A King's Blood: Tales in Salona, #1

By B.K. Westlake

Living a simple life fighting duels and adventuring with friends, Prince Petric is thrust into a world of turmoil when his kingdom's old enemy, the Rigo Empire, makes moves against his people.

While his father, King Delan, prepares for war, dark forces within the king's own court begin to conspire against his family. A traitor shows their hand, summoning the Blood Sisters, an ancient sisterhood of assassins, as they fight their own inner conflict.

With the kingdom hanging in the balance, Petric must grow to face his future as king, or be destroyed by his own fears. All while his brother, Nolan, drifts further from his family by the guilt of his mother's death.

When the Mordan Kingdom is shaken to its core, one will save it, the other will betray it, and one will take the crown he so feared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mistfey Entertainment
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393928379

B.K. Westlake

B.K. Westlake, also known as Brandon,was borin in Ontario Canada. Writing at ayoung age, Brandon has dedicated himself to writing unique stories for those to enjoy, and perhaps help those that need it.  At the meantime, the best way to reach Brandon for news and updates is Instagram @bk_westlake and Facebook at B.K. Westlake.

Book preview

Prologue

King Delan Peng of the Mordan Kingdom ran through a dimly lit hall, chasing a woman’s screams. The sky through pane glass windows glowed a dark orange from the setting sun. The Shine’s Drop shone bright with the colour of blood. He followed the long hallways, running up what seemed like endless numbers of stone steps.

Finally, Delan found the birthing room, where two guards stood outside while midwives ran in and out carrying fresh towels and warm water.

He had made it in time. Delan had been at the harbour overseeing construction when he received news that his wife had gone into labour. Using a horse to reach the palace, then going on foot, Delan blessed the Shine he had made it before he was too late.

How goes it? Delan asked, nearing the birthing room.

One of the midwives, an older woman in grey clothes turned, raised her hand to his chest. I’m sorry, My King, she needs to focus on the birthing.

Inside, Lala screamed. A fighter’s instinct threatened to take over, to push the woman out of the way and force his way inside. He knew that would cause more problems than not, so he stepped back from the midwife.

Delan sat at a bench outside for what seemed like a lifetime; he folded his hands together to try to stop from fidgeting, but soon after started picking at the buttons on his coat. Eventually he felt hot and took off the coat, started picking at chips of wood on the edge of the bench.

Shine.

The screams of his wife ceased. Delan perked up, suddenly more anxious than before. Eventually the door opened, and several midwives stepped into the hallway, looking down at Delan.

Delan rose, paused when the head midwife stepped outside, holding a bundle of cloth in her arms.

The child within cried softly.

Shine, he muttered.

It’s a boy, My King, the midwife said, holding the baby out to him. Congratulations.

A boy, Delan said, hesitantly taking the child in his arms. So light, so small. Delan and Lala already had another son; he didn’t think he would still be so shocked and hesitant to hold his next child.

The baby’s cries softened, his eyes closed, hands held in fists, with thin dark hair. He was beautiful.

Husband, a soft voice said from the birthing room.

Delan looked through the doorway. Queen Lala lay on a bed, the sheets soaked through with sweat and blood. She looked ragged. Her usually brushed dark hair was messy and matted with sweat, her cheeks red. Despite it all, Lala smiled.

Delan smiled back. He entered the room which held buckets of warm, dirty water and a small cradle along the wall. Her smile always made Delan’s heart melt, always made him feel like everything was okay. Lala, Delan said, coming up to the side of the bed. My love, have you seen our son?

Lala smiled, holding her arms out. Delan gave her the baby so he could suckle. Delan felt light headed, grabbed a stool nearby, holding onto Lala’s hand while she fed the baby.

Shine, Delan said. Petric will be thrilled to have a little brother.

Yes, husband, Lala said, smiling. You should ask for him. Let him see the baby.

Do you have a name picked out? he asked her, noticing her eyes were closed.

Lala’s eyes quickly snapped open, seeming so tired. Nolan, she whispered.

After your father, Delan said, nodding. Delan had met Nolan many times before his eventual death from illness. He was a great warrior and a kind man, with a good heart.

Delan reached over, gently brushed his son’s hair. May you have the strength of your grandfather and the heart of your mother, he prayed to the child.

Oh, Delan, Lala said, her eyes drooping. So sweet.

You must be tired, Delan said. You should rest.

Lala looked up at him, her eyes half closed. I should be– Her head lurched forward, as if she had almost passed out. In the doorway, the midwives watched with concern.

I’ll be- Lala lurched again, her body twitching. Nolan started, let out a low groan.

Lala? Delan said, rising from his stool. Lala, what’s wrong?

His wife’s eyes were closed, her head now back on the pillow. Once again, her body twitched, setting Nolan into a crying fit.

Your Grace! the midwife said, entering the birthing room. You must leave.

But my wife! Delan said.

Out, the midwife said, pushing into his chest, sending him back out into the hallway. Behind her, another midwife took Nolan into her arms. We will take care of this, the midwife said.

Delan stepped back into the hallway, looking over the midwifes shoulder at his unconscious wife. Lala, he whispered before the door closed in his face.

An hour later, Delan sat on a bench around the corner from the birthing room, baby Nolan in his arms. Asleep.

He had been told only moments ago that Lala had passed away. The midwives suspected loss of blood, or fatigue. He sat in the dim hallway, frozen. He rubbed his face with a single hand, wiping away the dried tears. Delan wasn’t going to break down yet, that would happen another time.

Lala, his wife, dead. A woman he had known for years, whom he loved more than anything in Mordan, was gone.

What do I do? he whispered.

My King, a voice said from the dark.

Delan flinched, looked up at the darkly dressed figure standing by the wall beside a wide window. The sky outside was now dark, the moon bright. The figure had dark, messy hair, was cleanly shaven and possessed eyes darker than the deepest shadow. He had been looking outside the window, but now regarded the king, shadow covering half his face.

Watler, Delan said. I didn’t notice you.

Apologies, Your Grace, his advisor said; his voice was higher than most men. He came closer, hands folded behind his back. I did not mean to startle you.

Delan occasionally wondered if Watler truly meant that. The man seemed to show up out of nowhere, always in the shadows, always silent, always staring. It’s okay, Delan said. I assume you heard the news.

Yes, Your Grace, Watler said. I am sincerely sorry for your loss. Mordan will mourn over this.

Delan looked down at Nolan asleep in his arms. I will mourn over this.

You need rest, My King, Watler said. Time to think.

I’m not tired, Delan said. But I do need to think, yes.

Watler sighed. You must focus on your children, My King. This will be hard for Prince Petric, and now you have another son to take care of. You must be strong.

Can I be strong after this? Delan whispered. Can I face my children without a mother?

You may have to. Watler turned, started down the hallway. I am sorry for your loss, Your Grace.

Delan looked down at his newborn son, Nolan’s hands clenched in tiny pink fists. What shall I do, little one?

Chapter 1

Twelve years later

In and out .

Petric breathed, slow, calm breaths. In... and out. His eyes were closed, but he could smell the scents of oil, wood, sweat and steel. The chainmail over his shoulders should have been heavy for one at the age of fifteen like himself, but Petric was long used to the armour of a soldier.

But you’re not a soldier, a voice whispered in his mind. Not yet.

No, not a soldier, a duellist. Fifteen was too young for soldiers. Petric opened his eyes to a dimly lit room of benches, a rack of swords and a stand where armour would be hung before being dressed. Petric sat alone, asking his attendants to leave him to think and prepare for his duel, as he did with every duel. A rapier leaned on a bench by his side, cleaned and polished to a shine, as always.

In and out.

The silence was broken by an announcer calling to the crowd, followed by cheering. The announcer would be calling the name of Petric’s opponent, Lutan, son of Lord Maller. They weren’t duelling because of a feud, his father didn’t approve of those, instead this was a simple contest, for honour and a show for the crowd.

Petric rose, pulled his helmet over his head and grabbed his sword. He pushed open the thin wooden doors of the arming room and was met with the bright sunlight at the end of a short tunnel. Outside was a circular arena of sand, where another lightly armoured figure paced back and forth armed with a similar sword.

And now! the announcer called. I present, Prince Petric Peng of the Mordan Kingdom!

The crowd raised a cheer. Petric entered the arena, squinted at the bright sun for a moment. He raised a mailed arm to the crowd, sending out another round of cheers. He wasn’t considered the best duellist in the kingdom, but who wouldn’t cheer to a prince?

To the right of the arena, a figure stood from his chair and approached a stand, held his hands up for silence. The crowd’s cheers subsided as they beheld their ruler; King Delan, Petric’s father.

Lutan and Petric met in the middle of the arena, bent their knees into the sand, swords in the ground, heads low.

Duellists, Delan said from his stand. You are gathered here to show your skills to the people of Mordan. You are here to fight for honour and show of skill. Fight with respect and fight well. With that, Delan stepped back, and sat down in his cushioned chair.

Petric and Lutan rose, stepping back from each other. Petric looked to his father, who raised a fist to his chest, smiling. Beside him, Petric’s younger brother waved to him as he hopped in his seat. Nolan was always there to cheer for his older brother, being the best kind of encouragement Petric needed.

Petric and Lutan stood a few paces from each other, rapiers at the ready, braced to fight. The announcer raised his hand, again quieting the crowd. He looked to Petric and Lutan, who each nodded, then he let his hand fall. Begin!

They didn’t instantly clash like soldiers in battle. This was a spectacle, one that couldn’t just end in simple bashings and beatings, lest they disappoint the crowd. Instead Petric and Lutan circled the ring, only coming a few paces closer, swords held ready.

Lutan made a simple swing to his side, which Petric parried, attempting to counter with a strike to the helmet. Lutan parried Petric’s counter, stepping back. Test shots, a common tactic.

They circled each other like wolves, waiting for the best opportunity to strike. Petric lunged in an attempt to surprise Lutan, swinging his sword overhead. Lutan caught the blade with his own, forcing the blade around, steel screeching. Petric ducked under the blade.

For the thrill of the crowd, Petric and Lutan hacked at each other, sparks flying from their blades, helmets, shoulders and arms hit all in a matter of seconds before the two separated, panting.

The goal was for each duellist to get their opponent on the ground to achieve victory. The duel wasn’t based on points, it didn’t matter how much they hit each other.

Lutan attacked again, sand shooting from his feet. Petric blocked his attacks, dancing back for space. Lutan closed in, trying to overwhelm Petric with attacks, then backed Petric into a wall. If only Lutan had seen the smile on Petric’s face behind his helmet.

Petric hit the wall, ducking under a swing as he did. Lutan’s sword hit the wooden arena wall with a thud. Petric struck Lutan’s armoured leg, slashed at his ribs and shoulder, then swung downward on the top of Lutan’s helmet.

Lutan stumbled, almost falling over. Petric launched a quick flurry of attacks, trying to force Lutan to the ground. His opponent fought hard, blocking, slashing, hitting Petric across the helmet. But Lutan lost his balance, tumbling to the sand.

Adrenaline raced through Petric, making his stomach churn. He puffed ragged breaths, stepping back as the announcer called an end to the duel. He leaned against the wall, feeling his forehead drenched in sweat; Lutan fought to rise from the ground.

Petric offered the man a hand, which he took. Good fight, Petric said.

Good fight, my Prince.

Congratulations, Prince Petric, Delan said from the stand. You have fought with more honour and skill this day.

Petric and Lutan each bowed to the king. We thank you for this duel, they both said.

Delan nodded to them both, signalling both fighters to leave the arena. Petric quickly clasped forearms with Lutan, returned to the arming room. Petric slumped back down on the bench, exhausted, sweating, his attendants standing close behind.

Another successful duel, a familiar voice said. Then a figure grabbed the back of Petric’s armoured shoulders. Ha, skilful bastard.

Petric heard an attendant click their tongue in disapproval. One shouldn’t talk to a prince the way Rumper did. But Rumper had privilege, being Petric’s best friend and all. Thought I could smell you in that crowd, Petric said.

Oh, you smelled my new cologne? Perfect, the ladies will quiver at my presence.

Please, stop, Petric said, but smirked anyway; he rose from the bench for the attendants to deal with his armour.

You’re getting better, Rumper said, sitting down on another bench, a coin hovering in the air above his palm. He twisted his fingers to make the coin rotate in a small circle. But not nearly close to me.

Keep talking, Petric said, taking a cup of water after his chainmail was pulled over his head.

Lynx was watching too. Rumper picked at the wood on the corner of his bench. Did you see her?

Petric turned to his friend. No, but I’m glad she came. Wouldn’t be bothered if she didn’t.

Hmm, Rumper said, smirking. Sure.

I’m taking a bath, Petric said, stepping into the back room into the bathhouse. See you outside.

After bathing and dressing himself in a blue coat and dark knotted shirt and trousers, Petric met Rumper outside the arming room. Two guards trailed behind as they left the arena where Delan and Nolan waited by a carriage, surrounded by guards.

You won again! Nolan said, hopping up and down, clapping his hands. You did so well.

Only because of your support, little brother. Petric said, hugging his younger brother. Breaking the embrace, Rumper ruffled Nolan’s hair, who smiled up at him. Nolan always liked Rumper, maybe because of how childishly Rumper acted.

It was a childishness that earned Rumper disapproval from Delan’s various advisors, but what could they do, with Rumper being one in a unit of Bloodings training to serve under the crown.

You did well, son, Delan said, smiling, gold crown glittering in the sun. At thirty-seven, Delan was still a young man, with dark hair cut short and the imposing build of a warrior from the fighting days of his youth. Indeed, when Delan was in public, he always wore the ancestral sword on his hip: Bloodmade.

Thank you, Father, Petric said.

Delan smiled. You’ll be a fine soldier, yet.

A soldier. Something Petric had wanted to be since he was a child. Living among soldiers, fighting battles, eating at the end of long marches. It was something different, more pure than courtly duels in the sands.

The streets were filled with people leaving the arena, some heading home, others heading to the market. It was still the middle of the day, so the city of Larta would still be alive with activity.

Delan said, We’ll be feasting with Lord Maller and Lutan tonight.

Petric felt a tugging on his coat, looked down at Nolan pulling his sleeve. You said we would go see the flyers, Nolan whispered to him. There’s still enough time.

Petric smiled, nodding. If it’s allowed, Father, I promised Nolan I would take him to the docks.

Delan looked at them both and nodded. Very well, but be back before dinner. Delan ordered two guards, Milow and Groc, to stay with Petric and Nolan, then entered his carriage.

The carriage rolled away. On the other side stood a familiar girl with dark red hair, pale skin with dots of freckles on her nose, wearing a white uniform and a leather satchel over her shoulder. Are you going without me? Lynx asked.

Petric felt a blush, but he quickly looked away to pat Nolan on the shoulder. Of course not, glad you could join us.

Oh, My Lady, Rumper said, strolling over to Lynx. Wonderful scribe of the palace, beautiful maiden of Mordan, how can I be so blessed for you to join us?

You finished? Lynx asked, raising a brow.

Only if you ask nicely.

She’s going to kill you someday, Petric said.

Someday, Nolan agreed.

Bah, Rumper said, smiling.

Come on, Nolan said, pulling Petric’s sleeve. We’ll be late.

Petric nodded to his brother, beckoned his friends to follow. Lynx worked as a scribe in the palace, considered one of the best, waiting until someone needed a letter written or polished, sometimes taking notes during meetings and feasts. She was most likely at the duel to take notes of what Father said.

They had to tell Nolan not to run as they travelled the docks, going the long way around the busy market of Larta. Nolan practically bounced off the walls as they strolled.

Their guards trailed behind as Petric, Nolan and his friends descended down a set of stairs to the docks. Men and women worked their daily tasks, carrying supplies to destinations, meeting merchants from their ships, cleaning, tying rope and so on.

Nolan led them to the far side where it wouldn’t be so busy. There Rumper sat down at the edge of the dock, feet just above the water. Nolan stood beside him, hands clasped, hopeful. Petric stood not far behind his brother. He started when Lynx appeared close beside him, wrinkling her nose at him.

Did we miss it? Rumper asked after a moment.

Couldn’t have, Petric said. We should be just on time.

They waited another moment, the working men and women down the dock breaking the silence. Petric gazed out into an almost endless blue ocean, stretching out for miles before it reached more distant kingdoms. It always boggled his mind when he looked at maps and imagined how big the world was; it was like he was but an insect in a massive world.

"There!’ Lynx said, pointing.

Nolan and Petric followed Lynx’s hand, pointing to a sudden disturbance in the water as small fish-like creatures started jumping from beneath the calm waves. They were silver winged, helping them glide across the water in droves.

Flyers, they were called, the only species of fish with wings. A school of them rose from the water, gliding across the ocean, heading west. There were dozens, possibly hundreds, sailing past like an epic storm. Nolan cheered, clapping his hands, Rumper took Nolan’s hands and the two waved their arms, hollering to the creatures.

Petric smiled, then noticed Lynx had drifted closer to his side, also smiling. He felt his face getting warm, so he reached down and grabbed his brother’s shoulders. Pretty, aren’t they?

Nolan nodded, excited. His younger brother had only seen flyers once before in his life, as he spent much time in the palace and they only passed by the docks twice a year.

Not long after, the school of flyers soon disappeared around the cliff side. With that over, the group moved back to the city. They walked down the city streets, Rumper skipping along the paved road with Nolan, Lynx close to Petric, hands around the strap of her satchel.

They ended up at a gated house just across the field from the palace, where Lynx lived. I’ll see you boys tomorrow, Lynx said, waving to them.

Petric nodded. Nolan hugged her, then she went inside.

Rumper thumped Petric on the arm. Guess I’ll see you soon.

Petric thumped him back, then he and Nolan parted ways with the Blooding, heading to the palace. They passed through a large open gate, manned by the palace guards, separate from the police force who manned the city, also known as the garrison.

Petric and Nolan passed by a large marble fountain, carved in designs of former kings and queens of the kingdom. Guards and servants bowed their heads to the princes as they climbed the wide stone stairs through the palace doors. Inside the main lobby was a grand display of red carpets, a large crystal chandelier and walls lined with golden embroidery. A wide set of steps led upwards into rooms like the feast hall, multiple lounges, wine rooms and bed chambers.

The two brothers strolled to their bedchambers to prepare for supper. Nolan close by Petric’s side, the two climbed up a second set of stairs, rounding a corner. There they ran into a darkly dressed figure, causing Nolan to start.

Petric frowned at the figure dressed in dark knotted shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Clean shaven and a messy head of hair, Watler looked down at the boys with dark eyes and a sharp smile. Children, Watler said, bowing to them. He then focused his gaze on Petric. I heard of your victory in the arena. A worthy champion, as always.

Behind Watler stood a four-foot-tall creature with wide eyes, a larger lower jaw and what looked to be sharp teeth that tended to unsettle most people in the cities. Fortunately, Petric was used to seeing the Scrump in the palace, as Dor’lek had worked here longer than Petric had been alive; these days he worked as Watler’s servant.

Thank you, Watler. He tried to ignore the heavy feeling over his shoulders when Watler was near, and tried to ignore that dark gaze.

We went and saw the flyers, Nolan said.

Did you? Watler said, smiling down at the boy. A shame I missed the display. Oh well, I’ll have time to see it again.

Nolan smiled at the man, which Petric never understood; maybe it was Nolan’s positive attitude that made him so welcoming to someone like Watler.

I shall see you at supper, Watler said, till then, children.

Yes, Watler, Petric said, watching the advisor pass. Dor’lek bowed his head to Petric and tried to poke a finger at Nolan’s side, who hopped back, grinning.

Come on, Nolan, Petric said. Let’s get to our rooms.

They sauntered down the hallway to their rooms. Petric saw servants outside their bed chamber doors, ready to do as ordered. Their clothes for tonight were probably set out on their beds for them.

You never smile around, Watler, Nolan said, as if he had just discovered a secret.

He doesn’t make me happy.

Why? Nolan perked.

Petric shrugged, reaching his bedroom door. I don’t know, I just don’t like the feeling around him.

Nolan frowned, thinking that over.

Go into your room, Petric said. I’ll see you soon.

Chapter 2

Today’s war meeting was held in King Delan Peng’s study, attended by only two people. If there were more, it would be in a war room. Across a rounded table littered with maps and charts, General Lucus Musto sat studying them.

Delan stood over maps of Mordan’s southern border, a range of grasslands, forests and rivers, the south-eastern border touching the Lorgi Kingdom, separated by a mountain range. The rest of the south bordered the Rigo Empire, a long time enemy of the Mordan Kingdom. Though it was hidden on the map, the capital city of Mordan, Larta, was located in the north, along the coast.

General Lucus leaned over the table, circling a village along the border. The raid happened here, sometime around midday.

Delan nodded, leaning over the maps. He set aside the tea that the head steward, Simson, had brought them. How many?

The villagers reported roughly forty raiders on horses. They came with sword and lance, cutting down anyone they rode on. The survivors fled as the raiders began looting.

Delan straightened, crossing the room to pour himself a cup of wine on a small table near the door. It was the third raid on their borders this year, each roughly two months apart; the casualties were extensive with two thirds of the villagers slaughtered in each raid. So, what do you make of it, General?

Lucus straightened, hands folded behind his back. So refined, a perfect soldier, wearing a stiff brown military uniform with sharp collars and tight golden knots along the forearm. The man always worked tirelessly to keep a perfect image as general of the Mordan Kingdom.

He was a respectful man, forty-one, older than Delan by ten years but they considered themselves close friends. They had been fighting alongside each other in the beginning of Delan’s rule.

I believe, Lucus replied, that the Rigonians may be raiding us as a show of strength, seeing if we’ll defend ourselves, or lay down and submit.

It was a wise assumption; tensions had risen and fallen between Rigo and Mordan for centuries. If it wasn’t an all-out war, there was at least raiding on both sides. Delan was still considered a new king; it would make sense for the Rigo Empire to take chances and see how he would react.

What of you, Watler? he asked his advisor, who sat in a chair near the bookshelf, wearing a dark knotted shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

It is possible they may be testing the waters, Watler said, before attacking with a larger force.

A full-on invasion? Delan said.

Nonsense, Lucus burst. Our spies confirm strife within the Rigo Court. They are too occupied with themselves to focus on an invasion.

Watler shrugged. The Rigo Court is vast, with many players; you don’t know what they could be planning.

Neither do you, despite your spies, Lucus said bitterly. He wasn’t an admirer of Watler, and everyone, including Watler, knew it.

It was reasonable to assume the Rigo Empire was planning an invasion. The last one had devastating results for the Mordan people, it was a dark time in their history. But that invasion happened three centuries ago, without a full-on war since.

It’s logical, but we can’t make proper assumptions, Delan said, turning his general’s and advisor’s attention back to him. "The best we can do is prepare, for now. Lucus, I want you to station more troops along the border, keep the army fresh, conduct more battle simulations. I will have a letter written by one of my scribes to the Court, explaining