Kinghood: Book One of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 1

How can this be? Such beauty. Among such despair.

Red, black, red.

The fibers jutting out from its core rose and fell, rose and fell. It crawled indifferent to what laid beneath its feet.

Does it know?

Moving from the moist soil, the caterpillar ascended onto a pale finger. Had the soldier been alive, the fibers on the insect would have tickled him. Alas, the soldier was not tickled. His finger did not move, nor would it ever again.

Eyes, as though set in glass, stared up at him. They dared not move, lest they betray the Hand of Death about to visit. The black center remained in place, neither expanding nor contracting. The color around the black, a soft hue of glacial blue, shifted not. The whites of the eyes stayed fixed in their place. The whole of them unmoved, suspended in time, capturing the full effect of the soldier's last act.

Symon studied the rest of the soldier's face. His whiskers had drops of dew, remnants of the fog that was slowly escaping the forest. His auburn hair glowed in the soft light of morning, even though it had been rough cut recently. Perhaps as he sat around a campfire or at a hearth, enjoying a good meal, Symon wished. Such a soldier, one who died for my land, deserved such a memory.

"Your Highness."

Symon's concentration broke. He looked up to find his Right Captain approaching.

"Our scouts have returned," Sir Everitt said. "They bring news of the Lewmarian camp."

Symon gave the auburn-haired corpse a furtive glance. He did not die for nothing.

"Take me to them," he commanded.

With a nod and a turn, Sir Everitt led the way. Symon followed in his wake, his strides long and strong. For they had to be. Every step he took was fraught with the remnants of a battle lost. The corpses, of both men and horses, were but half of the refuse that littered the scarred ground. Splintered arrow shafts, burnt brush and broken shields, in pieces large and small, laid all about. As did fecal matter, accompanied by the stench of urine. No doubt from the greener soldiers, Symon concluded as he struggled to ignore the foul smells.

Such was battle. As was the effort to clean the land of the fallen. Or at least those who fell in defense of Marland, that they may be honored by their brethren-in-arms. Sir Everitt had ordered the pole-men and pavisers to dig shallow graves for the Marlish slain, while the light cavalry was charged with transporting the dead from where they fell to their final resting places.

Sir Everitt paused as a horse strapped with a travois crossed his path, transporting a departed soldier with a mop of golden hair. The lad could not have been more than twenty. Sir Everitt bowed his head, made a fist with his right hand, and placed it over his heart. As did Symon.

"Do we have a count?" Symon asked as they waited.

"Fifty-three of our own. From Har-Kins Hamage, Giscard and Mallory, judging from their coat of arms. All deceased. They left no survivors. Bloody bastards."

"And the enemy?"

"Forty-seven dead. Our brave lads took as many as they could with them to the grave."

Symon watched as the travois headed in the direction of a row of graves, where his soldiers continued to dig. Unlike the auburn-haired soldier earlier, this one laid with his eyes closed.