Kingdom in Turmoil (The Seven Islands Book 1) Read online

  Kingdom in Turmoil

  The Seven Islands Series

  J.D. Morrison

  Contents

  Map of Tresladore

  Prologue

  Part I

  Braume

  Annie

  Cecracy

  Rinehart II

  Lynad

  Part II

  Annie

  Rinehart II

  Braume

  Lynad

  Cecracy

  Part III

  Braume

  Annie

  Cecracy

  Lynad

  Rinehart II

  Part IV

  Braume

  Rinehart II

  Annie

  Cecracy

  Lynad

  Part V

  Cecracy

  Braume

  Lynad

  Annie

  Rinehart II

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 J.D. Morrison

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  J.D.Morrison

  www.jdmorrisonbooks.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely confidential.

  Cover Design by Oliviaprodesign

  Map Created by Radu Cosmin (Frostwindz) http://frostwindz.deviantart.com/

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  Prologue

  Windy. Cold. Wet.

  She waddled across the marsh relying on her cane a little too much. Shivering, she pulled a scarf around her neck and head tightly. She had delivered prophecies before and was not anxious to deliver this one. As she trudged through the mud she recalled one prophecy she gave years ago to a local fisherman. He responded poorly and drove a dagger into her abdomen. A smirk came across her face as she remembered her revenge - camping outside his home one night only to slaughter his family once he left for the morning tide.

  She inched closer and closer to the imposing wooden gates of Fort Asbury. Fort Asbury, like most forts in the southern parts of the kingdom, was home to forty to fifty soldiers of varying lesser ranks. These men were typically ill-equipped to be soldiers, both mentally and physically. The fort commander, whose fate she had foreseen, was not a personable man. His name was Fortineth, after Fort Nethel, a fort his father had commanded years ago.

  “Who goes there?” a voice shouted from above the gates.

  The woman stopped her waddling and looked up at the young soldier above the gate. She could tell he was young, perhaps too young to already be in the Royal Guard. From the tone of his voice she knew right away he took his post seriously – which she oddly respected for some reason.

  “A humble messenger” she crackled back. “I have a message of the utmost importance for the Lord Commander and I would advise that you let me in.”

  The soldier looked at the other soldier on watch to confer and then back at the woman. “What is it regarding?” he shouted, performing his due diligence.

  The woman’s piercing green eyes scanned the top of the wall connected to the gate and saw a dozen or so other boy soldiers looking down at her – a few with arrows at the ready.

  “I’m certain the good Commander would rather I not share personal matters with a lowly soldier like yourself and I’m also certain that the matter at hand, if not dealt with properly, will cause quite an uproar in your little compound.”

  “She’s just an old lady, let her in,” said the second soldier on the gate.

  The gate lowered and the woman began making her way into the compound where she was greeted by a dozen more guards that looked just like the young fellow on top of the gate. They’re all children she thought to herself. She fixated on one lad who was getting fitted for a new chestguard. The woman thought maybe 12 or 13 as his age. A guard showed her to Lord Commander Fortineth’s quarters.

  She came upon Fortineth as he examined various maps of the southern parts of the kingdom. The door’s opening did not distract him from his task.

  “Sir,” choked out the guard who brought the woman in, “this woman says she has a message for you.”

  He looked up slowly at her and examined her as thoroughly as he had examined the maps lying on the table before him. “Thank you, you can go.”

  Fortineth rolled up the maps on his desk and laid them in a corner. “I can see from your scarf that you’re with the Layhe coven. Is that correct?” The scarf, which the woman never let go of, was black and at first glance seemed ordinary. When she moved her hands away the Commander could see the familiar white Dranic letters of the Layhe coven.

  She nodded.

  Fortineth scratched his jaw for a second as he thought about the types of “messages” Layhe witches bring. He knew they were notorious for their prophecies of doom and generally any man that receives a message from a Layhe witch did not have long to live. However, the good Commander was a skeptical sort and was notorious in his own right for how stubborn he could be – sometimes to the detriment of units he’s commanded. He had received the nickname “Fortineth the Red” – an achievement he secretly cherished - for all the bloody battles he had survived in his short military career.

  “So, you’re here to tell me something terrible is going to happen?” he asked as he rummaged through various objects on a shelf. “Don’t you people ever bring good news?” He continued his search and paused for a response from the witch, which she didn’t give. “You do know your kind aren’t welcome in the kingdom anymore, yes? The Layhe reward is still in effect…all these years later.”

  The woman smiled and made her way over to the rolled-up maps in the corner of the room. “Good Commander, have you made peace with the Goddesses?” She picked up the maps and began limping back to the table.

  “Found it,” he said as he turned to face the witch. In his hand is a dagger sheathed in a blackrock case, a rare mineral mined from the mountains of the southern parts of the island. “Do you know what this is? This is the dagger my father used to kill a Layhe witch when she told him he and all of his sons would receive prophecies before their 33rd birthdays.” He slowly pulls the dagger out of the sheath.

  “That’s fascinating,” the witch replied, hardly recognizing his effort to dramatize the moment. “It is true, I have a prophecy for you, but this one is different. Here, help me unroll this map.” She tries to unfold the map on the table. Fortineth, surprised he hasn’t heard of his ensuing death yet, re-sheaths the dagger and joins the witch at the table.

  The witch runs her fingers over the map stopping on Fort Asbury. She focuses on it for a few moments before moving her finger south toward a grassland area known as The Hamelesh.

  “The Hamelesh, you should fear this place.”

  Fortineth scoffs, “The Hamelesh? Why should I be threatened by farmers and traders – the lowborn of the south?”

  The witch’s eyes scan the rest of the map slowly, stopping on the capitol city of King’s Square. “Kingdoms rise and fall all the time when a class of people is neglected and forgotten. The Kingdom, in its arrogance, has mistreated its workers
for far too long. King’s Square will fall and you and all of your boy soldiers will experience its inception here at Fort Asbury. There’s nothing you can do to impede its advance.”

  His eyes squint as he tries to take in what the witch has hinted at. A rebellion? In my territory? I will not be remembered as the commander who lost his post to commoners with pitchforks and shovels.

  The witch sensed that he struggled with what she had just revealed. “I leave you with this – when smoke rises above the trees surrounding Fort Asbury it is already too late for you.”

  Part I

  Braume

  Braume’s nickname was Bear because of what he assumed were his bear-like features. He was tall, one of the tallest men in the kingdom. He was also brawny and powerful, aspects most commonly associated with the local greyback bears in the thickets surrounding the outskirts of Avanton, the primary trade post of The Hamelesh. Whenever he thought about the origins of his nickname he would often neglect the other attributes of bears that were less pleasant. He considered himself to be an agreeable man.

  “We’re going to need some rope,” he said. “And at least five men.”

  Braume and his eldest son, Artyom, stood above a steep drop off and surveyed the remains of an ox that had presumably fallen to its death. Its body hadn’t bloated yet which indicated its death wouldn’t be in vain. Braume, now having called himself a farmer for twenty years, was used to dealing with impediments like this. His process depended on his ability to think things through and develop a logical course of action. He and his eldest were opposites in this way.

  “It’s going to take half a day to get it out of the ditch,” Artyom remarked. “Why can’t we just leave it there?”

  It had been clear to Braume for some time that Artyom was unable to understand simple things. In this case, he seemed to be unaware of how valuable the various parts of the ox were, but in other cases he seemed to misunderstand the meaning behind a conversation or why people act the way they do. He was the laziest of Braume’s four sons and everyone knew it, especially Braume. It was a point of shame on the family, but Braume blamed himself more than anyone else as he raised each son on his own after their mother died in childbirth. Braume’s father helped where he could but never assumed responsibility for anyone other than himself – “I’ve already raised enough children,” he’d say.

  “Go to the village and call on Dentrik, Cornalt, and Bogdan. They all owe me favors,” Braume said. “I’ll get rope from the house.”

  “Why can’t I get the rope and you go to town?” Artyom grumbled.

  “Just do what your told, boy” he growled.

  Braume clenched his teeth, as was his custom, when he was angry. Friends and acquaintances rarely saw that side of him, but they all knew it existed. His children, however, saw the bear side of him quite often. In some cases, too often. Artyom loved his father, but endured his wrath more than anyone. It makes sense, he’d tell himself. I am the oldest. Yet, as threatening as Braume could seem, he never over-disciplined his children.

  As both men prepared to go their separate ways they noticed an approaching ox-wagon. Braume knew right away it was Evgeni, his father.

  “There, your grandfather has even come to give you a ride,” he said.

  Grandfather coming to the rescue was a frequent occurrence as he tried to make himself more present in their lives. Braume assumed it was because he was absent for most of his, only showing himself once every few years when the four corners of the kingdom were between skirmishes.

  Evgeni pulled up and stopped the wagon next to them. “You boys need anything from town? I’ve got ten pounds of corn and wheat to sell and I’m due for a stiff drink.” Evgeni was very popular among The Hamelesh natives. He would often earn free drinks for stories that he’d tell about the Seven Years War and how he lived as a prisoner for half of it. Old and disheveled, he wouldn’t look like he’d be a danger to anyone now, but decades ago he ran the Punishment Unit in the King’s Service. He was directly responsible for the executions of over one thousand men and women – and in one case, a child.

  “Be careful. I heard they added four guards last week,” Braume warned.

  Artyom jumped up on the wagon and crossed his arms like a child as he had done so many times before when told to do something he didn’t want to do. Braume was used to seeing it and had become immune to its effects.

  “They can add fifty guards for all I care. I’m just going to sell my goods and get properly sloshed and return in the morning. Will you be able to find your own way home?” he asked his grandson.

  “Yes, he will,” Braume answered for him. Braume and Artyom scowled at one another for a few seconds before Evgeni interrupted. “Well, I guess we’ll be on our way.”

  The wagon rolled away and Braume began making his way home. He felt nervous about something, but couldn’t identify what it was. Artyom had run errands in Avanton alone before and his father selling goods in town wasn’t new, but he felt like something was going to happen to one or both of them. He turned to watch the wagon disappear over a hill and thought maybe I should stop them. He was not a superstitious man so these thoughts and feelings really didn’t mean anything to him.

  Annie

  “Don’t wander off too far,” her mother called out to her.

  It was the first day of summer and Annie was already tired of seeing the faces of the same kids she played with year after year. She was a bookish child and would rather spend her days in solitude than play Catch the Hatter with the other boys and girls her age. She carried with her two books today: To Havendore and Back and Beasts in the Northern Waters. Both were scholarly works written by a famed professor that she so admired. Her intention was to find a good bit of shade under an oak tree and spend the day exploring the kingdom in her mind.

  She considered herself an orphan even though she had seven siblings and a loving mother. Her father had died during the Plains War a few years earlier, devastating her in an irreparable way. She loved him with all her heart and was furious that he died in a nonsensical war. Before he left to join his unit, she taught him letters and numbers so that he could write her. She was already the most intelligent member of her family at seven years old. Now, twelve and close to marrying age, she felt trapped and alone and contemplated running away at least once a day.

  She noticed a small flock of crows pecking at the ground a few yards in front of her. As she approached they flew away and squawked angrily at her. “Awe,” she said as she examined a dead rabbit. “Poor thing. What happened to you?” She bit the bottom of her lip as she looked around and realized how far she had meandered from the village. “I wish there was something I could do for you,” she said, refocusing on the rabbit. She noticed a few crows perched atop an oak tree and assumed they were waiting for her to leave so they could resume their dinner.

  As she walked away she heard the rapid flapping of wings and squawks of gratitude as the crows descended upon the poor rabbit. It was then that she also heard a faint conversation from the forest ahead of her. Curious, she crept closer to spy on whomever it was.

  Through the thicket she could see the back of what appeared to be a woman, standing in place rocking back and forth. Annie listened closely and heard the woman muttering in Dranic, one of the three known dead languages. Annie didn’t know it was Dranic, but she certainly knew it wasn’t common tongue. Upon closer inspection, she noticed the bottom half of a doe lying in front of the woman. She moved to get a better view and snapped a twig in half causing the woman to stop her incantation.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said. “I’m not going to hurt you or this precious creature.”

  Startled, Annie didn’t know what to do. She froze in place.

  “You have a curious mind, I bet” the woman said as she turned to face Annie in the bushes. “Why don’t you come over here and help an old woman out?”

  Annie could see the woman’s face clearly now that she had turned. She looked to be one hundred or more
years old. A rarity as many don’t live to be over sixty anymore. Annie also noticed a smear of blood on the woman’s face, a sight that would frighten most children her age.

  She stepped out of the bushes and cautiously approached the woman. Annie had never seen a witch before, but she had read a dozen or so books about their kind. Her particular favorite was titled Dark Botany by Eladrin Allspice, her favorite author, that detailed the use of various flowers and roots to make elixirs and poisons.

  As Annie got closer to the woman she noticed a bloody injury on the shoulder of the doe. She was surprised to see that it was still alive. “We’re not too late for this one,” the woman said. “We still have time.”

  Confused, Annie wasn’t sure what to say. She sat her books down and kneeled by the woman and doe. She noticed a few rilac petals and suage roots on the ground near its mouth. “Here, child, place your hand on her stomach and don’t be frightened. If you’re frightened then she will be as well and we can’t have that if we’re going to save her.” The woman grabbed Annie’s hand and placed it on the doe’s stomach.

  The woman closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “Ri li hav den murk kommus. Ri li hay den murk kommus,” she chanted. Annie studied the woman and her incantation. What is she trying to accomplish?

  Annie examined the wound and noticed little black spots all around it. The woman continued her spell without interruption. Annie was in awe of the woman’s dedication and faith in her ability to do something for this poor animal. Slowly, the wound began closing up. The doe started breathing rapidly, Annie knew this as she felt her stomach push in and out much faster than before. She looked at the doe’s eyes and noticed they were changing color, from black to crimson.

  After a few seconds, the doe sprung to its feet and sprinted off into the woods. The woman stopped chanting and watched as it disappeared into the trees. Annie gathered that the woman had done this before and wasn’t surprised that the doe seemed to be unaffected by the experience. Annie studied the woman’s face and recognized a look of sadness, a hint of loneliness – a feeling Annie knew quite well.