The Fall of the Stars Book 1: Wheels of War

Homer Hallmar II

"Rick's bastard has captured the Yellow King's son and reclaimed Mewood." Tantalia was on his lap with a bottle of green Arnish wine in her hands. Griffin Piss people called it. It was rumored to be strong enough to tranquilize a full grown horse. A grand boast. Is there any truth to it, I wonder? Homer was sorely tempted to snatch the bottle from his sister-wife and try the legitimacy of the tale. She found him staring at the bottle.

"So he... So he has," he said, trying to compose himself. "Does this mean they are at war?"

"What do you think?" She popped the bottle open. A sweet smell, the smell of a thousand apples soaked in sugarwater, escaped from the bottle and immediately filled the room. It was all Homer could do not to slobber on the floor. "I believe this an apt time for celebration."

"As do I." A wide smile crossed his face.

She took a sip from the bottle and nearly spit it all out. She swallowed and then coughed so hard Homer thought she might hack up her lungs. "Tastes like fire," she said between spasms. "How can people drink this? Is it truly Griffin piss?"

"Like so." He snatched the bottle from her and felt the cold fluid slide into his throat. It was sweet, so incredibly sweet, and burned him as he swallowed. Still, he drank and drank until Tantalia pulled the bottle from him.

"How?" She stared at him incredulously as he laughed and laughed and laughed. He heard his own laughter booming throughout his empty hall. Tantalia did not laugh with him, but he saw in between his fit that she was smiling. Why am I so happy? His sides began cramping. Their war has little and less to do with me. Even so, why do I feel such joy?

The door to the hall opened, and Homer's laughter immediately died. Percy Permith, or the Sick Priest as people took to calling him, timidly entered the throne room with Homer's daughter holding his hand. Permith was a chubby, bald little Westman with spotted skin that hung loosely off of him like a coat. He led Elenia up to the throne and knelt.

"My Lord," the Sick Priest said.

He dares walk into my hall with his filthy hands on my daughter. Homer contemplated hanging him. Elenia was fourteen, more than old enough to walk herself without the assistance of the fat priest. He watched his daughter approach. Each day she grows more like her mother. Perhaps she will be more beautiful than her. It is a great shame Tantalia wants to sell her off to some green whelp. Her brother would be a much better match for her.

"Father," she said, bowing to him. "I am ready now for the ride to Dennisfield."

Homer bristled. "Dennisfield? I thought it was agreed that she would wed the Bluffet whelp?"

"It was, My Lord. By you and the queen." The fat priest stood on his toes. "I and your other councilors deliberated, though, and came to the conclusion that our lady would be better served at Dennisfield, far and away from the thick of the fighting bound to ensue near Bluffet. We have been exchanging with Robert Sparry of Dennisfield, and he has agreed to wed our sweet princess to his son, Eddi Sparry, who happens to only be three years Elenia's junior. I am sure what we have done will please you."

What you have done? Gone behind my back? Made plots and arrangements for my daughter without my leave or consent? Betrayed me? Betrayed my wife? Try as he might to hide his anger, Homer failed. The fat priest shrunk, mumbling something, but he dare not raise his voice.

"Where are all of my councilors?" Homer roared. "Where is Gore, my treasurer? Sigmen? Germor? Timellion? Where have they all gone? Where did these secret meetings take place? WHERE?"