The Troven (Kingdom of Denall Book 1) (13 page)

As Kaz tried to fall asleep, his thoughts raced through all that had happened that day. In all the commotion, he hadn’t had time to process the range of emotions he felt. The pain of his leg injury, the questioning of Bendar’s loyalty, the relief at being helped which turned to horror, and the joy he felt when he saw Omer’s soldiers. Most of all he felt a deep sadness and loss. When the bandits had threatened his friends, he had felt helpless and braced himself for their deaths. He had flashback memories of watching as a group of thieves killed his family. Kaz took deep breaths and tried to relax. He tried to tell himself he was safe now, and so were his friends, but a sense of disquiet kept creeping back into his heart. How could he have saved any of them? As his fatigue overcame him, Kaz fell into a restless sleep filled with dreams.

In the morning, Kaz moaned loudly as he rolled onto his side. He looked around the small room and saw that Garin and Farin were lying on the floor awkwardly scrunched so that they didn’t touch each other. Kaz blinked his eyes hard, yawned and stretched his arms upward. With the day he had had, he wasn’t surprised that he didn’t hear them come into the room the previous night. As Kaz stretched he saw the twins begin to shuffle and wake up.

“Good morning,” Kaz said in an overly cheerful way. “How did everyone sleep?”

Farin scowled at Kaz, “If you weren’t an invalid, I’d make you sleep on the floor,” he replied.

“I guess I could sleep on the floor,” Kaz said looking at the twins, “but I think you two would need to snuggle up close to make room for me.” Garin and Farin both sat up and scooted on the floor until they were sitting apart from each other. “So what’s the plan for today?” Kaz asked.

Garin perked up and excitedly answered, “Last night we were able to start work digging the ditch.” He began pulling his boots on as Farin continued.

“They will pay us each two coppers per day. If we show up early, and work hard, he said we might make a little bit more if the job gets done quickly.”

Smiling, Kaz sank down onto a cot. “We're saved.”

While Garin moved to the cot and surveyed Kaz's injury, Farin continued, “I wouldn't say that – they only need us for a few days. Bendar, has that brilliant brain of yours devised a plan for us?”

“Not yet, but I will be going to get the supplies today. Cam said he knew someone who might buy them, so if I can sell them by nightfall, I can start work tomorrow.”

Garin looked questioningly at his friend, “Are you able to start working that quickly? You still look pretty beat up.”

“I feel much better today,” Bendar said unconvincingly through his split lip. But the boys needed all the money they could earn, so nobody objected.

After looking over Kaz’s leg, Garin rewrapped the bandage. “You are definitely in better shape than this one. It'll be weeks before we can start our trip again. We're definitely going to need more work than just the ditch digging.”

Kaz rolled over and propped himself up in the cot. “Give me a couple of days and I'll be up and ready to help.”

“You are not going anywhere, Kaz,” Bendar said with authority. “If you do not heal properly we will be here even longer, and if you get an infection that is not properly treated you could lose your leg.” Bendar waited silently for a moment as if waiting for it to sink in.

Still stubbornly trying to be a helpful part of their team Kaz spoke up, “I wonder if anyone in the village needs someone to keep watch on the rooftops.” Looking around and finding that nobody even considered this for a moment he added, “Come on guys, I'm just kidding around. I'll be good.”

“What about trying to get our stuff back?” Farin interjected.

“Not this again,” Garin said, but was quickly cut off.

“Why not? The bandits can’t have gotten very far, perhaps they even come into the village at night. If we can find them…” Farin stopped speaking as he looked around the room. Garin and Bendar were both shaking their heads in disapproval.

Kaz propped himself up on one arm, and tried to speak some reason. “I know you want your sword back,” he began.

“It’s not just my sword,” Farin cut in. “Our food, some gold, all of our weapons, even that necklace from Gran is worth something. Without supplies we’re stuck here for at least a month, or worse, we’ll be thrown out to survive in the streets.”

In a surprising tone that almost resembled empathy, Bendar responded. “What you are saying makes sense. We need supplies, and we will need to purchase some of the things we have lost.” Farin pointed at Bendar and nodded, looking grateful to have an ally, “However,” Bendar continued with a look at the other two, “these men are experienced bandits. They are organized. And in my experience they are ruthless. If we met up with them again, I think we would not get our supplies back, and I fear we might have more incapacitated patients, or perhaps worse.”

Crestfallen, Farin dropped his arms to his sides. “Fine, if you are all too scared to try,” he said making a final jab at the others. “We’ll just dig ditches and pray we make enough to not starve.”

Kaz nodded, “That’s exactly what we want to do, not starve.” He leaned forward and stood up, testing some weight on his leg. It felt like fire shooting up his body. “I’m heading downstairs, I’d rather sit in a room of empty tables, than in this cramped space.” Farin and Garin braced themselves under Kaz’s arms and Bendar walked ahead of the group. His limp was noticeably less pronounced than before, which gave Kaz some hope for his friend’s quick recovery. When Kaz came into the seating area, he instantly regretted it. He looked with envy at the greasy salted pork the boarders were having for breakfast, and the smell made his stomach groan loudly.

“We need to get going,” Farin said as he longingly stared at a plate of food.

“Maybe we’ll find some wild berries or mushrooms on our way to the ditch digging,” Garin said hopefully. He avoided looking at the food as he and Farin exited the inn.

Bendar leaned down next to Kaz before leaving. “Even with us staying in the same tiny room, we can’t live off the coppers they will earn if we want to eat. After I sell the supplies, we’ll need me working if we want to stay here. I am worried that we might find ourselves without a place to live very quickly.”

Kaz nodded and patted Bendar on the shoulder reassuringly, “I’m sure we’ll find something for you. I’ll ask everyone who steps through that door.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

Kaz remained sitting at the table for a time after the others had left. The innkeeper wiped the table clean. “You boys are from Dungan, right?”

Kaz looked up, surprised that Braden was talking to him. “Yes sir. We're on our Troven.”

“A foolish tradition if you ask me,” he shot back. “Boys your age could get killed out there on your own.” Kaz sat silently, not knowing how to respond to the man. “What happened to your leg?” he asked.

“A dram attack, it started bleeding again yesterday when a group of bandits threw us from their carriage.”

The man shook his head in earnest. “See what I mean? It's not safe for you out there. Things are getting worse and worse. Bandits are filling these parts. They come into the village at night sometimes. You be sure to have your friends in early every night.” Kaz nodded, not sure how else to respond. After the previous night, he was surprised that the inn keeper seemed to care. Braden's face creased with fatherly concern, but as Kaz met his eyes he had a grin that for a brief moment looked almost like pride. “So you survived a dram attack? That's pretty impressive. I bet some folks would pay a penny to hear that tale.” With that he left to clear another table.

Chapter 11

In the open fields on the outskirts of Kinstock, Mylot rode his battle horse, Gapol. The pair had worked together for years, and they rode as though they knew each other’s thoughts. Mylot tightened his knees, and Gapol quickened his pace. He then braced to make a jump over a large, fallen log. Largely using his knees and feet, Mylot directed the horse to make a hairpin turn, then charge back in the direction they had come. This was a challenging maneuver in the best of conditions, but Mylot insisted on always practicing in full armor, which made it unheard of.

“Good boy,” he whispered to Gapol, as they finished their practice for the morning. “Nobody will stand a chance against us at the tournament.” Gapol threw back his head and whinnied in agreement.

Mylot trotted back home to the Tran Estate. Despite the distance he had ridden with Gapol, he was still technically on his family’s land. As Mylot crested a small hill, in the distance he could see the elaborately manicured gardens that led to the massive stone manor. The large horse easily made his way down the hill and onto the packed dirt road that led home.

Mylot’s mind was so preoccupied with the tournament that was still months away, that he did not notice anything else around him. The servants shuffled out of his way and some rushed ahead of him to bring news of his arrival. The gardeners ducked behind bushes to remain unnoticed as the lord approached the estate. All Mylot saw was a path leading to the place where he would rest, eat, and then prepare for his sword lesson.

When Mylot arrived in the courtyard he was met by five servants. One escorted Gapol to the stables while the other four helped Mylot remove his armor. “Be sure to polish it,” he reminded the man taking his shield, “Sir Rodnik will not be pleased if it is not shining.”

As he removed pieces of his armor, there was a noticeable stir in the courtyard. All the women stopped what they were doing to watch Mylot, some more conspicuously than others. Mylot was a level five strongarm who had spent his life training. The constant training regimen had toned his body to perfection. His layered blond hair hung down to the nape of his neck, barely brushing his broad shoulders when he turned his head. But the feature that drew the most attention were his piercing grey eyes.

“Yes, Milord,” came the automatic response, though Mylot was not looking, nor listening to his servant. He was smiling back at Lady Genene, who was shamelessly waving in his direction.

He walked up the stairs to his chamber where a hot bath was drawn and waiting. With a wave of his hand he dismissed the servants. He stepped down into the hot water and relaxed his tense and sore muscles. Almost immediately a young, light haired, servant entered the room wearing a formal black suit. At his collar and wrists he had small tufts of white silk. “Lord Mylot,” he began with a bow, “I bring important news.”

“It can wait,” Mylot replied and continued sitting lazily in his bath.

“My Lord,” the timid servant continued, “I was told it was urgent.”

Mylot turned to look at the servant, surprised that he was still there. “It can wait,” he repeated more firmly.

“Yes, Milord,” the man said, and then he bowed and backed out the door.

After several minutes the water began to become lukewarm and Mylot rang a small silver bell that sat on a table next to his bath. Immediately, an elderly servant with a grim face that was creased with wrinkles came into the room. She closed the door firmly and scowled at the young serving girls who had ventured to peek in. She crossed the room and pulled the cast iron bucket from the fire. She slowly added the hot water into the tub, then left without a word. When the water temperature dropped a second time Mylot rang again. The second ring brought a middle-aged man who brought Mylot’s robe and escorted him into his dressing chamber.

Although it was a warm day, the fire was lit in the dressing quarters to ensure comfort while changing. Sturdy leather pants, a cotton shirt and soft leather gloves were laid out for his sword practice with Sir Rodnik. Turning to leave the room, he saw the young, light haired servant standing in front of the door.

“Lord Mylot,” he began, “you have a guest: Sir Theodore.”

“Sir Theodore!” Mylot bellowed. “Why didn’t you inform me sooner?”

“I’m sorry, My Lord,” the servant said in his most humble tone while bowing deeply.

“That is not good enough! You kept Sir Theodore waiting. Get out of my sight!” With this said, Mylot grabbed the young man and half pushed, half threw him out the door. The terrified servant disappeared down the hall. “Somebody find out who that was and see he never steps foot on the property again.”

Mylot drew himself up, then speaking to nobody in particular, announced, “I will meet Sir Theodore in the practice yard.” Then he quickly walked out of the room and down the long corridor that led outside.

When he reached the door, he pushed it open and stepped outside, giving time for his eyes to adjust to the bright afternoon sun. Standing next to the fence, Sir Theodore was waiting. The large man had dark red hair that hung to his shoulders, and he was wearing a chainmail coat over his wool shirt. On his left shoulder he had a small plate-metal shoulder guard with alternating blue and white squares, the crest of the King’s personal guards. Mylot looked longingly at that crest.

“Hello, Sir Theodore,” was Mylot’s friendly greeting. “What brings you out this far from the capitol?”

“I came to visit with your father, and speak with you,” he added.

“It means the world to him when people come to visit,” Mylot responded. “With his failing health he hasn’t been able to go out and visit as he would like.”

Sir Theodore shook his head, “It was my pleasure to come out here. We had a pleasant visit. He is a great man.”

Mylot nodded solemnly. He knew that although Sir Theodore didn’t say it outright, this trip was a final farewell. His father was dying, and many of the men and women who had served with him in the King’s army had come to make similar visits.

“Yes he is,” Mylot agreed. “I only hope I can one day be greater.”

“Well that’s the wish of every parent,” Sir Theodore concluded. “Speaking of such things, have you decided if you will accept the appointment of Baron over this region? Your father managed to keep peace here for many years. Now that his health is failing I know the king wants to ensure a smooth transition in leadership.”

Mylot shook his head. “I have things I need to do before I settle down.”

Sir Theodore scoffed slightly, “Things that are more important than the safety of the people in this realm?”

“I thought you wanted me on the king’s guard?” he asked. Mylot was surprised at how the conversation turned. He had thought Sir Theodore was going to try to recruit him for the king’s guard again, and now he seemed put out that Mylot would not settle down as a baron.

“I would be a fool not to ask you, but now it seems you can do an even greater service to your kingdom,” he argued.

Mylot shook his head, determined not to be swayed from his plans. “I will first prove that I am fit for the rank of baron. I will win at the tournament, and see where the winnings take me; perhaps join with the king’s guard. Then when I have earned the necessary prestige, maybe I will settle down.”

“Prestige?” Sir Theodore asked with his head tilted. “I’m not sure you need prestige to be a good ruler. Besides,” he added, “I’m only looking for the best. If you do not win at the Lexingar tournament, I might find someone better for the king’s guard, and the king might give the appointment of baron to someone else.” Sir Theodore gave no indication that he was joking.

“I’ll win at the tournament, and then I’ll
consider
your offer,” He countered confidently. Mylot knew that having won the Lexingar tournament in only two categories the previous year, he was one of the best soldiers in Denall, but this year he was going to prove he was Denall’s champion.

Sir Theodore shook his head in disappointment, “That’s up to you, son, but you know that the offer will not always be on the table. There are people lining up just for the chance to train for the king’s guard.”

“I know,” Mylot said.

Sir Theodore then smiled at the younger man. “Now, I’m sure there was a reason that you had me meet you out in the practice yard. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

Without needing any more encouragement, Mylot picked up his wooden practice sword and stalked out into the yard to work with Sir Rodnik. He moved with the sword as though it was an extension of his body. Every stance was perfect and flowed seamlessly to the next. Sir Rodnik called out commands and Mylot obeyed instantly. He faced three opponents with practice swords, and with a single motion moved between the two attacking men, knocking them to the ground while maintaining his momentum and grip on the sword to lunge at the final man.

After watching Mylot run through drills and practices Sir Theodore called out. “Want to try that out on an old man?”

Mylot grinned from ear to ear. “Yes, sir!”

Sir Theodore stepped out into the practice ring and hefted a long practice sword. Looking down at it in disgust he called out. “I don’t fight with clubs.”

While Mylot retrieved his long sword, Sir Rodnik quickly leaned over and spoke into Sir Theodore’s ear. “You might get seriously hurt. Did you not see what he did to the others?” The man looked at the practice opponents who were still rubbing bruises.

“You may not know this, but I’ve used one of these before,” Sir Theodore said, holding the sword up.

“Yes, of course.” The trainer bowed and retreated several paces to watch the match.

Mylot looked at Sir Theodore as he stood casually with his sword drawn. Mylot raised his sword to his forehead, then brought it down to the side, a sign that he was ready for the fight to begin. Sir Theodore returned the sign and then stood in place with his sword by his side.
What is he doing? He’s just standing there; he can’t defend or attack when he stands like that. Well, I don’t want to kill him. Maybe I’ll just go easy on him for a bit.

With this last thought, Mylot approached Sir Theodore with a halfhearted overhand. Before he realized what was happening, Sir Theodore had ducked under his swing and moved behind Mylot. With Mylot recovering from over swinging, Sir Theodore was easily able to send him forward with a sharp kick in the bottom. Mylot fell forward, piercing his sword into the ground for support from falling flat. “So, young friend, are we going to have a real attack this time?”

Mylot advanced more seriously with overheads, side swings, backhands, and even some forward stabs that, if successful, would have killed Sir Theodore. Each time Sir Theodore was able to counter and block the attacks. After several failed attacks, Sir Theodore shifted his weight almost imperceptibly as he moved to the offensive. While Mylot was well-trained, he still had much to learn, and within moments of the offensive, it was clear that Sir Theodore was in control of this match. After driving Mylot back to the edge of the practice ring, Sir Theodore stopped suddenly and placed his sword on his forehead, then brought it down. The match was over.

Both men, now out of breath, walked back to the place where they had begun the match. “That was very impressive,” Sir Theodore commented. “Can I give you a piece of advice?”

“Yes, sir,” Mylot replied.

“I think you need to focus on one event. The most practical skill you will have in real battles is using your sword. I can tell by that match we had, that you have been neglecting your sword training for riding. If you want to start training for the king’s guard, I advise you to drop out of the joust.”

Mylot protested, “I’m already stronger than anyone else at the tournament, I don’t need to work as much with the sword. It’s the jousting that I need to win this year.”

Sir Theodore handed his sword to Mylot’s trainer and took a step out of the training arena. “That’s up to you. Just remember that there is a difference between fighting for fame and fighting for your life.” Sir Theodore held Mylot’s gaze for a moment, then shook his head. “I think we both know you’re going to ignore my advice, so I’ll let you in on a secret. If you meet someone who matches your skills, defend for a time until you can feel the pattern of his movements.”

“What do you mean, pattern of movements? Is that like the stances they use?” Mylot asked.

Sir Theodore looked at Mylot’s trainer with a quizzical look, but found no help there. “The rhythm in which he is moving is the regular pattern that he changes attacks or stances.” Still not understanding, Mylot shrugged his shoulders. “If you practice, you will start to see what I mean. When you face an opponent, match his attacks with defensive moves, follow his movements, then you will begin to feel patterns in his movements. When you do, you need to move just slightly faster than he does, and that will put him off balance. Then you can back him into a corner, or into a tree, or off a cliff. In battle, moving your opponent where you want him to go can often replace needing to strike the deathblow yourself.”

“After I win the tournament, you’ll have to show me that trick.”

Shaking his head, Sir Theodore replied, “If you don’t practice it, you might not be coming with me to Norwell, but if you do win, we can consider this a piece of early training. There are several things that you would have to learn from our trainers, like how to properly use that strength of yours.” Smiling, he bid Mylot farewell.