King's Vengeance by Ronald Coleborn Page A

never sharpened and rusted battleaxes that any proper soldier would have spurned. Yet they had taken possession of the castle that was the seat of power in the East, Storm’s Reach, the center of one of the two Great Realms in all of Urthe. Many among these victorious plainsmen had been granted leave to return to their claims, which were held in the vast Plain of Dremsa in an autonomous region known as The Freelands. Those who remained at the castle were the most battle-hardened, and it was these that Sapient Lejrik would rely on to solve the problem of the missing royals.
    Lejrik approached two of the savages who stood before the Chamber of Council. He raised an arm draped in a flowing sleeve and pointed a finger at the face of one Dremsan. “You there,” he said as he drew near. “Gather fifteen or more of your comrades and fetch an equal amount of horses from the stables. The king demands your service in an urgent matter.”
    One of the plainsmen spit a stream of yellowish bile at the feet of the sapient. “What’s with the orders, chantsman, and who are you to give ’em?”
    â€œAs I’ve said, savage, the order comes from the king himself, his grace, Nerus Vayjun.”
    â€œWe’re Freelanders, the lot of us, not a one among our ranks subject to no king. We’re here of our own accord, and this castle’s as much ours as it is his.”
    Lejrik’s gaze was hard, his eyes unblinking as they studied the Dremsan who had spoken so boldly. The sapient’s eyes drifted to the worn blade the savage held, and he concentrated his full energies on the iron. The Dremsan’s hand began to vibrate. Startled, he looked down at it. His eyes widened as his arm began to rise against his will, and he grunted as he struggled against it. Lejrik flicked his wrist, and the plainsmen suddenly hacked at his own neck with the blade. Blood gushed from the wound as the warrior fell to his knees and collapsed like a tipped barrel.
    â€œHave you anything to add to his protest?” Lejrik asked one of the other plainsmen.
    The Dremsan shook his head nervously. “No. I am at your service.” He stood erect, pounded a fist against his chest, and proclaimed, “Long live the king.”

I am weary beyond words, Sapient Breen, and famished besides,” said Princess Redora, who stumbled again as she trudged through the deep snow at the edge of High Road. They had been walking well off the road for most of their journey, sticking to the tree line that hugged its edge. Huge snow drifts were piled against the trees in blinding white mounds, and the drifts and uneven ground made the trek south difficult.
    â€œJust a little further, Princess, and we’ll come upon Killick,” said Sapient Breen, who moved through the deep snow as though it were the shallows of a river. He seemed accustomed to the hardship.
    â€œBy my count, you’ve promised the very same twice now since we made our way past Storms Reach Castle.”
    â€œAnd I meant it then as well.” Breen took several more steps before he realized the princess was no longer keeping pace. When he looked behind him, he saw her kneeling in the snow, her head bowed. Breen strode quickly toward her and knelt on one knee. He raised her head with a finger to her chin and searched her face. “You’re spent.”
    â€œYour observation”—she took several breaths—“is as keen as a newly forged blade.”
    Breen stood and hoisted her up by one arm. “Come. You’ll travel on my back the rest of the way.”
    The princess made no argument and climbed onto the sapient’s back using her last ounce of strength. “You’re a gentleman, sir,” she said, before laying her head on his shoulder and closing her eyes to the world.
    Breen smiled as he picked his way through the snow, his hands clutching her thighs. He began to sing her a song of olde. Soon she was asleep, keeping