Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  After a moment the man who’d been squatting stood up, head and shoulders taller than the rest with shaggy blond hair, a honey-colored beard, and a plaited crown of white gold resting on his brow. One look and Trap felt the ground lurch beneath his feet. He stared hard at the hawkish profile, the dark brows, those familiar scars, not pink as marks recently made would have been, but white and thin and almost unnoticeable from a distance. He had to admit, the man looked and moved an awful lot like Abramm.

  The king spoke to his men for some time, turning toward the plain and the army and the besieged city stretching away from them, gesturing right and left as they discussed their battle plans. Only when that came to an end did Rollie finally approach him. The two spoke at length, presumably about the corridor, but Trap saw the moment he himself was mentioned. The king’s head drew up sharply, and he stepped around the blacksmith to look at Trap.

  Then he was striding across the hummocked ground to meet him.

  Trap watched him come in a state of shock and lingering disbelief. But when his old friend finally stood before him, and it was well and truly Abramm, who had died in Trap’s heart and now came to life again, all the shock and pain and disbelief fell away like an old skin and he laughed aloud as they embraced. Oh, Maddie, you were right all along! And soon now, if Eidon allows, your faith will be rewarded.

  “Is she in Fannath Rill, then?” Abramm asked as they pulled apart.

  No need to say whom he meant. “I expect not, if she kept her promise,” Trap said. He explained their plan as his eyes roamed across his friend’s face, noting the lines around his blue eyes and the white hair at his temples, though he was still only thirty-five. He was all lean, hard, chiseled muscle, too, his skin burned dark from months of living in the field, aged by his trials, perhaps, but stronger and more alive than ever.

  “Rolland said you have a message for me,” he said when Trap had finished. Behind him, his men had approached curiously, listening in on the conversation. Abramm didn’t seem to mind.

  Trap flashed a sheepish grin at Rolland. “No. I just . . . didn’t want him to kill me.” He paused, remembering. “Gillard’s out there, Abramm. With a troop of Kiriathans. More than one troop, probably. I ran into them just after they’d come through the corridor.”

  Abramm shrugged. “I’m not surprised. And at least this way all my enemies will be in one place.” He returned to the original topic. “You say Maddie should reach Deveren Dol in three or four days?”

  “Barring any unforeseen disasters.” Like Carissa suddenly going into labor. . . . Don’t think of that! “Her counselors plan to open the city gates and offer their surrender in three days.”

  Abramm nodded. “And what if Belthre’gar attacks first?”

  “They’ll hold on that long, at least. They have to. If she doesn’t get away, it’ll all be for naught. . . .” He trailed off.

  Abramm gazed now across the plain, thinking. Finally he straightened and said, “You’re right about Belthre’gar’s position deteriorating. His more seasoned soldiers are already starting to desert. He can’t hold out much longer. But at the same time, he’ll have to wait a couple of days for the new arrivals to be recovered enough to fight.”

  He turned to Rollie and another man with a pocked face, an eye patch, and a Chesedhan lilt to his speech, asking them about the degree of preparation in some area of a pre-existing plan Trap knew nothing about. When they responded favorably, Abramm made his decision. “We’ll assume the queen’s gotten away clean. I want us ready to attack in three days. See the word is passed.”

  As his two commanding officers hurried off, Abramm glanced at his former First Minister. “If he moves before then, we’ll just wait and let him wear out his men before we go wading in.” With a grin, he turned and led the way down the slope.

  As they skidded to the wash bottom, Trap suddenly recalled what he carried on his back and stopped in his tracks with a startled “Oh!”

  Abramm turned toward him questioningly.

  “I just remembered,” Trap said. “Maddie might not have given me a message for you, but she did give me something.” He shrugged out of the rucksack and handed it over. “It’s the Robe of Light, sir. She gave it to me just before I left. In case I happened to run into you.”

  “So she did know I was here,” Abramm said with satisfaction, unfastening the buckles.

  “Not exactly, sir. She said it somewhat in jest. She’d intended me to use it in destroying the corridor, and I was arguing with her—”

  “As you always do,” Abramm said, grinning.

  Trap frowned at him. “It is your regalia, sir. And we’ve already seen what happened to Leyton for trying to use what was not his.”

  “I know.” Abramm was still grinning and now reached out to clap Trap’s shoulder. “You have no idea how happy I am to have you back with me— arguing and all.” He returned his attention to the rucksack, pulled back the flap, then drew out a bit of the bright, suddenly supple fabric.

  For a moment he stood there staring down at it, and Trap thought he saw tears shining in his eyes. Then he shook it off, shoved the fabric back into the rucksack, and turned to one of the two young men who had followed him. “Galen, take this to Fisher. Tell him to put it with the others. He’ll know what it is.”

  Galen apparently knew what it was, too, for he looked at Trap with awe and took the rucksack as if it were a priceless treasure.

  “You have need of the robe, then?” Trap said as Galen hurried away with it.

  Abramm snorted softly. “Believe it or not, I do.” He shook his head. “It’s all coming back to me, Trap. Just as Eidon promised: the regalia, the army, Warbanner, now you.”

  “Warbanner?”

  “One of Rollie’s friends brought him down a few months ago. Simon had him sent to Chesedh to keep him out of Gillard’s hands. He’s been on a farm in the western hills all this time. When they got word I had returned to call up an army, they brought him down.” He shook his head, marveling, then turned up the wash and said, “Come, walk with me now. There is much I want to know.”

  First Abramm questioned him closely about Maddie and his own children, then moved on to congratulate Trap on finally marrying Carissa, delighted to learn they were expecting a second child. When Trap expressed concern for having left her on her own to travel up to Deveren Dol, Abramm assured him he’d made the right decision. Maddie wouldn’t have entrusted the robe to anyone else, and it needed to be delivered.

  As they walked through the tents, lean-tos, and bedrolls scattering the wash bottom and sides, he said, “If all goes as I hope, this battle will be the last we’ll have to fight for many, many years.” He turned to Trap with a grin. “You wouldn’t have wanted to miss that, would you?”

  And Trap admitted he would not. They moved on, the questions focusing now on political and logistical matters. Trap marveled anew at Abramm’s command and knowledge of the situation—and more than that, his confidence. Abramm had a new ease of command, as if it were indeed the thing he’d been born to do. There was more to it than that, though. He had a depth and complexity that manifested itself in an indefinable calm, and an unexpected combination of gentleness and iron resolve. Being with him, Trap sensed Eidon’s own person in a way he’d never experienced before. It filled him with something that felt almost like exultation and the unshakable awareness that all was well. . . .

  Even though, by human standards, all was definitely not well. Belthre’gar had brought in some three hundred seventy-five thousand men, while Abramm had mustered a mere twenty thousand—the bulk of those deployed outside the city’s western walls, not here on the east side. When Trap expressed consternation at both deployment pattern and odds, Abramm only grinned and reminded him that Eidon cared nothing about odds.

  As they returned to the cave Abramm had made his headquarters, they found a breakfast of bread and mutton pottage awaiting both of them. And finally Trap was able to ask some questions of his own. Abramm’s answers confirmed muc
h of what he’d guessed, but though his friend spoke easily of all that had befallen him, he also tended to summarize and gloss over events that Trap suspected were far more important than he made them out to be— particularly his time in the dragon city. It would probably take years to learn all that his friend had endured.

  They were finishing up the meal when Abramm broached the subject of Tiris ul Sadek, and for the first time since they’d been reunited, a sudden tension sharpened his tone.

  “He was a dragon,” Trap said gravely.

  “I know.”

  Trap could only imagine the degree of pain Abramm had known when he’d been told she’d remarried. Pain that probably wouldn’t be totally eased until he had her in his arms again. As Abramm toyed with the crust of his bread, Trap considered how best to say what must be said without making more of it than it was.

  “He courted her from the beginning,” he said at length. “Though she told him bluntly and often that she wasn’t interested. Still he pushed her, pressed her, offered her everything she might want. Not another woman in the court would have refused him, and no one could understand Maddie’s reluctance. Then the wave came, and you must have heard how bad it was. Tiris offered her galleys to defend the southern shores, and troops to guard the river and the palace. No one had any hope of your return, and she was laughed at and mocked for hers.”

  “Marta did not come with the book and letter I sent?”

  “Oh, she came. But Tiris conspired to make it seem as if you had died in the desert after she’d left you.” When Trap told him about Maddie’s visions in the amber, he seemed startled but said nothing.

  “Everything and everyone pressed her to leave your memory behind and move on.” He paused, shame washing over him as he recalled his own part in this. “Her cabinet drew up a resolution to approve a marriage between them.” He paused again, then sighed wearily. “I’m sorry to say I signed the thing myself. And finally she agreed to do as we wished, as seemed best for the land. But Carissa told me she cried herself to sleep the night she finally accepted Tiris’s proposal. And for many nights thereafter, as well.” He summarized the rest of the story—how she’d told Tiris she’d changed her mind and that he’d taken the news civilly and had left the galleys, and how their sudden disappearance led to the fall of Peregris, a loss Maddie was still being held responsible for by many.

  “She’s taken so much abuse, and stood firm before it. You would not believe how resolute she has been. How strong her love for you is. In the face of all that, she did not give up on you. Even though you sent us no word and we were inundated with false tales of scar-faced imposters coming to rescue us, stories that made her hope a mockery.” He hesitated, heard the pain in his own voice as he asked, “Why did you not send word when you reached Elpis, Abramm? It would have made all the difference.”

  He learned then that Abramm had sent word. But all his riders were killed before they reached her. He’d sent out pigeons by the score, and they too were slain, some slaughtered as soon as they left the coop. After that, he’d figured he was supposed to surprise everyone. “I thought you, at least, would recognize my hand in what was going on out here.”

  Trap nodded. “I have to admit the tactics did appear to be yours. But . . . you said earlier that the regalia are coming back to you. . . . Are you still missing the scepter, then?”

  “No. I have it.” His lips quirked. “And you want to know why I’ve not used it.”

  Trap nodded.

  “Because I’ve realized my true enemy is not Belthre’gar. It is Moroq, whom you know as Tiris ul Sadek. We’re not going to kill the dragon himself— Tersius will take care of him when the time is right—so even if Belthre’gar dies, Moroq will only find another puppet and start all over again, as he did after Beltha’adi. I can’t just drive them all out of Chesedh; I have to destroy them completely. The army, the priests, all of it.” He leaned toward Trap, almost fierce in his intensity. “I’ve seen Aggosim and ridden through North Andol. He’s stripped the land bare. No crops, no livestock. These men will go home to nothing. And the longer we wait, the more men he brings here, the harder they’re all going to fall . . . and the longer it’ll take before they’ll rebuild the resources—or the will—to follow another tyrant bent on conquering the world.”

  And looking at him, sitting there leaning over the table, it seemed his blue eyes flashed with a blaze of white, sending a chill up the back of Trap’s neck.

  In the predawn hours of the day of attack, Abramm sat atop Warbanner under a large and very old oak tree on a long, low ridge overlooking the field of battle. Trap and Rolland sat on dark horses to either side of him, the trio ignored by Belthre’gar’s army below them. Any threat was expected to come from the front of their lines, not the rear.

  Abramm wore the crown on his brow and the Robe of Light hung as fluid silk over his leather cuirass. The scepter rode in its scabbard on his back, and all was covered by a dark woolen cloak and cowl. Likewise Warbanner wore a full caparison quilted of white fabric with chain mail layered in. That, too, was hidden under a thin covering of dark silk. It was a covering that—owing to the slit made along the neck crest and the pull tie at the headstall between the ears—could be as easily shed as Abramm’s own cloak. As both would be when the time came.

  For now they sat watching and waiting. Belthre’gar’s army filled the plain before and slightly below them all the way to the city’s outer walls, a distance of three leagues. It stretched to either side as far as he could see, both on this side of the Ankrill and the other—tents, campfires, bedrolls, picket lines, catapults, battering rams, wagons, horses, and all the other accoutrements of a great army engaged at siege.

  During the last day the massive gathering had reorganized itself, drawing order out of the earlier chaos. Now its various companies had formed up into recognizable ranks, each under the banner of the realm they represented. Scaling ladders, siege towers, battering rams, and the covering panels that would enable the wall sappers to work stood at regular intervals throughout the multitude, shreds of mist drifting around them, fuzzing the glow of the purple orbs burning here and there to maintain Command. From time to time he even glimpsed the gleaming shaven heads of the Broho who moved among them. All of it beneath a glowering ceiling of mist dyed orange by the campfires and the torches—save to the north, where the hue changed to the green of the still operational corridor.

  It had been much quieter over the last two days, though, as those who’d most recently come through it recovered before they had to fight. The lull was as good a signal as any that Belthre’gar was about to storm the great city of Fannath Rill and seize the plum at her heart—the palace on its island where Queen Madeleine would take her stand.

  From his position, Abramm could just see the palace’s upper towers peeking above the city’s immense outer walls, but to those on the battlefield, it would be entirely hidden by those same walls. Walls atop which torches now blazed, illuminating the white banners of surrender that had, in the last hour, been unrolled down the faces flanking the east entrance gate.

  His gaze dropped from the banners to the observation platform standing midway through the ranks before that same gate, from whence Belthre’gar would observe and conduct his battle. He stood on his platform surrounded by his newly acquired contingent of Sorite archers. Five of them, with their shaven heads, black topknot braids, and bronze breastplates. All carried longbows taller than themselves and fat quivers of arrows. The tallest was a magnificently muscled man, whose gold breastplate proclaimed him the leader. Sorite archers being renowned for their accuracy, Belthre’gar could be completely confident that any assassins or assault parties would be eliminated long before they reached his presence. Even so, he’d also retained a squadron of Broho, who now stood in ranks around the platform’s base, extending perhaps thirty strides out from it on all sides.

  Between the platform and the city stood a vanguard of a hundred men pointed toward the gate. At the vanguard’s head, a hug
e battering ram hung from a covered wooden framework—put in place the day before and ready for action in case the queen changed her mind about surrendering.

  After the white banners appeared, a man had emerged from the city to parlay. Abramm had no idea what was said, but Trap told him the plan was to plead for mercy, since the people were starving, low on water, and dying of sickness. What Trap didn’t know was whether or not the queen’s council had decided to actually go through with the surrender or use it as a ruse to draw the Esurhites in so their military might strike a more significant blow than they could otherwise.

  Abramm hoped it was the latter, but he was ready for either outcome. For weeks, his people had been secretly moving in their own catapults, then hiding them in barns or caves or gullies under brush piles. Throughout the night, the machines had been rolled from those hiding places and into position, not far behind the Esurhites’ loosely guarded rear lines and still hidden by the predawn darkness. Abramm’s plan was a bold one, relying heavily for its success on the shock and fear that surprise would cause but also not far off being a suicide run, as his closest subordinates had repeatedly pointed out. Even so, of all the plans he’d considered, he believed this one had the best chance of success— a belief significantly strengthened by the fact that Eidon had seen fit to deliver the Robe of Light precisely at the moment of his great need for it.

  A stirring broke out on the city’s wallwalks immediately flanking the gates. Belthre’gar turned from talking to his aides and faced toward the point of interest. His Sorite bodyguards kept their bows on their backs, but throughout the gathered host, men stood up, and a rustling mutter arose from them.

  A great squeal echoed over the field, followed by the telltale clacking of the chain gears as the gates swung slowly outward. Abramm uttered a quiet “Now” and nudged Warbanner forward as Trap and Rolland moved out in tandem ahead of him. They trotted in formation down the gentle slope toward the ragged unguarded rear lines. Dressed in dark colors as they were, they approached unnoticed. Or if noticed, then ignored, since what could be threatening about three lone horsemen riding slowly into a camp of hundreds of thousands?