King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1
King’s Exile
Book One of the Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound
William L. Culbertson
King’s Exile
By William L. Culbertson
http://wculbertson.com/
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2016 by William L. Culbertson
Other Books by William L. Culbertson
King’s Dragon: Book 2
King’s Crown: Book 3
Acknowledgements;
Thanks to Laura Petrella for copy editing help,
and to Sherry Howard for guidance preparing the final text.
Chapter 1
Clack, clack, clack. The sound of the wooden wasters was loud and raucous—and embarrassing. Dax had to practice his swordsmanship with a wooden sword while all around him the rest of the guardsmen raised a blacksmith’s cacophony with the cool, sharp scrape and clang of steel on steel. Attack, defend, attack. Dax’s wooden practice sword just said, “Clack, clack, clack.”
On this particular day, General Herne had him sparring with one of the young members of the West Landly Guard. The castle detachment of the guard was an elite group charged with protecting king and castle, but that did not mean they showed their king, uncrowned or not, any deference when charged to train him. Tre Lukas Trimble at age nineteen was more than half again as old as Dax, full muscled, and in his prime. Young for the rank of tre, Trimble sparred frequently with Dax. Today they dueled with weighted wooden wasters. To ensure Dax’s safety, Herne insisted he wear a leather training vest and protective wire-mesh face mask while Trimble sparred in ordinary training clothes. Although Dax understood Herne’s need to keep him safe, it was embarrassing.
Dax circled Trimble, cautious in his attacks. Although the pennants atop the castle walls and towers snapped in the brisk wind off the great Western Ocean, down in the training yard, scarcely a breath of breeze stirred. The air held a hint of the cool ocean below, but Dax had been sweating since the start of the bout. From experience he knew Trimble was fast and strong. The man could have disarmed him easily. Trimble’s job, however, was to show him a defensive practice challenge. Dax’s assigned task was to score a touch.
“What’s the matter?” Trimble called with a smile. “Tired already?”
Evidently Dax had been a little too cautious, but Trimble’s cocky attitude did not help. Dax lunged forward. Clack, clack, clack—whap! Trimble’s solid swat to the side of his head hit Dax’s mask and stung his ear. He blinked in pain.
“Oops,” his sparring partner said quietly, and chuckled as he backed away. “Did you forget to keep your guard up on the left?”
Trimble’s cocky smile and mocking tone were too much. An unexpected surge of hot fury burned through Dax, and all the color went out of the world. His vision became extraordinarily sharp. He saw every fiber of Trimble’s training jersey as well as each of the disgustingly few beads of sweat on his taunting face. Dax lunged forward again. Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack! The waster was almost weightless as Dax launched a furious attack.
“Hey!” Trimble exclaimed. “Ouch! There’s your hit. Match over, dammit. Stop!”
Dax felt a restraining hand on his shoulder, and he stopped his assault. Herne’s firm tones said, “The match is over, Your Majesty.”
Suddenly Dax’s world looked normal again. He pulled his mask off and stuck the point of his waster in the ground to rest his arm. He knew Herne would reprimand him for lack of sword discipline, but he figured it was better than dropping the thing from exhaustion. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.
Now Trimble gave the proper end-of-match sword salute to Dax. “Good match, Your Majesty. I don’t think that was a proper form you used there at the end, but it worked.” Trimble smiled ruefully and rubbed his shoulder where Dax’s waster had hit him—twice. Trimble also gave a sword salute to Herne even though, as a retired officer, Herne was not strictly entitled to the formality.
“Thank you for the match, Tre,” Dax responded, raising his waster to give Trimble the proper return salute. “You were excellent as always.” He watched as Trimble racked his waster and trotted off toward the barracks. The honesty in Trimble’s comment gave Dax a little hope that all the practice was helping, but what had happened in the last series of the match? He remembered nothing clearly except getting angry and attacking Trimble. He had certainly not used any of the carefully learned dueling forms he had been taught. At least Trimble had not been as cocky as usual after the match, and that made Dax want to smile.
Herne patted Dax’s shoulder. “In spite of what you might think, Dax, you are getting better,” Herne said quietly so only Dax could hear. “In a few years you will be a swordsman your father would have been proud of.”
The rare praise and unexpected personal contact startled Dax. His father, the late King Darius Ambergriff IX of West Landly, had died this last winter, and the thought that his father would have been proud of him made Dax’s eyes burn with emotion. His father had nicknamed him Dax because he would be King Darius Ambergriff X, and he would have the kingly initials D. A. the X. When Herne used the nickname, it felt like a sign of fatherly affection. Dax lowered his gaze so Herne would not see the water glistening in his eyes.
“Thank you,” Dax said roughly. “It is hard work, though.”
“Never said it wasn’t.” Herne smiled. “Then again, nothing worthwhile comes without a wagon full of work. Evnissyen says your lessons are going well too.”
Every morning, Dax had to work with Evnissyen, the royal tutor. A thin, graying man, Evnissyen also spared little praise for his student. His tutor’s eyes might have been weak, but the man’s cold intellect intimidated him. Dax’s lessons were interesting but exasperating. Dax never seemed to get a straight answer to any of his questions. Instead he had to labor to argue one of Evnissyen’s position statements first from one side, then the other—sometimes from three or more different sides. He did his assigned readings diligently, but Evnissyen’s questions always stayed a pace or two ahead of his understanding. Dax had to recheck his books, and often he even had to search the castle’s library to find more information. He could see how much there was to learn before he ruled the kingdom in his own name, and Dax sometimes despaired of the task before him.
“He’s never said that to me,” Dax replied to Herne.
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? We have a lot of work to do to get you ready for your thirteenth year, when you will be able to govern in your own name.”
Dax was tired. Not just in body, but in spirit. He had so much to do.
Herne waited while Dax returned his waster to the rack of practice weapons. “One other thing you should know. Starting tomorrow Captain Danford is going to be supervising your physical training for a few weeks. Seems they want me to run an errand to the guard garrison down south at the mouth of the Radkim River.”
Frowning, Dax said, “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
Herne looked at him. “Damned unusual that they’d send an old, retired goat like me, but the castellan asked me personally.” He smiled at Dax. “Don’t worry. I’ve already given Danford plenty of work for you to do while I’m gone.” He nodded. “Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean there won’t be something to do.”
“It seems there’s always something to do,” Dax mumbled. Although Herne worked him hard, the man was an ever-present anchor in his life. Dax realized he would miss him.
Herne evidently sensed Dax’s budding despair and jostled his shoulder again. “Don’t worry. Your father was my friend, and I promised to look after his son. The kingdom will be the better when you take the
throne.”
The honesty Dax heard in Herne’s sentiment was plain and comforting. Dax felt a flush of warmth from the man’s support. He could not ask for a hug in the middle of the training grounds, but Herne gave his shoulder a final squeeze and sent him on his way with a cuff like one he would give to any budding warrior. In spite of the day’s hard work, Dax’s step was lighter than usual.
#
This afternoon, like most afternoons, he spent in the guard’s exercise yard. Herne had worked him on physical conditioning and riding lessons as well as combat training. Dax enjoyed riding and swordsmanship, but he wondered about Herne’s insistence he learn alley fighting and wrestling. He had wrestled and roughhoused with his father all the time for play. Learning how to fight in battle with a sword and lead a charge from horseback seemed kingly enough, but why would a king need to wrestle in the dirt or break people’s arms? However, he had no choice. For now, Herne decided what Dax needed to learn.
The unexpected reassurance from Herne at the end of his training session had Dax thinking of his father and his own childhood. Dax’s given names were Kort Leith Tavas, but he was of the Ambergriff line, and he would rule as the tenth named Darius in memory of the first Darius Ambergriff, who had united the tribes of Landly and gone on to found a dynasty. Dax certainly did not feel like a dynasty, but he did feel the weight of the past and the expectations for the future. Since his father had died, his stepmother, Mathilde, was regent and head of the ruling council that governed the kingdom. In just over a year, he would take his rightful place on the throne, and the kingdom would be his to rule. He had to be ready.
Orin Herne had been one of his father’s best friends, and Dax had known him all his life. Dax and his father had hunted with Herne in the forests north and east of Tazzelton, and they had shared many an evening’s cook fire with the other guardsmen who accompanied them. They talked of things from horses to state craft, and Herne would call his father Conal, his given name. That impressed Dax because no one else addressed his father so casually. General Herne had been close to his father in those days, and Dax had been a little afraid of the tall, stern man with one arm. Herne was not exactly cold, but he was reserved and never said much. His father enjoyed Herne’s company, and the old general was a fixture in Dax’s young life.
General Herne had retired from his command in the guard after he lost his arm, battling raiders from the Tharan Empire in the South. Dax’s father, however, had kept Herne on in his old rank to see to Dax’s training. Now with his father gone, it seemed Herne lived only to make Dax a warrior, not a king. The man had no mercy and was never satisfied unless Dax worked his hardest. Still, every time Herne looked at him, Dax felt the general’s strong support. He sighed to himself. If only the man’s expectations were not so high.
Dax trudged back across the training yard, an open area within the castle walls on the south side of the complex of buildings within the tall walls. The yard, after a cleanup, served as a parade ground for outdoor ceremonies. Next to the guard barracks, portions of the yard had stone paving, but the training and exercise grounds were packed sand. It was a good thing too. On the many times Dax had been thrown, tripped, thumped, and tumbled to the ground, the sand’s soft but abrasive surface gave him scuff marks but kept him from serious harm.
Inside the castle proper, Dax wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and headed for the kitchen. Outside the door, he caught the rich aroma of baking bread and roasting goose. His training sessions always left him sweaty, dog tired . . . and hungry!
The kitchen was a happy place, and Dax routinely stopped by the warm, bustling operation several times a day. Mama Suse ran the kitchen. She was Mama Suse to everyone in her charge, but Dax had called the woman Ma Cookie since he was a child. With his mother gone, Ma Cookie’s warm affection and the good humor of the rest of the kitchen women made the kitchen a happy refuge. He continued to call her Ma Cookie out of habit, and he enjoyed the cookies the happy cook baked.
Ma Cookie was in the middle of preparing supper and grunted a hello as she lifted a pot onto the stove. Her hair caught up in a bun, she wore her usual worn but clean apron. Her well-muscled arms handled the pot with ease. “There’s one cookie to be had before supper,” she said, “but no more.”
At her invitation, Dax helped himself from the tray. She pretended to be gruff, and she ordered him around just like she did her kitchen helpers. However, her warm feelings for him were obvious. He liked to tease her, but she gave as good as she got. And she always had cookies around somewhere in the kitchen for him.
“All hot and sweaty today,” she noted. “General Herne gave you a good workout, eh?”
“You know he always does,” Dax mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. If Mathilde had been there, she would have reprimanded him for talking with his mouth full. In the kitchen with Ma Cookie, Dax ignored court manners.
“Aye, but the Old Bear will make you into a fine king, he will.” She had focused her attentions on a large lump of flour-covered dough.
Dax finished the cookie quickly. It had soft bits of dried fruit in it and was still warm from the oven. “Supper smells really good,” he said and turned to go. “Bye!” he called and casually helped himself from the cookie tray again. Although her back had been turned, Ma Cookie expertly caught his wrist in her floured fingers before he had gone two steps. Despite being stout and graying, she was quick.
“Naught but one, I said.” And she forced him to put the cookie back. Leaving the kitchen, Dax pretended a hangdog attitude, but once out of sight, he bit into the second cookie he had concealed in this other hand. It was an old trick, but it always worked. After he left the kitchen, Dax headed for his room.
The castle, home of the kings of West Landly, sat atop Adok, the huge domed rock outcropping that dominated Stone Harbor and the city of Tazzelton, capital of the kingdom of West Landly. Minute flecks of mica in the castle’s tall stone walls caught the afternoon sun and gave the whole edifice a silvery sheen when viewed from the city itself. Outside, the castle was a bright, imposing symbol of royal power in the kingdom. Inside, the castle’s high, vaulted passages of worked stone and aged, carved wooden buttresses reflected the proud and noble heritage of the kingdom.
The grand castle was his home, but Dax enjoyed a hidden part of the castle’s interior the most. His father had shown him the secret passages over a year ago, not long before he became bedridden with the flux that finally killed him. His father had told him the passages were a kingly secret known to only a select few of his inner circle of advisors. Dax’s father had not even told his new wife, Mathilde, after he had remarried two years ago. Since Mathilde had become regent, his father’s old inner circle had gradually disappeared from the ruling council, and Dax took guilty pleasure knowing he was the only one in the castle now who knew the secret. Since his father’s passing, Dax had found a refuge in the dark, hidden insides of the castle’s walls.
A year of exploring had taught him the narrow, irregular passages. Mathilde, as his stepmother and regent, looked after his personal affairs, including his appearance. She berated him constantly for soiling his royal finery. Yes, the passages were dusty, and in some places sharp corners of building stones or fingers of mortar plucked and dirtied his clothes, but he never let on where he spent his time. She thought he was off “tussling with the castle brats” in the kitchen, cellars, and stables. He did that occasionally, but most often he roamed the castle unseen. Hidden inside the close, dark spaces between the walls, he felt safe.
By the time he got back to his room on the third floor of the family wing, the purloined cookie was long gone, and Dax’s hunger was a little less sharp. Mathilde met him in the hall, examining him with her cold, ice-blue eyes. “You stink of sweat. Go clean up, and change your clothes to something more fitting.” A ripple of disdain pervaded her words, but that was nothing new. As he turned to go, she added, “Oh, and I left a glass of milk for you in your room.” She reached out and flicked a crumb from bes
ide his mouth. “I knew you would stop by the kitchen after training.” A sly smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “You can wash down your cookie with it.”
Dax mumbled, “Thank you,” and went to his room. Since his father had died, Mathilde had seldom acknowledged him except to critique his behavior in one way or another. He was surprised by her thoughtfulness today. He had sensed honesty in her statement—but not quite. Dax had puzzled over this before. He could always tell when someone was lying or telling the truth, but sometimes the truth felt hollow. Had she left something unsaid? The milk was on his writing table. It was cool and refreshing, but it tasted a bit off. He looked at it. Ma Cookie had told him once that a pasture with sweet clover could make milk taste different. He finished the glass and set it back on the table.
Stripping off his sweat-dampened training clothes, Dax stretched his tired muscles. He enjoyed the cool air on his skin. At the cabinet by the window, he poured a little water into the basin. Last month Mathilde had lectured him sternly about smelling bad when he came to supper. Since then he had made a point of washing himself after he exercised even though he had already bathed in the morning. Once he had toweled himself dry, he found an outfit she would expect him to wear at supper and dressed quickly.
Although the training match with Trimble had felt like it had lasted forever, Herne had let him go a little early today. Dax wasted no time once he had changed his clothes. He opened the secret panel beside his room’s fireplace and slipped into the dark passage behind. Just inside he picked up the tiny lantern he used for light. With a couple of practiced strokes of his steel, he had it alight. Its glow was dim and feeble, but he did not need much light. He knew the dark ways inside the walls.
In spots, small openings, spy holes, let in a little light from the castle itself—spy holes worked both ways. He had learned a lot about the kingdom from Evnissyen’s lessons, but the spy holes had taught him a lot about life. While he was fully briefed and quizzed on all the news of the realm, people never shared their unguarded thoughts with him. Mathilde was his regent, and she sat with the ruling Council of Nobles who made the decisions. Occasionally they allowed Dax to attend a meeting and hear the discussions behind their decisions, but most often they just told him what had been decided. Since many meetings took place while he was at his lessons or in training, Dax seldom had a chance to spy on the council itself. However, by roaming the secret passages and keeping watch, Dax frequently heard snippets of conversations that helped him understand the issues—and the people making the decisions—much better.