The Young King (Book Six of the Nine Suns)

By Zackery Arbela

The Young King has returned to save his people...but first he must escape his enemies!

Gaebrel Harrn and his comrades have done the impossible, rescuing their friend Artunal from the clutches of the mysterious anrei. Now they journey across the war-torn worlds of the Fhirial system, intent on completing their mission and claiming the reward of gold and and salvation that was promised them.

Yet their trials and tribulations have only just begun. For Artunal is the Young King, the promised savior of the Valarei people, and the only one who can end the brutal civil war among their Four Courts....and his enemies already gather. The traitorous Winter Queen has formed an alliance with the accursed Neverborn, who send a thousand ship fleet to aid their ally in her dark quest for absolute power.

But they have not reckoned with Gaebrel and his crew of desperate men. Across an Empyrean resounding with cannon fire, the clashing of swords and the crackling of war magic, they will accomplish great feats of renown. They will rescue the oracle Lady Green Leaf from the clutches of the Winter Queen, cross blades and trade shots with renegades, sorcerers and traitors alike. And on the mysterious jewel-plains of the Anointing Moon, in a final desperate battle against overwhelming odds, Gaebrel and his comrades will determine once and for all the fate of the Four Courts...and the Young King...

THE YOUNG KING is the sixth book of the Nine Suns series. If you like fast-paced sword and sorcery adventure, set in a wild fantasy universe filled with intrigue, reckless heroism and dark supernatural forces, then you will love Zackery Arbela's page-turning series. Buy it now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zackery Arbela
• Release date: Apr 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005640811

Zackery Arbela

The physical body of Zackery Arbela lives somewhere in the wilds of Florida. The mind of Zackery Arbela can be found wandering the various planes and adornments of the temporal spheres, from whence he sometimes returns with new and fantasickal tales to tell.

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THE YOUNG KING

Book Six of the Nine Suns

Zackery Arbela

Copyright 2018 Zackery Arbela

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Nine Suns there are, nine watchers, nine masters...Who can hear the Greater Voice beyond, the One who speaks to the Suns as they speak to us? - The Red Prophet

The Source is All – A benediction spoken by all ilurei peoples and one of the few things they have in common.

Prologue

Sorsiol bo Ferai always liked the desert.

He stood atop the sandstone bluff, his head shield by a wide-brimmed hat. Before him spread a sere vista of sun-blasted rock and rolling dunes. The sky was a pale rose color, unique to this world, with four moons faintly visible above. Clean...calm. Orderly, at least from this vantage point, bare of the messiness of life. The wind blew, the sand shifted, the stone remained the same. Fhirial was above, a brilliant lamp that drive away all shadows, burned away all lies.

There was much to admire about that.

Sorsiol allowed himself another minute to take in the vista. For a moment he wished he’d brought with him a sketch board and a travelers kit of pastels so that he might immortalize this moment, art being a passion of his. He pushed that aside with some regret and a moment of silent chastisement. This was a time of war, and there was important work to be dealt with. With a sign he turned away, unaffected by the hammer-like heat.

The war camp of the Summer Court’s high command was set atop a tall mesa in the Desert of the Red Anvil, which lay just above the equator of the largest content of Boineaia , the third world of Fhirial. Like all the major worlds of the system, Boineaia was carefully divided between the various Courts - in this case Summer, Spring and Autumn - to preserve the delicate balance of power and thus peace among the Valarei. The equatorial regions of this world were in the Domain of Summer since the days when the first settlers came here from Ilorin, though in truth the desert regions were long scorned by the leaders of the great houses. Only the despised, the outcast and those who wished to be forgotten made their homes here.

But now it was overrun with new arrivals. Tents of various shapes and sizes sprouted across the surface of the mesa, the banners flying from their poles bearing the heraldry of the greatest houses of the Summer Court, drawn from worlds and moons across the system. The flat plain below the mesa was turned into a shipfield which at last count held over seven hundred vessels of various shapes and sizes. A hundred more floated in the air above, tethered to the ground by long cables. And in the Empyrean above, the greatest vessels of the Summer Fleet, ships of such size they could not safely descend down to a world’s surface, orbited and controlled the approaches to Boineaia. And more ships and men arrived every day.

A fleet of cargo carriers came in on a westbound wind, arriving from the verdant coastal regions a thousand miles away, loaded down with barrels of fresh water and crates of rations for the growing camp. They passed over the mesa, the banners of Summer flapping from their sterns, their hulls painted white and gold, the prows marked with curling golden figureheads. He looked up, watching them pass, his pointed ears twitching as distant voices came down from the ships.

In the center of the mesa was his tent. Men paused in their work and saluted as he passed by. Guardian of the Nine Blades, Consort to the late ruling Queen of the Nine Courts...two generations of men followed no other leader in battle. In these chaotic times he was one of the few things that remained certain. He acknowledged their respect with the barest of nods, sometimes a word or two for men he knew. No more was needed or expected. They knew their duty, and knew Sorsiol would lead them to victory.

The doubts he felt about this he did not share with anyone.

The guards at the tent saluted as he went past. The tent, which was the size of a house, was divided into various compartments and sections. Waiting in the entrance chamber was a senior officer, who had his eyes closed and his lips moving in silent chant. As was customary, Sorsiol stepped to the side and waited for the man to finish.

Lord of the Blades, said Fartha bo Ferddam. He came from one of the most senior families of the Summer Court. Go back eight generations, and one of his family was the Summer Queen. Go back twelve and another ruled all the Valarei. They were allies of the House of Ferai for over a century. Fartha was his oldest friend, and one of the few people this side of death he actually trusted.

Second Lord, Sorsiol responded, addressing the man by his rank, as required while under the standard.

They are here. Fartha's voice did not hide his disapproval. "Three from this world, plus the others brought in from the other worlds.'

Stay by me, but say nothing. Sorsiol strode into the next chamber, where guards were posted, their eyes fixed on the seven men standing inside. Kuyei, every last one...three wore the robes and veils of desert dwellers from this very world. Two were dressed in approximations of Valarei dress, though obviously of inferior style. The last two wore breech clouts and leather vests of tribesmen from one of the jungle moons of Torator, held by Summer.

Kuyei. A year ago they would had knelt upon his entrance. They would not have looked up, would have only listened as he spoke, and kept their responses to a minimum. But that was another age, and they remained standing. A few even dared look him in the eye, at least for a moment, before looking away.

You are here at my invitation, he said. All of you came of your own free will. Your safe passage home is guaranteed.

Sorisiol looked at them all and noted the suspicion in their eyes. It did not surprise him...in their place he would be much the same, if not more more so. There is much to be done, so I will not waste time. The Four Courts are at war. Winter has seized Ilorin and strikes at the other houses, seeking permanent rule over all. The Spring Court is in disarray, their forces scattered, Autumn has retreated their strongholds and refuses our messages. Summer stands alone, and we need allies.

He looked at each man, meeting his gaze, taking his measure. All of you lead tribes of considerable size and strength. All have been under the authority of the Court of Summer for many long years. Some of you, and he looked at the desert chieftains, have been governed with a light hand. Your taxes are light, and restrictions on your actions limited. Others, and here he looked at the remainder, we have not treated as honorably as we should. That is...regrettable.

The kuyei leaders nodded. It was as much of an apology as they were going to get.

We need men to fight for us...your men, said Sorsiol, but it is far better if you joined us willingly. Send as many as are willing and able. They will be under our command, but you will lead them. You receive payment from us every three months, for as long as the war continues. Any plunder you take from our enemy is yours to keep. And when it is done, we will acknowledge your full authority over your own land and people. You will still be in the Domain of Summer, but we only demand a light tax, with payment delayed for twenty years. And within your borders, among your own people, you will have supreme authority.

He looked at the men from Torator. I am aware that for some of you this will not be enough. So I offer this as well: once the war is done, if you wish to leave the bounds of the Four Courts, we will not stop you. Indeed, if requested, we will provide funds and ships to take you wherever you wish to go. You may start your lives anew on a moon of Maraea, or under the light of another Sun.

He paused, letting it all sink in. What say you? As I said, we would prefer you to join us willingly.

The threat was clear, as were the rewards. What else could they say, but yes? One by one they agreed. Scribes and minor officials were summoned to record the agreements and hammer out the details. Sorsiol's presence was not needed for that and he left, headed back outside.

He and Farsha stood in the shade cast by the tent. Sorsiol switched to a dialect peculiar to the moon of Torator that was their shared childhood home. You do not approve, Second Lord.

It is not for me to question your decisions. You are Lord of the Nine Blades. But if you ask me as a friend...

I do.

Then I predict this will end in tears. The desert folk are treacherous. The Boineaia houses leave them alone because this wasteland produces nothing of any value. They are cruel to the weak and cowardly to the strong. And as for the others...the jungle folk are hunters and gatherers of roots, and the others are mere farmers. In battle they will be slaughtered. None of them know how to fight.

They can be taught.

But have you considered what happens after the war? The jungle folk will want to leave, but the rest will stay. They will have battle experience against Valarei! That is not something they will forget, it will give them ideas above their station. What if they decide that fighting against Summer is no different than fighting against Winter?

One war at a time, Sorsiol said. You know where things stand. Winter has unleashed its strength. The Spring Court is in chaos, its Queen is a prisoner of the bitch Aniari, and their Young Queen has, by all reports, gone missing and is presumed dead. They quarrel among themselves. We stand alone against the full strength of the Winter Court.

What of Autumn and their offer of alliance?

Sorsiol shook his head. You know what she will say.

You must persuade her otherwise, said Farsha.

I must do nothing but obey. Sorsiol looked up at the sky. And now I must speak with her.

May the Source protect you, brother, said Farsha.

May it protect us all.

A longboat was parked near the tent for use of the Guardian of the Nine Blades, and was manned at all hours. The crew bowed as Sorsiol climbed aboard and took a seat in the middle. The Sun in Splendor, he commanded. The crew took their positions, the bosun in charge pressing his hand on a stone set on the stern, lighting up the runes carved there, for the boat was small enough for runes alone to give the power of flight.

The boat lifted off the ground. The crewers sat on two benches, working a pair of long wings, waving them back and forth in the air and pushing the boat forward. Soon they were flying over the mesa, the camp passing below, threading their way between the ships parked above. The bosun called out occasional orders to adjust their course, as they pointed to one ship in particular, floating off the north face. Its hull was painted white and marked with giant whorls of inlaid gold. The sails were dyed gold as well, the cloth stitched with silver letters as tall as a man. A glowing crystal figure head sat at the prow, currently outmatched by the fierce light of the day. Even the cannons mounted on the top deck were inlaid with gold, and the men working the rigging wore gold and white trousers and blouses. Painted on the prow in the noble script of the Valarei, common to all the Courts, was the name of the ship: Sun In Splendor.

The soldiers who helped bring in the boat and aided Sorsiol aboard wore the white trousers and gold coats of the Queen’s Own Shields, her personal guards. They were the only fighting men in all the Court of Summer that did not have to obey his orders, though they were perfectly respectful as they welcomed him aboard.

A servingman led him below decks, down hallways of polished white wood, past opulent (if snug cabins) that housed various great lords and ladies, for whom the cramped conditions were a small price to pay for the privilege of being on the Queen’s private ship while she was aboard. Some he knew by name, more by reputation. All greeted him with perfect courtesy and respect, pausing in their incessant plotting as he went by and resuming once he was out of earshot.

Then he entered a stateroom that easily took up a quarter of the ships interior. White walls were hung with paintings of exquisite skill, depicting previous queens or landscapes of the Summer holdings on Ilorin. A chameral was set in one corner, and playing it was a handsome, sulky-faced youth whose long fingers caressed the four levels of keys with impeccable skill. The boy looked familiar to Sorsiol, but the name escaped him. He tried for a moment to remember, then put it out of his mind as irrelevant.

All the windows were open, letting in the warm breeze. Mehymni so Onsai, newly crowned Queen of the Summer Court, sat in a chair by one, her long golden hair unbound, looking on the land unrolling below. She was beautiful, though that could be said of any young woman of high rank in any of the Courts. She was young, having only just seen her twentieth birthday. The tips of her pointed ears were a slight darker shade than the rest of her skin, a peculiarity of her family.

My Queen, he said, bowing his head slightly.

Lord of the Blades. She did not look at him. Her eyes were half-closed, as the young man’s song seemed to reach a crescendo. Sorsiol suppressed a rare moment of irritation. He had many demands on his time...but here he could only wait.

But Mehymni was not a fool. Irritating, certainly. Far too sure of herself for one so young. And she was of the damnable House of Onsai, whom the House of Ferai had cordially disliked for as long as anyone cared to remember. Her appointment as Young Queen was purely a matter of Court politics, for it was the custom among the Houses of Summer that the title of Queen could only be held for three generations by one family. Ulyra had preferred another house with longstanding ties to the Ferai's...but alas it was not to be. The other houses demanded the