Beggar Baron
Beggar Baron
|
CHAPTER ONE
Page 1
My young half-brother, the Baron Merril Krall, rode by me this
morning and, though he looked straight into my eyes as he
tossed a coin into my beggars bowl, did not recognise me. I
cannot help but hate him, but I no longer thirst for his death. I
no longer walk the path of retribution, even though I am living
a life of wretched, ignoble poverty whilst he rides in my
rightful place and in opulent comfort to his many business
functions and parties, and is considered by all to be a very fine
young fellow indeed.
My given name, as tradition demands, has been wiped from the
family roll and I am forbidden from using the family name for
my own. In addition there is still a price on my head that
would make a fair down-payment on a king's ransom. And
whilst in the last six long years of exile I have had adventures
that could be the makings of legend, and have had experiences
that would enrich the souls of the gods themselves, I would
gladly swap them all for a full belly and a warm, clean bed.
Memories make poor gravy and there is scant meat in myth.
Begging has no compensations and allows no holidays or free
time. A public festival simply means that people may have their
spirits lifted and purse strings loosened to the point where I
may, for one meal at least, eat my fill, rather than suffer that
degrading, gnawing pain deep in the pit of one's stomach that
can never be ignored.
Since my return to Thraffica two weeks ago I have taken to
sleeping in my family crypt, in the centre of the Necropolis on
the outskirts of town, in the shadow of the castle walls. It is
cool and quiet here, and I feel closer to my father when I lie
down on the stone shelf next to his casket than mostly I did
when he was alive. And it is this proximity, I suppose, and
maybe a need for his forgiveness, that has prompted me to
start writing this journal. A sheaf of stolen paper, a cache of
candles (still hidden where Branna and I left them, all those
long years ago), I shall not emerge from this place until my
story is told, and my soul purged.
First you must know about me. Until six years ago, my
seventeenth year, my name was Culainn Krall, eldest son of
Baron Piter Krall, step-brother of Merril. Since then I have
travelled under many names, and been called many things, but
no title sits comfortably upon my shoulders any longer. My
childhood seems, in hindsight, to have been an eternal round of
wild, reckless irresponsibility. I spent virtually every day
running through the local pastures with children of the
townsfolk, under the protective but discreet eye of Mandros,
my protector, hero and role-model.
Although I gave it no thought at the time, the other children
usually treated me with greater respect than they did each
other; I now suspect that their parents impressed upon them
that while I could be a good friend, I (or my father, more
likely) could make life intolerable for them and their families
should I become an enemy.
I never fully understood my father when I was a child. In fact,
I'm not sure I even understood him towards the end of his life.
Whilst for the most part I was allowed to run free and do as I
wished, and I knew always that he loved me, he would have
me beaten for the smallest of misdemeanours; to him table
manners and correct speech were more important by far than
muddy clothes and skinned knees. But discipline was never
administered by him. I would always be sent to see one of the
grooms, who would decide upon the extent of my punishment.
Of my step-mother and half-brother I saw very little. My real
mother died in giving birth to me, and my father's second wife
offered me, and was in turn offered, no love. My nanny was
always closer to me than was my step-mother. My half-
brother, being four years my junior, was never a playmate to
me, and was recipient of all his mother's affection. Never did I
see her without his being wrapped up in her skirts, and as a
consequence I saw him very little, which upset me not one bit.
More of a friend to me was Mandros and his brother Branna,
my father's protector and Captain of the Guard. At least I
always thought them to be brothers; they were almost identical
in appearance, although Branna was a few years older. Both of
the warrior caste, they wore their dark hair far longer than was
fashionable and proudly displayed the mark of their kind, a
crescent moon and demonic skull, both etched into the skin of
their upper sword arm and as a silver trinket dangling from
their left ears. I hero-worshipped them both shamelessly, but
Mandros, being in his late twenties nearer my own age and a
reckless, irresponsible show-off, was my favourite.
Our family home is known to all and sundry simply as 'The
Castle', and it has no other name. It is actually a fortified
Manor House with crenellated walls, built by my grandfather.
It stands on a hill just outside the market town of Thraffica,
and some thirty-odd miles from the imaginatively named
Harbour City. The family living quarters are on the south wall
for the sun, while the guard barracks and stables were to the
north and west. The gate, and guardhouse, looked out to the
east. Embraced by the castle walls, where I suppose the keep
would normally be found, is the building that my father used
for his business dealings, known throughout the household
simply as his study, although you could hide a good size barn
within.
It may surprise you to learn that I have only had occasion to
visit my father's chambers once in my life. That, I suppose,
would be where my story really begins, back when I was just
twelve. Old man Granthe had caught me stealing apples from
his tree of knowledge, which they say he had transported from
his distant homeland in the West, over the ocean. Why it was
so named I never deduced, as I had stolen his apples many
times before and never seemed to know any more having
partaken of them. But then, he was an alchemist, reputed to be
one of the great Magii of Thrarn, and not regarded as a person
to be crossed. Anyway, my father summoned me to his
chambers rather than having one of the grooms thrash me, as
was his habit, I thought at the time that this was because he
believed I would deem this treatment to be more serious than a
few welts on my backside. However, I was ever a contrary
character. The prospect of missing a beating combined with an
invitation to my father's inner sanctum, where not even my
mother (and only a select few of the servants) gained access,
put me in fair high spirits as I was admitted through the tall
oak doors to his study.
Coming in from the sun, it took my eyes a few moments to
adjust to the inner gloom. Though determined not to be
impressed by what I might see, I gazed in wonder around the
vaulted, barn-like room. I had somehow always imagined this
part of the house to be a warren of small offices and the like,
full of the bustle of dubious business and dark deeds being
quietly done, of clerks and cut-throats rubbing shoulders
uneasily.
Instead it was one vast room, fully fifty paces long and about
half that wide, the only windows set high into the walls. I
stopped just inside the door, drinking in the details. It was lit,
as was most of the house, with blazing torches on stands
placed at random throughout the room. Three walls were lined
with books on shelves reaching almost to the ceiling, thirty feet
above me. Tables and desks were scattered at random across
the stone floor, some strewn with further piles of books, others
supporting strange unidentified devices, the uses of which I
could only guess at. I had but a few seconds to absorb all this
before an unseen hand urged me forward. I looked to see who
was pushing and encountered a further surprise. The man who
had appeared behind me was fully six feet tall and had skin of
darkest ebony.
To Be Continued...
|
|
|
