Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (59 page)

           
“And Sister Bethany?” demanded
Bedyr. “What of her?”

           
“It seems the Sister was similarly
denied entry,” the sergeant reported. “She was not allowed to begin her
investigation.”

           
“Heresy!” snarled Jarl. “Now there
can be no doubt.”

           
“No,” Bedyr agreed, sadness in his
eyes although his tone remained firm.

           
“There is more,” the sergeant
offered, continuing when Bedyr gestured. “The college is under guard. Lord
Hattim speaks openly of murder and claims only a Sister might have slain our
king.” There was a silence at such heretical news, broken by Jarl’s furious curse.

           
“May Ashar take him! You were right,
Arlynn.”

           
“We have no time to waste,” said
Bedyr urgently. “We must seek the
Vashti
now!”

           
“Aye!” Jarl slid his saber from the
scabbard, raising the blade high, candlelight glinting on the naked steel. “Who
stands with us? For the Lady and the Kingdoms!”

           
A roar of approval answered his call
and Corradon shouted for his men to form a phalanx. Bedyr climbed the steps of
the dais until he stood beside the High Throne, shouting over the tumult.

           
“Wait! We are outnumbered, and the
palace is full of servants, innocent folk. Sheath your blades until they are
needed. We go out of here as warriors of die Kingdoms, with the right to go
where we wish. If none oppose us, offer them no harm.”

           
“And if they do?” Jarl demanded.

           
“Then,” said Bedyr, a grim smile on
his lips, “we cut them down.”

           
“Let Hattim but present himself,”
grunted Jarl, “and he is dead.”

           
“My Lord,” asked Corradon,
addressing himself to Bedyr, “where do we go? What of the Sisters?”

           
“I cannot believe Hattim would risk
so open a statement of heresy as to harm the Sorority,” Bedyr answered, “and
there is little we can do for them now. We go to the harbor, to the
Vashti
.”

           
Corradon nodded, sheathing his
blade as he gathered his men about him and flung the wide doors open.

           
Startled faces greeted the grim
band. Bedyr and Jarl set themselves either side of Corradon, their wives
behind, ringed with Keshi and guardsmen as they drove through the confusion.
They reached the corridor leading to the banqueting hall before they saw
Galichians, a squad of twenty-five armored men with swords drawn, commanded by
a cordor.

           
“Halt!” he cried. “Where do you go?”

           
Bedyr shouldered past Corradon to
answer, “Do you not recognize the Lords of Tamur and Kesh? By what authority do
you deny us passage.”

           
“I do,” answered the cordor without
giving any way, “and I have orders from the king that you are to be brought
before him.”

           
“The king?” Jarl bellowed, furious.
“Hattim Sethiyan is an apostate! A creature of the Messenger!”

           
“I have my orders,” said the cordor
doggedly. “You will come with me.”

           
“You dare to order us?” Jarl’s saber
left its sheath, leveling on the officer’s chest. “Stand aside!”

           
“My Lord,” said the man, “I cannot.”

           
“I command you to give way,” said
Bedyr.

           
“I am ordered to bring you to the
king,” the cordor repeated. “By any means. Put down your blades.”

           
Jarl’s rage could contain itself no
longer. His saber flickered out, his wrist twisting as the point caught the
startled cordor in the throat, opening a crimson gap between chin and
breastplate. The cordor gasped and staggered back, dropping his sword as he
pressed both hands to the wound, blood spurting over his fingers. For an
instant there was silence, all present staring at the dying man. Then his eyes
rolled up and he fell to his knees, hands still clutching at his throat as he
toppled over. It was as though a signal were given: the Galichians charged with
drawn swords, seeking to press the advantage of the corridor, where only a few
guardsmen at a time might confront them.

           
Bedyr brought his longsword out in a
sweeping cut that gutted the closest soldier, pushing him back against his
fellows as Corradon and Jarl applied their blades, the captain’s men pressing
in from behind until half the Galichian contingent lay dead and the rest
retreated.

           
“Forward!” Bedyr shouted, leading
the way into the hall.

           
They crossed the great chamber,
where the remnants of the previous night’s feasting still lay on the tables,
forgotten in the confusion of Darr’s death, and entered the salon beyond.

           
More Galichians appeared, summoned
by the fleeing warriors, and Bedyr led the refugees in a charge.

           
There was more space for swordplay
here and the Galichians rapidly outnumbered Bedyr’s group as reinforcements
came running, drawn by the din of battle. Bedyr hacked a man down, reversing
his stroke to drive his blade across another’s face, then kicked him aside to
drive the longsword deep into a belly. He had no time to look back, could only
hope that Yrla remained safe behind the defensive blades of Corradon’s men as
he struggled to cut a way through to the hall beyond. He deflected a thrust,
turning the southerner’s shortsword to ram his hilt against the jaw, feeling a
savage satisfaction at the dull cracking sound of breaking bone, then grunted
as a cut scored a bloody line through the leather of his jerkin and he turned,
stepping inside the man’s guard to slice an answering blow across the throat.
Beside him, Jarl whirled and spun, the speed of his sword-work belying his
greater years, the curved blade of the Keshi saber clashing on armor, carving
wounds from exposed flesh Corradon, too, proved a worthy battle companion, and
his armor was a great advantage as he bellowed in anger and drove steadily
forward through the Galichians.

           
The southerners had the advantage of
greater numbers and full war harness, but even so the refugees cut a swathe
through them, propelled by righteous fury at the blasphemy their opponents,
albeit likely unwittingly, supported and their own determination. Nonetheless,
they lost men as they fought their way across the salon and as they grouped in
the hall beyond Bedyr saw that their numbers were depleted, while their
enemies’ ranks were steadily swelling. Yrla and Arlynn, he saw with a flood of
relief, were unharmed, surrounded by a solid wall of blades, all bloodied now.
The gash on his arm throbbed, his sleeve darkened by the steady welling of
blood, and when he glanced at Jarl, he saw the Keshi was cut across the cheek
and favored his right leg. Corradon’s armor was dented, but appeared to have
protected the captain from any serious hurt, though several of his remaining
men, like Jarl’s Keshi warriors, bore the marks of battle. He wondered if they
had sufficient numbers to win through to the harbor, but knew even as he
wondered that they had no other choice.

           
More Galichians appeared between the
doors opening on the courtyard and Bedyr shouted for the guardsmen and Keshi to
rally, intent on cutting a way to the gates.

           
Then the southerners’ ranks parted
and Hattim Sethiyan appeared, Ashrivelle at his side. The usurper wore the
kingly robes of purple and gold and about his neck hung the medallion bearing
the tripartite symbol of Andurel. Ashrivelle wore the dark blue of mourning,
her blond tresses veiled with silk surmounted by a coronet. Her eyes were dark
and hollow, tears glistening on her cheeks, and she clung to Hattim’s arm as if
she could not stand unsupported.

           
“Put down your weapons!” Hattim
shouted. “Do you oppose your rightful king?”

           
“Heretic!” spat Jarl.

           
“You betray yourself,” Bedyr
answered, raising his voice that all there might hear him. “Darr was slain by
magic and you have no right to wear the regalia of kingship. You are not our
monarch, Hattim!”

           
“Traitors!” Hattim’s response was
calculated, designed to play upon the emotions of men accustomed to obedience,
to respect of the trappings of the monarch; to trust. “They stand condemned out
of their own mouths! Darr proclaimed me his heir and Darr is dead—I
am
your king!”

           
“Ashrivelle,” Bedyr called, “you are
Darr’s daughter; do you support this heresy?”

           
“My Lord Hattim is king,” Ashrivelle
responded, her voice slow and thick. “My poor dead father ordered it so.”

           
“Your father was slain by magic,”
Bedyr said, “and the Sisters are forbidden to examine his corpse for evidence
of glamours. Hattim locks them in their college—why? What does he have to hide?
What does he fear they will uncover?”

           
“My Lord Hattim is the king,” the
new queen declared, and Bedyr saw that she was either drugged or so stricken
with grief that her responses were automatic, her sense lost. He felt his own
hope wane then.

           
“You hear?” Hattim addressed the
crowd as much as Bedyr. “Darr’s own daughter denies this foul charge. These
traitors act from rank envy and ambition—they would deny me my right.”

           
“The king is dead,” cried a voice
Bedyr recognized as belonging to Mejas Celeruna. “Long live the king.”

           
“Long live the king!” echoed
another, and someone else added, “Long live King Hattim!”

           
“We are lost,” Jarl muttered. “Let
us sell ourselves dearly.”

           
“I would not have you slain like
common outlaws,” Hattim declared with transparently false magnanimity. “Lay
down your swords and surrender. I promise you justice.”

           
“With weighted scales,” Bedyr said
softly. “Try for the doors. If we reach them, we run for the gates. Yrla, stay
close!”

           
Yrla nodded, gathering her skirts;
beside her, the rainbow hues of her gown colored further with splashes of
crimson, Arlynn clutched a curved dagger, her face pale with fear.

           
“I offer you a final chance to surrender,”
cried Hattim. “What madness has prompted you to level these insane accusations
we may discuss later, but if you refuse you stand condemned by your own
actions.”

           
“He uses his own perfidy against
us,” murmured Yrla, and Bedyr answered, “Aye, he was ever cunning, though I had
not suspected him capable of this deviousness.”

           
“He has a demonically skilled
adviser,” Yrla responded. “If he takes us we have no hope.”

           
Corradon spoke then, seeing among
the Galichians numerous guardsmen. “You soldiers of the Royal Guard,” he
shouted, “you know me and you know our Lords of Tamur and of Kesh! Do you not
know us for honest men? Do you believe us capable of treachery? Side with us
that we may right the awful wrong done our lawful king. Until the Sisters examine
his body there can be no rightful succession. Hattim Sethiyan is not your king!
He has no right to give you orders!”

           
“Treason!” Hattim bellowed as he saw
the guardsmen falter, swayed by Corradon’s words. “The traitors have suborned
your captain. Kill him!”

           
“Halt!” roared Corradon as the
warriors surged forward, the force of his bellow stopping them in their tracks.
“Do you believe these lies? Is there a man amongst you can believe I would harm
King Darr?”

           
Many of the guardsmen lowered their
blades at this, and several shouted in Corradon’s favor, others crossing the
space between the opposed forces to join him.

           
“King Darr’s daughter stands at my
side,” Hattim raged, “my bride! The High Throne is mine by right of marriage! I
am your king and I order you to obey me—now take them!”

           
The Galichians charged at this, but
sufficient of the Royal Guard remained doubtful that the numbers attacking the
refugees were lessened and they were able to fight off that initial onslaught,
moving steadily toward the doors. Furniture encumbered the swordsmen and the
hall became littered with bodies that presented further obstacles to the
attack, those of Bedyr’s party who fell left where they lay as the survivors
crossed the chamber. Then a group of guardsmen reached a decision and fell upon
the Galichians from behind, allowing the refugees to reach the egress.