The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

  The Cyber Chronicles

  Book I: Queen of Arlin

  T C Southwell

  Published by T C Southwell at Smashwords

  Copyright © 2010 T C Southwell

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Prologue

  "More monsters have come from the Death Zone, Sire."

  King Litham Alrade looked up at his trusted advisor. Lines of weariness mapped his parchment-pale skin, and steel grey brows drew together above dark blue eyes that had lost their lustre. Shadows of pain lurked in their depths, reflecting that which gnawed at his innards and loosened his hold on life. The doctors had withdrawn from the sickbed and stood in affronted unwillingness to admit their failure.

  Heavy, indigo velvet curtains covered the windows and kept the wood-panelled bedchamber gloomy, adding to the sense of doom. Smoking braziers burnt incense, thickening the air with cloying scent. Bottles, vials and pots cluttered the bedside table, testament to the doctors' futile ministrations.

  King Alrade's swift illness had taken all by surprise, wasting the flesh from his powerful frame at an alarming speed and robbing him of his strength. The King's eyes wandered over his long-time friend's face, seeking an answer in his elderly features but finding none. Despair flared in his eyes.

  "What can I do about it now, Pervor? All that I can, I have done. Did you meet the wizard?"

  The gaunt, balding advisor nodded. "He agreed to help. He told me that he would send a tool, some sort of magical device, and it will appear in our dungeons when it is ready. Do you truly trust this man, Sire? You leave the fate of your kingdom and your daughter in his hands."

  King Alrade sighed and settled deeper into the soft cushions of his deathbed. "What choice do I have, my friend? The gods have decided to take me from this mortal plane, and none can gainsay them. Certainly not that brood of incompetents that lurk in the shadows. I only wish I could stay to see it through. Tassin does not deserve this burden on her reign, she is too young." Anger brought blood to stain the old King's cheeks for a moment before it drained away again. His wheezing broke the hush.

  "Tassin is strong," Pervor soothed. "She comes from a long line of warrior kings and queens. She will win."

  The King shook his head, closing his eyes as a stab of pain coursed through him. "She is frailer than you think. Her mother was as fragile as a flower, and as easily crushed. Why do you think she died birthing Tassin, who was such a small baby? Tassin tries to be a warrior princess, but she is too small, like her mother, her blows too puny. Mandon, bless him, makes her feel good when she does her sword training, but he tells me that she can hardly cleave a butterfly in half."

  Pervor pursed pale lips and regarded the dying King. "But she has your blood in her too, My King. She will be strong when she has to."

  "She will try. I pray that she does not kill herself in the process. Pervor, swear to me."

  The aged advisor fell to one knee. "Anything, Sire, just name it."

  "Protect her, and if you cannot, since you are old, find a mighty warrior who will. One who will stand beside her and kill her enemies when she cannot. She will have troubles aplenty, and not merely the monsters from the Death Zone that ravage our land. The kings will fight for her hand, and none are truly good. Find someone. Be he mage or warrior, prince or miracle worker. She will need him. Swear this to me."

  Pervor bowed his head. "I swear, My King, upon my life and the lives of my children, to do my utmost."

  "Tell her of the weapon as soon as she is Queen. Help her to use it, and defeat the Death Zone. I leave her in your care."

  Pervor nodded, frowning as the King's breath rattled ominously, and one of the healers who hovered nearby stepped closer to bend over him.

  "Send for the Princess," the doctor said.

  The advisor retreated into the shadows as a manservant ran out. Pervor gazed at the King who lay shrunken and pale on the huge bed, the doctors gathered around him like vultures about a corpse.

  Princess Tassin Alrade gazed down at her father's peaceful face, her throat tight with grief. His eyes remained closed and his breath came in shallow gasps. The bevy of doctors, advisors and servants who stood in the shadows watched her stroke his brow, lined by years of worry. The King was dying; everyone knew it. Soon she, a seventeen-year-old girl, would be Queen of a vast and powerful land. Her father had wed late in life, rejecting all offers until he had met the young, butterfly child of an insignificant lord. A brief year of happiness had ended with her mother's death a few days after Tassin's birth. From her father she had inherited the Alrade black hair and blue eyes, and from her mother's blood, her slight stature and fine features.

  Tassin choked back her tears, sought his limp hand amongst the bed clothes and gripped it. The King, his beard grizzled and his lips tinged with blue, opened his eyes.

  Tassin leant forward. "Papa? Papa, it's me."

  His gasping breaths quieted. "Tassin, my child." His eyes roamed over her face, lingering on the features that reminded him of his dead wife, her gentle smile and soft eyes now filled with sorrow.

  "Papa, you must not die. I do not want you to die."

  The hand she held gripped hers weakly. "I am sorry, little one. Be happy, Tassin. Do not let anyone take that from you. Trust Pervor, he will guide you and take care of you. I go to join your mother."

  "Papa!" Her tears overflowed as King Litham's eyes closed, and his breath left him in a long sigh. Tassin flung herself onto his chest and embraced him, shuddering sobs racking her slender form. A sigh came from the shadows where his retainers waited.

  "The King is dead, long live the Queen," a voice proclaimed.

  There was a rustle of rich cloth as the retainers knelt. A firm hand clasped her shoulder.

  "Come, Your Majesty, he is dead." She did not recognise the voice, but allowed herself to be tugged away, numb with misery, hardly noticing as she was led to her room.

  For ten days, the kingdom mourned, none more than Tassin. Her father lay in state, and mourners filed past to pay their last respects. He was interred in the royal tomb beside his wife, and Tassin was alone, an orphan at seventeen, barely of age. Pervor watched over her with the fervour of a broody hen, dogging her footsteps with unending advice. Her principal lady-in-waiting offered a plump, motherly shoulder on which to weep, and it was often damp. Ten days after the funeral, Tassin's coronation took place in her father's throne room.

  Her ladies-in-waiting dressed her in a white satin gown, its bodice covered with intricate patterns of seed pearls and its gossamer sleeves sewn with tiny diamonds. Her silken tresses were teased into glossy bangs and swept up into a regal coif sparkling with jewelled pins and fine gold chains. Diamonds flashed on her fingers, wrists and neck. Tear-drop pearls dripped fr
om her earlobes, and a diamond-studded silver mesh was pinned to the back of her hair, falling like a rain-dewed cobweb around her neck. Her ladies praised her beauty, but were forced to rub berry juice into her cheeks and lips to give them some colour, reminding Tassin of a lamb being prepared for slaughter.

  The priests and nobles awaited her in the long, banner-hung throne room with its high roof and polished slate floor. Battle trophies, coats of arms and old suits of armour told the tale of her ancestors' glory days. The three rulers of the neighbouring kingdoms turned to rake her with cold, calculating eyes when she swept in. They were here to vie for her hand in marriage, and her extreme youth and beauty clearly pleased them. Her father's last words echoed in her mind as she was led towards the throne, hardly aware of the courtiers who sank down in homage as she passed.

  The ceremony was a blur of droning speeches and tuneless hymns. She held the things that were placed in her hands, not caring what they were, and repeated the words that she was asked to, her mind still filled with the image of her father's gaunt, tired face. As the cold weight of the crown settled upon her brow, she vowed to obey her father's last wish. The eyes of the three kings crawled over her like loathsome slugs. Everywhere she looked, she met calculating gazes, plotting, weighing, seeking her mettle. She raised her chin in proud defiance of their judgement, and the scheming eyes slid away with cunning glints. Even at her coronation, enemies surrounded her. Her life was poised to plunge into a dark sea of intrigue and plots, and the prospect terrified her.

  Chapter One

  Tassin gazed across the darkening land as the sun's afterglow faded. The distant forest grew gloomier with every passing minute, and she shivered, wishing the strange wizard, Manutim, had not insisted that she meet him there alone tonight. The forest, with its huge, twisted trees, frightened her. Legends abounded of werewolves who dwelt in its dark confines and emerged at night to seek human victims.

  Turning away from the dusky vista, Tassin gazed across the grey stone battlements. The sentries' armour glinted in the light of newly kindled torches. They stood like statues, their brutal faces blank, but for all she knew they could have been the cook's cousins, since there were so few of her trained soldiers left. Most had perished over the last two months. She wondered how long it would take for the last remnants of her once-great army to lose hope and flee before they too were slaughtered on the battlefield. Deserters had been fleeing the castle for days now, vanishing from their posts in the dead of night.

  Three months had passed since her father's death, and she still missed him terribly. She now ruled the largest and most beautiful of the five kingdoms, and was the prey of the three unwed kings’ ambition to rule Arlin. They had come courting, and Tassin shuddered as she recalled their bungling attempts to impress her. Fat, bearded Bardock, who smelt of wine and dogs. Old, widowed Grisson, thin and lecherous, who sucked at his food with a toothless mouth. The memory soured her stomach. All her hopes had rested upon the young, handsome King Torrian, the only one she had even considered, until she had found out that he was a rapist and woman beater.

  The feral glint in his eye had become obvious when she had been informed of his true nature. Her principal lady-in-waiting, Royanne, had told her tearfully, aware that she was dashing the young Queen's hopes for a happy marriage. During his stay at Alrade Castle, Torrian had attacked one of the serving maids, and his retinue had spread surreptitious whispers of his appetites. The rumours were not supposed to reach Tassin, but Royanne was an able spy, unearthing anything potentially harmful to her monarch.

  Tassin sighed, her eyes sweeping the night-shrouded land. The law said that she must have a husband of noble blood, and the kings could force her to wed one of them if she did not choose a suitable spouse. They had pointed that out repeatedly, and, since there were no princes of royal blood apart from Prince Victor of Olgara, her choice was limited. Olgara was a poor kingdom bordering the badlands that relied heavily on trade to survive, and it could not jeopardise its alliances with the other kingdoms. Prince Victor had not offered a suit, and King Xavier, his elder brother, had sent only a letter of condolence. She wanted none of the three available kings, however, and had announced it boldly to their faces.

  Torrian had been the most outraged, swearing to tear down her castle and drag her to the altar by her hair, as the law allowed. In desperation, Tassin sent invitations to all the unwed noblemen in her kingdom of marriageable age. All but one had declined, and he, a young lord from the southern part of her kingdom, had been waylaid and killed, apparently by highwaymen. She knew that the three kings had used threats and blackmail to prevent the suitors from accepting her invitation, and in the case of the bravest, had resorted to murder. In the face of this bold treachery, she could do nothing but reiterate her refusal of their offers and weather the storm that followed.

  Torrian had sent a party of men to kidnap her from her bedroom, but they had been discovered and executed after confessing their mission. In a fury of fear and defiance, Tassin had ordered her soldiers armed and mobilised to defend her borders, preventing spies and would-be kidnappers from entering. After she had foiled two more attempts with these tactics, Torrian had joined with the other kings to fight their way to her castle and carry her off by force. So the war had started, and although her army had rallied to her call and her lords fought bravely, she was losing.

  Three armies stood against her, united in their purpose and agreed amongst themselves that the first to reach her side would win her hand and rule Arlin. Pervor had begged her to wed Torrian and end the conflict, but Tassin was adamant that she would not be forced to wed a rapist. In her darkest hour, when it seemed that all was lost and she would end up as a battle prize, the old advisor had told her of the magician Manutim's promise to her father. The mage's weapon was designed to destroy the Death Zone and put an end to the monsters that came from it to ravage towns in Arlin, but such a weapon might also help her to win the war.

  Turning back to the battlements, she clasped the cold rock and gazed into the darkness. Manutim's promise of help gave her a vestige of hope, for he was a wise and powerful mage. The weapon he had promised her father must be fearsome indeed if it could win the war. She had sworn to die in battle before marrying any of the vile kings. Then her cousin, a weedy boy of twelve, would inherit, and her uncle would be regent until her cousin was sixteen. Raising her chin, she gripped her sword's chill hilt. She was a warrior queen, she would fight for her right to be free and choose her husband.

  The last shreds of light faded from the sky with the sudden closing of a fist of darkness, like a candle flame snuffed. Tassin clasped her fur coat around her as the night air nipped at her skin. A cold breeze had sprung up from the east, laden with the scent of rich earth and vegetation. Shivering, she walked along the battlements to the stairway that led down to the courtyard where her horse waited. Stony-faced guards watched her pass, their eyes glittering in the torchlight as they tracked her movement. If they had opinions to offer upon the rash course that she had set herself, they knew better than to air them within the range of Royanne's sharp ears.

  Deserters slipped away like foxes in the night, clutching their shame as they fled the coming bloodbath. The crippled guard captain, lacking an eye and half of his face from a sword cut many years before, kept tally of the dwindling men in the barracks and informed her daily of their numbers. He did not offer to hunt down the deserters, his reticence informing her that he did not blame them for their cowardice. Nor did she, for it was cruel to ask men to lay down their lives merely to keep their Queen from a marriage that she did not want. In a land where women were little more than chattel, a queen reigning alone was unheard of, and her decision to fight seemed worse than folly.

  The head groom bowed as she approached, offering her the reins of her iron-grey charger, a warhorse of the highest calibre trained to kill with teeth and hooves. Falcon snorted, his ears twitching, and she stroked his muzzle when he snuffled her. A mounting block was put in place, and
she swung into the saddle, gathering up the slack in the reins as he pranced and sidestepped. Falcon stood eighteen hands tall, his steel-shod hooves the size of soup plates, a behemoth of muscle clad in plates of armour.

  "Open the gates!" the head groom cried when Falcon paced towards the portcullis, his hooves striking sparks from the courtyard's stones. The portcullis rose with a rumble of chains, and the drawbridge beyond descended. The captain watched her pass, his disapproval of her solo, nocturnal jaunt clearly written on his scarred visage.

  Falcon thundered across the drawbridge at an eager canter, defying her control. Once off the drawbridge, she let him have his head, his muscles surging beneath her as the cold wind tore her hair from its fastenings. She revelled in the freedom of the wild gallop, wishing that she never had to return to her father's castle and the incessant, losing war with its inevitable tragic conclusion. Slowing Falcon to a bouncing canter, she turned him towards the wood. The stallion fought her with good natured spirit, both of them knowing that he could defy her if he chose. The trees loomed ahead, and Tassin prayed that Manutim would be waiting. As they entered the forest, she slowed the mettlesome charger to a walk, only the crunch of leaves under his hooves breaking the breathless hush.