by W. C. Conner
Roland settled back into the chair and folded his arms across his chest.
“Please stand at ease, Morgan,” he said. “You have confirmed what I suspected about your banishment. What I did not know was who it was you were ordered to kill.” Anger and sadness crossed his face. “That you refused is a tribute to you. That you did so in the face of Greyleige’s wrath is all the more remarkable.”
He looked up into Morgan’s eyes. “Did you know he commissioned another to carry out the assassination?” Without expecting an answer he continued, “I don’t doubt that you would have guessed so. That man is dead, killed by my brother when he reported back that he was unable to locate the person he was sent to assassinate. I didn’t know at the time who it was that man lost his life over.”
They had no way of knowing that the unfortunate man had been killed for no reason as Greyleige had since changed directions. Far from seeking her assassination, he was now actively trying to locate and capture the princess with the idea that she could be of help gaining access to the elusive ‘key’.
“There is another who is dead also, Morgan, and that is my brother. Whatever was decent and honorable in him has been subverted and perverted. He is dead to me now. He is no more now than Greyleige’s puppet.” Roland’s head fell forward for a moment and it was apparent that his emotions warred within him before he returned his gaze to the two before him.
“Berlayne has ordered all his armies mobilized and ready to march to the support of Blackstone within a fortnight. He was on the cusp of issuing that order when he received a letter from the prince summoning his aid in an assault on Blackstone, but he captured the courier and had him detained in the guardhouse. Had there not been a mysterious fire in the stable, it’s likely the courier would be there still ... or, more likely, dead.”
Morgan’s face brightened slightly. “He escaped?” At the nod of Roland’s head, he continued, “then Gleneagle will know of your brother’s treachery.”
Roland shrugged. “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. The courier tried to beat his way east across country, but the lay of the land appeared to confound him. It ended up driving him farther and farther south. His track was lost where the Ahnglees runs at the foot of the southern foothills beyond the Dolne Forest. Between the hard rock and the water there was no way to determine his final direction other than to be certain it was not to the east.”
Watching Roland’s eyes as he spoke, Morgan saw in them what he had heard in his voice. “He was not the courier, then,” he said. “He was the fox leading the hounds away from the hare.”
“Oh, he was the courier who delivered the prince’s message. Of that there is no doubt, but...” He cocked his head and glanced toward Kemp. “Perhaps you have heard reports of a shadow group which has worked actively to oppose Greyleige. It is said by some that they are leaderless, but it is said by others that they are led by hammers and crowns.” A shrewd smile crossed his face as he looked away from Kemp’s closed expression. “I myself think it best to believe there is no such group at all.”
Roland regarded the two of them for a moment, then chuckled. “It is in my mind that you should wear the duke’s uniform once again, Morgan,” he said. “With your experience and a little training for Kemp, the two of you would make fine members of my troop.”
He stood and stretched. “And now, Morgan, for your own protection as well as mine, I will continue to hold your weapons for the time being. You must be seen to be under arrest until your disappearance and rebirth as a soldier at arms in my troop. My lieutenants will place you in irons for your trip to the prison tent. I trust you will enjoy your stay there.”
Turning to the blacksmith, he said, “Kemp, you may share Morgan’s quarters or roam the camp at your leisure. The choice is yours.”
“I would stay with my friend,” Kemp answered with a respectful bow. “Besides, should I roam the camp I might well be asked to replace a thrown shoe or straighten a bent weapon or nail.”
Roland laughed aloud. “Your wish is granted. But be warned, should my horse or Morgan’s throw a shoe, I shall certainly call upon your hammer to replace it.”
Kemp smiled. “Very well, my lord, but only for your horse or his,” he replied.
Shortly thereafter, Morgan was led at the point of a spear to the prison tent, accompanied by Kemp and Roland’s two lieutenants who grinned as if enjoying an immense joke the entire way.
Within the week a guard detail left the encampment with orders to deliver a fully shackled Morgan to a home in the village of Ways End just a mile east of Castle Confirth. Kemp followed along behind the little group. It was there that a certain young lieutenant’s wife kept their family of five children, augmenting her husband’s military salary by renting rooms out to travelers. Since she had some skill with a needle, she also took in sewing to afford some oddments for the children.
Thus it was that Morgan and Kemp found serviceable uniforms of the duke’s army waiting for them on their beds when they arrived in Ways End.
28
There was the usual commotion of an army preparing to move out as the drums beat the soldiers into formation. Amidst the organized chaos, Morgan and Kemp formed up in the last company of the Duke’s unmounted troops. Though they were brand new, the sewing skills of the lieutenant’s wife were such that their uniforms blended in seamlessly with the others which had already seen at least some service. Morgan’s hair had been cut to the length of the foot soldiers and his intimidating mustache shorn in the hope of making him less recognizable. He fell easily back into the military regimen, guiding to the man next to him, back straight, eyes held high and steady, head back and chin in. His one great regret was that he would not be mounted upon Tenable, but he took comfort and grim amusement in the knowledge that his stallion traveled in company with the duke’s own remounts.
Kemp stood in the middle of the next to the last row beside Morgan, watching him out of the corner of his eye and trying to match his movements. If this is what it’s like to be a soldier, I’d sooner fit new shoes on every blessed horse in this army, he thought as Roland rode up and down the lines on his gray stallion.
At the front of the massed warriors, the Duke of Confirth sat astride his coal black stallion, a huge, powerful horse which stood almost nineteen hands at the withers. A large man himself, atop such a horse he towered above the other riders. At the sounding of the horns, he wheeled his mount and moved forward, drawing the assembled army with him. To his right side, straight and proud and grim, rode his younger brother, Roland.
The army that Morgan had known just a few short weeks before had become closed and hostile and uncooperative. Morgan and Wil had been told by Roland that they would be marching with an army on the brink of open rebellion, for the changes that had been wrought by Greyleige’s control over the duke had resulted in harsh and brutal new rules and regulations.
“There will come a point, Morgan,” Roland had said, “that a confrontation will be unavoidable.” He had looked toward his brother who was loudly berating one of his senior officers in front of anyone in hearing range at the time. “Keep your weapons sharpened, friend. My instincts tell me there may well be justice served upon this road for all of us.”
Morgan and Kemp had been toiling along at the rear of the first column of the duke’s army for three days before the fight broke out amongst the troops ahead of them. Berlayne rode back to confront the combatants with Roland beside him.
“Who is responsible for this open defiance of my command forbidding fighting within ranks?” the Duke demanded, his eyes cold with anger. The sergeant who had broken up the fight brought forward four men, two of them not much more than boys. The fight had been a short one, but it had been violent. All four men were bloodied.
“I will allow no breach of discipline in my army,” Berlayne said. “For this act, your lives are forfeit. Sergeant, take these four up that rise so that as many as possible may see them beheaded.”
The sergeant turned as pale as the four who
had been summarily sentenced to death and he swallowed heavily. Though tempted to protest, one look at the Duke’s face convinced him to say nothing. Signaling to four others in the company, the combatants’ arms were bound behind them and they were marched up the rise at the right side of the road. One of the younger men was bravely trying to hide his tears while the other lost his footing more than once, so badly was his body shaking. The oldest of the four had already wet and soiled his breeches before they arrived at the place designated for the executions.
Roland sidled his horse slightly closer to his brother’s as the four were led away. “Berlayne,” he said in a voice meant for the duke’s ears only, “I would counsel against this. Flogging would serve as well and would not reduce our ranks by these four.”
Berlayne’s eyes remained fixed on the terrified men being pushed to their knees in preparation for execution. “Roland, you always were weak,” he responded coldly.
A door closed in Roland’s heart as the swords swung through their deadly arcs. Berlayne’s sadistic smile as the heads and bodies of the four hit the turf amidst a spray of blood told him with a certainty what he had been unwilling to fully accept before now. My brother is utterly dead to me, he thought as he turned his horse toward the front of the column.
Morgan had watched Roland’s face as the sentence was carried out. He will move soon, he thought, I must counsel with him.
Having hidden in plain view as part of the duke’s army, Morgan felt only slight trepidation as he made his way through the encampment toward Roland’s tent that same night. Approaching the tent he became aware of someone falling into step beside him. It was the young lieutenant at whose house he and Kemp had stayed awaiting the orders to march. “The Duke is in there with him right now,” he advised quietly. “Whatever brings you here might best be postponed for the short term.”
Morgan’s eyes glittered. “It’s the Duke himself who brings me here,” he said grimly. “I didn’t know he was with Roland, but that’s all the better. Berlayne is a deadly boil which must be lanced. Roland is the natural leader of this army but he can’t face his brother in combat for more than one reason, not the least being that he must not have his brother’s blood on his hands. He is too honorable a man for that. But, foremost, he cannot defeat Berlayne in single combat. The Duke is too great a warrior and would defeat him easily, even should Roland be willing to confront him in such a way.”
Morgan stopped at the entrance to the tent and turned toward the lieutenant. “Berlayne and I were companions of a time past. We caroused and wenched together. We fought beside one another, but Greyleige has corrupted the honorable man I knew. You know of the dishonorable charge leveled against me by the Duke. There was still a little left of the man I once respected when he spared me my life and banished me from Confirth, but there is nothing of that man remaining now. I believe Roland is correct: Berlayne is dead to us.” With that, he brushed past the posted sentries, pushed back the flap and stepped inside.
The lieutenant stayed the hands of the surprised sentries as they reached for their swords and stopped them from following Morgan into the tent. As they resumed their posts, he stepped through the flap.
Berlayne and Roland looked up at Morgan’s intrusion. The Duke didn’t recognize him until his sword had cleared its place across his shoulder and stopped as it reached the Duke’s throat. The point touched just hard enough to draw a drop of blood.
Roland was momentarily shaken, but when he looked from where the point of the sword touched his brother’s throat to Morgan’s eyes, he nodded grimly. Morgan had forced the moment, but the moment seemed right nonetheless.
Berlayne looked briefly at his brother before turning a disdainful smile on Morgan. “Ah, Morgan,” he said, “I should have listened to Greyleige and had you killed immediately rather than letting you go. It seems my own weakness has come back to haunt me.”
“And therein lies just one among the many differences between us, my lord,” Morgan replied. “What you see as weakness, I see as strength. Summary execution is not the way to enforce discipline or dispense justice. There are more effective ways.”
“You intend torture and disgrace?” the Duke asked, the scornful smile still on his face.
Morgan shook his head. “The disgrace you have brought upon yourself, my lord, and torture is not my style. No, my path is far more honorable than any you have trod in a long time. I call upon the Ritual of Veritas to reveal to all the lie with which you charged me.”
A canny gleam entered the duke’s eyes at Morgan’s invocation of the ritual which would pit the two of them in armed combat to the death. It was a ritual that extended back to before the recorded histories and the outcome was regarded as a judgment from beyond man.
Berlayne’s face calmed as he glanced toward the lieutenant standing to the side with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “As you will, Morgan.” His eyes shifted then toward Roland. “You are very quiet, little brother,” he said. “Where is your sword at my defense? Where is your shout to bring the guards running?” He laughed mirthlessly as his expression darkened. “Haven’t you the courage to challenge me yourself, Roland?” His eyes turned ice cold. “You will die a traitor’s death when I have defeated your pitiful champion. Depend upon it.”
“You have given our heritage over to a dark ally,” Roland said, finally finding his tongue, “but he is no ally; he is a conqueror who has taken you from within.” A look of desolation passed over his face. “You were always the stronger of us, Berlayne, but of your strength was bred an arrogance which has consumed you and made you a tool of Greyleige. No matter the outcome of the ritual in the morning, you are dead to me already.”
The rising sun found the army and guardsmen of Confirth surrounding a cleared area at the center of the encampment. There was much pushing and jostling for position, while a din of shouted conversation rose and fell as wagers were placed on the outcome with the odds becoming more fluid as the word flew through the onlookers that it was Morgan who had come forward to challenge his boyhood friend, Berlayne, the Duke of Confirth.
It was clear that there were two camps, one of which favored the duke and the other, much larger, favoring Morgan who – as virtually all assembled acknowledged – was acting as champion for Roland. Most of the wagers placed, however, had less to do with whom the wagerer favored than with who the wagerer felt was the more likely to prevail. Because the Ritual of Veritas had been invoked, the money had leaned heavily toward Morgan.
Standing before the command tent, Berlayne was surrounded by several of his captains, while ten yards to his left Morgan stood alone, attended only by Kemp who remained a short distance behind him.
As he stood looking toward the man who had been his friend and companion until less than a year ago, Morgan’s mind returned to his childhood and he saw the young Berlayne, his wavy brown hair flying in the breeze as he ran with joy and mischief in his eyes, once again the boisterous companion of his youth. He had been spoiled, of course, as the older of the Duke’s two sons and the one, therefore, destined to assume the throne upon his father’s passing.
Sneaking out of the castle together they had ridden the hills unguarded, in defiance of the old Duke’s orders, secure in their youthful conviction that no harm would ever befall them. And, though calamity had rushed at them time after time on their adventures, yet they escaped harm again and again due to Berlayne’s own physical prowess, for he was large and powerful even as a youth.
He emerged from his reverie and scrutinized Berlayne carefully, looking for any sign of the joyful companion of his youth but finding none there. He turned his head forward once again as Roland stood between the two and raised his hands for silence.
“Our lord, the Duke of Confirth, has been challenged to the Ritual of Veritas by Morgan,” Roland announced in a voice pitched to carry to as many of the observers as possible. There was a brief buzz of anticipation following the announcement before a hush fell on the massed troops. “The challenger subm
its that the Duke of Confirth did falsely strip him of all rank and title, and banish him upon pain of death based upon the challenger’s refusal to carry out an unlawful and dishonorable command, to wit, that he was ordered to assassinate the princess, Caron Gleneagle, a charge which is denied by the Duke of Confirth.”
A murmur arose from the watching throng as Roland pressed on. “Let the truth of the charge be known through the outcome of this contest of arms in which no quarter is expected. The truth will be known by the survivor of the ritual.” With that, Roland bowed in turn to the contestants as Morgan and the Duke strode forward, each looking grim and determined.
As the challenged, Berlayne had the choice of weapons. Knowing his natural advantages with them, he had selected unarmored battle with broadswords and daggers. Stripped to the waist, they approached one another, two powerful warriors at the height of their skills, their well-defined muscles flexing as their weapons moved. Berlayne was taller, broader, and more heavily muscled, while Morgan was all sinew and snake-like grace. Circling warily, each looked for advantage or weakness while holding his great broadsword before him. Morgan held his with both hands while Berlayne held his with but one. His other hand was held out to the side of his body as if attempting to taunt and intimidate Morgan with his strength.
Berlayne smiled confidently at Morgan. That he was the more powerful of the two was apparent, but more, he knew he had the advantage in height, in reach, in cunning. And he knew Morgan’s fighting style. No straight ahead charges for Morgan the dancer. No, Morgan would feint to the left and right, and he would weave, leaning left, right, forward, back, throwing himself to the ground before his opponent only to rebound to his feet, slashing his enemy’s hamstrings or Achilles tendons as he rolled. How many times had they fought side by side on the battlefield? How many times had he watched Morgan’s dance? How many times had they faced one another on the practice field, he wondered? How many times had a numbing blow from a wooden practice sword to his arm or leg taught him exactly which way Morgan would dance?
