A Kingdom in Chaos (A Kingdom Divided Book 3) Page 2

  Chapter 2

  The tolling alarm bell rang out over the city of King’s Court and tore Tristan from his reflection. His heart sank as he recognized the reverberating tones and leaped to his feet. He shouted to his companion, “Halmir, it’s the Palace! Bring the Guard!” Without waiting for a response the King of Valaar sprinted out of the pavilion and cast his eyes toward the hitching post with half a dozen horses casually grazing by it.

  Unwilling to wait for his own steed to be brought to him, the young King hurriedly selected a spritely looking mare and swung into the saddle. Pointing the creature toward the city, Tristan nudged her into a gallop.

  Tristan’s heart was pounding in his chest as he passed through the Lion’s Gate. A sentry moved to intercept him, but upon recognizing the King the young man simply leapt out of the way.

  As he tore through the city a thousand thoughts rushed through Tristan’s mind. King’s Court had known peace since Gerwold the Pretender had been cast down. While Tristan had expected opposition to his new rule, it had never surfaced. After an age of uncertainty, it seemed that the people of Valaar were happy to have a King.

  Tristan might have been younger than the people would have hoped for, but his valor in the battle for King’s Court had become something of legend among Valaarans. His popularity had made opposition difficult and Tristan had allowed himself to believe the conflict was past.

  The bell tolling steadily overhead told a different tale. The bell was used only when the Palace or city itself was under attack. Its ominous tone was an unwelcome surprise that spurred Tristan on. Reaching the Palace, he barreled through the gates and into the courtyard. But confusion rolled over him—there was not a foe in sight.

  Dismounting, Tristan ran into the Palace. Staff and King’s Guard hurried to and fro. “What is going on?” Tristan shouted, not at anyone in particular, but addressing those swarming about the entrance chamber.

  A nearby King’s Guard turned to see King Tristan standing in the entrance hall, exasperated and sweating profusely.

  The soldier responded, “My liege . . . Night Stalkers in the Palace.”

  “Where?” Tristan demanded, drawing his rapier.

  “The east wing.”

  My chambers, Tristan thought with dread. Linea and Marius had been resting to prepare for more of the festivities of the three-day Midsummer’s Tournament. After the previous day’s duels Linea had thought it best to take a day of quiet. Marius was still too young to spend such a prolonged period outside.

  Tristan ran for the east wing. Taking the staircase two steps at a time, he made his way into the palatial corridor that served the royal residences. There were King’s Guard everywhere, and he pushed through the throng to find the cause. Lying dead on the floor of the corridor was a patrol of King’s Guard. Several Night Stalkers lay among them.

  Ignoring the grisly scene, Tristan ran on. He arrived in the corridor that led to his private rooms and could see the door to Marius’ nursery ajar.

  Shoving the door open, Tristan took in the scene before him. The nursery had been ransacked. Furniture had been up-ended and strewn about. A cluster of figures huddled in the middle of the room. Among them Tristan recognized his Spymaster Sven, and his childhood teacher Malus.

  “Sven, what the hell is going on?”

  As Sven turned and stood up, Tristan saw the figure lying on the floor. His heart sank.

  Queen Linea lay on the carpet, its delicate weave stained red with blood, her face pale and ghostly. Tristan collapsed to his knees at her side.

  There was evidence of a struggle as she had sought to fend off her attackers. Her hands and arms bore wounds inflicted at close range. But most of the blood seemed to be streaming from a wound in her stomach.

  Tears filled Tristan’s eyes. Turning to Malus he asked in terror, “Is she . . . ?” The young King’s voice trembled and he found himself unable to even speak the words.

  “No, Tristan, she lives,” Malus said, “but her wounds are dire. They will require more than medicines to cure if she is to live out the day.”

  The court physician who was bent over the fading Queen looked up and began to protest, but Tristan silenced him with a withering glance. “Do whatever it takes, Malus. Your arts brought me back from the brink of death. I have every faith in your abilities.”

  “I only wish your mother were here, Tristan, or your brother. Their powers far outweigh my own.”

  “You are all we have, Malus, and it must be enough. We cannot lose her . . . I cannot lose her.”

  “Then clear the room, my liege,” Malus declared. “The fewer distractions the better. You are little use to me here.”

  Tristan fought to suppress the tears as he leaned over and placed a tender kiss on his wife’s forehead. Getting to his feet he attempted to clear his throat but failed miserably. In frustration he shouted, “Out! Everyone out!” To the court physician he spoke pointedly: “You are to get Malus anything he requires, without hesitation. Do you understand?”

  The physician nodded his understanding and the room emptied.

  Casting his eyes about, Tristan felt his heart skip a beat. “Where is my son?”

  Those filing out of the room stopped, unsure of how to answer their King.

  With silence filling the large room, Tristan asked again, more insistently. “Where is my son?”

  “My liege. He was gone when we arrived.” The voice was Sven’s.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  “It appears the Crown Prince was the Night Stalker’s target. When I arrived at the nursery, they were already gone. They have taken the Prince with them.”

  “Where are they now?” The King demanded.

  “I don’t know, sire. We are securing the palace. Several of the Night Stalkers broke away from the main group and have sown discord and death throughout the Palace. I had to stay with the Queen to ensure she was properly attended to and protected.”

  Tristan ushered Sven out of the room, and once they were in the hallway the King replied. “Don’t stop with the Palace, Sven. Lock down the city. No one is to enter or leave until I have my son back.”

  “But the tournament, your highness—thousands of our people are still outside the walls.”

  “We will attend to them in due course—first we must find the Prince.” Tristan answered unequivocally.

  The Spymaster nodded. “Your highness, I was able to incapacitate one of the assassins. He is bound and under guard outside my quarters. He may well have information we can use to find the Prince.”

  “You have one of them alive?” Tristan tightened the grip on his rapier. “Let me see him.”

  “My liege, I do not believe that is wise. In your state you are liable to kill him before we can extract anything of use.”

  Tristan shook his head in frustration. Sven was right. Unable to aid his wife, and powerless to find his son, he was beginning to feel hopeless.

  “My King, if I might make a suggestion?”

  “Yes Sven?”

  “If you could attend to locking down the city, I will question our prisoner. I am positive I can extract something of use from him, and right now we could use any help we can get. King’s Court is enormous. Finding your son will be like searching for a needle in a city of haystacks.”

  “Very well Sven. Find out how they were able to get into the Palace and bypass our guards so easily.”

  Sven bowed and turned to depart.

  “Sven,” Tristan called after the departing Spymaster.

  “Yes, my liege.”

  “Don’t be gentle.”

  The Spymaster’s response was earnest. “He will wish he was never born, my liege.” A strange thought entered Sven’s mind as he spoke. “Your majesty, when Malus has stabilized the Queen, could you send him to me? I have use for his talents.”

  Tristan nodded. “I will ensure he joins you as soon as Linea is safe.”

  Sven bowed once more and departed for his quarters. When he arrived at his
room he was relieved to find the King’s Guard Leon he had rescued earlier was still present. Clearly he had taken literally the injunction to watch the prisoner. The Night Stalker was bound, both hands and feet, and was lying face down in the middle of the hallway. Two other guardsmen were also present to ensure the assassin remained where he was.

  “Leon, pick him up and bring him with us,” Sven directed.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the dungeons, Leon,” Sven replied with a sinister tone. “The King requires answers and he will have them. We must take him somewhere private and have a little . . . conversation. The east wing is not the place for such things.”

  “Ha!” the assassin scoffed. “You would be better off killing me now. It will save you wasting your time, waiting for answers that will never come.”

  Sven walked over to where the Night Stalker lay and knelt down beside him. “The answers will come, assassin. Mark my words—you will sing like a bird and wish for death, long before I am through with you. In the meantime. . .”—he delivered a wicked kick to the man’s face—“shut up.” The assassin’s head struck the floor hard, knocking him unconscious.

  Turning to the King’s Guard he continued: “Bring him now. There is no time to waste.”

  *****

  When the Night Stalker came to, he found himself dangling in a stone cell, his arms held high above his head, courtesy of a set of wrought iron manacles. Shackles were fastened around his feet and had been passed through an iron loop in the cell’s floor. Struggle as he might, there was nowhere to go.

  Sven stood over a nearby table. As he heard the iron links of the chain rattle against each other he looked up. “Nice of you to join us. What’s your name?”

  The assassin scoffed, “The night needs no other name.”

  “No name, huh? That must be rough. Well, for today you can be George.”

  “‘George’ is a fool’s name,” the manacled assassin spat back.

  “Then it is a perfect fit for you. Only a lunatic or a fool would have come here today. Your brethren harmed my Queen, and for that you will die. It is not a question of if, but how. Your companions abducted the Crown Prince. To what end I do not care. You will give me the means of locating them, or you will long for the death that is sure to come.” Sven stared down the assassin before continuing: “You will beg for it, George . . . and it will . . . not . . . come.”

  “I will tell you nothing.”

  The corners of Sven’s mouth creased upwards. “I was hoping you would say that, George.” Sven began to slowly draw out his knives and lay them on the table. Once he had half a dozen blades on display he pondered over them for a moment, before picking one. The long, slender blade carried a wicked point.

  Sven approached the Night Stalker. “Last chance, George. Where is the Prince? Tell me what I wish to know and I’ll make this quick. Otherwise you will suffer as you never knew possible.”

  “Do your worst,” the Night Stalker retorted.

  “Very well, George. You cannot say you were not warned.” Sven walked behind the Night Stalker and sliced open his robes, exposing his back, “I will skin you alive, one strip of flesh at a time. Some might argue that it’s slow and tedious, that there are more direct methods to compel a prisoner to speak . . . What can I say, George? Flaying one’s foe is just that little bit more gratifying.”

  As he spoke Sven ran the blade down the prisoner’s back, applying just enough pressure to draw blood. The assassin winced involuntarily as the knife cut through his flesh.

  At that moment the door of the cell swung open and Malus entered.

  The Night Stalker laughed loudly in spite of his pain.

  “Tell me, George, what is so funny?” Sven inquired.

  “You’ve barely begun . . . and already you need an old man to finish what you started.” The assassin crowed at the notion.

  Malus strode quietly into the room. Approaching the prisoner he leaned close to the Night Stalker and spoke quietly, yet firmly. “You misunderstand. I am not here to torture you. I am here to heal you, should our friend here get over-zealous with his knife. I will restore you and ensure you survive his ministrations. If you do not tell him what he wishes to know, I assure you, your suffering will know no end.”

  The cell door slammed shut and Sven set about his task in earnest.

  Chapter 3

  Sven set out for the throne room without delay. After hours of careful manipulation, the Night Stalker had finally broken. Sven lacked the sadistic nature some possessed that allowed them to enjoy the barbaric art of torture; for the Spymaster it was a necessary evil, one he had become all too familiar with in the course of his duties.

  The assassin had proved surprisingly resilient, his conditioning far surpassing Sven’s expectations. Whatever training they underwent clearly prepared them for interrogation. Sven received the distinct impression that, were it not for Malus’s intervention, the Night Stalker would likely have expired long before he gave up anything of use.

  It wasn’t until he had been teetering on the edge of death that the man had at last begun to speak. The assassin was clearly delirious and hallucinating as Malus’s ministrations prevented him from passing out of this life and into the next. It was those fevered mutterings that had caused Sven such alarm.

  Bursting into the throne room, Sven addressed the assembly: “Out—everyone out!”

  Tristan was standing before his throne, surrounded by his council and several members of the King’s Guard. At Sven’s announcement all heads turned, including the King’s. When nobody moved Sven repeated the injunction: “I said out.”

  The King raised an eyebrow.

  Sven pressed on: “My liege, I have news of a most sensitive nature. It cannot wait—it concerns the Prince.”

  The King nodded. “Give us the room.”

  Quietly the council and guards filed out. As they did so, Sven realized for the first time, that he had yet to bathe. His clothes were still spattered with the Night Stalker’s blood. He knew he was a disheveled mess, but more pressing matters needed attending to.

  When they were alone the King broke the silence. “What was it you could not share in front of the council?”

  “We broke him, sire. We got him to speak, but when he did he implicated one of the council in the plot against your family. I thought it best we discuss it in private.”

  “One of them—who?” the King demanded.

  “One of the council, sire. At first I doubted his word, but in his delirious state the assassin was not capable of duplicity. The fact that he was not here in council with you at this time of need gives credence to the Night Stalker’s confession.”

  “Whose name did he give you?” Tristan asked, his voice now quiet and on the verge of breaking.

  “Eleazar. The Master of Coin.”

  “Impossible.” Tristan replied. “You know Eleazar as well as I do, if not better. He has been with us since our time in the Guild. What cause would he have to forsake us now? I don’t believe he could be a part of this.”

  “I do not wish it to be true, either, sire, but we must question him and see what he knows.”

  “Very well, but let us go together. I do not want word of this getting out. The last thing we want is for the council to think we are starting a witch hunt within our own ranks. It may hinder rather than help our cause.”

  “Understood—I’ll not say a word,” Sven replied.

  “Let us go. I wish to look him in the eye myself. If he has sold us out, his death will be swift.”

  Tristan led the way out of the hall. It was only a short walk from the throne room to Eleazar’s office and residence. As Master of Coin Eleazar was instrumental in operating the day to day affairs of the Kingdom, so his rooms were located near the throne room. At his advanced age it was not desirable for him to travel long distances in the course of attending to his duties.

  Arriving at his door, Tristan moved to test the lock, but Sven reached out a hand to stop him.
“My liege, if Eleazar is indeed complicit, there is every chance that this is a trap. Please allow me to check the chambers first.”

  Tristan reluctantly agreed and stepped away from the door. Sven gingerly tested the handle. It was unlocked. Sven moved out of the way so that as the door opened he would not be exposed to attack from anyone within the chamber. Once the King had followed suit, Sven twisted the handle and pushed the door open.

  Nothing happened.

  Sven entered the room. Everything was as it should be, except that Eleazar was slumped over his table. Sven moved cautiously over to the crumpled form of the king’s financial minister. There were no visible wounds of any kind.

  Bending over to examine the body, Sven said, “He’s not breathing, sire. Judging from the warmth of the body, he hasn’t been dead for long.”

  Sven plucked a wine goblet off the table to sniff its contents. As he did so he knocked over a vial that had been resting beside it. The vial rolled across the desk spilling its contents, or what little remained of them. Small rivulets of black liquid ran across the polished wood.

  Sven bent over the desk and carefully sniffed at the vial, at the liquid. “Witches’ root, sire. He would have been dead in minutes.”

  “Why would he poison himself?” Tristan wondered out loud. “If he knew he would be discovered, why not flee?”

  As Sven examined the table he noticed a parchment partially concealed beneath the Master of Coin’s limp form. “Perhaps this will shed some light, your highness.” Gently lifting Eleazar, Sven slid the paper out from under him. He examined it. “It is definitely his hand, your highness. I think you should read it for yourself.”

  Tristan took the parchment and read it aloud:

  Tristan, I hope you find this before it is too late. I am sorry that I could not tell you myself. Once I learned of my mistake I could not bear to look you in the eye. Please understand I did not willingly allow your family to suffer so.