With a Jester of Kindness Read online

  THE JESTER KING:

  BOOK ONE

  K.C. HERBEL

  Copyright © 2009 by K.C. Herbel.

  Library of Congress Control Number:

  2008904740

  ISBN:

  Hardcover

  978-1-4363-4648-1

  Softcover

  978-1-4363-4647-4

  Ebook

  978-1-4500-4599-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book was printed in the United States of America.

  Cover art by Florencio Ares and Sherwin Soy.

  To order additional copies of this book, contact:

  Xlibris Corporation

  1-888-795-4274

  www.Xlibris.com

  [email protected]

  49460

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue: A Running Start

  Chapter I: Fate Takes a Hand

  Chapter II: Of Parting and Sorrow

  Chapter III: Phoenix

  Chapter IV: The Ring

  Chapter V: Growing Time

  Chapter VI: A Jester Borne

  Chapter VII: An Unexpected Adventure

  Chapter VIII: The Journey Continues

  Chapter IX: Cyndyn Hall

  Chapter X: The Spirit of Cyndyn Hall

  Chapter XI: The City

  Chapter XII: Glad Tidings

  Chapter XIII: Wedding Pilgrimage

  Chapter XIV: The Guests Are Welcomed

  Chapter XV: The Wedding

  Chapter XVI: The Wedding Feast

  Chapter XVII: Decisions, Decisions

  Chapter XVIII: Dark Days

  Chapter XIX: Hullabaloo

  Chapter XX: Dream Time

  Chapter XXI: Fate

  Chapter XXII: The Hunt Begins

  Chapter XXIII: On Fate’s Path

  Chapter XXIV: War

  Chapter XXV: Homecoming

  Chapter XXVI: The Night Queen

  Chapter XXVII: Convergence

  Chapter XXVIII: The Gyldan Mene

  Chapter XXIX: Death of a King

  Chapter XXX: Beyond the Horizon

  Dedication

  In memory of my father, whom I still miss very much. To his father, the storyteller;

  to my mom, for always being there; and to my wife, my best friend in this world.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank everyone who has helped me with this novel, but that would be a book unto itself. However, I would like to make mention of a special few who have contributed much with generous reading, advice, encouragement, patience, and inspiration: my First Reader (and wife), Mary Anne; my daughters Leigh, Leslie, and Melanie; my friend Robert Beasley; my mentors Tom Erhard, Mark Medoff, Raymond E. Feist, and Stiles White; and my writing heroes J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis whose sandals I am not fit to carry.

  Lastly, I thank my Lord, Jesus the Christ, who deserves all glory.

  God go with thee!

  K. C. Herbel

  Prologue

  A Running Start

  The silence of the forest was shattered by the thunder of horse hooves churning up the black earth of the King’s Road. Two cloaked riders whipped their galloping mounts in a race against the setting sun.

  As they passed a deserted crossroads, the larger of the two looked over his shoulder. “Hurry,” he shouted, “the sun is almost down. We must reach shelter before nightfall.”

  Suddenly the tired mare under him slipped and stumbled. Its legs collapsed, and it rolled to the ground, hurling its rider further up the road. The second rider pulled up on the reins and turned around.

  The fallen man grudgingly got to his feet and straightened the sword at his waist before shambling over to his downed horse. He looked back at his companion who pushed back the hood of his cloak, to reveal the smudged, sparsely bearded face of a youth.

  “Go on, go on. I’m well,” said the man, spitting the dirt from his teeth.

  The youth urged his jumpy, lathered horse forward. His large eyes danced from side to side above his quivering lips. “Are you quite sure?” he asked in a thin voice.

  “I’ve taken harder falls in the lists.”

  “Yes, an old warrior like you must be quite used to it by now, but what of your mount?”

  “She will survive . . . Old warrior? I am not an old . . .” The large man stopped and grinned then said, “Go on, I will follow immediately.”

  As the smirking youth turned his horse back up the road, the warrior brought the mare to its feet and quickly inspected its legs. “Confound it,” he muttered.

  The youth again stopped his horse. The grin had escaped his face. “What is it? Is she lame?”

  “What, this old battle-nag?” said the large man. “Too stubborn for that, but she is wounded and look . . . she’s spilled our provisions.”

  He immediately tied a cloth around the mare’s injured foreleg and bent to pick up the bread, fruit, and gold coins scattered across the road. He put a handful of coins into a purse and was reaching for a small loaf of bread when the cry of an infant erupted from his companion.

  The dismounted warrior shot a fretful look to the younger man and then glanced about nervously. As he eyed the woods, his free hand drifted on to the hilt of his sword. “Confound, it’s nearly dark!”

  The youth shifted in the saddle and pushed aside his grey cloak to reveal a very young, very small baby. “There, there, my little prince,” he cooed maternally. “What’s the matter?”

  At that moment, the youth caught sight of movement down the road they had just covered. All happiness drained from his face, and his back stiffened. Instantly his mount reared up, pawing the air with its forelegs.

  The warrior’s mare leapt into the air, kicking and snorting. Her master crouched low in the road with one hand solidly gripping the reins. The man’s sharp green eyes searched the shadowy curtain of the forest beyond the naked blade of his sword.

  The youth skillfully forced his startled mount back to the ground then pointed down the road and screamed, “He’s found us! Run!” Immediately he dug his heels into his horse and charged up the road, cradling the baby.

  The man hunkered on the road looked past his bucking mount in the direction the youth had pointed. His eyes fell upon the nameless crossroads, where a low, foglike darkness crept through the trees. It billowed into view like black ink poured into clear, still water and hovered in the intersection. Thin, wispy tendrils probed in front of it, and into the woods on either side of the road, before melting back into the main body of darkness. Without warning, it shifted and started up the road in the direction of the two riders.

  “God save us,” pleaded the warrior under his breath. He then yanked on the reins of his horse, demanding her obedience to his control. He put his foot in the stirrup, but the beast circled away from him. After a few hurried attempts, he managed to throw himself into the saddle. The frightened creature spun round and round beneath him as he paused to eye the gold coins still littering the road.

  “Hurry!” shouted the youth over his shoulder.

  “But the gold!”

  “Leave it!”

  “But we will need . . .”

  “Leave it! Only the child matters!”

  Without another moment’s
hesitation, the large man swatted the mare’s rump with the flat of his sword and galloped up the road.

  Chapter I

  Fate Takes a Hand

  The music of the crickets filtered through the air, soft and constant as the gentle hearts of the people who dwelled inside the warm wee cottages scattered haphazardly across the quiet valley. Small ribbons of white smoke curled out of chimneys, and the smell of supper being served at the inn was wafting through the air. Everything was just as it had always been, during this time of year in the Valley of the Yew.

  John, the owner of the valley’s only inn, The Valley’s Finest Inn, was outside collecting the last armful of firewood. He always enjoyed this time of day, so he was in no hurry to get back inside to the kitchen. He reached down with his free hand and patted the tan hound by his side.

  “There’s a lad,” he said soothingly. He looked to the west and watched the orange disk of the sun slip behind the distant hills. “What a sunset, ’ey Rascal?”

  The dog seemed to smile in agreement and raised his head for a more effective petting. He nuzzled up against John’s leg and almost knocked him over with his enthusiastic display of affection. A stick of firewood fell from John’s arm, and Rascal instantly scooped it up in his slobbering mouth.

  “Good boy . . . now come along and help me stoke the fire.”

  John turned and started inside. He looked around to see Rascal standing with his front paws spread far apart and his tail end wagging in the air. The dog looked at John then hopped to one side playfully. John immediately recognized the dog’s mood and played along.

  “Very well,” he said, putting down his load of wood at the kitchen door. “So you want to play now, do ya? I see that there stick means an awful lot to ya, ’ey Rascal? Tell you what: if I can get that stick away from ya . . .”

  The dog dropped the stick and looked away from the inn. He perked up his normally droopy ears while tilting his head from side to side. The husky innkeeper looked up to see what distracted his canine friend so. Downhill, a piece, the road went into a thick grove of trees. John looked hard into the shadows of the small hollow. Finally he perceived someone coming out of the woods: two riders—in a hurry.

  As the two approached, John could see that they were dusty and their horses lathered from a long hard ride. He brushed himself off and prepared to greet them. This proved to be a waste of time for the two riders galloped directly up to him raising a cloud of dust. Rascal barked fiercely at the strangers and did his best to look twice his size and half his age.

  “Quiet, Rascal!” John shouted.

  The dog skulked from his master’s side, his hackles still bristling, and went to watch from inside the kitchen door.

  When the dust settled and John had finished dusting himself off for the second time, he looked up and smiled at the new arrivals. The one closest to him was a large burly man. He wore a tattered brown cloak with fine chain mail armor peeking through in places. The other, a younger man, was slight of build and wore leather armor under a grey cloak. This one hung back, avoiding John’s eyes. Both were unshaven and appeared to have been on the road for several days. In the gloaming, John still noticed the hilts of their elegantly crafted swords. The large man’s sword looked heavy and broad while the smaller man’s was long and narrow.

  The big man shifted his weight in the saddle and asked, “Art thou the innkeeper?”

  “I am John, the owner, milord,” John replied.

  “Well, John-the-owner, I see by yon sign, that this is The Valley’s Finest Inn. Is it so?”

  “That is what they say.”

  Quickly, the man retorted, “I would wager that they also say it is the valley’s only inn.”

  John grinned, knowing that the game was up, then replied sheepishly, “I am afraid milord would be richer for that wager, if he could but find the fool daft or drunk enough to take such a . . .”

  The younger man cleared his throat. His large companion looked at him and raised his hand slightly. “I know,” John heard him whisper.

  The large man returned his attention to John. “Well then good John-the-owner, let us go into your inn and enjoy the finest this valley has to offer.”

  During this short conversation, John observed the slighter of the two men looking back in the direction of the road several times, as if expecting to see something or someone following them. John was just about to ask if there were to be others in the party but decided to appear less observant and keep his nose out of business that might shorten it.

  Putting his beak in the wrong feeder had been one of John’s shortcomings in the past, but he discovered that sticking his nose into other people’s affairs often hurt business, not to mention his nose. So most recently he had adopted an “anti-intrusion policy,” which he strictly applied to strangers, and hoped for reciprocal consideration where his life and nose were concerned.

  John led the way into the inn with the big man following close behind. Once inside, John showed the man the commons room and asked him to have a seat. The second man was nowhere to be seen, so John went to see if there was anything he could do to help him. As John got to the door he nearly collided with the slender man who was carrying a bundle cradled in the crook of his arm. John turned out of the way to avoid being plowed under and found the man’s large companion standing behind him holding two plates heaped with food.

  “Milord, please . . . !”

  “We shall eat in our room” was all the man said.

  John immediately saw the urgency of acquainting them with quarters and inquired, “Do ye have a preference, milord?”

  “A private room overlooking the stables,” the man said tersely.

  “But milord would not be comfortable in that room.”

  “Nonsense! I can never sleep unless I know my mare is safe.”

  “Very good, milord.” John picked up the key to the back room and motioned for the two of them to follow him up the stairs. While still on the stair, he asked, “Any special instructions for the stable boy, milord.”

  “Give them a good rubdown and a good portion of oats. Let them drink freely of the water. The mare has a cut on her foreleg, so have the boy put on a clean bandage. I’ll be down later to examine it. Also, have the boy put some oats in a pair of bags for our journey.”

  “Very good, milord.”

  They reached the door of their room, and John opened it. The large man stepped into the room, looked about, then motioned for his companion to enter.

  Once the slighter man slipped into the room, the large man stepped into the doorway, blocking John’s entrance. He then handed John a small bag of coins and said, “We leave with the rising of the sun. Have our horses ready, and pack a cold breakfast and lunch.”

  “Do you wish me to turn down the bed, milord?” asked John, his eyes vainly searching past the large man.

  “No.”

  John turned to leave, and the man snared his arm. “One last thing,” he said, taking John aside, “tell no one we are here, and bring up some warm milk in a short while.”

  “We have goat’s milk, milord.”

  “Goat’s milk would be fine.”

  John went downstairs with his suspicions highly piqued. However, he remembered his new policy and was determined to steer wide of the entire topic. This was not easy, for when he started fulfilling his latest guests’ requests, he was met with a flurry of queries concerning them. A free pint of ale and a song easily distracted his nosy regulars, but nothing could deter his implacable wife, Moira. Her many years as an innkeeper had made her a well-established and much honored institution of local rumormongery. Fortunately for John, he didn’t know much. However, this lack of information made Moira more persistent than ever.

  “Well, did this mysterious stranger have money at least?” she asked.

  “Aye!” John replied. “He paid me in advance, and I’d imagine a lot better than the scrubby blokes we have blowin’ through here half the time.”

  “You imagine? Ya mean yo
u don’t know?”

  “Well you haven’t given me much chance, now have ya?”

  At this John opened up the small bag of coins and dumped it on the table. Their eyes nearly popped from their heads when they surveyed the pile of gold and silver coins that lay on the table.

  “Gaww! Did ya ever . . . ?” cooed Moira.

  “No. Not ever!”

  “How much is it, John?”

  “Don’t know. But it’s a kettle more than any other pile in this valley.”

  “Are those really . . . real . . . ?”

  John carefully eyed one of the yellow coins. He bit it then smiled and said, “Real gold!” He looked at the coin again. “He must mean for me to keep these for him. Zounds, put ’em back quick!”

  They started to scoop the coins back in the bag when the back door opened, and in burst the stable boy. This so startled John that he dropped a few of the coins on the floor.

  “Go milk the goat!” John barked at the boy.

  The boy jumped back and hastily retreated out the door. John picked up the money and threw it into the bag. He wiped his forehead and tucked the bag into his tunic with a sigh.

  John raised a warning finger to Moira and said, “Not a word,” to which Moira replied by pretending to lock her lips and throw away the key. John was not greatly encouraged by this, but knew it was the best he could hope for.

  By the time the goat’s milk was ready, only one regular remained in the commons room. John ushered him out with a quick but hardy “g’night” and sent him on his way. He lit a lantern and toted the milk upstairs to his mystery guests. When he got to the door, it was slightly ajar, and he took this as an invitation to bring in the milk.

  A young woman sat in the corner of the dimly lit room holding a baby. She spun around—her eyes and mouth open wide in astonishment. Leather armor of a masculine design hung loosely on her shoulders, but it looked like a costume on her as she breast-fed the small infant. John was taken aback by the sight of her and started to retreat out of modesty. However, his feet halted and tugged him to a stop in the doorway.