Gritty Fantasy Adventure

Return to Home Page

 
 
Before writing Thief of Caernuva and Thief of Boruvia, Nikolai Soderstrom designed both fantasy and futuristic computer games for Multi-Player Games Network, IncaGold, and Micro Forté, for which he served as one of two lead designers for an AAA action massive-multiplayer game for the Microsoft X Box. Today, he is Lead Designer & Founder of Gothic Labs, a 7-member independent company developing a fantasy-strategy game that will be downloadable via Internet. Nikolai is also a student of Medieval arms and warfare, as well as historical fencing. For recreation, he is a fencer, hiker, and rifle marksman. He resides in sunny Arizona. Sample Chapters Here are the first three chapters from Thief of Caernuva (Book 1) Please note: Full manuscripts for this book and for its sequel, Thief of Boruvia, are available upon request. Each runs about 100,000 words. Chapter 1 Grey eyes glittered in the moonlight, then narrowed under the shadow of a hooded cloak. Silently, the figure withdrew into a dark alley and waited. A damp chill muted the night, softening the warm glow from windows along this narrow street. Houses and shops were closely packed and seemed to lean into one another with age and neglect. Across the wet cobblestone road stood the Foaming Flagon tavern, its merriment ringing into the street. A cool spring breeze carried with it the thick scent of ale and the soft creak of the Flagon’s weather-beaten sign. Now and again, drunkards would depart in slurring song, arms over one another’s shoulders on their staggering journey home. But the shadowy figure remained in watch. No one would see him this night, not the revelers, not the Caernuvite Guard. And so it was that a large guardsman emerged from the Foaming Flagon, supporting a fat staggering fop. Emblazoned on the guard's breastplate was a black falcon—insignia of the Royal Bodyguard to the House of Caernuva. The fop wheezed, "I can walk on my own!" Noble attire clung to his moist flesh. "I was just starting to have fun!" he wailed. "That girl had an eye on me!" His bodyguard maintained careful watch while pressing onward. "She had an eye on your purse, my prince." "Insolence!" From the dark alley, Azzandur the thief glanced up to clouds billowing over the moon. He smiled to himself. The shadows were deep tonight. Azzandur allowed the two to pass a comfortable distance, then slipped from his spot, padding softly behind. In the background, the song of crickets hushed, only to resume once guard and prince had passed. Had those two paused to listen, they might have noticed another lull in the chirruping behind them, a pocket of silence following. The bodyguard pointed to a lamplit street corner. "A carriage, my prince." Prince Dugot huffed. "Well, if you're too tired to walk, Janik, I suppose we'll have to ride." Janik offered a resigned nod. "Yes, my prince." Janik helped the prince inside the carriage and barked to the old driver, "To the House of Caernuva!" The whip cracked and the carriage rumbled forward. Janik glanced to Dugot, who had slumped in his seat into a deep slumber. Relieved to be heading home, the bodyguard settled back and closed his eyes. He’d had a long night. A wink of sleep would do him some good. Just a wink. And just outside, a shadow crept up to the trundling little carriage and hitched a ride. * * * The carriage skidded to a halt. Janik's eyes snapped open, his hand going to his broadsword. How long had he been asleep? He glanced down at Dugot, who still snored contentedly. Opening the carriage door, the bodyguard found that they were stopped along the road amid sprouting wheat fields only half way up the steep hill to the castle. With controlled concern, Janik called to the driver. "What’s the problem?" Groaning, the old coachman clambered down from his seat, slapping his dusty cap against his thigh and sending dust clouds into the air. He stomped past the door and growled, "You tell me! Why does it rain when I have a day off? Why does the king overtax me? Why in the Nine Hells does my wheel jam?" Janik leaned over the driver as he crouched to inspect the wheel. A dark form crept silently over the roof and settled into the driver's seat. Rising from the wheel, the coachman frowned and shook his head. A stout stick had jammed into the wheel spokes and axle. Slapping Janik on the shoulder, he growled, "I'll need your muscle, soldier. Now you stand here," as he pointed to the front of the rear wheel, "and push for all your worth when I say. We'll see if we can jimmy this out.” In the driver’s seat, Azzandur chuckled to himself. Upon the driver's signal, Janik squatted low and heaved. The wheel groaned backwards, loosening the stout stick enough for the driver to pry it out. "Got it!" The two laughed and patted each other on the shoulder. Their thoughts turned to prospects of a warm bed after a long night's work. Then a whip cracked. Horses whinnied, hooves stamped, and the carriage lurched forward. Janik dove from the wheel's path and into a ditch. The driver could only gape in disbelief at the rising dust. Azzandur whipped the horses up the hill to a widening in the road, reined them to a halt, then turned them around. Cracking the whip again, he sent the steeds back down the hill at full gallop, unconcerned as the hood of his cloak blew back, revealing his pale countenance and long raven hair. Janik was still clambering from the ditch when he saw the carriage barreling back toward him, a black-cloaked rider at the reins. The stalwart bodyguard steadied and drew his sword. His prince was still in there, at the mercy of the mad rider. The horses raced toward him, their eyes wide in panic. Janik stood his ground, broadsword raised. "Get out of there!" cried the old driver, waving frantically. Janik glanced toward the wild-eyed beasts and the carriage bearing down on him. The pounding hooves. Roaring carriage. Growling, the bodyguard dove headlong into the ditch as the coach thundered past. Janik rose again and watched the rising dust cloud swallow the carriage and with it, his prince. * * * Grinning widely, Azzandur glanced back through the billowing dust to the fast-vanishing guard and driver. With the horses still at full gallop, the carriage door opened and a bleary-eyed Prince Dugot swayed outward. "Hounds of Hell!" he cried, barely catching himself before falling out. He rubbed his eyes and yelled, "Driver! Slow down!" The pace not slackened, Dugot demanded, "Look here, I'm the Prince of Caernuva! I'll not have all this bouncing!" "Sorry." Azzandur smirked with a polite tip to his now-hooded head. He brought the horses to a slow trot. Huffing indignantly, Dugot settled back into the carriage, taking care to close the door. Soon enough, he slept contentedly. As they rode for the city, Azzandur touched the smooth wood handle of his dagger. How many years had he owned it? He smiled with satisfaction. How many lives had it taken? The smile faded. Too many. His hand fell away. The carriage approached the city gate, and Azzandur nodded in quiet greeting to the sentry, who leaned against the wall and offered a disinterested glance. Past the gate, the carriage meandered through the business section and came to a halt on a dark, deserted street. Dugot stirred in his sleep as Azzandur entered the coach and sat opposite. The Prince's perfume barely masked his sour breath. A full leather purse dangled at his waist, and each pudgy finger swelled around a bejeweled ring that had become a permanent fixture of his hand. The thief drew his dagger. Its blade and serpentine hilt curved with delicate grace. Fire-blackened, its matt-textured metal seemed a natural extension of the night. Azzandur surveyed Prince Dugot’s cherubic face. In one deft motion, he pricked the tip of a royal finger. "Yeeeow!" The prince squealed in pain and brought his hand to his mouth. Sitting up, he sucked on it, trying to reclaim his senses through puffy eyes. A shadow sat opposite. "Janik? Is that you?" An unfamiliar, measured voice rose from the darkness. "Janik is not with you." Fear sobered the prince. He made out a hooded figure pointing a dark knife at him. Dugot gasped in horror. The dagger floated toward his face, and the dreaded voice rose again. "It would be bad for you, Prince of Caernuva, if you called for help." Dugot blanched and stifled his terror. The dagger slowed before his eyes. Something softened on the wicked tip, a bubble. A drop of blood. Azzandur turned his knife over his hand as if in thought. "We're going to have a conversation. And I'll ask the questions." "Oh yes, most assuredly!" The dagger now pointed threateningly to the Prince. "I haven't asked a question. Don't speak out of turn again." Wide-eyed, Dugot nodded vehemently. "So, good Prince, what can you offer me?" Hope blossomed on the noble's face. "Gold. Yes, yes. I have gold, gems. Jewels! It can all be yours. Please, just don't hurt me. I'll give you anything!" Azzandur continued his game, skillfully rolling the knife. "You mean to tell me your life is worth only baubles and trinkets?" Dugot rubbed his sweating palms. “What more could you want?” Then the prince's eyes narrowed. "Wait a moment. Do you deal in…information? A spy? From Erynsburg? Or perhaps Peregorn? Boruvia?" Azzandur shrugged noncommittally. "Yes, that's it!" said the prince. "I can offer valuable intelligence. Where do you come from?" This encounter was shaping into more than the thief had anticipated. Spy? What was this talk of spies? Azzandur spun his dagger again. "My home is none of your concern. What information can you give me? And pray it is to my liking." Dugot nodded emphatically. "Oh, most assuredly. But once I tell you, how can you guarantee my safety?" The dagger point again returned to Dugot. "Prince, you have two options—to live or to die." Prince Dugot shrank back into his seat and scratched his belly, his voice quavering. "I take your meaning, sir. No need for rash actions." "Tell me what you know." Dabbing his glistening brow with a kerchief, Dugot began in a shaky voice, "To be honest, I don't know much. My brother, King Tellevar, controls everything. He's relieved me of those boring meetings—and for that we can all be thankful! He leaves me to enjoy my station.” He became more and more enthusiastic as he expounded on court life. “And enjoy it, I do! Take the Flagon for instance—“ "To the point, Prince." "Yes, yes. I'm getting to it. The point is, I don't know much. Rumors only. Court rumors. Whisperings of invasion…Erynsburg, soon I think." Azzandur sat back. War, imminent? He'd heard no such talk. War would be bad for business. Wealthier folk would start hoarding. And the criminal elements might get reckless. Still, wars held possibilities for the opportunist. "What army have the Caernuvites mustered?" "Oh, I know something of that." Dugot patted his chest. "I review honor parades, you know. Duke Bergo commands a mighty infantry, and Baron Erehorn leads the finest lancers in all the realms. Lord Anderlyn heads the garrison within the House of Caernuva. That's five thousand men altogether. Against such a force, the Erynsburgans would be sorely pressed, especially now after their draining battles with Peregorn. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.” Azzandur rubbed his chin. "Your information might be acceptable. But I must ask one more thing of you—your purse.” Dugot gladly dangled the jingling pouch before the thief. Taking it, Azzandur assured, "I will allow you to live, but mind you, my informants are well-placed throughout the Royal House. It would be bad for you if I learned that you’ve told anyone of our meeting." The prince nodded eagerly, "Oh yes, not a word." "You may leave." Dugot swung open the carriage door and, despite his bulk, jumped onto the cobblestone street. He could barely believe his good fortune. Alive! Soon he could return to the protection of the Royal House. Oh the joy. Oh— The dreaded voice cut through Dugot's jubilance. "A present for you." The prince turned to face the cloaked figure, who tossed a shiny object at him. Dugot reeled and swooned. The end was upon him, he was sure. Before it struck his chest, Dugot fainted. Standing before the coach and the collapsed prince, Azzandur shook his head and tied the bulging purse next to his sheathed dagger. He turned and slapped the horse’s hindquarters, sending them and the carriage clattering into the night. A silver coin slid off the prince's chest and rolled to rest on the cobblestones. * * * Grin flashing, Azzandur headed onto the darkened streets, casting back his hood and shaking loose his now matted black hair. With one hand silencing Dugot's purse, he glided along in light, easy strides toward one of the few establishments still open at this late hour. The warm glow from its windows and familiar faded sign beckoned him. He lifted the latch on the heavy oaken door of the Foaming Flagon and entered. Though still open, the tavern was winding down for the night. Greasy patrons lingered in the dim light, too ale-sodden to leave of their own accord. And though the fireplace now only glowed with embers, the blackened hearth stones around it still radiated a deep and satisfying warmth. Silhouetted by the glowing embers, a slender maid wiped the tables, her black hair tied back in a long braid, her cheeks flushed from the night's work. She didn’t notice the dark figure who’d entered and slid onto a bench behind her. Azzandur cleared his voice with a mock cough. "A glass of red wine." The barmaid stiffened but did not turn round. He continued, "And nothing watered down, mind you." Turning to him, she glanced furtively about before hissing, "Have you gone mad? What are you doing here?" He chuckled. "Millinda, is that any way to greet your little brother?" "What recklessness!" she whispered as she glanced quickly toward the remaining patrons, hoping they hadn’t noticed him. "I can't be seen talking to you." She resumed wiping the tables even though they were clean. "If the king's men find you here…." Azzandur replied calmly, "Close the tavern. We have business to discuss." The barmaid considered the suggestion. It was late, after all. Relenting, she glared at her brother and then walked around to the remaining patrons, telling them it was time to leave. They gave her the usual closing time grumbles but nodded their heavy heads and quaffed the dregs before picking themselves up and staggering out. Only one patron rose without complaint. He was a small, stubbled and hollow-faced man, weak of limb and a displaying small pot gut. Odd, how he fidgeted to keep his right hand under cloak at all times, as if ashamed of it. With a quick glance toward brother and sister, he left a few coppers and departed. Meanwhile, Millinda moved toward the balding barkeep and tavern owner, old enough to be her father. She cast him a warm smile, adding, "Why don't you go home, Taff. I’ll close up tonight." Her offer was routine; Taff had provided her a small room on the second floor. Old Taff grinned broadly with his moon cheeks and wiped the last mugs dry. "Sounds good to me, lass. My heels could use a rest. You know, I can't run around like I used to." He nodded to Azzandur in greeting and farewell, gathered up the night’s earnings and made his way out the front door. Azzandur warmed his hands by the hearth’s dying embers and watched Millinda lock the door behind Taff. Though only two years the elder, she had been as much a mother to Azzandur as he could remember. Their parents had died or abandoned them when they were very young, and she had earned their bread early on by begging and running errands for a kind elderly woman who'd let the children sleep in her attic. But by age eight, she'd begun cleaning Taff’s tavern. It wasn't much to live on. Little Azz always found the pockets of drunken patrons to be better pickings. Azzandur and Millinda were a striking pair, both slender with finely-chiseled features. But their eyes bore a distinctive contrast. Millinda's were dark brown, with a melancholy warmth that gave the impression she had endured much in her years; Azzandur's grey eyes flashed with a razor’s keen edge. Frowning, Millinda wiped her hands on her apron. "I can't believe you! Sauntering in here like that—somebody could've recognized you and reported you to the Guard. I can't cover for you anymore, Azz. I’ve got real work now. Taff’s been saying he might retire soon and let me run the place. My stews are as good as any.” Azzandur kicked his legs up on the table and absently touched his dagger handle. With a knowing smile, he let his older sister finish her scolding. Millinda continued, "I haven't seen you in two weeks. Day and night I work. You know, I worry about you, Azz. Every time you go, I think, I'll next see him hanging from the gibbet. But you know what? I take the long way around City Square, 'cause I don't want to see the gibbet. Folk tell me Clubber Balto swung high yesterday. That's what happens to your kind, so I don't want to hear any more of your schemes." Azzandur recalled Balto from his old gang but showed neither concern nor remorse. "Balto was a brute. He gave the rest of us a bad name. I considered ridding the streets of him myself." "Azz, have you seen the postings at City Hall? There's a price on your head. Sooner or later, the law will catch up with you.” He laughed, "Yes, and to think it's only twenty gold Kroners. Where's the justice in that? It should be at least fifty." Millinda's knuckles turned white. "You're impossible. I can't talk sense with you. Why don't you go to Erynsvale, start a new life there?" "I don't think Erynsvale has much of a future." "Well, try Peregorn then. Learn a trade. Get a real job. A thief's life is short, Azz." She looked down and dried her hands on her apron. "You're the only family I have." Azzandur's gaze softened. He placed his hand over hers. "You worry too much, sis. They'll never catch me." Millinda reached into her pocket. "Look Azz." She proudly laid a silver coin on the table. "Good money can be made with honest work. Prince Dugot was here tonight and left me this tip." Azzandur scowled. "He comes too often, I think." "The prince is good for business.” Azzandur's gaze hardened. "If that swine laid a finger on you, I'll..." "You'll do nothing of the sort. He gave me a silver today, and if I'm a judge of men, he'll be back again." Her brother cast a haughty gaze at the coin. "Is that all you have to show for tonight?" Stung, Millinda glanced down and stepped back. "That and several coppers," she stammered. Azzandur's hand fell to his waist. He unhooked Dugot's full leather purse at his belt and tossed it on the table. Millinda stared for a moment and then, forgetting herself, sat and spilled its contents onto the table. Among the coins were a few coppers, but the rest was mostly silver and gold. Most precious of all, was a small cut sapphire whose facets sparkled in the firelight. Millinda stood agape at the treasure. "Yes," agreed Azzandur, "The Prince is good for business." Millinda ran her fingers through the booty. What a cache! Never had she beheld such riches at one time. But the sapphire transfixed her. How it glittered and sparkled! She held it up to the light and marveled at its deep blue glow. "You didn't hurt him, did you?" she asked absently, still mesmerized by the jewel. "Say it like you mean it, sis," Azzandur chided. Her eyes broke from the gem's seduction, and she looked at her brother like a child caught in mischief. Flustered, she muttered, "I have to finish clearing up." Azzandur caught her by the arm. "You and I are not so different. You care less for Dugot than for his money." "It's your life I fear for!" Millinda shot back, wrenching her arm away. "The Guard will scour the streets now until they find you. Why did you have to kill him?" "The prince lives. I left him in the gutter." “That's just as bad," she said with a frown. "Now he can identify you." She glanced to the doorway again. Azzandur casually waved the matter aside. "On to business. You should store Dugot's purse in a safe place for a while. Business here may be poor in the coming months. Our armies will soon be on the march." He paused and fixed his gaze upon his sister. "We will be at war. Dugot's purse should get you through the tough times. Wait awhile, though, before you fence the sapphire." Millinda was shaking her head, exasperated. "Wait, slow down! What do you mean, war? I thought we were at peace." "I've decided to leave town and warn Erynsburg of the coming invasion. Their king will pay me handsomely for it." Millinda’s voice went low and flat as she studied her younger brother. "That’s treason." "What allegiance do I owe Caernuva? What has it ever given me that I did not have to take?" She shook her head. "The Guard won't see it that way." Azzandur shrugged. "If they should ever catch me, I'll hang for my past offenses. Treason won't make any difference now." Resigned, Millinda nodded. What more could they do to her notorious brother? "I'll fetch you some food from the cupboard." She returned minutes later with a bundle of nuts, bread, and smoked meats. "This should tide you over on the journey." He stood and slung the bundle over his shoulder. "You're the best, sis." "And dress warmly," she added. “We’re having cool nights." They hugged, he gently, she desperately. Millinda feared more than ever she would not see her brother again. "You worry too much," said Azzandur. "I'll be back before you know it.” He smiled cockily. "How can they catch a shadow?" He stepped back with a confident grin, holding Millinda at arm's length. With a wink, he nipped into the kitchen and out the alley door. The embers in the hearth had died. Millinda stood alone in the empty tavern. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Farewell, brother." * * * That same hour, a lone horseman sped up the moonlit hill toward the stark stone walls of the House of Caernuva. Atop the battlements, sentinels posted a stoic watch over the land. An iron portcullis and great timbered gate barred entry. "Who goes there?" called a watchman. "Open the gates!" cried the reedy-voiced rider, the same hollow-faced man who’d departed the Foaming Flagon earlier that night. "Your name, sir?" "Ulo, the Handless!" The horseman thrust the stump of his arm skyward. After a pause, huge iron chains groaned and cranked up, raising the portcullis while a team of guards drew back the gate. Ulo spurred his horse into the nearby stables. Dismounting, the small man turned for the door, only to find a big, red-bearded guard blocking the way. "You can pass the message on to me, Ulo," said the guard with a grin, his deep voice filling the stables. "I will see that it gets to Lord Anderlyn." "Out of my way, Magdane. I'm in Anderlyn's personal employ." A rough hand grabbed Ulo by the collar. "As am I, piglet. What's the message?" Struggling to keep the tips of his toes on the ground, Ulo glared back at the imposing guard. "This is my message to you. If the lord finds out you stopped me, he won't be happy." Magdane scowled menacingly but broke his stare. "Right you are." Letting go, he patted the little man on the head. "I'll escort you." Ulo swatted the guard's hand aside and straightened his dusty jacket. "I don't need you. I know the way well and straight." "Of course, handless one," replied Magdane, gritting his teeth and making way in a mocking bow. As Ulo passed, the guard spat, "How'd you lose your hand, piglet? Remember well what happens to thieves." Scowling, Ulo marched to an inner keep that rose cold and menacing from the gloom of the courtyard. For nearly eight years, the stump of his arm had branded him as a convicted thief. But he had weathered the insults. Now he had a new life. Informants were paid well in Caernuva, and this news would fetch him a high price. He smiled as an inner-keep guard escorted him inside, down side corridors to halt at a sturdy door. The guard explained, "Lord Anderlyn will see you shortly." Ulo nodded and crouched on a nearby stool. He twiddled his thumb around his stump and imagined the fine purse he'd receive for his news. In a quiet way, gentlemanly Anderlyn was just as ruthless as the street people, and Ulo found that he respected his new employer, even though he was a rich noble. The door opened and a gaunt red-robed minister exited, nodding farewells to a distinguished-looking elder. As the minister passed, his brow raised snobbishly as he peered down at the commoner. Ulo grimaced a forced grin. Pompous ass. He rose and turned his gaze to Lord Anderlyn. The old lord greeted him warmly. Fine wisps of white were combed back from his receding brow, and a long, white goatee lended him an air of refinement and patience. "Ulo, my friend. Come, have a seat. May I offer you a small indulgence?" He lifted a lid to display an assortment of pastries. Ulo's mouth watered. "Yes indeed, my lord!” Then, remembering his manners, he added, “Please." Lord Anderlyn smiled and indicated that Ulo should help himself. "So, what brings you here this late hour?" "Well, my lord, I been keeping an eye on the street, just like you said." Ulo munched open-mouthed on the pastry while he talked. "And I got wind o’ talk in the Foaming Flagon just before closing." By now crumbs and powdered sugar had collected along his stubbled chin. "You won't believe who was there. Azzandur! Right there in the open, sitting at a table by the fire. He was talking to the barmaid, you know, the fetching dark-haired one?" Anderlyn shrugged. "Well you'd know her if you saw her. She's a fair wench, I tell you. Anyway, get this. The barmaid is Azzandur's sister! I tell you, she was right nervous when he came in, like she was scared the guards would bust in any minute. My guess is, Azz is holing up at the Flagon tonight." Anderlyn folded his hands on the desk. "You are certain it was Azzandur?" "I know him, my lord. And not just by looks. I know his way, his walk. I ran a little scam with him before..." He looked down ruefully to his stump. "Before I...well you know. I knew him when he was just starting out—just a kid. But I could see then he was headed for fast times. I tell you, there's no mistaking the way he moves. No, my lord, I wouldn't mistake Azzandur, even after eight years." "And you say he's staying at the Foaming Flagon tonight?" Ulo downed the last of his pastry and cast a longing eye toward the dish. Anderlyn offered him more. Ulo shook his head to the offer and said, "Oh no, I couldn't," even as he grabbed another. "Um, yessir he'd be staying at the Flagon. His sister lives upstairs." The old lord gripped the side of his desk. "Are you certain he is there?" "Well I, yeah I’m pretty sure," stammered Ulo. "Look, the tavern was closing. I wanted to tell you as soon as I could." Lord Anderlyn collected his composure and settled back in his chair. "Indeed. You have done well." He rose and escorted Ulo by the elbow. "Attend to me. Tonight, we will see if we can catch the elusive one. I need you to identify him." Together, they marched through the corridors of the House until they reached the stable yards where Lord Anderlyn signaled a guard unit to ready their horses. Within minutes, six Caernuvite Guards had saddled up. A stable boy led two horses out for Ulo and Anderlyn. Ulo took the reins, cursing under his breath when he saw that Magdane would ride with them as well. Anderlyn mounted his horse with surprising ease for a man of his age. "The wanted man, Azzandur has been sighted. An extra week's pay for all if we catch him. Now ride hard. To the city!" Lord Anderlyn's silky white hair flew back as he spurred his horse out the castle gates, the six guards and Ulo close behind. As they galloped down the hill, Ulo veered his horse to cut off Magdane's, forcing the guard to rein up to avoid a collision. Ulo smiled in satisfaction. "Take that, pig." As a cool wind began to blow from the northern mountains, the eight horsemen raced down the moonlit road, clouds of dust rising in their wake. Ahead, the first rooftops of the city loomed over the ramparts. The riders galloped through the gates and on to the tavern, not heeding the disheveled watchman, who'd hastily straightened himself as the unit thundered by. Dismounting, four guardsmen headed up the alley behind the Foaming Flagon, while the rest approached from the front. While Magdane knocked on the old oaken door, the other guards hid from sight. When there was no answer from the tavern, Magdane knocked again, loudly. "Who is it?" called Millinda from inside. Magdane's rich voice issued forth. "A weary traveler in need of rest." "Then go to the inn. This is just a tavern." "Please, miss. I'm very tired." Perturbed, Millinda said, "The inn's just down the street. Good-night." With a crash, the alley door to the kitchen burst open. Millinda gasped and whirled around. She had a kitchen knife tucked in her nightgown but gave up any notion of using it when four guards with drawn broadswords rushed into the tavern. Quickly they cornered her and opened the front door. Lord Anderlyn strode in with more guards. He cast a haughty gaze at the barmaid. "Where is Azzandur?" "Who?" Lord Anderlyn smiled wryly. "Indeed." He motioned to Magdane. "Shackle her. The dungeons will jar her memory. Search the tavern for the thief. 'Ware his blade." The guards scattered throughout the tavern, overturning tables, emptying cupboards, checking closets and tearing the place apart. "Your men don't have to do that," pleaded Millinda. "No one's here but me. Please, you're wrecking the place. What will Taff say?" Lord Anderlyn ignored her. He motioned to the guards. "Search her." Magdane frisked Millinda, quickly finding the tucked kitchen knife. He sneered, "Were you going to cut us, lass?" Millinda scowled at him, her voice biting. "How was I supposed to know you weren’t here to wreck the place?" The other guard laughed. "This one has fire! Maybe the night won't be so cold after all." He winked at Magdane and snickered. Lord Anderlyn was not amused and shot them a cold stare. The guards averted their eyes. One by one, the guards reported back from their search. The Sergeant of the Guard spoke. "My lord, we've found no sign of the thief, but we did find this purse by the barmaid's bed." He handed it to Anderlyn. "A fine leather, this.” The old lord poured the purse's contents onto a table and gazed at Millinda in amusement. “And what's inside? Coppers, silver, gold and for good measure...a sapphire. Had I known barmaids were so well-paid, I would have my daughter work here." Millinda shrugged defiantly. "I make good tips and save my money." Anderlyn grinned. "Indeed." He motioned to his guards. "She rides with us." Rough hands shoved Millinda into the cool night. Before Magdane threw her onto his saddle, she noticed a familiar smaller man already mounted. Strange, she thought, how he held one hand in the folds of his cloak as if to keep it warm. Chapter 2 Prince Dugot opened his eyes and squinted in pain. Oh, that hellish light! He tried to complain but only mouthed the words, the back of his tongue parched and caked with the paste of last night's indulgance. He cupped his forehead, trying to stave off the pounding ache. After gaining his bearings, Dugot hazarded a look at his surroundings. He sighed in relief as the sumptuous furnishings of his bed chamber came into better focus. Silken sheets and fluffy down covers caressed his skin. He sighed contentedly and pulled them up to his chin. His eyes closed. That felt much better. His headache drained away, and he drifted back to sleep. His eyes shot open. A nightmare! A terrible dream of a thief--no a spy--who had seized him and had somehow done away with Janik, stolen his purse and made him divulge state secrets. And how vivid that dream had been! Dugot shook his aching head and rubbed his face. His hand pulled away in surprise as a twinge of pain ran down his finger. A little scab had formed at its tip. The prince gasped. Scenes from the night’s events flooded back to his mind, the cruel dagger, the dreaded voice. Then he remembered a dark figure flipping something shiny at him, a dagger he imagined, before darkness had engulfed him. He clutched at his chest, anticipating a horrible wound he had somehow managed to survive. None was there, only his soft flesh and the night's soiled clothing. Unsettled, the prince had just sunk back into the comfort of his pillow when the bedroom door burst open. King Tellevar stormed in, with Lord Anderlyn and Janik in tow. Tellevar boomed, "Enjoy your evening, brother?" He was well-built, forceful and assured in his rule. The solidly-functional short sword at his belt bore little in the way of embellishment, and was worn by a king more accustomed to using than displaying it. As well, his clean, simple attire bore only a small silver insignia belying his true station as King of Caernuva. Prince Dugot held his head and squinted again. He coughed to clear his throat. "Please, not so loud." King Tellevar took no pity. "Up, you sot! Our armies conduct their final dress parade.” Scorn crept into his tone. “They can't ride without their beloved prince at their lead." Dugot rolled away in bed, groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. Tellevar sat heavily at his brother’s side and clamped his shoulder. "Sit up. We have more to discuss than parade. Last night was eventful for you, yes?" Dugot sat up, his hair standing on end. With apparent uncertainty, he studied the gathered men. All looked at him expectantly, even Janik. Did they all know? Of course they did. Tellevar always seemed to know. "I was robbed," he blurted. "A spy from Erynsburg threatened to murder me." He patted himself on the chest. "But I outwitted him." Lord Anderlyn glanced with concern to his king. He was the eldest advisor, gaunt with age. Tellevar did not miss the glance and offered Dugot a false smile. "Outwitted him? Dugot grinned excitedly. "Yes, yes! I gave him my purse and promised him riches and jewels as Prince of Caernuva." "And how did you learn he was a spy?" Dugot winked knowingly. "That, I surmised, when the purse was not enough for him. Brother! We have spies in our midst! He even said…" and with that, the prince leaned closer and spoke conspiratorially…"that he has contacts within our own House…and threatened me if I dared speak of it!" "What did you reveal?" Sheepishly, the prince began, "Well, I did mention my presence at parade, and then there was that bit about the coming war." Tellevar's jaw dropped, and Anderlyn had to steady himself against the bedpost. Dugot glanced at them apprehensively. "Well yes, but he did let me go." Lord Anderlyn reached into his pocket and produced a purse. "Is this yours, my prince?" "Yes, yes!" Dugot emptied the purse into his lap. "And you even got my lucky sapphire! Did you catch the spy?" Anderlyn instead turned to Tellevar. "My liege, a word?" As the two stepped into the hall, Janik moved to his master's side and handed him a silver. "My prince, I found this with you last night." Dugot looked up in bewilderment. "Janik, what's going on?" In the hallway, Anderlyn counseled, "My liege, Janik's description of the prince's kidnapper matches one of my informant’s description of Azzandur. Ordinarily, I would not trouble you with our efforts to capture petty criminals, but this Azzandur is a thief of particular cunning. He’s wanted on several counts of burglary, offenses against the Guard, brigandage, possibly murder. Now he's targeting your royal family. Needless to say, we have a sizable bounty on his head.” Anderlyn gathered his thoughts and continued, “As to Prince Dugot's encounter last night, my informant’s tip led us to what he claimed to be Azzandur's sister. Supporting evidence…we found the purse in her possession, but the thief had vanished. It appears that the Prince divulged our planned invasion to this same thief. If Azzandur believed the prince, he will know that state secrets such as this could fetch a generous reward in Erynsburg--if delivered in time." King Tellevar glowered. "He must be en route as we speak." His elder advisor stroked his white beard and spoke softly. "Azzandur is an opportunist. He will not pass up this chance. Yes, he is on the move, a half-day ahead of us." Tellevar glanced through the archway, where Dugot was beginning to climb out of bed. "That idiot.” growled the king. "If I may," said Anderlyn with a slight bow, "Dugot may be a fool, but so long as you remain unmarried and without child, your brother is heir to the throne. Perhaps we might look to Erynsburg, after her defeat, for a suitable Queen?” Tellevar nodded. Such a move would legitimize the annexation. His thoughts returned to his war plans. "With our plan exposed to Erynsburg, our advantage will be lost." He shook his head with regret. "I would send riders after Azzandur, but what hope do we have in catching that one?" Slowly, Anderlyn began to smile. "Every hope, my liege. We know his route and destination. Off the streets, he'll be out of his element. On the plains, he’ll have no alleyways and sewers to scuttle off to." The King returned his mentor's smile. "Very well, my old friend. Dispatch your best. Let the hunt begin." * * * The sun approached its apex, the sweet fragrance of spring blossoms drifting into the lush green of Larien Wood. Azzandur dismounted stiffly and arched his back. What a punishing occupation, he thought, to be a Caernuvite Lancer. All that bouncing on the back of a big horse. He massaged his thighs and frowned, his face reddened by the morning sun. Thieving by night, he thought, was much easier. Leading his steed into the forest, he tethered it under a large pine. He felt at ease under cover and out of the sun. Hungry now, he unbuckled the saddle bags holding Millinda's food bundle. Azzandur welcomed the sight of smoked sausages and bread. He washed the food down with a few sparing sips from his flask and glanced at the horse. It nibbled contentedly on tender clumps of grass that sprouted here and there in the cool shade. For a moment, Azzandur marveled at the scattered rays of sun that danced through the leaves, ending in motes of light on the forest floor. He allowed the forest fragrances--the rich blend of earth and blossoms, bark and budding leaves--to fill his senses. Then he gathered his black cloak about him and sank into the soft moss for a short nap. * * * The bright afternoon sun glared at the three riders, one of whom crouched to trace the lines of hoofprints in the earth. A life outdoors had turned his hair a reddish straw and had cut his face with deep lines. A quiver and bow were slung over his back, a hunting knife and hatchet at his belt. Looking up from his crouch, the hunter spoke in a lilting tongue to his two companions. "This horseshoe is of Caernuvite make. A lancer's warhorse. A half-day ahead, no more." Clad in a dirty jerkin, the smaller companion flung his arms in exasperation. His right arm ended in a stump. "Damn it, Finri, we're wasting time chasing some fool lancer while Azz is run off for Erynsburg. We're after the wrong man!" Finri rose and cast a knowing eye to the third member of the party: Magdane, the Caernuvite guard. Mail clinked as the guard turned. He rested an easy hand on his sheathed broadsword. He stroked the flamboyant tufts of his full red beard, his narrowed blue eyes not hiding his contempt for the little informant. Turning away, Ulo complained. "We'll never catch Azz like this. He’s going to Erynsburg!" Magdane shouted, "Informer! Halt!" Ulo gestured vulgarly with his stump. "Nay!" Then he wheeled his horse toward Erynsburg, his back to the sun. As Magdane prepared to give chase, Finri caught the bridle of his horse. "Let the fool go. He only slows us." "We need him." Magdane spat into the dirt. "He's the only one who can identify Azzandur." Calmly, Finri explained, "A lancer's horse was reported stolen this morning." The big guard shifted in his saddle, as his steed stamped impatiently. "And now," continued Finri, "we find the prints of a lone lancer heading north toward Erynsburg. We both know lancers don’t ride alone.” Magdane squinted at the disappearing Ulo and then relented. "Right then. Good-riddance, Ulo." Finri smiled cunningly. With Ulo gone, the bounty would be divided just two ways. The pair spurred their horses on, alert for the telltale sign. "Soon you'll be mine, thief," whispered Finri. "Soon." * * * At moonrise, Azzandur woke. He dusted off, chewed some nuts and took a swig of water. On horseback again, he headed at a trot northeast along the rolling meadows, keeping Larien Wood to his left as a guide. By night, the open meadows no longer seemed threatening. Under the moon, no one would mark his passing. That cool pool of light overhead had always served him well. Azzandur smiled. His time, the night. Fresh evening air washed across his face. Even the constant jostling of his horse seemed more bearable now. At this rate, he estimated he would reach Erynsburg by morning. As he rode, he considered how he would approach the Erynsburgans, how he might gain audience with the lord of the castle. He wondered what kind of man the King of Erynsburg was, and how many ministers he'd have to pass through to see him. Damned bureaucrats stood in the way of his reward... Suddenly, Azzandur’s horse dropped from under him and cartwheeled forward. Azzandur pitched ahead, but he did not panic. He met the ground without resistance, tucking into a roll. But an explosion of dirt from the crashing steed and a stray hoof clipped his head. All went dark. * * * Finri and Magdane broke camp at dawn. The glistening dew dampened their boots as they bridled their steeds. From his saddle, Finri peered toward the distant line of Larien Wood. "We'll reach the forest before the sun peaks." "If that's where our prize is heading," muttered Magdane, the tufts of his red beard fluttering in the wind. "Erynsburg lies northeast, yet these hoofprints lead due north toward the Wood. Methinks he has other plans." Finri spurred his horse. "He's heading for Erynsburg. This thief’s not entirely dim. He rides for Larien Wood; then he'll follow its edge to Erynsburg. That's the surest guide for anyone." Magdane considered the logic and spurred his horse after Finri. At times, the hunter reined up and dropped to the ground, inspecting the prints. Then he leapt back into his saddle and galloped on. Finri called back into the wind. "Our quarry isn't much of a horseman! The prints are erratic, changing speeds and direction!" "Good!" yelled Magdane. "Then we'll run him down!" Finri proved correct about Azzandur's route. The prints continued north, reaching Larien Wood late in the morning. The hunter dismounted now to check the tracks. "Our man entered the forest here. We'll have to lead the horses." Magdane didn't like the implications. He scanned along the forest's edge and out along the open plains. "You said he would turn to Erynsburg from here." Unconcerned, Finri followed the tracks. "He dismounted and led his horse into the wood. Here. He's on foot now. Interesting. He treads lightly…" Magdane's face reddened as his hand came to rest on his sword. "I addressed you..." Finri glanced back, noting the guard's ready hand with little concern, before resuming his tracking. "Magdane. You are a warrior, an accomplished one at that. With sword in hand, you could dispatch most any foe. But my skills will lead us to Azzandur. You can count on that." "What good is your tracking if we track the wrong man? Methinks we should have listened to that piglet when we had the chance." The hunter continued to trace the prints. "Would a deserting lancer leave such an erratic trail? These are the tracks of an inexperienced rider. Trust me." Finri raised his hand triumphantly. "Ah, here it is! His camp." The hunter followed the hoofprints to the base of a large pine, where he found trampled earth and grazed clumps of grass. The prints left the site at an angle toward the meadow and Erynsburg. Now riding again, Finri and Magdane followed the hoofprints along the edge of Larien Wood. The forest rushed by. Magdane's hair danced like flames in the wind. Finri looked like a wolf closing on a kill. The big guard spurred his horse to keep up and wondered if such a pace were wise. Surely the hunter was moving too fast to read the tracks. He looked to Finri, but the hunter's gaze was not on the ground. Instead it fell upon a distant spot on the horizon. As they rode on, a dark mound rose. Ravens fluttered about and circled above. * * * Azzandur had heard his pursuers long before they reached the broken body of his horse. As the rumble of hooves grew louder, he limped into the wood to hide until the riders passed. He eased behind a tree, shifting his weight to his good leg. Somewhere in his horse’s fall, he'd twisted an ankle. His elbows, hands and knees were scuffed, and his clothes were grass-stained. Gingerly he touched his swollen and cut brow. He shook his head, wondering how he’d gotten through that one. Just then, the two horsemen appeared over a hillock at full gallop. The scavenging ravens scattered into the air. The two men reined to a halt. The larger was obviously a Caernuvite guard, his mail clinking under his smock’s red standard of a black falcon. Robust, he was, to say the least. Probably a seasoned veteran. The slender thief sank farther into the forest and watched. He wanted no confrontation here. But Azzandur was more intrigued with the guard's companion. He marked well the bow slung across his back and the knife and hatchet at his belt. While the guard remained mounted, the hunter carefully examined the dead horse. He checked the broken front leg and traced the divots of the crash back to a groundhog hole. He returned to the horse, searching for cause of death. A smile softened his hard features as he touched a stab wound at the base of the horse's skull. The hunter was speaking with anticipation, much of it too distant to hear. But three words did filter into the forest. They made the thief's stomach turn. "Azzandur...near...prize." The pain in Azzandur's ankle numbed, and he no longer felt the abrasions on his limbs or the bruise on his brow. He found himself retreating deeper into the forest. This was no routine border patrol. Bounty hunters, Azzandur cursed to himself. As he turned to escape, a fallen branch cracked underfoot. Finri's head jerked up at the sound. With a quick motion to Magdane, he sprang from his crouch and dashed into the forest, nocking an arrow as he ran. Magdane charged after the fleet hunter, broadsword in hand. Fear seized Azzandur as visions of "Clubber" Balto hanging from the gallows raced through his mind. Limping heavily, he ran blindly through the woods. He heard the guard and hunter closing in. With his bad ankle, they would catch up soon. Then his eyes hardened. He would not be run down like a wounded animal. Not like this. Growling, he wheeled around to face pursuers, black dagger in hand. Bounty hunter and guard stopped a respectful distance from the thief. Finri leveled his bow at Azzandur's chest. He sneered, "The price on your head will be paid whether you live or die. Be a good boy now and drop your blade." Azzandur glanced about for something, anything that might give him an edge. For eight years he had, through luck, wit and skill, eluded the Royal House. No exit this time though. No sewer grates, no crowds and no alleys to vanish into. Azzandur smiled ruefully and let his dagger fall from his hand. Magdane moved in and shackled Azzandur's wrists behind him, then shoved him forward. "Move, scum!" With Finri leading, the small procession snaked its way out the woods and to the grazing horses. Magdane produced a coil of rope from his saddlebag, casting a spiteful grin at Azzandur. Tying a noose at one end, he fit it over the thief's head and tightened it around his head. He then tied the other end to Finri's saddle. Magdane laughed heartily, his great red beard bouncing as he clapped his captive on the back. "Too bad that foot of yours isn't any better, with all the running you'll be doing." Crack! Magdane's eyes and mouth shot open in a ghastly stare. He stood riveted a moment before toppling forward, a hatchet buried to the haft in his skull. From behind, Finri surveyed his work. Satisfied, he yanked the hatchet free, wiping the blood on the guard's standard. With Azzandur gaping at the scene, Finri pushed him roughly toward Magdane’s horse, hands still shackled behind him. Then Finri helped Azzandur mount, adding, "Be sure you keep up." Azzandur took his meaning. With a noose around his neck and the other end tied to the saddle of Finri's horse, he'd be forced to ride. He glanced to the dead guard. Surely the bounty hunter had killed him for more than just his horse. With shackled hands and injured ankle, Azzandur spurred after the already trotting Finri. Above the wind, the thief called, "With the guard dead, your bounty doubles, eh?" Amused, Finri glanced back but said nothing. Azzandur had seen similar intrigues on the streets of Caernuva. Dead rogues in the gutter, robbed of their loot by their "friends." Double-crossers, liars and backstabbers, all dressed up with a wink and a smile. Distrust was one of the reasons he worked alone. He trusted no one. Except his sister. And she had chosen an honest job. And so it was that Azzandur flourished on the streets, alone. The rope's sudden tug on the back of his neck jerked him from his reveries. He spurred his horse but wondered what was the rush. Which noose was better? Here on horseback on the open plain? Or in Caernuva on public display, where Millinda and those satisfied nobles would see him swing high. Another thought then crossed Azzandur's mind, rekindling the spark in his eyes. He saw his chance when Finri slowed for a rest near a small, lone tree. Finri dismounted, and then dragged Azzandur off his horse. He sat Azzandur down in the sun, then moved under the shade of the tree and opened his provisions. While chewing his bread, Finri watched his captive closely. He didn't bother to offer food. Satisfied with his field luncheon, Finri dragged his prize back up to his horse and pushed him up onto the saddle. But as Finri turned to his own mount, Azzandur made his move, nimbly working his shackled wrists under the backs of his legs and sliding through. With a cocky grin, he brought his shackled hands forward, yet resisted the urge to cast off his noose. Instead, he waited for the bounty hunter to resume his ride. Ahead, Finri maintained a steady trot. Meanwhile, Azzandur slowly closed in, heedful so the bounty hunter would not sense his approach. As Finri slowed, Azzandur spurred on. Now dangling coils of rope in one hand, he crouched atop his saddle, ready to pounce. But Finri had survived many years as a hunter of men. He too had flourished alone and knew well the mind of the desperate and the dangerous. Even before he turned to face Azzandur's charge, Finri readied his hatchet, half-welcoming the oncoming sport. But to Finri's surprise, instead of side-swiping, the thief vaulted straight from behind, shackled arms extended in a perfect dive. Finri wheeled back to hack, but Azzandur caught the hatchet blade between his iron cuffs, his momentum blasting Finri off his horse, both men crashing to the ground. The horses collided, whinnied and reared in fright. Azzandur was the quicker. He slipped the noose over one of Finri's ankles while retrieving his own dagger from the hunter’s belt. The two sprang to their feet and faced off. Azzandur, though still shackled, now held his blade. Finri, still gripping his hatchet, drew his hunting knife from its sheath. His eyes glittered with newfound respect. "A worthy attempt, but it will cost you." "We'll see." Azzandur set his good foot to spring. Finri braced for the lunge. But instead, Azzandur shot to the side, slashing the haunch of Finri's steed. The pained horse whinnied and bolted. Angry now, Finri took a threatening step forward, but a rustling and whipping nearing his feet drew his attention—too late! The noose around his ankle. Finri's face contorted in rage and bewilderment. The rope snapped taut, yanking him off his feet and dragging him after the fleeing horse. Quickly, Azzandur sheathed his black blade and remounted, spurring northward toward the green edge of Larien Wood. The shackles still bound his hands, but they no longer hindered his ride. On to Erynsburg! No more delays. His information would earn no reward if it arrived after the Erynsburgans learned of the invasion through other sources. He squinted into the afternoon sun and resolved to ride through the night. * * * Finri's world exploded as the rope jerked him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, his teeth raking dirt, as his horse dragged him across the meadow. He fought waves of dizziness as he bounced and skidded. He had lost his hatchet in the initial fall, but he still had his knife. He rolled into a tight ball, reducing the skidding but increasing the bouncing. With air whistling by, he slashed at the rope. The rope jerked hard, throwing his weapon arm off and plunging him to the ground again. Finri gritted his teeth, as his shoulder bore the impact, hammering into earth. Still curled in a ball, he hacked at the rope again, the strands of hemp splitting under his frenzied attack. Finally, the rope snapped. Coughing and spitting dirt, Finri sprawled out in the grass. He gazed up at the sky. Full white clouds rolled lazily across the bright blue. Finri's dirt-and-blood encrusted lips twisted in a snarl. Grunting, he sat up to assess his condition. His once fine pelts and leathers hung in tatters over his bleeding body. His knuckles were raw. His left ear hung limply by a shred of skin. He grabbed what remained of it and, with a grimace, sliced the ear from its feeble hinge before casting it away. Finri staggered to his feet, jamming his knife into its sheath. Grisly though he appeared, most of his wounds were surface scrapes. He stanched the bleeding of his ear with pieces of pelt and looked around. Not far away, his horse had stopped and was looking back at him. The bounty hunter retraced the path of his ill-fated drag, easily following the hoofprints and torn earth. He came upon a deep round divot that looked as if a great mallet had hammered into it. Finri flexed his shoulder and smirked. He’d survived worse. With blood from his ear still seeping from under the bandage and trickling down his neck, Finri returned to the site of his duel to retrieve his fallen hatchet. He nodded with respect. Azzandur was a worthy adversary. The bounty hunter turned toward his distant horse and prepared his return ride to Caernuva. Another plan was already taking shape. Chapter 3 Millinda sat alone in the dank dungeon. She pulled her knees to her chin and clasped her ankles. Though spring was in the air just outside her cell, with flowers abloom amid the industrious buzz of honeybees, here in the cell, the dark, cold stone sapped her warmth and will. She closed her eyes. She had become numb to the reek of urine and excrement that pervaded the dungeon. At times from down the hall, a crazy man’s voice screamed, sometimes ending in mournful sobs, others in crazed gibbering. Millinda shivered. Did that fate await her? * * * "How do I look?" Prince Dugot adjusted his lavish garb outside the Foaming Flagon. He wore his most prized outfit: to him, the outrageous array of colored silks and jewels, furs and fluff were a visual feast. Janik, his faithful bodyguard, replied, "Like a royal peacock, my prince." "Ah Janik," Dugot said, placing a hand on his guard's shoulder, "You came to me, well-recommended, a man of good taste!" "My prince, the tavern beckons." "Right you are," chuckled Dugot, adding with a merry wink, "Let's not keep her waiting." Janik pushed open the tavern’s sturdy oaken door, allowing Dugot to parade inside. There, the general din of burbling conversation mingled with shouts and laughter. Upon the prince's arrival, however, the balding barkeep's eyes brightened. His most famous patron's appetite was legendary. The barkeep grinned broadly with his wide moon face and welcomed Dugot with open arms. Janik kept a watchful eye on his prince's purse. "Taff!" greeted Dugot. "How are you, my friend?" "Tis always grand, my lord, when you come to my humble establishment.” "Humble?" The Prince’s gaze swept across the boisterous tavern-farers. "Let’s have some music then! Song and drink for everyone!" "Right away!" Taff signaled to the troubadour and went to fetch a mug of his finest ale. More foaming mugs went out to the cheering patrons. With the Prince arrived, the party was about to begin. Dugot and Janik took their usual small table by the hearth's warm glow, and Taff arrived with the mug. The Prince announced to the barkeep, "Tonight's the night! How about an extra mug for my fine guard, here." Janik shook his head. "My prince, it is expressly against the Code." "Oh, loosen your shirt-straps, Janik. To the devil with duty. A little swig won't hurt you." The bodyguard remained respectfully firm. "My prince..." Prince Dugot frowned. But upon seeing his loyal guard's eyes drop, he said, "Oh, have it your way then." Taff, who had been standing by the table, patiently awaiting their decision, suggested, "Can I offer the noble guard a mug of my finest honeyed water with a spritz of lemon?" Janik glanced up. "Just water would be fine, thanks." Taff nodded with a hint of disappointment and left. A gangly troubadour arrived at the table, mandolin in hand, his clothing so garish that its colors rivaled the Prince's. His scraggly blond beard and rolling eyes added to the comic sight. Strumming, he began his song. O I know an ol' man Who's good to me. I play for ol' Taff For drinks you see. At that point the whole tavern burst into chorus, mugs held high and feet thumping… It's a grand ol' time at the Flagon, A grand ol' time at the Flagon, A grand ol' time at the Flagon, As sure as you can see. And then the balladeer raised his thin voice again… O I know an ol' yip She's got her man And cracks the whip For drinkin' at the Flagon. The tavern fell into chorus and laughter again as Taff returned with drinks for his esteemed guests. Between gulps of ale, Dugot proclaimed, "Oh I do enjoy my evenings here, away from the hoity toity ministers and courtiers. We'll have a grand party." "Another mug, sire?" The prince nodded as he joined the patrons, clapping in rhythm and cheering when two of them jumped up on a table and kick-danced to the ever increasing tempo of the mandolin. Taff returned with another mug, and Dugot set to work on it, inquiring, "Where's the sunny smile of that fair barmaid Millinda? I should very much like to have her here at my side." The barkeep shifted nervously. "You did not hear, sire? The Guard took her away." Dugot’s head snapped toward Taff. "She was what!" Taff shifted backwards again, his voice small. "Taken by Lord Anderlyn's guards, merciful prince. On charges of thievery," he added. Now stepping forward as humbly as he could. "I appeal to your good mercy, sire. Millinda's a good girl. She's done no harm. And she was always fond of you. Perhaps…you might be able to do something?" Dugot spun on his bodyguard. "Hear that!? Imprisoned!” Spinning back, he reached up to place a firm hand on Taff's shoulder. Then he puffed his chest importantly. "Courage, sir. I shall see this injustice undone, and you shall have Millinda back safely here at your fine establishment." With that, he drained his mug, and with gallant purpose, pushed his way through the crowded tavern. Janik threw a few coins at Taff and ran to follow, barely catching up to the huffing prince as he squeezed into a carriage. "This is an outrage!" wheezed Dugot. "The dogs took her. My poor sweet flower." Janik said nothing. He had seen Millinda's eye wander to Dugot's purse with more than passing curiosity, but he held his tongue, knowing his master's infatuation for the fetching barmaid. As the two rode in silence, the prince formulated his rescue plan. He fancied the idea. He’d be a hero. He would show them his mettle. He’d show Tellevar and his advisors. And most of all, he’d show Millinda. * * * A man’s mournful scream echoed in the darkness. Millinda held her ears, trying to stave off the nightmarish sound, the cry of a tortured soul trapped in darkness. She rose suddenly and rattled her cell door in frustration. She tried kicking it, but the lock would not budge. Discouraged, she slid down against the wall. A tear began to well, but she snapped her head and quickly wiped it away. * * * With the forest to his left and the mountains to his right, Azzandur followed the well-worn trail of merchant caravans, laden with exotic wares. Though dusk had become night, Azzandur rode on, now slowing the pace, mindful of the painful lesson of a groundhog burrow. The rhythmic thumping of his horse's hooves on the hard-packed earth lulled him to a dreamy peace. How soon, he wondered, would that peace be shattered by the call of trumpets, the crash of catapults and the cries of soldiers. As Azzandur rounded the final bend in the trail, his eye caught the twinkling lights of the quiet town of Erynsvale. Relieved, he eased his steed into a lazy walk. Erynsvale was small compared to Caernuva. Though it was the capital of Erynsburg, its perimeter was not fortified, and no guards challenged the thief’s entrance. Azzandur pulled his sleeves over his shackles and folded his hands over the saddle as he surveyed the local shops in search of a locksmith. Then he saw it. Outside a tiny shop hung the universal signpost of a keyhole. Azzandur dismounted and peered through the window. The shop was dark and closed, but a rectangular outline of light glowed around the edge of a doorway to a back room. He rapped on the door. From inside there came a clatter, followed by cursing, and then the distant little door opened. A stout middle-aged man with a sparse crown of hair emerged, wiping his spectacles with his shirttail. His voice muffled by the shop window, the man announced, "Me shop's closed. Ye can come back in the morning." Azzandur shook his head. "It's very important." The stout man crossed his arms over his furry chest and frowned. "Sure'n it's always important. Now ye go on home now." "Erynsburg is in danger. Lives will be lost if you don't help me." The man scratched his ear. "Huh?" Azzandur nodded toward the door handle. "If you please, sir." The locksmith grunted suspiciously before unlocking the door. "So mighten ye tell me, what all this danger’s about." Azzandur slipped into the dark shop. "I was carrying important information for your king when a bounty hunter tracked me down and shackled me." He extended his bound hands. "I barely escaped." The stout man's brow furrowed. "Well, what are ye about, coming here for? I don’t want trouble!" "I won’t be any trouble, promise. That bounty hunter’s gone…back to Caernuva. And like I said, the King’s waiting for my message." The locksmith glared doubtfully at him. Azzandur added, “There could be a reward for you…" “Ha! Sure’n I’ll never see that!” The locksmith frowned doubtfully but relented. “Well, come on, then." The two entered the back room. "Let's have a look at those cuffs." He pulled Azzandur's hands into the lantern light, put on his spectacles and examined the lock. “Bah! Looks easy enough." The stout man chose one of the wide assortment of picks on his table and began probing the mechanism. Then he scowled again, suspicion running over his round face. "If yer a spy working for King Varandier, he would have one o' his men spring the lock." Wonderful, thought Azzandur ruefully. “King Varander—" "VarandIER!" scolded the Erynsburgan. "Good King VarandIER, bless his soul." "Oh yeah," stammered Azzandur. "King Varandier doesn't know me. Look, I'm a Caernuvite. I’m bringing this message to save Erynsburg, and maybe get a reward out of it. But how much do you think your king would trust a man in irons?" "Probably as much as meself, which isn't saying much. Now either ye tell me the message, or I'm not fooling with it." Azzandur shifted uneasily. He needed the locksmith's help. And while he didn’t want to give away his secrets, he figured he’d better take his chances now before some idiot caught wind of the invasion and stole with his reward. "All right smith,” began Azzandur. “Here’s what’s happening. The Caernuvite armies are preparing to march upon Erynsburg. Something about your last war weakening the defenses.” The locksmith’s jaw set. “Blast it! We just fought off Peregorn, and now Caernuva wants to kick us while we’re down!” Azzandur shrugged. “Right, you get the picture. So, you have a few days to gather your belongings and seek refuge. Now,” he said, extending his chains, “will you help me?" "War!" grumbled the locksmith as he rubbed his sparse crown of hair. "Damn these wars!” He set to work on Azzandur’s shackles, mumbling something unintelligible. Two turns of the pick and two clicks of the lock, and he popped it open. "That'll be five coppers, me boy." "Locksmith, what’s your name?" "Numror," responded the smith, perplexed. "Noble Numror, I will tell King Varandier of your service to this land.” Seeing the smith very satisfied with that, Azzandur bid him farewell, bowed and left without paying a copper. After relocking the door, Numror returned to his back shop. He cleared his tools, pleased with himself. Who knew? Maybe he'd even get to meet the King. He set to work, thinking of his wife. Let Ethel sleep for now. He'd tell her the bad news in the morning. Azzandur mounted and rode for castle Erynsburg. The stronghold rose above town, its thick walls under major reconstruction after Peregorn's siege. To finish the job, stone masons on scaffolds were working through the night, by torch and lantern light. As Azzandur rode for the castle gate, two halberd-wielding guards stopped him. "Rider--name and business." The Caernuvite dismounted and walked his horse toward the guards, glancing up to the pair of flags on the gate towers. Even in the dim light, he could see the proud Erynsburgan standard, a golden eagle on a deep blue field. "My name is Azzandur of Caernuva, an emissary of that southern kingdom. I request audience with King Varandier." One of the guards walked back to a grilled window in the gate and said something before returning. "There’s no envoy listed by that name. Do you have papers?" Azzandur shook his head. “Lost, I’m afraid. Bit of a mishap on the ride north. You understand…” The two guards brandished their halberds and stepped forward. "We could arrest you for impersonating an official." The thief hastily backed away. “No need for that, boys. I’ll get those papers, double time," he lied. Turning back down the mountain, he muttered, “You had to be difficult…” before fading into the darkness. * * * On the cold stone floor, Millinda clasped her knees tightly for warmth. In another cell, the crazed man wailed. Heavy bolts clanged down the corridor. The click of a lock echoed, and a heavy door creaked open. Millinda put her ear to the damp wood of her cell door. Two pairs of boots approached, and then passed her door. Down the hall, a key turned in another lock. The wailing ceased and an inane gibbering began. Then the marching boots returned, the gibbering following in their midst, passing Millinda's cell and continuing down the hallway. At its end, a heavy door slammed shut, and its bolts rang secure. Millinda slumped back to the floor. All was silent now, save the faint trickle of water down the dungeon wall. * * * Ominous gongs rang again and again throughout the Temple of Maalthazzar the Conqueror, Lord of Fire, patron deity of the House of Caernuva. A solemn procession, headed by King Tellevar and Lord Anderlyn, and followed by Baron Erehorn, Duke Bergo and their retinue, filed past rows of burning braziers, up the main temple aisle toward Matron Acacia, the high priestess, or more precisely, the High Inquisitor of Maalthazzar. With a measure of wonder and dread, King Tellevar studied Matron Acacia. Statuesque, she stood above them on a slab of polished granite. He could not guess her age nor even whether she was young or old. Her deathly white hair flowed over her shoulders in full graceful waves, and yet her skin, smooth and pure, spanned tightly over high cheekbones without the trace of a wrinkle. And those perfect soft eyes sank into condemning depths of black. Tellevar had never beheld a woman such as this. City folk would often whisper that she was older than the foundations of Caernuva. But then, surely that was just talk. To the king, the deity Maalthazzar was a lie, a lie the people feared and revered. Of course, to speak such thoughts was heresy, an offense dangerous even for a king. And so Tellevar kept his thoughts private. He had come to receive Maalthazzar's blessing for his army before going to war. He would participate for the sake of his officers and soldiers. If it gave them strength and courage in the coming battle, he would bow before Maalthazzar or any god or idol that his people believed in. King Tellevar glanced to old Anderlyn, whose white head bowed in reverence, then fixed his gaze upon Acacia. She faced the assembly, arms raised, silken robes reflecting the flames, black stare boring through him. A tinge of fear ran through the King. "So be it, enchantress," Tellevar whispered under his breath, bowing his head. The gongs ceased as Acacia lowered her arms and stepped from the granite slab. A door opened behind her, and two bald monks in white robes escorted a thin man in tunic to the slab. He gibbered at times, his head lolling aimlessly toward the gathering. The monks gently supported his elbows and walked him forward. Tellevar wondered what vile potions Acacia had poured down the poor wretch's throat. Clearly, the man had no idea what was going to happen. The monks lay the drugged man onto the polished slab, then sprinkled holy oils over his body. He glistened in the flickering light but only gazed absently, mumbling and smiling dumbly. Acacia produced a ceremonial dagger from the folds of her cloak. Ancient runes marked the golden blade. With her arms raised, the High Inquisitor began, her invocation reaching out in a voice that both seduced and terrified. "Oh terrible Lord of all lords, ablaze in thy fury and wise in thy reign, bow down and hear our humble prayer. We raise our hands in plea for thy favor. For strength of arms, for courage in the face of the enemy. To guide each sword, each lance, each arrow. O Maalthazzar, guide my hand with this offering. Guide thy holy blade!" The dagger plunged into the man's heart with a revolting slurp. Acacia's eyes fixed upon the open wound as a predator to its kill. The man raised his head, puzzled by the golden hilt now protruding from his chest. He reached for it, then slowly drooped away. His head fell back to the stone as his life drained onto the marble slab. The High Inquisitor withdrew the dagger, its golden surface running red. Raising it above her head, she allowed a small blood rivulet to trickle into her open mouth. She closed her eyes and snarled in rapture. As the Matron stepped back, two bald monks stepped forward, each holding a golden torch. Acacia raised her arms again. "Holy flame, devour thy claim!" The monks touched their torches to the glistening body, immolating it. A great fire spun and whirled about the fast-blackening corpse. A cheer rose among the throng of officers. Anderlyn, Dugot and the others raised their swords in tribute. King Tellevar went through the motions but uttered not a word. He hated the ritual, even though a small part of him rationalized that the death of one poor wretch might be justified if it raised the morale of his army. The officers filed out, their spirits high, ready for battle. King Tellevar followed them, troubled. But he admonished himself. He had to put these misgivings behind him now. The ceremony was over and the war was about to begin. He gripped the handle of his ancestral sword. That he knew he could trust. Good, Caernuvite steel. He didn't need Maalthazzar. He was king. He would stand as a beacon of light for his subjects. And they would follow him. Lord Anderlyn lingered with Acacia, concerned. The High Inquisitor's ageless, measured voice rolled forth. "The king's faith is suspect." Anderlyn smiled softly. "He is still young." Acacia was not so forgiving. "Without the King's conviction, the Great God may ignore our plea, or worse, exact vengeance." "It is my failing. My teachings did not win his full acceptance. Ever does youth spurn tradition." She cast a haughty eye toward the departing king. “An ill omen." Anderlyn turned to leave. "I will do my best to guide him on the right path. Farewell, your eminence." Matron Acacia watched the lord make his way out the temple and onto the sun-streaked streets. Time was short. The march drew near. She would pay Tellevar a visit. Soon. The young king would learn proper respect for the Inquisition. This concludes the first three sample chapters of Thief of Caernuva. Full manuscripts for this and its sequel, Thief of Boruvia, are available upon request. Each runs about 95,000 words.

This gritty fantasy novel manuscript is the first of a two-part series, set in a hardened mercenary world of back-alley deals, political intrigue, corruption, and war. Conflict is driven by opposing ambitions, rather than a simple conflict of good vs. evil. Heroes and villains

have complex motivations, neither entirely good nor bad.

    Azzandur, the thief, is an anti-hero in the vein of Selene of Underworld and Geralt of The Witcher. His world is rife with intrigue much like that found in

Glen Cook's Tower of Fear. Throughout, he eludes cutthroats, nefarious lords, a black-widow Inquisitor, and a relentless bounty hunter. His stout and gruff locksmith friend, Numror, is an unwittingly humorous fellow.

This cover concept and the map below are by

Caitlin Worth (spherenoire.com)

Thief of Caernuva (Book 1)

& Thief of Boruvia (Book 2) 

by Nikolai Soderstrom

Background

Book 1 Summary: While robbing Caernuva’s dissolute prince

at knifepoint, Azzandur learns of a plan to invade a neighboring kingdom. He decides to deliver warning to the neighboring king in exchange for reward. But Azzandur’s own king learns of his plan and dispatches bounty-hunter Finri to intercept him. Soon thereafter, the Caernuvite invasion is victorious, but at heavy cost; King Tellevar is assassinated.

His weak-willed brother is installed on the throne and falls under the spell of a drug-dispensing High Inquisitor. Her manipulations set the stage for civil war––orchestrated from behind the scenes by a third power, the Boruvian Empire. At Book 1’s close, Boruvian armies are on their way to “liberate” and occupy war-torn Caernuva, as Azzandur finally begins to assemble pieces of the puzzle that enabled the impending Boruvian takeover. In this, the bounty hunter and High Inquisitor are revealed as agents of the Boruvian Empire.


Book 2 takes place in Boruvian-occupied Caernuva. Azzandur frees enslaved friends. In that process, he befriends a mercenary, finds a love interest, and discovers a Resistance movement of suspicious origins. Although Azzandur resents the Boruvian occupiers, Caernuva’s Resistance fighters include old enemies. He becomes entangled in the intrigues of both the Empire and the Resistance, with the relentless bounty hunter playing both sides.



The Market

Target audience is one that will identify with the independent "lone wolf" anti-hero, an appeal that is reflected in three major markets:


•Fantasy Fiction: Lies of Locke Lamora and Tower of Fear

•Computer Games: Thief and The Witcher

•Film: The Crow and Underworld



The Author


Nikolai Soderstrom

Phoenix, AZ

niksoderstrom@cox.net