Simon Blackfyre and the Corridor of Shadows: Book 2 of the Simon Blackfyre sword and sorcery epic fantasy series Read online

  Simon’s fists balled. Though Rachel was the daughter of a freeman, she could not speak back to a young lord for fear of the consequences; for Simon to intervene on her behalf would mean a flogging or worse. He bit into his lower lip and stayed silent.

  He considered these were nothing but the hurtful words of cruel young lords. Nothing they said or did mattered anymore for he’d be a freeman come winter… and none there would stop him receiving his just reward!

  Jack, however, was less restrained and leapt to his feet.

  “Your father may well sit on the Triumvirate, sir, but that doesn’t give you a greater claim to the throne. We’ll see what’s left of Tiberion honor after I beat it right out of you.”

  Marcus grabbed his brother and held him back.

  “Don’t be a fool, Jack. You know that’s exactly what he’s after. Do you want us to be sent home in disgrace before we set foot in Farrhaven?”

  Callor snickered and pivoted toward Jack. “Oh, that’s right. Your family doesn’t believe in the respectable traditions that helped build our great Kingdom and civilization, yet here you are, competing for the very throne so many brave and loyal heroes gave their lives to defend.” He ran his fingers along Rachel’s shoulders. “I, for one, am perplexed by this. Aren’t you, Skobb?”

  One of Callor’s friends, the larger, bald-pated oaf, nodded. “Sounds somewhat like treason to me, your Lordship. What say you, Mister Reutiger?”

  The shorter, fatter one spat on the ground. “A man would be drawn and quartered for less where I come from, Mister Skobb.”

  Callor grinned at Rachel. “And you, my enchanting maid? What say you? Treason, or no?”

  Jack shook himself free of his brother’s restraint. This was all too much.

  “The young Lord forgets that when we arrive at Farrhaven tonight, we cease being lord, freeman, or slave. Once the rites begin, our new friend, Rachel, would not be punished if she happened to accidentally break that soft, noble hand of yours during a challenge.”

  Jack took a step toward Callor. “And that stands equally for our other good friend, Simon. It would serve the House of Tiberion well to remember their names and the names of those we look forward to counting on as our allies.”

  Simon rose to his feet and stood beside Jack. “If you say so, Jack. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  Callor jerked his hand back from Rachel and rubbed his fingers together. “Alliances are important, I’ll grant you that.” He examined his fingernails as if contemplating. “It’s hard to say, though, where you’ll find them,” he continued. “Who is to say your friends will not be chosen as protectors for my family, while Skobb and Reutiger end up placed in another? It is interesting to consider the weighing of outcomes when a man carries one family banner while his true allegiance lies furtively with another.”

  Marcus held out his hand in a gesture of goodwill. “Then may the most honorable among us be chosen King for the good of our Kingdom and its people, for in the end we all follow but a single banner, do we not, Callor?”

  Callor looked down at Marcus’s hand as though it was smeared with excrement.

  “As long as it carries the Tiberion silver wolf, I would follow it to the abyss of damnation and beyond.”

  He turned on his heel before addressing Simon.

  “And to answer fully your impertinent question, slave, though the descendants of the five patriarchs are chosen, only four families will be represented. Which, to my way of thinking, is still three families too many.

  “For—unlike we Tiberions who conquer all we claim—the other families owe everything to royal generosity and fawning courtiers. Without sucking at the royal teat, an ungrateful lord with Lionsbury’s reputation would have ended up... well, just like you, really.” Callor strode away smugly, silently followed by Skobb and Reutiger.

  Rachel stood beside Simon and Jack. “May Saint Kaja herself save us all if that tyrannical brat should ever be crowned King.”

  Marcus wiped his hand on his trousers. “My brothers and I won’t let that happen. What say you, Robert?”

  “Better any one of us than King Callous the Malignant.” Everyone laughed at Robert’s witty remark. “And I’m certain Goran and Dominique must feel the same way.”

  Simon masticated the last soggy bread crust. “Who in God’s name are they?”

  “Goran and Dominique of House Velizar. You’ll meet them at Farrhaven,” Marcus replied.

  Rachel brushed back her hair. “Are the Velizars then too noble to travel with the rest of us? Even Callor must sit and be miserable in his royal hay wagon.”

  “Goran is with the King's Council Guard and very protective of his sister. He’s been allowed special provisions until the rites officially begin.”

  Mr. Joren strode through the campsite clanging a bell. “Hear ye, hear ye, all ye most dignified lords, ladies, and lackeys. Finish up your business and head back to your wagons. If you can’t, then you’ll have to hold it until we reach Farrhaven or go over the side in a manner most unbecoming and rude. If anyone is not accounted for, they will be pursued and punished in accordance with the law by the authority of the King's Council.”

  Jack turned to Rachel. “The driver will wait a little longer if I ask him.”

  She smiled. “Thank you again for being such a gentleman. I won’t be long.” She hurried away into the bushes. Jack picked up the cooking pot by the handle. “Will you wait here, Simon, for Rachel… while I go speak to the driver with my brothers?”

  “Of course, and Jack?”

  Jack paused. “Yes?”

  “What did Callor mean about only four families being represented? Who is the fifth?”

  Jack glanced away, his young brow suddenly furrowed with the worries of age. “We’ll talk more of that once we reach Farrhaven, all right?”

  The Evermere brothers joked and laughed about Callor as they walked back to the wagon. Watching Jack talk to the driver, Simon wondered if the day would ever come that he could hope to gain the same respect of other men, not by virtue of his wealth, rank, or by the hand of fear, but by the simple fact it was the only decent way to live among good people.

  Daylight narrowed, the clouds coming creeping in like a pall across the fading sun as the caravan wound its way through a narrow turn cut between two sheer cliffs. In the shadows of the Mountains of Haramir, quivering streaks of light snaked down into the rocky canyon.

  Simon’s muscles ached from sitting so long on wooden planks, that he was tempted to jump off and run alongside the wagon. However, the presence of the guards and one glimpse of Callor Tiberion scowling at him from another wagon made him think better of it.

  Coming around on the other side, the road opened wider onto a boulder-strewn plateau. He was surprised and glad to see two familiar faces waiting there. “Mister Byrch!”

  Jack stood and stretched his legs. “Simon, if that giant is your friend, you’ll never have to fear the likes of Callor Tiberion or any better man again.”

  “He’s not a giant, but don’t tell Callor that.”

  Niall tugged on his brother’s tunic. “He’s not really a giant, is he, Jack?”

  Jack laughed and shook his head.

  Mr. Byrch rode Shamus up to the caravan. Everyone was in awe of the colossal horse and some drew back in fright. Mr. Byrch trotted beside the wagon. “Hello, lad. Glad to see you took my advice. Made some new friends too, I see.”

  Simon introduced Mr. Byrch to his still worried-looking companions. “Did you bring Jesamine?”

  “Aye, she’s over at Farrhaven. You can tend to her after supper.”

  A familiar screech overhead made Simon gaze up into the darkening sky. He couldn’t see the red-tailed hawk but knew she was circling close by. “Esther? But surely not… she’s recovered so quickly…?”

  Mr. Byrch chuckled. “Seems her wing was not broken after all. She only needed a long rest and nourishment. I thought she might fly back to her master but now she’s never far away from my cal
l.”

  The wagon rounded another rocky bend and Niall pointed toward the mountains. “Look!”

  Four massive, square towers loomed at the foot. Connected by huge, heavy outer walls made of golden stone, the fortress walls appeared at once forbidding and impressive in their commanding grandeur. Tall windows were scattered generously around the walls in seemingly precise proportion, along with symmetrical holes for archers and artillery. The road approaching the outer walls was dark with dense woods on both sides.

  “Something to look at, isn’t she, lad? And those be but her outer ramparts. I’ll meet you and your friends inside.” Mr. Byrch rode on ahead of the caravan.

  The horses and wagons rumbled over cobblestones. Simon glanced at his reflection in the deep, dark waters of the moat and wondered if it was the same slave boy staring back that had left Grimsby only a few days before. His stomach tightened and he saw Rachel’s ruddy cheeks drain of color. Simon touched her cool, trembling hand for a moment.

  “It’s going to be all right. You’re not alone now. None of us is.”

  “But what if we’re not together? What if—” She pulled her hand away and looked down at the moat.

  The great gate of broad timbers girded with iron opened before the first wagon. It rolled through without slowing its pace. One by one they entered until the entire caravan was inside and the enormous gate gradually swung shut behind them.

  Chapter 2

  Crossing the Bridge

  The caravan came to a creaking halt on the stony inner ward as the last sunlight faded and the guards busied themselves lighting the wall torches in their holders.

  Simon stared in awe at the six gold-capped turrets which, in addition to their enormous brown stone towers, appeared to offer the last hope of defense should the outer walls ever be breached.

  Mr. Joren clanged his bell and addressed them once more.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, all young lords, ladies, and sundry loyal and gracious subjects. Everyone out, now, and get the feeling back into your backsides. If you find this a difficult task then feel free to ask myself or any of my compatriots to administer a swift kick, so to invigorate your spirits and get your blood flowing back into your nether parts. And to novices one and all, a most hearty welcome to Farrhaven.”

  He bowed and the guards in each wagon broke into raucous laughter and clapped.

  Mr. Joren held up his hand and the others fell silent. “You will wait here in the rear yard until the group from each wagon is summoned to the front. Is that clear?”

  Simon and his friends leapt to the ground with the others. The wagons emptied in a loud deluge of confused voices and groans of relief. Simon rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms. He looked with curiosity at the rusty remnants of broken siege engines, catapults, ballistas and supply carts stacked in one corner and wondered how long since they’d last been used in battle.

  In the center of the yard stood a chipped, moss-covered statue of a shrouded and winged woman on a pedestal; she held a sword in one hand and comforted a sleeping child close to her heart in the other. Simon assumed it was her name inscribed in the stone but couldn’t read the weathered letters.

  “Now, that wasn’t such a bad trip, was it, lad?” Mr. Byrch held a torch aloft and parted the crowd of novices milling around their wagons.

  “The guard told us to wait here until we’re summoned.”

  “And you’ll do exactly as Mister Joren says.” Mr. Byrch gestured his appreciation to the guard. Mr. Joren tipped his head.

  Simon pointed back at the statue. “Who is that, Mr. Byrch?”

  “Lad, you have so much to learn. It is the fair likeness of that most magnificent lady, Saint Kaja of Palamor, herself, matron saint of the King’s Guard. She was said to be courageous in battle and compassionate of heart, the two qualities we all struggle to master and hold in balance of their true measure.”

  Esther swooped from the sky with a dead mouse in her beak and perched on the statue’s shoulder.

  “But I have yet to see a woman in your ranks, unless you count Esther.”

  Esther ruffled her feathers and flew away.

  Byrch grunted his displeasure. “But ‘twas not always. Men and women stood shoulder to shoulder in the Age of Heroes, but that was a long time ago. Now stop asking so many questions. Time for you and your mates to follow me.”

  He held the torch over their heads. “This way, if you please.”

  Rachel peered around his imposing girth as though looking for someone. “What about the others?”

  “Someone will fetch them by and by. Everyone has to learn to wait their turn at Farrhaven.”

  Simon and his friends obediently followed Byrch. He passed Callor, and the young lord’s grave stare—like a judge pronouncing a death sentence—sent shivers through his legs. What did he mean that only four noble families were present? Simon looked away and stumbled into his friend. “Sorry, Jack. My apologies.”

  “Don’t let him get to you, Simon. Keep your eyes on the path ahead. None of us can afford a misstep now.”

  The narrow track of smooth pebbles veered toward the front gates. The length and width of Farrhaven was greater than even the grandest manor Simon had ever known. This was a relief considering all the novices present—twenty, more or less, by his rough count during the journey. He hoped there’d be enough quarters to accommodate everyone comfortably including nobles, guards, freemen, and servants.

  Byrch stopped before the massive oak front door, facing a wide lawn of wet, smooth grass. He folded his branch-thick arms across the hairy trunk that was his chest. “When you cross this threshold, your formal training begins. Accept that fate and good fortune, both through the wisdom of the Holy Seer, have chosen you for a reason—although you may think her Holiness and destiny greatly mistaken.”

  He smiled at Simon like a big brother. “For when those of you remaining walk through this door on your final days, the destiny of our people and its Kingdom will be decided. Remain warm of heart and pure of spirit, and may Saint Kaja guide you to choose well on the path to victory.”

  Simon coughed. “Mister Byrch, sir, what do you mean, those of you remaining?”

  The huge, hairy man was already banging the large iron knocker on the plate and drowning out his voice. One look at the faces of his friends, and Simon knew none had the answer to his question—or if they did they were sorely afraid to speak it.

  The door opened revealing a gracefully tall, raven-haired woman in sapphire blue robes. Unmoving in her stance, her porcelain skin and bright, amber eyes seemed to intensify the dignity of her presence and the silence through which she gazed at them.

  Byrch bowed in respect. “Lady Eleana Pascari of Bellemar, may I present the first group of novices.” He handed her a small scroll. “All named and accounted for.”

  “Thank you, Mister Byrch. Please instruct the other guards to observe the torch beacons. After each is lit, they are to bring the next group until all are present.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Mr. Byrch turned to leave.

  “And Mister Byrch?”

  He stopped and faced her. “Yes, Lady Bellemar?”

  “His Lordship asks that you enjoy your evening after such a grueling journey on his behalf. You have deserved it.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Torch in hand, Byrch took his leave.

  Simon wondered about his reason for leaving the caravan camp so early and made a mental point to ask Mr. Byrch when next they met.

  Lady Bellemar pushed the doors completely open. “Mind your step. The floor was just washed and it may be slippery in spots.” Simon and his friends followed her inside. The torches on the stone walls illuminated a vast entrance hall. Its vast proportions were something that Simon had always imagined a palace might hold.

  The elegant noble woman stopped in the middle of the marble floor. Simon and the others huddled close, nervously looking around at the swords, axes, and colorful banners hanging on the walls—all emblazoned with the same animal insig
nias Simon had seen his first night at the caravan.

  The high-domed ceiling was painted with ancient scenes of epic battles and what Simon assumed were images of the five patriarchs. Some were chipped and faded to the point of mere outlines, while others had almost completely disappeared with time. On each side of the marble floor, a grand spiral staircase curled its way up to the second level before continuing on its ascent to the third.

  “On behalf of the King’s Council presiding at the Royal City of Avidene, I welcome you to Farrhaven. Mister Byrch has introduced me and you will address me as Lady Bellemar at all times. The other lords presiding over these rites shall introduce themselves to you as the need arises. From this moment on, you are no longer nobles, freemen, or slaves.

  “The Rites of Succession, only the second in the history of our Kingdom and the first in almost a thousand years, have begun. Each of you has a part to play in deciding the future of our great Kingdom. Once all novices are assembled, you will share your first meal together and then... your first challenge.”

  She turned, her flowing sapphire robes swishing across the floor as she walked.

  Jack hurried to catch up with her. “But Lady Bellemar, when do we choose the protectors for each family?”

  She slowed her step allowing Simon and his friends to catch up. “That, Jack Evermere, is your first challenge.”

  Simon was dizzy with hunger as he watched for the last group of silent novices filing into the great dining hall. Each member of the four families was assigned their own table but the others were allowed to sit wherever they wished.

  Simon restrained himself from stabbing his fork into the biggest sausage on the serving plate in front of him. He glanced at his patient friends and observed they were using similar restraint in their table manners. Rachel pursed her lips and nudged her fork closer to her bowl-shaped trencher of fresh bread, while Jack tapped his finger on his spoon and remained transfixed by the steaming hot Shepherd’s Pie in front of him.

  A cleanly-dressed serving boy delivered a scalding bowl of buttered roast potatoes and carrots. He placed it next to the heaping meat platter which only made things worse. Simon feared that if he did not eat soon, he would lose his self-control and suffer a punishment worse than the pangs of an empty stomach.