Skull and Thrones: A LitRPG/GameLit Adventure Read online

  Two gorgeous black horses pulled a sleek black carriage into the square, and came to a stop next to the prince and me. The Minotaur, Coleridge, stood on the back, and there were two men on the front. A driver and someone I took to be a guard, judging from the armor he wore.

  The door to the carriage opened, and a woman stepped out. She wore black leather armor, but she had her hair loose, falling down over the side of her face. Which was a bit odd because the leather armor made me think she was ready for action, but the hair made me think she was ready to be seen.

  Troels said nothing to her as he guided me up and into the carriage.

  There was a thump as the door shut, and I realized how thickly built the thing was. It was a bit like riding in the medieval equivalent to a tank. A really nice tank, because the inside was all leather and cushions. Including on the floor, walls, and ceiling, not just the seating. Troels sat so he was facing backward, leaving the nicer seat for me. He promptly opened up a small cabinet that wafted out cool fog. He grabbed two covered mugs, and passed one over to me.

  "I find the ride dull," he said. "The streets in this city are so, crowded. And so many. This city is just too big for its own good, and I really don't relish how long it takes to get back to my abode."

  "We're going to your house?" I asked, sniffing at the mug.

  “We are going to the embassy. Which is where I live."

  "Are you the ambassador?"

  "Sometimes. It largely depends. Right now, of course, there is no one for me to conduct any business with, not in a technical sense. So I'd imagine I'll be going home soon. One reason I wanted to get my debt with you settled. It would be doubly difficult to take care of things were I not around to do it. On the other hand, I might be getting thrown out soon. Tough to tell."

  "Why would you get thrown out? Are you, I mean, is this legal?"

  "Taking a ride with you? Certainly. But I wouldn't put it past Glaton to put another bizarre law into place. Their legal books take up an entire library. Ridiculous. We have a much freer state in Carchedon."

  I wanted to add it was only freer for some, but that didn't seem prudent. I leaned over and looked out the window. We had yet to start moving. The minotaur and the woman were putting the corpses into a bag. Cleaning up. Some of the residents around the square were finally peeking out through their curtained windows. It was strange to think that a magical fight was so ordinary for them that everyone knew to wait for a stretch of silence to peek outside, so they wouldn’t catch an errant blast from a spell. Coleridge tossed the bag onto the roof of the carriage, where it landed with a thump. Then, quite quickly, the carriage began bouncing across the cobblestone streets.

  Troels took a deep pull from his mug, and let out a breath of fog afterward. He smiled serenely and leaned back against the cushions. A strand of his long blonde hair fell across his face, and he swept it out of the way.

  "No," he continued, "I wouldn't get thrown out for anything involving you. Or really me. But I find it hard to believe my militaristic brother wouldn't take advantage of the current political situation."

  “Meaning the lack of Emperor?" I asked.

  "Is there another situation worth speaking about?"

  I was about to bring up the missing children epidemic, but I didn't suspect Troels cared about that.

  "Just clarifying," I said instead.

  "I imagine there will be an assault on Skaganum within the month," he said idly, looking out the window as he took another sip of his drink. "I find this constant battle between our nations tiresome, but it is precious to my brother. And your former emperor's brother. Warmongers, the two of them. At least for my brother, it is the only way he feels he will outshine his predecessors. And that can be difficult. I suppose that's one thing I enjoy about not being expected to take the throne. As long as I don't bring ruin on the family, I am free to be as useless as I want."

  “Sure,” I said, not fully listening, more interested in my own drink. It had a delicious aroma, but it was really cold. Like so cold I was a little afraid of drinking it. But it didn't seem to bother Troels. So I took a sip.

  It was a bizarre experience. Because it felt like, well, I was drinking it, but I didn't actually swallow anything. It felt like all the liquid boiled off into a gas as it hit my mouth, so I got an intense flavor, and then I just breathed out steam. There's no way it worked in the way actual science did.

  "This stuff is wild," I said.

  "A Carchedonian delicacy," he said.

  “How does it work?"

  "Property of the dargonberry. A magical little fruit that grows in tiny groves on the leeward slopes of the Bærfjell mountains. Sublime little thing."

  "It's delicious, but—“

  "Not filling, no. You can drink as much of it as you like; it's really just a refresher for the mouth. Gives you the most delightful breath. Something that doesn't seem thought about here. Sadly. Are you hungry? You've had quite the night."

  "I suppose I could eat."

  He smiled and nodded, wagging his finger as if he was right about something. Then he took a huge gulp of his magical not-quite-drink, exhaled a big cloud of fog, and slipped his mug back into the cabinet from whence it came. With a slight flourish, he pulled a small notebook and pen out of his vest pocket, and wrote a little note in the book. Then his attention was back on me.

  Dutifully, I took another sip of the "drink" and exhaled out the fog. It was a unique experience. Not wholly pleasant, because there was something disconcerting about the process. I passed the mug back, and he slid it into its place. Then Troels leaned back once again, extending his legs out and putting his hands behind his head.

  "I loathe spending so many nights out in the darkness here," he said. "There's always something lurking in the shadows. Some vile creature bent on eating you."

  “You don’t have to worry about that in Carchedon?" I asked, picking up on the theme of the conversation.

  "Not at all. Much safer there."

  There was always the outside chance Troels was telling the truth, that Carchedon was legitimately better than Glaton. It didn't seem that realistic, because if there was a way to make a place safer, I'd imagine everyone would go there. More likely he just lived in a palace and never saw monsters in the streets because he was never in the streets.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The trip wasn’t as long as Troels made it out to be, but I felt like I was getting a better sense of the man. Of his skewed perspective on the world.

  It was a nice place though. Unlike the Mahrduhm Embassy, Carchedon’s was beautiful. Sure, there were big walls, but inside the walls were lush gardens filled with amazing plants. There were several buildings on the compound. Obviously the largest was the embassy itself, but there were also barracks, carriage houses, two greenhouses, and what looked like a dormitory for the staff. All of it was designed to fit together and compliment everything perfectly, and I had to say that, besides the walls, none of the architecture had the defensive appearance that was so common around Glaton. It was pretty. There were big windows on the ground floors, with no bars on anything. No spikes on the tops of walls, or murder holes to shoot arrows through.

  Why weren’t these people worried about getting attacked?

  The carriage dropped us off at the rear of the embassy. As we exited, footmen and valets stood ready to wait upon his royal highness. And me, I suppose. Troels handed off his jacket, gloves and hat, and promptly put a new jacket on. He also replaced his shoes, not taking a step inside until he had on clean indoor shoes. I had no such luxury, being that I had no shoes on whatsoever.

  Troels looked down at my bare feet.

  "Unusual," he said. "Choice or mistake?"

  "Bit of both."

  "Fetch him some boots," Troels said. Not to anyone in particular — he just said it out loud, expecting it to be taken care of. "Right. Inside."

  He marched into the house.

  As we moved along, doors swung open before we even got to them, and ch
airs were pulled out in case we wanted to sit down. We went down three hallways and through two larger rooms before we got to a small dining room that was about the size of my entire apartment. A meal had been laid out on the table — it looked to be roast meat of some kind, as well as some bread. All piping hot. A footman pulled out my seat, and Troels gestured at me graciously.

  I sat.

  Someone plated a few slices of the steaming bread and more than a few slices of the meat, and set it in front of me. A second plate held some vegetables.

  I tucked in, not wanting to offend the host, nor miss a chance to eat. I was starving.

  Troels leaned back in his chair. I didn't notice when he'd sat down. He didn't have a plate in front of him.

  I stopped eating, and looked around.

  There were three men in the room, besides Troels and I. They stood against the walls, but looked ready to jump in if anything was said.

  "Is this all for me? I mean, aren't you eating?" I asked.

  "Oh, I had dinner some time ago," Troels replied. "You said you were hungry, so..."

  "I didn't need all this, though.“

  "No bother in the slightest," he cut me off. Of course it wasn't a bother to him. "Privacy please."

  The other men left the room.

  Troels waited for the door to shut. Then he hopped out of his chair and walked over to the sideboard where all the food had been laid out. He opened up one of the small doors on the front of the sideboard and pulled out two glasses, little things that looked like they were for port. Or tiny people. Gnomes, maybe. He poured a small amount of liquid from a flask in his new indoor coat, then brought both glasses to the table and set them down. Both in front of me.

  "A toast?" he asked.

  I looked at both glasses, and a glimpse of understanding flashed through me. He put them both in front of me so I could choose my drink before he did. Lessen the suspicion that he might have poisoned one and not the other.

  The liquid inside was dark and syrupy. But, you know, when in Rome. Or, in this case, when in an embassy of a country in another country in another world or universe, right?

  "A toast," I replied, and picked up a glass.

  He grabbed the remaining one and clinked it against mine. Then we both drank down the contents.

  It was foul. In taste, texture, and every other quality, it was disgusting. And judging from the face Troels made as he forced it down, he felt similarly.

  "Ugh," he said, "it's horrible. Not sure why it's tradition."

  "What is it?"

  "Llorthgraap."

  “Never heard of it.“

  "Fermented blood from a llorth."

  “Don't think we have those here."

  "Consider yourself blessed then. They are disgusting creatures, but prolific breeders. A staple in Carchedon historically. But I am doubly glad we have moved beyond eating them. At least, outside of the occasional traditional meal everyone tries to avoid. But now we have finished that slice of tradition, which means it is time to complete the blood debt between us."

  "Sure," I said. "I guess."

  "In a normal situation as this, I would simply swear my life to you. You have saved me, which, in turn, means that from that moment on until I perish, is only because of you. So, my life would be forfeit to yours."

  "I'm not—“

  He held up his hand until I stopped.

  "Being who I am, however, it is not possible for me to do as such. Thus, I have brought what I hope you will consider adequate recompense."

  I was starting to think I was about to get a title. Or some gold. Maybe some land.

  That was not what I got.

  He rang a bell.

  Where he'd gotten the bell I don’t know, because I didn't even see the thing — I saw him move his hand, and I heard a bell ring.

  The door behind him opened, and three individuals walked in, lining up along the table. They stood at attention, looking across the table and out the window, not making eye contact with either Troels or me. The first was a minotaur. While not quite as tall as the one who'd saved my life earlier in the evening, this guy seemed broader. Bigger in all ways but height, actually. He had that similar mean look in his eyes, and his muscles were toned beyond comprehension.

  The next was a young woman in leather armor. Human, I think. She had long blonde hair pulled tight. She looked a lot like the gymnasts I used to train with, small but with a lot of muscle.

  The last was a man with a drooping mustache wearing a robe. I'd put him in his mid-forties or so, provided, you know, he was human. He might not have been. I could never be sure.

  "These three," Troels said, "I offer to you. For my strength, for my spirit, and for my intelligence."

  "Man, I'm not—“

  "This is not something you can refuse," Troels said, his voice hardening for the first time in our brief, well, it wasn't friendship, but for the first time in our relationship, he seemed serious.

  "What do you mean these three, then?" I asked. "Are they, I mean, I know that in Carchedon, that, uh, slavery is— “

  "These are not slaves," Troels was quick to say. "Not only is that illegal with the Empire, slaves are not worthy of paying off a blood debt. These are free individuals who are swearing themselves to your service."

  "Sounds a bit—“’

  "This is not something unknown in the Empire. I believe your term is for it is a hirð."

  "Never heard of it."

  "It is most certainly a thing, and most would consider it a mark of honor. Much as these three individuals do."

  I didn’t know what to say. It felt like I should stand up for human rights, or humanoid rights I suppose. But I was essentially in a foreign country, surrounded by guards and other trained people with weapons — probably not the best idea to make them mad. Only so many bears you can poke and still get away.

  "Well," I said, "I am, uh, honored. I think."

  That seemed to be among the right things to say because Troels smiled at me.

  "I was worried," Troels said. "I am quite the man, and I fear even these three do not fully make up for who I am. But it is as it must be."

  There was a polite knock at the door behind me, and a valet walked inside carrying a pair of black boots. He gently set them by my feet, and then backed out of the door.

  "And your shoes," Troels exclaimed. "Everything is coming together. Now shall we finish the swearing of loyalties up so we might consider this blood debt repaid?"

  "Uh, sure. Let’s get on it,“ I said.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Troels led the four of us through the hallways back to another room that was much more formal. Not quite a throne room, but probably as close to that as you can get within an embassy.

  The three knelt in front of me, and Troels stood behind them.

  "We gather in repayment of the blood debt of Troels Westergaard," the three said, “Lord High Crown Prince of Carchedon. We swear our lives and loyalty to Clyde Hatchett."

  Then there was a bit of an awkward pause. I think they thought I should have had some sort of title. Or the ceremony was built to accommodate for a title. But, well, I didn't have one did I? Just Clyde Hatchett of Old Town, Glaton, owner of some buildings and last living member of the Biscuit's Union. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue or inspire loyalty, does it?

  Then, a notification popped up, one of the pesky ones that can't be minimized. So I had to actually stop what I was doing and read it and address it. I was grateful we were in a safe room, since because we were certainly vulnerable dealing with this stuff.

  ATTENTION: The blood debt of Lord High Crown Prince Troels Westergaard is being repaid. Mornax the Destroyer pledges his loyalty and life to you and yours. Klara Therkel pledges her loyalty and life to you and yours. Nox Kvist pledges his loyalty and life to you and yours. Do you accept their pledges and consider this debt repaid?

  YES/NO

  Well shit. This seemed serious. These people were tying their lives to mine. Like, act
ually giving their free will over to me. That was intense, and the whole “don’t-worry-this-isn’t-slavery” thing felt a bit semantic.

  But at the same time, I had to wonder if my Earth-born sensibilities were at play. If my American concepts of freedom, of life liberty and happiness were interfering here. This was a different world, with different customs, rules, and, damn, even different physics. Maybe having people swear themselves to you for life wasn’t a bad thing. It could certainly be a nice thing. Just from a pragmatic standpoint, it’d be three more people to join the guild. That made Matthew’s impossible quest to keep the guild going almost trivial. Plus the minotaur seemed badass, and I was just curious about minotaurs. I mean, not in that way, an academic curiosity. Perverts.

  My brain wasn’t stopping — it was zipping through thoughts at a mile-a-minute and making roughly zero sense. But there were eight eyes staring at me. Waiting for me to make a decision, and I had the implicit feeling they felt this should be an easy one.

  I picked yes. Because I'm weak. At least, at times. And in this time, I wasn't sure how to navigate the situation besides taking the easy path. Go with the flow.

  A humming started, something I could hear, and then all of a sudden, also something I could feel. My entire body vibrated. A brilliant red light oozed out of the tiled floor. Well, it was bright like a light, but there was also something more solid to it. Like a solid chunk of light. Oozing from the floor. Then it shot up into the room, blossoming out like fireworks, but ones that were still connected. Almost like a tree and its leaves. And I know my metaphors are bouncing all over the damn place, but describing magical effects isn’t easy, okay? The mystical light show settled down until there was a tether between me and the three kneeling individuals.

  NOTICE: You have formed the Tjene. A tjene is a fundamental group, and will not be counted against any parties or armies you may join or lead. Your tjener are unable to be released by you, or anyone. They are only released from your service by the end of time.