Questing Sucks! Book II
First published in the United States by
Kevin Weinberg
2015
Copyright © 2011-2015 by Kevin Weinberg
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, and the United Kingdom Copyright Act of 1956 and 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The warm tea did little to calm Patrick’s nerves. He should’ve been joyful—he should’ve been at ease. He was alive, after all, and he’d been so certain the end was near. Yet here he was, standing at the corner of the war room while peering out of a window as he sipped at a cup of tea, struggling not to drop and shatter the glass with his shaking hands.
So much work
,
he thought.
So much work to do
.
So much destruction
.
So much…waste
.
If he gazed out beyond the walls of the city, where the stonemasons were evaluating the damage done by the enemy’s catapults, and just to the north of the mass of priests rushing to aid the wounded on both sides, he could see the wicked cockaliths kick up dust as they retreated back to their mountainous home. It was one less thing to worry about; Patrick hoped to never see the giant yellow beasts anywhere near the city of Hahl again.
The battle had finally ended, and now the cleanup had begun. Kingdom soldiers stood guard around their captive, black-armored prisoners. They were disarmed and kneeling on the ground, confused and hungry. Patrick had ordered water brought to the invaders and the injured tended to, but for the moment, he didn’t know what to do with them.
The door snapped open behind him, pulling him from his thoughts.
“My prince,” Commander Duuhard said, bowing his head and announcing himself.
Patrick waved him in. “Take a seat.” He motioned to one of the five vacant chairs at the round table in the center of the room. Duuhard hesitated and Patrick again waved. “Go on.” After the commander went along as ordered, Patrick walked to the table and took a seat beside him. The older commander shifted in his chair.
“Be at ease,” he said. “You won’t be brought up on charges of disobedience. No one except Marshall will.”
Duuhard sighed and relaxed. During the battle, he’d refused Patrick’s orders and instead went along with Alan Marshall’s, a crime typically punishable by hanging. Yet in the end, things worked out for the better, and Patrick was in no mood to be shedding any further blood. Except, of course, for Commander Marshall’s, and even in his case, Patrick wished there was another way of dealing with the obnoxious commander.
He’d disrespected Princess Saerina in a way that couldn’t be overlooked. Regardless of all other factors, had Patrick’s relationship with the elves not grown as strong as it now was, that grubby man’s actions could have started a war.
Never trust a drunk
.
It was for this reason that, when the war room door popped open a second time, and Alan Marshall entered with Saerina, the two walking arm in arm, Patrick rubbed his eyes and blinked. Was this some sort of twisted joke? The man who had disrespected the princess was now at her side as if the two were old friends or…something more? Impossible!
Alan pulled out a chair for Saerina and gestured for her to sit, bowing and rowing his arms. “Please, my lady.”
Saerina smiled. “Why thank you.”
She looked her best as usual. Her pointed ears sparkled with diamonds. Her silver robe was embroidered with an elaborate pattern of an eagle. Patrick was never sure what stood out most about the princess: her beauty or her priceless dresses.
Patrick observed the two, astonished. Saerina sat gracefully then allowed herself to be pushed in, and then Alan occupied the seat next to her. Patrick gave a questioning look to Saerith, who sat to Duuhard’s right, but he simply shrugged in reply.
“Is…everything all right, sister?” Saerith asked. “Has this man coerced you into some odd form of…of whatever this is?”
Alan barked a laugh. “Who, me? I’ve done nothing of the sort! Let’s just say that I gave the good princess a taste of Alan’s Marshall.”
Saerina spluttered, “Y-you oaf!” She slapped the older man across the face, and it was the first semblance of normality Patrick had seen from the two since they’d entered the room. “Will you observe even the smallest degree of etiquette?”
Alan rubbed his cheek and frowned. “Etiquette Shmetiquette. Can’t a guy brag about—?”
“Enough!” Cah’lia shouted, reminding Patrick why she was always the right person to have around in a bad situation. She’d returned to Hahl an hour after the enemy had begun surrendering, bringing the best news Patrick had heard in some time.
“No one wants to hear any of this,” she continued. “Are we adults or children?”
She was the only woman Patrick could think of to rival Saerina’s beauty. Though she wore no such fancy clothing, she still benefited from the daring look of her rawhide leather pants and backless dress. It was that unrefined nature about her that made her so appealing. It was in the way she laid her daggers on the table and crossed her feet on top of them. Unlike the times when Alan propped his feet on the table, it was obvious she meant no disrespect by the gesture—she was simply being herself. Alan, however, was clearly trying to present himself as unruly for a reason that likely boiled down to his own amusement.
“I agree with Cah’lia,” Patrick said, “but we do need to bring this up for a brief moment. Saerina, I plan to have this man executed for his crimes against you. Is that what you wish?”
Alan shot the princess a pleading look, puckering his lips and trying to plant kisses on her cheek. But his lips met her palm as she held him at bay. She sighed, then said, “That won’t be required. If this idiot needs punishing, I’ll do it myself.”
At this, Commander Marshall whooped. “Punish me!” he cried. “I’ve been bad!”
The look Saerina gave him then was dark and lacking in any warmth. “Keep pushing your luck, human, and you may just get what you wish for.”
Saerith looked ready to plunge his blade into Commander Marshall’s heart. Patrick dearly hoped he didn’t, because he was exhausted, worn, and his only real desire was for sleep and some alone time, two things that were already in short supply. If Alan provoked Saerith into murdering him, the diplomatic nightmare that would create…there would be no end to the court proceedings.
Patrick motioned the room to be quiet. “As I’m sure all of you know,” he began, “there is quite a bit of work to be done. So much so that I’m not sure where to begin. I guess we’ll start with the immediate and most pressing concern.”
“Would that be reconstruction?” Seehara asked. Patrick smiled at the old but tough-as-steel treasurer. Her eyes were barely visible behind her silver hair, and her mind was no doubt filled with thoughts of estimates, the value of the gold coin, and getting Hahl’s citizens back inside the city so that the economy could resume.
“That’s
one
of our pressing concerns,” Patrick agreed, “but not the
most
pressing. Right now, we need to deal with the several-thousand men we’ve got chained together in the training yard. Even disarmed, there are still about as many of them out there as there are us. If they decide to go on a rampage…”
Faces around the room went dark at Patrick’s words. The younger commanders and lieutenants swallowed and looked at each other. He could see he’d upset them a bit, but what did they want from him? Should he lie and pretend things weren’t as dangerous as they were?
“Do not think that way, Patrick,” Saerina said. “If we allow paranoia to set in, then before you know it, we’ll be the ones on a rampage, executing unarmed men.”
“I say let them die!” Lieutenant Marcus shouted, slamming his fists down on the table. “Do you think they’d have done any different for us? Let’s not forget they didn’t come here to capture or loot. They came here for one purpose and one purpose alone: our utter annihilation.”
Saerith nodded. “I agree. A swift death for these creatures is the best any of us can hope for.”
Across the table, Lira got out of her seat and pointed a finger at Saerith. “How can you say that?” she asked. “Are you implying that Daniel lost his life so we could become the same thing we fought so hard to destroy?” Her eyes moistened while she spoke. “You lost many of your elves as well. Is that what they died for? So they could become the ones who dish out slaughter without regard for moral or principle?”
“She’s right, you know,” Cah’lia said. “This battle ended the moment I killed Commander Ghell. With his death, the need for further violence has ended.”
“Cah’lia speaks the truth!” Rumpus declared. The tiny yet fearsome mayor nodded along with her words. He was short to the point that only his head popped up above the corner of the table. For a human, it was odd that his height was comparable to a dwarf.
Cah’lia, along with those who agreed with her, continued to share their views, as did those who opposed them, and before long, the room was up in arms. Eventually, Patrick couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Even being a prince changed nothing. Cah’lia, Lira, Saerina, Rumpus, and Alan fought with Saerith, Marcus, Duuhard and the majority of the younger lieutenants. Seehara along with the older soldiers remained quiet, but Patrick knew they sided with Cah’lia—they simply avoided shouting contests. They had too much pride to engage in this kind of bickering.
Patrick allowed the debate to go on for a while, until someone—he didn’t see who—threw a goblet, and the shouting turned into screaming. Patrick ordered them to be quiet, but his own voice was drowned out among the furious men and women.
“If everyone would please calm down,” he said. Then he ducked when a jug of water was flung near his face. The person who’d thrown it…had they realized they’d almost hit their prince?
“Saerina!” Patrick called out to her. “Can you please do something here? Can you use your magic to quiet them?”
Patrick grunted when the princess didn’t respond—she was too busy engaged in the shouting herself to hear his request. She and her brother locked eyes like two predators over the same piece of meat. Was Patrick the only sane one left?
I hate being a prince
,
he thought.
I should’ve been born a farmer
.
He inhaled and placed his palms on the table, steadying himself and closing his eyes. He held the breath for a moment, let his anger form inside his chest, and then at last he shouted, “
Enough
!”
Silence filled the room immediately, and when Patrick opened his eyes, he was at least somewhat pleased to see that all those who’d joined in on the yelling now regarded him with shame in their eyes.
“If you are all quite finished,” Patrick said, “then perhaps we could work on
solving
problems instead of creating them, yes?”
Saerith lowered his eyes. “Forgive me, Patrick. I allowed my temper to get the better of me.”
“Me too,” Cah’lia said. “I’m sorry. I was raised better than this.”
Patrick relaxed for a moment while apologies were exchanged by all those around him. The only one who didn’t express any remorse was Alan, at least until Saerina pinched his cheek and threatened him. “All right, all right, ouch,” he moaned. “I’m sorry too.”
Patrick waited until he once again had gathered everyone’s attention. Then he continued. “I’ve heard all of your arguments on this matter, but ultimately, the decision is mine for now, and my father’s for later. Kingdom policy forbids the execution of surrendering forces. That’s what makes us stand above those savages.” Patrick pointed to the window facing Hahl’s gates as he spoke.
“It’s for this reason that, for the immediate future, we will take the men captive, feed them, and send word to my father. He is the king, and thus what to do with these men in the long term is his decision and his alone.”
Half the room nodded at Patrick’s decision, while the other half begrudgingly bowed their heads. Patrick folded his hands on the table. “Onto the next concern—where is Sehn? He was supposed to be here an hour ago. We need to discuss what to do about that…that new ‘weapon’ of his. I must admit, I am dreading this encounter, but it has to happen and we may as well get this bit of nastiness taken care of, because even with my Gods-driven imperative to protect my kingdom, there are still a few things in this world I'd rather not do.”
“I feel the same as you do, Patrick,” Saerith whispered. “I don’t want to see that
thing
he’s acquired, either.”
“Daniel told me a lot about this ‘Sehn’ person,” Lira said. “Can he really be that bad? I always thought maybe they were exaggerating. You know, the things they say about him.”
“Whatever you might have heard,” Saerith said, still speaking in a whisper, “it’s probably true. It matters little what it is. No matter how insane, it’s probably true.”
“Surely that can’t be the case,” the woman said. “You can’t mean to tell me that he tried to issue a summons to a grizzly bear to appear in…in ‘bitch’ court?”
Patrick tensed. “I remember that,” he said, groaning. “Yes, that’s true. He believed the bear was violating an ordinance he’d established.”
“What kind of ordinance?”
“I don’t know. In fact, I don’t think Sehn knows.” Patrick shivered. Merely uttering the name ‘Sehn’ resulted in a thick coating of foul-tasting acid on his tongue. "Nevertheless, he provoked a large, powerful beast without any logic or reasoning, or at least any that made sense to me.”
As the mischievous elf was brought to mind, Patrick stared at the only vacant seat in the war room. His body tensed at yet another show of disrespect. Not only was Sehn somehow the ‘master’ of a ruthless, savage killing machine that had nearly wiped out both him and Saerith, but now he was an hour late to the most important meeting the Kingdom had hosted in many years. What was taking him so long to get here?