Kings of Fire - Luke Pontbriand (best business books of all time .TXT) 📗

On the edge of the Realm of Fire, just north of the goblin city of Pilapeli, a storm was brewing. It was everything you could expect of a storm, the rain tore into the night and anyone caught outside would be soaked to the bone in minutes. The lightning crashed to the left and right of the road at irregular intervals. The sky was dark and the wind was heavy. All travelers had fled the roads long ago to seek shelter.
Except two.
The first appeared as an old crone pushing a cart laden with cheap charms and the tools of a midwife. Her skin, hard and thick from a lifetime of living in the elements, served better to protect her from the rain than the ragged cloak and scarf she wore.
The second traveled alongside her, shivering despite herself. Niram was young, a girl of ten years. Tall for her age and well built. In the Realm of Fire where they traveled, her raven-colored hair was a rare sight, but it was her deep purple eyes that marked her clearly as belonging to the Realm of Fire’s western neighbor, the Realm of Shadow.
Being outside pleased Niram, even in the rain, though it chilled her. Outside was safer. She could run, or hide more easily. She wasn’t trapped in by stone walls and wooden doors. As she walked, she kept to the front of the cart, away from the elder, the woman called Nightshade. In the darkness of the storm, the path was lit by a lantern hanging from a pole on the cart. It did not cast it’s light far in the rain, but Niram could see well even in the darkness, her senses were very sharp.
She heard first the crunch of boots on leaves, and warned the crone Nightshade by slowing her pace enough to bump into the front of the cart. Nightshade understood the prearranged signal but pretended not to. She spat a curse at the child for being slow. It was not hard.
In the Realm of Fire, bandits were policed by the King’s army. Large groups were hunted and destroyed; small groups driven off the main road. A large or protected party was fairly safe from attack, but they, in all appearances merely an elderly grandmother and child, seemed easy prey.
Just as Niram had warned, three bandits emerged from the small woods bordering the road. They were dirty and large. One carried a spiked club, one an axe, and the last a rusty sword. Nightshade gave them no time to issue their challenge.
“No magic, no weapons,” she said, her voice like a snake hissing. She meant, of course, that the girl should kill them without using magic or weapons. It was a pointless exercise, these untrained brigands weren’t enough to test her. She sighed dejectedly. Unlike her master, she would get no joy from killing weaklings. It was a bore. It was cheap, easy, and wasteful. She walked slowly forward, dragging her heels and hanging her head.
“Hand over your valuables!” grumbles the bandit’s apparent leader, “Before I split the little one’s skull!”
By little one of course, he meant the girl now approaching him. In his eyes, she was no danger, but had he been paying attention, he would have seen the corners of her lips twitch upward in a brief smile. It was so much easier to kill someone who was trying to hurt her. He had only himself to blame, after all.
He made a grab at her, realizing that his threat would be far more effective if he actually had a hold on the child he threatened to destroy.
Niram dodged his clumsy attack effortlessly, contemptuously. She took a step closer and he tried to grab her again. This time she ducked under his grab and lunged forward, delivering two swift jabs to his stomach, fat from the livelihoods of others.
The bandits had not been expecting this response, and that gave her time to land two more blows. One kick to his groin, to double him over, and the second smashed his nose into his brain. The bandit with the cudgel charged angrily, shouting loudly.
He held his club high over his head as he came, exposing himself to attack. Had she so chosen, she could have killed him at least three times as he ran at her, but instead she let him bring the club crashing down as she dodged it, keeping one eye on the last bandit, who was circling warily. She launched a series of light, swift strokes against the bandit’s left leg, smiling inwardly at the feeling of her hands striking against his flesh. Suddenly unable to stand, the bandit fell sideways, spouting curses.
She took his head and wrenched it sideways, snapping his neck. The last bandit was quivering now, unable to hold his sword straight. The sword was rusty, and the child found that contemptible. She always kept her blades in pristine condition. Filled with disgust, she smashed his rib cage, leaving him to die gasping for air.
“This will be troublesome if the people of this realm can be preyed upon by such weak predators,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.
“Worry not Niram,” her master laughed, “This realm has an interesting history. You’ll be needed. I guarantee it.”

Prince Daren first came to know Jessica by a flash of blue cloth that caught his eye as he was surveying his father’s estate. The King had allotted most of his kingdom to be run by various nobles, lords and barons. But the Palace Mountain, the city, and the valley at his feet belonged only to him. Daren knew he would one day inherit his father’s estate and was eager to learn how to run it.
Olive groves, apple orchards, figs, vineyards, all the fruits of the earth grew rich and large in the volcanic soil which had spewed out of the mountain when Daren’s father first became king. Since then a Mageschool had been commissioned. It was funded primarily by the King, and each year they drained the excess lava from the volcano to prevent its eventual eruption.
The rich lava was then ground up, accelerating the natural process of erosion. The diamonds would be removed and sold, and the dust used to fertilize the fields again. Many of the noble families had adopted this practice, transforming the Realm of Fire from a blazing wasteland to a bountiful kingdom which supplied more than half of the world’s food.
Learning to run his father’s estate was part of Daren’s lessons, and today he was watching the shepherds tend to his father’s sheep. The blue cloth he had seen belonged to a cloak far too elegant for a shepherd to afford, a stark contrast to the other shepherd’s dull brown garments. Daren approached the shepherd, who was sitting and tending to a ram lying on the ground. Daren knelt by the young shepherd and asked,
“What is wrong with him?”
The shepherd stood and brushed off her hands. Now Daren could see that she was in fact, a young girl. Aside from the cloak, which was fastened with a bronze clasp in the shape of a dragon, her clothes were no better or worse than the other shepherds, and she was barefoot. Up close, Daren estimated the cloak to be worth at least 200 era, almost a year’s wages for a shepherd.
“He’s sprained his foreleg, my Prince. It isn’t serious so long as it’s treated.” Daren noticed that her voice lacked the gruff tones and slang of the other shepherds. Her fair skin and bright blue eyes also set her apart from the darker, heavily tanned shepherds.
“How old are you?” Daren asked, thinking out loud.
The shepherdess pushed back her hood, revealing long, chocolate brown hair, and shrugged.
“I don’t know my Prince. thirteen or perhaps fourteen.Who can say?” When Daren did not respond she asked,
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
Daren sat down on the grass decorating the mountain’s slope.
“Just talk to me for a while”, Daren sighed. “I got away from my tutor while he was talking about the sheep, and I’m going to stay here until he finds me.”
The girl laughed, putting her hand in front of her mouth. It was a soft sound, like bells or wind chimes.
“What shall we talk about, my Prince?”
“Anything at all, but don’t call me Prince. It’s tiresome.” Daren replied.
“What shall I call you then?” she asked softly, sitting cross-legged with her staff across her lap.
Daren noticed that a pink ribbon was tied to the end of her staff, like a flag.
“Call me Daren.” He said.
“My name is Jessica.” She offered.
“You are a shepherd?” Daren asked, matching her soft tones.
“No, no, not a shepherd. I’m staying with the shepherds today. Yesterday with the hunters, tomorrow the stable hands.”
Daren thought about this for a moment.
“You are a healer then?”
“Yes,” she nodded, “animals mostly, but I can heal people too.” She picked up the staff. “The pink ribbon is the mark of my trade. I carry it so I can be easily identified at a distance.”
“Do you use medicine or magic?”
“Both. The court physician says I have instinctive talent.”
“Did he give you that cloak?” Daren asked.
She laughed again smiling joyously. “No, this was a gift from his Majesty.”
Daren was visibly shocked.
“But aren’t you afraid of soiling it?” he stammered. Jessica gave him a strange look.
“Why should I be? If stained, I’ll wash it. If torn, I’ll mend it. But if I don’t wear it,