Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 1

Mar, forgive me.

The image of his hands wrapped around his brother's neck overwhelmed his mind. He knew that such thoughts would not serve him well to control his temper. Nonetheless, the fantasy, the daydream, persisted.

"Stupid, stupid."

He is worse than that.

He is reckless.

At least stupid can be forgiven.

Dawkin's foot sank. He paused. Looking down at his boot, he noticed a track in the mud carved out by a wagon. In that same depression, a horse had shat.

"Honestly? For the love of . . ."

Dawkin bit his lip. The two Voiceless knights behind him stepped back, neither one wanting to be in close proximity when their king unleashed his wrath.

No wrath came. Though his nostrils flared, Dawkin resisted the urge to allow his fury to get the better of him.

Not now, not now. Later.

Dawkin lifted his soiled boot from the muck. He shook his leg vigorously. A few clumps of excrement fell loose. Dawkin took a few steps to his left, where the ground was drier and dug the sole of his boot into dirt.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he muttered as he wiped his boot.

Upon finishing, Dawkin looked around. The fecal matter he had encountered reflected the better qualities of the town. Dank and grimy, every building – from the homes to the tavern to the church – bore shades of black or brownish-green, no doubt from the mold and moss that sprouted in every nook and crevice. Unlike Arcporte, the roads sported not a single brick nor cobblestone as all were but dirt or mud paths. The townspeople that traversed them looked no better, with every face sullen and bitter, as though the souls within had endured a lifetime of debt and depression.

Dawkin wondered why his brother, even in his most unstable states, would seek out such a pit. But after glancing at the two Voiceless in tow - who donned simple wool shirts, trousers, and coats of indistinct colors to blend in – he recalled his regal duty, and instead asked himself:

How can such a place exist in my kingdom?

He resisted the urge to inquire with the citizens and investigate their plight further. He refocused his efforts on the task at hand, which involved finding his fool of a brother.

He noted the sign at the end of the curved street, which had no letters. Instead, crudely engraved in its wooden panel Dawkin saw what he could only assume to be a stein crowned by foam.

"Of course he'd be there," Dawkin said to himself. Ely would brave a tempest on the high seas for a drop of ale.

Dawkin marched toward the tavern, the interior of which rang with the raucous sounds of the morally corrupt. From every open window and cracked shutter crept moans, shouts - nay, threats - and more cries.

He came to the door, just about to extend his hand, when it burst open. The King jumped aside as two brawny men spilled into the mud of the street with a half dozen spectators chasing after them.

"Kill the bastard!" one screamed.

"The ribs! The ribs!" yelled a second.