THE KING'S TRIBE
Kai Widdeson
Copyright © 2020 Kai Widdeson
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For my parents, without whom I may have never found the creativity, passion, and perseverance needed to make this dream a reality
PROLOGUE
As the breeze gently rolled through the patchwork house bringing with it the first rays of dawn, the room was softly illuminated for the groggy and still sleep encrusted eyes of the day’s first victim. Silently rising from both his slumber and ever-inviting sheets so as not to wake his still dormant wife and child, the fogginess of the man’s mind rapidly cleared, a result of a brain well used to such early hours. Stepping onto the rough cold floor strewn with odd twigs, leaves, and hairs of straw, the man headed for his equipment.
With rough aged fabric against his toughened sun-beaten skin, the man looked down on his sleeping treasures. His beautiful wife, auburn hair draped over the decrepit feather pillows, had her arms wrapped protectively around their son as they shared their heat through the last of the night’s chills. This had been the boy’s ninth winter, he was still small for his age, but this did not concern the man, he had been the same. The boy lay on his side, rapid short breaths escaping from beneath the arms of his mother’s cradle. From here his son appeared both normal and at peace, his unfortunate deformity hidden against the safety of the fabric.
A large mark stretches from his left temple down to his jaw. Birthmarks of this scale were previously unseen in Avlym’s small and superstitious community. Whispers of the boy being possessed by local spirits of the forest or similar evil deities had not taken long to spread throughout the village, a plague as far as the man had been concerned. When born, some had even gone as far as suggesting leaving the babe to die in the surrounding forest, a mercy for the infant they had claimed. Fortunately, the man’s powerful standing in the community had quickly asserted itself and put an end to such nonsense. No son of his would be left to die as a result of the mad ravings of old crones.
Leaving his wife and child to their slumber, he reached for his hunting spear and exited through the creaking rotten door and into the morning light.
The soft squelch of well-worn leather in light mud punctured the silence of the still sleeping village as he made his way past the rows of huts. It had been a rough winter with barely enough supplies to pull them through. Thankfully, protecting his son was getting easier with each passing year. It was not uncommon for the young to fall prey to desperate wolves. Even if a child was kept in the safest of homes, there was little to guarantee that it would not fall victim to the harsh winters that froze the land and stifled the daylight. With each spring that came, the man could breathe a little easier. Whilst the food stores were now empty and wood stacks depleted, the nights were once more beginning to shorten, and the wind was losing its bite. The intensity of the waking sun was already beginning to revive the man’s village and the surrounding forest, thawing the ground and birthing new buds into the tree bark.
Continuing his slow trudge, a wave caught the corner of his eye: the baker opening for the day. He was a pudgy man with a tremendously dry sense of humour, but he was pleasant enough. His wife however, was another matter. She had been one of the main advocates for his son’s dismissal from the village. She slept in and avoided the man’s family wherever possible, her nose always wrinkled from the stench of distrust. This was of course fine enough with the man, she always seemed to have a sharp tongue and an angry mind and any break from her company was always welcome. Unfortunately, the size of Avlym made it extremely challenging to avoid such people, the close-knit community certainly had its perks but also its harsh and superstitious irritations. The man returned the baker’s morning salute and continued onwards.
He strolled past the still faintly smouldering ashes of the previous night’s festivities, the coming of green and melting of snow had brought about a long and well-deserved evening of celebrations. The majority of what remained of the food stores had disappeared, washed down with the last of the hoarded ale beside the gentle crackling of a large hearth. It had certainly been a night to remember.
In the distance Krista could also be spotted on her morning routine, casually gathering the weekly supplies for Ida the village elder, a slightly batty old lady but nevertheless one that should never be underestimated. Ida was fantastically cunning and quick-witted for her age, if not for her apparently random and nonsensical babbling she would surely be the leader and at the forefront of their small community. Regardless, she was a strong advisor who commanded a lot of respect. Everyone knew not to go against Ida unless wanting of the full wrath of Avlym.
Finally, the man passed the last of the houses, or what remained of it at least. The ruin had been the home of one of Avlym’s leaders decades ago, back in the time of unrest and rebellion. The man had been told countless stories of those times by his late grandparents, but their telling had been forbidden except by dim candlelight
