Hollow king, p.1
Hollow King, page 1
HOLLOW KING
THE HOLLOW CROWN
BOOK 1
DANTE O. GREENE
Robot Dinosaur Press
www.robotdinosaurpress.com
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HOLLOW KING
The Hollow Crown: Book 1
Copyright © 2022 by Dante O. Green / Merc Fenn Wolfmoor
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN: 978-1-949936-58-2 (print)
ISBN: 978-1-949936-60-5 (ebook)
Cover and interior design by Bog Wolf Cover Designs
CONTENTS
Introduction
The Ballad Of The Hollow King
I. START WITH BEING ALIVE
1. Caught
2. Sentenced
3. Reprieve
4. The Coin
5. Murder
6. The Great Equalizer
II. ONE HUNDRED DEATHS IN A ROW
7. The Hollow City
8. Monument
9. Bloody Good Times
10. The Sorrow Wall
11. Cook-Off
12. The Wailing
13. If At First You Don’t Succeed…
14. ...Die, Die Again
15. The Knight of Crows
16. The Bull-In-Chains
17. Reset on Death
18. Forty-Seven In A Row
19. Last Words
20. The Lake of Honey
21. The Chaos
22. The Stone
23. The Mallet
24. Skull-Crusher Mountain
25. The Crypt
III. IN DEATH THERE ARE NO ANSWERS
26. Ammun Wray
27. Wretched Mortal
28. Only The Beginning
29. Round Two
30. The Surgeon
31. Kill On My Mark
32. All Hail
33. The Hollow King
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also from Robot Dinosaur Press
INTRODUCTION
This book was written as part of the Inkfort Press Publishing Derby — check out the community and other entries here!
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https://www.inkfortpress.com/2022-derby-books/
THE BALLAD OF THE HOLLOW KING
The Hollow King rides with the dusk and the tides
Surrounded by corpses, the husks of his tithes
Look not on the Hollow King if you prize your own soul
Flee far from the Hollow King lest his hands clasp you whole
He rides in the shadows, he laughs in the mists
He wields darkened blades and kills with his kiss
Beware of the Hollow King, you fools and knaves
Flee far from the Hollow King, who catches and slays
If you call to the Hollow King, beware his reply
The Hollow King tricks and deceives with his lies
To fell the great Hollow King, mad you must be
For his place you will take and his curse you will see.
PART ONE
START WITH BEING ALIVE
ONE
CAUGHT
The day before he died, Barridur tor Sharrow’s biggest concern was finishing the new bell tower on time.
The city council had offered a bonus in the mason guild’s contract if the construction was completed by the harvest festival, two months away. Barridur was determined his crew would take home a nice purse—his people deserved it for the months of hard labor they’d put into finishing the bell tower. It was an ambitious project: rising over ten feet taller than the steeple of the Crown’s Tithing Bank a block away, and with a central belfry ready to house twelve great bronze bells that would celebrate the king’s reign-anniversary upon Winter Solstice.
Barridur wiped sweat from his forehead and stepped into the shadow of the lowest tier of scaffolding, where the shared water urn sat. The day was hot, and the tepid breeze struggled through the sunbaked city streets. He poured himself a cup of water and gulped it down.
The usual hum of voices, the scuff of shoes, and the clop of riding horses created a background babble to the hammering of stone. The taste of granite dust was an almost permanent flavor at the back of his mouth, but he liked it. The work was hard and honest, and he took pride in the buildings he’d worked on. The clamor helped him appreciate the quietness he could indulge in at home when the day was over. The cracking of chisels and the creak of the lift crane ropes were as much a part of the city’s breath as the hourly bells and the coos of doves that plagued the eaves of businesses everywhere.
“I like what I’m seeing,” Gry said, striding into the arch’s shade. The foreman was a thick-muscled woman with a shaved head and dark skin. She flashed Barridur a grin. “Your crew has made great progress. You sure you won’t take my job?”
Barridur chuckled, massaging the back of his neck with one palm. “And deal with the city council myself? Nah, I don’t have the guts for that.”
Gry’s expression remained jovial. “I guess I do bring it on myself.”
He grinned. “And that’s why you’re the boss. I’m just a former soldier, not cut out for leading myself. You’re far braver than I am, facing that kind of torment.”
She elbowed him in the side and filled her cup. “It’s just politics and money.”
Barridur laughed. “Two things I hate.”
“I don’t know, it could be worse.” She twitched her eyebrows. “We could be living under the reign of a wicked god from the Pre-Iron Era.”
Barridur gave her a lopsided smile, amused. “I see you’ve been following the latest storyline in the broadsides.”
The twice weekly paper was always a source of news, gossip, historical treaties, and best of all, serials of epic sagas told in dramatic fashion.
“Ha!” Gry slapped down her cup. “You’re one to talk. Your kid is the one who got me hooked.”
“What can I say?” Barridur spread his hands. “They have good taste in literature.”
Gry laughed. “Say hi to Krinn for me. I got to go deal with the council...yet again. Some clueless asshole thinks we can just change the design of the roof vault on a whim.”
“Good luck,” Barridur said.
She waved over her shoulder as she strutted off.
As Barridur turned back to his work, he caught sight of two workers shuffling towards the service alley that led off the main street. He frowned. While Gry dealt with the moronic city officials who wouldn’t understand construction if a load of bricks fell on their heads, he was informally the foreman on the site. He didn’t need people peeling away without notice.
He was about to call out to ask where they were headed when he realized it wasn’t the usual suspects—and he’d initially misread the situation. It was Carwel, one of the supervisors appointed by the council. He was a wiry, middle-aged man with a balding pate, a pale complexion, and a short temper. He also had a reputation for paying unwanted attention and making lewd remarks about younger persons on the crew.
Now Carwel looked to be cornering Layth, a non-binary teenager Barridur had hired a week ago. Layth backed up until their spine bumped against the edge of the old stone temple to the Godhead that shadowed the construction site.
“It won’t take long,” Carwel said, thumbs hooked in his belt, standing too close for Layth to avoid touching him if they tried to sidle away.
Goddammit. Barridur swung himself over the low retaining wall that kept the gravel and debris from the construction site getting swept into the main street.
Layth’s gaze darted around. They caught Barridur’s eyes and their cheeks flushed in shame. They dropped their gaze immediately. They were well-built and quiet, focused on their work. Unlike others on his crew, Barridur had never heard a complaint about Layth, and he hoped the kid would stick around to apprentice with one of the more experienced masons after their probation as a dayworker.
As much as Barridur disliked Carwel, he hadn’t been able to convince Gry to find an excuse to replace the man yet. Just another bullshit aspect of politicking he hated.
“Consider it your dues,” Carwel leered, thrusting his crotch forward.
Layth hunched their shoulders. “I, um, I don’t...”
Although Layth was easily twice Carwel’s weight and a good two hands taller, Carwel had the power of status and experience.
Anger itched along Barridur’s ribs. He stomped over to Carwel and grabbed the man’s shoulder, forcibly pulling Carwel around to face him. “Hey, we’ve got work to do. If you aren’t going to help, at least you can stop delaying my crew.”
Carwel irritably shook Barridur’s hand off and sneered. “Mind your own business, Sharrow.”
Layth ducked their head. “I should, um...get back to work...”
“You’re not going anywhere until I say so,” Carwel snapped, not looking at Layth. “We’ve unfinished business.”
“They’re not interested.” Barridur balled his fist in warning. “Back off, Carwel.”
The supervisor settled one palm on the knife hilt strapped to his belt. “Stay out of my affairs, whoreso
n.”
“Not a good look, harassing younger workers,” Barridur said, raising his voice. “Last I heard, sexual assault was grounds for dismissal and a flogging.”
Carwel’s eyes bulged in rage. “The fuck did you accuse me of?”
By this point, half the workers had paused and were openly staring at the confrontation.
“Nothing yet,” Barridur said and motioned Layth to move. “Take an early break, kid.”
“Okay, thanks, sir.” Layth looked near tears and hustled into the alley and then out of sight.
Carwel glared at Barridur. “You interfering waste of seed.”
“It’s good for a man to know his worth,” Barridur replied. A few snickers from the other masons emboldened him. He rolled his shoulders, loosening his stance in contrast to Carwel’s bow-string rigidity. “And we’re both wasting the city’s time. Gry isn’t going to appreciate that.”
“You won’t be around all the time,” Carwel said in a low voice, the threat clear. “Especially if I report you to the council.”
“Go ahead,” Barridur said, then punched Carwel in the face.
Nose cartilage crunched under his knuckles. A spray of blood caught his sleeve.
Carwel staggered back, clutching at his face. “Fuck!”
“Next time I catch you harassing anyone on my crew, those’ll be your balls you’re cradling,” Barridur said. He shook out his fist.
A round of cheers went up from the other workers. He repressed a grin. Bullies only learned through pain. He’d take the dock in pay for brawling if it meant taking Carwel down a notch and making the man think twice.
Barridur turned his back on Carwel, daring the man to take a swing at him. He itched for a proper fight. But Carwel’s slinking footsteps told him the scumbag was making a retreat. Good. If nothing else, the shame would keep him subdued for the time being. Barridur would check in with Layth after the noontime meal break and make sure the kid knew to tell him if Carwel tried anything again. City council be damned. Barridur wouldn’t tolerate anyone preying on his people.
“Watch out!” someone screamed from the tower.
Barridur wrenched his head up. His heartbeat skipped.
The crane loaded with a pallet of stones for the upper tower canted at an alarming angle. Timber and iron braces whined, and the crane neck began tipping outward. It would snap and drop that cartload of stone directly into the street.
He spun around, tracking the crash trajectory. “Shit…”
The midday foot traffic along the boulevard wasn’t dense yet, but there was a knot of noble-looking men and women meandering along, laughing and fanning themselves, flanked by bodyguards in polished steel armor.
He sprinted towards the street, waving his arms. “Clear the way! Load breaking!”
Predictably, the dumb rich folk simply stopped in their tracks and ogled him.
“Move!” Barridur yelled.
The crane shadow fell over the group. A few glanced skyward. A man screeched, pointing up. The crane's neck snapped with a deafening explosion of wood and metal, and the pallet of stones tipped and plummeted downward.
Barridur hurtled himself bodily into the nearest cluster of people. Time seemed to slow. He didn’t have enough momentum. He’d be crushed along with them and—
He shouldered full force into one of the guards beside a woman in a long yellow gown. The three of them pitched to the side. The woman swore.
Barridur hit the ground atop the guard, who at least hadn’t fallen on his employer. She had enough speed and wit to yank her skirts up and roll sideways.
“Bastard,” the guard grunted, elbowing Barridur hard in the ribs.
His breath knocked out, Barridur winced and tried to untangle himself. What had happened to the stones? He’d expected the crash of wood and rock, the screams of injured or dying people.
He scrabbled up, backing away from the cursing guard. He swung back around and froze.
The spilled stone blocks and the splintered wooden pallet hung suspended in the air a dozen feet above the street. Blue-green and gold sparks danced about the magical net that held the load aloft.
A fair-haired mage dressed in imperial finery—blue robes with silver braid, cream-colored trousers, well-heeled boots, decorated with an army-issue sword at his belt—stood with both arms raised. One hand flexed in arcane signs, and the stone drifted slowly to the side of the street, near the construction site, where it landed with a grinding thud. Most of the stone was chipped or broken, but a glance around the street told Barridur no one had been killed.
Barridur’s ribs ached as he sighed in relief. His heartbeat slowed at last. Thank Zyllah-Vel.
The bodyguard was assisting the lady in yellow to her feet. She grumbled and batted his hand aside. Beyond dusty skirts and the jeweled sticks in her hair now askew, she didn’t appear harmed.
Barridur gave her a polite nod. “You okay, ma’am?”
The guard glared, but the woman again waved him off.
“I’m fine, thank you.” She straightened her wig. “Not quite the afternoon’s excitement we had planned, to be sure.”
Barridur chuckled, his nerves still humming from the perilous near-disaster. “Fortune smiles on us today.”
She nodded once and he realized she was dismissing him. He turned back to the worksite, needing to check if anyone had been injured in the chaos. Instead, he came face to face with the mage that had saved them all.
The pit dropped out of his stomach.
For standing in front of him was Lord Eirfel Pryor. Grand Mage of Urthwyk. His former commander.
Pryor’s silver-blond hair hung loose down to the middle of his back, pinned in place at the temples with clips in the shape of silver herons. His ivory-hued skin was flawless, his sharp features unchanged since the war, and his eyes as cold as winter ice.
“I never forget a face, especially one I have marked,” the mage said.
Fuck. Shock held Barridur in place for a heartbeat too long
“Seize the traitor,” Eirfel commanded.
The guards—how hadn’t he noticed the heron symbol on the breastplates, these were palace guards—grabbed his arms. He thrashed, trying to break loose, but then one of the soldiers clipped a restraint collar about his throat. It felt like a hundred-pound leaden toke on the back of his neck and shoulders.
He sank to the ground, the cobbles biting into his kneecaps, and the guards whisked steel cords around his wrists, pinning his arms at his back.
This couldn’t be happening. Eirfel was supposed to be overseeing some bullshit campaign in eastern Urthwyk, along the border of the Rillvain Mountains. Why by all the ill-cursed fucking luck was he here...
Because of the queen’s pregnancy. Dammit. Of course. Her Majesty Aralys Howe was due within days. It was the talk of the city. A betting pool had even formed among the mason workers on what day the child would be born. He’d bet on tomorrow, the fifth day of the month, since Krinn had picked it.
“Tell me his number,” Eirfel said.
One guard grabbed Barridur’s hair and shoved his head forward until his chin almost brushed his chest. He winced. He’d kept his day’s worth of stubble and had let his black hair grow out until it hung down to his shoulders. He could do little to hide the wicked scar along his face, from beneath his eye, across his cheekbone, to below his right ear. Well, unless stone dust and dirt counted as a disguise.
Too late now.
The guard’s fingers brushed across his nape, wiping grime and grit from his skin and activating the magic-laced tattoo every person enlisted in the army received. It helped identify the dead.
