《Castle Builder - Artho's Climb》


 Artho I

    The Hollow Stag was not the finest establishment in The City, nor even the finest in this district, but it was lively. Lanternlight swayed with the breeze that flowed in through the open doors, casting long shadows across the rows of trestle tables and the crude wooden beams overhead. The air was thick with the scent of spiced mutton, stale spilled ale, and the sweat of men that were in need of a bath.


    Artho Blund, second son of Lord Kristoff Blund, sat slouched at the center of a long table, his fingers lazily rolling a half-empty tankard of ale between them. Across from him sat Crown Prince Vincenzo, heir to the Imperial Throne, his smile bright and sharp as a knife¡¯s edge. Around them, a scattering of young noblemen sons of minor lords, hungry for amusement lounged in their seats, trading ribald jokes and careless laughter.


    After a particularly flat falling joke Ernst Fallon, a third son of a third son hailing from the southern reaches turned to Artho. ¡°Is there news from Lord Blund of late?¡± he asked. Artho couldn¡¯t quite tell if he had a smile on his face as he said it, but if there was it was soon gone when he heard the tone of Artho¡¯s answer.


    ¡°My father hasn¡¯t written to me in months.¡± He answered matter-of-factly, staring at the bottom of his drink.


    The Crown Prince had picked up on the exchange. He shouted, ¡°More Ale!¡± jovially and quickly changed the subject before anyone else picked up on Artho¡¯s sour mood at the mention of his father. He is a good friend, considered Artho. My only friend of late.


    The truth was that no one had heard from Artho¡¯s father in months. Lord Blund was a popular man, too popular. He was wealthy and held great influence among the nobles of the land and for many years there had been murmurings that he was the true power in the Westermark rather than The Emperor Barnetto. Years ago, he had sent his second son to be raised as a ward of The Emperor to demonstrate his loyalty, but recently the rumours of conspiracy, rebellion and disloyalty had resurfaced.


    Lord Blund had not visited The Emperor¡¯s court in years and Artho new little of his father¡¯s thoughts as he had only written to him a handful of times since he came of age 5 years ago and even those notes had been perfunctory.


    Artho cared little for his father or his thoughts. He had been well looked after in The Emperor¡¯s court and had made fast friends with he Crown Prince. As boys they had roamed the palace halls and oft sneaked out from under their latest tutor¡¯s gaze to wander The City. Now both men grown, Artho was the Crown Prince¡¯s closest friend and confidant though he lacked any true title or role in the royal court.


    Across from them, at an adjacent table, sat a trio of young merchants. Their dress suggested they were not wealthy enough to own ships or fine silks, but the fashions of The City were every shifting so Artho could not make too many assumptions from their dress. They had struck a conversation with the young nobles, Artho had leaned into the conversation, the drink loosening his tongue.


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    It had started pleasantly enough, with shared laughter over a bawdy tale of Prince Revachol of Shan¡¯s humiliation at court, a mutual appreciation of the amber ale the Stag was known for. For a while, the merchants had seemed at ease in their company. But the shift had come, subtle at first. A jest that went unheard. A smile that didn¡¯t quite reach the eyes. The tone and hints of noble arrogance, not going unnoticed.


    One of the merchants, a stocky man with a salt-streaked beard, leaned back and let out a low chuckle, but his fingers curled tightly around the stem of his goblet. ¡°You nobles have an interesting way of seeing the world,¡± he murmured. ¡°To hear you tell it, everything of worth was built by a man with a crest on his chest.¡±


    Prince Vincenzo¡¯s smile never wavered, but there was something hard in his gaze now, something dangerous. ¡°If it were not for The Imperial House, my good merchant, there would be no world for you to build upon.¡±


    The noblemen at the table chuckled, some of them nodding, the warmth of drink fueling their mirth. Artho lifted his cup. ¡°The Emperor!¡± he toasted, sloshing ale onto his sleeve. He had meant it in jest, but the moment had already shifted beyond his clumsy intent.


    The second merchant, a lean man with a scar down his cheek, raised his goblet, but the motion was slow, deliberate. ¡°To The Westermark,¡± he said instead. ¡°May it¡¯s rivers run clear and it¡¯s people eat well.¡±


    A hush fell over the table. Not outright hostile, not yet. But the laughter was gone.


    For decades there had been fringe groups, dissidents, rebellious nobles that opposed the rule of the Imperial House. The merchant¡¯s toast was an insult and he was either too drunk to hold his tongue or truly was believer in the discouraged ideas of democracy & republicanism.


    Artho, oblivious to the undercurrents, grinned lopsidedly and reached for his cup again. The world spun slightly as he lifted it to his lips. ¡°Ah, what does it matter,¡± he mumbled, half to himself. ¡°We all drink, don¡¯t we? That¡¯s common enough.¡±


    The third merchant, a younger man with quick eyes, watched him carefully. ¡°Aye,¡± he said. ¡°We all drink.¡±


    Vincenzo exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the table. His patience was thinning. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said, voice smooth as silk over iron, ¡°we should find another topic. Something more¡­ agreeable.¡±


    The scarred merchant tilted his head. ¡°And what would the prince find agreeable?¡±


    Artho made to raise his cup again, but this time it slipped from his fingers, spilling dark ale across the table in a widening pool. His cup rolled off their table and over towards the merchants. He stared at it, blinking slowly, trying to summon the energy to care as it rolled out of view.


    The voices around him grew more distant, muffled, like a tide pulling back from the shore. His vision swam, his limbs heavy and useless. He dimly registered Vincenzo saying something sharp, something curt. He saw the merchants shift in their seats, spines stiffening, muscles tensing. He thought, briefly, that perhaps he should speak, should say something clever, something to lighten the mood.


    Artho stood to retrieve his cup. But the world tilted, and he was falling, towards the Merchant¡¯s table and that man with the scared face. He was standing now, all the merchants were standing. How kind of them to help me find my cup thought Artho.

 Blane I

    Artho was too deep in his cups to notice the tension creeping in, but Shieldman Blane, his ever-watchful bodyguard, caught it from his silent perch in the corner. Blane was a man of few words and fewer smiles, his thick frame clad in well-worn leather and mail, his eyes keen beneath his furrowed brow.


    He had seen men killed over less than what was brewing here.


    Blane shifted in his seat, his fingers drumming lightly against the hilt of his dagger. He had seen this dance before, and he knew how it ended. He glanced to the Stags door thinking of the prince¡¯s guards, lingering in the cold. They were unaware of the heat brewing within these walls and would come when called, but Blane had learned long ago that a drawn blade moved faster than a man¡¯s voice.


    Blane¡¯s view was abruptly obscured by a ragged looking figure.


    ¡°Summitfurlater, frind?¡±, the figure asked, leaning in closer to Blane.


    It took a second for Blane to understand what was being asked and who this unwelcome guest was. A tinker trader of some kind, peddling his wares in the crowded inn. He was rough looking with worn clothes, much repaired and long greasy hair. In contrast his eyes though were cool and intelligent, he had the fast accent of someone from the southern isles.


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    ¡°Nothing for me¡± answered Blane Curtly.


    ¡°Ah but you¡¯ve not seen what I have, friend.¡± The tinker leaned in further, conspiratorially. ¡°Potions and tinctures for all ailments¡­¡± His accent had slowed and change to match Blane¡¯s own, with a slight sing song quality to it.


    ¡°I¡¯ve no ailments that require your services¡± said Blane, straining his neck to try and see past the tinker to what was happening with Artho and the others.


    ¡°And good health to you friend,¡± the tinker continued ¡°I¡¯ve even a few bit¡¯s and pieces here for a well man that wants to feel¡­ well-er¡± He grinned and winked as he said it. There was a clatter of a cup falling on the stone floor and the screech of someone¡¯s chair as they went to retrieve it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want your brain rot, now be on your way before I call the landlady,¡± answered Blane curtly. The rotund owner of the hollow stag Madame Maurice was not known to suffer peddlers of illicit potions in her establishment. It was rumoured she had once made a lungspice seller snort the entirety of his own supply. If that was true, then the man¡¯s nose would have worn off. Blane thought to himself, slightly amused.


    ¡°Only asking, only asking!¡± Laughed the tinker as he moved on to the next table.


    Suddenly there was a shouting commotion and everyone was on their feet.


    ¡°Murder!,¡± someone shouted in a high pitched screech. Blane could see nothing through the throng of everyone now standing in the inn. He pushed through towards Artho.


    As Blane approached people parted to allow him through, none daring to question the large, rough looking man.


    On the floor in front of him were two men, both covered in blood, glistening in the torchlight. Though it was not clear who the blood belonged to, neither of them were moving. One was Artho and the other was a scrawny looking man.


    A knife lay between them.

 Artho II

    Artho woke to pain. A thick, pounding ache like a blacksmith hammering molten iron inside his skull. His throat was dry, his tongue thick with the sour aftertaste of too much ale. He groaned, shifting beneath the heavy furs of his bed, but even they failed to chase away the bitter cold that had seeped into his chambers.


    His breath misted before him. No fire had been lit for days, it seemed. The stone walls, usually warmed by the steady glow of the hearth, pressed in with an icy grip. He shivered, pulling the furs closer, but the deeper discomfort¡ªthe gnawing sense of unease¡ªlingered.


    Fragments of the previous night surfaced. Laughter, the raucous clinking of tankards in the Hollow Stag. Vincenzo. The merchants. Their wary smiles turning brittle. Then¡ªnothing. A void. A chasm of black.


    The door creaked open.


    Crown Prince Vincenzo stepped inside, clad in dark wool and trimmed silver, his usual mask of effortless confidence tempered by something softer. Sympathy? Artho wasn''t sure he liked the look of it.


    ¡°It¡¯s freezing in here.¡± Vincenzo said, rubbing his hands. He hadn¡¯t looked directly at Artho yet, instead focusing on the unlit hearth. ¡°I¡¯d ask if you feel like death, but I imagine that would be an understatement... and in poor taste considering.¡±


    Artho pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull. ¡°What happened?¡±


    Vincenzo hesitated.


    The pause sent a cold coil of dread through Artho¡¯s gut, deeper than the chill in his chambers.


    ¡°You don¡¯t remember?¡± Vincenzo asked.


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    Artho shook his head, regretting it instantly.


    The prince exhaled, rubbing his temple as if he were the one bearing the hangover. ¡°You killed a man last night.¡±


    Artho blinked. Impossible.


    Then he laughed, seeing this for the joke that it was. But Vincenzo was looking at him now and he wasn¡¯t laughing.


    ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± Artho croaked.


    Vincenzo''s lips tightened. ¡°I wish I were. One of the merchant¡¯s we argued with¡ªa cousin of Chauncy.¡±


    The room spun. Artho gripped the edge of his furs, knuckles white. ¡°No.¡± Chaunchy. Chauncy was the (not so affectionate) name that Vincenzo and Artho had used for the High Imperial Chancellor since he had been tasked with teaching them the ways of court and politics in their younger years. They had been far from model pupils and being unable to hold a grudge with the heir to the Imperial Throne, he had held a grudge against Artho ever since.


    He was no longer cold, he was sweating. He threw off his furs and sat on the edge his bed, Vincenzo stepping back as he did so.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s gone to hell since,¡± Vincenzo continued, voice quiet almost whispering. ¡°The Chancellor¡¯s livid. The castle¡¯s in an uproar. There¡¯s already talk of treason.¡± He met Artho¡¯s gaze. ¡°Father has summoned you to answer for it.¡±


    A sharp shout echoed from outside the door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against stone. A scuffle. Arguing.


    Then the door swung open, and Blane strode in, his usually impassive face marked with tension. He stopped short at the sight of Vincenzo, his mouth pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something, but then his expression shifted, more measured, more careful.


    ¡°Artho¡­ My lord,¡± he said, turning to Artho. ¡°We must talk, before¡­¡±


    Boots stormed into the room. The Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, flanked by two helmeted guards were now standing in the room.


    ¡°The Emperor demands the presence of Artho of House Blund in the Imperial Throne Room.¡±


    Blane tried to move between Artho and the guards, ¡°Lord Uskenstoff, if you would just allow me to speak to Artho before he is taken before the Empe¡­¡±


    ¡°My business is that of the emperor and naught else comes before it¡± He interjected, not shouting but firm.


    His eyes then softened a touch. Is that pity? Artho considered.


    ¡°Although perhaps we can allow the summoned to cloth himself before escorting him to the Emperor.¡± Uskenstoff continued, in a softer tone.


    Artho swallowed hard and looked down at himself.