The King's Measure

By Melissa Shockey

Deofoe's plan was flawless. Nothing could stop him now. The land was in turmoil, its people starving. Years of oppression had made their lives worth little more than death. Holding out would only delay the inevitable. In the end, they would be his...

But not if Benton had his way. With no strength, no army, and no grain to feed

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quantum Discovery
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781961601642

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The King’s Measure

Copyright © 2023 by Melissa Shockey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-961601-63-5 (Paperback)

978-1-961601-64-2 (eBook)

Dedicated to

Mom and Dad, who pointed the way in my childhood so I would find the King of kings; to my brothers, whose friendship and influence has meant so much to me all the years as we grew up together ... and especially to the real Shalimar, with all of my love.

Table of Contents

Prologue

1As Long as There Is Life

2The Council

3The Emissary

4Prince Deofoe

5The Baldface Mountains

6The City of Meritt

7At the Gate of the Castle

8A Friend Inside

9King Regalion

10The Council Meets Again

11Decisions

12On to Wyndmere

13Deofoe’s Offer

14Benton Rides to Kingsway

15Trapped!

16Captain Henrik

17Garrison Tested

18A Whisper of Hope

19His Honor, Judge Carlisle

20The Trial

21The Enemy Closes in

22Ambushed

23Pursue!

24Garrison’s Last Stand

25Lines Are Drawn

26The Conclusion of Things

A special thanks to all of my family and friends who read my story and encouraged me. To my Grandma who believed in me and let me know it. And Joey and Angela Nicholson, whose friendship and prayers helped propel this work to completion. To Kim—who got it, and to everyone else who cheered me on. Also my Aunt Sue, who now lives in Heaven, who loved my story and me.

May you be filled to the fullest of the King’s Measure.

Prologue

Two men walked into the room. That the older man was the king proved obvious, though he wore no crown. His face showed the chiseled expression of one accustomed to authority, while his eyes revealed the weight of the struggles that accompany it. With a loose grip he held the map of his kingdom and carried it to the ebony table that filled the center of the room. Slipping the leather bands from the ends, he unrolled the document and leaned over it.

The second man wore the garments of a favorite son and he paced the floor before the fireplace with the easy strides of a gentleman of noble birth. His animated face showed the same lines of wisdom as the elder’s, like that of an aged scholar who had spent many years reading books and studying people. Apparently, some of the younger man’s lessons had been learned on the battlefield, for his hands were calloused and scarred from war. Even as he walked the length of the room, his right hand found the hilt of his sword. His eyes blazed with more brilliance than the flames in the fireplace, and he fingered the weapon. His thoughts were of war, but he did not speak. Indeed, the only sounds in the room came from the sharp crackling of the fire embers, echoed by the muted crinkling of parchment.

The king smoothed out the map beneath the warm glow of the candelabra, then frowned as he tracked his hand across the well-worn route to the western part of his kingdom where his old enemy had established a stronghold. Angry wrinkles gathered on his brow as he perceived, beyond the map, that foul marauder with his army of villains.

Finally, the king’s companion could stand it no longer: I have twelve thousand men ready to march against Prince Deofoe and his army of Wastelanders. Emphasizing his point, he pulled out his sword so just a hint of the gleaming blade showed. I am prepared to lead them myself, as soon as you give the word.

The king’s eyes rose, his expression softening as he regarded his eager warrior. Thank you, Vincere, when the time comes. As for now ... He allowed his words to fade as he turned back to study the map.

Perhaps the time should come soon, Vincere said and strode across the room to stand beside the king. Here, in the region of Edgeton ... He stabbed his finger at the map where the king’s had been a moment earlier. Your Majesty has no army present there to protect your people against Deofoe. They could be destroyed in a moment by that snake’s force.

Yes, they could, the king said, and sighed. But, remember, the inhabitants of Edgeton have vowed themselves as enemies of my kingdom. They will oppose any army you bring in to protect them. You will only find yourself fighting against those you thought to save.

Vincere shook his head as he stepped back from the map. Has the time not come for them to make peace with their king? he said. Or do they think they can protect themselves against that devil’s army?

Already Edgeton suffers by the hand of Prince Deofoe, the king said with a frown. No, they do not have the power to overcome.

Yet, my hand is stopped from saving them?

Yes, the king said. If Edgeton is to be destroyed, it will not be at my command.

Then what? Vincere’s voice became quieter: After Edgeton falls?

Then Deofoe will be yours to conquer. The king looked down at the map again and continued through clenched teeth: Though he will have fortified himself in their cities while increasing his strength.

A fierce look kindled in the warrior’s eyes. My blade does not know defeat, he answered. When that time comes, I will repay Deofoe for the pain he has caused. Vincere made his right hand into a fist. I will crush him and grind him into the ground until he becomes like the dust that the wind carries away. He released his fist, scattering imaginary dust as he moved his hand toward his weapon. This time, he drew forth his sword, and the blade flashed with the orange and red brilliance of the fire it reflected. Vincere dropped to one knee before the king while lifting the sword on open palms. For your honor and kingdom alone, I vow to do this, until all your enemies are defeated and the land knows peace under your rule once more.

1

As Long as There Is Life

A cloud of dust rose from the horizon. Benton had been watching it, measuring its speed against his own. Now, as it drew closer, the shape of horsemen began to emerge. Prince Deofoe’s army was riding toward Garrison, coming to demand their tribute of the wheat harvest. Their mounts were from the best of Edgeton’s stables; the wagons that rattled behind them built by the muscle and sweat of Edgeton’s men.

The glory of their past was broken, and its ragged shards cut against the callous of Benton’s pride. Under the covering of his beard, his jaw tightened as he considered their former days of greatness, and how they had ended. Yet he could not admit defeat was final. Though Edgeton had fallen, was there not hope it would rise again?

On a stallion trained for battle, Benton, too, rode toward Garrison. The walls that circled the city rose like a bulwark against waves of drought-brown grass that covered the plains, and from a distance, he could imagine Garrison as it had been ten years ago: its walls standing strong, protecting all who were inside. He thought back to the harvest days of plenty. There was music and feasting then, when sheaves spilled over the sides of the wagons and no one bothered to pick them up. But those days were gone. Now, like an aged soldier, crippled and weak, Garrison, the city of Benton’s birth, held only the memories of strength and courage. So it was throughout all of Edgeton.

Year after year, under Deofoe, the farmers doled out smaller portions of grain for their families to eat while they measured larger portions to plant the next season. The increase of seed brought an increase in harvest, some of which they had hoarded away in secret. It was to be used, when they amassed enough, to pay an army that would help them defeat Deofoe for good.

But then came the years of drought. Even under the diligent hands of the farmers, the land quit producing. Still, Prince Deofoe’s demand for grain had stayed the same as in the productive seasons. Meal portions in Edgeton decreased, that they might supply the table of their enemy. Though families skimped and saved and put it off as long as they could, they had to draw from their secret store eventually. They watched their plans come to nothing a mouthful at a time as their surplus dwindled, then disappeared.

No enemy could force a city to its knees like starvation, they soon discovered. The weak and the old were the quickest to surrender, giving over first to sickness, then to death. Yelling and fighting became common among friends. Neighbor stole from neighbor, and as days followed days, more spoke of dying than of living. Now, in this third year of drought, Deofoe’s demands could not be met. There was not enough grain in all seven cities of Edgeton to fill half of the wagons he would send to one of them. If Deofoe’s army did not finish off Edgeton, there would be no Edgeton left to conquer.

Benton’s hand found the sword at his side, and his fingers closed around the hilt. His stallion, sensing the motion, shook his head and snorted, ready for the command to attack. A scowl played on Benton’s face in response. He counted the riders in the distance, estimating how many he might defeat before falling himself. Slowly, meticulously, he played the scene out, from the first cry of attack, to the final blow. Death in battle would be preferred to this slow starvation. Yet, that choice was not his. His life belonged to the people—the soldiers and families of Edgeton. As long as their eyes were turned toward him, he would continue the struggle and fight to prove hope’s existence—even against all hope.

As long as there is life, there is hope, Benton whispered, and relaxed in the saddle as the familiar phrase echoed through his soul. The words emerged from the memory of another desperate day, twenty-five years ago. The enemy then had been Prince Deofoe himself, for it was the first time he had dared to line his army in the plains against Edgeton. A much younger soldier then, Benton had stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades against an army twice the size of their own.

As long as there is life ..., the fighting men whispered down the line, though there was no reason for hope against Deofoe’s forces.

But, even as the morning starts thinly, then spreads until it washes the night from the sky, so came their salvation. A faint note across the river was all they had heard that day, the sound of a trumpet—but whose? Heads cocked to the side and foreheads creased as it grew louder. Then King Regalion appeared, his banner streaming golden in the sun, and his Royal Army ready for war. It was a quick victory that King Regalion secured for Edgeton, driving Prince Deofoe deep into the Wasteland where he belonged.

That was so many years ago. There would be no Royal Army to save them from Deofoe this time. Edgeton had long since forgotten the king. And certainly, the king had forgotten Edgeton.

The eagerness of Benton’s youth was gone, replaced now with silent resolve. Thin wrinkles around his eyes marked the seasons he had spent gazing across a troubled land, the creases on his forehead rarely relaxing. He drew near the city, passing a heap of iron that lay mangled, covered with weeds and thorns, the only thing that seemed to grow these days. The iron had come from the main gates of the city. In days of old, they opened freely to guests from King Regalion’s court. Now, wrenched bars rusted where they lay. No one thought to repair them. What good would it do when entire portions of the wall had been crushed and destroyed?

A movement flickered against the wall, and Benton’s hand slipped back toward the hilt of his sword, his eyes intent to find the source of motion. But it was only a young man from the city also watching the enemy approach. His clothing, faded and stained, blended with the worn wall he leaned against.

He was tall, very tall, and, except for his nose, could have been handsome. His jaw, at least, held a firm line. His cheeks were thin and hollow, and his deep-set eyes seemed weak. With legs and arms too long and thin, he reminded Benton of a scarecrow that had lost its stuffing, having been left in a field to weather the seasons.

Managing with his left hand to hold both an inkwell and a piece of wooden shingle, the young man was able with his other hand to scratch down words on the board with his quill.

Douglas, Benton acknowledged as he dismounted. This is a day you do not want to forget, I see. He nodded at the shingle.

Douglas frowned as he glanced from Benton to the board. Paper was scarce, and he had already filled the back of every note and scrap in Garrison he could find, Benton knew.

It helps me to concentrate when I write, Douglas said as he replaced the cork in his inkwell, then slipped it into his pouch with the pen. He turned his eyes toward the line of Wastelanders who were drawing near the city. Besides, if this is to be my last day, I want someone to know I died bravely. His cheeks reddened as he caught himself speaking the private thoughts he had written. He slanted the shingle so Benton would not see the words.

Your last day? Benton raised his eyebrows in question. I do not like to hear a living man speak of dying—especially when I know that man has a lovely wife who is expecting him home.

Anna is lovely. Douglas blushed again. Yet, she is no coward. She knows as well as I that if Prince Deofoe is content to take what little grain we have set aside for him, we will starve within weeks. Or ... Douglas lowered his voice. ... if they discover we’ve hidden some back for our own use, they’ll fall on us, and we won’t stand a chance.

So you suggest...?

I’d prefer to fight them as they come instead of waiting until they’re upon us, Douglas said. If I am to die, I should like to take one or two of the Wastelanders with me.

I see. Benton nodded, and put a great effort into rubbing his beard, trying to hide his amusement at the thought. Douglas was never meant to be a soldier—that was known by all. His narrow palms and long fingers gripped a sword awkwardly, yet held a weightless ink quill with ease. If the battle could be won by words, then Douglas would be the man to win it. The words that flowed from Douglas’s pen had more eloquence than those of the poets in the king’s city.

Yet, was this not another tragedy of the day? Edgeton had men in each city who would rise to be poets, artists, inventors, statesmen, and more, but they had abandoned their dreams to bend their shoulders beneath the burden of Deofoe.

You are right, Benton finally said. And I would feel that way too, if I were certain this was the end.

Do you think perhaps it is not? Douglas’s eyes lit, just for a moment, like hot coals glowing when blown upon, but not catching fire. Inside Douglas was yet an ember of hope, but it would take some patient fanning to see that hope spring into flame. Trying to do just that, Benton chose his words with care.

I do not know what Prince Deofoe will do, he said. A chance remains that he will see how little we have to live on and have mercy on us—if he is capable of such an action. There is only one thing I can promise you for sure: if you fight today, you will die today.

If Prince Deofoe has mercy? Douglas asked. His bushy eyebrows shot up as he tested the thought.

We’ve become his slaves. We supply the food for his whole army, Benton said. There is not one among the Wastelanders who will plant a field and reap its harvest. It may be good for Deofoe that we live another year. What master wants his slaves to perish?

So we can serve him more? asked Douglas.

Benton hesitated, and then nodded. Only until we grow strong enough to free ourselves.

No! Douglas shook his head. I have had enough of being Deofoe’s slave! I prefer to die fighting than continue this way. Again the fire lit his eyes, and this time it lingered.

Listen, Benton spoke hastily, for now the dissonance of the Wastelanders’ bugle sounded across the plains. Your chance to die might come soon. But, as long as the two of us stand here, with breath in our lungs, we have hope. He paused as another blast from the horn sounded, then he put his hand on Douglas’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. I give you my word, when we come to the day when there is no more hope, you and I will die fighting together. Agreed?

Douglas looked into Benton’s eyes long enough to secure the promise, then he nodded and said, Agreed.

Again, Benton was surprised by the steady look in Douglas’s eyes and the determined nod he gave. Benton motioned him inside the walls of the city.

The air thickened. Smells of dust, horse, and vile men billowed before the frenzy of guttural cries and clanging weapons as the riders neared the city. Pounding hooves shook the ground, the tremor pulsating through the veins of those inside the walls.

It was this way year after year: the madness, the chants, and the way the Wastelanders circled the wall, like a black snake coiling its prey, squeezing tighter with every pass. As Deofoe’s men drew closer, their cries took on a rhythm. Mesmerizing, paralyzing fear struck the first blow in the hearts of the people inside the city. The men of Garrison stood their place as Benton had directed, each with his hand ready on his sword, prepared to die if the day gave way to war. Benton alone stood in the city square before the doors of the storehouse.

The bugle shrieked its shrill command, signaling Deofoe’s army to enter Garrison. Through the broken-down walls, Deofoe’s Wastelanders came, a flood of horror from every side. The noise was deafening as they beat against the sides of the buildings with their weapons, calling threats to the women and children they knew would be cowering inside. The men of Garrison, wanting to prove themselves brave, fixed their eyes on Benton. He stood unflinching, his eyes on the entrance of the city as the Wastelanders swarmed into position on the street. Then silence. As heavy as darkness, it settled. Weapons were stilled. Shouting ceased. Their leader had made his entrance.

He came into Garrison through the opening where the main gate once stood. Riding tall on a stallion, the leader’s coarse black hair flowed long and loose, much the same as his horse’s tail and mane. There the likeness ceased; for while the steed was just a beast that walked on all fours, it arched its neck nobly and held a proud beauty in its eyes. Its rider, however, had no hint of nobility, but was hideous to see. Scars crossed his face from forehead to chin, and the skin had grown back in great bulges. He eyed the men of Garrison as he approached, taking his time, willing for them to cower. Then he scowled, as if they were to blame for his deformity. This was Prince Deofoe, once handsome and proud, now only proud.

Two soldiers, Deofoe’s personal guards, shadowed his every movement, reflecting even his arrogance as they approached the storehouse. Deofoe’s lip turned upward in a snarl before he dismounted and, with disdain, faced Benton. He did not bother with words, but turned toward the storehouse. Using his shoulder as a battering ram, Deofoe thrust himself against the door. The wood splintered as the door gave way. The Wastelanders roared with delight.

His guards started forward, but Deofoe held up his hand for them to stop. The storehouse was empty except for the grain that occupied one corner, not enough to feed his army for a month. This came as no surprise to Deofoe, for he had spies throughout Edgeton and already knew the schemes his victims were playing out. Quietly, he smiled. He had waited so long for the complete surrender of Edgeton. Yet, for all his wickedness, he was clever, too, and realized that though victory was close, it could still slip from his grasp. Stepping back from the storehouse, he turned to Benton.

Where is it? Where are you hiding the rest of it? Deofoe said.

Benton gave no reply.

Where did you hide the rest of it? Deofoe lowered his voice. Do you think you can deceive me and live? I know there’s more grain than that. He flung his arm in the direction of the storehouse. You have it somewhere. Or have you become too lazy to plant? He leaned his face close enough for Benton to feel the warmth of his foul breath. Tell me, or I’ll kill you! The sound of metal against metal accompanied Deofoe’s threat as he pulled his sword from its sheath and brought the blade under Benton’s chin.

Not a muscle twitched in Benton’s face, though he felt the pressure of the steel. Both he and Deofoe stood motionless, like stone statues in a king’s palace. It seemed that hours passed in a moment as each tested the other’s resolve.

Finally, Deofoe pulled his sword away. But you will die slowly, with the rest of your people, he said with a sneer, and spat on Benton’s face.

Deofoe drew back. Benton heard the murmur of a low command as the evil leader instructed his guard. The guard grinned in approval, removing something from the pack on his horse, and entered the storehouse.

Benton expected the empty wagons to be brought up and loaded with the grain, but no one moved. The calm was unnatural. All was too quiet. Then, from inside the storehouse came a loud snap, followed by a crackling sound, then the telling smell of acrid smoke. Benton’s eyes showed his surprise. Deofoe laughed, snatched his reins, and mounted his horse.

The guard came out of the storehouse and shut what was left of the shattered door, but stayed until the smoke curled from the seams of the building. When its impending destruction was certain, he moved toward his horse—he, too, turning to laugh at Benton as he passed.

So, this was Deofoe’s answer. He would not have mercy or look with kindness on those who slaved under him all these years. While he laughed and mocked, families—even innocent children—would starve under this tyrant’s reign.

Benton’s right hand came to his chest in a fist, and he bowed his head as the heat of the fire increased, but still he did not move. The Wastelanders saw this as a sign of weakness, that Benton finally accepted his defeat. But Benton was making himself a promise—a promise that no matter what the cost, he would somehow, someday, see Edgeton freed from Deofoe’s hand.

When the flames showed against the sides of the storehouse, Deofoe gave the signal for his army to withdraw, leaving the men of the city to run for shovels and their precious store of water.

Seven columns of smoke rose to the sky over Edgeton that day as Deofoe’s army repeated in each city the scene played out in Garrison. Only two months’ supply of food was left to feed all the people. Edgeton had only one hope left, and Benton was desperate enough to try it.

2

The Council

The next day, councilmen from each city in Edgeton assembled in the Court of Kingsway, the city built at the receiving end of the King’s Highway. Drawn out on a map, the boundaries of Edgeton took the form of a boot, narrow at the top where the northern cities of Garrison and Mansfield were planted, but widening out at the bottom to host Plainview, Newland, Valor, and Justice. With the heel imprinted westward against the edge of the Wasteland, the toe pointed to the east and was shaped by the windings of the Crimson River. Kingsway was established where the boot buckled at the ankle. Though it, too, suffered through the drought and Deofoe’s assault, it remained the most impressive of the cities of Edgeton, retaining in its stately buildings and paved Main Street at least a memory of grander days. Positioned near the river, though with enough distance from the bank to keep it from occasional flooding, Kingsway was considered the doorway for all who would enter Edgeton. For no one crossed the massive stone bridge that joined the King’s Highway with the western region without being observed from one of the towering posts that stood guard on each side of the gate once known as the King’s Entrance.

Twenty-five years ago, right after the war in which he defeated Prince Deofoe, King Regalion himself crossed that bridge for the last time as he left Edgeton. His soldiers rode before him with bowed heads and heavy hearts. Though the Royal Army had gained a great victory, they had lost more than they won. No one but the king understood why.

The people of Edgeton were once considered His Majesty’s most loyal subjects. Now they opposed him. Not for noble reasons that stemmed from family, honor, or