Sword of the North by Luke Scull

Author:Luke Scull
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2015-04-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHANGING TIMES

Sir Meredith’s back was killing him. The four men sitting at the King’s table in the Grand Throne Chamber had been locked in discussions for hours.

And by “locked in discussions,” the knight thought sourly, what I really mean is the ignorant posturing of feral dogs barking at one another. The art of civil discourse was lost on his countrymen.

He didn’t say as much, of course. He was paid to guard the King, not offer his insights into the uncouth politics of this damnable country.

Things had been so very different back in the Lowlands. After he had helped the Rag King win back his throne Sir Meredith had accompanied his liege lord on many a diplomatic mission throughout the Shattered Realms. The unpleasantness with the duke certainly couldn’t be blamed on Sir Meredith—and yet because of that series of unfortunate events he found himself back in the High Fangs, standing guard over a one-eyed loon while his armor chafed him raw and his lower back sent throbs of agony racing up his spine.

The words shot out before he could stop them. “A pox upon the whoresons responsible for this debacle!”

“What was that, iron man? You say somethin’?” grunted the warrior beside him. Red Rayne’s nose was half-ruined by the endless jhaeld he snorted. A terrible habit, Meredith reflected—the sign of a man lacking both self-control and confidence in his own prowess. He himself had never felt the desire to partake of the resin of the infamous fireplant. A knight such as Sir Meredith triumphed through superior swordsmanship and a cool head, not berserker savagery brought on by mind-altering substances.

He was relieved to see that none of the other men around the table had heard his latest outburst. “I was merely clearing my throat,” he told his counterpart testily. It was difficult to keep his feelings locked inside sometimes. Hard to stomach the injustices he had suffered without giving voice to his frustrations.

He gazed around the chamber one more time. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the rustic accoutrements that decorated the hall. Stuffed heads of primitive beasts, ancient swords and shields, helms of decorated heroes . . . all the trappings of a people stuck in a benighted existence. He doubted his kinsmen would know real culture if they were given a guided tour of the Royal Museum of Carhein by the Grand Curator himself. It galled Sir Meredith. In fact, it infuriated him.

“Bloody barbarians!” he blurted out.

The King’s eye swiveled to regard him. “Something the matter?” he grated. The right side of his face was a sight to behold, a mass of terrible bruises and disfigured flesh. Even the efforts of his sorceresses hadn’t been able to fix the damage.

“No,” Meredith replied. Though he made an effort not to let the scorn show in his voice, he refused to add the honorific Shranree and the others used when addressing this barbarian king. Oh, Krazka paid well for his services, in gold as well as in other things promised to him, and Sir Meredith had to concede that the usurper knew how to use a sword.

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