Chapter 1: Return of the King

The Denayian mercenary force had rarely been this close to their homeland. More than 200 strong, they mostly quelled disturbances in places far from the land of most of their births. Their reputation was legendary. For a price, they would take on any sized force. They had defeated almost a thousand at Kalingard by using guile and hit-and-run tactics.

They had overthrown a despot in Malicar by besieging his walled capital and waiting for a mistake. They had taken down thieves and blackguards by the hundreds.

Now they found themselves in a country most had heard little about, and none of it good.

Still, they followed Johan. He was their leader and he had proven his mettle on many occasions. Although some were unsure of this course of action, they were smart enough never to question him. For the reputation of the mercenaries was secondary to that of Johan the Merciless.

The moniker was somewhat misleading. Johan had shown himself to be compassionate on many occasions – but never to his enemies. Johan did not bluster or boast. He was not a diplomat; he was a warrior. An expert swordsman, he was equally adept with a bow or a mace. If weapons were not available he could kill with his bare hands – or feet. He once used the top of his head to cave in a man’s skull.

Johan lived by one simple rule: strike first. Many a speech had been interrupted by Johan’s blade. Many a word had died upon the lips of a man who thought it wise to tell Johan exactly how powerful he was.

In Malicar, the chief bishop stood on a parapet railing loudly about his god’s vengeance on the Denayians. Well, at least he did until a bolt from Johan’s crossbow flew into the bishop’s mouth and through his brain. Then he was silent.

Now here they were in Azkoval, a backward country to be sure. Johan had taken 30 men with him and instructed the others to encircle the perimeter.

They had been stalking a band of about a dozen for almost three days – since they came upon a village where seven men and four women had been slain and left to rot in the streets.

For Genrico, Johan’s oldest (and perhaps only) friend and second-in-command, it was the first time he had seen anger in his leader’s eyes. Johan was almost emotionless during times of battle. His face was usually set in a steely resolve, although Genrico knew Johan’s mind was still moving rapidly.

Now, the longer they followed the angrier Johan had become. Until earlier in the day, that is. Johan had come to a sudden stop and dismounted just outside of another small village.

“They kidnapped a couple of fighters this time,” he had said. “It will not be long before we have them.”

Indeed he was right. The group had barely traveled a quarter day further when the trail had disappeared into a forest. A tracker was sent forward and came back shortly with word: The party was only a short distance inward.

Johan was never a man for stealth. He could be sneaky, to be sure, but he preferred to have his quarry know he was coming. There was something about seeing the fear in their eyes, Genrico thought, when they realized who was stalking them that made Johan happy.

This time was no different.

The 30 men in the main force circled the camp with the larger body forming a ring from the roadway in each direction in the forest. There would be no escape for the band of kidnappers, murderers and rapists. Genrico knew this for sure.

As Johan’s group closed in on the dozen they dispatched sentries as the found them. As they reached the clearing, Johan strode forward boldly.

“Martis,” he screamed. “Your time has come to an end!”

There was a general discord in the camp as men climbed off their rape victims and tried to arm themselves. The mercenaries offered no quarter. Unarmed men were slain just as though they had been a threat. When only two were left, Johan whistled for his men to stop. The assault had taken less time that it took to start a cooking fire.

“These two are mine,” he said simply. The two men, boys really, were standing half dressed in front of an ornate tent.

“Do you know who I am? My father will never stand for this,” a black-haired youth bellowed. “If you leave now, we won’t mention this. You may leave Azkoval without search.”

Johan chuckled.

“Tell me, Martis,” he said icily. “Exactly who are you?”

The youth bristled.

“I am the son of the king!” he said. “I am heir to the throne.”

Johan nodded slightly.

“And you?” he asked the other boy. “What is your name?”

“I am Renati,” he said haughtily. “My father is King Wilhelm’s chamberlain. I am a future minister in Prince Martis’ government.”

Johan again gave a slight nod. Then without warning his sword flashed through the air and Renati’s head fell at Martis’ feet. A second later his hand, bearing a signet ring, was pressed into Martis’ face.

“You are the son of a usurper, boy,” Johan yelled loudly. “I am the son of the rightful king. I am Joseph of Azkoval. I have come to collect my throne from your bastard father and whore mother.”

Johan gave the man in front of him little time to reflect on the revelation before Martis, too, was beheaded. Still, Genrico had seen recognition on the boy’s face. He knew, without a doubt, that Johan has spoken truly.

With little fanfare, Johan scooped both heads into a basket and turned to his men.

“I am Joseph, son of Welton and Melina,” he said. “I am the rightful heir to the Azkoval throne. I am the wealthy client who has paid for this venture. I am the one whom you serve. Any who wish may leave without regret. Those who stay with me shall be rewarded handsomely when I assume the throne.”

Genrico hesitated but a moment before falling to his knees.

“Milord,” he said. “I swear my fealty to you.”

Joseph’s laughter rang through the forest.

“I ask for no oaths from those I trust with my life,” he said. “I ask only for your allegiance and your continued companionship. We have bowed before no king or commoner and I will never ask that you bow unto me, my comrades.”

Still, of the 200 or so men packed into the clearing, almost all dropped to one knee, their swords held in front of them in fealty.

“Arise,” Joseph said with emotion. “Arise, my brothers. We are but two weeks’ walk from the capital. We will continue to slay any soldier we meet without question. The Burbridge estate is along the way. We will assume control of it first then take the throne.”

With a clamor, the mercenaries from Denaya resumed their trek to the west.

The next morning found them preparing to lay siege to the estate of Lord Burbridge. There were no walls and the manor seemed to bustle with activity.

“Perhaps we can just walk in and take over,” Genrico surmised. “It wouldn’t be the first time we have taken advantage of less-than-adequate defenses.”

Joseph considered the comment for a moment.

“I believe that might be the case,” he said. “Split the men up into smaller groups. Make sure someone who speaks Az or Trade Common is with each group. If we run out of native speakers, leave the rest of the group here. I want no more than eight to any group. Spread them throughout the market. If it comes to a battle, I don’t want any citizen harmed.”

Genrico nodded his assent. He believed that collateral damage, when necessary, was a cost of war. It was one of the few items that he and Johan disagreed about. To Johan, a non-combatant was to be protected at all times. Genrico finally understood why.

“As you wish, Milord,” Genrico said. Johan hit him across the rear end with the flat of his sword when he turned.

“Will you stop with the Milord thing,” he said testily. “I am the same today as I was yesterday. I will be the same tomorrow. From the time I was nine years old, I grew up the same as the rest of you. I smelled of salt and fish guts. I slept on a straw cot and shaved my head to avoid the lice. I fought the battles at Rotneya and Badenroot as you did. We are more brothers than king and subject.”

Genrico had jumped when the sword hit his backside. But he listened to Joseph’s speech just the same. It might have been the most words he had ever heard at once from the man’s mouth.

“Perhaps we have lived the same for the past 10 years,” Genrico said. “But the first nine years of your life makes you king and me the subject. When you assume the throne, you will have to get used to it. Just as I will have to get used to calling you King Joseph instead of That Bastard Johan.”

Joseph laughed but Genrico turned serious.

“Your father,” he said. “The father I knew, who was he?”

“A priest, believe it or not,” Joseph said. “He learned of the plot and raced to warn my father. But he got there only shortly before the coup. My father charged the man with protecting me.”

Joseph’s eyes hardened to slits. He shook his head as though to erase a memory.

“We managed to escape to Denaya,” he said. “It took Wilhelm almost a month to get things under control. The man who raised me was accused of killing my father and mother. He was considered a traitor to Azkoval. In recent years, the truth has been more or less revealed. A couple of conspirators tried to overthrow Wilhelm without success. But they rallied the people by telling them the truth about the Bishop, the lords and Wilhelm. I’ve kept in contact – as Johan – with several Denayians who travel here for trade.”

Genrico nodded but appeared thoughtful.

“Why now?” he asked. “Why didn’t you come here earlier to assume the throne?”

A small smile creased Joseph’s face.

“Because, my friend, we are finally strong enough and tested enough to overthrown the king by force, if necessary,” he said. “We have spent the past four years learning every facet of warfare. We can lay a siege or battle head to head. We can kill from the tree line or from a boat. We have no man among us who isn’t hardened enough to see this through if it proves difficult. We have several men who are natural leaders to help me reshape Azkoval when the time comes. We call ourselves mercenaries but in truth, we are an army. We are, perhaps, the most powerful army in the world. I certainly know of no country that would wish to oppose us.”

Genrico stopped and took a look around him. While he was focusing on the smaller parts of the group, Johan had been looking at the group as a whole. And Johan was right: They were a powerful army. Certainly it would take weeks or months for any king to raise an army this size. If it could be managed that army wouldn’t be comprised of professional soldiers. It would contain mostly farmers or sailors or merchants. He chuckled inwardly.

“A professional army,” he said with amazement. “Well, we’ve certainly had practice at overthrowing tyrants.”

“Indeed,” Joseph admitted. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you of my plan earlier. I doubted anyone would believe it. Almost everyone – even in Denaya – has heard the story about how the king’s entire bloodline was wiped out except for poor, bastard Wilhelm.”

“It was the only way for Wilhelm to be considered legitimate,” Genrico added. “If the country knew you were still alive, he would have never been accepted. He would have been overthrown within weeks.”

“A shame,” Joseph said. “But he will pay for his deceit. His reckoning is not far away. And his life span is to be measured in days, not years.”

Chapter 2 »