The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1 Read online

  This new series is for all of the fans and friends that I have made over the past 10 years. Your encouragement and love for my stories has led to over 70 published works, 4 million words, and numerous bestsellers. I want to thank my beta readers, editors, artists, friends and family that have helped me put all of this together. May our journey continue another 10 years and beyond!

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  The King’s Henchmen

  The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1

  By Craig Halloran

  Copyright © 2018 by Craig Halloran

  Amazon Edition

  TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

  PO Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

  ISBN eBook: 978-1-946218-44-5

  www.craighalloran.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Publisher's Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  Also by Craig Halloran

  Prologue

  The Lands of Titanuus - Northern Territories

  “Captain.” A deep-voiced man spoke softly. “Captain.”

  Ruger opened his eyes. He lay on a bed of fur blankets inside a large canvas tent. The firm body of a woman lay beside him. She stirred as he sat up. The morning sun shone on the top of the tent, providing natural illumination. Drops of rain softly pelted the tent fabric. He pushed his fingers through his jet-black hair then breathed deeply into his nostrils and rubbed his eyes. He opened them. Bloody biscuits, I’m still here!

  On the other side of the tent’s entrance flap, the person spoke more loudly and urgently. “Captain. Can you hear me?”

  “Horace, I can hear you just fine! Hold your bloody horses!” Ruger said in a bitter voice. He shoved the leg of the woman wrapped up in the furs. “Sticks, get your scrawny arse out of my fox furs and go see what the lout wants.”

  “Did you say something, Captain?” Horace asked. “It’s hard to hear through canvas.”

  “Give me a moment!” he yelled back.

  Sticks rose to her feet. She wore a gray nightshirt that hung loose on her firm body. Her chestnut-colored hair was short and tied back in twin ponytails. The slightly fish-eyed woman with a tomboy demeanor bent over, picked up a bandolier of knives, and slung it over her shoulder. Barefoot, she headed toward the flap.

  Ruger gave her a smack on the rear end. “Settle Horace down and come right back. No, bring me something to eat.” He rubbed the hard ridges on his bare stomach. “I’m hungry.”

  Sticks gave him an expressionless nod. Quiet as a mouse, she vanished through the flap.

  “Where’s the Captain?” Horace asked.

  “Will you tell me what it is?” Sticks replied in a stern manner. “He’s dressing, and I need to fetch his breakfast. Out with it.”

  “Watch that brassy tone. My message is for his ears, not yours,” Horace growled.

  Ruger slipped on his trousers. He sat down on a cot, reached underneath for his boots, and stuffed his feet into them. I hate these things. My feet will burn like fire before I’m half a day in.

  Horace’s voice became louder. “You tell the Captain that my words are for his ears and not yours! It’s urgent!”

  “I don’t care. You can tell me. I’m his eyes and ears,” Sticks said matter-of-factly. “Spit it out.”

  “No!” Horace retorted.

  Ruger’s chin sank into his chest. Finally, he sighed and said, “For the love of money, Horace, just get your bloated belly in here!”

  A strong arm with stubby fingers pushed the tent flap open, and Horace marched inside. The big husky warrior was as bald as an eagle but with a nest of beard down his chest. His eyes were as hard as diamonds. He wore a black leather tunic over an elbow-length suit of chain mail. A sword belt complete with long sword and dirk dressed his wide hips. He gave a firm nod. “Captain.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m the Captain. You don’t have to call me that every time. Now, spit it out, Horace.” Ruger reached behind himself, into the corner of the tent where his own sword belt was propped up. He lay it across his lap and ran his long fingers over the scabbard. “I really hope you didn’t waste my precious moments of slumber.” His eye slid up toward Sticks. “Not to mention other routines that I enjoy.”

  Eyeing Ruger’s sword and scabbard, Horace swallowed and said, “Never, Captain—er… Never.”

  “So, what is it?”

  “The frights. They escaped.”

  Ruger stiffened. He cocked his head to one side. His eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

  “The frights are gone,” Horace replied. “Red Tunics are dead.”

  He stood up and buckled on his sword belt then glared down at Horace and sneered. “Show me.”

  Horace marched outside, followed by Ruger and Sticks. The morning light had come with heavy cloud cover and a steady rain. Surro
unded by the tall trees of the forest, the campsite clearing was made up of small pup tents and stone rings around extinguished campfires. A man using a flint stone and hay struggled to light the fire in the rain. Horses nickered. Wagons were being loaded by workers in brick-colored tunics.

  Hard-eyed men and women dressed in the same garb as Horace watched Ruger’s every step from a distance. Horace led Ruger away from the camp to another clearing, where a nearby stream trickled a few dozen feet away. Three men in red tunics lay dead on the grass in drippings of their own blood. Branches with sharp ends had poked through their bodies with ghastly effect.

  Ruger took a knee. He stared at the macabre scene and shook his head. I hate this place. “Who in Hades was on watch last night when this happened?”

  “Vern had the last watch,” Horace said. “These retainers were from his group.”

  “And where is Vern?”

  “He came to me first, only minutes ago,” Horace said as the rain came down harder, heavy drops splattering on his bald head. “He’s trying to find the frights’ tracks.”

  “A fat lot of good that is going to do in this rain!”

  “We’ll find them, Captain,” Horace said. “We tracked the witches down once. We can do it again. They couldn’t have gotten too far, and they don’t move very fast. We have horses.”

  Ruger rose and kicked his black boots through the grasses. “We just spent the last forty days chasing them over one thousand miles! Now, we get to start all over again. I don’t want to spend another hour on this. I want to return to Kingsland!”

  “Captain, we’ll pursue right away. Rain or no rain, we will find them soon,” Horace promised.

  “Get Bearclaw on it now. Find Vern and send him to me. He’s the one that lost them, and I have no faith that he can find them.”

  Horace nodded and hustled away.

  Ruger stormed over the grasses and stopped where a tree had fallen recently. Sticks shadowed him. He picked up one set of iron shackles with both hands. The frights were an odd group of gangly witches. They’d been tethered to the fallen tree.

  “I can’t believe this. They aren’t supposed to be able to use their powers when iron is locked on them.” He held the iron cuffs, bent outward, up to Sticks’s face. “Look at this. Magic. Fetch Iris and have her take a look at this. Have the Red Tunics bring the shovels. Bury the dead. But not too deep. There’s no time for that.”

  “The varmints will dig them out and feast on them,” Sticks said.

  “I don’t care about your traditions. We don’t have time to dig, dig, dig. We’ve dug enough on this journey.” He shoved the heavy shackles into her chest. “Don’t let Vern elude me either. I’ll be in my tent.”

  Ruger paced inside his sixteen-by-sixteen-foot tent, wringing his hands behind his back. He ground his teeth and cursed and muttered, “It’s bad enough that I’m trapped in another man’s body. Now, I’m going to die in a body that is not my own. In a world that is not my home.” He grabbed a cot and tossed it across the tent. “Dammit! I want out of this hellhole!”

  Years ago, he’d been transported from America to the world that he now knew as Titanuus. He was changed from Professor Eugene Drisk into a warrior named Ruger Slade, in what he believed was an experiment all gone wrong. Now, he’d been thrust into the service of King Hector and charged with executing the king’s business beyond the safety of Kingsland’s borders.

  Eugene Drisk had his moments as Ruger Slade, but for the most part, he was horrible at it—one mission failed after another. The king’s grace was running out. His latest mission was to track down the frights and bring them back to Kingsland alive to be hanged on the gallows. It was a show of the king’s strength in a crumbling kingdom, withering from the inside out.

  The frights were a nefarious brood of witches who spread poison throughout Kingsland using venomous words and treacherous sorcery. They wrought evil wherever their crooked toes walked. In the city of Burgess, they’d burned down one of the king’s cathedrals. Men, women, and children were burned alive within. The frights, five in all, were captured and imprisoned. A day before their execution, they escaped.

  Ruger and the Henchmen were sent to hunt them down and bring them back alive. That was the last chance for this motley company of renegade knights and assorted prisoners to redeem themselves. It was their last chance because of all their past failures. The king’s grace would end. The existence of Eugene Drisk might end as well if he didn’t bring the frights back alive. Most of his Henchmen depended on him. If they failed, their sentences would be executed as well. The rest of the Henchmen would be disbanded or perhaps led by another.

  He rubbed the lumpy brand of hardened skin shaped like a crown over his heart. “Cursed mark.”

  It was a mark of loyalty and faithfulness to the crown that meant “Glory to the king. Honor to the sword.” It was given when the Henchmen gave their oath to the king. Breaking one’s oath could be fatal. Henchmen who fled their duties were known to die—at the hands of their enemies, by being carted off by sky demons, or just because of sudden death. It was witchery that Eugene still didn’t understand. Nor did he care.

  “I’m marked like a prize horse. A horse with a time limit.”

  “Captain,” someone with a gravelly voice said outside the tent. “It’s Vern.”

  Ruger dropped his left hand to the pommel of his sword sheathed on his left hip. He faced the flap. “Enter.”

  Vern pushed the tent flap aside and entered. He was a well-built athlete with a pale complexion and short, kinky blond hair down to his neck. He had puffy lips and carried himself with aloofness. His eyes were sad and heavy. Like Horace, he wore a weathered black tunic over chain mail armor. A finely crafted longsword and dagger dressed his slender hips. “What is it?”

  “Don’t use that tone with me, Vern. And don’t speak as if you don’t know what this is all about. I tire of your act.” His fingers drummed on his pommel. “You were on last watch last night. Now, the frights are gone. Explain yourself.”

  With his head leaned over one shoulder and his thumbs tucked into the front of his sword belt, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I am going to skewer you if you don’t come cleaner than that. Now, tell me what happened.”

  “What difference does it make now? The frights are gone, and I should be out looking for them.” Vern peered up then dropped his eyes back to Ruger. “And not staying dry in a tent like you.”

  Ruger’s blood churned through his veins as his grip tightened on his sword. He stared Vern down. “I’m going to split your face in half if you keep up your obstinance. I have three dead Red Tunics. I can’t help but wonder how they’re dead and you’re still alive.”

  Vern’s eyes fell to Ruger’s sword.

  “What are you thinking, Vern? Do you think you can take me?”

  “If you didn’t have Black Bane, I have no doubt that I could. And I certainly wouldn’t hide behind the retainers in battle, either. I’d use it.”

  “Oh, so you think that my sword makes me the better fighter, not the man. That’s very interesting.” He took his hand away from his hilt. “Have you been concocting these notions all on your own, or have the rest of the Henchmen been entertaining your musings?”

  “No one used to concoct anything until you became cowardly and crazy. All you’ve done is lead us to our doom one mission after the other.” Vern sneered at Ruger. “You’ve lost your edge—either that or your spine.”

  “Bold words coming from a man who nods off at his post.” He patted the hilt of his dagger. “No swords. Just dirks.”

  “All right.” Vern faced off against him. He crossed his left hand over his right hip, where his dagger was sheathed.

  Ruger readied himself in a similar stance. “On your word, Vern.”

  Vern nodded. The moment Vern’s lips parted, Ruger snaked out his dirk in a flash and pressed it against Vern’s throat. The wide-eyed Henchman gulped. His hand was frozen on his dagger, still in his shea
th.

  As he pressed his dagger against Vern’s neck, Ruger whispered in his ear. “Do you still think that I need Black Bane to kill you?”

  With new sweat beading on his brow, Vern said, “No.”

  “No, what?”

  “No, Captain.”

  Ruger cracked Vern upside the head with the handle of his dagger. The stunning blow knocked the warrior to the ground. He kicked Vern in the ribs. “Don’t ever question me again, fool!”

  He wanted to lay into Vern with all he had but held back. He needed every Henchman he had. And Vern was a good soldier, just difficult.

  “You get your arse out there and find those frights. And you better hope by the Elders that you come through because if you don’t, I’ll make an example out of you!” He kicked him again. “Go!”

  Groaning, Vern slowly crawled out of the tent.

  Ruger huffed for breath. He jammed his dagger back in the sheath. Vern had made several pointed statements, and they were accurate.