The Faerion (15 page)

Galen gave the signal, the heralds sounded their trumpets, and the Wierland army marched. Galen and the duke rode to the head of the swirling dust, escaping the choking cloud rising from the soldier's feet. Galen looked back: it was a grand sight. Eight thousand men followed him into war. They would give their life for him. Suddenly, he had a twinge of compassion for his prince, who abandoned such responsibility. He saw more clearly than I. His thoughts found his wife and children, hoping to see them again, wishing to bring them no shame. Die with honor. Did he really want to die? What was honor?

Again the thoughts of battle drove all other matters away. Even the images of his family faded away. Only the victory and the blood mattered. He must draw his sword and soon. He had been preparing for this day since the prince went away. To fight bravely and win, were the forces driving him and he would not fail. The dream sustained him for years. Now it drove him mercilessly.

The journey trudged endlessly, dampening Galen's inner fire. It would be days before battle. As they passed the dilapidated houses and fallow fields of the farms, people cheered the army, believing in Armas' promise of a better life.

As he rode, Galen tried to envision what achievements would impress his prince, perhaps enough that he would return to Wierland. Should they burn all the cities in Calendia? Should he personally kill twenty men? Fifty? A hundred? The thoughts intrigued him. He must have it sorted out before battle.

The river lay before them; wide but shallow and the first horses splashed into the cold water. They would not take the time to construct ferries; the necessary time would be too great. Galen rode on, the sun drying his clothes. Armas shivered, not daring to voice his discomfort as he rode with Galen who seemed oblivious to the chill of the water.

A man came forward, dirty, in ragged clothes. Galen looked at the man, suddenly enraged by the sight of the beggar. He closed his eyes, hoping the innocent man would depart, but he wouldn't.

"Great master, who are you? How can a poor Calendia farmer help you?"

"By dying," said Galen, through his teeth. He lost the inner battle, drew his sword, striking the man in the neck. The sword sliced cleanly to the spine, nearly notching, but Galen withdrew it without difficulty. He did not spare a glance at the figure, blood pouring onto the turf. Armas could not take his eyes off the dead man, appalled at the brutality of Galen. Then he reminded himself. Galen's just the man to see this war through to the end. He will tolerate no weakness.

They rode in silence for the rest of the day, Galen muttering to himself. When darkness fell, they arrived at a large farm. The servants sang old songs around a fire. Galen spurred his horse, riding down two women, hacking at the men with his sword. His soldiers followed him, killing the remainder of the servants. They found Galen, hacking the corpses of the farmer's family. They tried to approach him but he attacked them, wounding three before his rage vanished. He looked at the carnage he wrought, saying nothing, and ordered camp set. He walked to the fire, staring at the swirling glow.

Armas lay awake; his eyes searched the stars until morning.

He felt the same fear the soldiers now felt when Galen walked past. Galen was no longer one of them, moving to another plane of existence where only killing mattered. Galen's face shone with pleasure as he hacked the bodies, not dimming even long afterward. He's not Men, anymore, thought Armas. Did I create this monster?

Again and again Galen displayed his brutality, seemingly lost in the gore and adrenaline. Some of the men tried to emulate him to various degrees of success. Twelve men lay dead because they tried to fight like their leader, heedless of caution, relying on superior skill to defeat their enemy. Only Galen had the prowess.

Word traveled quickly across the farmlands of Calendia. The Wierland army, marching northward, killing randomly and without quarter, despoiling all they touched. At the sight of the Wierland army people fled their homes, hiding in the forests until the invaders were gone. Many returned to burned out homes, but joyful that they yet lived. Warnings flew ahead of the invaders and Galen found few people left to witness the truth of the rumors.

The rumors spoke of a mighty knight leading the invaders, whose sword screamed through the air, killing and killing, hacking even the dead. It said he collected the little finger off of each hand or one hand; no one waited around to be certain. No one could withstand him. Sir Kirkes rose as the hope of Calendia to defeat the berserker of Wierland.

King Treteste cursed, kicking the pillows off his sofa. He turned on the messengers in a rage, calling for his advisors, his knights, and most of all, Sir Kirkes. All gathered quickly, huddled around the throne pooling their knowledge of Calendia's resources and terrain, deciding on the best place to engage the Wierland army. All they needed was Sir Kirkes. They waited for him, Treteste's impatience barely in check. The king could barely speak raising the hopes of many that his life would end from the strain. However, Treteste grew out of sterner stuff and did not bow to the wishes of his court. His strength and his gaze often disheartened his enemies.

"I am concerned with the timing of Wierland's attack. Nantitet must be secure. There is still much to do to cut off the influence of any who speak against me."

"There are not many left sire," said Croanal. "Most are friends of Tagera. We have spies in their midst and are prepared for any activity on their part. Our spies led us to the mill. If the rebels even think to gather together again we will know of it."

"Excellent. I do not doubt Tagera is planning trouble for me. I want him arrested on sight. Give the order to the guards."

Treteste walked to the window.

"Let us see if Lord Daass support is what he claims. Tell him to send knights to support the west gate."

The great doors opened but the huge knight did not appear. Treteste looked hard at the footman entering alone.

"Well?" bellowed the king. "Where is Kirkes?"

The man bowed low. "A thousand pardons my king. I was unable to find Sir Kirkes. His servants had not seen him since before the raid on the mill, and no messages were sent."

"Vanished?"

"Perhaps he is on a rendezvous," offered Sir Crestan. The King glared at him, but said nothing.

"Keep trying," he said to the footman. He turned to Crestan. "There is no time to look for Kirkes. Sir Crestan, I commission you to take charge of the army in the field to defend Calendia from the Wierland threat."

"Thank you, Sire."

"Make arrangements with your leaders then return here this evening. I want to review everything with you. Have messages been sent to my vassals in the north?"

"Yes, sire. Early this morning. We shall receive a response by sundown tomorrow."

"Not earlier?"

"The distance is great. Even riding the horses to death cannot save significant time."

"If it must be. But bring me word as soon as they arrive. Understand? As soon as they arrive. No food, no drink, no rest, no healer. They come to me immediately."

"As you command, sire," said Sir Crestan.

Treteste watched them all leave the room. He was not sure of any of them. Crestan was transparent; hoping to gain power by running with every whim of the king. Kirkes had known the measure of Crestan exactly, but Treteste no longer trusted Kirkes and had to have someone to enforce his commands. However, Sir Crestan' usefulness was limited. Crestan was neither the brightest nor the best with a sword. Treteste worried about the knight of Wierland. He knew Kirkes would at the least be a match for the invader sword to sword, but Crestan would be hard-pressed to win. Treteste needed to stack the odds in Crestan' favor. Perhaps a few well-placed archers could help the situation. He would have to think on that.

Navir sat on the edge of the rise, watching the stars appear in the violet sky. He named every one as he had for eons. I am old, he thought. I am older than some of the forests. Why does my heart pound with such passion?

He felt unclear about his motives for rescuing Kirkes. Why did he meddle in the affairs of Men? Often his thoughts turned to Wynne. Where was she? Was she all right?

His hand was on his sword before the figure moved out of the trees. Despite his preoccupation, Navir's senses were alert. Navir did not turn around as the figure approached; he knew all he needed to know.

"Hello, Apal."

"Do I smell?" asked the minstrel. His voice was light. "I bathed four days ago."

"No, I know your walk. What brings you here?"

"War. There is war at last."

"With whom?"

"Wierland has marched on Calendia. Can you believe it? Old Armas still has some teeth. Treteste calls for the muster of Calendia."

"A war. It might be entertaining to watch Men killing Men. Why doesn't he use your scenario-offer Wierland a battle of champions? Kirkes should be able to stand up to anyone."

"Kirkes is not to lead the army. I did hear that. He wasn't found when Treteste summoned him. Also the Queen has not been seen since the performance. Maybe confined to her rooms."

Navir started, and then nodded. "It's finally happened. Treteste has listened to the rumors. I can't guess why he let so many people discuss it, although I thought it would be sooner, but considering it is the worst time for Treteste to do it, I'm not surprised. That man is insane."

"Agreed. Now, I believe Estes is also in the dungeon."

"Can you be sure?"

"No. After the raid on the mill many rebels were captured and brought to the dungeons. There was one meeting Estes' description, but I have no proof. At least, Treteste is not yet aware of his identity. I sent Reber to find out for sure. I will know by tomorrow."

"Yet. I heard you say yet. Treteste will move swiftly once he knows Estes's there. What can we do?"

"Wait until the army rides to meet Wierland, then attempt the rescue of all four of them."

"Four?"

"Yes. I'm afraid Melana was captured too."

"Melana? Was she the one you referred to at your camp?"

"Yes. After all this was settled I wanted to settle down with her."

"I pledge my assistance to you." He squeezed Apal's shoulder.

"Thank you, my friend. Now, this is what I've been thinking. I believe Treteste will want to make a statement to the world of his might. He will throw all his weight at Wierland and leave Nantitet undermanned."

"You seem fairly certain," said Navir. "Yet, it is my experience that Men are not predictable at all. I would not bet my life on the expectation of Treteste's actions. However, I predict he will lose his fight whether or not all his forces are thrown against Wierland. As you say it will may our task easier."

"I must ask you a question. Did you leave Estes?"

"Ha! I desired it strongly, but I did not. I had promised Wynne to protect him. No, I lost him honestly. But I was not disappointed to lose him."

Navir sat in thought for many minutes. Apal, content with his own thoughts, knew Navir would speak when he was ready.

"Did you know that I have a daughter?" asked Navir.

"No, I did not. Is she in Evenlight?"

"No. As far as I know she has never been there. She is unaware of her heritage. Her mother was not a Daerlan and died while my daughter was an infant. She was raised by Men and believes she is human."

"And she is only half-human."

"Ha, less than that, but I should not speak more of it. I wish to tell her the truth before the opportunity passes but I am afraid she will hate me for not coming forward sooner."

"You found out where she is?" asked Apal.

"I have always known. She knows me, but not as her father. I tried to judge this as a Daerlan, but I see now that it was foolish. She was not brought up to think like a Daerlan and will have no sympathy for my motives."

"On that point, I will agree. I congratulate you for your daughter, and a second time for wanting to set things aright. However, I pity you for the ordeal ahead."

"Thank you, my friend. My mind is much easier."

"What are friends for?"

"I have no idea."

"Let's plan a rescue. I caught a brace of rabbit."

"Excellent, Apal. In your former life, I always treasured an invitation to your table."

"This is not my former life; do not get your hopes up for this meal."

"I shall be fine. My memory will guide me through the rough spots."

"Rough spots indeed! There are no rough spots in my suppers!"

"Conceded. Lead on."

They walked to Apal's camp a short distance away. Navir smelled the rabbit before they covered half the distance. He felt cheered to be with Apal. He had few friends. Rather, he had no friends. Only Wynne and Apal heard his confidences, no others. He suddenly realized how lonely he was and drifted into sleep later with Aeli's face in his mind.

The populace feared Treteste. That was obvious by the number of people wishing to join the Brotherhood of the Rose. The sense of security of belonging to a group seemingly beyond the reach of the king was bringing new souls to the Brotherhood. Each week more and more people made discreet inquiries at the chapter house, hoping for security and a purpose not dictated by the withering mind wearing the crown. The Brotherhood did not openly oppose the king of Calendia, but spent many years developing their own power base, their own avenues of influence. It was a common belief that the Brotherhood held itself above the doings of other people and their mission could not be dissuaded by another man, be he noble or king. Rumors abounded that the Brotherhood would defend their brethren against outside forces. Reliable sources reported that the Rose Knights, a military unit within the Brotherhood; totaled three hundred men.

Lord Daass stared at the line of people waiting for admittance to the hall.

"I've never seen anything like this," said Daass, at once amazed and calculating what he could accomplish with so many Brethren. He could remember the days when the Brotherhood of the Rose had few members, most hounded by the king's guard. It was not a happy memory. The guards had nearly killed him near the city gate in an ambush. Never again did he trust the word of another person. He had lived many years by that creed. The cold nights reminded him how close he had come to death. He rubbed the shoulder still lumpy with scar tissue. It had been a year before he could raise it above his head.