Curse of Kings. Alex Barclay

and forbidding and, according to myth, crawling with beasts.

      Not unlike Castle Derrington, thought Oland.

      ICKHAM STRUCK HIS GOBLET WITH A KNIFE, AND called for silence. “While we await our morning revivals,” he said, “let us sit, light the candles, share one more glass. Allow me to entertain you with a dark tale of comings and goings.”

      The Craven Lodge cheered. Oland, alarmed, glanced left and right as they began to pull back their chairs and sit down, their mud-caked soles inches from him.

      As Wickham strode the length of the table, Oland could hear the scrape of the stone he had embedded in the sole of the storyteller’s boot. He had added something different to the boots or garments of all ten of The Craven Lodge, so he would always know which monster approached.

      Wickham began: “In the depths of Castle Derrington on the night a king was to be overthrown, a boy was born as his father lay dying beside him…”

      It was a story Oland had first heard when he was eight years old. It had pained him then, and would pain him always, but he was forced to listen once more.

      Wickham continued: “This man, this father of the newborn, had committed many bad deeds, and for this he was bound to be punished. As his wife brought their child into the world, a man in robes of black entered the room and stabbed the child’s father through the heart. Then he turned, dagger in hand, to the young mother lying weeping on the floor, clutching the delivered infant to her breast.

      “As she looked up at this insidious intruder, she was possessed by a fierce love for her child, a child brought into a world of instant cruelty. She reached back and grabbed a poker from beside the fire, striking it hard against the man’s face, opening up a bony, bloodied chasm—”

      A tankard fell on to the floor, spilling white wine across the flagstones as it rolled towards Oland’s hand. He uncurled his little finger and sent it rolling back out. Wickham, candlestick in hand, bent down to retrieve it.

      Oland’s heart started to pound. He was struck with a sensation that enveloped him like a shroud. A fleet of images flashed through his mind, and ended in a vivid scene of dripping blood that quickly fled as Wickham stood up and carried on with his tale:

      “The terrified mother crawled past the felled man to the door, and through the deserted hallways of Castle Derrington she ran. Door after door was locked. On she ran. Eventually, she stumbled into the kitchen, and there she found a small recess in a brick wall and a teetering tower of crates. She pulled off the topmost, then the next, then the next and, in the crate beneath that, she laid her silent baby. She scrawled his name on a piece of paper, and pinned it to his chest. That boy’s name was—”

      “Oland Born!” roared Villius, reaching under the table, grabbing Oland by the ankle and wrenching him out. He pulled him up to standing. Oland’s eyes were level with Villius’ chin, and he dared not raise them higher. Being so close to Villius’ face, and breath, and spite, repelled him. He was so close now, he could make out the tiny raised scars that marked his jaw like the slashes of a tiny blade.

      “What are you doing, you eerie little runt?” roared Villius. “Is your bed not comfortable enough, that you prefer to lie on the floor? Or is spying what interests you? Look at me! Is there someone you have taken to spying for?”

      A treacherous man will forever see treachery in the eyes of others, Oland had once read.

      “N… n… no,” said Oland. “I… I…”

      “I… I… what?” roared Villius. “If you are not here to spy, what is it? What have you been doing all night?”

      Despite himself, Oland’s eyes flicked towards the stinking Hazenby, reminding him his earlier work had, ultimately, been in vain.

      “Why are you looking at him?” said Villius, grabbing Oland’s face, and squeezing it.

      “N… no… no reason,” said Oland.

      “This room is in no fit state for our morning revivals!” said Villius. “The Villian Games take place today! The event of the decade! And you’re lying on the floor like a dog!”

      “Like the dog he is!” shouted Hazenby.

      The Craven Lodge all kicked back their chairs, and staggered up, gathering around Oland, bearing down on him, drunk and roiling.

      In the midst of these murky thugs, Oland Born was like a light in the dark. His hair was fair, his eyes pale green, his skin sallow and unravaged by careless living. He had pale, angular lips. As the cheekbones and jawbones of The Craven Lodge had been vanishing under layers of fat, Oland’s were emerging. And though there were slight flaws in the symmetry of his features, his was a face that drew the eye of many, twice over. His body was long and lean, but hidden by loose tunics and trousers. In contrast, The Craven Lodge wore garments that highlighted their spreading girth. Villius Ren was the fittest of his pack and, even as he aged, his shoulders appeared to broaden, and his chest and torso thickened. He had the build of a warrior, and the vanity to retain a private tailor to proclaim it.

      Without warning, Villius’ hand shot out and he grabbed Oland by the back of the head, pushing him towards a candle at the centre of the table. Oland gripped the edge of the table to try to stop him.

      “Worried your girl-hair might go up in flames?” said Villius, shoving his face closer to the heat.

      Oland cried out. He could hear his hair crackle. The smell filled his nostrils. Panicked, he released his grip on the table and grabbed at his head.

      The Craven Lodge laughed loudly.

      Villius pulled Oland up again. “Shall we cut off his long blond locks, then? A head of short hair won’t ignite… quite so quickly.”

      Croft, a dull-eyed sycophant, stepped forward and handed Villius a knife. Oland again kicked out, catching Villius hard on the wrist. The knife spun through the air towards them. Villius flinched, and released him. Oland fell, half twisting, striking his cheek hard on the table, but quickly finding his feet. The Craven Lodge swayed in front of him, then descended, their faces warped with anger.

      Oland ran.

      LAND TOOK GIANT STRIDES ACROSS THE HALL AND out into the courtyard. He knew how Wickham’s story ended: the mother fled the castle, never to be seen or heard from again. But she had vowed to the last person she had seen that night, a terrified young maid, that she would return one day to reclaim her son. To reclaim me, thought Oland.

      The story would always end with Wickham’s dramatic, low-pitched judgement: “To deprive a son of his father is unpardonable.” And Oland agreed.

      As Oland ran, he heard footsteps behind him and guessed, from the damp, rasping breath and the clank of his loosened belt buckle, that it was Viande, a true savage, the crudest of The Craven Lodge. He liked to hack and spit, scratch and belch. He grabbed and sneered at the women who visited the castle, calling them sweetlings, never caring for their names.

      Oland glanced back and saw a doubled-over Viande try to point at him and speak. He kept running. At the end of the hallway, he took a sharp right into the games room, continuing on through the portrait room. Only one portrait had replaced the hundreds that The Craven Lodge had destroyed. Anyone passing could now admire the broad, leather-shouldered expanse of Villius Ren. His elaborate black chest plate was adorned with an entwined V and R in garnet-coloured leather that matched