Lady Olym wanted a king, not a peasant! And this wild creature riding him to levels of pleasure and passion he had never thought possible deserved nothing less.
He was Yeslnik, King of Honce, and woe to those fools who did not drop to bended knee before him! He was Yeslnik the Terrible. Look upon him and be afraid.
Every time the people of Palmaristown believed they had rid themselves of the scourge that had crawled from the Masur Delaval in that awful night now called The Dark of Long Murder, another group of powrie dwarves reared its ugly head. And no matter the odds, those dwarves fought with their typical fury. The ratio Prince Milwellis had seen in the barn held pretty closely with each incident: Nearly forty powries had been killed or captured by the end of the second day, but the Palmaristown garrison had also lost more than two hundred warriors.
Back in his castle, which had mostly survived the fires, Laird Panlamaris took every report of powrie incidents with a heavy and resigned grunt, followed immediately by a slam of his large fist upon the armrest of his oaken throne. He waved away the newest crier who had come in to relate that a single powrie had killed eleven people in the market district before they had tied him down.
Panlamaris sank back wearily in his seat and muttered curses at Dame Gwydre under his breath, not wanting the guards in the room, their morale already low, to hear him.
His son, though, was not nearly as diplomatic. “Why are you not more outraged, Father?” Prince Milwellis rushed forward to stand before the throne. “How can you hear of these murders and not scream and thrash?”
Panlamaris’s old eyes narrowed at his impetuous son. “To what end? We have shallow graves filled with hundreds of Palmaristown bodies. There will be more, many more, before this is settled.”
“Eleven more now,” Milwellis spat.
“You hold your sarcastic tongue,” Panlamaris growled. He let his glower sweep the room, stealing any widening grins before they could begin. “I will not be mocked by anyone, least of all my son.”
Milwellis looked about to argue, but he bit it back and bowed low in deference.
Panlamaris eyed him with amusement now. “You think me not outraged enough, my son?”
Milwellis could contain himself no longer, beating his chest with one fist. “I would go to Market Square and choke the powrie dead with my own hands,” he replied through clenched teeth.
“A rather easy death for a powrie, then.” Panlamaris gave a hateful little chuckle. “Perhaps I am more angry than you.”
Milwellis and all the others in the room looked at the old laird curiously.
“How many powries have we in our dungeons now?” Panlamaris asked.
“Twenty-seven, my laird,” one of the guards answered. “Twenty-eight if this latest survives the mob at Market Square.”
“The rat’ll live,” another said. “Hard to kill the damned things.”
“Prepare twenty-eight stakes,” Panlamaris announced. “Tall stakes.”
Prince Milwellis was about to learn much from his father in ways he had never expected.
I’ve spent many a day killing these little rat-dogs,” Panlamaris explained later as the stakes were prepared to his specifications in the city square. “Not too sharp,” was the order, for a sharp stake would cause such overwhelming trauma as to reduce the duration of the suffering.
“Never thought we’d have to fight them again,” said Harcourt, hands on his old hips as he watched the construction. Panlamaris’s trusted general had been in the east serving as advisor to Milwellis. “Never wanted to.”
“We’ll chase them off like we did on Durbury’s Rock,” Panlamaris promised. He turned to Milwellis, who, though listening, stood staring past the two old warriors toward the spectacle in the square before him. The first powrie prisoner had been dragged from the dungeon and stripped of his ratty clothing. Bound hands and ankles to four horses, the dwarf was naked and laid out spread-eagled in the square.
“Bah, what’re ye doin’? O, ye dogs!” cried the powrie. His howls became indecipherable screams as a soldier pushed a stake slowly into the dwarf’s rectum. The volume of his screams increased, surprising Milwellis, who hadn’t thought it possible to so agonize a dwarf, as the intrusive pole tore through the creature’s bowels and gut. Even the most bloodthirsty of the gathered throng on the square gulped and looked away.
The torturer kept going, though, and the screams became gurgles as the stake reached to the dwarf’s throat. The horses pulled as instructed, and the bloody tip of the stake came right out the dwarf’s mouth surrounded by bloody bubbles.
More soldiers cut the ropes and carried the dwarf to the docks where supports had been built. They hoisted the powrie up to hang high atop the stake some ten feet from the ground.
“How long?” asked Milwellis, very conscious that he was sweating.
Panlamaris shrugged. “Hours at the least. Seen some live for nearly a week.”
Back in the square the next dwarf was dragged from the dungeon, the process repeated.
By the fourth powrie, the mob’s squeamishness was gone, replaced by shouted reminders of the horrors the dwarves had inflicted upon Palmaristown. As the sun settled in the west that day, twenty-eight powries rode high on stakes by Palmaristown’s south and west gates and along her docks.
. . . Scarecrows warning their kin away.
King Yeslnik!” Captain Juront yelled in a tone that gave Yeslnik great pause. He knew they were nearing Palmaristown, finally, and was not surprised to hear Juront calling him, but the man’s tone bespoke great uneasiness and concern. With a glance at his wife, Yeslnik rushed from his cabin, Olym scrambling close behind.
The young king climbed to the deck, the devastation of Palmaristown obvious immediately, with some areas of the city still shrouded in smoke. The sight initially brought relief to Yeslnik, who had feared that Juront’s frantic tone was inspired by powries attacking Grand Dame Olym. He moved to the captain, who stood staring out to starboard and the Palmaristown docks, his first mate beside him, equally intent—so much so that neither man seemed to be drawing breath.
When he finally got into a position where he could follow Juront’s gaze, Yeslnik, too, sucked in his breath with shock at the sight of dozens of powries on spikes in the harbor.
“Oike! What is that?” Queen Olym exclaimed as she came up beside the three men.
“Powries, milady,” Juront managed to gasp.
“Ugly little things. Are they dead?” Even as Olym spoke, the flagship gliding in toward her waiting berth, one of the powries flicked his arm out to the side.
“Soon, milady,” Juront promised.
“What is this?” Yeslnik asked.
“The vengeance of Laird Panlamaris, my king,” Juront answered. “He is a fierce man of many battles. A man not known for mercy.”
King Yeslnik tried to steady himself. He glanced at Olym, fearing the sight too raw for her delicate sensibilities.
But she was smiling, her eyes twinkling. “Fierce,” she whispered with obvious admiration and intrigue. “He is a man to be feared.”
Yeslnik cleared his throat and forced himself to stand tall. “Yes, well, the more of the dwarves he kills, the better it is for us all,” he said.
Grand Dame Olym slid into her berth a short while later, the crack crew working fast to tie her off. Captain Juront led the procession from the ship, the royal guard spreading out quick marching to the docks to prepare the way for the king and queen. One of the staked powries hung just to the side of the gangplank. Yeslnik and Olym moved past and could hear the wretch groan and wheeze. A drop of blood splattered on the planks beside Queen Olym. The woman gasped, and King Yeslnik pulled her a bit to the side.
She wasn’t horrified, however, as she revealed when she whispered into her husband’s ear, “You must erect bigger stakes!”
A not-so-subtle growl, a promise of passion to come, reverberated behind those words. Yeslnik got her message and privately resolved to fell a forest of Honce’s tallest
trees.
Hold quiet,” Shiknickel implored his barrelboat crew. The small powrie boat bobbed on the waves of many crossing wakes, for they dared not put their strong legs to the pedals and drive the craft along. A fleet of tall-masted Delaval warships sliced through the water all about them, churning the river with the power of their passing.
Bloody-cap powries rarely ran from a fight, any fight. But if they revealed themselves in the midst of this fleet, Shiknickel and all the others knew, it wouldn’t really be much of a fight. They might use their submerged battering ram to punch a hole in one ship, of course, but to what end? Typically, the ferocious dwarves would scramble to the deck as the ship listed and toppled, so that they could pull the sailors from the waters and cut them open to redden the powries’ magical berets with more human blood. But even if they hit a ship now and tried to crawl out onto the deck, the archers from several other warships would cut them down in short order.
So they sat quiet, hoping their low profile—for the bulk of a barrelboat lay below the water—would allow them to remain unnoticed as the Delaval warships sailed past.
At the front of the seated crew, Mcwigik and Bikelbrin exchanged looks, at once wistful, resigned, concerned, and excited. They had spent one hundred years with a small group of powries trapped on the islands of a steamy northern lake, fed by hot springs, a place of teeming life amidst the harsh Alpinadoran tundra. Circumstance, unexpected friendships, and unusual happenstance had freed this pair and subsequently their kin from that soft prison only recently. Now fate had put them in this predicament on a river far to the west of the open sea that would take them to the Weathered Isles and their old homes, surrounded by enemies, surrounded by victims.
This, on the edge of disaster, was the rightful life of a powrie, the pair agreed with shared grins and nods, eagerness for battle overcoming any nostalgia for the safety of the island life.
“They’re gone, one and all,” Shiknickel announced to the crew.
“Fast for Palmaristown,” one of the crew replied. He chuckled. “What’s left o’ Palmaristown!”
That brought a cheer across the ranks, for this group had been among the six crews who had quietly landed on the riverbank near the great human city and had gone in to lay waste, to let blood, and to stoke fires. Three of the six boats had gone back in for a second strike, unable to resist the seemingly endless supply of easy victims. Shiknickel, more comfortable on the water than on land and more conservative in his risk taking, had decided against that course.
“We really stung ’em good,” Mcwigik remarked. “They’re callin’ to all the land for help, and all their misery’s from just six crews.”
His words brought more cheering.
“Aye, and if we can muster ten more crews we could take over the whole o’ the place called Honce, I’m thinking!” another dwarf in the back blustered.
“Me cap’d get so thick and fat with blood it’d buckle me knees!” said another.
The backslapping and self-congratulating went on for a long, long while, each of the crew snickering and telling of his own mighty adventures in the night of carnage he had inflicted upon the unsuspecting folk of Palmaristown. Of course, since these were powries, each retelling spoke of grander battles, of more desperate struggles against legions of organized enemies, and of far greater kill counts.
It got so exaggerated that at one point, Mcwigik chimed in above the din with, “Bah, but if ye killed to death as many as ye say ye killed to death, and he killed half what he’s saying, and him just half o’ his, then I’m knowing them boats that just floated past us to be ghost ships or floatin’ strays, because sure that there aren’t any left alive in the whole damned place o’ Honce!”
That pronouncement brought the greatest laughter and cheers of all, but it didn’t slow the stories, which grew more outrageous as the barrelboat moved steadily northward, now far behind the north-sailing Delaval fleet, toward the mouth of the Masur Delaval and the open waters of the Gulf of Corona.
“Practice yer tales well, boys,” Shiknickel said to them. “For ye’ll be tellin’ them to our mates on the Weathered Isles in just two weeks’ time.”
Yet another rousing cheer ensued, as loud as the dwarves dared with so many hostile warships not so far ahead of them in the river, followed by an old song of the rocky shores of the Weathered Isles.
Captain Shiknickel, however, did not join in. He looked back out the low conning tower of the barrelboat, then almost immediately turned to the crew, his shocked expression speaking volumes.
“What d’ye know?” Mcwigik asked and came out of his seat.
Shiknickel slammed his fist against the hard wall of the boat, shifting aside to give Mcwigik access.
“By a dead fish’s stink!” Mcwigik yelled a moment later, and all remaining traces of the song died away, and more than half the dwarves jumped up from their seats.
“Staked them,” Shiknickel explained.
“Aye, and at least the two nearest us’re still alive,” Mcwigik called. He spat on the floor and moved out of the way, allowing Bikelbrin to lead a procession of dwarves to view the gruesome sight of Palmaristown’s dock, where a line of staked powries hung on tall poles. Every crew member spat after the viewing and grumbled all the way back to his seat, with most echoing the sentiment, “We got to go get ’em down and take their hearts for burying.”
“Got friends there,” one grumbled. “And I’ll be seeing their kids born o’ their hearts, don’t ye doubt!”
Similar sentiments echoed up and down the line until Shiknickel finally hushed them with a reminder that they were very near to their enemies now and by pointing out that the humans likely had more stakes.
“Bah, but I ain’t running!” one of the crew growled. “Not now.”
“So that’s how they’re wanting to play it, are they?” Mcwigik said.
“I’m bettin’ we can make a human scream louder than any of them boys up there when they got the stake,” Bikelbrin added.
“And what are ye thinking?” Mcwigik demanded of the captain.
“I’m thinking that we’re not to be seeing our home anytime soon,” Shiknickel shot back. “Not now,” he added, looking to the crewman who had earlier proclaimed the same.
“And not anytime soon,” Mcwigik growled back at him.
“Aye, and we’ll put word to them that’s ahead of us, a line o’ messages all the way to the Weathered Isles, and we’ll put every boat we got into the water,” Shiknickel proclaimed. “We’ll take the gulf, we’ll take the coast, and we’re going ashore every time we see the chance to make the dogs pay.”
“I’m thinking we’re going back into Palmaristown in short order to take our boys down,” said Mcwigik. Shiknickel nodded determinedly. “Get yer blood up, boys, and think o’ ways we can make them hurt.”
“I’m thinking that more than a few stakes’ll be empty and waiting for us to put ’em to new use,” said Bikelbrin.
Every dwarf on the barrelboat nodded grimly and vowed revenge—payback many times over for the horror inflicted upon their companions.
The King of Honce arrives,” Laird Panlamaris said to his son Milwellis, Father De Guilbe, Harcourt, and several other commanders.
“If he is everything I have heard him to be, I can hardly breathe for my anticipation,” said Harcourt dryly.
Father De Guilbe blanched at the clear breach of etiquette—to mock a king in such a manner!—but Laird Panlamaris chuckled and patted Harcourt’s strong shoulder. The two went back twoscore years to when they were young men, barely more than boys, sailing the high seas side by side, battling powries and pirates and doing a bit of pirating on their own. Harcourt had only recently traveled across Honce with Milwellis, advising the young general as he laid waste to the Mantis Arm and the coastal communities along Felidan Bay. If Panlamaris was to entrust the training of his promising son to the man, then surely they were familiar enough for a goodhearted jab, even one aimed at the would-be King of Honce. Neither Harco
urt nor Milwellis had returned from the walls of Ethelbert dos Entel with a high opinion of the king, given that Yeslnik had turned tail and fled when victory seemed assured.
“He is a treasure,” Panlamaris agreed. “As opposite his uncle Delaval as any man could be.”
“And you loved Laird Delaval like a brother,” Milwellis interjected, his sour expression showing that he, too, wasn’t overjoyed at the unexpected arrival of Yeslnik’s fleet. Indeed, Delaval and Panlamaris had been cut from the same cloth, one similar to Laird Ethelbert. Powerful warriors, brave in battle, stern in rule, and lusty with the spoils of their conquests, they exemplified an older code from when the world was wilder. Although none predated the Order of Abelle, all three had come to power under the harsh religious instruction of the Samhaists and at a time when the sword was more important than the notion of diplomacy.
“He is the King of Honce, by Delaval’s proclamation,” Father De Guilbe reminded them. “His bold actions regarding my order have set in motion long-overdue corrections against the weakness that has crept into the hearts of the brothers.”
“Bold actions,” Panlamaris echoed with a snort. He had seen the result of those bold actions firsthand when his army had charged the wall of Chapel Abelle only to be battered by a magical barrage the likes of which Honce had never before witnessed. “Has he made a new enemy where he might’ve found a friend, I wonder?”
Father De Guilbe’s face went very tight, and he crossed his thick arms over his large chest and leaned back against the wall. He was a giant of a man, well over six feet tall and with wide and strong shoulders. The fact that he wore the brown robes of his order was the only thing that separated him physically from the burly and toughened warriors in the room.