The Old Realms

Grimdux

I. This is the direct sequel to Touch O' Luck

 Touch O' Luck

 

 

II) It serves as a prologue to the Old Realms series.

It will be a superior reading experience

to start this story from the beginning

 

Please give it a good rating if you liked it, it will help the story reach a much bigger audience:)

Chapter specific maps of the realms 

Maps of the Realms

 

 

 

 

Lord Stom Nattas

Half a wedding…

 

 

 

The roasted beef tenderloin tasted splendidly. Cut in even stripes and left to marinate in wine for a night, it was served with a variety of vegetables. The fried peppers and medium onions crunchy enough to satisfy his palate and be the highlight.

“Do you want some garum with your potatoes, Lord Nattas?” Mercos asked and Storm paused mid-chewing to glance at the small vial, the heavy-set man held in his hand. The baker shook it once, making its contents dance inside and Storm swallowed almost killing himself in the process.

“I’ll pass, dear Mercos,” He gasped, eyes watering. “Too much oregano, for my stomach.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Mercos replied, taking it in stride. “I’ll leave you to it then. Have to keep an eye on the missus up front,” He smiled at that, a couple of teeth missing, ruining it somewhat and Storm nodded reaching for his cup.

The bakery, he was sitting in the open, but walled garden behind the building, only another table in that small space serving as a private restaurant, didn’t have a famous wine collection, so he’d brought a bottle from his own cellar.

Thoroughly tested beforehand, for any surprises.

He sipped a cautious amount, licking his lips. The sun above his head pleasant, after the other day’s downpour and the carpenters’ at last quiet, after they’d finished preparing their wooden pavilions in Alden’s central square, right in front of the Spring Gardens. The latter had kept him awake for several days and a few nights, with their songs and their incessant hammering.

Storm closed his eyes lulled in a delightful stupor that ended abruptly, when he heard the sound of heavy boots coming from the bakery’s garden door. Titus burst outside, paused blinking at the sun and seeing him stare back annoyed, rushed to sit on the free chair at his table.

“City is fuckin’ booming,” The sellsword commented reaching for a cup. He filled it up to the brim and downed it, thirsty as a dog fresh out of the Khanate’s desert, burping loudly at the end. “Damn, that’s some good wine, chief.”

Storm, still silent, but for a nervous tick at the corner of his right eye, breathed once deep to calm himself down.

“Any particular reason, you’re interrupting my meal?” He asked warningly.

“Several,” Titus replied undaunted, reaching to refill his cup. Storm raised his cane and smacked his hand away, not hard enough to break it at the wrist, as was his intention, but Titus groaned and pulled it away at the very least.

“Continue,” Storm urged him and his man did, with an angry frown.

“I’m running since morning to have everything ready,” He complained, as if Storm didn’t pay him an arm and a leg for doing exactly that. “The city is bursting at the seams, too many Issirs to count and visitors from pretty much everywhere.”

“I haven’t heard a single thing, to excuse your bursting in here,” Storm commented. “It may sound as a jest, but it isn’t. I’m of the mind to call the guards and throw your arse in the oubliette. Leave you there for a year. Way fucking better return for my coin, I think.”

“What? Come on, chief! It’s not my fault Sudi, is vacationing on your coin!” Titus protested, his mustache dancing on his upper lip annoyingly. Storm decided to aim for his mouth the next time and put more force behind it.

“Leave Sudi out of it. Now, please give your fucking report, while the sun is still up!”

Titus sighed at the unfair abuse, eyed the bottle of Flauegran sadly for a moment, then replied sounding dejected.

“The Queen is here.”

Miranda, Storm thought alarmed, standing up. And little Silvie.

It was almost time.

 

 

“State your name and reason for visiting,” The palace clerk droned, not lifting his head from his papers. The table he sat behind just outside the main Hall’s doors, a new addition to the place; the man himself, a fresh import from Cartagen.

“I’m Lord Nattas, here to see the Queen,” Storm hissed through his teeth, his new doublet, too narrow at the chest, forcing him to stand stiffly.

“Her majesty is to inspect the central pavilion at noon,” The clerk replied. “No appointments are scheduled, before that.”

Abrakas strike this fool down!

“Can you just announce me? I’m part of the King’s darn council!”

“Sir, please lower your voice.” The clerk retorted clearly not impressed, in a monotonous voice that infuriated him even more.

“My voice is low enough, for the abuse!”

“You’re forcing me to call the guards, sir.”

You slimy, rat-faced cunt!

The doors opened before he’d exploded and her majesty Queen Miranda of Regia, walked out, with a small girl, the spit image of her following right after, the carved ivory doll of a knight in her hand.

Storm bowed sharply, despite his back protesting and the jolt of pain down his leg.

“Your Grace,” He said ceremoniously and the Queen paused, a rare smile on her artfully painted lips. It made her look her age that smile, he thought, swallowing nervously.

“Dear Lord Nattas,” Miranda gushed, taking him by surprise, mainly because it reached her eyes. “We are delighted, you are here.”

“Why, thank you, your Grace,” Storm replied, the clerk glaring at the intimacy displayed. He ought to have the man removed, he decided. That little shit is untrustworthy and too entitled to know his fucking place.

“This is Silvie,” The Queen said, presenting the little girl, dressed in a miniature gown that was the exact copy of what Miranda had on, with the addition of a white cape. “Silvie this is our friend, Lord Storm Nattas.”

“Hello,” Silvie said shyly, cute blue eyes avoiding his.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Silvie,” Storm answered with a warm smile.

“Lord Nattas, will you accompany us outside?” The Queen asked and the clerk almost groaned in frustration behind them.

Sealing his fate.

“It will be my honor, your Grace,” Storm readily replied, with a smirk.

 

 

It wasn’t a long walk down the hallway leading to the exit, facing the square, but it was long enough for him. Storm Nattas soldiered on, the smile on his face permanent. Luckily, Lady Silvie kept the young Queen from breezing the distance and forced a more humane pace, much to his relief.

“We are pleased,” Miranda said, her voice lowered to almost a pleasant whisper. This was twice she’d praised him in a row and Storm realized she smelled of roses. Literally. “Your efforts in making this possible, haven’t gone unnoticed, Lord Nattas.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” Storm replied rigidly, trying to think of anything else, than the way her tight and scandalously thin Lorian gown, a gold and blue low cut front and back design hugged her body, or her long blond curls swaying back and forth on her naked back.

Abrakas you accursed ‘n vile deity, give helping hand here!

“What were Antoon’s terms?” The Queen asked, stopping before the guarded exit to Alden’s central square. There was worry in her blue-silver eyes, Storm thought mesmerized, before mentally slapping himself.

It’s a fuckin’ trick you imbecile!

Not to mention the shortest way to the gallows.

“They asked for Aldenfort,” Nattas said with a grimace, placing both his hands on his cane, then flinching violently, when little Silvie bumped on it by accident and almost brought him down face first, in front of Queen and guards.

Gods darn it!

“Silvie,” The Queen warned, while he managed to stabilize himself again.

“Apologies,” The girl said, then asked all curious. “Why you have this?”

Storm cleared his throat, the nearest guard eyeing him suspiciously, hand on the pommel of his longsword.

“It’s fine, Lady Silvie,” He said quickly, with a fake grin. “I have a bad leg, it helps me walk.”

“I’ve seen you without it,” Miranda commented, an obvious slip of the tongue, but before Storm had the time to wonder about it more, she added hastily. “We were asking about the marriage terms before.”

Ah.

Of course.

He almost forgot, she was a mother. Politics tend to do that to people.

Lustful minds were equally guilty as well.

“Five years,” He addressed the thorny issue and the Queen paled a bit, glancing at her daughter interrogating one of the flustered guards about his dirty boots. “I had to strong arm Lord Bach about it, your Grace. His first offer, was three.”

“We understand,” The Queen replied sounding hollow, even pained. She bit her lower lip, goosebumps appearing on her skin, her hands clenched into fists. She is probably chilled to her bones in that dress, Storm thought, seeing some of her reasoning clearer now.

High Queen Nienke was attending the event herself after all.

This isn’t vanity, Storm realized, but duty.

“I hoped she’d have more time,” Miranda added, her voice again dropping to a whisper.

Miranda was fourteen, when she became Queen of Regia. Assuming Lord Doris hadn’t lied about her age, as were the rumors circulating. Whatever her real age was at that time, the marriage had been consummated within a year and the matter never brought up again. Knowing King Alistair, Storm doubted he’d waited that long.

“King Antoon insisted, in the need for an heir,” Storm said uncomfortably and she nodded, with a small exhale.

It was, what it was.

“We have a carriage waiting, Lord Nattas,” The Queen of Regia announced, her tone formal again, the young woman under the title vanishing and Storm bowed his head low in respect.

Their time was over.

 

 

“People say, the High Queen is pregnant,” Titus commented much later, after a tiring day that saw him standing still for two hours as its highlight, while a tailor put his finishing touches on a dark-blue velvet redingote, he intended to wear on the morrow.

“Why is that?” Storm asked, massaging his leg at the thigh, where it hurt him the most.

“Her tits are huge, for starters,” The man said. “For her figure that is.”

“Is this your expert opinion?” Storm inquired. “I assume you thought about it long and hard, while busy doing… what is it I pay you for?”

Titus snorted. “People notice, is all I’m saying.”

Storm sighed.

“What’s the other reason?” He asked, glancing at the amount of reports he had to go through, before catching some shuteye. Was no one else in the bloody kingdom doing any work? Storm wondered, greatly pissed.

“Huh?” Titus grunted, taken aback.

“You said for starters,” Storm said, taking the first scroll out of the pile on his office. “Usually it means, more is coming.”

“Hah, aye it does.”

“Well?”

Titus scratched his nose, before answering. “She banned alcohol from her quarters, first thing.”

“Maybe she hates wine?” Storm chanced.

Titus shuddered at the thought. “Who does? Nay, she’s a drinker all-right, ever heard of an Issir wench that isn’t?” Titus knowledge of Issir women ended with the whores he had visited on every port apparently, Storm thought. “Just not at this time, since she’s expecting obviously,” His man finished his diatribe on alcoholism and pregnancies with the sureness of a drunk scholar.

“I take it, these are just palace rumors. Best avoid spreading them further,” Storm retorted putting an end to the matter and started reading the report, at the less than adequate light of the oil lamps.

“Shit,” He said after reading the first couple of lines.

“What?” Titus probed, raising a thick brow.

“Elliot Reeves was murdered,” Nattas replied.

“Is that…”

“Aye. His son was the man with the Duke’s Shield, back in the summer.”

“You think it’s the Cofols causing trouble?” Titus asked and Storm puffed his cheeks out, trying to see the reason behind such a blatant attack, but was interrupted by a knock on his door.

“Yes!” He snapped and one his new guards stepped inside.

“You are summoned in the palace, sir,” The drowsy man reported.

Storm narrowed his eyes.

“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” He growled and the hired guard shrugged his shoulders, as if it made no difference to him.

“Do you want me to send the King’s man away?”

Abrakas, what the unholy fuck!

The king’s…

Had that weasel of a clerk, opened his mouth on him?

“Of course not! I will be right there,” Storm hissed and pushed himself up furiously, the chair toppling behind him. The guard blinked at the bang, but otherwise maintained his professionalism. “You can go now,” Storm told him.

“Chief?” Titus probed, the moment the man was outside the door, seeing him scrunching his jaw this way and that, consumed with rage.

“You remember that sailor you handled back in Novesium?” He asked out of the side of his mouth.

“That was Sudi.”

Abrakas cock rots in bloody jar!

“I have a job for you,” Storm relented, shaking his head in despair, decision made. “But you got to be discreet.”

 

 

Storm Nattas entered the palace grounds for the second time that day, having not slept at all and feeling less eager to do it, than he had the previous time. Expecting to meet with King Alistair, he was surprised, when Sigurd Bach of all people tackled him before the throne room. His Issir counterpart appearing worn out and thinner than he remembered him.

“Lord Nattas, I asked the King’s permission to talk with you, before tomorrow,” Sigurd said quickly, seeing him frown the moment he realized it was him.

“Which King?” Storm asked, in a mocking manner.

“Ah, that would be King Alistair,” He replied, with a cunning smile, playing along. “Alas he had to retire for the night. Can’t blame him. His lovely Queen is here,” Nah, make that smile lecherous, Storm thought, his words unnerving him.

“There’s talk, Queen Nienke is with child,” He retaliated, with a condescending smirk of his own.

Sigurd grimaced, the subject thorny. “It is too early to know for sure.” This was all Kaltha’s Master of Silence could divulge, before abruptly dropping the matter.

 

 

They had found a small uncomfortable table and a couple of stools to sit on, just outside the throne room. The narrow hall leading to it, had a couple of night torches lit and that was it. The table was the same that -hopefully now taken care of- clerk had used earlier that day. It was undignified and ridiculous, conducting business in the semi-darkness, he thought, placing his hands on the table in front of him and staring at Lord Bach’s face expectantly.

Storm wasn’t going to talk first.

“I heard about your accident,” Sigurd started, choosing a roundabout way.

“It was an assassination attempt,” Storm corrected him.

“How horrible. But they failed, thank the Five,” Sigurd sympathized unconvincingly.

“Aye. You didn’t have anything to do with it perchance?” He asked him, softening it with a smile at the end.

“Bah, you jest!” Sigurd laughed it off. “You’re my friend, Lord Nattas.”

Right. We fucking love each other.

“So…” Storm scratched an eyebrow with a finger, deciding to speed it along, as the night wasn’t going to get any younger. “…what is going on, Sigurd? I thought we agreed on the terms already.”

“We have,” Sigurd said. “But the High King received an alarming report yesterday.”

Storm made an effort to stand straighter, but failed; the small stool only good enough for some of his arse, the rest of it hanging and in serious discomfort, not helping on the matter.

Was this about Altarin? He thought, keeping his mouth shut.

“There was a big battle in the North. A place called Stag’s Doab,” Sigurd continued, looking at him expectantly. Storm had no idea where that was. “The Jarl beat back Lord Vanzon and crossed Lud River to attack Eaglesnest with a very big army.”

Storm stared at his hands for a moment.

“Ahm, there’s always something happening in the North, Sigurd,” He said finally, not seeing how it affected him, or Regia.

“Lord Bart made a stand there, Storm. Together with Lord Vanzon, they managed to win a great victory at a huge cost, amidst the bridges,” Sigurd explained. “Pushed them back beyond the river.”

“Congratulations, I suppose,” Storm replied wanting to finish up their talk, not seeing a connection, or anything that should keep him awake at this late time. Obviously there was one somewhere, else why would Lord Bach even bother him with it?

But he couldn’t grasp it.

“Lorb Bart Crull reported some disturbing news,” Sigurd pressed on, as if he didn’t listen to his reply. “But let me ask you this first. Where is Sir Lucius?”

It was like someone had poured a bucket full of ice on his nape. Storm frowned and almost toppled over the stupid stool from the shock.

Why mention Lucius? He thought, thinking feverishly on the reasons Lord Bach had, to bring him up on the conversation.

“Lucius is traveling north, towards Sovya,” Storm said, as Sigurd listened to him patiently, clearly knowing something, he didn’t. “For personal reasons.”

“It somewhat confirms Lord Bart Crull’s report then,” Sigurd replied.

“What was the report?” Nattas inquired, not liking the turn their talk had taken.

“During the battle,” Sigurd started, recounting what he’d read. “Sir Lucius bribed and assumed command of a mercenary company, used the men to attack Sir Reggy’s command, killing him in the process. Almost turned the battle against the High King’s men, causing many casualties. Lord Bart is justifiably incensed.”

It took Storm a full minute to recover enough to speak. His mouth had went completely dry in the meantime.

“Lucius fought with the Northmen?” Nattas asked, when he came about. “That’s absurd.”

Was it though?

Had something happened?

What would make him take such action?

“I thought the same thing,” Sigurd agreed. “But why would Lord Bart lie?”

“He went insane, over the loss of his firstborn,” Storm deadpanned.

What did you do Lucius?

“What personal reasons?” Sigurd asked instead and Storm realized that the cunning man knew already and he was just stringing him along.

“I haven’t talked to Lucius in months, Sigurd,” Nattas said. “The loss of his brother hit him hard.”

“It seems that way,” Lord Bach agreed, using a palm to rub his extended forehead, his bald skull gleaming in the light of the torches. “There was the matter of his wife as well. Duke Redmond’s daughter. A Northern lass.”

“I will not discuss Sir Lucius late wife with you, Sigurd,” Storm warned him.

“Of course not, but perhaps there’s a reason there for his actions,” Lord Bach said. “Yours as well.”

Storm shifted on the stool nervously, opting not to answer.

“Apparently the girl we were looking for in the summer. Remember her?” Sigurd continued, hint of a smirk on his mouth. “Turns out, she was with Sir Lucius all along.”

Lord Nattas took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sigurd had relaxed on his seat, waiting for his answer. This was a negotiation, in the end. He was talking to him, because King Alistair would have had him killed at the blink of an eye, for calling his son a traitor.

“Whatever that report says is false,” He started and Sigurd frowned. “There was a battle, people died. I wouldn’t doubt that. What you didn’t answer, is what was Lucius doing there?” Storm raised his hand to stop Lord Bach from interrupting him. “Why would him saving a girl, an innocent girl as I understand it, bring all these crazy stuff you just said to pass?”

“He sided with the rebels!” Sigurd snapped, and he was truly angry now.

“Not if he was attacked by the Crulls,” Storm contended, undeterred by his outburst. “I don’t trust them. No one does. Where’s your proof? I prefer to hear Lucius side of the story.”

“Pfft. Good luck with that. There’s word he was killed on the retreat,” Sigurd said dismissively.

What?

He stood up, his knees be damned.

“Show me the report,” He said, his eyes piercing.

“It’s just rumors, my friend.”

It’s been two weeks, since Lucius last missive.

Close to three now.

“You want me to tell King Alistair this? Before tomorrow?” Storm asked, all thought of sleeping the rest of the night gone.

Sigurd got up himself.

“King Antoon, wants to go through with the wedding,” He said, not pleased he’d gotten less than he’d hoped for. “Such as it is,” Sigurd grimaced, his eyes turning glassy for a moment, as if lost in a painful memory, before adding. “Better to have half a wedding, he said yesterday. Than fight an ally.”

Especially, if you can’t afford to fight that ally at that moment, Storm thought.

“I suggest you keep Lord Bart’s mouth shut then,” He warned his counterpart.

“The man lost a son, Storm,” Sigurd pointed.

He may talk was his meaning.

“Pray, King Alistair don’t lose another one,” Nattas cautioned him, regretting the ominous words the moment they left his mouth. Storm knew the gods were always listening, always eager to prove foolish people right.

 

And turn an offhand remark into a ruinous prophecy.