The Passage of Kings (Book one of Lords of the Kings)

By Anant .V. Goswami

In the realm of Aerdon, where the kingdoms of Calypsos, Indius, Harduin and Maeryn struggle against diminishing rains, infertile lands and the White Curse, a cold-blooded murder leads to the discovery of an ancient temple deep in the forest of Eravia, which might hold the clue for the realm's survival.
As the gods give the Aerdonians one last chance to save the race of men, they also ask for sacrifices, and put forth conditions that the kings of Aerdon are not so thrilled about. A great council is held, and the fate of the realm is decided. As politics, prestige and power take center stage in this tale of deceit, death and decay, witness the struggle of the kings, as they attempt to cross the Endless Forest in search of new lands and new races, experience twists and turns and change of hearts, as each king tries to ensure the survival of their kingdom.
But little do they know, real power resides with the Wizard-Gods, the Vizarins, creators and destroyers of the realm, The Lords of the Kings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anant .V. Goswami
• Release date: Jul 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463675786

Book preview

LORDS OF THE KINGS BOOK ONE

The Passage of

Kings

Anant.V.Goswami

For Nanu and Papa

Thank you for giving me the wings that help me fly today.

Copyright © 2019 by Anant.V.Goswami

The Passage of Kings

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author/publisher

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2019

AG Publishing

www.anantvgoswami.com

Prologue

THE MIST LAY heavy over the forest of Eravia. It was the kind of fog that made brave knights fear deep woods and grown men piss their breeches. An earthy smell left by a torrential downpour lingered in the air, and trees and grass alike appeared prettier than ever. The sound of a cart drawn by a horse could be heard in the distance, disturbing the eerie silence of the forest. The hooves sloshed their way over the muddy road which had now become home to puddles.

Cinto was in a hurry to get to his destination. He had been steering the cart for hours through the mist and a rutted road that had lost all of its distinguishing features, and all he wished for was a warm feather bed in one of the many taverns in Starhelm, and maybe a woman, although he did not want to spend his hard-earned silver on whores. The many barrels of wine stacked against one another in the back of the cart rattled as he whipped his horse, urging his stallion to increase the pace. Cinto didn’t usually like whipping horses, they are the buttress that supports my livelihood, he always said, and so, whipping was something he utilized as a last resort when the horse was slouching beyond acceptable measure, or he was in a hurry. Presently, he found himself in both situations at the same time. By the speed at which he was trudging along, he expected to reach the hill city of Starhelm by dawn, if some kind of misfortune did not hinder his progress. His journey had been pleasant ever since he left the town of Fornhorn, ancient but well populated for its size, known for its exquisite wine and sturdy horses. And presently, it was a horse from Fornhorn that was currently pulling the old creaking carriage stuffed with barrels of wine that the king of Calypsos had ordered for the grand feast he was about to throw for the twenty-first name day of his son. And what a grand affair it was to be. Jugglers and minstrels from the corners of the Kingdom were invited, storytellers who were versed with the stories of old, acrobats who danced with rings of fire and fools known for making even the hardest of men laugh were all called upon by King Henrik.

But Cinto’s mind was only on the path ahead. His eyes were fixed upon the fog that was thickening with each passing heartbeat; his hands were clutching the reins tightly, maneuvering the cart away from the sticky puddles which were proving to be a challenge for the Calypsian. Perhaps it was the flagon of wine that he had drunk a few hours ago or thoughts of the pretty wenches of Starhelm that distracted him, because of which he could not glimpse the massive puddle that swallowed the left wheel of his cart and brought it to an abrupt halt, almost toppling one of the barrels out of the cart. Cinto exclaimed irritably as he jumped down from his seat to inspect the source of his misfortune that he had been dreading all along. The grey clouds had cleared to give way to a large moon that hung in the sky like a lantern of the gods, emitting a pale white light that helped Cinto inspect the damage that his cart had taken. Relief washed over him as he realized that the wheel was still securely attached to the axle, and it was merely stuck in the mud, which was a lesser worry than having to reattach an entire wheel.

It was when Cinto was going over all the ways to pull his cart from the mud that he heard rustling among the trees behind him. At first, he dismissed it as the wind playing with the trees of Eravia, making them joust with one another. But the next time, the sound was more apparent, more distinct, and made by someone walking among the wild thicket of bushes growing on either side of the muddy road.

Who goes there? Cinto’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

Silence followed Cinto’s question. The rustling seemed to have stopped. The woods had gone back to being quiet. A quiet that was now starting to suffocate the wine trader. Was it a fearful mind playing tricks on him? Was it the thought of being stuck in the dangerous woods of Eravia that was causing the usually brave Calypsian to suddenly breathe harder?

The silence lingered.

Cinto’s eyes kept staring at the bushes for a few more seconds before he went back to examining the wheel of his cart. He would have to unload the barrels of wine, all fifteen of them, and hope to Odium that he has enough strength to push the vehicle, and himself out of this misery. But little did he know that his suffering had just begun.

Who rides the roads of Eravia in the middle of the night?

Cinto felt the cold, sharp point of the dagger on the back of his neck before he heard the voice.

Fuck the king and his son, he thought.

I am Cinto, a trader from the city of Riverhelm, and who might you be, sneaking up on weary travelers and scaring the piss out of them? Cinto was amazed at the bravery in his voice. He was looking straight into coal-black eyes, set closely on a bearded face with a scar shaped like a hook on one side and an ear that was missing a lobe. The man was dressed in a black cloak that appeared shabby and overused.

From where I come, the man with the blade does the questioning, a hint of a smile played on the dry lips of the cloaked man.

Then ask your questions and be done with it, I still have a long journey ahead of me, and a cart that refuses to budge.

And what can a Calypsian, so far away from home, be carrying in his cart that refuses to budge? the man lazily trailed the tip of the sword along the sides of Cinto’s neck, until it came to a stop at Cinto’s Adam's apple.

Wine. Cinto’s voice had lost all its bravery at this point, and he was pretty sure he had soiled himself. Stories of men being robbed and murdered in the forest of Eravia were not uncommon, and Cinto knew he was in a situation where he could become the protagonist of one such story any moment. Suddenly, he was very aware of the leather pouch that hung from his belt, the pouch that carried the leftover silver from the purchase of the wine.

I have no interest in your wine, traveler. If you have coins, then that can surely save your life.

Cinto was in no mood to lie. He favored life over silver. It’s in the leather pouch hanging from my belt, Cinto frantically beckoned towards the pouch with the help of his eyes. The man yanked the pouch with his free hand with a swift tug.

The sword never left Cinto’s throat.

The man opened the pouch and peered inside. The shine of silver gleamed back at him.

Is anyone coming up behind you, perhaps a fellow trader who might have gold instead of your measly silver, or a soldier with some steel on him ?

No, not that I know of, Cinto lied. He knew a party of ten men-at-arms was trotting a few hours behind him. The man peered at Cinto for a few seconds, as if having a hard time believing him, but something made him change his mind, and he removed the blade from Cinto’s neck and fastened the pouch to his own belt.

Can I go now?

How can you? Isn’t your cart stuck? the man said lazily. In fact, his mannerisms appeared too languid for him to be a robber. A sense of urgency that defines a robbery was entirely absent in the way he was conducting his business.

Don’t mind, sir, but seeing as how you have just robbed me, I would like to be left alone so that I can tend to my misfortune in the best way I deem fit.

Stop playing with him, Craigon, and take his head. For all we know, the bastard may be lying, and someone might be following him, a short bald man appeared out of the woods, grinning, uneven yellow teeth visible in the moonlight. The newcomer looked as hideous as his companion but lacked the intimidation that the face of the bearded man bore. He limped his way closer to Cinto, a hand on his short sword that hung from his belt, a sly look plastered on his face.

No! I gave you all the coins I had; taking my life will not add to it, will it?

I am in no mood for killing, said Craigon as he walked over to the Fornhornian horse. But I am in the mood for some horse meat, especially meat pried off the bones of a Fornhornian horse. They say a man who feasts on a Fornhornian horse becomes more of a stallion than a man, he runs faster than the wind, fights better than a bull and fucks better than…well, a horse. Craigon looked hard at Cinto while stroking the mane of the horse. The horse neighed and tried to free himself of the harness that was restricting his freedom as if he knew what horrible fate awaited him.

Cinto’s eyes were already wide with fear. He had heard of the bandits of Eravia. Fellow traders would talk of them in taverns and inns, describing in excruciating detail the way the bandits would roast their horses on a massive spit, while it still drew breath, while it still neighed in pain. But they were not just horse eating barbarians, they also delighted in human flesh from time to time, or any living being that walked or crawled the grounds of Aerdon. It weren’t just coins that these vile men were after; they were full of lust for more than just gold or silver; they were hungry for meat. Meat pried off the bones of animals and humans alike.

Take the horse, take everything you want, but let me walk away, please, I beg of you. I have a son waiting for me, a wife that…

ooh, a wife? I wonder how she will taste? the bald man cut in.

A tear rolled down the cheek of the Calypsian trader. He knew what was about to happen. His fate was already sealed. They would never toy with him for so long and let him walk away alive. The bandits were not known for being amiable; they were known for being the opposite of that.

Then get it over with, you sons of whores. Take my head and… Cinto was interrupted once again before he could finish his sentence. The short sword flashed in the moonlight for a second, before it cut through Cinto’s neck like a knife through hot butter. The head rolled off into the puddle where the wheel was stuck, an expression of bone-chilling fear frozen on the face, eyes unblinking and devoid of life.

You should have let him finish; I was interested in what he wanted us to do with his head, Craigon said as he slowly thrust his dagger into the side of the horse until the blade was buried so deep into the flesh that only the hilt was visible.

He called my mother a whore. I love my mother, Craig; you know that, the bald man shouted over the wild and deafening screams of the horse, although she really was a whore, wasn’t she? And you should have left the horse alive, the sounds are surely going to draw whoever is following the bastard.

We will be deep in the woods by then. Stop being a coward, Hath, you give us bandits a bad name. Now help me drag this horse off the damn road.

This was easier said than done. The rain had caused the road to be a lot more uneven than it previously was. The two bandits grabbed two legs each and started to pull the dead horse out of the puddle that had turned crimson due to the mixture of human and horse blood. Finally, the cloaked men were able to drag the animal a few feet into the woods, where they sat down with their backs to a huge Wych Elm tree.

Our friend’s head and headless body still decorate the road Hath sighed.

And I assume your fat body is too tired from dragging the horse? asked Craigon with an irritated look on his face.

By the Wizard-Gods, I always knew you were too smart to be a bandit, Hath laughed while stifling a yawn, and while you are at it, bring a flagon of wine from the cart, will you? Tonight, we dine on the juicy meat and exotic wine of Fornhorn.

Don’t forget the flesh of Riverhelm, said Craigon, thinking of Cinto’s body, his mouth salivating.

It ended up being more than just a flagon of wine that the bandits drank. And within minutes, the sound of their snoring dominated the misty landscape of the Eravian Forest.

No birds sang in the woods, and no creature stirred among the mighty trunks of ancient trees. For hundreds of years, the barbaric bandits of Aerdon had ruled the ancient forest of Eravia, well, if the ruling was to comprise raiding and robbing and raping, and no king had been able to drive them out. The forest and the bandits were one, the trees were their watchtowers, the thick roots were their drawbridges, and the entire forest itself was one big castle. The four kingdoms and the ‘Maharsha,’ the chief bandit, had come to an accord a few hundred years ago. The bandits were to allow free passage to traders, merchants, and common folk, but the soldiers were to go around the forest, or sail up the river ‘Vonsea,’ and cross the humongous Lake Aerdos if they wanted to cross Eravia. And for hundreds of years that accord had remained intact. But then, Aerdon was hit with ‘The Drought of Death’. Rainfall decreased year after year and crop production went down. The fertile lands of the kingdom of Indius started losing the richness of its soil, and that is when the accord was broken. The impact of The Unending Drought was horrific, and very bloody. Kingdoms turned against one another, the bandits resumed their killing, and even the common folk of the four kingdoms became flesh-eating cannibals in an attempt to satisfy their crippling hunger. People prayed to the Wizard-Gods, kings sacrificed animals to the count of thousands, priests were showered with gold and silken robes, and temples were decorated with rubies and emeralds, and then, somehow, the intensity of the drought lessened, and for the first time in a hundred years, death and starvation were replaced by corn and bread. Little did the people of Aerdon know that their respite would be short-lived, that the monster they thought they had killed would be replaced by the devil himself. Little did they know that death would come back to haunt them in a way that would be more painful, execrable and ghostly.

‘The White Curse’, it was called. ‘The offspring of the devil’, some called it, and a few others gave it names that were even more dreadful to hear. The curse had wiped out half the population of East Shade, the capital city of the kingdom of Harduin, and it was inching towards other kingdoms, ever so slowly, leaving corpses as white as snow and as thin as twigs in its wake. The people prayed again, kings sacrificed even more animals, and the priests and temples were showered with enough gold to fill Lake Aerdos. But this time, the Wizard-Gods turned a deaf ear to the pleas of the four kingdoms. The cries of men and women, as they were dragged to their graves, were perhaps not loud enough for the four Wizard-Gods, the ancient beings, the all-powerful, the creators of Aerdon.

The sound of hooves and men shouting woke Craigon. His first thought was that they were caught. But as sleep left him and his senses rushed back to him, he saw that they were still safe. The sound was coming from the road. He could make out a few horses, with men wearing plate armor, huddled together near the puddle where they had beheaded Cinto. He could see that two of the men that had gotten off their steed and were involved in an animated conversation, while the others sat on their horses, motionless. Suddenly, one of the men was pointing to the ground, and for a moment, he looked straight at Craigon, as if he had found what he had been searching.

Beads of sweat appeared on Craigon’s forehead, and he was afraid the sound of his beating heart was loud enough for the soldiers to spot him. Hath had stopped snoring, and for that, Craigon was grateful. He nudged his sides in a futile attempt to wake him. However, the wine had had its effect, and the bald bandit was deep in slumber. Craigon’s eyes kept darting from his companion to the soldiers on the edge of the road. A sudden movement would surely mean his discovery and staying put would only delay the inevitable. He strained his eyes to see what the soldiers were up to next, and his nervousness turned to cold fear when two of the soldiers started walking directly towards them.

Hath! he whispered in his companion’s ear. Hath continued to lay motionless, his chest heaving in a rhythmic motion. A few drops of wine still lingered on the sides of his mouth, and the empty flask lay on his open palm, his fingers coiled around the cup like a lazy snake resting on the branch of a tree.

Hath, I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you do not get up, Craigon muttered under his breath, and nudged Hath with the tip of his sword. This appeared to have the desired effect on Hath as he woke with a start.

The Calypsians are on us; we have to go.

Hath kept staring at him, bewildered.

Craigon grabbed Hath’s bald head with his enormous hand and dug his nails into his skin. If you do not come to your senses, you dumb dog, I will cut you open like the horse.

Hath nodded wearily, having a hard time comprehending the words that were coming out of Craigon’s mouth.

Now we are going to get up slowly, and start walking away from the men who want our heads, do you understand?

Hath nodded.

The men-at-arms were already a few feet inside the woods, swords unsheathed, eyes searching the surroundings. Craigon could faintly make out the sigil of the Swolderhornn dynasty, a grey warhorn on a black circle, emblazoned on their grey breastplate, the visors on their bascinet were raised, and their red cloaks swirled behind them.

Craigon started to slowly back away, treading carefully, being careful not to step on a twig or a branch. Hath stumbled behind him. Craigon knew what he would do if Hath gave them away; he only hoped it would not come to that. Loyalty among bandits was a rare phenomenon, and Craigon was in no mood to change the tradition.

As the Calypsian soldiers came closer, the two bandits mover further away. We are not moving fast enough, thought Craigon, as he noticed the soldiers gaining on them. His only hope was that the Calypsians would give up before venturing deep in the woods. Perhaps the fear of the forest or encountering a large party of bandits would motivate them to turn back.

But no such thing happened. And it was when Craigon heard the loud bark of a hunting dog, that he lost all hope. He knew at that moment that stealth was no longer a practical option. No man had ever hidden from a Calypsian hound and lived to tell the tale. He turned his back to the approaching soldiers, took in a substantial gulp of air, and began to run.

He did not know whether Hath did the same; he did not care. In a matter of seconds, he heard the whooshing sound of arrows followed by a high-pitched scream of a man, and then a thud. He had received the answer to his question.

Craigon did not look back. He ran past hanging branches, cut himself on stray roots, jumped over some moss covered rocks with large red ants crawling up the sides, but did not stop running. He could hear the gallop of horses, the shouting of men, and the harsh barking of a dog. He