Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (60 page)

           
Bedyr found himself confronting a
halberdier who stabbed his clumsy weapon at the Lord of Tamur. He sidestepped
the thrust, fastening his left hand about the shaft as he plunged his sword
into the man’s groin, snatching the pike from him as he fell, screaming. He
sheathed his sword and began to swing the long, heavy-bladed weapon in scything
arcs, clearing sufficient space that the others might follow him out into the
colonnaded portico and the courtyard beyond. Here more guardsmen overcame their
confusion and sided with the refugees, swelling their ranks until they were
able to fight slowly across the yard toward the palace gates.

           
Here, though, the advantage returned
to Hattim, for the open space allowed him to bring archers into play and as the
refugees approached the gates, arrows rained upon them.

           
Men fell in profusion then,
Galichians and loyalists both dropping to the whistling shafts as Hattim
screamed orders and his bowmen fired blindly, careless of their targets. There
was no defense against that terrible storm and as the Galichians drew back,
leaving the bloody work to the archers, Bedyr saw that his party must die there
or surrender. A shaft plucked at his jerkin and he saw Yrla flinch as another
tore at her gown. They had reached the gates, which offered temporary shelter
beneath their arch, but beyond lay open ground and the avenue leading into the
city, where they would prove easy pickings for the bowmen.

           
“We are lost,” he shouted.

           
“We can sell ourselves dearly,”
roared Jarl.

           
“Against archers?” Bedyr shook his
head. “Would you sacrifice Arlynn?”

           
“What other choice do we have?”
asked the Keshi.

           
“Surrender!” Bedyr’s voice was
bitter. “Hattim promised us a trial—we can hope sense may prevail.”

           
Jarl ducked as a shaft fluttered his
dark hair and snarled, “So be it.”

           
“Surrender!” Bedyr raised his voice
above the tumult. “Lay down your arms!”

           
The hail of arrows eased and ceased
as his shout carried and the warriors about him lowered their useless blades.
Bedyr beckoned Corradon closer, lowering his voice to whisper urgently,
“Corradon, you have the best chance of going unrecognized—if such opportunity
should present itself, slip away and go to the harbor. Find Galen Sadreth and
the
Vashti
and tell him to sail
north. Take word to High Fort. If Kedryn is there, tell him he is Lord of Tamur
now and must act accordingly. If he is not, tell Rycol to raise the war banners
and join with Kemm to oppose this cursed usurper. ”

           
“I will, my Lord,” Corradon
promised.

           
Bedyr nodded and shouted across the
wide yard to Hattim.

           
“Do you accept our surrender, Hattim
Sethiyan? Do you promise us justice before these present?”

           
“He will have us slaughtered,” Jarl
muttered.

           
“I think not,” said Bedyr. “Not with
all Andurel watching.”

           
He sheathed his blade and put an arm
about Yrla’s shoulders, defeat lending stark lines to his handsome features as
he awaited Hattim’s response.

           
Hattim glanced about him as though
assessing the merits of accepting their surrender or having them killed on the
spot. He was about to order his bowmen to slay them when a hand plucked at his
sleeve and a soft voice hissed in his ear.

           
“Alive,” said Sister Thera. “I want
them alive.”

           
“I accept,” Hattim called. “Lay down
your arms and you shall receive the judgment of the law.”

           
Bedyr glanced to the side and saw
Corradon stooping to smear his fingers with the blood of a fallen guardsman,
wiping the gory stain across his face, adding more to his battered armor. The
captain smiled grimly and stretched out beneath the arch of the gates, dragging
a body across his legs. Dusk had fallen and in the shadows he seemed merely one
more bloody corpse. Bedyr nodded his approval.

           
Yrla whispered, “Do you see the
Sister with Hattim?”

           
“Thera?” Bedyr’s eyes widened. “Do
you suggest she betrays her calling?”

           
“He heeds her,” Yrla replied. “That
is strange in itself.”

           
“Mayhap she pleads for mercy,” Bedyr
said.

           
Yrla frowned. “Mayhap. Or mayhap
there is something else.”

           
“We shall doubtless find out soon
enough,” grunted Bedyr, then, louder: “We surrender to you, Hattim Sethiyan.”

           
Corradon lay beneath the arch,
watching through slitted eyes as the diminished party set down their weapons
and stepped reluctantly from the shelter of the gates. They were instantly
surrounded by Galichians and escorted into the
White
Palace
, the young captain cursing silently as he
saw that men of the Royal Guard sided with the traitors. Then his cursing
became a slow sigh of relief as no move was made to clear the bodies and the
shadows of twilight merged into the obfuscation of night. He remained still
until the last of the soldiers was gone and only the watchmen remained on the
wall. Then he rose cautiously to his feet and moved to the postern, sword ready
in his right hand.

           
Two Galichians stood watch there and
as he approached they turned suspiciously, eyeing his silver breastplate.

           
“Hail, friends,” he said with false
cheerfulness, “the traitors are in chains by now. ”

           
“Who are you?” demanded the closest
man.

           
“One loyal to the king and the
Kingdoms,” Corradon said, and drove his blade deep beneath the man’s ribs. He
twisted the steel as he dragged it loose, striking the second guard across the
face before a cry could escape his gaping mouth. As he staggered back, Corradon
stabbed him in the belly, stepping past him to drag the bolts free and dart
through the narrow doorway.

           
He began to run across the sward
beyond, praying to the Lady that no guards were posted on the outer wall,
weaving as the horribly familiar hiss of arrows filled the air about him. He
felt a blow against his back and faltered, almost pitching to his face, but
righting himself and continuing his zigzag path as shafts thudded into the
frozen ground around him. A second blow caused him to cry out as fire lanced
through his shoulder and he felt the grate of steel head against bone. He was
hit twice more before he reached the perimeter wall and saw the outer gates
standing wide, the lights of Andurel before him.

           
He plunged through the opening and
ran a way down the avenue, realizing that he lurched, aware of warm moisture on
his back, a painful shortness of breath. His ribs seemed to clench against his
lungs and the arrow protruding from his shoulder was a source of agony, but he
was spurred by the shouting behind him and weaved to the side, lunging through
shrubs as he entered the parkland that lay between the
White
Palace
and the closest buildings.

           
He crossed the park and staggered
down a narrow alley, moving unsteadily downhill, grateful for the darkness and
the cold that shuttered most of the city behind closed doors. Farther on he
encountered frightened citizens who stared and pointed, drawing back in
deference to his guardsman’s harness and the threat of the bloody blade he
presented to them.

           
Then he was in the harbor area and
staggering past warehouses, seeing pale starlight twinkle on the surface of the
Idre. A riverman emerged from a tavern and Corradon seized his arm, gasping,
“The
Vashti
, Galen Sadreth, where are
they?”

           
The mariner, bleary-eyed from drink,
pointed to the left and Corradon let him go, continuing toward the river.

           
He reached the waterfront and began
to lurch toward the vessels, realizing that his vision blurred, ignoring the
pain that filled his lungs with liquid flame as he shouted, “Galen Sadreth! I
seek Galen Sadreth!”

           
A vast figure stepped into his path
and he raised his sword threateningly, no longer able to speak for the agony
that throbbed his chest.

           
“I am Galen Sadreth,” said the
mountainous shape, “and I think you are dying.”

           
Corradon fell into the massive arms
and Galen lowered him gently to the ground, cradling his head, his eyes
sympathetic as he studied the shafts protruding from the young man’s back. One
at least was lodged in a lung and two more had pierced the dented silver
breastplate deep enough to be bleeding his life away into his belly.

           
“You had better tell me what you
want quickly,” the riverman murmured. “You do not have long.”

           
Corradon spat blood onto his chin
and chuckled despite himself.

           
“You are blunt,” he gasped. “Are you
loyal to the Kingdoms?”

           
“I am,” said Galen.

           
“Then you must sail north,” said
Corradon, summoning the last reserves of his waning strength to inform the
giant of Bedyr’s wishes.

           
“I will do it,” Galen promised as
dark blood joined the frothy crimson on the captain’s lips.

           
“The hope of the Kingdoms rests with
you,” Corradon choked out, and died.

           
Galen lowered the bloody head and
rose to his feet, crossing to the dark shape of the barque that bobbed on the
evening swell.

           
“Cast off!” he bellowed, cocking his
head at the hoofbeats he heard thundering from the direction of the
White
Palace
. “Make haste! We sail north for High Fort.
For the Kingdoms and Kedryn Caitin!”

           
The cordor leading the pursuing
Galichians found Corradon’s body by the riverside, but of the
Vashti
there was no sign, for she was
already pulling into the stream, running without lights, her oarsmen stroking
as if their very lives depended on the speed of their escape; as, indeed, they
did.

           
The barque that slid wearily into
the harbor below High Fort as the watery sun touched the western edges of the
Lozins was a weather-beaten memory of the colorful
Vashti
that had earlier that season sailed south. Her sails were
ragged and the brightwork of her gunnels dulled, her oarsmen lolled, close to
exhaustion, in their places, and even bluff Galen Sadreth was subdued as he let
go his tiller and moved toward the gangplank. Nonetheless, there was the gleam
of pride in the eyes of the tired rivermen, for they had fought the wind and
the winter spillage of the Idre to bring their craft swiftly northward, and
they congratulated themselves on a job well done.

           
Galen voiced a brief encomium and
tossed gold enough for a keg of beer and warm beds to his mate before crossing
the plank and starting the climb toward the citadel. There was little enough
time to waste and he cursed with all the eloquence of his guild as he was
required to halt before the gates and state his business, delaying further
while a man was sent to bring word to Rycol, his impatience only slightly
mollified by the rapid appearance of the chatelain.

           
“I bring alarming news from
Andurel,” he declared without preamble. “What word of Kedryn?”

           
“He lives.” Rycol studied the fat
captain, seeing on his ruddy features an uncharacteristic nervousness. “What
news?”

           
Galen drew his cloak tighter about
his massive frame and pursed his lips, glancing around in a conspiratorial
manner before lowering his voice and saying, “This is best told in private, I
think.”

           
Rycol nodded and beckoned Galen to
follow him across the courtyard to enter the labyrinthine bowels of the
fortress, making their way to the chatelain’s quarters, where Rycol produced
evshan and Galen tossed back a cup as if the fierce liquor were water. He
grunted his approval and extended the cup that Rycol might refill it, sipping
more slowly as he lounged back in his chair, his bulk threatening to overwhelm
even that sturdy frame. Rycol sat before the fire, absently stroking the heads
of the two brindle hounds that fretted at the nervousness they sensed in the
riverman.

           
“What news?” the chatelain repeated.

           
“Darr is dead,” said Galen, “and
Hattim Sethiyan wed to Ashrivelle, declaring himself king. Bedyr, Yrla, Jarl of
Kesh and his wife are, as best I know, imprisoned. Or dead. Andurel is held by
the Galichian army. ”

           
Rycol stared at the fat man, his
lean face tense now. “You are sure of this?” he demanded.

           
Galen nodded and explained how
Corradon had come, dying, to the
Vashti
with word from Bedyr; how Darr had died so mysteriously; and how Hattim
proclaimed himself monarch by marriage right. Rycol’s features grew grim as he
listened and when Galen was done, he rose to shout for Kedryn to be summoned.

           
“Bedyr feared him dead,” Galen said.

           
“No.” Rycol shook his head. “With
Wynett and Tepshen Lahl he escaped the downfall of the
Fedyn
Pass
and succeeded in reaching the Drott. He has
his sight again.”

           
“Praise the Lady,” Galen murmured
fervently, “that, at least, is a blessing.”

           
“He will need his eyes to lead Tamur
against the usurper,” Rycol grunted. “Are you sure Bedyr is taken?”

           
“The man who told me was a captain
of the Royal Guard,” Galen said. “He was dying—filled with Galichian arrows—and
riders were on his heels: I believed him well enough to bring my craft north.”

           
Rycol nodded slowly, his eyes
thoughtful now, assessing the strategy of a winter campaign. He turned as the
door opened and Kedryn came in, Wynett at his side, no longer—to Galen’s
surprise—in the blue robe of a Sister, but dressed in a gown of soft pink. The
riverman rose ponderously, his eyes troubled as he saw Kedryn’s smile.

           
“Galen!” Kedryn crossed the room to
clasp the big man’s hand. “You are well met, old friend. Are you come to bring
us south?”

           
Galen swallowed and took more evshan
as he braced himself to repeat his story, seeing Kedryn’s smile disappear at
the telling, Wynett’s radiant features grow somber. The pleasure he felt as he
saw that Kedryn’s eyes focused again, that love had blossomed and was
acknowledged between them, dimmed by the sad nature of his information.

           
“Tepshen must hear this,” Kedryn
said when the tale was done, and servants were dispatched to find the kyo.

           
While they waited he walked to
Wynett, taking her hands. “I am sorry. Your father was a good man.”

           
Tears moistened her blue eyes, but
she brushed them away, her face composed, the disciplines of Estrevan imposing
a stoic calm. “He was, indeed; but now he is dead and we must look to the
future. I shall mourn him when the time comes—now we must think of the living.”

           
Kedryn nodded, grateful for her
strength. Rycol said, “My condolences, Wynett. I counted Darr a friend.”

           
Wynett smiled wanly, not speaking, a
hand about the talisman she wore, as if that touch could lend her strength.

           
Tepshen Lahl appeared then with
Brannoc at his side, both men flushed, in winter garb, the sweet smell of
horseflesh lingering about them, their smiles fading as they saw the solemn
features of those already gathered. Kedryn motioned them to sit and asked Galen
to repeat his story a third time. As he spoke Tepshen’s eyes grew cold, and
when he was finished the easterner turned to Kedryn, direct as ever.

           
“You are—for the present—Lord of
Tamur: do you send out the war banners?”

           
Kedryn, his own face pale, stared
blindly at the kyo for long moments, the frown that lined his features aging
him so that he resembled more than ever his father.

           
“In such wolf-weather?” He turned
toward Galen. “Was the Messenger’s hand detected in this?”

           
“I do not know.” Galen shook his
head, seeing in the young man a new maturity, a firming of character that
prompted confidence. “I know only what I have told you.”

           
Kedryn nodded, stem determination
lending him an air of grim resolve even though dull fear gnawed at his mind,
threatening to cloud his judgment. He reached unthinking to clasp the blue
jewel hung about his neck and at its touch he felt a calm, the panic that
menaced his thinking receding, a clarity possessing him so that he was able to
foresee the options before him and weigh them one against another.

           
“If Hattim dares imprison my parents
I doubt he would hesitate to hold their lives hostage against the approach of
our army,” he said slowly. “And if we do send out the banners, how long will it
take to raise our forces? My parents might well be dead before we reached
Andurel. Or we might find them set betwixt us and Hattim. Swifter action is
needed.”

           
“How?” Tepshen demanded. “Hattim has
his army before the city.”

           
“And Kemm of Kesh likely has his on
the Vortigen,” nodded Kedryn. “Knowing that if he crosses the river, Jarl’s
throat will be cut. I’d wager Hattim counts on that to stalemate our response
and I’d not see my parents die as a result of precipitate action. Galen brought
the
Vashti
out—can he not bring me
in?”

           
He turned to the riverman, reaching
for Wynett’s hand as he heard her gasp. Galen ducked his head. “I can bring you
close, and whilst the Galichians would likely seize the
Vashti
, a boat could put you ashore unnoticed.”

           
“And then?” asked Tepshen, dubious. “What
do we do then?” “We?” Kedryn smiled slightly.

           
“Do you think I shall let you die
alone?” said the kyo.

           
“Or I?” said Wynett. “If die we
must.”

           
“You cannot come with me,” Kedryn
said firmly. “There is too much danger. ”

           
“You forget something,” Wynett said
gently, though iron resolution rang in her quiet words. “I am my father’s elder
daughter. ”

           
Kedryn frowned. “I do not
understand.”

           
“Do you not think,” said Wynett,
taking both his hands in hers, “that the time has come to make an honest woman
of me?”

           
“By the Lady!” Rycol spoke for the
first time, seeing the direction of her thoughts. “Aye—that is it!”

           
Kedryn’s frown grew more perplexed,
confusion showing in his brown eyes.

           
“Ashrivelle is my younger sister,”
Wynett explained, “and now that I have renounced my Sisterhood my claim to the
High Throne takes precedence. Were I wed, my husband should have prior claim to
Hattim Sethiyan.”

           
“I?” Kedryn gasped.

           
“You,” Wynett nodded.

           
“King Kedryn,” said Brannoc,
thoughtfully. “It has a certain ring to it.”

           
“I had not thought to claim such
rank,” Kedryn murmured. “You had not thought to see your parents imprisoned,”
said Wynett. “Do you reject me?”

           
“No!” Kedryn shook his head quickly.
“You know that I would take you as my wife. But I had not thought to become
king.”

           
“As Wynett’s husband,” said Rycol,
“you become the legal claimant. You would have rightful seniority over Hattim
Sethiyan—and the right to command his army.”

           
“Would the Galichian accept that?”
demanded Tepshen doubtfully.

           
“Likely not,” Rycol admitted, “but
others would have no choice, and any who opposed Kedryn would stand condemned
of treason.”

           
“Hail the king,” said Brannoc. “When
is the wedding? When do we sail?”

           
“You, too?” Kedryn asked, his smile
grateful.

           
Brannoc grinned. “You will need a
bodyguard, your Majesty. It seems hardly fitting that you present yourself to
Andurel without suitable attendants.”

           
“It seems,” Kedryn said, almost
ruefully, “that it is decided for me.”

           
“I argue the wisdom of approaching
Andurel without an army at your back,” said Tepshen. “At the very least, take a
force from Rycol’s garrison.”

           
“There are no boats.” Kedryn shook
his head. “And I do not think this a matter for any army.”

           
They all stared at him then and he
paused, marshaling his thoughts, clutching the talisman again as if communing
with some power beyond the mortal. It seemed the jewel imbued him with a calm
and a resolution that he had felt before, when he faced Niloc Yarrum and when
he saw the way to making peace with the Beltrevan, though now it was stronger,
as if the Lady herself spoke in some wordless way through the agency of the
blue stone, ordering his mind, filling him with a power he did not understand,
but accepted on faith for what it undoubtedly was.

           
“Time is against us,” he said, some
indefinable quality in his voice lending him an authority they instinctively
respected, “and I suspect the Messenger has a hand in this. Wed to Wynett, I
am—as you point out, my love—Darr’s rightful heir and so able to command the
warriors of the Kingdoms. If Alaria’s Text is true, then I
am
the Chosen One—the only one capable of defeating the Messenger.
I believe this is my fight. I believe the Lady saved us in the
Fedyn
Pass
and aided us in the Beltrevan that I should
stand ready for this struggle. I will go south alone.”

           
“With me,” Wynett said firmly. “My
presence lends authority to your claim. Andurel knows me for Darr’s daughter.
Ashrivelle knows my right is greater than hers. You shall not leave me behind.”

           
“Nor me,” said Tepshen LahL no less
firmly.

           
“And I do not intend to miss so epic
a confrontation,” said Brannoc.

           
“Very well,” Kedryn allowed, seeing
that there was no deterring them. “Will you give us passage, Galen?”