Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (19 page)

Joseph suddenly straightened, and looked around him. “Where’s Kendril?”

Simon trudged wearily into the valley, his ears drooping slightly.

A rock clattered loose under his hooves, and skittered down into a larger pile on the stone-covered ground.

Kendril kept one hand on the pistol in his belt, his eyes darting around watchfully.

 The carnage here had been horrendous.

Bodies lay all about, sprawled around the ground in their death throes. Everywhere were the bloodstained uniforms of the Royal Guards, surrounded by piles of Jogarthi warriors. Horses lay dead on the ground as well, their sightless eyes peering up towards the sky above. Crows picked mercilessly at the bodies of the dead, screeching angrily as Kendril approached.

There were no survivors. His suspicions confirmed, the Ghostwalker turned to go.

There was a sudden clatter of rocks to the right. A moan so quiet it was almost inaudible came from a pile of bodies on a small rise of ground.

Kendril turned, lowered his hood and pulled out his pistol. He got down off Simon, and walked cautiously toward the sound.

There was another long moan, and a hand reached out from under the pile, blackened with blood and gunpowder.

Kendril stared, unable at first to recognize who he was looking at.

It was Lord Whitmore.

The nobleman looked half-dead, his face and long hair smeared with dirt. His breastplate was dented in several places, and his helmet was missing entirely. His entire side and left arm were darkened with blood, while his legs were trapped under the body of his dead horse. He moved again, sending another few rocks scattering.

“Kendril,” he rasped. He reached out his wounded arm towards the Ghostwalker. “Help me--”

Kendril stood for a moment, his hand tensed on the handle of his pistol. In the distance he heard a Jogarthi war horn blow. They would be here soon, he knew, to strip and mutilate the dead.

“Kendril—” Lord Whitmore tried to raise himself up, then collapsed back unconscious.

The Ghostwalker didn’t move, his hand still on the pistol. Before him was the man who would be King of Llewyllan. The man who would marry Jade.

If he lived.

Another war horn blew, the sound closer this time. Kendril licked his cracked lips, staring down at the unconscious nobleman.

For a moment the valley was quiet, the low cawing of the carrion birds and the quiet whining of the wind the only sound.

Kendril stood completely still, his soul battling back and forth.

Finally he turned, and stumbled back down the stone-littered path towards Simon.

Behind him, the war horns of the Jogarthi echoed down the rocky walls of the ravine.

Chapter 12

There was a crash as the tray flew to the floor, and the porcelain cups shattered into pieces. Hot tea splattered everywhere and soaked the rug by the fireplace.

“Fools!” spat Bathsby, his hands clenched on the table. “I practically gift-wrapped Lord Whitmore for them. Was even
that
too difficult a task for them to handle?”

Bronwyn stepped lightly over to the pull-cord, and gave it a heave. “I’m sure that the Jogarthi did their best,” she said calmly. “The message I received from them mentioned they had killed many of Whitmore’s men.”

The nobleman rose to his feet, thrusting the chair back as he did so. “No doubt they did. But that isn’t enough, is it? What if Lord Whitmore has survived? I can only keep the noble families in check for so long. If he returns they may very well throw their weight behind
him
.”

Bronwyn gave a knowing smile. “You forget, my Lord, they still think Whitmore is a traitor. More importantly, you still have the princess. Trust me, the nobles will do nothing to interfere.”

Bathsby looked over at the beautiful young woman, his hands gripped tightly behind his back. “And what happens when Lord Whitmore shows up outside Balneth with an army?”

“You can call forth other regiments to resist him.” Bronwyn stepped around the broken teacups, and skirted her way back to the table. “Really, my dear, I think you’re overreacting here.”

“Calling forth regiments takes time,” Bathsby snapped. “Time I don’t have. Whitmore was supposed to be destroyed by the Jogarthi, not come traipsing back to Balneth.” His face darkened as he looked over at Bronwyn. “Your barbarian friends have failed us both, my lady.”

She gave a tinkling laugh, settling into a chair. “You worry too much, my lord. Remember, Lord Whitmore does not know of what happened here. He does not suspect anything of our involvement with the ambush.”

“It is only a matter of time before he does,” the nobleman replied. He stared out the window of the room.

“Then you arrest him as soon as he arrives,” said Bronwyn with a smile. “He
is
a traitor, after all.”

Bathsby straightened and smoothed his shirt. “The nobles already question that.”

“Let them. What they suspect is of no importance. As long as you hold Dunhill and the princess, they will do nothing.”

“You’re very confident,” Bathsby said angrily. “I’m afraid I don’t share your certainty.”

A servant knocked on the door, bowed and entering the room.

Bronwyn gestured to the mess on the floor, and the servant immediately began to clean up the pile of broken pieces and spilled tea.

Lord Bathsby moved to the window, and glanced outside in a stormy silence. As soon as the servant left, he turned back to Bronwyn.

“It must be done,” he said quietly.

Bronwyn’s smile disappeared. “That would be a mistake, my lord.”

Bathsby’s face contorted with rage. “It’s not your decision to make! We have no other choice.”

Bronwyn got up from the chair she was sitting in. “Of course, my lord,” she said coldly.

Mist began to cover the valley as the morning wore on. The rumbling storm clouds moved off to the north.

Those of the wounded who could struggled up the slope to the Llewyllian lines, where soldiers helped them into the protective formations of the regiments. The Jogarthi positions across the valley were shrouded in a heavy mist, but the scouts that returned to the camp reported that the barbarians were breaking up, moving off south towards the mountains.

Lord Whitmore was still nowhere to be found. Colonel Mulcher, the next ranking officer, took charge of the army.

The situation was rather grim. Most of the supplies and food had been destroyed along with the encampment below, and the losses sustained by all the regiments had been heavy.

After briefly conferring with his officers, Mulcher ordered the army to take what wounded they could, and to prepare to evacuate back to Balneth.

Joseph, Maklavir, and Kara stayed near the edge of the valley, peering through the heavy mist as they waited in silence. They couldn’t seem to find any words to speak to each other, so each remained lost in their own thoughts. The weariness of the last twenty-four hours settled upon each of them.

It was about mid-morning when Joseph spotted two shapes emerging from the mist below, coming slowly up the valley side. He jumped to his feet, one hand going to his rapier.

Maklavir got to his feet as well, rubbing his bleary eyes. “What is it?” he asked. “A man and a horse?”

“No,” said Joseph with a grin. “A man and a mule.” He walked down through the wet grass, and raised his hand.

The approaching figure waved in response.

“Kendril!” Joseph exclaimed. “I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you again. Are you hurt?”

The Ghostwalker appeared slowly out of the swirling mist, his rain-streaked hood over his head. Behind him came Simon, dragging his feet as he walked.

“No,” he said. His voice sounded almost lifeless. “I’m fine.” He lowered his hood. His face was almost as white as the fog that hung around them.

Joseph saw something on the mule’s back. “What’s that?”

“Lord Whitmore,” said Kendril without looking up. “He’s still alive.”

There was a preliminary knock, and then the door to Serentha’s room swung open.

Lord Bathsby stood in the hall, a smile on his face. “Your Highness,” he said with a bow.

Serentha didn’t turn her head. Her handmaiden stood behind her and brushed her hair. “What do you want, Lord Bathsby?” she asked icily. “Have you caught my father’s murderers yet?”

Bathsby swept into the room, and removed his hat. “Sadly, no,” he said. “But I assure you that Sir Reginald is turning Balneth upside down at this very moment in an attempt to find the culprits.” He glanced over at the handmaiden. “Leave us.”

The girl gave him a questioning glance, then gave a deep bow and exited out of the room. The bedroom door shut softly behind her.

The princess turned and fixed Bathsby with her blue eyes. “Crisis or not, it is not appropriate for you to be in my bedchambers like this.”

Bathsby waved a hand, and moved over towards the bed’s end table. “I assure you, Your Highness,” he said smoothly, “I will be brief. I wish to ask you for your hand in marriage.”

Serentha stood abruptly. “You can’t be serious.”

The nobleman’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Oh, but I am, Your Highness. The kingdom is in jeopardy. There is still no successor to the throne, and the noble families are becoming nervous. Someone must take charge, or we are likely to have a civil war on our hands.”

She tossed back her golden hair. “I am already promised to Lord Whitmore.”

“Lord Whitmore is a traitor,” Bathsby snapped.

Serentha raised her head. “I am not yet convinced of that,” she said.

The nobleman sighed. He picked up a hand mirror resting on the end table. “Why do you persist in being so difficult, Your Highness? I have done nothing but show my loyalty to you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “By locking me in my room?”

Bathsby looked at his image in the mirror. “An unfortunate measure that is necessary to protect you, Your Highness.”

“And silence me,” said the young woman sharply. “You wish to know if I will marry you? The answer is no.”

The nobleman set the mirror back down on the table. He turned slowly towards the princess. “You would be wise to rethink that reply,” he said in a low voice.

Serentha’s eyes blazed defiantly. “Now you’re threatening me? Were
you
behind the murder of my father?”

Bathsby stepped forward, folding one arm behind his back. “You refuse my hand, then? Even for the good of Llewyllan?”

“For
your
good, you mean, to legitimize the usurpation of my father’s throne.” Serentha pursed her lips. “I won’t marry you, Bathsby. Not now, and not ever.”

Bathsby’s mouth curled into a wicked grin. “We shall see, Princess.” He stepped over to the bedroom door, and threw it open.

Lady Bronwyn entered, her black hair spilling down onto the white fabric of her dress. Around her neck was the amber amulet, which seemed almost to glow softly as she approached.

Serentha took a step back. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded angrily.

Bronwyn licked her lips. “Her will shall be a difficult one to break,” she said to Bathsby.

The nobleman waved his hand irritably. “Get on with it, then.”

Serentha stumbled back, grasping at the bedpost. A sudden fear gripped her, overwhelming all her other senses.

 Bronwyn stepped forward. Her amulet glowed more and more brightly.

“Just relax, Your Highness,” she said in a lilting voice. “This will all be over soon.”

Serentha felt her back press up against the wall. She had no place else to go.

“Relax,” Bronwyn crooned. She held up the glowing amber. “Relax.”

Inexplicably, Serentha felt her eyes attach themselves to the pulsing jewel. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to look away.

Bronwyn took a step closer, and held the amulet forward. “
Relax
.”

Serentha felt a sudden peaceful tiredness wash over her. Her eyelids drooped as she stared at the amber necklace. She felt suddenly drowsy, and the room began to twirl around her.

“That’s it,” said Bronwyn with a smile, “you’re feeling very sleepy. All you can hear is the sound of my voice. Your eyes are very heavy. Shut them.”

Serentha’s eyes slipped shut, and her hands dropped to her sides. She swayed unevenly on her feet, her mind completely numb.

“Now,” continued Bronwyn in a soft voice, “I want you to listen very,
very
carefully to what I’m going to tell you.”

Her eyes still closed, Serentha nodded slowly.

“Hungry?” Maklavir walked around the edge of the border. The steady wind tossed his cape around behind him.

Kendril turned his head slightly from where he sat with his back up against a large boulder. “Starving.”

The diplomat smiled, then tossed a crusted half-loaf of bread to the Ghostwalker.

Kendril caught it, giving it a skeptical look. “This bread’s hard as a rock.”

Maklavir gave a good-natured shrug. “You’re lucky to have that. Most of the supplies are gone. Word around camp seems to be that we’re packing up and heading back to Balneth tomorrow.” He took a cautious bite of his own stale loaf of bread, and grimaced as he chewed. “Delicious.”

Kendril weighed the bread in his hand, debating whether it was worth consuming or not.

Maklavir looked over at him as he brushed breadcrumbs from his clothes. “You look tired.”

“I’m exhausted,” said Kendril bluntly.

Maklavir nodded. “You should try to get some sleep now, before we start back.”

Kendril took a preliminary bite of the bread, listening to the wind whistle over the edges of the rock behind him. He looked over at Maklavir. “How’s Whitmore doing?”

The diplomat took another bite of the bread. “He’ll live, from what I’ve heard. It’s a good thing you found him when you did. He would be dead otherwise.”

Kendril swallowed the dry bite of bread, and looked out over the valley in silence.

Maklavir finished his bread, and rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Well, I suppose I should leave you alone. Joseph and Kara are around here somewhere, I think.” He turned to go.