Dexter of Pozzelby
by
Erik C. Martin
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Copyright 2011 by Erik C. Martin
Cover photo: public domain photo by Webzooloo
Cover design by Erik C. Martin
Contact the author at ec.martin.writin
[email protected], or on his blog at www.martin-inabind.blogspot.com.
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This book is dedicated to my wife Toni, who patiently puts up with the solitary endeavor that is writing. Thank you for all of your love and support.
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Chapter One
Pozzelby is the oldest continually existing kingdom on the Western Continent. In over four thousand years of existence, its importance has waxed and waned several times. Pozzelby reached its most recent peak approximately three hundred years ago, during the Reign of Four Kings period. Since then however, the kingdom’s importance has diminished to its current state of rustic provinciality and relative isolation.
Excerpted from J. R. Grimble’s Pozzelby: A History
The day that I became the king of Pozzelby was the worst day of my life.
The day had been uneventful and the evening began the same way. I was playing chess in the library of Earmund Castle, my home. My opponent was our alchemist, Francis, my best friend despite the fact that he was already old when my father was a boy. It was Tuesday and early summer. My mind was not on the game.
My thoughts were on my father.
Every year, King Ardwulf took a week long hunting trip into the mountains of western Pozzelby. Every year, my father accompanied him. In the last few years, my older brothers had joined them as well. Now that I was thirteen, I had felt certain that my father would ask me to come along this year. I had been bitterly disappointed when he had not.
In retrospect, I should not have been surprised. I knew that my father disapproved of me. He was a great warrior, like my uncle. Even my brothers had the coordination and disposition of warriors. On the other hand, I was in danger of cutting myself every time that I unsheathed a sword. I could shoot a bow fairly well, but that didn’t matter—a bow wasn’t really a manly weapon.
I liked to read, and while a noble had to be literate, my father considered a preoccupation with reading abnormal. A noble boy was tutored in military tactics, history, and strategy, and that was about it. The rest one acquired like learning a trade. Reading poetry, non-military history, fictional tales, philosophy, science, arcana, and anything else I could get my hands on—well, that was unusual and unnecessary by my father’s measure. I read about tactics and strategy too; it was all interesting. I knew that my father’s fear was that I would be less a warrior and more a scholar. Whenever he said the word, it sounded like a curse.
“It’s your move,” said Francis, breaking me away from my thoughts.
“Sorry.”
Francis sat back in his chair and sipped from a glass that contained his latest creation, a dark brown, fizzing, bubbling liquid. “Delicious. Too much kick for a boy of your age though.” I listened to the viscous-looking liquid hissing in his glass and was grateful that he did not expect me to try any. Just yesterday, I had seen Francis use his new creation to clean insects off of the windows of his tower.
I moved my knight to king’s pawn six.
“Check.”
“Hmmph, well played,” said the alchemist. “Let’s see what happens when I move my king over here.”
“Francis, does my father hate me?”
“What? No, he doesn’t hate you. Your father is a good man and a strong leader. But he is a warrior, and outside of fighting there is a lot that he doesn’t understand—you, for instance.”
“He doesn’t like me then,” I said, feeling sorry for myself.
“Wrong. It isn’t you that he dislikes. It’s not understanding something that upsets Arden. He would never admit it, but deep down he is afraid of things that he doesn’t understand—most men are. There is much of your mother in you, Dexter. Your father never understood your mother.”
“I wish that I had known my mother. Tell me about her again please,” I asked.
“Hmm? Maybe after the game. It’s your move,” Francis reminded me.
I glanced at the board and then moved my rook forward.
“Checkmate.”
Francis frowned and studied the arrangement of the pieces. He leaned back and suddenly smiled. Taking a drink from his fizzing cup, he held it up in a salute.
“Well done,” he said. “Okay, your mother...well, your mother was a lovely and sharp woman. She...did you just hear something?”
I had heard something, banging, then a shout, and then a cry like someone was hurt—or dying.
“There’s fighting,” I said.
“Stand away from the door,” Francis told me. He reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew a tiny, purple bag, one of his tricks. There were more shouts and they were growing louder. I could make out words and the clanging of swords. The fight was coming closer.
The library door burst open. I jumped, but then was relieved as I realized that it was Francis’ nephew, Corporal Delwood Porknoy. Worry was carved across his face.
“Uncle, Lord Dexter, thank the gods you’re both well,” he said. “There has been a breach. An unknown number of men have infiltrated the castle. We’re attempting to contain them now, but they fight like rabid animals. I think it would be best if we got Lord Dexter to a safer location.”
Francis nodded. “The far shelf swings open to a passage that leads to my tower.”
Porknoy looked surprised, though I had long known about the secret door.
Francis swung the bookshelf out and revealed the narrow door that it hid. The door stuck and Francis had to jiggle the handle just right before it opened. By then it sounded like the fighting was right outside of the room.
We hurried into the passageway and closed the door behind us. The cramped hall was lit with a swampy, green glow, the product of a flameless powder that Francis created and kept in small, open pots along the way.
“Do you think that your men will be able to contain the attackers?” I asked.
“I should say so,” answered the corporal. “They’re fierce fighters and they came out of nowhere. But there appears to be just a handful.”
The passage opened at the foot of the stairs that led to the top of Francis’ tower. It looked clear. The attack came as soon as we started to ascend the stairs.
He came out of the shadows, dressed in supple, black hide garments. The attacker moved silent and fast, not rushing but eerily relaxed. Over his face, he wore a grotesque mask that reminded me of nothing as much as a tortured cat. In either hand, he held a short, serrated sword of black steel whose hilt wrapped around the fist and from the back a number of long, sharp spikes protruded.
Porknoy was in the rear and the black clad attacker cut at the corporal before he could get his sword up, opening a gash across his bicep. Porknoy cursed and stabbed for the chest, but the assassin, for that’s what he was, ducked and slashed at his opponent’s stomach. Fortunately, Porknoy’s armor turned the blade aside. The move left the assassin’s head exposed and Porknoy launched a heavy kick. His booted foot caught the assassin in the middle of his face. His head snapped back and the assassin fell, sliding down several stairs.
“Go!” Porknoy shouted.
Francis grabbed my arm and we ran up the steps, not stopping until we reached the top. He fumbled with the key for a moment, and then got the door open. We entered and Francis closed the door behind us, which he quickly locked and barred.
“Dexter, stay by the door. Be ready to open it for my nephew—just be certain that it is him bef
ore you do.”
I watched the old alchemist rummage through his drawers and cabinets. He gathered up various small vials and packets of odd smelling powders. He moved well, not like a man who swore that he was one hundred and six.
Beyond the metal door, I could hear nothing.
Suddenly, a shuttered window exploded inward, the wooden slats reduced to flying splinters. Another assailant came through, dressed and armed like the last. I wondered for a second how he had managed to get so far up, but I put my curiosity aside as he ignored Francis, who was closer to him, and sprang at me. Francis was ready though and threw a packet that ignited into white flames around the assassin’s head.
“Dexter, get behind me!”
The assassin was singed and briefly dazed, but shook off the effect of the powder. He snarled and leapt at Francis, his black swords leading. Francis tossed another packet, which burst into a cloud of noxious fumes but did nothing to slow down the black figure’s advance. He landed on top of the old man and they fell to the floor in a heap. Francis had hold of the assassin’s arms, but it was obvious that my friend was no match for the other’s strength and rage. I looked around, desperate for a weapon. I grabbed a heavy, glass beaker and smashed it down on the back of the assassin’s head. He grunted, but continued to fight with Francis. A moment later, one of the short swords cut deeply into Francis’s shoulder. He cursed but held onto the assassin’s wrist. I tried, unsuccessfully, to pull the attacker off of him. All I did was twist his mask to one side, before being thrown across the room.
I heard pounding. I thought that it was my heart and my head, but then realized that it was coming from the tower door.
“It’s Corporal Porknoy! Open the door!”
I pulled myself from the floor and unbarred the door and pulled it open. Porknoy limped in, bleeding from several small cuts and a deeper gash across his left thigh. He was sweating and pale.
“Uncle,” he yelled when he saw Francis wounded and struggling.
Porknoy rushed to help. But before he could reach the spot where his uncle was fighting for his life, the dark attacker moaned. One of the swords fell from his hand and he began to spasm. Francis shoved him off and the assassin fell back and lay twitching on the floor.
I ran to Francis’s side while Porknoy covered the fallen assassin with his sword.
“Are you alright,” I asked.
“I’ll be okay,” Francis said. “Help me up.”
I put his arm over my shoulder and helped him to stand. The assassin had stopped jerking. He released one last rattling breath and then was still.
“Uncle, what happened to him?”
“Poison ring,” the alchemist said, holding up one hand. “I hate to use it—it’s too easy to poison oneself by mistake. But in an emergency, it is a handy thing to have ready.
“Dexter, if you would be so kind as to bring me the bronze flask that’s sitting on the far shelf.”
I saw the flask that he meant and quickly fetched it. Francis uncorked it and took a healthy swig of the contents. He shuddered, but the color returned to his face and he stood a little easier. He handed the flask to Corporal Porknoy.
“Drink the rest of that. It restores vitality and speeds up healing.”
Porknoy put the bottle to his lips and drained it.
“Terrible,” he gasped. “It tastes like Sergeant Scabies' stockings. What’s on my tongue? Pieces of wool? Lint?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Let’s see what we can learn from this fellow, shall we?”
He pulled off the twisted cat mask and revealed a weathered face with a full beard and long brown hair. Francis hardly looked at the man’s face; he was studying the mask.
“Hmm, there’s an insignia here. It looks familiar, but I can’t place it offhand.”
From the doorway came a voice, “It’s the mark of the Blackthorn Huntsmen.”
I turned toward the voice. A man of about forty-five stood there. Not a large man, but there was a confidence in him. He was covered in red and brown mud, and blood—much blood. His sword was sheathed.
Porknoy stepped forward, his own sword drawn. Francis motioned him back.
“At ease, corporal. That’s Myrick of Pulgh; he’s one of the king’s closest advisors. Myrick, what can you tell us about this attack?”
“Unfortunately, this was only one prong of an organized assault. The main attack was directed at King Ardwulf’s hunting party,” said Myrick.
My stomach lurched. The king’s man continued.
“Two nights ago in the darkest hour, the camp was attacked by withsperi, shadow creatures in the form of serpents. The targets were the members of the House of Davin. The attack was successful.” I heard the words, but my mind refused to register their meaning. Myrick took a step toward me; his eyes were sad and locked onto my own wide eyes. “King Dexter, I have the sad duty to inform you that your father, your uncle, and both of your brothers are dead. I am truly sorry. There was nothing that we could do.”
In shock, I said nothing.
Myrick continued, “I rode here as quickly as I could. My fear was that whoever was responsible for the attack thought that you would be on the trip and when they discovered otherwise they might make another attempt. It appears as though I was right.”
“King? Did you call me king?” I asked, just now realizing what Myrick had said.
“That’s right—you are king now. Because of that, we must act quickly. There isn’t time to mourn yet, I’m afraid. We have to leave for Pozzelby Castle immediately. You’ll be safer there, but until we arrive you’re vulnerable. And someone wants you dead.”
“We did pretty well defending him just now,” Corporal Porknoy said.
“You did. But the king’s home is Pozzelby Castle. It is my job—our job, to get him there safely.”
I thought I might faint. “I can’t be king. There’s been a mistake.”
“No, he’s right, Dexter. If they are all gone, you are next in line,” Francis said gently. “Myrick, what do you suggest?”
“We should leave as soon as possible, within the hour. Corporal, assemble a squad of capable men, about ten. It needs to be large enough to protect the king, but small enough to allow us to move quickly. Get supplies together for the trip and ready horses. Francis, you should remain in charge of Earmund castle, for the time being.”
“No,” Francis told him. “My place is with Dexter. I’m just an alchemist, but if you encounter sorcery on the road, my skills may come in useful. Captain Draylor is more than capable of running the castle for as long as is needed.”
“We will be riding hard,” Myrick said.
“I am not so old yet that I can’t ride as well as any of you. Now, I have to gather some supplies of my own. If you will excuse me. I’ll meet you in the stables before the hour is up.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was in the stable helping to saddle and harness our horses. I felt more like a stable-boy than a king and it was more comfortable that way. Besides, keeping busy made it easier not to think about what had happened, made it easier to not feel the emotions that I was sure would be forcing their way out soon.
Porknoy had gathered nine stout guardsmen, all heavily armed and grim. I had felt helpless when the huntsmen had attacked and now I felt naked.
“Shouldn’t I have a weapon?” I asked.
Myrick nodded. “I have something for you on my horse.”
He went to his mount, a tall, dark, stallion with one white stocking and removed a familiar sword from a worn saddlebag. I recognized it immediately—it was my father’s sword.
“This is yours now. Do you know how to gird it on?”
“Yes. I’ve had some lessons, though I was a bit of a disappointment I’m afraid.”
“No matter. We’ll see to your instruction later. A king needs a sword; and it is appropriate that yours is the sword of your father. It is a little big for you
though. For now, carry this as well,” Myrick said, handing me a slender, short sword. “Can you shoot?”
“Yes, better than I can use a sword.”
“Take this then,” he said. Myrick handed me a bow and quiver full of gold and green fletched arrows.
The final preparations were made. I climbed onto my own, chestnut stallion, feeling a little awkward weighed down with the unfamiliar weight of the weapons. With a nod from Myrick, we rode out of the gates of my home into the night.
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By dawn, I was exhausted. I had fallen asleep several times during the night while riding. I would nod, catch myself, and then force myself awake until the next time. Myrick seemed indefatigable. And even Francis and Porknoy, who were both wounded, performed better.
Finally, Myrick called for us to halt.
We had passed out of Earmund and into Litford County in the Province of Pozzelby. I had met the Earl of Litford, Olanan Halfstrup, three years ago when he had visited Earmund Castle. He was an older gentleman toward whom I felt a certain affection. The earl was something of a scholar and a great collector of books. His library was said to have over a hundred thousand volumes. He had also taken the unusual step of allowing public access to the Litford library. He believed that knowledge should belong to the masses—something I later realized made him somewhat unpopular with the rest of Pozzelby’s nobles. I recalled a snide remark that my father had made about the library when the earl had left: he had said that the most common patrons of Litford’s remarkable library were the beggars who used it as a place to sleep during the day.
As we were off to Pozzelby Castle, I remembered another bit of information. The Litford library, as immense as it was, was said to be only the second biggest library in the country. The largest was reputed to be somewhere in Pozzelby Castle. I say ‘reputed’ because the library, which was said to house over one million books, had been lost for hundreds of years.
You might find this unbelievable: how does one lose such a huge library? But it isn’t so hard to believe when you consider that over three quarters of the castle has been sealed off for generations. The castle is over three thousand years old and has continually grown over the reigns of its many kings. Even the original castle structure was built around, sealed, and then lost. In the case of the library, King Croak VII, an illiterate man and happily no relation of mine, came to believe the library was haunted. He ordered it sealed and forbade his subjects from ever talking about it. Its location was forgotten and eventually, the areas around it were sealed as well as new ones were built. That was over six hundred years ago.