Horizon (In the Absence of Kings Book 3)

  Horizon

  In the Absence of Kings – Book Three

  By: Lee LaCroix

  Prologue

  Five months before the Battle of Deepshine and the Dissolution of the Blackwoods Company

  The unbroken reflection of the silver-cast moon was torn asunder by a single soul ship cutting waves through its image. A light lapping was the only sound that could be heard as a tiny rowboat made its way from the vastness of the sea towards the approaching harbour. The helmsman gave one final heave, pushing the boat forward, before he turned around and grabbed the edge of the wooden dock, hiding his craft under its length and away from the peering eye of the nearby torchlight. He made his way onto land without a sound, surveying the now emptied port before striding inland towards the gates of the city.

  Amatharsus, he thought, that is what they called it.

  The man’s dark wrap stayed fixed upon his face and billowed in the salty sea breeze around the rest of his form as he looked up towards the flaming watchtowers, both which were radiant and exposing. Although obstructed by stalwart walls, the traveler ventured northeast towards his destination, the tallest peak as seen from the sea. As he found the silver-gilded gates locked at that time, a quick leap from crate to roof to chimney moved him closer to his goal. He breathed steady, balanced upon the ball of his toes, and looked towards the other side of the gap, glaring from building to wall and not the street three stories below. Relinquishing his breath, he sprang from the bricks with outstretched arms and lax fingers, grasped the high wall’s edge like a raven’s claw, and slammed into its face with a clenched stomach.

  The infiltrator pulled himself over the wall and fell onto the walkway, finding shelter in the shadow between two roaring torches a stone’s toss away. Peering through the battlements towards the city’s Upper Quarter, he looked over the bronzed roofs and between their elaborate offshoots and decorations and could find no passage to breach the final defenses; the wall was his only option now. Before the wall’s walkway bent right into obscuration, he could see two guards along its path, for one rested along its ridge and the other marched to battle the sleep that stalked him. The first guard’s eyes were only open for a moment before they closed again by a swift dagger wound and a short fall into a garden below. The second struggled with sleep no longer and finally let it overtake him as the ruby essence of his life spilled upon the parapets.

  Leaping between recesses of shadow, the man made his way to the northern quarter of the wall. He inhaled a breath, leapt over the side of the wall, landing on his back on a tuft of sculpted bushes, and found himself in the darkness of the royal gardens. The fragrance of orchids and roses followed him as he pushed through their planters to get to the walk.

  Creeping along, he scouted the two guards waiting at the entrance to the palace. The northern face of the Royal Palace, although devoid of any of the distinctive sunsteel statuary, was still resplendent with stained glass windows and ornamented overhangs from on each floor. Forsaking the obvious route, the infiltrator latched on to the criss-cross grating that hung alongside the windows and pulled himself up towards the second floor. Moonlight guided his fingers into the recesses of the heavily lacquered metal, and he soon found himself clinging to the third floor overhang and began to swing his way to the palace’s northwestern corner.

  He stilled himself, stopping before an open window, and looked down upon a quartet of armoured guard wielding long spears that would easily be able to reach his height. As two of the guard continued their march down the hallway, the assailant pushed away with one hand, twisting onto his back. The guards did not recognize his presence as he continued to turn, clearing the gap of the open window with a spinning leap. He made his way around the northwestern corner and found himself at a shallow balcony that overlooked the sea.

  Gazing through the windowed doors of the balcony to the bedroom within, the man saw the silhouettes of a sleeping couple upon a majestic bed. After he took a ring out of his pocket, he glanced at the ash gray band and the blood red gem that it gripped. After he tapped the gem against the ground three times, it began to glow a faint red, and he began to press at the window. The gem ran along the face of the window without a sound, piercing its transparent depth with the energy within it, until a circle shy bigger than a fist formed. The man grabbed the cut of glass before it fell inside towards the floor, catching the circle by its edge as his hand launched through the hole. He placed it on the balcony and unlocked the door, letting himself inside.

  Oiled to perfection, the door opened without a sound, and it remained silent as he made his way into the royal bedroom. The vestments of the King stood draped upon a mannequin, and a three-panelled mirror stood on the other side of the bed. Still smelling of citrus, a bowl of last night’s fruit stood attracting a few flies upon a small dining table nearby. A large portrait of the King and Queen lay over the bed, and moving towards them, he confirmed their identities. The King lay face up. His brown beard prickled against his silken shirt as he breathed deep. The infiltrator looked to the crown at the King’s bedside table, looked to the man again, and then withdrew a tiny vial with a cloudy liquid from his wrap.

  The assassin stood over the King, looked down onto his face, and then stared around the room one last time. He popped the lid off the vial and poured four drops into the King’s open mouth, aiming them into his throat. The King breathed and then swallowed the liquid, and for a few seconds, there was complete silence. He coughed twice, hoarse and uneven, and then exhaled long and fading. The man in black and winding wrap felt for a pulse and found none. He deposited the vial and looked down at the King again, but his vision was brought upwards by another sight. Turned to her side, the Queen was watching the intruder in her room. Their eyes met, but she did not scream.

  Act One

  Chapter One

  A week after the Battle of Deepshine and the Dissolution of the Blackwoods Company

  Like the synchronized marching of the Crown Army, most recently reformed to defend the nation of Malquia against the Blackwoods and their Vandarian allies, feet pounded against wood and fists against railings as Lord Vyse was brought into the Courthouse to receive judgement for his crimes. With his head raised high and defiant like his prideful nature, Vyse scanned the packed bandstands that bordered the room, looking over every face reddened, shouting, swearing, and gesturing rudely. He took the stand in the dead center of the courtroom with a smile and raised his head to face his judges.

  “Silence! Silence!” Berault barked from his chair beside the Queen’s pedestal.

  With his spiky black hair, olive skin, and slight wrinkles, the acting general of the Crown Army sat before the tumultuous crowd. The leader of the rebellion held his arms up high and fingers outstretched to attract and control the crowd. As much as the people of the city respected Berault and his brave band of rebels from freeing Amatharsus from the tyranny of Lord Vyse’s corrupt coterie of Blackwoods thieves, enforcers, and murderers, the citizens had a terrible time of controlling their tempers at the sight of the man who had caused them so much woe.

  “Order!” the Queen beckoned as she pounded upon her gavel.

  With the absolute respect of the monarchy, the volume of the crowd was soon brought low. Nearly a hundred seething faces now fall upon the man at center.

  “Vyse! You have orchestrated the downfall of this kingdom and would have seen the absolute end of its independence and freedom. With your criminal mob of Blackwoods, from the corrupt Queen’s Aegis that once ‘patrolled’ these city streets to the black-garbed killers, thieves, and highwaymen, you forced many true Malquian citizens to stoop to desperate acts, leaving the other citizens terrorized and
fearful. Regardless of your motives, when you lost control of Amatharsus with your motley band, you invited a foreign power onto our soil to fight a war against your own people. Let us not forget the desecration of the forests, the poisoning of the waters, and or the destruction of the entire town of Bouldershade! This court hereby charges you with high treason for participation in war against your native country, for attempting to overthrow this nation’s government, and for death the King as demanded by a foreign power,” Lord Cross, Justice of the Peace, dictated. “How do you plea?”

  “Not guilty,” Lord Vyse stated with a smirk.

  Vyse swore he could feel his thinned hair flipped at the spattering of outrage all around him.

  “And your defense?” Lord Cross asked when the crowd had finally subsided, following the banging of the gavel once again.

  “Despite malicious and popular opinion, I was only acting on what options were open to me. I saw it as ethically correct to place Malquia under Vandarian submission after what had happened. If we did rally to fight the King’s war, the Vandari would have brought the fight directly to Amatharsus. Thousands of ships with hundreds of soldiers each would have stormed these shores, burning every building, man, woman, and child. Accepting the Order into Malquia would have spared all those souls and all this history just for mere inconvenience of coin,” Lord Vyse elaborated.

  “Fate had nothing to do with what happened, and you know it. Let me remind you that it was a Blackwoods ship that stole from the Vandari, bringing them to our shores in the first place. If that wasn’t enough, it was you who killed the King!” Berault boomed across the courthouse.

  “I disagree with you, for it was not my hand or my word that killed the King,” Lord Vyse said.

  “Bullshit!” Berault yelled from his podium, setting off the tempers of the audience like an explosion as he slammed his fist upon its desk.

  The Queen had only to sharpen her breath and reach for the gavel before the crowd quieted.

  “Settle, Master Berault. Need I remind you that Lord Vyse never admitted to me that he actually murdered my dear husband? And let me tell you now that the assassin’s clothes were not the weaved cloth of Malquia but shadowy and tapered like darkness, and he had the most brilliant blood red eyes unlike I had ever seen,” the Queen explained.

  The crowd was stunned to silence before few whispers rose throughout their numbers; never before had news of the King’s death been uttered from any official tongue.

  “And why hasn’t this been brought to light before, your Majesty?” Berault demanded, trembling lightly to remain calm in the face of his ruler.

  “Because it was not relevant until now, Master Berault. In the time before the Vandari, I could not tell a soul. To maintain our ruse, the Blackwoods had to be the culprit. Our deal with the Order had to be done with as much secrecy as possible and informing anyone about a… presumably foreign assassin would have caused quite the panic, I can only assume,” the Queen elaborated.

  “As I said before… with the King dead, I took the country in the only direction I knew how. When the Queen put me in charge, I knew I could not lead an army or suffer another to in my place. I tried to save as many as you as possible,” Lord Vyse uttered.

  “I conclude these hearings by handing down the sentence of high treason upon Lord Vyse. He is sentenced to spend the rest of his days under house arrest and under modest means far below his standings, for living as such was his greatest fear and strongest motivator. Malquia must strive to have mercy after a time of so much without. This meeting is adjurned,” the Queen concluded with the banging of her gavel.

  A smile cracked across Vyse’s face as fast as a flash of lightning and was followed by the thunderous protest of the courtroom.

  Chapter Two

  Five Months Later

  The orange-red of candlelight began to overtake the two-room apartment as the sun disappeared from the world outside. Even though a fiddle and a pipe are played to a chorus of ale-smitten singers two stories below, Berault continued to scratch away at parchment above the Salty Dog tavern deep into the night, for he had learned to tune them out long ago. After he had signed a letter and folded it into an envelope, he shuddered at the feeling of a chill at his back. It may have been too early to put away the fur-lined jacket, he jested, as he looked down upon his custom-tailored leather vest, cloth long-sleeve shirt, and thick-knitted pant. He stood to close the windows and made his way over to the oven to light a fire to chase the nighttime coolness of early spring out of his home. Sitting back down at his desk, Berault ripped into another letter and began to read its message.

  “Master Berault,

  In accordance with your orders to patrol the northwestern coast, our scouts have sighted four foreign ships this month just visible on the horizon. The ships are usually sighted after noonday. The keenest of our watchmen swears he has seen the gray-flagged ships you have warned us about, but none other than him can confirm that. If these mystery ships begin to sail any closer, we will send immediate word.

  Truly,

  ~Ranross Vemsdower, Mayor of New Deepshine.

  Berault folded up the letter and tapped its edge upon the desk. This was the third letter to come in from western coast towns regarding the foreign ships, and he was becoming anxious at their increasing frequency. Would someday soon, he would see not one or two Vandarian ships, but hundreds? Thousands? He had no doubt the Order would return someday, and he spent in his time in this office in communication with the outlying towns, readying himself for the backlash from their resolute victory against the Vandarian invasion. He tried not to dwell on it as he doused the candle with his finger and extinguished the oven.

  Before long, the apartment was dark, and Berault was in his bed. He had closed his eyes and had just finished putting the Vandari out of his head for another night. Before the silver swirl underneath his eyelids began to draw him into sleep, he heard a smashing of glass that startled him, and he craned his neck to look about.

  “Damn drunks,” Berault murmured as he lay back in bed, dismissing the sound as a smashing glass in the tavern below.

  Berault’s heavy eyes flicker for a second and shut for a while, but soon he opened them for a moment and met a pair of eyes glaring with blood red hue. A knife plunged down towards Berault’s heart, but as he rolled over to the other side of the bed, the blade nearly missed his back. Berault grabbed his sword on the other side of his bed and swung it wide as he turned back over. The assailant skipped away and watched as the aging man stood out of bed and ripped a shield off the wall to arm himself with.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, assassin. Let me find justice for my king!” Berault yelled as he lunged forward with a downwards swing, but the shadowy figure is not there when the strike landed.

  Berault turned and threw up his shield as the masked man attacked from the side, and both of the daggers echoed off the shield. Berault roared and charged the man with his shield up and knocked him into the wall. The assassin reached around the top of the shield and sliced at the meat of Berault’s shield arm; the sting was quick and biting. Berault slammed his sword into the wall, but his opponent had squirmed out of the way before the blow can land. Berault pushed off the wall with a kick and slammed his shield into the assassin once again, forcing him out of the bedroom and into the common area.

  “My work is done. We will not meet again,” the assassin stated, accent unfamiliar to Berault.

  He withdrew two tiny vials from his cloth and smashed them underfoot, starting a sizzling smoking at the floor’s base.

  “Coward!” Berault yelled as he charged in with a downward slice through the smoke.

  Berault winced as the assassin gives him a shallow cut across his stomach. Berault heard the masked man escape into the hallway and out the broken window leading to the alleyway. The smoke of the concoction diminished but soon began to produce light and fire. Berault poured his leftover pint of ale onto it without effect, and the fire soon had consumed his desk and began t
o blacken the floor. Berault began to escape the smouldering apartment, but he suddenly felt his age as his foot cramped up, and he began to hobble. He made it down onto the street as the flames leapt out of his window, and the tavern’s patrons looked on in horror as their favorite watering hole was consumed by flames. Berault fell to his knees, not from anguish, but because he could no longer move his left leg.

  Garreth hung his head low, his brown hair falling to his shoulders and obscuring the street around him, and produced a weary sigh not heard since before the liberation of Amatharsus; in that terrible time where survival was the only law and the absence of the King was felt most perilously. The wind pushed around his light brown overcoat as its length settled between his knees and his waist, and the wings of the eagle insignia on his back seem to flutter.

  He does not crowd the mournful barkeep to ask the same questions the bereft has heard since daybreak. There is a gap in the sky on that harbour-bound street, one that has not existed for a very long time, and Garreth can feel its loss. It was the first tavern he had ever entered. Upon becoming one of the Crown Aegis, he frequented there for camaraderie and his comrade’s mired confession. It was there he learned of the Malquia’s turbulent past and the great efforts of the first king of Malquia and his army to make peace across the land long ago. And that was the same army that Garreth led in part against the Vandari, who drew their plans across Garreth’s native land to destroy that hard won peace.

  He could remember those days, often tumultuous and seldom tranquil, where he lived on the third floor of that favoured hovel and watched over the street and its people. The coming and going of wintery snow and frost was all that had lay between now and then, but the span of time seemed an age since he shared the cozy common with his son, Novas, and the blacksmith, Kayten. He knew his son, spirited as Garreth was in his youth, would mourn the loss of this place too. He recalled another tenant of that building most central and remembered it was his task today to see how his old mentor was faring after the loss of his age-old home. As he met the eyes of Tummas the Barkeep, Garreth sent the ill-fated man a low nod to pay his respects and then made his way south.