Beyond the Spire of Navarene

  Beyond the Spire

  Of Navarene

  M. WARREN ASKINS

  Copyright © 2019 M. Warren Askins

  http://www.mwarrenaskins.com

  Map, Cover Artwork & Design by Josiah Moore

  http://www.josiahx.com

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at mwaskins@yahoo.com.

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First Edition: 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-7341200-0-4 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-6972012-2-2 (paperback)

  For Gina

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  FROM THE HOLY DISPATCH BUREAU:

  To reach the eyes of Lord Amyr exclusively.

  Anyone who continues reading must do so at their own peril.

  This is the first and final warning.

  Lord Amyr,

  I recount to you these words while the memory is fresh and the ink is damp. Though I may be reporting everything in person, in your wondrously ever-shifting and morphing chambers, the desire to scribble the details lays heavy.

  An ample amount of time has passed since your divine edict was bestowed upon the people, and most have held the wisdom to accept it and abide. But there were some who simply ignored the new rule and continued to live their lives as if nothing of significance changed. While I fully and completely understand that when one in authority needs to remind those under him who is in charge, the punishment for disobedience is not only severe, but must also be a clear warning for those treading upon the transparent sheets of ice.

  Others, I am sure, will criticize, demonize, and decry our actions this day. They will point out that the village of Knotwithstadt is out of the Church’s dominion, and that possibly the news had not yet reached them. They, of course, would be incorrect in these assumptions, as the Church holds all the dominion. You know this and I know this. And when the dispatches assigned to Knotwithstadt returned to the basilica bereft of pants having had them unceremoniously stripped from their bodies, I believe that it summarized the people of Knotwithstadt’s feelings concerning you as a figurehead wielding any semblance of authority.

  As you well know, when the laives of Knotwithstadt accepted humans to dwell among them, clearing that patch of forest so they could assemble homes better suited for both races, by doing such an act, that village became absorbed by the kingdom. And thusly, absorbed by the Church. What concerns the kingdom concerns you. You already know all of this, and I most humbly apologize for stating the obvious.

  When we approached the sleeping village, well before dawn’s first gasps, I overheard an older knight talking with a much younger knight, or perhaps a squire? I did not bother to turn in the saddle to get a look. He stated something to the effect: “You’ll learn in time that when it comes to most matters, especially ones with heavy consequences, announcing your plans is a good way to hear the Creator laugh.” It went along those lines, obviously not verbatim. Regardless, I believe the statement was as appropriate summation for the day.

  I only wish more would have heard it. I also wish I would have gazed back to behold the orator’s face, to see if he is counted among the survivors.

  We sat mounted behind a single band of soldiers, their numbers stretched across the outskirts, rubbing up against the boundary of the village. There was no front gate to funnel through, so in order to overtake them, we only needed to press straight ahead. I gazed down the line to see mercenaries filling most of the standing ranks, rubbing elbows with some of the finest Holy Knights in existence. Steamy breaths emanated from the eye and mouth slits on helms. The rough faces were battle hardened, and honestly, a bit over-enthusiastic for what was about to take place.

  Your instructions were quite simple: every person of an age to carry a weapon in attack or defense must die. Quite straightforward. And concerning the children, you left that to our discretion. Any surviving children were to remain unharmed upon their escort to the orphanages inside the city, under the Church’s purview, slaving being strictly forbidden.

  I am glad to report that we have a number of children amongst our ranks currently. I know this because the pitiful creatures will not stop wailing. As to be expected. And a few minutes ago, a particularly pungent sellsword decided to take it upon herself to cram almost an entire loaf of bread into a weeping child’s mouth, nearly choking the little wretch into an early grave. One of the Holy Knights nearby took direct offense to this, and stepped forth and separated the woman from her spine. You would think this would shut the child up, but no. Once the thing regained its breath, it renewed its wailing with even more fervor!

  A relative state of calm was achieved after a handful of knights set up a perimeter around the newly made orphans to prevent any of the disgusting brutes from laying another hand on them. Very odd to me, the men that created the very state that the children find themselves in (a mere three hours ago?) were placing their lives in jeopardy to defend them.

  Anyhow, today is a day that I will never forget.

  It was the first day I watched a man die.

  And no recounting in any book or anything I ever heard or saw previously would adequately prepare me for the dreadful horrors. I only hope that time will act as a salve and heal my mental eviscerations.

  When your acting field general issued the silent signal for all to advance, the plan began to unfold seamlessly. Well, as seamless as such bloody business could attain. Not even a whisper was heard when the first wave of houses was engulfed by the soldiers, the occupants silently slaughtered in their sleep.

  Knights and mercenaries alike exited the little homes with blood dripping over their hands, torchlight reflecting whatever steel was found on their persons, as they weaved in and out of doorways like synchronized phantasms.

  It was rather brilliant, I must admit.

  At least for the first part.

  Not even the dogs detected the invasion. After perhaps fifteen or so houses, some unremarkable man awoke to relieve himself on a nearby tree, and the glowing torches and glittering armour speckled with blood was a clear indication of foreign aggression. He began screaming for the village to rise and defend itself, emitting less than a sentence worth of words bef
ore being set upon like a goat bathing near a school of piranha. And suddenly the simple plan was elevated from “swift justice” to a “screaming, bloody slaughter.”

  That’s when the begging and pleading and hand wringing and groveling began. Spittle ropes splashed from panic-stricken lips as the people screamed, with voices cracking, for a second chance. On their knees or running away, the results were all the same. Faces plastered with tears, of all ages, begging upon begging for a stay of execution. Deaf ears, Amyr. Our knights are afflicted with deaf ears.

  I am not certain which corner of the earth breeds such filth, but I’m making note of a particularly cruel mercenary. He slowly bled out a man with a gut wound in punishment for the man’s wife chipping his sword with her teeth when he sloppily decapitated her. I was not about to join the melee, but if I were a man of such bold savagery, I would have ridden forth and eased the man’s suffering as he lay propped against the side of his home. He wailed and hollered for such a pitiable amount of time. That is a vision that will haunt my inner eyelids for certain. I shiver now just thinking on it.

  The smell from the carnage still invades my nostrils. Actually, I believe that all of my senses have been molested this day.

  As you instructed, I passed along the warning that we may experience some light resistance. Knotwithstadt was home to only a handful of warriors with any sort of renown. There were reports that Sir Palomides had been seen traveling to and from there recently, but I made certain that he was in the palace when we saddled up last night.

  The village held a few skilled archers that acted to very meagerly thin our ranks. Hardly a drop in the bucket, honestly, in comparison to the losses we sustained when Sir Rebekah (known as “The Lithe Stone”) emerged onto the dark pitch. Many fled before her, seeking easier prey, and where she walked became an empty circle as the knights and soldiers willingly gave ground. Your general took notice of this and signaled for the archers to rally to him. A concerted volley brought the great knight down, a considerably pitiful end for such an honorable knight. Even I must admit such things.

  Though the Lithe Stone did considerable damage, it was at the rear gate, near a section of the wall which extends beyond the shores of Lake Patreka, where we experienced some discomfort.

  As you know, the village employs a pair of archers at all times to patrol the towers overlooking the vast body of water, day or night. You are also well aware of the purpose for such surveillance: Kapretas. The lake is veritably overflowing with the nasty horrors. The sounds of the slaughter and the stench of people dying and all the nasty business associated, drew the teeming masses of kapretas’ attention. The heavy reinforced gate was billowing as the horrid wretches clawed and slammed against it, desperate to enter the fray. I imagine that all of their senses were activated working them beyond a frenzy.

  I will always wonder if it was an act of heroism or an act of cowardice that drove the archer from his post. His partner was felled only moments before, after exchanging several volleys with another archer who proved to be superior. I did not see this play out, but was told the details, and only witnessed the aftermath.

  Somehow that fool archer managed to release the mechanism that, in tandem with the mechanism opposite, would activate the gate’s opening. After he slapped his side, the sound of the clank was joined by a great heave of the gate as frantic limbs from the teeming mass beyond became visible between the crack in the great doors. Before the quivering gates, the last archer guard bolted across the divide to strike the mechanisms’ twin, and our archers definitely proved their worth this day.

  The sheer force of the man’s momentum brought him to his goal. He was dead on his feet, resplendent in fletchings, collapsing in victory looking like a bloody deflated hedgehog. At least that’s what I was told. They even went on to tell me that some of the arrows splintered upon others as they stacked into his throat.

  Take it as you will. Yet it is not as noteworthy as the torrent of fangs and claws that spewed forth when the gates were flung open, as if the hinges were submerged in oil. Though I did not see this occur, my palfrey reacted in that moment, and the sounds soon reached my ears.

  Every person that was touched by those monsters was devoured before their limbs even reached the earth. Holding ground against such a force was entirely fruitless, and we had no other choice but retreat against such a bloody, unforeseen circumstance.

  I have never seen such grave warriors tremble so, and I believe some of them are still trembling in their tents as I now place ink to parchment.

  The heaviest casualties sustained were from the barbaric mercenaries you employed, which as a whole is not a great loss as far as I am concerned. Their over eager blood lust sent them the farthest into the town and thusly placed them at the vanguard of the kapretas’ bloody onslaught.

  This was fortuitous, in fact, as they became meaty shields for our hasty retreat, and as a result, we hardly lost a third of our numbers. We survived and succeeded, thus in two days’ time I should either be delivering this report, (if I decide to) or will be making an account orally in your presence.

  Not one villager escaped, aside from the captured children, and I have just poured myself a third cup of wine and will be enjoying it now, so I will put away my quill and vellum for fear of spilling (any more) of my wine.

  With my humblest and most sincere regards,

  Your Truest Servant,

  Schroederstall

  Post Script - The red droplets along the margins are wine, not blood, so please do not be overly concerned.

  CHAPTER 1

  6 months after the slaughter at Knotwithstadt…

  "You believe that this year’s harvest will be enough to cover your family’s debt?” Sir Dryden asked, setting her chestplate down on the table, “It has been consuming you for as long as I have known you,” she added.

  Sir Galahalt paused, ceasing the circular motion he was using to apply oil to his left pauldron. “It must,” he said, his eyes sweeping over the pond before them, “The first payment was made five years ago, and we have one final installment to make, then my sister is free.”

  With a solemn nod, Dryden spoke again, “It’s a sad state of affairs when those without marks are offered as collateral,” she said softly, “I’m not saying that Margot is not…” she trailed off.

  “Aye,” Galahalt assented calmly to Dryden’s relief. “She has more to offer than most blanks, at least from what I see. She toils endlessly in the fields, and the quality of the crops she produces would make you think she had been born with a gift…with some sort of mark.”

  “I agree,” Dryden said, holding a vambrace aloft to admire the article’s integrity, the sunlight reflecting a glossy patina, “She is a special girl, your sister. I give you that. It’s difficult for me to imagine her married to that toad of a man.” She lowered the vambrace and squinted at the pond, speaking hastily, “That is, if you don’t pay the debt – which you will, of course…I’m only saying…”

  Galahalt’s shoulders rose and fell under a heavy sigh, “Schroederstall.” He uttered the name with such frigid contempt that it was a wonder his breath was not surrounded by a winter’s fog. “I pray that it never comes to that. I could not forgive myself.”

  “Imagine what their children would look like,” Dryden mused, her lips curling in contemplative disgust, “I would hope that they would take after their mother.”

  Galahalt cocked an eyebrow at the knight. “I cannot entertain such notions,” he responded sternly.

  “Would you run?” Dryden asked, sneaking a glance at her companion, “Run away and start someplace fresh?”

  “Not an option,” Galahalt replied, “Removing Margot from our land would be akin to plucking a fish from water.”

  “Poisoning Schroederstall’s wine would be off the table as well?”

  Galahalt blinked as if someone had spat in his eye, “I would consume the poison beforehand to avoid living long enough to see such a dishonora
ble act play out.”

  “What if it wasn’t poison-” she began.

  “No,” Galahalt interrupted, his voice hewn from stone, “As deceitful as Schroederstall is, this business between us is sadly above reproach.”

  “I’ll never understand how that worm has been handed so much sovereignty over church affairs. You know that he began as the headmaster of learning? And now he also oversees the census,” Dryden remarked. Dropping a gauntlet onto the table in frustration, she suddenly changed the subject. “Someday, maybe, we will have squires that will take care of these tedious chores for us.”

  Galahalt held little interest in discussing notions of added responsibility, and waved at her dismissively.

  Furrowing her brow, Dryden stared at him in disbelief, “You do not wish to have a squire? They’re basically free servants?” she inquired.

  “There are more important matters that occupy my mind.”

  “Ah,” Dryden said dryly, rolling her neck toward the clear skies, “Your thoughts are still endlessly shifting from duty to fantasy?”

  Galahalt winced at the calm accusation.

  The knight continued, holding her hands open and offering an exaggerated shrug, “It has not gone unnoticed that you have mentioned seeking out the Questing Beast. An impossible quest for certain, but I do agree that it would change your family’s stars. If it wasn’t simply a myth,” Dryden said, arching her back with a yawning stretch. “It would be an excellent contingency though, if it were legitimate. The amount of coin that’d yield could buy an entire kingdom. It would secure your family for every coming generation until the end of time. It could fund an army that you-”