Free Samual by Greg Curtis Page A

fear Samual.
     
    If Samual was dead.
     
    That was why she cried. Her husband, her beloved, and the father to her children yet to be conceived; dead. It could not be. It could not be tolerated. But as the days went by and the beatings continued and even grew worse, the fear returned to haunt her like a ghost in the night.
     
    She prayed of course. Prayed constantly to the Goddess. But she heard nothing back save that she was her child, always. And to keep with her faith. It was all part of the plan. And that her husband would come for her. This, the Goddess promised, was the hardest part. It was always hardest just before the end. And the end was close.
     
    Ryshal told herself that it was impossible that Sam was dead. She knew her husband, she knew him for the warrior he was. No matter how many cut-throats his brother sent against him he would always survive. He would always win. He did not know how to lose. With a sword in his hand and fire in his eyes, he was unstoppable. A warrior such as the world saw only once in a generation.
     
    The guards had told after she'd first been brought down into this nightmare, that more than a hundred of the king's royal guard had fallen to his blade and his fire when he'd first been told of her capture. That he'd gone mad with rage as they kept him from returning to the keep to rescue her, and that only their sheer numbers and the threat to her life had held him back. That would not be enough forever.
     
    And every day he was apart from her, she knew he would be training. He would be practising his magic and his craft, planning her rescue, making himself ready, so that when that glorious day came, there would be no mistake.
     
    Samual would come for her. He could not die. He could not be dead.
     
    But still she cried.
     
     
     

Chapter Four.
     
     
    The Court was full that morning. There were a dozen petitioners asking to be heard, many of them linked with either the noble houses or the merchant guilds, several emissaries from the nearby realms seeking an audience, and five or six disputes needing to be resolved. It was a long list of duties to get through in a morning. And all Heri really wanted to do was check his soldiers, count his treasury's gold, and listen to the reports of his spies. Those were the things that really mattered. Those were the things that kept him in power.
     
    The rest of this – the polished wooden floors and walls, the grandeur of the huge vaulted ceiling in the throne room, the massive stained glass windows with their depictions of his family's heroic acts, the assembly of overdressed courtiers attending him – they were nothing. Theatre. They were what made him look like a king. But in the end it was always about power. About being able to force his will upon others. And that was done through force of arms, economic might, knowledge and cunning. Looking the part merely helped him keep the throne.
     
    But Heri was surrounded by enemies. Smiling, polite, elegant enemies dressed in all their finery, all of whom would happily stick a knife in his back if they thought they could get away with it. Especially if it would gain them the throne.
     
    Prince Venti was currently standing to one side chatting with some of the ladies. He called himself a prince but really, he was no prince at all. He just claimed the title since his father had been the king before Heri's father had taken it. The man was stupid, but he had a powerful army.
     
    Seeing him standing there posing like a king, Heri had to fight the impulse to have him killed on the spot. Or even to do something cunning like invite him into his private sanctum and introduce him to his little horse head statue. The man would do well as a horse he thought. And it was about time he made some use of that ancient artefact instead of just letting it sit on his shelves. But he supposed someone would notice the prince's absence and know he had last been seen with the king. It would also be difficult getting a