Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays and New Year. So wraps up the last of 2013 and I can’t think of any better way to see out the year than with the final chapter of the Kinslayer Chronicle. Yes, you heard me right, this is the last one. I hope and wish everyone had a celebratory winter break and got all they wanted and more with their loved ones.

Waning Winter by Walter Launt Palmer (1906)

Chapter 14 – The Finale

“And that’s what I learned,” Lafnis said.

She came to a stop at the edge of the Naupstern woods. The trees still crawled down the craggy hills but sporadically now. Few farmsteads tried to dig ferns from the blasted rock and the cold Janogradt winds pulled at their clothes. The Chronicler shivered beneath his cowl.

“Sounds like a thrilling tale,” he finally said.

“Well, you know how the bards are,” Lafnis shrugged. “I’m sure they have much better flourish. I’m no storyteller.”

“Nor bar maid.”

She didn’t retort. Her face looked tired and her eyes distant. She turned to the land and stared at the distant horizon.

“I suppose you are right, scribe.”

“So, what are you then?”

“What are any of us? A wanderer and a traveller. Perhaps, even, a little lost and looking for my own way. I’m no hero or villain. Just a simple woman.”

And in that moment she unclasped her cloak and handed it to him. The Chronicler looked at it with wide eyes and shook his head.

“I couldn’t!”

“Please,” she said, “it will be cold and there’s no use in you getting ill. I have another back at the inn.”

And she pressed it forcibly into his hands.

It was still warm to the touch. With reluctance, the Chronicler wrapped it about his shoulders. The fabric was heavy on his weary body but he couldn’t deny that it held the insufferable weather of that kingdom at bay. He couldn’t help but feel a little more comfortable and a little more safe.

“Thank you.”

“It’s really I who should thank you,” she said.

And he looked at her quizzically.

“You’ve made it clear that it’s time I moved on myself. My business in Talarheim is concluded.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t rightly know. What of you?”

“I shall head back to my quarters. My brothers will probably enjoy the story I bring to them. Most thought it foolish to seek the Kinslayer. Many don’t even believe him to be alive. I suppose this will lend credence to those accusations. It pains me to return home empty handed but maybe I can discover a new lead from my chapter’s monastery.”

“Ah, to return home.”

Once again, she looked wistfully over the horizon.

“Will you never return to yours?”

“I have few fond memories of it,” she sighed. “I do not think there is a place for me there.”

“And what fondness do you hold for it?”

“Well,” she thought for a moment. “I want to remember it like I did when I was a child. A small, quiet retreat in a waving sea of heather.”

She gave the Chronicler a smile and gentle bow of her head.

“Meili watch you,” she prayed and began into the trees.

The Chronicler stood, shifting his satchel and mentally preparing for the distance before him. As he his eyes scanned the scrubby, moss swollen earth, the last of her words lingered in the tickling recesses of his mind. A sea of heather couldn’t be found in these blasted lands. His initial impression of her origins must be accurate.

She had to be from the south. And the strange cadence in her voice almost sounded Memnon. Which would explain its confused cadences for they were a people that stretched over many lands. And then he began to think upon the weapon he had seen her with the night they met. And he began to consider her words a little more closely.

And Scarlet Heather did start to strike him as an odd name for a man.

Revelations sometimes dawn later than they should. He turned, his lantern swinging wildly on the staff as he ran quickly down the worn Crossroads. He was panting and sweating after a short while and had to stop, the weight and warmth of the cloak preventing him from making much progress. But he looked about for the young woman. There was no way she had outpaced him this much moving at a leisurely stroll.

As he stood hunched on the road, he couldn’t help but feel the neighbouring farmstead looked awfully familiar. Though there was little to distinguish the homes in Talarheim, this one looked remarkably like the same home he had run into Lafnis only two days prior. It was then wondered what had brought her out that dark evening. He recalled that wicked weapon and how she held it at the ready when she first accosted him.

And the air almost smelled sickly sweet as it rushed from beneath the trunks of the Naupstern Forest.

Taking one careful step after another, he moved from the road and towards the tree line. His fingers tightened about the length of his staff. His muscles tensed with worry. He could almost feel invisible eyes watching him from the deepening shadows and his heart held its peace as he took shallow breaths. Only the faintest footprints remained in the soft moss. It took much effort to follow them as they wove away from the tumbled road and away from any witness. The hill began to rise as the smell of decay grew more potent.

And then he caught sight of the tumbled stones. The ghostly visage of some faded hero stared up from the severed head that lay in the clutching weeds. The ancient monuments of a people long past barely struggled for air beneath the soft green carpet of the woods. Like great humps were those ancient stones, lying on their sides with furry green ferns and mosses hiding their skin. The remnants of an older stone circle than the one in Talarheim took vague shape. Even the trees seemed to respect the small hilltop, creating a short break in the woods. He paused on the outer limits, turning to see the stretching plains visible above the sharpened tops of the trees below.

Steeling his nerves, he braved rounding the single remaining stone standing in the centre.

He gasped.

Strapped to its front were charred remains. The cold remains of a long dead fire lay disintegrating beneath the charred feet. Neatly folded and laying upon a small mound to the side were the wet and prickled clothes. Leaves from the storm stuck from the cloth in every angle. Reaching carefully, the Chronicler sifted through the folds. The pockets had been emptied but tucked in the recesses of the shirt was a solitary piece of paper. He unfolded it and held it to the sun.

He was not expecting to see the face of Kodie sketched upon it. A list of crimes were scribbled in the margins but none of them were attributed to the Scarlet Heather. Most appeared to be rather harmless, with chief amongst them being the abandonment of time owed to a slaving merchant. There were other references to the releasing of unsold slaves and theft of property.

And he recalled her words.

“Even the greatest hero is just a man – nothing more and nothing less.”

The Chronicler began to believe one rumour about Scarlet Heather.

So Derek has been on holidays for almost a week now and there’s no sight or sound of a post from him. But fear not, dear reader, I still appreciate you. I wouldn’t leave you in the cold and alone. Even with blessed Christmas but two days away I will still give you your weekly dose of Kinslayer Chronicle. Because I am the one that cares. I care.

And I am here now.

Pirates Fighting at Sunrise by Horace Vernet (1818)

Chapter 13 – The Story of the Fallen King

Larkin was an admiral, if reputation is to be believed. Commanded a sizable fleet off the shores of the breaking coast for King Alderman. That was, of course, until the kingdom’s downfall during the Memnon conquests. Legend has it that the good admiral was waging a battle with most the fleet against a neighbouring crown and when he arrived bloodied but victorious he found a throne usurped and a leader beheaded. His men and his ships were captured upon docking and were led to the keep’s dungeons. It is said they were held for five years before they received their release and they emerged into a land they didn’t recognize.

Larkin had no crew, no ship and no liege. Worse, the strange ways and customs of the Memnon invaders had replaced all that was familiar. The five years behind the dark bars had locked him from much change. Foreign tongues wagged upon the piers and merchants dealt in unfamiliar coin. All he had was confiscated during his incarceration and he was left coin-less and destitute upon the streets.

But a sailor, even conquered, is a valuable commodity. Especially to those naval nations. And the Memnon were a widespread empire looking to expand the scope of their trade even further along the coasts. Despite his tongues languidness in their speech, he still proved a capable worker. He secured a position on a trade vessel and while it was no longer at the helm, he was upon the seas. It was a slow career though and the Memnon captains could be harsh masters especially to the conquered people.

There are many stories of mutinies. So common are they you would think that all Memnon vessels were lost to foreign hands. But by most accounts, the captain was a fair man. Harsh in punishment but generous in reward, he ran his ship with just as much skill as one would expect. Truthfully, the stories of mutinies are often less about gross abuse and neglect as they are a series of unfortunate choices and circumstances. By the bard’s recount, the Memnon ship had made port in a distant land. What their purpose there was likely an exchange of goods since nothing else but war would attract them. However, whatever the original agreement was it was not fulfilled. For whatever reason, the Memnon ended up with a cargo of slaves to be sold on the distant markets.

The captain was furious and not just because of the change in agreement. One did not take a Memnon contract lightly. But the captain accepted, though they were ill supplied for the journey. Their food stores were low and now they were tested further with the addition of a cargo that required sustenance. The captain judged they had enough to make it to their port of call.

He was wrong.

Three days into the voyage a terrible storm knocked them off course. By the time they had recovered, they had lost nearly five days into the trip. Storms are bad on their own. Sailors see them as ill omens and the danger of capsizing is ever present in their mind. So dangerous is the profession, that any sign of ill pleasure from the gods can raise tensions on the cramped quarters to fevered levels. That is when the skill of the captain is put most into question.

But this wasn’t just a storm that plagued the ship. They were in unfamiliar waters. Isolated and worried, it was a question of making landfall to see if they could scavenge or press on in the hopes they could ration and make port. It’s impossible to know which is the right decision for you will never know the potential problems of the other choice.

What did happen, was they began to grow hungry. A Memnon is a dangerous bedfellow in these trying voyages. The captain ordered the slaves receive nourishment even as his crew were rationed less and less. Perhaps he had feared a mutiny from the cargo and overestimated the loyalty of his crew. Perhaps he wanted to insure the slaves would bring good coin if kept healthy. It matters not. All it did was breed resentment amongst his men. Talk began that he favoured his own profits over the lives of his crew. And when left on the seas with nowhere to go, you don’t want those ideas taking root.

It’s difficult to say who is to blame. Perhaps the captain could have made better choices. Maybe there was true betrayal in the ranks and a rival was seizing upon an opportunity to advance beyond his station. Or maybe the honeyed words of the captives finally won over a hungry and thirsty keeper. Sometimes all it takes is just the worm of the idea to escape one lip and then all the rest think some plan is in motion. In such cramped quarters, you didn’t want to be caught on the wrong side.

While the legend says that Captain Larkin led the mutiny, your precious truth is likely lost to the waves. What is known is that the ship never made dock. The captain was never heard from again. And there was a new ship on the seas with a motley crew of ex-slaves and conquerors roaming the waves.

The life of a pirate is perhaps less exciting than imagined. For the most part, the ship was more like a merchant vessel. Only that their cargo was contraband and other items of ill-repute that more honest dealers would never risk carrying. Even though many of the crew were once slaves themselves didn’t prevent them from carrying others to be sold into servitude elsewhere. Honour is rare amongst those that needn’t be beholden to governing laws. And there’s much of oneself that will be sacrificed to insure food on the plate and a warm bed in the eve.

But you wish not to hear of Dread Pirate Larkin.

The important note is that Captain Larkin wasn’t unwed. While he had served his king, he had married a young thing. During the conquest, she had been led to believe he had died and was left to tend to his children. Thus was her surprise when he returned one day, a lavish ship moored in the cove and bearing gifts for his sweetheart. Perhaps you expect her to have sought the love of another in his absence, but she had held true for her husband. Though that didn’t ease the shock of his arrival.

He lavished her with the attention he felt was overdue. But he never disclosed his new position. He maintained that his business was of legal barter. Whether she knew or suspected otherwise was unimportant. She lived the lie, enjoying what time they shared while his ship lay anchored in the waters and when he had to leave she would wait patiently for his return once more.

The years passed and his children began to grow. They were raised to believe their father an honest merchant. Their curiosity for the sea was always stifled when he was on shore. They would watch his ship come in but only he ever left its deck. They begged and pleaded to be with him, to join him on his vessel, but such a request could never be granted.

And it was inevitable that they learned the truth some day.

It was the Memnon guards themselves that arrived at the small inn who revealed his terrible secret. How they learned of Captain Larkin’s quiet little secret is impossible to say. There are those that suggest it was the same old treachery of a close confidante hoping to usurp his ship and his business. Perhaps he had grown too bold and was infiltrated or followed by one of the trained Memnon men. All that is known is that they arrived at the small family inn and Captain Larkin’s wife was held helpless as she entreated the men who waited patiently the pirate’s return.

His ship docked and he came alone, as he always does. She couldn’t warm him. Her children were being held as ransom. Thus, he entered and was greeted by a smiling wife. Even if the smile never reached her eyes. Before the startling truth could be revealed, he was surrounded. As with any pirate captain of note, he knew there was only one end for him if he were captured. Piracy, especially of the Memnon, was high treason. There would be a trial but he would be hanged. Likely in a metal cage over the harbour so his body could be picked at by the birds as he starved. It was the favoured warning of the Memnons to others foolish enough to entertain the thoughts of crime against the empire.

He fought as most are apt to do. A less experienced guard ran him too far through and the Captain would have his desired death free of humiliation. His children watched the struggle and death of their father just as they learned the reason for his death.

The Memnon’s then seized upon the ship, sailing their own into the bay. It is said that the cannons rang well into the night; the fire lit the black sky as they laid battle. It is impossible to say how many died or even how many managed to escape. But the ship was captured and those still drawing breath were hauled away for their executions.

Of course, that left the troubling case of the children. The mother pleaded ignorance but the Memnon are thorough. She was taken in place of the husband to stand for his crimes. The children were turned over to the empire, too young to be persecuted by their own laws. They were able to bear witness to their parent’s case, however, though they were spared watching her punishment.

As to be expected, there are but two outcomes for such a history. One, a child grows to resent and loathe the parent’s destiny. Feelings of ill will and revenge harbour in the heart even as a mouth is fed and mind taught at the murderer’s table. The other is to accept what has occurred, to come to peace with what happened and to move on.

And you could see the difference in approach between Captain Larkin’s children. Poul, the eldest, immersed himself in the trappings of his conqueror. Along with their fleets came their way of life and that included the training and education of the city’s orphans. These children of the empire were raised to be magistrates and officials in the court of their oppressors. Poul was the ever vigilant, ever obedient agent for his Shaiki. He did much in his service, rooting out resistance and threats to the empire while adjudicating trials and disputes between the Memnon and their conquered people. He had a reputation for ruthlessness and disregard for common empathy. While the Memnon argued that leaving the choice of their disputes in the hands of one of their own made the decision more even-handed, so often only those most devoted to the empire’s cause would be granted their positions.

And Poul long favoured his master’s side. Those seeking grievances dreaded being brought before him, knowing that their fate was sealed by the mere colour of their skin. ‘A matched set is an ill pair,’ came the saying. But this devotion won him more and more favour with those that occupied the throne.

The power of an empire as large as the Memnon, however, could not last. Their unrepentant warmongering garnered few allies. And striking deeper and deeper into cultures so unlike their own alienated the surrounding nations. These crowns feared their very way of life was at stake beneath these hostile fleet of armed merchants. They refused co-operation. Many struck deals with age old enemies to unite against this common threat. Skirmishes broke along the great length of the Memnon borders and their soldiers and coffers were stretched thin trying to maintain their expansive reach.

Their most recent conquests were the first to fall. You would expect Poul, with his reputation, would have been executed along with the Memnon invaders. But that would be underestimating the man’s insidiousness. All those years of obedient servitude was to gain the trust of his masters. When the gates were being stormed, he was there in the inner chambers running his dagger through the throats of the men he’d shared dinner with the night before.

The liberators awarded his actions by maintaining his magistrate position in the wake of the city’s freedom. But this just replaced a foreign interest with a local tyrant. For while he loathed the Memnon as much as the rest of his people, he hated his subjects just as much. He saw the conquered as weak willed and supplicating, willing to turn over for a strong ruler no matter how abusive he was. He proved his position by ruling even worse than the Memnon. For, it seemed, the Memnon expectation for him to conform to their ideals kept him in check. Now, there was nothing preventing him from carrying out the cruelest, harshest sentences for even the lightest crimes now.

It seems that there are more ways to commit piracy than sailing the high seas. And the children of Dread Pirate Larkin had piracy in their blood.

But now there were none to defend the populace. Where once there were constraints and restrictions, Magistrate Poul was unhindered and unbound. All his detractors were quietly eliminated during the siege and reformation afterwards. He filled his administration with sycophants and fearful servants. The guard bowed to his will and the liberators excused themselves from the city. They were not interested in the day to day interactions and so long as taxes continued to fill their coffers and the Memnon were deposed, talk of a tyrannical magistrate was just not a priority. All hope seemed lost.

Until the returned of the prodigal Scarlet Heather. For all this time, the other Larkin child had been missing. The bards sing of the deeds now, but to the people Scarlet Heather was perhaps just a fleeting memory. Some remembered that there were two children and not just the indomitable man sitting in the keep. Which worked to the Scarlet Heather’s favour. For, you see, Poul’s spies were none the wiser. They kept not watch for kin but dissenters and debtors.

And a terrible truth carried the Scarlet Heather. This was before the epitaph Kinslayer. This was before all the stories. While a name was made by action, few would put much stock in far off deeds. What would be one more unknown adventurer in a town that had seen conquerors and Shieki.

And while I would like to say that the Scarlet Heather returned to finally bring the freedom long deserved, an ulterior motive was at play. For, it seems, contrary to the Memnon story, the Larkin’s mother hadn’t been slain. The trial had been carried out but the punishment had been stayed. The famed pirate’s wife had been whisked away along trade routes and ship passages to distant shores and distant borders. She was presented before the great leaders of the Memnon and inducted into their harems. She was just another trophy to be paraded before officials, a symbol of the conquered people in the farthest corners of their empire.

But worse than this revelation was after her rescue, the Scarlet Heather learned that Magistrate Poul knew of this duplicity. His masters had informed him and he’d merely laughed, saying such fate befitted a woman foolish enough to resist the empire.

Thus, the city’s citizens saw Scarlet Heather’s return as the final hero they had been waiting for. But the pirate that had followed in dreaded Larkin’s footsteps cared little for their plight. It was personal revenge that brought the sails into the twice walled harbour. Beneath the banner of kinship, the Scarlet Heather was brought to Magistrate Poul’s residence. They feasted and they talked. And in that moment the Scarlet Heather decided that dear brother Poul had to die.

Of course, no such things are easily resolved. It would not do to simply grab the butter knife and assault the magistrate’s jugular. Despite entreating his own, Poul was still a cautious individual. All weapons were stripped upon entry and guards stood watch. So long had the siblings been separated and so much had the magistrate evaded that he wouldn’t let his guard down even for his sibling. The two departed on seemingly amicable terms, but behind the smiles deathly plots danced.

Magistrate Poul’s hand played first. Scarlet Heather’s ship was set alight in the middle of the night, burning like a terrific pyre in the centre of the water. Archers awaited on the piers, arrows notched for any body that attempted to flee the blaze. Hoodlums were blamed, as was the magistrate’s ways, but most knew when the city watch observed there was to be no interference until the blaze ran its course.

The ship was a marvellous foreign construct of rich dark wood and terrific sails. But despite its exotic construct it still carried the traditional carved prow of a ferocious serpent. Long had that fabled creature guided fellow vessels to safe harbour. And for its reward, it was burned to ash. Rubies sank to the bottom of the harbour that night, but none dared dive for them while the steely eyes of the archers watched the waves.

Of course, such brutish response was expected from the magistrate. Scarlet Heather was no fool and knew well in advance of the magistrate’s reputation. Little did either sibling anticipate the war that would be waged in the streets. Much is said, both good and ill, of either sibling. And when kin fight, so often are innocents caught in the crossfire. While many citizens would call the guard corrupted and sinful, the truth is many of them were just doing a job. They had family and mouths to feed alike and tyrants are not want to distinguish between their subjects. But that didn’t stop the Scarlet Heather from doing the pirate’s deed. Attack bred retaliation and both sides began to feel the sting of conflict.

Though the bards sing of the final hours. The street war, which by most accounts lasted for five bitter months, carried atrocities on both side. It came to an end not with one sibling claiming advantage over the other. Instead, it was the simple arrival of a pilgrim that sheathed swords. She rode up with little escort to the beleaguered city gates. And when she announced herself, none would deny her entry.

It was a sight to behold. It felt like the entire garrison had come forth, lining the streets with the strict order to let the pilgrim pass. Citizens gathered, fearful of what may come but curious at this sudden display of security. Some members were pressed into beautifying the path, baskets of flowers supplied the petals thrown like thick flakes of snow at the weary horse’s feet. Grim reminders of the sibling’s struggle were either removed or blocked from the procession’s view. Finally, a peace had come to the city the likes of which had only been seen during the winter pageant’s All-Father’s feast. Whispered questions of this emissary’s identity abound but no announcement was made until the pilgrim and her troupe arrived to the doors of the magistrate’s home.

There, she dismounted, handing her horse to a faithful servant. All expected her to turn and make her way to the temple to pay her respects. Instead, she turned to the crowd, unwrapped her wimple and revealed herself as Dread Larkin’s wife. She announced that she had finally arrived home after many long years of servitude to the Memnon. And she was to be a herald of the freedom the city had long deserved.

The people cheered as the guards opened the gate and ushered her in.

Who knows what possessed her to reveal herself to the crowd. Surely, few would have recognized her on her own. Her admitted relation to Magistrate Poul should have, by all accounts, turned opinion quickly against her. But so stirring was her tale, so certain was her speech that the populace was won on sheer conviction alone. Long had they waited for a sign of the end and that sign had rode in right through their gate.

There are some that suspect a less benevolent motive. Given her son’s reputation, her announcement and adoration from the crowd may have served to dissuade the magistrate from performing his own matricide. Tension was strong in the air and the struggle with Scarlet Heather had stirred much resentment towards the once feared ruler. Harm to the elder Larkin could have been the final catalyst that would set his people upon him.

And so they dined. Many waited outside the gates expecting to her the mother’s strangled cry from the open windows. But the elder Larkin’s guard stood proud and strong. What they lacked in number, they made up for in experience. Perhaps Magistrate Poul was considering a more subtle approach for once. Certainly, there could be no love between mother and child. And while she played the doting parent, it was clear both were changed after so many years. The bonds of blood were diluted and the issue of politics a terrifying wedge. In order to keep power, it seemed obvious that the magistrate would have to remove his mother.

It was then his guards began to whisper of disloyalty and mutiny. The signs were drawing clear, much like the Memnon captain who’d lost his vessel to Dread Larkin, Magistrate Poul was losing his people to the charm of Mother Larkin. She exhibited such courtly grace, humility and piousness unmatched by anything seen in those halls before. For years in the Sheiki’s harem had taught her skills unknown to her offspring and she used these new talents to great effect.

For twelve days she resided in his estate and for twelve days Magistrate Poul wrestled with how to eliminate her. Finally, he stumbled upon the solution. There was no way for him to gain the trust of her fellowship and sneak in himself. Delivering the blade was too tricky a proposition. But none would suspect treachery from her own retinue. And while some hearts are won through love and loyalty, most are gained through cold, hard coin. It was just a subtle matter of placing the right amount in the right hand.

And one of Magistrate Poul’s talents was finding that hand. A special kind of courtship began, one where wine and favours were directed with specific intent. Trust and character were carefully tested and examined, like a siege force prodding the walls of a city. When at last the weakest point was found, a clandestine meeting was arranged. A plot was laid and the fate of a Larkin was sealed in blood and gold.

What followed was a brutal betrayal. But not for who you’d suspect.

For the elder Larkin did not come to the city of her own accord. She was pressed into service by another. And the following day, Magistrate Poul would learn the startling truth. The assassination was foiled and a rabble were at the gates as elder Larkin stood protected by Magistrate Poul’s fiercest guards.

And standing before the crowd with the proof of Poul’s misdeed was the Scarlet Heather. So blinded was he with his double crossings that he didn’t sense his worst enemy behind the helmet. With evidence in hand, there was no recourse left to his mother but to condemn him for his actions. Whether she knew of the plot or was finally convinced of his sinister intent is unclear, but the condemnation she raised was sincere and more powerful than any wizard’s spell.

The gates were torn down and not just by the citizens. Guards joined the mass, charging the few who held their posts. Most abandoned their weapons, forfeiting their fate to the crowd. Magistrate Poul turned to the last course left. He fled.

But Scarlet Heather gave chase. A terrible and trying pursuit erupted through the Magistrate’s estate and into the streets. Both siblings made to finish the other. All pretences were done. One would die that day. One would pay the ultimate price for the sins of the family.

They burst from the city gates into the country-side. And there, over the cliffs that rose above their old inn the bards sing they finally came to conflict. The outcome is clear, if by name and not deed alone. All that can be said is that Magistrate Poul was not seen there again and the Kinslayer had been born.