Fall of the kings, p.1
Fall of the Kings, page 1
Sword of Cho Nisi
Fall Of the Kings
D.L. Gardner
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
FALL OF THE KINGS
First edition. July 9, 2021.
Copyright © 2021 D.L. Gardner.
ISBN: 979-8201495596
Written by D.L. Gardner.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Fall of the Kings (Sword of Cho Nisi, #2)
Prologue
Voyage to Prasa Potama.
Father’s Longing
Barin
A Handsome Tale
Barte Son of Moshere
Tellwater
The Defense
The Offense
A Commander’s Duty
The Feast
A Cho Nisi Parting
Order of Command
Death of a King
Fire
Night Dreams and a Journal
For Honor
The Council
Stormy
Invasion’s Trail
The King’s Daughters
A Hero’s Grave
Crown Him
Emperor’s Inquisition
The Curse
The Throne Room
Cho Nisi’s Bain
Olinda’s Search
A Wizard’s Wonder
The Ways of Allat
A Pact with the King
Kairos’ Captive
Kairos Tames Lester
News from the Island
Waiting
Farewell
Arell’s Departure
The Voyage
Throne of Osage
Ride to Nico
To Tell a Lie
Acknowledgments
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Further Reading: Curse of Mount Ream
Also By D.L. Gardner
About the Author
Prologue
Twenty years ago, in the Empire of Casdamia.
The night that the phantom brought a sealed parchment from the mountain of Casda de Moor to Emperor Moshere of Casdamia, a gale swept the city. Wind shook shutters off window frames so violently that their panes sailed about the cobblestone roadways as if they had burst from the clouds. Merchants’ signs clamored against lampposts, and whatever items had rested near a person’s porch were now hazardous projectiles thundering through the streets. A man would have been a fool to step outside, for gusts of angry mists rumbled down the narrow alleys looking for flesh to devour. Skura, their naked black wings walloping against the storm, spun through the backstreets, bouncing off walls as they hunted for prey. The alarm had sounded—shrill whistles blown by brave sentries risking their lives on rooftops—warning citizens to hide behind the stone walls of their flats. Panic-stricken men hurried their wives and children into homes, sealing shut oak doors with iron bolts fastened tight. Grooms and stable boys rushed unnerved livestock into sheds before they themselves took shelter, narrowly slipping out of the bloodthirsty claws of Skotádi’s beasts. Hungry appetites of the beasts devoured those who weren’t quick enough to escape.
“Quickly, Jesner, take the child upstairs, lock your door and keep your chambermaids with you,” Moshere instructed his wife. He kissed the newborn babe on his forehead. They had Christened him that morning. Barte son of Moshere. Somehow his father’s Vouchsaver heard he and his wife had a boy child. Moshere feared for the young one, as the curse he suffered could be transmitted to the babe. Their only hope would be to hide the child. Jesner swaddled the baby, hurried to her servants, and the assembly left, closing the hall ingress as they departed.
The emperor watched the atrocities outside from the window in his dimly lit throne room. His heart sickened; his galloping pulse resonated a near-fatal march in his chest. Before the young green-clad page opened the door to the grand hall and stepped inside, before the ghostly appearance of Skotádi’s messenger entered behind him—swirling about his ebon cloak as though the fabric itself provided flight—Emperor Moshere knew settlement for his debt had come.
“Vasil, a messenger from Casda de Moor....,” As soon as he made the announcement, the phantom emerged, cloaked in black. Flinging a streak of light from his fingertips that bolted at the page, the boy fell, whether he fainted, or by death, the emperor could not tell, neither did he step forward to find out, as the demon’s lightning barred Moshere from moving.
“What is this?” Moshere asked, his voice trembling. He kept one eye on his page, who lay motionless on the cold marble floor. What a pity! The lad had been a favorite of his.
The demon said not a word but set the letter on the ground and with a heated breath, blew the secret missive at him. The letter adhered to the emperor’s robe, and he clasped it tightly, never once taking his eyes from the envoi. The man, or spirit, or demon, or whatever one might call it—for Moshere could not be sure if any human blood ran in its veins—turned to the door, spat once at the threshold, and vanished.
The throne room door remained ajar, and Moshere hurried to his page. He stopped short, sickened at the sight. The boy had fallen on his back. A cut scarred his face, blackened as if a burning saber had sliced his cheek from one side to another. His pale blue eyes fixed in a deathly stare, the whites of which had drowned in a pool of red. His expertly tailored doublet fell open, charred, and singed.
Servants rushed into the room, having seen the Terror make its way out of the castle. The chambermaid wept as the valets lifted the poor, young soul and carried him away. Moshere turned his back to them, holding back bile.
He stared at the letter in his trembling hands and slowly broke the seal that had been smeared with blood. Whose blood? He could only wonder.
Ride to me. To the caves by Demonte.
You owe me.
Or your son dies.
-Skotádi
Moshere inhaled deeply. So! This is what it had come to. After conquering all the land and peoples east of the mountains with his father, an empire larger than any other—a prize no man had ever achieved before—he must now surrender to a greater and more deadly force. Why did he think he could escape the phantom’s jealousies? Skotádi’s puppet-beasts had hunkered on Casda de Moor, watching, and waiting. The emperor wondered just what the Vouchsaver was waiting for. Now he knew. Skotádi had been waiting for him to finish collecting the spoils.
A terrible screech sounded in the streets, coupled with a flash of lightning and a burning roof. Flames outside illuminated his chambers. His eyes burned at the sight of the demon’s fire, as if Skotádi’s curse seared his soul from inside out.
“Vasil,” a valet entered and bowed, shaken. “Fire!”
“Yes. Send men to put it out.”
“The wind?” the young man asked.
“It will die. Saddle a horse for me. Quickly, now.”
Before the servant turned to leave, his eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.
“What are you gawking at? Do as I say.”
“Your eyes, Vasil. They’re aflame!”
“Leave!” Moshere ordered. The servant fled.
Moshere threw the note in the fire and watched it curl. The edges blackened and then the parchment trembled, Skotádi’s name vivid as the flame devoured the phantom’s request. When bits of ash danced up the chimney, he spat on the coals. He had no choice but to go, bound as if Skotádi had chained his ankles to the mountain.
Burning straw, wet and smoldering, filled his nostrils with the stink of ruin when he left the castle. The blaze spread quickly with the furious wind. Two roofs were alight, smoke from the sweltering thatching drew upward and coagulated into a cloud sealing out the night. Men and women formed a line with the soldiers—passing buckets one to the other, dipping into the village well—a chain of workers sweating, panic-stricken, dousing the fire.
But the Casdamians didn’t battle against fire alone. These simpletons were not familiar with their enemy. Moshere kept that secret in his heart, for he struck a rod against the anvil. He, the emperor, had already sealed their fate. Whatever peace they worked for, he had bartered away, and from that transaction came human sacrifice. The blood lay on Casdamian hands.
His groom waited with his horse as soon as he stepped into the courtyard. No one asked his destination. They shouldn’t want to know. He’d ridden to Casda de Moor and the caves of Demonte during a storm before, no doubt he will ride there again.
He knew one thing for sure, though. Skotádi’s demands tonight would generate the same penalties his grandfather had faced and would someday task his son. The curse would haunt the Casdamian empire for generations.
Voyage to Prasa Potama.
Cho Nisi had no vessels as large or as sturdy as The Isabella, the Tobian ship Arell found himself aboard. The square-sail boats the natives used were swift, low in the water, and small. Neither did Cho Nisi have crews to man a tall ship, nor did they have a reason for such luxury. They used their watercraft for fishing, shrimping, and crabbing. They had no reason to leave the island other than harvesting seafood. The sheer magnitude of The Isabella’s size mesmerized Arell, and he found the voyage comfortable and thrilling, pacing the deck as he observed the Potamian sailors climb the ratlines, hoist the sails, and loosen the sheets. Had his body not been so broken, he, too, would climb the mast and peer out at the vast expanse of sea. Even when the stars hung low and Erika bedded down in the king’s cabin for the evening, Arell stayed on deck breathing fresh salty
Arell had never been off the island of Cho Nisi. He’d never seen Prasa Potama, or the empire Casdamia, nor any of the mainland. His entire world had been within the boundaries of a land mass surrounded by the Nisi Sea, an island small enough to ride a horse the entire perimeter in less than two days. A satisfactory existence for a young man, but a king needed to experience the world. How could he rule if all he ever came upon were his own footprints? He had more than the simple reasons he gave Erika for traveling with her, not that he minded being near her and meeting her father. He sought wisdom. So inept against the wiles of their enemy, Arell had learned a hard lesson after being crushed by a mountain giant, and having his soul nearly sucked out of him by Skotádi. He knew little about warfare. Erika’s father could advise him.
The ship sailed quietly, the breeze gentle. Twilight had settled over the waters and one by one stars peeked out among the deep blue of the heavens, ushering in the night. Silas approached him and stood by his side at the bow.
“This is your first time away,” he said. Arell nodded.
“You must remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Your father’s death.”
Arell groaned, as if the chief’s words pricked him and made his wounds ache. He held his torso and winced.
“I’ve forgiven her,” he said.
“Maybe you have. Your people have not. They do not want you to forget.”
Silas said nothing else, and then he walked away, leaving a darkness in Arell’s soul. Arell went below to get a blanket. He would sleep on deck.
Either pain kept him awake or his restlessness caused the steady throbbing in his chest. Whichever, Arell had little sleep. He hunkered in his blanket at the stern of the ship the next morning as they drifted into the Potamian port. He stayed clear of the rush of sailors heaving in line and dropping anchor. Maintaining his balance on the ship while crossing the sea had been painful enough. How many ribs the mountain giant broke, he couldn’t tell, but he ached despite the leather armor he wore to brace his torso. After the chief’s warning, he kept to himself during the rest of the journey, avoiding Erika, stepping away from her whenever she tried to initiate a conversation, though he did so with civility. Not that he wanted to alienate her, but the elders were watching, and he needed to keep them appeased. They were on this venture to heal Erika’s brother. Arell had overstepped his bounds, requiring such a task of them, for they continued having misgivings about the princess. Even Arell continued to struggle with his own sentiments toward Erika. As he shivered in the fog while their ship slowly drifted toward shore, Abenda stood behind him, chanting quietly.
“Is that some sort of spell you’re casting?” Arell asked the Cho Nisi elder, keeping his voice low.
“We fear for your life, Arell,” Chief Silas whispered as he lay his hand on Arell’s shoulder.
“Fear?” Arell snickered. “The Potamian wizards slew thousands of skura on our island, the princess battled Skotádi to save my life, and you’re still concerned about an assassination?”
“This trip could be a trap, Vasil,” Abenda broke off his chant. “This is how your father died. You are drawn to that woman as a blind dove is drawn to the warmth of a fox’s mouth. As your elders, we put up a spiritual fortress around you for your own good.”
Arell sighed heavily. He had enjoyed Erika’s kisses just after she had saved his life, still that may have been because his wounds weakened him and made him vulnerable. He could not deny his infatuation with her. He also could not deny that had circumstances been different, she would already be his wife. He loved her from the day they raced each other along Cho Nisi’s shore and laughed together as waves crashed over them. That love vanished when he discovered she killed his father, but in time he realized he had only repressed it just as a mountain hides its diamonds deep within.
Arell rubbed his eyes to pinch off that memory. Their love could never be, considering the circumstances. In memory of his father, and for the sake of his people, he could not now relent. He came here to face King Tobias and question him as to the Potamian kingdom’s sincerity. Cho Nisi needed their allegiance, but the elders did not trust Erika’s father. They also suspected Erika, and they didn’t trust Arell at the moment, either. Time could prove this voyage foolish, even deadly. The only rationale he could give Chief Silas was that Erika and Kairos had saved Cho Nisi from the skura attack, and by doing so, as Cho Nisi’s king, he must sign a truce with King Tobias.
“The woman murdered your father, our king, Vasil. Do not forget,” Abenda advised.
How could Arell forget? Chief Silas, and especially Abenda, would remind him daily. They watched him as an eagle guards its nest.
“Tell me, Abenda.” Arell whispered angrily. “Who is king?”
“We’re here, Arell!” Erika waved and hurried to him. She reached out for his hand, but he held the blanket closed when he stood and smiled at her cordially.
She pulled back hesitantly and frowned. “There’s a carriage waiting for us.”
He glanced at the elders and followed the princess off the gangplank, the wizard Kairos, and his apprentices at their heels.
Noises from the active wharf drowned out his ability to think. Not only had their ship arrived, but other vessels crowded the pier as well. The sound of wooden wheels droned as fish harvesters with hand-pulled vehicles full of whiting rolled by. Sailors dressed in knee high trousers, shirts unbuttoned, barefoot, called orders from another wharf. A ship’s whistle bit his ears, and the smell of fish combined with the odor of tar-treated pilings turned his stomach.
He’d never seen so many people in one place hurrying back and forth like bees in a hive. Men carried heavy loads of cargo on their backs and in carts. Other workers rolled barrels of unknown payload into the hulls of their ships. Tax collectors dressed like gentlemen with large felt hats that shaded their eyes from the sun stood at the end of the pier questioning merchants and collecting duties as the laborers sought to load their wares. A man in a red and gold uniform bowed as they approached the end of the dock and offered his arm to the princess. Kairos urged Arell and the elders to follow. The wizard and his apprentices trailed behind them.
There were, in fact, two coaches waiting amongst the traffic, the smell of horse strong as they approached. The well-matched team was larger than any Arell had ever seen. Black manes curled over their eyes and arched necks, and long bushes of hair covered their hocks. They stood two hands taller than he, their silky coats glistened in the morning sunshine. Blinders prevented Arell from looking into their eyes, and he dare not touch them, for they held themselves as if they belonged to the gods.
“Arell, come sit in this coach with me. Kairos will take the other with his apprentices,” Erika beckoned as she stepped foot into the carriage. As strong a warrior as she had proven herself to be the day she fought Skotádi to save his life, her grace and poise were every bit that of a lady. She could not be labeled a frail woman, as Arell had once imagined the daughters of King Tobias to be. She had strong bones and proved as fit as any soldier and had remarkable endurance. Her tenacity attracted him, that, and her beauty. A pity she had no status in the eyes of the elders and that the Council could not reconcile the murder of a king. That she escaped execution should be sufficient for him. Any further notions he had of a relationship with her, the elders spurned.
Gold accented the coach decor, and bore the Potamian emblem, a red and gold destrier rearing against a buckler backdrop. The coachman nodded to him as Arell stepped into the carriage and sat across from Erika. Silas and Abenda also climbed into the coach after him. Erika smiled at Arell, but he didn’t return the smile. That hurt her. He saw it in the way she frowned at him. He could do nothing but be a gentleman and wish her the best. She should be thankful he escorted her home.
“So does your father know I came with you?” He broke the silence as the coach lurched forward.
“I believe so. I sent word the night we left.”
“Then he will know I come in peace?”
“Yes, Arell. He’ll be happy for it. My father is not a cruel man. I think you’ll like him. Everyone else does.”
