The Queen and the Mage

by Wilma van Wyngaarden

  “A good omen, you say,” Ryall said a moment later. “Well, soldier, we will take it as such until we see otherwise. Onward!”

  The horses started off again. The riders’ eyes slid often to the indistinct shapes of nearby trees, but only birds chirped as they passed.

  They filed out of the pasture and onto the road, one of several leading south to the Cities—or northward to the outlying countryside. The houses of a small village lay ahead in the dim dawn light. Candles flickered in one or two windows, but there were otherwise few signs of life. The horses clopped through the silent hamlet and continued down the road to the next corner.

  “Ay!” a voice bawled from the wayside, banishing any remaining thoughts of mythical creatures.

  A sputtering torch flared suddenly. It stood askew in the ditch, a fresh-cut tree trunk blocked the road, and two unkempt soldiers with hands on their sword hilts manned the makeshift barricade. One looked to be staggering drunk, the other bustled out to wave at the riders.

  “King’s toll! King’s toll!” he shouted with raucous self-importance. “Did you think to sneak by in the dawn light, fools? Pay up, travelers!”

  “King Joff and his Guard are before you—stand aside!” Ryall grated.

  There was disbelieving laughter from the shadowy figures in the road. One pulled his sword out with a hiss of the blade. “Pay up! King Joff, is it... or maybe the Protector himself? Everybody pays! Pay up or pay the price!”

  “King Joff, I say!” Ryall roared. “Let the king pass!”

  “Pay up… pay up!”

  From a tree branch high overhead, the king and his Guard heard a now familiar piercing scream. “Eeee! Kneel to the king, foul knave... let the king pass!”

  All eyes rose in search of the speaker, except for the drunken soldier who spat on the road and bellowed, “No one passes!”

  “Let the king pass!” the great Keet shrieked again. “King Joff! Chop the drunken fool’s head off!”

  An inhuman scream rose in answer from King Joff’s throat. In an instant, he had pulled his own sword, his horse plunged forward, and the blade flashed in the sputtering light of the torch. There was a wet thunk and the head of the drunk split from his shoulders and rolled grotesquely away in the dirt. The headless body crumpled and lay twitching in the road.

  “Hoi!” roared the other soldier, staggering back in shock. “You can’t do that! Men! Arise—arise! Toll-breakers… treachery… rebellion!” From their encampment around a smoldering fire-pit, a half-dozen other soldiers rose from their bedrolls, reaching for their weapons.

  King Joff, his fettered rage finally unleashed, aimed his horse at the barricade and leaped it. He ran down the second soldier in mid-rant and drove his sword through him.

  “Take them down!” Ryall commanded, pointing at the others who—half-asleep or not—were lunging toward the road with swords and spears in hand. King Joff regained his balance, wheeled and took out his third victim, while the four soldiers and Captain Ryall made short work of the others.

  Joff was panting and shaking, his horse wheeling back and forth, almost spinning in the road. Blood dripped from his blade.

  Ryall said loudly into the stunned silence, “Well, that was a slaughter, was it not? First blood to you, King Joff!”

  “Gaaah!” Joff spat. “How dare they stop us? King’s tolls—I spit!” He gagged.

  “Excellent, King Joff,” Ryall declared, eyeing his charge with caution. “Let’s drag those bodies into a pile, men! How many total?”

  Two of the soldiers vaulted off their horses, wiping their blades on the roadside grass before sheathing them. They kept a wary eye on the king’s sword, still gripped in his shaking hand.

  One answered, “Seven! Their horses are on a tie-line back there. Eight… no, nine horses!” In the dawn light behind a stand of trees, the horses were visible, their agitation evident in sudden commotion.

  “These tolls are illegal. I declare them illegal! I am king, am I not? These tolls are illegal!” King Joff proclaimed loudly.

  “Here come some villagers.” Ryall’s head pivoted. “See, King Joff… they are unarmed!”

  “Villagers!” roared Joff. He drove his horse down the road toward them, still shaking. “You villagers! I declare these road tolls to be illegal!”

  A handful of village men, both old and young, melted into the roadside shadows, murmuring fearfully among themselves. “What has happened?” asked one. “Who are you?”

  “Do you run these tolls? I am King Joff!” the young king shouted, brandishing his sword.

  “No, we don’t, King Joff, yer Majesty! These bands of ruffians set up blocks and no one can pass without paying. There is another pack of them north of the village, at the bridge.”

  “Is there indeed! Captain Ryall, there is another toll north of the village!”

  Ryall studied him calmly. “What do you want to do about that, King Joff?” he asked.

  Joff drew in a quivering breath. “Am I not turning eighteen soon, as the tree creature said?”

  “In two days, King Joff, you will be eighteen.” Ryall cast a glance back at the other soldiers. Two sat their horses, gripping the reins of the other mounts. The other two dragged the last of the seven toll bandits into a heap. One used his foot to roll the disembodied head through the ditch and into place alongside the corpses.

  “Then I shall be king—with my full powers,” Joff ground out. “Is that not so?”

  “You should be,” Ryall agreed. Privately, he wondered what would happen when Joff turned eighteen. When the Protector Woliff returned, would he step back and relinquish control? Or would the belittling custody and control continue?

  “These road tolls are illegal! They are victimizing the villagers.”

  “And every other traveler,” Ryall agreed. “I have heard rumors that tolls are popping up on every road. Even before Woliff left… these rogues discovered an opportunity and ran with it. They are as stupid as the courtiers at the castle wallowing in their own filth.”

  “We will ride north of the village to see if another toll does in fact exist. If I am challenged again, we will repeat what we have done here!” Joff decided.

  “Mount up! You heard the king,” Ryall said to the other soldiers.

  “We are right behind you,” the villagers’ spokesman promised. “We are with you, King Joff… at least fifteen of us. We will arm ourselves!” They hurried back toward their hamlet. The dawn light was brightening, the deep shadows thinning.

  Joff was clearing his throat obsessively. The other soldiers having mounted, he urged his horse into motion. Ryall said urgently, “Let us not warn them at the other toll. Let us approach it quietly and see what they do.”

  “Yes, why not? We will give them a chance!” said Joff. He sheathed his weapon with a shaking hand and wiped his sweating face with the inside of his elbow. The six horses dropped back to a walk, albeit a jigging walk as the tension of the riders transferred to the horses.

  As they passed between the houses, the armed villagers straggled out and followed behind the horses. The spokesman spoke up eagerly. “The barricade is past that far stand of trees in a dip in the road! At least six soldiers guard the bridge, maybe more.”

  Joff and his Guard approached the stand of trees a few minutes later, crested the rise and descended toward the barricade. Wooden rail fencing blocked the bridge. Two men on horseback and two on foot raised a shout.

  “King’s toll! King’s toll—pay up or go back!”

  “Keep going. Let us get closer,” Ryall muttered to Joff.

  “King’s toll!” came the officious demand. “Stand and pay!”

  “Stand aside for the king!” Ryall roared suddenly.

  Two other mounted horsemen plunged out into the road from the shadow of a stand of trees. Now four mounted soldiers and two on foot manned the barrier. On either side, a rocky creek bed lay between steep banks.

  “King’s toll! Stand and pay!”

  “They must have been
alerted by the commotion back there,” said Ryall to King Joff, who was staring rigidly ahead, his hand on his sword hilt. “I will give them one last chance… Stand aside!”

  Jeers rose in response, drowning out the sound of the creek. “No one passes! Stand and pay!”

  “They are half drunk like the last bunch,” Ryall said. “But they still hold to robbing any who pass! Let us cut them down!”

  Joff hauled out his sword, urging his horse forward with a yell while his coarse blonde hair flew out behind him. Ryall and the others were a half step behind, and after them came the ragged village men and boys, with knives and axes. The sun’s rays lit the morning mist, casting long shadows through the hollow.

  Gaping, the soldiers at the barricade took a moment too long to comprehend the sudden attack. Joff again claimed first blood, hacking deep into a mounted soldier’s shoulder and smashing him to the ground. Ryall’s mount jumped the rails and crashed into another horse, knocking the rider off before he had freed his sword. The rest of the Guard swarmed ahead to engage the others. With a fearsome enthusiasm, the villagers hacked to death the toll guards who fell wounded to the road.

  “Enough! Stand aside!” Ryall finally roared. “Good work, men… villagers! Are any of us injured?”

  “Just a sword slash,” one soldier reported tensely from the ground as he quickly bound a seeping wound on the forearm of his companion. Pale and shaking, they stood next to the barricade. “And two of the horses are cut, but not badly.” The villagers caught the other loose horses and were inspecting them. On the ground lay the toll bandits, their bodies hacked and unrecognizable. One horse that had taken a gash to the neck had collapsed nearby in a spreading pool of blood.

  “We are with you, King Joff!” the villagers’ spokesman gasped, his eyes fixed fervently on the young king. “We are yours!”

  “What do they mean?” Joff demanded under his breath to the captain.

  Ryall looked across at him and gave a shrug. “King Joff, they are your subjects—the citizens of Gryor! What do you want to do?”

  Joff stared back at him, his eyes wide and his features rigid.

  “King Joff is turning eighteen in two days,” Ryall’s voice rang out. Both he and King Joff stared down at the villagers, now collecting in a group in the road with the captured horses in hand. In their peasant clothing, clutching their weapons and splattered with blood, they were a fearsome-looking bunch. “Is this young man worthy to be Gryor’s king? What do you all think?”

  “He is worthy!” rose a roar from the throats of the villagers. “King Joff is worthy!”

  “You have an army,” Ryall told Joff, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin. “Not a large one, perhaps. But you have captured a dozen or more horses and thus your villagers are mounted soldiers, or at least some of them. What do you want to do with your army?”

  “I want to run off every illegal toll on these roads,” said Joff violently. “Does it make sense to strip every last penny from every traveler… and stop all traffic? It brings the entire country to a halt! Does it not?”

  “They are bandits with nothing to control them… just scavengers. Let us take your army and go on a hunt!” Ryall agreed. He cast a glance around the hollow.

  “Do we leave these bodies here as a warning to their fellows?” Joff said. “Would it not take too long to bury them?”

  “Soldiers! Search each of these dead rogues… and the ones at the other toll after! I want an accounting of valuables found upon the bodies, and all put into the hands of… young Tamms, here. You are an honest young man and can write, can you not? You are now the king’s Field Treasurer! Make a report at your earliest convenience.” Ryall stabbed his finger at the injured member of Joff’s Guard. Tamms stared back, his mouth dropping open.

  “Yes, sir, Captain Ryall!” he said a moment later. The three uninjured soldiers gingerly but quickly searched the bodies and Tamms took charge of the valuables they found. He moved some rations from one of his saddlebags to the other and dropped the bounty into the empty one.

  “Why do we need to keep track of the coins?” asked King Joff in an undertone, sidling his horse closer to Ryall’s.

  “In case we require food and lodging… or perhaps soldiers’ wages for these villagers.”

  “Captain!” said someone in sudden alarm. “There is a mounted troop coming down the road from the north!”

  They wheeled about to stare up the road. Around a distant corner poured the first of a significant number of riders, with a flag carried by the leading rider.

  “We are outnumbered by… well, more than a few,” said Ryall to King Joff cynically. He raised his voice. “Soldiers… villagers… mount up! Go back across the bridge. We will hold it... but do nothing unless I give you a clear command!”

  The villagers got on their new mounts, milling around as they gained control.

  Ryall cast a glance around the dip in the road. The barricade had been partly knocked over, the fence rails askew. Six bodies and the dead horse littered the road. The sun was rising, and the mist in the hollow lifted in trailing tendrils. King Joff and the four other soldiers of his Guard stood in a tight formation at the timber bridge, while the bloodied villagers behind them resembled a band of thieves. Ryall heaved a sigh.

  The on-coming group slowed and stopped before continuing their descent toward the bridge. At a quick count, Ryall numbered at least forty and probably more.

  He urged his horse forward a step or two. “I am Captain Ryall of the King’s Guard!” he identified himself. “Riding with Joff, King of Gryor himself! Who are you?”

  “We are noblemen of Gryor!” came the cry in response. A well-dressed rider advanced a few steps ahead of the flag-bearer on a gleaming black horse. “I am Lord Lister of Stonelister Keep. With me is Lord Armonald, and his sons Dymond and Onant.”

  “Lord Lister and Lord Armonald,” Joff repeated in an undertone, thinking. “They were not among the wastrels who remained in the City after Woliff left.”

  Ryall demanded, “State your business! King Joff and we—his Guard—were out hunting and came upon these tolls. They challenged the king, and we have cut them down.”

  “Accept our salutations, King Joff! We are on a mission to do the same,” Lord Lister admitted. “Have you lost any of your own men, or are these all the rogues lying dead before us?”

  “All rogues! There is another toll just past the village and more bodies to be buried or burned on a pyre.”

  “A large pyre, I predict!” Lord Armonald left the troop and rode a few lengths down the slope to inspect the bodies strewn before the bridge. “Greetings, King Joff. What an excellent hunt you have had today, sir!”

  Joff returned a sharp nod of agreement, his face stony.

  “A question, Lord Armonald.” Ryall eyed him, and the other nobleman as he rode forward to join Armonald. “And Lord Lister. Why are you and your troops riding out to raid the tolls?”

  The two noblemen exchanged level glances. “Captain Ryall… King Joff… we suggest we consult at a closer range.”

  “Do you want to hear what they have to say?” Ryall asked Joff. After a moment’s hesitation, Joff nodded agreement. He and Ryall rode off the bridge and met the two noblemen some paces further on.

  Lord Lister was a white-haired man of medium height and wiry build. Lord Armonald was about forty-five, tall and thin. They sat their horses side-by-side and stared grimly at Ryall and King Joff.

  “King Joff,” said Armonald after a moment. “I will tell you this. We represent many noblemen and citizens of Gryor who have had enough of the current state—we are but the figurehead of a legion ready to rise in protest.”

  Lister burst out, “Conditions have become intolerable in Gryor! Control by the court has eroded, and corruption rules. These road tolls are just one more symptom… the kingdom is far different from what it was in King Corric’s day, just a few short years ago. It is plunging into chaos and now in this past week we cannot go freely about. All trade has gro
und to a halt. It is enough, I tell you—Gryor’s citizens have had enough!”

  “Captain Ryall.” Armonald turned his intense glare upon him. “You know what goes on in the Walled City, I am sure you do. And you and King Joff ride out often to hunt in the countryside. You must be aware. Can you not explain to the Protector what is happening... how the kingdom is suffering?”

  Ryall answered with a sudden harsh laugh. Joff spat into the road in silent disgust.

  Armonald grimaced. “Yes, I know… the Protector does not care. No one needs to say it! What can we do? What is there to do?”

  Ryall shrugged. “Here is your king before you, gentlemen… King Joff. In two days he will be eighteen.”

  The two noblemen looked in silence at Joff, who glared back at them, his spine rigid. Ryall suppressed a grin. Joff’s unpredictable behavior was legendary throughout the kingdom.

  He repeated forcefully, “King Joff will be eighteen in two days. He has already begun to form an army.” He gestured back at the villagers on foot and on horseback.

  “An army…” said Lord Armonald slowly. The ragtag group, clutching their reddened axes and knives, returned his uncertain gaze without flinching.

  “Those villagers have seen King Joff in decisive action,” Ryall told them. He tried again. “Gentlemen. You spearhead the citizens of Gryor who are ready to rise up in rebellion… is that not what you just said?”

  Lister and Armonald nodded dubiously.

  “Here is your opportunity. The Protector is not yet back from whatever journey he set out on. Here is your king—who in two days reaches the age of eighteen. We are setting out to rid the countryside of these crippling tolls and the knaves that run them. Are you with us?”

  Lister and Armonald exchanged sidelong glances.

  “If Joff is eighteen, he should be king, should he not? The Protector should retire…” mumbled Lister.

  “Legally Woliff should step aside,” Armonald said, his voice full of doubt. “But will he?”

  “Eeee!” A thin shriek sounded unexpectedly from the high branches of a nearby tree. By now, Ryall and King Joff were used to Keet’s piercing cry. But it was new to the noblemen. “Eeee! Hail to King Joff! Bow to the sovereign king!”