Within the Hollow Crown Read online

  The Imperial Metals, Book One

  Within the Hollow Crown

  by Daniel Antoniazzi

  Copyright 2013

  Cover art by Raymond Minnaar, copyright 2013.

  Map by Pheobe Boynton, copyright 2013.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. And hilarious.

  All events described in this book actually happened. Just not on our world.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Special Thanks

  Very Special Thanks

  Dedication

  Map

  Quote

  Prologue: The Unique King

  Book 1: Relics Lost

  Chapter 1: The Toll at the Bridge

  Chapter 2: Nothing But Steel

  Chapter 3: A Glorious Quest Worthy of a Librarian

  Chapter 4: Things To Talk About When Dining With The Count

  Chapter 5: The Demographically Challenged

  Chapter 6: Sarah

  Chapter 7: The Trade Commission of Taverns and Inns

  Chapter 8: Triangles

  Chapter 9: A Noble In Name Only

  Chapter 10: Alumnus

  Chapter 11: Love Letters

  Chapter 12: Bad Poetry

  Book 2: Kings Slain

  Chapter 13: Attack of the Turin-Sen

  Chapter 14: An Uninvited Guest at the Wedding

  Chapter 15: A Pirate in Name Only

  Chapter 16: Knowledgeable Birds

  Chapter 17: Alone

  Chapter 18: A Man Of Habit

  Chapter 19: The Regicide

  Chapter 20: A Match Made In A Match Factory

  Chapter 21: The World Crumbles

  Chapter 22: The Gathering Tide

  Chapter 23: Magic

  Chapter 24: Under the Old Oak Tree

  Chapter 25: The Wanderer

  Chapter 26: The Line of Kings

  Chapter 27: Is Dead

  Book 3: Dreams Deferred

  Chapter 28: Heart Beats

  Chapter 29: Nobles, Ancestors, and Loyalties

  Chapter 30: Really Good Salmon

  Chapter 31: The Road to Recovery

  Chapter 32: Things You Can’t Unsay

  Chapter 33: Learning to Teach

  Chapter 34: Over the Years

  Chapter 35: The Lair of the Beast

  Chapter 36: The End of the Lesson

  Chapter 37: The Edge of the World

  Chapter 38: Doctor’s Orders

  Chapter 39: The Send-Off

  Chapter 40: Threats Abroad

  Chapter 41: The March

  Book 4: Realms Uncharted

  Chapter 42: Memory of Betrayal

  Chapter 43: A History of Drentar

  Chapter 44: Homecoming

  Chapter 45: Unforgotten Memories

  Chapter 46: A Moot Point

  Chapter 47: Planning Ahead

  Chapter 48: The Reasons

  Chapter 49: Darkness

  Chapter 50: Bedroom Politics

  Chapter 51: Another Path

  Chapter 52: Off the Map

  Chapter 53: Men of the Kingdom

  Chapter 54: Problem Number One

  Chapter 55: The Worth of a Man

  Book 5: Sights Unseen

  Chapter 56: Insectus Jareld

  Chapter 57: A Volunteer

  Chapter 58: Language Barrier

  Chapter 59: Farsight

  Chapter 60: Injury Report

  Chapter 61: The Gate

  Chapter 62: Descendants

  Chapter 63: Practice

  Chapter 64: Twenty-Seven

  Chapter 65: A Silence of Choice

  Chapter 66: The Plank

  Chapter 67: The Sacrifice

  Chapter 68: The Words You Learn First

  Chapter 69: Eternity

  Chapter 70: The Duel

  Chapter 71: Attack on the Queen

  Chapter 72: Eye-Patch

  Book 6: Darkness Braved

  Chapter 73: The Numbers

  Chapter 74: Overhead

  Chapter 75: Heart of a Noble

  Chapter 76: Tapestries

  Chapter 77: Battle of the Turin-Sen

  Chapter 78: The New Assignments

  Chapter 79: Memories and Dreams

  Chapter 80: Incoming

  Chapter 81: Fighting Time

  Chapter 82: The Lost King

  Chapter 83: The Last Tactic

  Chapter 84: The Writing on the Wall

  Chapter 85: The Refugees

  Chapter 86: Devesant

  Book 7: Futures Forged

  Chapter 87: The Siege

  Chapter 88: The Eye of the Storm

  Chapter 89: The Battle of Deliem

  Chapter 90: The Unity Treaty

  Chapter 91: Dark Magic

  Chapter 92: The Toll at the Docks

  Epilogue: The Tower at Goldmere

  Coming Soon

  Footnotes

  Special Thanks to...

  My Mom, Dad, and favorite sister (Irene) for believing in the book nonstop, even when the smart money was pointing the other way.

  Irene, again, for finding the title.

  Bobby Brimmer, for going first and proving there was nothing to fear. You can find his writing at his website.

  Raymond Minnaar, for the cover art. Find more of his art at his website.

  Pheobe Boynton, for the map. Find more of her art and costume design at her website.

  And Kristen Eaton, for liking the part with the juggling.

  And a Very Special Thanks to...

  Paul Loester, Jon Lum, Evan Piccarillo, Kevin Sheldon, and Sloane Yavarkovsky for being inspiring characters.

  Dedicated to my Mom and Dad.

  For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings;

  How some have been deposed; some slain in war,

  Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;

  Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;

  All murder'd: for within the hollow crown

  That rounds the mortal temples of a king

  Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,

  Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,

  Allowing him a breath, a little scene,

  To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,

  Infusing him with self and vain conceit,

  As if this flesh which walls about our life,

  Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus

  Comes at the last and with a little pin

  Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!

  Richard II

  William Shakespeare

  Prologue: The Unique King

  There’s nothing quite like the feeling of the wind in your hair as you fall from the North Tower of the Castle Anuen.

  There’s also nothing quite like the abrupt, sickening thud that inevitably follows.

  There had been many assassinations in the history of the Kingdom of Rone, but this one differed from all the others in three important ways. First of all, there had never been an attempt on the King’s life. Previous assassinations had targeted Dukes, Counts, Barons, and the occasional Yodeler, but nobody had ever been so ambitious as to off the King.

  Second, none of the assassinations had been the result of defenestration. This particular detail would make the scholars very happy, since they had been forced to learn the meaning of the word “defenestration” but never had an opportunity to use it.

  And finally, the motive behind the assassination was unique. In all previous assassinations in the Kingdom, the motive involved moving s
omeone up the line of succession. In the case of King Vincent Rone, it was exactly the opposite.

  King Vincent was a passable King, but certainly his death would play a bigger part in his legacy than anything he had done in life. Even then, his untimely and unique demise would only amount to a footnote in the history books. Because when the story is all told, it is about another King entirely, and about a sword called the Saintskeep.

  But that comes later. To truly understand the scope of this event, we must begin our story three months earlier in the County of Arwall, in the southeast corner of the Kingdom of Rone…

  Book 1

  Relics Lost

  Chapter 1: The Toll at the Bridge

  The land of Arwall was known for very little besides its mud. Just as those in the northern tundra had developed over a hundred words for snow, so had the Arwalls coined more than thirty words for mud. “If there was a market for red-dirt,” Lord Kelliwick had once said in a speech, “We would certainly have cornered it. And just as certainly, we would be trading it all for a pair of dry socks.”

  Lord Kelliwick was a favored Baron in the Arwall region for his honest disposition, his disarming sense of humor, and most importantly, his inability to levy taxes effectively. Count Arwall had spent a considerable amount of time editing a tax code for his County, and most of the Barons were able to provide the appropriate income. Lord Kelliwick, however, was somehow incompetent, and always came up short.

  “I’m very bad at math,” Kelliwick had explained to the Count, “Also, it’s hard to get to everyone; there’s so much slurve.”

  It was the slurve and the tax code that Jareld had to deal with on a drizzling Thursday in March. Jareld was not from Arwall, and so he only had one word for mud. He was one assignment short of graduating from the Towers of Seneca, the most prestigious academy in the Kingdom. At the age of seventeen, he would be the youngest man to do so.

  “Stop there,” said the bridge attendant, a rotund man named Carl. “I’m afraid there’s a toll for the use of this bridge.”

  Jareld and his travel companion, Thor, stopped their horses. Thor was from a place called Maethran, where they had a considerable number of words for chicken. Thor was several years younger than Jareld, and also a scholar at the Towers. But where Jareld was accepted based on merit, Thor was probably enrolled as a result of the generous contributions from his father. It’s not that Thor was spoiled. It’s just that the phrase Thor the Scholar was an oxymoron.

  The Academy had a rule about sending their scholars out into the real world. They always sent them in twos. It wasn’t that they hoped that two of them would be able to defeat ruffians where one of them couldn’t, but it was in the hope that at least one of them would get away to report the death of the other.

  “How much?” Jareld asked.

  “Well, I can’t say just yet. I have to ask you a few questions.”

  “Are they easy ones?” Thor asked.

  Carl looked up at Thor, disgusted at the puerile joke, and also slightly offended, as though being a bridge attendant wasn’t good enough for Thor. But when Carl saw Thor’s face, he realized that the man was serious, and actually wanted to know how difficult the questions would be.

  Carl sighed, took out a parchment, and read from it.

  “Are you carrying any weapons?”

  “No,” Jareld answered.

  “Are you carrying any expensive items?” Carl asked.

  “We each have one of these,” Jareld said, holding his hand down from his horse to show Carl. “It’s a Signet Ring from the Towers of Seneca, showing that we are scholars of the Academy.”

  “Scholars, eh?” Carl said, scratching his head, “Interesting…”

  “So, how much do we-” Jareld started.

  “Not just yet,” Carl interjected, “Still have some questions. What is your purpose in our fine land of Arwall?”

  “Well, we think there’s a cave,” Jareld said, “About four miles north of the shore and two miles east of your western-most border.”

  “Well, there are many caves,” Carl said. “But at this time of year, those caves are full of worm-glue.”

  “Worm what?” Jareld asked.

  “If you want some dryer and, dare I say, nicer caves, you could try up near Johnstown.”

  “No,” Jareld said, “You don’t understand: We need to get to that specific cave. We believe that Sir Dorn, the last of the League of the Owl, went there when King James II died, one hundred and forty years ago, and--”

  “So, the purpose of your trip is recreational?” Carl asked.

  “Well, no, it’s exploratory, or for research.”

  “Ex-plor-a-tor-y,” Carl sounded out, while misspelling it on his parchment.

  “So, how much do we owe you?” Jareld was getting tired of the drizzle, and his horse was getting stuck in the turcle.

  “Well, exploratory fees, plus the rings…carry the two…horses, unarmed…about three kilos of luggage… Neither of you has ever committed a crime, or spent any time in a jail in Arwall in the last three years, have you?”

  Both Jareld and Thor felt they could answer the question with an indignant stare. They had spent their formidable years reading large texts, translating books, learning languages, astronomy, mathematics, savoir-faire, and being sent to their room for mispronouncing the Galbosian word for turnip, which many believe is impossible for a non-native speaker. The idea of committing a crime was ludicrous to them, and they each hoped that his frown was enough to show this to Carl.

  “Alright then,” Carl said, “Looks like you owe one silver farthing.”

  “One silver…” Jareld started. “One silver farthing. That’s it?”

  “Well, to be honest,” Carl said, “I’ve never been good with numbers. But Lord Kelliwick said I should never charge less than a silver farthing.”

  Jareld dismounted, the turcle getting all over his boots and the bottom of his leggings. “Let me see that,” he said, grabbing the parchment from Carl.

  “What’s your name?” Jareld said after pondering over the tax code.

  “Carl.”

  “Well, Carl, let me show you something: See this, this is the left bracket, all fees are taken from this column. And see on the bottom, those are the adjustments. So, two adult men, two horses…see the letters in red…OK, and then there’s the unarmed adjustment…no criminal record…and I would say, seriously, that we have almost four kilos in luggage…OK, plus the adjustments…Are you following this?… The adjustments for the time of year…and you have…seven ducats and four farthings.”

  Carl took the parchment back from Jareld and looked it over in wonder, as if he had just discovered that there was writing on it at all.

  “But,” Jareld added, “As a scholar from the Towers of Seneca, I have a fee for instructional sessions. As it turns out, your fee for a tax code today is seven ducats and three farthings, so…”

  Thor flipped a silver farthing to Carl.

  “Don’t let anyone make a fool of you, Carl,” Jareld said as he got back on his horse. “And take care.”

  Jareld and Thor trotted their horses across the bridge. Carl looked over the tax code again, a smile growing on his face.

  “May your boots be dry,” Carl called after the two scholars. It was an Arwall expression to wish travelers a good journey. Carl wiped the turcle off his boots, which he thought was really becoming more of a splishle, and returned to his post.

  Chapter 2: Nothing But Steel

  If you took the very same bridge as Jareld and Thor west instead of east, then covered the fifty-three kilometers of the north highway across Ralsean, then swung south by way of the Deliem River, and went down to the coast of Deliem, you would be where Lady Vye was that very moment.

  If you were thirty-one klicks north of where Lady Vye was at that moment, you would be where Lady Vye wanted to be at that very moment: In her bed.

  Instead, she was in the well-groomed courtyard of Rutherford Manor, nervously keeping her hand
on the hilt of her sword. Rutherford Manor was the home of the Baron Harold Rutherford, the most inbred, generally incompetent, irritating member of the Deliem Nobility. Vye didn’t think she could recall the number of times he had screwed the County of Deliem, but this was the third time in a year, and it was getting on Vye’s nerves.

  Some of Rutherford’s transgressions could be chalked up to him being dumb. He once called Lord Fatroud, Lord Fart-Loud, even though Lord Fatroud did not pronounce the “d” at the end of his name. He had burned down the windmill in Dagos during a festival. He even accidentally declared war on a neighboring County during a tour of the Royal Gardens. He was, in a word, a mess.

  But most of time, and the reason Vye had so little patience for the hapless Baron, he was causing problems with his penis. Vye was thankful that she had never seen, touched, or otherwise interacted with said member. But nonetheless, a lot of her life recently had been dedicated to helping Harold keep it in his pants.

  Harold’s ability to offend anyone within earshot often led to put off Maids and Wenches, but it was the Lady Marisa Endior that was the most common problem for Rutherford.

  Vye supposed she was pretty enough, in that gangly, redheaded, fifteen-year-old sort of way. But for whatever reason, she was the apple of Harold Rutherford’s eye. If he could have written poetry, no doubt she would be his muse. If he could speak in complete sentences, no doubt he would have actually talked to her.

  Instead, he tended to make clumsy, aggressive passes at the wily, young woman. Vye wasn’t worried about Marisa. She could take care of herself, and even if she couldn’t, Vye doubted Rutherford had the wits to actually get what he wanted from her. But it was Marisa’s father that was the problem.

  Lord Endior prized only two things: A 2nd Place Archery Trophy from the 3rd Annual King’s Tournament given to his grandfather by the King’s grandfather, and his daughter’s virginity. There were many young Ladies in the Court that Rutherford could have targeted with less protective fathers. But, naturally, Harold had chosen her.