Read Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) for Free Online Page B

shadow passed back and forth again. Something was swinging from branch to branch through the trees. Then it was gone. Before long, Oland could sense a presence behind him. He turned his head slowly, and was confronted with a monkey. It had golden grey fur and a hairless pink face. Before Oland could react, the monkey wrapped his arms around him and laid his head on Oland’s shoulder. Oland slid away from him, and noticed a small silver medal swinging from the monkey’s leather collar. A name was etched into it.
    â€œMalben,” said Oland, holding the medal to the moonlight. “Hello.”
    The monkey blinked and opened his mouth as if he were going to speak. Instead, he threw his arms around Oland one more time. Then he disappeared.
    There was no more rustling in the trees. Oland looked around the square to see if the monkey would reappear. But he soon realised that he was alone. As for human company, Oland knew that everyone in Decresian was afraid of The Craven Lodge and that, from midnight, they locked their doors and hid away, terrified to draw attention to themselves.
    As Oland stood up to leave, he sensed a strange vibration underfoot. He could hear the faint sound of metal on stone, and the steady blows of a hammer. It was his only sign that there was life in Derrington. He followed the dull noise through a maze of streets that brought him to a short row of ten cottages. He went around to the back and walked along the ragged laneway.
    A red-haired boy burst out of a gate at the end of the lane and ran towards Oland, struggling on his chubby, turned-in legs. It was only as he passed that Oland recognised Daniel Graham, the butcher’s son. The boy’s eyes were filled with panic.
    Oland walked down to the swinging gate and looked into a small backyard filled with a sombre crowd. More people were emerging from inside the house. The noise of the hammers had stopped and the only sound was the urgent whispers of the men in the doorway. Oland couldn’t make out what they were saying, and the crowd was too thick to push through. Whatever was happening in this yard, Oland knew it was important enough that any fear of The Craven Lodge arriving had dissolved.
    Intrigued, Oland left the yard and went into the neighbouring one. Like all the houses along the lane, it had a small room on each side of the back door. One was lit by the moon, the other by candle. Oland crouched down by the wall that divided the two yards. Through the candlelit window beside him, he noticed a huge shadow stretching up the wall inside. It was cast by a tall, blocky man with a bald, oval head. A row of shiny pins was gripped between his pursed lips. A line of heavy black garments hung on a rack in front of him. The floor was strewn with paper patterns. Oland’s heart pounded. It was the Tailor Rynish. Villius Ren’s private tailor.
    â€œIn a different world, it’s a job of which my brother would be proud,” came a voice behind him.
    Oland jumped. He turned around and saw a man standing over him. He looked to be in his sixties, and was heavyset with a small round belly. He had thick sand-coloured hair that fell across his full face and bright hazel eyes. He grabbed Oland by the arm and pulled him into the shadow of the doorway.
    â€œYou’re the boy from the arena!” said the man. “What are you doing here?”
    â€œI… I… followed the sounds…” said Oland. “The Tailor Rynish… is he your brother?”
    The man pushed open the back door and held it for Oland to walk through. “Come,” he said. “You’re not safe outside.” He led Oland into a small darkened parlour and lit a candle.
    â€œMy name is Jerome Rynish,” said the man. “What are you doing, risking coming to Derrington at this time of night? Oland Born, isn’t that your name?”
    Oland nodded. “Yes.”
    â€œHave they thrown you out of the castle?” said