Preface
The Baron Houses of the east continent stood by decree of the long dead King Gareth. Five hundred years ago, the good king bestowed upon four loyal knights the titles and the land that now made up the city of Divik and surrounding district, six hundred miles to the north of the Orak’Thune Capital. It was his noble plan that these generals, proven knights, leaders and capable statesman would settle the lands and bring order and loyalty under his banner to an area otherwise prone to bandits, pirates and occasional invasion by neighbouring nations. They became known as the Stone Barons of Divik and their oaths to fulfill their king’s command was signed in each of their blood, in four equal copies and signed and sealed by the king himself.
Chapter 1
Stragen sucked in a depth breath, feeling his broad chest stretch the leather of his breastplate. Sitting at his enormous desk in his study, he glanced at the tapestry over the far wall, the longest one with the brightest colours, the last gift of his mother to her son on his inheritance day. The tapestry was in the classical design, embroidered with bright threads and a large, dramatic scene filled the entire canvas. Four mighty horseman rode their elegantly dressed steeds towards the centre of the battle ground, while feebly depicted enemy soldiers, woefully under-armed and of indistinguishable nationality, ran away in terror. Those that stood to fight were pierced by pikes and arrows and were already under the hooves of the approaching victors.
Stragen harumphed and looked back to his papers.
Of all the things to be reminiscing about now, comradery between the brethren these days was a well-known and poorly concealed folly. Stragen had three hours before he’d be sitting in the other three’s company and judging by the docket of grievances he was now going through, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. For going on five centuries, the barons had feuded and this year promised to be the worst one yet.
Stragen moved to separate the piles again, wondering if he could catalogue the issues into commonalities that might help him convince the others to negotiate down from their imperialistic perches.
First came Droga, son of the tyrant and last baron of House Blackstone. High-brow, insensitive, imperialistic, materialistic and a shrewd negotiator of the market. He was in charge of the queen’s position on the economy for the goods sold and bought at Divik, a hugely profitable economic centre due to a large port and access control to the agricultural centre of the continent. His job was to ensure the queen saw good favour in the fluctuating markets on organic goods, and the high-value items coming from export in the trades. He was good at this, Stragen admitted, he had no head for numbers himself and hated to haggle. What he also hated was that Droga was good enough to negotiate his own position on every transaction and ensure his profit margin for all re-directed goods on the black market as well. This was not difficult, Stragen also knew, as Droga controlled all the dockmasters, workers and merchants that handled, traded and invested any and all Divik commodities.
Second came Tatiana, daughter of a diplomat mother who married the last baron of House Bloodstone. A ‘cunning and savvy businesswoman’ was the polite way to describe her. She was beautiful, especially in her youth once. Stragen had considered her, but her viciousness and ruthlessness was something he could not get passed. She’d married a shipping magnate instead, a union of stunning financial gain. Stragen laughed to think such a title could be applied to the man who was clearly just a very successful pirate, but their partnership ensured Divik’s harbour kept thievery and privateering against the queen’s interests to a minimum while her husband’s illegal gains found new legal shelter in the vastly unmonitored streams of the local economy. Anything that went on in the waters just off the docks certainly favoured House Bloodstone, as it was all overtly orchestrated by the Pirate King and Queen of Divik City.
Third was Pontas, youngest brother of the last baron of House Greystone. They’d been separated by twenty-years and it had been a mild surprise when his eldest brother had nominated him in place of his own son. A good call on Prius’ part, Stragen always thought, his son had been vain and empty-headed. He’d challenged Pontas for the position, of course, it had been a highly entertaining duel to take place in the city square. Unfortunate for the boy, however, Pontas was actually a skilled warrior himself by then, not a young man, he’d spent most of his time in the king’s army accruing plenty of military experience. His nephew however, had ridden his father’s coattails and never done much more than pick fights with street brutes and pirates, who of course, feared his father enough to always let the boy win.
Pontas had done his best to not kill the boy, well not too quickly at least. His exhibition however, had then a notable effect on the general population and he was forever confirmed as a man whose wagon trains and overland shipment caravans you never wanted to trifle with.
Stragen scratched his chin, hearing the stubble protest against his meaty fingers while he held a petition from Tatiana up to read closer. The firelight and lantern flickered from their sources and gave a pleasant glow. She was complaining about Droga, of course, controlling the access that they both needed to do business at all. Droga was greedy, which was no surprise, but he was blatantly fleecing her, which was.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Shit,” Stragen swore and threw the paper down to the pile he’d begun building for House Bloodstone. Now he rubbed his face hard with both hands and threw himself back into his chair. It was hopeless, he knew. Every year, they held conference, it was the law. The queen expected their full report on progress and a strong show of mutual cooperation was key to the illusion they wove to ensure they never gave the crown reason to travel there. They were remote enough, but they were extremely profitable. If they screwed it up, she or her regent would look their way. They’d been screwing up a lot over the last ten years.
Stragen stood and walked to the credenza that held the finest selection of liquors he knew of, outside of the queen’s own collection, most likely. Begotten through the backdoor deals of his crooked brethren, no baron house went without an astonishing amount of the world’s luxuries. Considering Divik saw little sun or warmth, itself situated in a cold, dank, basin at the foot of a low mountain range that fenced back the unnavigable ice fields of the glacial north, it was a welcome taste of reprieve.
If you were a baron.
Divik itself prospered to an extent. The population knew contraband and elicit trade were an undeniable source of its income, but for the most part, the citizens were hardworking, honest people. Even if the crate was full of highly over-priced rum from the no longer embargoed country of Rogun, someone had to load it on a wagon and take it to whatever market it was headed. Didn’t make the handler a criminal, he got paid a fair wage. And the outlying citizens, the farmers and land managers that surrounded the area, they still farmed, tended livestock and sold food. No matter to them if their produce was marked up or a quarter removed to be re-directed to a forbidden trader on Kitska, or sold at a markup they’d never see to a merchant who barely did more than broker the handshake. Everyone worked and everyone got paid and the Barons controlled the cover story.
Stragen poured a rich brown liquid to fill half-way of the crystal tumbler he’d set out. He lifted it to his nose and took a deep and satisfying inhale of the sugary, sharp scent that he’d been told was a badge of the tropics. He’d heard the island of Rogun was a rare beauty, hell, even Port Town was a shining jewel in the crown that was Orak’Thune, the largest country in the world. He’d never been further than the capital and he remembered it clearly in comparison to dank, cold Divik.
Prettier to be sure, the center of their national government and unmistakeably home to their ruling leader, Orak’Thune Capital was a marvel of cleanliness and innovation. A deeply walled city of massive stone blocks, it was an impenetrable fortress from the outside but inside the walls were rowhouses three stories high lining grand, double-wide boulevards and massive aqueducts decorated in the classic style of impressive destriers and charging knights. The homes boasted single step stoops and railings, with wide and inviting windows – many with stain-glassed designs – they were also built in fine pointed-stone, the sidewalks and roads all cobble. The city boasted the second-largest market centre in the country and traders came from around the world on tour from the largest, which was Port Town itself.
Nestled on the southern tip of the continent, Port Town was also the largest port and while it was positioned as Divik’s direct competitor, it was directly controlled by the ruling regent himself. Stragen knew that’s why none of the brethren ever went there.
The palace was a sight to behold, he remembered then, moving to sit with his remaining drink after swirling it and taking a deep sip. He remembered how straight streets that steadily moved inward suddenly met a round wall that seemed to swirl if you followed it, around and around until you met a deep and ornate portcullis. Heavily draped in coloured banners of the king and flowers brought by the citizens of the city, it was a also an area to be kept clear of, as at any time a contingent of city Elite knights would barge through, heavily mounted and off on some duty, scattering anyone new or stupid enough to be cluttering up the king’s front driveway.
Ah, the Knights, Stragen chuckled to himself. A sight to impress no matter who was looking, the Elite Order was the pride of the Orak’Thune people, an icon in their culture, the brand of courage that was known throughout the world. They were the best trained, the most loyal… the unflappable, incorruptible knights.
Stragen knew well about the knights. A regiment of the army was stationed at Divik, as was the tradition of any populated area on the continent. The regiment consisted of a compliment of fifty regular infantry soldiers, led by three captains and a colonel, who like his officers and staff were Elite Order Knights. They were in charge of the security and civil protection of the area, and they did well with this, all oaths and honour such the academy bestowed upon them. The soldiers for the most part were happy to look the other way in Divik, but the knight colonel and his brethren, well…
Stragen tossed his head back with the glass at his mouth and downed the remaining liquid. It was a big enough gulp it expanded his cheeks and he had to take a second before he could swallow. When he did, he exhaled slowly, loving the cool air over the burn from his throat and tongue.
He stood again and this time went to his very large study window. The Weatherstone Estate was nestled on the outskirts of the city limits, well protected from any harbour stench by being the furthest away from the docks and the centre. Being in charge of the land holdings in the area, all the farms and agricultural endeavours Divik boasted, his forefathers had thought wisely to build a home closer to the outskirts for ease of interacting with his tenets, but Stragen was happier with the foresight of allowing enough land around the house to provide a natural buffer from the rising detritus the growing city was creating.
Nightfall on the city meant things were getting underway more than settling down, a unique property to Divik who still felt the need to operate in the shadow. Save for most of his operation, which by sheer necessity remained mostly legal and honourable, Stragen knew the conference was looming, activities out in the open would be pulled back and paused from prying eyes. The knights would be attending, everyone would be on their best behaviour, at least in the open.