King of the North: The Dragon Awakens

By J. H. Sierra

Young prince Arenzil, must seek to govern his beleaguered kingdom of Cruan, while fighting court intrigues and foreign powers to keep his land safe; all the while fighting a force, he does not know how to reckon with...himself

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. H. Sierra
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301520886

J. H. Sierra

My name is J. H. Sierra, I originally hail from Denmark. King of the North: The Dragon Awakens is my first foray into electronic publishing. I currently live in Dallas, TX with my wife Raquel. I hope you enjoy the book!

Book preview

Prologue

Norde, it was called. Or North, as it translated into the tongue of its inhabitants. Forsaken by the gods at time’s end, now waiting time’s inevitable beginning once again. The vastness of the North was a legend amongst all races, as were its fierce inhabitants. Made in the shady image of humans, a mockery of the younger gods’ creations, this people also called itself human, though they were hardly so. Gifted—and cursed—by the Ancient Ones, they were. In time immemorial, to protect these humans who were more than human, the Ancient Ones decreed that no servant of the younger gods should enter the lands of the Norde. The people were an image of all that humans were and could ever dream of becoming. The lords and ladies of the North wielded powers that had even the elder races gasping in admiration and fear that they could not begin to comprehend. The land blossomed under their guiding hands. The fields, and even the bushes in the wild, bloomed with the promise of plenty.

Rumor was, in the lands of the South, that some of the lords of the North could expand their already vast lands at will. Terrain that one day looked and felt as it always had, could the next day look and feel different, taking several more days to travel across. Sickness and disease did not touch the inhabitants of these lands, blessed as they were. Old age and violent death were the only known ways people left this protected world. So was it, until the Ancient Ones demanded a champion from amongst them, to rule the lands of the Norde. War soon engulfed all of the North, and many a new lord was promoted, often on the field of battle, given small lands to rule on his own, in the name of their master. This in turn led to another kind of chaos in the war-torn North. Treachery and assassinations soon followed. Centuries of war passed until a champion finally emerged. He unified all of the North under himself and claimed a new title: King of the North. Fearing such a unified North, the younger gods, and quite a few of the old ones, formed an alliance, and with their combined will cut off the North and all that was in it from the powers of the Ancient Ones. The result in the North was chaos. The King vanished mysteriously in the turmoil that ensued, as did most of the powers that once were. Thus did famine, disease, and poverty descend into the lands of the North.

Chapter 1

Arenzil loved feeling the wind in his face, whipping his blonde hair, as the horse beneath him raced under the sparkling blue spring sky. He let the horse have free rein as he knew it would have no trouble navigating the small, forested hills. As they galloped along he smiled a boyish smile that made his eleven summers apparent. His clear blue eyes shone with a rare delight as he let the stallion loose and let his mind drift, enjoying this day of even rarer freedom.

His joy, however, did not last long. Letting Krri‘er decide which way and how fast, he leaned back in the saddle and began to think. Cruan was in trouble, deep trouble. His father was at war, and thereby Cruan was at war. War cost money, and money was something Cruan had very little of. Trade was virtually nonexistent. And what little there was did not produce much money. Cruan had plenty of iron and coal but few buyers, as the trade routes were closed. To the west, across the sea, was the island of Kragholm and its king, whose ships plundered most vessels from ports in the western part of the North. Kragholm warriors had even landed in Cruan sometime before Arenzil’s birth, and had been repelled by his father, Arentir, Lord of Cruan, thus effectively severing all possible peace—or, for that matter, trade—talks Cruan could have with merchants from the far South. Only a handful of ships reached Cruan’s port every summer; even fewer returned to their port of call with Cruan iron and coal. The Kragholm king must be open to reason, but what would his price be? And could Arenzil and his council of advisors afford it? Arenzil sighed, a sigh that described only one of the dilemmas he had to face sooner rather than later. The stallion had chosen a small path he had rarely taken before, but the boy ignored the beautiful forest Krri‘er had led him into, thinking only of the problems that lay before him. Cruan had a new Master of Accounting, and Arenzil had for days on end tried to figure out what the man was up to. His spies had so far been unable to find anything, and so he had arranged for one of his own guards to be placed close to the treasurer, in the hope of finding out what was going on.

Cruan’s troubles concerned everyone, and him most of all, as his advisors still regarded him as a child. They treated him as such, when they themselves had made sure that his upbringing was that of a true Lord, with a Lord’s responsibilities, which did not make any sense at all to Arenzil. Hence, he was as lonely as only a Lord Heir could be. He had early on learned to make acquaintances that could inform him of what went on in the realm and its affairs. Keeping the nobility at bay in its desire to influence the court of Cruan, the advisors had made sure to fill his days with how to rule a realm, not letting anyone close to him, other than themselves and a few servants. Arenzil had only met the nobility where and when his advisors deemed appropriate. Having a friend his own age had never been spoken about, and he doubted he would know what to do with such a friend. It would have to be a noble of course, and a nobleman, or even a noblewoman, so favored could tip the fragile balance of power in Cruan. Despite the First Marshal’s efforts, Cruan was being overrun by bands of bandits and nobles who were doing their best to tip the balance of power in their favor. At least, that was what Arenzil suspected was the main reason for him to be without even a single friend. That suspicion had been confirmed the day he had listened to a conversation between the Weapons Master, Cothrain, and the First Marshal, Eran. He grimaced, as if in pain. It did not matter. He was Arenzil, Lord Heir of Cruan. He had many duties to perform and much to learn, both of which his advisors spent their days and nights guiding him in. Arenzil’s days were filled with discussions and decisions, as they had been since he was a babe, for he was always included in the decision-making process.

As Krri’er freely stretched his legs in the clearing, the boy no longer felt the fresh air on his face, which mirrored his thoughts. To the north were the Helor, Cruan’s most powerful neighbor. They had severed all relations with Cruan not long ago, and now no trade took place between the two realms. No one could explain to him why this had happened. At Cruan’s border in the mountains to the northeast was Rilis. Rilis and its ruler had gone with his father to war, but Cruan had nothing to trade with them that the realm did not already have. To the south were Merkand and its duke. The duke of Merkand was now old and, according to whispers, senile. He had let the nobility and the many heirs of his realm exert more and more control over their lands, while he had busied himself with the gods knew what. No one seemed to know, nor care. The Merkand nobility were occupied with infighting and assassinations, bordering on civil war, only held in check by the Duke’s army. Little trade, a few wagons full of iron, went that way every year. To the east, through the tree-filled valleys and mountains, were the independent lords and their realms, of whom many had sworn loyalty to Arenzil’s father after the betrayal of his family by Narsus, Heir of Frehein, letting Arentir and his large army march upon their lands and often joining in Cruan’s war against Frehein. However, no trade was possible with their allies to the East, as huge bands of bandits roamed the lands in their ruler’s absence, making travel virtually impossible. Arenzil sighed again as he became aware of his surroundings. Cruan was beautiful, with its rolling hills and forests where everything was in bloom.

His bodyguards did not like him roaming free like this, of course. They seemed determined to kill every possible enjoyment their charge could have, but they strived and failed to keep up with Krri‘er.

My Lord. Tar’s voice came from behind. Riders ahead. Stop, my Lord. Arenzil could hear how desperate the men of his guard were as they whipped their horses to get ahead of him, and he looked sharply ahead. There, he thought, men on horses, wearing the grey uniform of the army. They must have been sent by Eran Strongarm Lerman, First Marshal of the realm in his father’s absence. Nevertheless, he knew very well that no chances could be taken. The army uniform of wool tunic and chain mail covered by Cruan’s tabard was common and easily made. After all, he was his father’s heir, a prize for all their enemies. He sharply reined in Krri‘er. For once he was glad the guards had strapped him to the saddle on the mighty stallion, for indeed, Krri‘er obeyed him with an unusual quickness.

Arenzil’s head sharply smacked into the stallion’s neck and blood began to flow from his nose. He heard the surprised curses from the guards as they tried to stop short without suffering the humiliation of being thrown from their saddles, risking life and limb. Then they were around him, their weapons drawn and looking like giants. Arenzil, heir to the City of Cruan and the lands surrounding it, shook his head and hastily put a hand to his nose with a curse that revealed the lack of friends his own age.

They have seen us, said Grentor, the best swordsman of the guard. Better get him out of here, Tar!

However, before Tar could utter the words that would doom him to be a coward, Arenzil interrupted. Grentor, stay with me here. Tar, go, and see what they want. You two— He looked at the two archers, Grald and Sors—take cover, and watch Tar’s back while he finds out what they want. He felt a little surge of triumph as the guards looked only briefly at each other, and then hastily scrambled into position. Tar grumbled under his breath, but did as he was commanded. Arenzil watched Tar put his huge body between the potential danger and the young heir as he galloped towards the advancing strangers. Arenzil had already realized they would not need to sacrifice their blood for him today. He recognized the strangers. Still, Tar took no chances, he noted; seasoned soldiers rarely did. He stopped at a point where the two bowmen could easily cover him and bade the advancing soldiers stop. Arenzil looked over the scenery and noted that Grentor had changed position and was now covering their back, rather than their front. He too had recognized the soldiers, and saw them stop as they were bade by Tar. A brief exchange followed. Arenzil knew that Tar was asking for documentation to prove their intention in riding so close to the heir of the realm; he smiled as he saw a parchment being handed to Tar. The old soldier calmly backed up his horse and began reading.

Always educate your soldiers, my son. Teaching them to read and write is a benefit, as you will learn. His father’s voice came to Arenzil, a voice that had become as distant as the image of him. Arentir, ruler of Cruan and its lands; Arenzil had not seen him since he was little more than seven summers of age. A dark beard and icy blue eyes were all he remembered of his father.

His nose was still dripping blood, and Arenzil was losing patience. One day, every fortieth day, was his day off from his sitting duties, as he silently called them. Learning how to rule a realm was easy; learning how to run it, however, was difficult. Taxes—everyone hated them and wanted exemptions from them. What is the price of corn this year versus last year? How much should we tax iron from the mines in eastern Cruan? The bad harvest last year would have ended badly, had the Marshal not opened the army’s supply depots during the harsh winter. Arenzil sighed. What he would not give to be an ordinary boy with nothing to worry about but his next meal! He lifted his head proudly, brushing away the childish thought while ignoring the sharp pain in his nose. He was the heir to Cruan! He had a duty towards his subjects, large and small, rich and poor, peasant and noble, and he would not fail in this duty.

Tar and the soldiers he had stopped were now coming towards them. Arenzil grimaced as he saw their leader, the captain of the Marshal’s own guard, Peretor, spread out his soldiers. They took up flanking and rear positions around Arenzil and his guards.

Peretor, said Arenzil. Despite his scant eleven summers, his voice was surprisingly firm. What is all this about?

Sharp-nosed Peretor turned in his saddle. His grey eyes glimmered with intelligence. We got word of assassins, my Lord. Thirty to forty well-armed men snuck ashore from an unidentified vessel, just this morning. The captain’s chain mail clinked as he turned his horse around, his eyes checking the men’s positions. We’d better get you home to Cruan City, m’Lord. The Lord Marshal has commandeered half the cavalry to find the trespassers, but I would prefer not to take any chances.

As he listened to the captain, Arenzil quickly forgot his nose and the pain it gave him. Any injuries to civilians, Captain? he asked as his guards surrounded him. Without objecting, he gave Krri’er’s reins to Tar. He sensed the hesitation in the captain, and turned towards him as they started out at a steady trot.

Peretor was keeping his eyes busy, but answered, One fisherman’s boat didn’t return home. We suspect it might have something to do with the unidentified vessel. Arenzil’s blue eyes dwelled on the captain, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but hesitated and started thinking instead.

Fishing boats never work alone! he burst out. They don’t, do they? Even he could hear the eagerness in his voice, and he silently cursed himself. He was their Lord Heir, and he should act like it! The captain showed no hint of amusement, and none of the men laughed, at least not aloud.

Peretor replied calmly, Nay, my Lord, no fishing boat goes out alone. It is too dangerous for a single boat out there. Arenzil did not see the hint of a smile on Peretor’s lips while he thought about the would-be assassins. It was a smile that showed pride in his young Lord. A smile that vanished as Arenzil announced his decision.

Take me there, Peretor. He hesitated only briefly at the horrifying thought of the captain dragging the Lord Heir home to Cruan City. Take me there so I can see for myself what this is all about. He looked at Peretor and sat as tall as he could in his saddle, which, with him being only eleven summers old, made his air of authority look even more ridiculous. Yet, no one laughed as he looked the captain firmly in the eyes. It is my duty towards the realm, Captain Peretor, and my duty I must do. For a moment, Peretor held Arenzil’s gaze. The young Lord’s eyes were calm and unblinking, waiting to be obeyed, fearing he would not.

Peretor nodded, an acceptance of Arenzil’s rank over him. As you wish, my Lord, but only if you adhere to my advice for your safety. The last came a little too smoothly, and Arenzil’s blue eyes narrowed.

And what does that last mean, Cap … um … Peretor? he corrected himself hastily. Always show your subordinates respect; do try to establish a bond with each and every one, he silently said to himself. Do not show them disrespect on the grounds that their rank is beneath yours.

Peretor smirked. Oh, don’t go dashing off without soldiers around you, my Lord. No reckless galloping ahead and such. The last comment was said with perfect neutrality, but Arenzil understood the sting and felt his cheeks redden. Refusing to look at his own guards, which was the only place such rumors could have come from; he kept gazing into Peretor’s grey eyes until the captain once again searched the landscape for potential enemies.

Arenzil cleared his throat with a feigned cough. You have my word, Peretor, as the Lord Heir to Cruan.

Then we are off, my Lord, to the small fishing village of Vilgran, south of the city. The captain’s voice was calm, but Arenzil doubted that he was calm inside. Boiling with fury would be more like it, he thought with a smile. Being sent to look after the Lord Heir was an honor indeed. But with assassins lurking somewhere in the hills close to Cruan City, and Arenzil now on the way to the place where the assassins went ashore; it was undoubtedly an assignment he would have loved to be without.

Then, while we ride, please explain the situation to me, Captain, Arenzil said, looking ahead and having a hard time seeing over the stallion’s proud neck. After all, assassins on the one day I am known to be out riding. It can hardly be a— He never finished the sentence, as suddenly all hell broke loose around them. The last thing he felt that day was a sharp pain in his side where an arrow suddenly materialized.

Chapter 2

The world was spinning in a hazy sort of way. Voices, many of them, were all around him; they seemed familiar, but Arenzil could not focus enough to identify them. He felt very much like throwing up.

Get that damn thing out of him! The gruff voice seemed especially familiar, but again he could not place it. He tried opening his eyes, but hastily closed them again as the dizziness got worse. He was hot; he felt like he was burning up. However, for the life of him he could not move a muscle to undress himself.

The doctor is here, Lord Marshal. Even as frightened as it sounded, that voice seemed familiar. Tiri, my maid, Arenzil thought. Yes, that must be her. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a bed somewhere, probably his own or Tiri would not have been there.

He is awake, Lord Marshal! The sharp voice could only belong to one person, the Citadel’s Weapons Master, Cothrain, whose green eyes were gazing down at him. Arenzil was feeling dizzier than ever. He tried to speak. Then Eran, the First Marshal, was there beside Cothrain. Grey eyes and green were staring at him. On the face of both men was a look of worry.

Sleep now, Aren, sleep. The gruff voice was almost gentle, and as he felt a hand on his head, Arenzil gave in to the all-forgiving darkness.

It was night outside, Arenzil noted when he awoke, as dark as his own nightmares. A low fire crackled in the fireplace. A wave of dizziness and self-rebuke washed over him, and Arenzil groaned almost audibly. He, the Lord Heir to Cruan, had by his own foolishness put his life at risk. More importantly, he had put his men’s lives at risk. All so he could go and see the fishing village where the would-be assassins had come ashore to kill him! He had neglected the fact that if assassins knew that he had every fortieth day to ride and feel free, then they would also have known the route he usually took. There were very few paths through the small forests and rolling hills that made up most of Cruan. Most of the paths were close together, so a few scouts could easily be posted and signal the others as to the direction of Arenzil’s travel.

May the Guardian strike me blind! he cursed aloud. A fool boy I was, thinking with the horse’s ass, rather than my head. He blinked. That definitely did not sound like his voice, and there was a lump in his throat. He dismissed the thought of shouting for anyone and looked around. Yes, it definitely was his chamber. It was his bed draped with golden silk, the table and chair were by the window, the Myagian vase near the door to his study. The vase was all he had as a memory of his mother. The Tiferian carpet he had gotten on his seventh name day, from the father he hardly knew except from letters. Removing the blanket, he saw the bandages, and struggled to sit up. The pain emanating from the wound was sharp, and soon his face was bathed in sweat. Spells of dizziness threatened to overcome him once more. Somehow, he sat up and whispered to himself, All right … next step now … out of this darn bed to find out where everyone is.

And where does the Lord Heir think he is going? Arenzil, who had managed to raise himself with the help of the bedpost, recognized the voice and froze, with the splendid result that he lost his grip and landed flat out on his precious Tiferian carpet, head first. Once again, the blessing of darkness welcomed him.

Voices, all talking on top of each other, bouncing off his ears and none of them making sense. I startled him, I believe. The sweet yet sharp voice cut through the clutter of noise. It belonged to Countess Sera Lerfel.

You saved him, rather. He is bleeding like a stuck pig again; a few more moments and it would have been too late. That voice belonged to the doctor. He was an unsympathetic, middle-aged fool. He had thick dark hair, gleaming black eyes, big ears, a round belly, and a nose fit for the prow of a ship. Arenzil had avoided the unreliable man since one of his guards had died in the doctor’s care two summers back. Unfortunately, Arenzil did not have much choice but to keep him around, as doctors were uncommon in the North.

Arenzil opened his eyes. Ah, he is amongst the living again, I see. The First Marshal’s voice was filled to the brim with fury. Not at Arenzil; even in his weakened condition he could sense that.

Eran. Arenzil’s voice was still weak, maybe even whimpering, but he did not care as he signaled the First Marshal closer. As Eran lowered his ear to Arenzil’s mouth, the young heir had only one thought. Get that doctor to the hells!

#

Later that same evening Peretor appeared in the doorway to the First Marshal’s study and saluted. Eran and Cothrain awaited his news. Well? the First Marshal said.

Lord Marshal. Peretor sighed. Cothrain began cursing.

Not a one of them! Eran burst out.

Not one of the assassins knew who hired them, Peretor said.

Where were they hired? Did we learn that? Eran asked.

Krestar, it was the only thing we could get out of them m’Lord, Peretor replied. Sadly, none of the assassins are able to speak with us any longer. Cothrain and Eran looked at each other.

Krestar…! Cothrain burst out. We’d better keep it from the boy.

It’s a shame none of the assassins survived the encounter with Peretor’s men, Eran said.

Thank you for your service, Peretor, Cothrain said in dismissal. Peretor saluted and left the room. As the door closed, the Weapons Master turned towards Eran. Merkand, perhaps? Krestar lay in the lands of Merkand. So that would make sense Cothrain said.

Maybe, Eran replied. But with none of the assassins alive, we have no way of confirming ties with anyone.

Too true, Cothrain said with a sigh. Let us hope the boy makes it.

Eran sighed in silent agreement as he sat down behind his desk and began working on the pile of paperwork in front of him.

#

Finally. Arenzil sighed as Tiri arrived with his dinner. He glared in the direction of Countess Sera, who was sitting and knitting by the fireplace. No gruel! Bring us meat and bread, with lots of butter! His stomach was rumbling loudly in anticipation. Three weeks of gruel! He muttered. He heard a noise from the doorway to the hall and glared in that direction. The guards hastily wiped the broad grins off their faces and closed the door. Mayhap Tar and his friend Ogden regretted their amusement at Arenzil’s expense. Considering the four weeks of latrine duty he’d ordered for them. If it had not been for the Lady Sera’s hasty intervention, he would probably have had them degraded to the navy, the worst post in the armed forces.

Sulking does not suit you, Lord Arenzil, the countess said over the clicking of her needles. However, if you persist, I could recite more of the ‘Orders of the Gods’ if you wish? She paused and put her knitting in her lap, her blue eyes looking questioningly at him.

If it’s all the same to you, Countess, three weeks of that hay is more than enough for me, thank you very much! Arenzil replied hastily. He ignored Tiri’s stifled giggle as she sat the tray in his lap, and also ignored the feeling that Sera’s temper was close to erupting at his comment. Fools! he thought. Could humans really not learn to disguise their feelings better?

Tiri, he mumbled through the food in his mouth, for once forgetting his manners. Let the Lord Marshal know that I wish to see both him and the Weapons Master today. Also, I wish to speak to the Master of Accounting. He paused, his sigh muffled by a half-eaten piece of meat. Master Terfus also … he added reluctantly. His private tutor, he could hardly avoid. He sensed Sera stiffen in her chair. We agreed, Countess, he said hastily. Three weeks of gruel, your rules, and then back to normal! His gaze shifted to Tiri. Well, what are you waiting for, Tiri? He ignored the countess as the maid hastened out of his quarters. Nonetheless, he could feel her eyes on him as he wolfed down, what was for him, a divine meal.

Three weeks of gruel, yes, but you are not, as of yet, ready to resume all of your duties, my Lord Heir. As usual, her voice when saying his title held a note of sadness, and to his surprise, Arenzil pitied her.

You were my father’s mistress through many summers, Countess. Had it not been for my grandfather, you and Father would have married, would you not? He looked intently at the pretty, blonde woman, and to his surprise, she jumped as if she had been sitting on needles. Her face appeared open and vulnerable; tears welled up in her blue eyes. Then she shook herself, and fixed him with an honest gaze.

Ever since you were born, Aren, you have surprised us all. The door to his study opened and in stepped Master Terfus. Sera continued as though the tutor did not exist. You could walk before any other, talk before your time, inspire the best in the men around you, just like your father and his father before him. She shook her hair, which shone golden in the light of the lamp, and her beautiful features were soft and loving. Intelligent you are, more so than I have seen in any other boy. Intelligent, indeed, and dutiful, but will you rule with justice, young Arenzil, Lord Heir of Cruan? Without waiting for a response—for indeed he could not respond to her accusation, if that was what it was—she continued, still holding his gaze. Tyrants rule this earthly world. Is Lord Arenzil going to be one of them, I sometimes wonder. At this musing, Arenzil, more than ever, felt like running to her and resting in her arms, as he had done just two summers prior. However, he was the Lord Heir! Eleven summers old—one day he would command these lands. Hiding behind a woman’s skirts would not make a good impression.

Master Terfus stood stiffly in the doorway to the study. His garb of black hose, knee trousers, red shirt, and yellow cape looked even more ridiculous than usual.

Deep thoughts you have shared with the young one today, m’Lady Sera. The high-pitched voice and the ever-squinting dark eyes roamed the room as he spoke. Arenzil grimaced. Master Terfus was not his favorite person to spend time with, but he was a good teacher, and so he had to tolerate him.

He is old enough to hear some truths, Terfus, Sera said without looking at the tutor, whom Arenzil suspected she did not like.

Truths! The whining sound from the tutor’s lips made Arenzil feel like hiding his head between his pillows. He hastily repressed that thought, though he was sorely tempted to do it. Truth is not a necessity; truth is the way you choose to view it. Arenzil suppressed a groan at Master Terfus’ favorite saying. Facts, however, Terfus cheerfully continued, can be manipulated, but never dismissed. Countess Lerfel did not get a chance to reply as the hallway door opened and the First Marshal and the Weapons Master were announced.

Ah, Arenzil said, just in time, but we still need the Master of Accounting. As if on cue, the door once again opened and Lord Kerfen entered the room. Come in, make yourselves comfortable, Arenzil said, looking curiously at the young Lord Kerfen, who had just recently taken over as the Master of Accounting. Broad shouldered with blue eyes and a broken nose that told of his time as a soldier, a time that was cut short when a spear penetrated his armor and shattered the bones in his left leg. The young heir had heard tales about this soldier, who, thanks to his bravery on the battlefield, had achieved the rank of lord. His family had been peasants, as had he, until he joined the army. Arenzil was counting on this man to support him in the ideas he was to put forth this day. Before beginning the discussion of business, he looked at Countess Sera and reminded himself to corner her and ask her again the question she had so skillfully avoided earlier. He returned his attention to the men and noted that they were still standing as there was only one chair in the room, which was currently occupied by Lady Sera. Arenzil smiled.

I am sorry. I forgot to order more chairs for the assembly, gentlemen, but I am sure you can manage. He showed them he had not forgotten their comfort, which was his objective. He had been taught to keep people off balance and prevent them from guessing his motives. Putting aside the tray that had so delighted him just a few moments earlier, he looked sharply at the advisors gathered before him. I am but a child still and have much to learn, but so little time to learn it in. I am therefore dependent on you all to guide me through the difficult times that lie ahead. He carefully assessed their responses as he ventured onto the thin ice. Before this little … incident— He touched his left side, where the bandages had finally come off— the First Marshal and I had discussed the impact of my father’s war against Frehein upon our economy, our peasants especially.

He paused, waiting for a reaction, and was not disappointed. Despite his best efforts to hide his interest, Lord Kerfen was definitely paying attention, as was Weapons Master Cothrain, who was feigning disinterest by polishing his family’s sigil. However, First Marshal Eran showed no emotion. It was his reaction to what Arenzil was about to propose, upon which all would depend. To put it briefly, we are broke, and my father’s reckless hiring of mercenaries has put us in debt. Please tell me if I am wrong? There was a short pause.

You are not, m’Lord, but should we not speak of this in private? the First Marshal said, hinting towards Countess Sera and Master Terfus.

The Countess Sera is here because she needs to be here; a lesson in justice, she needs. His boyish grin revealed his true age. Despite the seriousness of the matter, he could not hide the fact that he was just a boy. A boy with power, but as with all power, it had its foundation. These men, and the woman, represented some of that foundation. It was time to play the game they had prepared him for since he was a babe. Master Terfus is here because some of what he has to say is actually meaningful. We will return to that later, he added hastily, as he saw that the tutor had opened his mouth as if to respond. First things first. You have all been screaming about how the current system with farming as the base of our economy is antiquated, am I right? He looked at each in turn, and each nodded, stunned, as if they could hardly believe their ears. Arenzil noted that Eran did more than nod. Something that looked suspiciously like a smile came to his lips, although only for a moment. They looked at their boy ruler, who laughed in delight. They still took him for only a boy, that was for sure. Good, that could make things a little easier.

All right, he continued briskly. I admit I have been busy listening at the doors to your conversations, just as I have been busy bribing people to open the doors that should have been open to me as their ruler. He smiled, and noted that even the Weapons Master looked shocked. The First Marshal looked as though—for a moment—he wished the ground would swallow him.

M’Lord— he began, but Arenzil had no intention of letting himself be interrupted.

Let me finish please, Eran, we will return to all that later. For now, we will talk about how our economy can be improved. I think one of us here might have an idea how, at least partially, this goal can be attained. He ignored the First Marshal, who looked like he could not decide whether to explode or implode. He looked at Lord Kerfen, who was his unknowing guest of honor. Kerfen, would you mind elaborating on the facts of serfdom versus free peasants? And, also how to make better use of our fields, utilizing other methods of farming?

The silence in the chamber was audible, as the Lord of Accounting stood as if struck by lightning. He was pale and his lips trembled. Don’t be shy. Arenzil said calmly. You have been working on this for quite some time now. You must have some idea of how the system can work better. Eran and Cothrain stood stiffly, their eyes firmly fixed on the young Master of Accounting.

You have an idea how it can work better, Lord Kerfen? Eran said. And you haven’t told me about it? His usually gruff voice had the sting of a whip.

Do not be too harsh on him, Eran. I had to disguise Ogden as a clerk to find out what he was up to, Arenzil said. He grimaced at the memory; he’d had to pay Ogden and Tar’s rather impressive tab at their local tavern for that favor. But it cost me one hundred days worth of allowance, and that we will speak of later!

At this, Cothrain broke down laughing. His green eyes watered as he almost collapsed onto the floor in sheer amusement. His friend, the First Marshal, looked like he was about to scold him for it, then he too collapsed into helpless laughter. They were followed by the shiny laughter of Countess Sera and the high-pitched giggles of Terfus. Soon also, Lord Kerfen joined in, although with a sheepish expression. Arenzil felt his face burn; it seemed to come from his toes and all the way up to his hair. What in the world are they laughing at? he thought indignantly. Eran and Cothrain tried to regain their composure; they smiled at each other as if to congratulate themselves, a hint of pride on their faces. Pride in their young Lord’s ascendance into politics and intrigue. Arenzil felt lost; what had he missed? And then Lady Sera’s white gown was around him; she had come to the bed and enfolded him in her arms. He sputtered as he struggled to get out of her grip.

What in the whole hells is wrong with you people? he demanded from deep in the folds of the countess’ dress.

He shows promise, but has much to learn still. Eran said in a self-congratulatory tone.

Indeed, Cothrain replied, also sounding satisfied. If we can get him away from the countess’ grasp sometime soon, we might learn him a thing or two about fighting as well. For, a politician he seems to be, already.

It took Arenzil quite some time to get rid of the Lady Sera and her flowing white gown, and to get his own expression under control. How women could possibly be comfortable in those things was a mystery to him. He regained his composure and sought to regain control of the meeting.

Lord Kerfen, you have the floor. Now why don’t you explain to us poor noble-born gents why serfdom is the mother of evil when it comes to farming? Arenzil said with a smirk.

The former peasant started talking, at first hesitantly,