Wolves of Castle Fremont

Bastard

Keon awoke to a beam of soft autumn sunlight streaming in through the small window above the cot next to him. It was too early for the light to have any strength, but it was bright enough to illuminate the chamber he shared with the other two apprentice record keepers, Morgan and Sal. It was a small room, stretched to capacity by the three people it contained. The window was the only source of light, but it was too high to see through and would multiply the climate of the outside. All these factors resulted in a cramped, dim vault that ranged between unbearably hot, cold, and, when it rained, wet. However, it still had four walls, a roof, and a working door. By Keon's count that made it the most luxurious place he'd ever lived, much better than the streets of Widows' Row.

Quite frankly, there was nothing Keon particularly hated about his current quality of life. He got two meals every day, three on holydays, was allowed to sleep all through most nights, and he hadn't broken a bone in the three years he'd worked there. No, it was the principle of the situation that annoyed him. It didn't seem fair that lummoxes like Countylord and Younglord Fremont spent their time gorging themselves while he had spent twelve of his fifteen years on the edge of death.'The clever thief has earned what he stole' after all, and Reinhold Fremont had never stolen anything in his life. Keon didn't know his brother personally, but he didn't need to in order to know the Younglord had been given everything he owned. Reinhold had been the mastermind behind most of the more humiliating defeats Fremont House had suffered in the past five years. He didn't have to be a philosopher to know that Younglord Fremont should have been stripped of his rank to make way for someone more competent. But who said warlords care about ethics?

Keon eased himself quietly out of his cot, already fully dressed, boots, cloak, and all, partly out of excitement for the day ahead, but mostly out of habit. He crept lightly over the old floor, delicately trying to avoid detection by the other two apprentices. Taking one last look at them, and craning his left ear to confirm the library was empty, Keon slipped out.

The library was a cavernous circular room with bright multi-colored book shelves from floor to ceiling. Each color represented a different topic or category. Sparse tables and rigid chairs placed haphazardly on thick rugs furnished the room and in the center of each table was a chart indicating which color went with which topic. There were many technical and scientific books on topics such as architecture, tactics, and how to predict the future from the entrails of slaughtered livestock. But Keon preferred stories written in blood, tears, and ink that grabbed and twisted his insides.

As he reached into his cloak pocket to pull out the storybook he'd been reading last night and put it back on the shelf, he suddenly felt a tap on his right shoulder. Instinctively he whirled around, only to see the mildly amused face of his master staring back at him.

"For Jaq's sake! Don't do that," he yelped.

"Jaq's sake, indeed," his master said. "If you must swear, swear to the Lady of Learning, not the Bastard King. I'll not have the Countylord thinking I've brought a thief into his home. Come now, the wagon is packed and ready. Eat your morning rations quickly and we'll be on our way."

As the wagon began rolling, they moved through the market. As a child Keon would try to steal food from the vendors, something he had quickly realized he had no talent for, yet continued doing for years. The vendors always used to catch him, and when they did, they would beat him into a sniveling pulp. He'd stopped about six years ago, when he'd woken up from a particularly nasty beating to discover his right ear bleeding and useless. After that he'd switched tactics offering farmers from the country directions for a gold farthing, despite the going rate for basic information being three brass. People didn't tend to negotiate with a small child. That was how he'd learned daggers work much better hidden under a smile than a cloak. He'd transferred that lesson to more lucrative schemes as he got older, endearing himself to the lazy merchants' errand boys and convincing them to trust him with their master's shopping (and more importantly, coin). Merchants didn't tend to keep servants around once they cost them money, so there was a steady flow of naïve boys desperate for a rest and stupid enough to think everyone was as honest as they were.

His master broke the silence as they reached the edge of town and passed the brothel.

"Did your mother ever tell you about the castle?"

Keon scoffed, "I'm a bloody bastard. My mum shat me out and ran. I didn't even know who my da' was 'til I overheard Madam Kate telling ye."

The Master chuckled "Gods alive! For three years I've been under the impression you asked her to blackmail me into letting you become my apprentice."

"I did ask," Keon shrugged, "And after twelve odd years of getting caught with my hands in her clients' pockets she finally agreed. Madam wouldn't have risked scaring you off if I weren't so bad for business."

"Bad for her, potentially ruinous for me. Let that be a lesson to you, boy, women are trouble, doubly so in the case of whores." The Master said

"Seems that wasn't enough to get you off."

"Hmph."

After several hours they reached Fremont Castle. It was a monster of a stronghold, surrounded by nine walls, and made completely of obsidian. The hill it was built on was small, but sufficient to provide invaders with an uphill battle. Legends said that there was a labyrinth of secret passages within the walls. Some people whispered that the gargoyles on the buttresses were alive. Keon didn't believe in fairy tales, but looking at the castle now, he began to wonder if he'd been wrong. If anywhere were to hold ancient magic within its twisting halls, surely it was this noble palace carved from the sacred jewel of the God of Shadows.

"Beautiful isn't it?" a voice came from behind.

Keon turned and gasped. He'd never seen the man standing in front of him, but he knew who he was. The picture of an Occedensian hero, tall with lightly tanned skin and brown hair, the complete opposite of short Keon's pale skin and dark blonde hair. The only thing ruining the image was the man's long, pointy nose, a feature Keon shared. However, while this man's nose was perfectly straight, Keon's was bent and twisted from being broken, like an old witch in a storybook. Their matching mouths, slightly too big for their faces and piercing brown eyes made it unmistakable. This man was his father, Countylord Albrecht Fremont.