see his foe, a burly mountain of a man, bring his blade down with a savage swing, the broadsword like a toothpick in his giant fist.

  Jalen side-stepped the brute and snatched up his own blade out of the dirt. He glanced at his foe in time to spy the broadsword being thrust at his stomach, a lazy strike. The man was getting tired. His tremendous bulk was little use to him today—he could not bring it to bear on his wily foe.

  Jalen batted the thrust away and ducked nimbly under the outstretched arm, placing himself out of the behemoth’s path and for the first time coming within his own striking distance. Without hesitation Jalen brought his own sword down, its keen edge slicing through the man’s trousers and along the flesh of his foe’s leg.

  The world went silent.

  Jalen held his sword aloft jubilantly and the assembled masses burst into applause. The other man dropped his blade, the sound of the sword striking dirt wholly lost amid the crowd’s cacophonous reaction.

  His foe turned to face him. “Your place in the King’s Guard is well earned, Jalen. To fight you is to fight the wind—a futile and infuriating endeavor.” Sweat dripped down the warrior’s face as he spoke.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Aelfarn,” Jalen replied swiftly. “What good is the wind against a mountain? I may have triumphed in the arena, but I wouldn’t want to stumble across you in a brawl. You could crush me in one hand without breaking a sweat. You are a credit to your father and to the Sisaron.” He bowed to his vanquished foe.

  Aelfarn returned the gesture and strode out of the arena. Turning to face the stands, Jalen held his blade aloft again, sending another spasm of jubilation through the crowd. Bringing his sword down, Jalen cleaned the blade and returned it to his scabbard.

  The herald’s voice echoed across the arena: “Behold your victor, Jalen Sarat! His victory has secured him a place in the grand final, where he will face the aspiring Nelsahn Argyle, in the duel you have all been waiting for!”

  Thunderous applause shook the stands as the herald held up a hand for silence and then just shouted over the din: “The winner of that duel will be this year’s victor of the Midsummer’s Tournament. This is a rare accolade, once held by the tournament’s patron, our liege, Tristan Listar, first of his name, the King of Valaar.”

  As the applause mounted, the King raised his hand in acknowledgment, and gestured for the herald to continue.

  In the arena Jalen looked up and caught the King’s eyes focused on him. Jalen bowed deeply and the King nodded his appreciation at the deference. With his position in the final secure, Jalen too departed the arena.

  *****

  Tristan watched the young guardsman leave the dusty field enclosed by the admiring crowd. His victory was unexpected—anyone betting against the hulking heir of the Sisaron would have made a fortune. The upset made him wish he’d paid closer attention to the duel. Truth be told he’d been distracted of late—the birth of his son and heir Marius had immersed him in a whirlwind of emotion.

  The sense of love that washed over him as he held his son for the first time was different from anything he had ever experienced. It thrilled and terrified the young King at the same time. Though the sight of his son filled him with joy, the young King also felt anxious. Tristan feared lest any harm should come to his son.

  In comparison to parenthood, the politics of the court had come easily to the young king.

  Linea, on the other hand, was handling motherhood with aplomb. The young Queen glowed as she attended to the infant. To the chagrin of the Palace midwives the Queen insisted on caring for her child herself, as her own mother had done.

  Tristan longed for news from Syrion, his twin brother. It had been weeks since they had received his last communication and details were sparser than he wished. While their allies had triumphed, the price of victory had been heavier than any of the council had foreseen. Syrion himself had been wounded and had spent weeks recuperating in the Dwarven stronghold of the Everpeak.

  Had that been the extent of the ill-tidings, Tristan would have felt comforted. Syrion’s insistence that Ferebour return to his ancestral home at once had been an entirely unexpected blow. The doughty dwarf had been Tristan’s friend and counselor since he had first joined the Guild. Syrion’s message had been cryptic but the meaning was clear to Ferebour. The dwarf had packed his possessions and departed on the next ship bound for Khashish.

  To Tristan’s great surprise, the communique from Syrion was devoid of any news concern
ing their mother. The Lady Elaina had accompanied Syrion to Sevalorn to seek the Soul Forge. Why no news of her? Tristan shook his head trying to disperse the ominous cloud that had plagued him of late.

  *****

  Inside the Palace

  Kuramoto crept quietly through the basement of the Palace. The lithe warrior knew death would be certain and swift if he were discovered. Usually he had the luxury of operating under the cover of darkness, a convenience he had long taken for granted. His current mission allowed him no such luxury.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Kuramoto was relieved to see his men following his path, stalking silently through the underbelly of the Palace. Seldom were so many of their order gathered for any purpose, but then again, seldom were they engaged in so bold and dangerous an undertaking. Kuramoto appreciated the brazen genius of his master’s plan. Being entrusted with its execution was an honor he had reveled in during the weeks he had prepared for this day.

  Kuramoto had assurances the Palace would be understaffed today. The Midsummer’s Tournament was famous throughout Valaar. From nobodies to noblemen, the citizens of Valaar turned out in droves to see who would triumph in the arena. Many of the Palace staff would be involved in facilitating the festivities, and the King’s presence at the games guaranteed a large contingent of the King’s Guard would also be in attendance. Their absence from the Palace was essential to his mission’s success.

  Kuramoto and his men had been smuggled into the Palace with the substantial shipments of supplies, the busy preparations allowing them to evade detection. Now in the heart of the palace, they had already bypassed many of the remaining guards. Kuramoto followed the path he had spent weeks memorizing, and gradually they made their way out of the Palace basement and into the Palace proper.

  Reaching a stone stairway, Kuramoto hugged the inside of the circular stairwell. Anyone watching the staircase would not see him until the last possible moment. But the only guard stood eagerly observing the corridor before him, oblivious to the death stalking steadily toward him from behind.

  With practiced art Kuramoto moved on the oblivious guard, swiftly clamping one hand over the guard’s mouth before his other plunged a dagger into the man’s back. Within moments the man went limp. Kuramoto’s companions took the body and hid it at the base of the stairwell.

  As one, the black-clad figures streamed out of the stairwell and into the hallway, where the furnishings grew more lavish as they neared the heart of the Palace. Their destination in the east wing of the Palace required them to venture past the dining hall, where Palace staff were sure to be attending to their duties. Kuramoto breathed deeply as he increased his pace, speed overriding stealth as his primary consideration.

  The large doors leading into the dining hall swung open and a kitchen-hand emerged, carrying an unfurled piece of parchment in one hand. The man turned directly toward the party and looked up from his list, rooted to the spot. His eyes darted desperately about for salvation but there was none to be had.

  Kuramoto drew his kama and drove its blade into the man’s chest. His victim clearly wished to scream but nothing more than an awkward gurgle escaped his lips. Favoring expedience over stealth, he left the man where he fell and continued on his course, followed by his men, and came face to face with a patrol of the King’s Guard.

  The patrol captain took one glimpse at the black-clad figures before him—the motif of two crossed kama over the heart was well known throughout Valaar. “Night Stalkers! Sound the alarm!” he cried.

  The rearmost soldier turned and ran in the opposite direction, seeking to spread word of the attack. The remaining guardsmen raised their shields to cover his retreat.

  “Kill them swiftly—we have no time to lose,” Kuramoto commanded, gesturing at the patrol before him.

  The Night Stalkers fanned out. Kuramoto knew each assassin was a formidable foe but the King’s Guard were better suited to fighting in formation. Kuramoto’s best hope for success lay in trying to divide and conquer the well-armored adversaries.

  As the assassins closed the distance they exploded into motion. From within their robes they drew and unleashed a hail of daggers, shuriken and crossbow.

  The shower of deadly projectiles assailed the patrol in the corridor, but their heavy armor and shields allowed them to weather the storm. One guardsman was a little slower than his companions and a well-aimed bolt from a hand crossbow caught him in the throat. He fell heavily to the floor and his remaining comrades closed ranks to shield each other’s flanks.

  Seizing the opportunity created by the movement of the guards, an assassin at the edge of the fray dove past the line of guardsmen and took off after the guard who had fled to raise the alarm. Spotting his companion’s success, a second assassin tried to repeat the gambit, hoping to flank the line of guardsmen and divide their focus.

  The King’s Guard were not caught flat-footed a second time, and the diving assassin was rewarded with a broadsword between his ribs. The guard’s triumph was cut short as a nearby Night Stalker ran him through with a short sword. The King’s Guard braced themselves against the continuing charge, determined to prevent the assassins from reaching their destination.

  The assassins hurled themselves at the wall of shields, knowing the numbers were distinctly in their favor. The sandy-haired guardsman leading the patrol thrust and hacked at the surging press of black-clad assailants, and the Night Stalker to Kuramoto’s right fell as the short sword pierced his heart.

  Responding to the threat, Kuramoto caught the top of the sandy-haired warrior’s shield with one of his kama before sweeping the other savagely across the guardsman’s now-exposed throat. Flesh and bone parted as easily as wheat before the harvester’s scythe and the guardsman’s head rolled off his shoulders.

  The King’s Guard fought valiantly, but outnumbered as they were, it was only a matter of moments before all of them lay dead or dying.

  Glancing about, Kuramoto could see that only seven of his men remained. He took off down the hall. All pretense of stealth now cast aside, the Night Stalkers were in a race against time. The fleeing guard would surely raise the alarm. Even if he were silenced, it was only a matter of time before the pile of corpses was discovered.

  Kuramoto moved swiftly through the palace with his coterie following close behind. At the end of a corridor he spotted his goal—a set of heavy oak doors flanked by a pair of King’s Guard.

  The soldiers glanced at each other as the black-clad assassins sprinted towards them. Two against seven—they were dead men, and the look on their faces betrayed their fear. The conflict was brief and bloody and soon both soldiers met their end.

  Listening at the door, Kuramoto could hear a rush of footsteps within the chamber. As Kuramoto pushed open the heavy door a piercing cry split the air—not the sound of a guard raising the alarm, or that of a woman in distress. This was more shrill and of a much higher pitch . . . the sound of a child crying.

  *****

  The warning cry echoed through the palace. “Sound the alarm! They’re in the Palace!”

  Sven heard the exasperated shouting and the rush of footsteps in the corridor. Leaping to his feet, the Royal Spymaster rushed for the door, concern coursing through his mind. He yanked open the heavy oak door and spotted one of the King’s Guard sprinting through the hallway shouting again at the top of his lungs: “Sound the alarm! They’re in the Palace!” The exhausted guard was panting furiously from his exertion but at the sight of the Spymaster he was visibly relieved.

  As the guardsman approached, Sven saw for the first time the cause of his alarm. A figure rounded the corner behind him, a being clad head to toe in black robes—the uniform of the Night Stalkers. Sven had encountered their ilk before, fighting tooth and nail to prevent a Night Stalker from killing Tristan as he lay wounded and beaten after his imprisonment. The sight of a Night Stalker in the Palace in the light of day filled him with dread.

  The assassin reached within his robes and produced two shuriken. W
ith a flourish he sent both wickedly bladed weapons hurtling down the hallway toward Sven and the guard. Sven dove at the guard and tackled him to the floor as both shuriken whizzed harmlessly overhead. Sven separated himself from the guard and sprang to his feet.

  The assassin seemed to have little concern for his own well-being and ran straight toward them. Eager to respond in kind, Sven drew his knives and threw the first at his charging assailant. The distance did not allow the assassin much of a chance to react and the blade lodged in his stomach.

  The Night Stalker howled in pain but continued on nonetheless, leaping over the guard to get to Sven. The angry assassin drew a kama from his belt, eager to exact revenge on the lithe Spymaster.

  While the black-clad warrior might have forgotten the King’s Guard, the guard certainly had not forgotten him. As the assassin leapt over his prone form the guard caught him by the ankle and brought him crashing to the ground. The King’s Guard dropped his shield and tried to draw his blade. But the Night Stalker was faster, and rolling atop his foe he raised his kama for the killing blow . . .

  —only to have Sven slam the guard’s fallen shield into the assassin’s head. The Night Stalker crumpled to the floor unconscious and Sven returned the shield to the shocked guard. “I’m sorry,” Sven said. “I want answers, not a corpse—are there others?”

  “Yes, at least a dozen—they were in the east wing. The Queen is in peril.”

  “What’s your name?” Sven asked.

  “Leon,” The man stammered.

  “Well, Leon,” Sven replied, gesturing at the fallen assassin, “Restrain him and fetch any help you can find.” Snatching the man’s sword from his grasp he continued, “I’ll need this.”

  The King’s Guard was speechless but Sven wasn’t waiting for permission. The Spymaster ran as fast as his legs would carry him towards the east wing and a dozen more assassins. As he ran a bell began to toll loudly overhead. The alarm has been raised, Sven thought with relief. Don’t worry, my Queen. Help is on the way.