Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (66 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Somewhere behind him, Kearney called to his minister to drop her mists. Almost immediately the air began to clear, the gale to subside.
But Tavis still felt as though he were in a storm, the rush of the wind giving way to the wails of the dying, the impenetrable grey of the mist replaced by the whirling confusion of battle. Not knowing what else to do, he kicked at the flanks of his horse and swung his sword from side to side, desperate to free himself from the grip of the battle.
Before he knew it, he was through the castle gate and in the first ward. Grinsa was calling to him, as was the duke of Glyndwr, but they were both far behind him. Tavis was surrounded by Aneiran soldiers. Men clawed at his legs and arms, trying to pull him from the horse, and he slashed at their arms with his blade. He pulled hard on his reins, trying to turn his mount and ride back to the gleaner. The animal reared, nearly throwing him. But the Aneirans backed away for an instant, giving him just enough room to spur the beast toward the gate. A moment later the soldiers closed on him again, and he hacked at them like a madman, ignoring the smell of blood and the screams from those he wounded.
The gleaner and the duke were only a few fourspans away, and men from both Glyndwr and Kentigern had gained the ward, pushing back the army of Mertesse. Somehow, Tavis had managed not to get himself killed. Or so he thought.
In that second his horse reared again, letting out a screech that echoed off the stone walls, making every man pause in the midst of the combat. Even as he felt himself start to fall Tavis saw the arrow that had pierced the beast’s neck, and he threw himself to the side to keep the horse from falling on him.
He landed hard on his shoulder, tumbling over once and winding up on his back, dazed and breathless. Instantly, before he could even try to stand, a soldier was above him, chopping at him with a sword. Tavis didn’t know he had managed to hold on to his own blade until he raised it to block the blow. Rolling to the side, he scrambled to his feet just as the Aneiran sprang at him again, his sword arcing toward Tavis’s head. The young lord parried this strike as well, though the force of it sent a stinging pain up his arm and knocked him off balance. Rubbing his arm and backing away, Tavis saw that the soldier was grinning as he advanced on him, as if he knew that Tavis couldn’t hurt him.
He swung his weapon again and though Tavis managed to deflect the blow, he couldn’t block it entirely. The man’s blade
pounded into his side, driving the boy to the ground and making him gasp at the pain. His mail shirt kept the soldier’s sword from drawing blood, but his ribs ached and Tavis wondered if any were broken. He tried to crawl away, but he could barely move at all.
The Aneiran walked toward him, raising his blade for the killing strike. Tavis felt tears on his face and he choked back a sob. Had he survived Aindreas’s torture only to die here fighting for the man’s castle? Certainly there was nothing he could do to stop the soldier. He raised his sword, hoping at least to make a fight of it. But just as the man reached him, something hit the Aneiran’s leg, causing him to pitch forward. The soldier threw out his arms, grasping for anything that would stop his fall, but there was nothing. He toppled onto the young lord, his neck impaling itself on Tavis’s blade. Hot blood flowed over the boy like bathwater. He opened his mouth to cry out, only to have the man’s life pour down his throat.
All around him men were fighting and dying. Any Aneiran who saw him there, who thought him worth the effort, could have killed him with a single thrust. But all Tavis could do was push the man off of him, roll over onto his stomach, and retch like a sick child.
S
hurik fought for his life, his horse dancing like the mount of a Revel performer, and his sword rising and falling until he thought his arm would never be of any use to him again. In some small corner of his mind, one his fear couldn’t reach, he saw the humor in it all. After this day Aindreas would praise him for his bravery and the fervor with which he had fought for Kentigern, when all he wanted to do was survive.
Eandi warriors were trained to attack Qirsi ministers in a fight of this sort. Nothing could tip the balance of a battle more quickly than a shaper or a sorcerer with mists and winds. Even a smaller army could prevail in such a fight if it had the aid of a powerful Qirsi. Since there was no way to determine just from looking at a man or woman of his race what kind of magic they possessed, the Eandi saw all white-hairs as equally dangerous. He could hardly blame the men of Mertesse for massing around him. They didn’t know that he didn’t have mists and winds or that he couldn’t afford to reveal that he was a shaper. They saw his hair, his yellow eyes, and they attacked.
Don’t you know who I am?
he wanted to scream at them.
Don’t you know what I did for you and your duke?
But all he could do was fight. He did manage to use his fire magic on a few of them, setting their shirts and hair ablaze, and that forced the rest to reconsider their attack for a time. Before long, however, they gathered their nerve and he found himself besieged once more.
Even as he struggled to stay atop his horse, Shurik was able to sense the course of the battle, and he knew that Mertesse’s army was on the verge of being vanquished. The men of Curgh, led by Hagan MarCullet and Javan’s extraordinary duchess, had already forced their way past the Aneirans at the Tarbin gate and were slowly establishing control over the western half of the castle. Aindreas’s army, fighting alongside the men of Glyndwr, were close to doing the same on the eastern side. Those Aneirans who remained in the inner keep had nowhere to go. They couldn’t retreat—their path to the river now belonged to Curgh—and they were being slaughtered by the Eibitharians. They could surrender, or they could fight to the last man. Either way, Shurik didn’t believe they would last the night.
Which meant that the Eandi soldiers he was fighting were the least of his problems. The Weaver wanted this war to continue far beyond a few days. Or so Shurik guessed. The Weaver had revealed almost nothing of his plans in their conversations, and had told Yaella little more. But from all that Shurik could divine, he thought the Weaver wanted the Aneirans to take Kentigern, thus sparking a prolonged war with the other houses of Eibithar. With the kingdom already weakened by the blood feud between Javan and Aindreas and the inability of the major houses to select a king, the Eibitharians would be forced to turn to their allies to the south and east, Caerisse and Wethyrn. The Aneirans, in turn, would look to Braedon for help. Within a few turns, nearly every kingdom of the Forelands would be party to this war. Such a conflict couldn’t help but weaken the Eandi courts, giving the Weaver the opportunity he needed to lead a Qirsi uprising.
The last thing the Weaver wanted, Shurik felt quite certain, was a quick, unsuccessful end to the siege, particularly if Mertesse’s failure fostered an alliance among the houses of Glyndwr, Curgh, and Kentigern. Shurik had done his part. He had been weary for two days after using so much magic to weaken the Tarbin gate, and still it wasn’t enough. He would have to ask Yaella how the Aneirans had managed to fail despite his aid.
With the thought, he suddenly knew a moment of utter dread. What if she had been killed? What if she was still in the castle and was about to be captured? Aindreas might spare the foot soldiers, but he was certain to execute Rouel, his advisors, and his captains if he was given the chance. More than anything Shurik wanted to search the castle for her, to be sure that she was all right and to find a
way to get her out of Kentigern. But even if he could have fought his way through the knot of soldiers in front of him, Aindreas wouldn’t have allowed him to leave his side. Hacking once more at the nearest Aneiran, the minister stood in his stirrups, scanning the ward for any sign of her.
At first he saw only soldiers, some in the black and gold of Mertesse, others wearing the colors of Glyndwr, Kentigern, and Curgh. When he finally spotted the white hair of a Qirsi, he nearly cried out. An instant later, though, he saw that this wasn’t Yaella, but rather Javan’s first minister, and the duke of Curgh was fighting beside him. They were just outside the prison tower. The MarCullet boy was there as well, as were a few of Javan’s men, probably the surviving members of the company that had come to Kentigern the previous turn.
“What is it, Shurik?” Aindreas called. “What do you see?”
The minister glanced at his duke before pointing toward Javan and Fotir.
Aindreas’s face turned crimson, his lips pressed into a thin dark line. After a few seconds, however, he shook his head, as if arguing with himself.
“They would have needed his sword,” he said at last. “And those of his men. I can’t blame them.”
“Of course, my lord.”
But Shurik couldn’t help but think that the Weaver wouldn’t like this at all.
Scanning the ward again, Shurik saw that Hagan and the duchess had fought their way to the inner gates. If Yaella hadn’t escaped, she was dead already. A cheer went up from the far side of the castle, and looking in that direction Shurik understood. One of the Aneirans had raised the banner of Mertesse, except that it had been turned on its head, so that the great golden oak was standing on its crown. The Aneirans were offering their surrender.
The combat went on for several minutes more. Men in the throes of battle weren’t likely to notice a flag on the other side of the ward. Eventually, though, the fighting subsided and Aindreas rode forward to speak with the man bearing the banner. Shurik and Villyd Temsten rode with him, as did Kearney, his first minister, and his swordmaster. Grinsa was there as well, and Lord Tavis, who shared the Qirsi’s mount, his face and shirt covered with drying blood. Hagan and the duchess joined them, and a moment later
Javan, Fotir, and the MarCullet boy reached them. Hagan and Shonah dismounted at the same time, the swordmaster fiercely embracing his son and the duchess rushing into her husband’s arms. An instant later, Tavis joined them and both mother and father put their arms around him.
Aindreas watched all this with barely concealed distaste before facing the Aneiran.
The man had long black hair that he wore tied back from his face. His eyes were almost black and they appeared too big for his face. He was built like a fighter, wiry and muscular, though he wasn’t particularly large.
“Who are you?” the duke demanded. “Where is your duke?”
“My name is Wyn Stridbar,” the man said, his voice even. “I’m master armsman of Mertesse.”
“And your duke, Sir Stridbar?”
“My lord duke is dead.”
“Why should I believe you? For all I know he’s escaping as we speak, leaving you to die in his place.”
“Rouel of Mertesse would never have done such a thing. He had more courage than all the so-called nobles of Eibithar taken as one.”
The man was brave, though some might have called it foolishness. A murmur of protest rose from the soldiers of Eibithar, and Shurik noticed that at least a few of the bowmen pulled arrows from their quivers. Aindreas silenced them with a raised hand.
“It’s all right,” the duke said. “Every man here would say the same of his duke. It’s as it should be.” He eyed the Aneiran again. “So you were the only one of Rouel’s advisors to survive?”
“No. I sent our first minister back to Mertesse with the duke’s body and as many of the men as we could save.”
“You’re willing to die for them?”
Stridbar grinned. “Would your swordmaster do any less?”
The duke gestured toward the Aneiran soldiers who remained in the ward, surrounded by the armies of Eibithar. “And what of these men? Are they ready to die as well?”
The man paled. “Only a butcher would execute vanquished soldiers. You have their commander. Let them go.”
Aindreas nodded. “Perhaps I will. But first you need to answer some questions for me.”
Stridbar glared at the duke, saying nothing. After a moment, though, he nodded.
“Kentigern is the mightiest fortress in the Forelands. Yet your army almost managed to take it in a matter of days. How is that possible?”
Shurik felt his stomach heave.
“Maybe your castle isn’t as mighty as you think,” the man said, a thin smile on his lips. “Or perhaps the army of Mertesse is more powerful than you anticipated.”
Aindreas shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think you had help.”
“Something was done to the west gate,” Javan said, drawing Aindreas’s gaze.
“How do you know?”
“It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. It wasn’t a matter of days, Aindreas. The Aneirans got through that gate in a matter of moments. It had to have been weakened somehow.”
Aindreas stared at Javan a moment longer before facing the Aneiran again. “Well?”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about. We defeated your gate with a ram, just as any army of the Forelands would.”
Shurik started to relax. The man had made up his mind to die for Yaella and the soldiers of Mertesse. Aindreas couldn’t frighten him into revealing anything. Or so he thought.
“Bowmen!” the duke called, his gaze still fixed on Stridbar. “Ready your arrows and bring me an Aneiran soldier.”
The armsman’s eyes widened, making him look like a frightened boy. “What are you going to do?”
Aindreas shrugged. “I’m going to execute your men one at a time until you tell me what I want to know. What else can I do?”
Maybe he doesn’t know
, Shurik thought.
Yaella and the duke might have kept this to themselves.
The man’s eyes flicked in his direction. It was only for the merest instant, but it was long enough to shatter this last hope like glass.
“Executing foot soldiers is not worthy of you, my lord,” Shurik said quietly. “It’s the act of an Aneiran, not a duke of Eibithar.”
“I’m forced to agree, Lord Kentigern,” Glyndwr said from atop his mount. “I dislike torture, but in this case I think that would be the better course.”
Aindreas glared at the minister as if his words alone had been a betrayal. But in the end he nodded. “Fine,” he said, his voice like ice. “Take him to the dungeon.”
“What of my men?” Stridbar asked.
Truly a leader to the end. He was to be admired. But more than that, perhaps now he could be trusted. Shurik could only hope that by saving the man’s soldiers, he had won his silence, at least long enough to make his way out of the castle to Mertesse.
“We’ll take their weapons and then send them back to Mertesse,” Aindreas said. He straightened in his saddle. “You have my word.”
The Aneiran took a breath and nodded. Aindreas lifted a finger, no more, and two men walked to where the man stood, grabbed hold of his arms, and led him toward the prison tower.
“Villyd,” the duke said, turning to his swordmaster. “Have the Aneirans stripped of their weapons and shields. Then have two of your captains and a hundred men escort them to the river. They aren’t to be harmed unless they turn on you.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the ward, a sour expression on his face. “The rest of your men should begin cleaning up this mess and fixing those gates.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“My men will be glad to help in any way they can,” Javan said, looking up at Aindreas.
Kearney nodded. “As will mine.”
Aindreas’s jaw tightened. Clearly he wanted no help of any sort from Javan, but his castle was in ruins. Merely removing the bodies would take the better part of a day. “My thanks,” he said, his voice thick.
A moment later Aindreas’s swordmaster began shouting commands at his soldiers, as did the dukes of Curgh and Glyndwr. Soon men were moving off in all directions to gather bodies and begin repairs to the castle.
“You said something was done to the gate,” Aindreas said, facing Javan once more. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know anything for certain,” said Curgh’s duke. “But my first minister suggested that it might have been weakened by magic. I agree.”
“What kind of magic?” Aindreas asked, shifting his gaze to Fotir.
“Shaping, most likely. Do you have any shapers in the castle?”
The duke glanced at Shurik. “Do we?”
“Yes,” Shurik said, pleased to hear that his voice remained steady. “Two of the underministers are shapers.”
“Is that all?”
Shurik turned at the sound of the voice to find Grinsa eyeing him closely. He felt a shudder go through his body. It almost seemed that the man could tell he was hiding something.
Ever since his second conversation with Fotir in the Silver Bear, Shurik had believed that the minister was the one who freed Tavis from the prison, and that he had been helped in this by a Weaver. And since meeting Grinsa for the first time, he had wondered if this gleaner was the one. A Weaver could discern the powers of another Qirsi simply by looking at him, so it was possible that this man knew he was a shaper as well. But even as they stared at one another, like two warriors gauging each other’s strengths before a fight, Shurik realized that neither of them could say anything about the other. The gleaner couldn’t reveal that Shurik was a shaper without giving away the true extent of his powers, and Shurik couldn’t accuse the man of being a Weaver without betraying his own secret. The gleaner seemed to sense this as well, for after several seconds he looked away, saying nothing.

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