At the Border of Destiny

Excerpt

At the Border of Destiny
C. Quince © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

Late February — London, the Kingdom of Wessex

The busy port of London straddled the River Thames on the border between two kingdoms, Wessex and Mercia. Trading vessels of all shapes and sizes sailed in from the North Sea entrance on the eastern side and unloaded their goods onto the crowded docks: salt from East Anglia, wool from northern Mercia, more wool from the southern kingdom of Wessex, fine cloth, metalwork and glassware, and fresh and dried produce from the continent. Apples all year round.

Sailors and dock workers sang as they unloaded the ships:

“Heave-ho! Heave to!

“Ship to shore, here we go!

“I got a piece o’ silver in my pocket and a barrel o’ ale on my docket!”

The men called back and forth in unison as they swung heavy crates down in rope nets, rolled the barrels, or carried the smaller boxes. Some of these goods would be distributed in London’s markets, and some would be loaded onto larger vessels for trade elsewhere.

Murad had come in on a Venetian ship with plenty of extra room on board because trade with Britain had been strictly limited. He and his party disembarked and split off at the docks. They each had their tasks to complete before they could regroup and leave London.

Murad’s task was coin exchange.

He made his way toward the bustling town, past the pungent fish market and the waterfront stores with merchants calling out loud enough to startle him more than once. He dodged past a herd of huge oxen on their way to the livestock market, using his small size to nimbly slip through the crowds in good time.

Everywhere around him, traders and merchants called out short rhymes and dirty limericks at ear-splitting volume to catch the attention of passers-by. Murad ignored the noise and distractions as best he could, focused on his destination.

When he arrived at the coin exchange house, there was a queue to get in. Not unusual for this time of day, but armed guards stood at the door. More than Murad had counted on his last visit to London.

That didn’t bode well.

He caught his breath from his dash across town as he waited, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else in the queue.

People glanced at him, but locals were used to seeing all kinds of people come through their port. Their stares weren’t more than a passing interest.

The guards sized him up. Murad watched them quietly confer amongst themselves for a moment, but when it came to his turn, they didn’t stop him from entering, nor search him for the weapons hidden under his patchwork cloak.

Murad entered the dingy, damp-smelling foyer of the coin exchange.

“Next!” called the clerk, a stout, pale man with a greying beard. He sat behind a small, barred window, safe within the reinforced cell. Candles burned near him for light within the gloom.

Murad stepped up to the window, producing two pouches from his belt. “Local coin for Wessex, the other for Mercia,” he said, sliding both under the narrow gap.

The man quickly scooped up the pouches, tipping out the contents one by one to weigh them on his scales. The contents were gold talents, bearing the official treasury mark of the United Empires. While relations between the kingdoms of Britain and the United Empires were somewhat prickly, gold was welcomed warmly in any kingdom.

The talents were accepted, and the man barked out currency orders to more clerks hidden from Murad’s line of sight.

“Collect them over there,” he told Murad, gesturing to the side wall.

Murad knew that already, but he merely nodded.

“’Ere,” the man said, leaning closer to the bars to stare at Murad. “You one of them messengers?” Before Murad could answer, the man continued, “When are they gonna reopen trade routes? There ain’t been any nutmeg on the market for months, and the price of a pinch of pepper these days is through the bleedin’ roof!”

Murad didn’t have an answer for him. Trade sanctions were for rulers and councils to agree upon, not him.

“I am only a messenger,” he answered.

“Coins for Wessex and Mercia!” came a muffled shout, followed by the plink of couch purses landing in the chute.

Murad had to collect his coins and leave to let the next customer in.

On his way back, he got distracted by two young children in threadbare clothes trying to steal a fish from a market stall. They weren’t very good at it.

He paused to assess the scene, eyes going to the fishmonger who was currently occupied with another customer.

If those children hurried, they could take a fish. Murad was silently rooting for them, but the children had a mishap. The little boy who was giving the little girl a leg up slipped, and they both fell over in the dirt with a wet fish landing on top of them.

The fishmonger noticed.

“Oi!” he shouted, barrelling over to them. “You thieving li’l beggars!”

Murad swiftly stepped in. “I will pay,” he said firmly, producing a silver coin of Mercia. “How many fish does this buy?”

The fishmonger eyed the coin. “You can ’ave four big or six small for that.”

Murad glanced down at the children, who were staring back at him in surprise. They were small themselves.

“Small,” he said, handing over the coin.

When the exchange was done, the two children grinned at Murad before hurtling off, cradling their wrapped fish tightly in thin arms.

Murad watched until they disappeared into the crowd, wondering who they were running home to, or if they even had a home.

They reminded him of himself at that age.

The fishmonger shook his head at Murad. “You’re a fool, you know. Those beggars are here every morning, trying to steal.”

Murad couldn’t help a smile. “How does the saying go?” he replied. “Foolishness is a lesser evil.”

This at least got a laugh out of the man.

Then Murad was on his way. Time to meet his fellows, procure horses, and draw lots for which kingdom to enter.

They had important messages to deliver.

He found Kai first, spotting his brightly coloured uniform of red and blue silk robes, the same uniform Murad wore under his cloak. Kai was huddled in a private conversation with a London local Murad recognised: Yorgos the Greek. The man those in the know went to if they needed anything from the infamous black market.

It seemed Murad had happened upon Kai during a clandestine transaction, as the two large men exchanged small pouches in practised sleight of hand movements. Kai’s spices for Yorgos’s unmarked silver was Murad’s guess.

Yorgos left with a grin, and when Kai turned around, he was also grinning…until he noticed Murad and realised he was caught red-handed.

Murad raised his eyebrows minutely to let Kai know that he had not been so slick.

Kai responded by raising his finger to his lips, a gesture Murad had seen him do often whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have been.

Murad fought a smile. He wouldn’t tell on Kai; the older man was his dear friend, his mentor. But if Kai started lecturing him about side trades in the future, Murad now had ammunition to hit back with.

“Did you collect the currency?” Kai asked.

Murad nodded. And, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “Collected some of your own, I see.”

Kai patted his belt where no doubt the silver had gone. He chortled, and his long, thin black moustache swayed with the movement. “The price of basic seasoning is very high. What a fortunate time to come!”

“Yes, they already complained about that in the exchange,” Murad told him. “Asking when sanctions will be lifted.”

“Well, just tell them it’s nothing to do with us,” Kai replied. “After all, we’re only the messengers.”

*****

Mercia, Middle Kingdom of Britain

They had been riding all day through the green countryside under a cloud-covered sky.

“I forgot there is no sun in this country,” Lorenzo complained.

“It’ll come,” Kai told him.

Murad wasn’t so sure. He’d only been to Britain once before this, farther south, and even there, the sun had been intermittent. It seemed the farther north they travelled from London, the greyer the sky became.

They travelled off road, cutting through forests and green hills for the most direct route to Mercia’s royal capital. Their three horses walked side by side most of the way, breaking into an occasional canter when the ground was flat.

“Which inn will we stop at tonight?” Lorenzo asked.

“No inns for miles,” Kai replied. “We’ll camp out.”

Lorenzo muttered a curse in Spanish.

Kai chuckled. “One night in the forest won’t hurt, Lorenzo.”

“I’m too old for sleeping in the dirt, Kaidu,” Lorenzo retorted. “I say we look for a settlement—somewhere with a dry floor and warm fire.”

“The only dry floor going spare round these parts would be shared with goats and chickens,” Kai said, glancing at Murad and winking. “You’ll wake up with fleas.”

“I’ve woken up with worse!” Lorenzo declared and broke out into loud laughter.

Kai’s expression shifted to one of mock bewilderment. “That’s nothing to boast about, Lorenzo.”

Murad said nothing and tuned them out. The entire voyage from Venice had been like this, though with the addition of Jean-Paul and Basma chiming in.

In London, Kai had made them draw straws for who went where. Lorenzo wanted to go south to Wessex, but he drew short and had to come north to Mercia instead.

Lorenzo wasn’t fond of Mercia. He’d said it was one of the last kingdoms of Britain to fully embrace Christianity, clinging fast to their Pagan ways. But that had been a few hundred years ago.

Murad had looked around for signs of Paganism, but since leaving the busy port of London, there were only green trees, dirt roads, and wildflowers. It looked much the same as the rest of rural Britain to Murad’s eyes.

As he gazed at their woodland surroundings, Lorenzo and Kai continued their back and forth.

“One night camping outside will make you appreciate royal hospitality more,” Kai insisted. “The food will be plentiful and the ale freshly made.”

“There had better be wine,” Lorenzo said.

“Yes,” Kai answered, “I’m sure there will be wine. Or better yet, mead!”

They camped that night in the woodland, letting their horses graze in the long grass while they gathered around a small fire to eat their provisions and listen to Lorenzo tell his famous campfire stories.

“Pedro the Cruel, King of Castile,” Lorenzo began, “was quick to anger. It was said that if you displeased or betrayed him, he would have you executed like that.” Lorenzo snapped his fingers. “One nod to his men, and they would run you through on the spot!”

Kai began chortling in amusement.

Murad looked at him, puzzled. “What’s funny about that?”

“I’ve heard this story before,” Kai said, still chuckling. “I know how it ends.”

“Well, don’t spoil it, Kai!” Lorenzo said. “Anyway, one day, he had a visit from his nephew, Santiago, bastard son of the king of Portugal. The two kings famously did not get along, but King Pedro received Santiago to his court and heard him out. When the meeting was over, the king nodded to his guard, and they immediately executed Santiago right there on the spot. The king gasped!” Lorenzo raised his hands for dramatic effect. “‘Ah, why did you do that?’ he implored his guards. ‘I was telling you to show Santiago to his room!’ The guards looked at each other, realising their mistake. ‘Sorry, Your Grace,’ they said. ‘We thought you were giving us the nod to kill him!’”

Lorenzo slapped his leg and laughed. Kai chortled in that deep rumbly way of his.

Murad wasn’t as expressive as his companions, but he half smiled.

“Let us hope there is no confusion over head nods in the Mercian court,” he said dryly.

“Don’t worry,” Kai said. “I’ve been to King Aedgor’s court twice before. He is most welcoming.”

*****

The next day, they continued their journey, passing through ancient forests with dense, winding trees, and arrived upon a splendid view of a sprawling castle in the distance.

“There it is,” Kai said, gesturing toward the castle. “Temforth, the heart of Mercia. The Normans built this after their invasion, based on a motte-and-bailey castle design. They expanded upon it later. Look at those walls!”

The high walls of Temforth town were imposing, and the castle itself stood at its highest point. Against a backdrop of grey clouds on an overcast day, it was a foreboding sight.

“And,” Kai added, “the road taking us there is the original Roman road!”

“Impressive,” Lorenzo said with a yawn. “Though I will be more impressed when we get some hot food.”

“We’ll arrive in time for lunch,” Kai assured him.

They rode across the plain to reach the first gatehouse, where Kai presented his bronze medallion issued by the United Empires. A senior guard at the gate inspected it and opened the gates for them. They walked their horses through.

Inside the walls, the town was bustling with all manner of people from far and wide—from the poorest of farmers and tradespeople to nobles in fine clothing. Trading carts and wagons rolled to and from the town square, with the owners calling out their wares: dried fish, salted meats, offal, pots and pans, silversmithing, embroidery, flour, rye seeds, and more. Children ran about between the legs of adults, laughing and playing, while the lively patrons of alehouses spilled out into the narrow streets, merrily drunk.

Though the town looked clean and trade was taking place, it appeared to Murad that a higher number of women, children, and old and disabled folks lived here. Able-bodied men of fighting age seemed to be few and far between.

Usually, when that happened, it meant the men had been called away to war.

He said nothing about it, but he had an uneasy feeling. There was something in the air here, a sort of tension.

People fell quiet as they rode by, staring at them in surprise. They were a trio of foreigners with different looks than the people here, rural dwellers, were used to seeing. The nobles were of pale complexion, keeping to a mostly indoors life. Those that worked for a living, the peasants and farmers alike, had ruddy noses and cheeks, likely reddened by the sun in the summer and then the cold in the winter.

Murad did spot one or two darker-skinned townsfolk among them, but no doubt they were Christian. Their dress fit in with the locals, and so did their hair—short cuts for men, long hair for women worn in neat braids if married or worn loose if unmarried.

Lorenzo had a short haircut, but Murad and Kai both wore their hair long. All three of them were brown skinned in varying shades. Their messenger robes of red and blue patterned silk drew people’s eyes, and Kai and Murad wore Turkic hats common on the Steppe, not so common elsewhere. Everything about their looks signalled to the people of Temforth that they weren’t from around here.

“Ah, right up here,” Kai said, leading them on. He ignored the stares.

Reaching the second gatehouse, they stopped to speak with the armed guard. Past this gate was the steeper path to the castle keep. Kai showed the guards his medallion.

Unfortunately, they were denied access.

“No audience today, Master Messengers,” the senior guard explained.

Murad and Lorenzo shared a look between them.

Kai was silent for only a moment before calmly addressing the guard. “My good man,” he said. “We are Masters of the Post and here on behalf of the United Empires to speak with the king on a matter most important.”

“Sorry.” The guard didn’t appear sorry at all. “Try again tomorrow.”

He shut the door.

It was rare that Kai looked surprised, but he looked surprised now.

“What was that you said about hospitality?” Lorenzo said flatly.

“Hm, well.” Kai shrugged. “Must be something else requiring the king’s attention. We’ll find an inn for the night and come back tomorrow.” He turned his horse around to return the way they’d come.

“An inn without fleas,” Lorenzo requested, also turning his horse.

Murad looked up at the stonework of the gatehouse. A couple of human heads sat on pikes—typical royal punishment for thieves or traitors, though a punishment that was frowned upon by the Imperial Council. These heads were twisted and decomposing; they’d been there for some time. A crow perched atop one head and pecked idly.

It wasn’t the heads that caught Murad’s attention, though, but the more unusual item set above the gates: a bleached bone sheep skull adorned with a flower and ivy wreath. Murad couldn’t put his finger on it, but he got a bad feeling from that object, even more so than the human heads.

Possibly the skull was a charm to ward off intruders, and that was why he got the strange feeling. Odd for a Christian king to have such a Pagan item at his castle entrance…