Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  The boy nodded ever so slightly. “All in good time,” he said. “For now, it is you I am worried about, Merit, Queen Regent of Harkana and first daughter of Arko. Do you think my absence has kept me from knowing the kingdom’s gossip? They say you are king in all but name, that you sat in your father’s chair during the Devouring and heard the people’s complaints. There cannot be two regents in one kingdom. Thus, it is you that I am concerned with and not the warlords, or the eld horns, or the proper setting of the crown upon my head.” He snickered at that last one. He already had a circlet hanging crookedly on his head. It was not the double crown of Harkana, the one she’d taken to Feren and lost in the desert—the boy had found some other one. It was silver and annular, so she guessed it did the job.

  What does he want from me?

  Did he require a simple act of obeisance or was it something deeper? Must she acknowledge him and at the same time humiliate herself?

  The guards forced her to her knees.

  Merit kneeled, but she did not allow her composure to falter. She would not struggle or cry out, nor would she beg. This was her home, her seat of power. How it had become such a twisted place in so short a time she did not know, but this was her fault. She’d left the throne and this boy had taken it. Opportunities last no longer than a heartbeat—that’s what her father had once said, and it had proven true on more than one occasion.

  The false king stood, his ring finger held out before her lips.

  Does he want me to put my lips on the damn thing—is that it?

  He did not ask her to kiss the hand. Instead, he took her hand and held it loosely with his good arm.

  “As I’ve said, I think we need a show of solidarity, proof of your support. If a one-armed man is to rule Harkana, then perhaps his sister, his greatest supporter, ought to have one limb as well—don’t you think? A hand will do. This one,” he said, and his fingers tightened intolerably around hers, crushing the flesh.

  Merit cried out inwardly. I won’t let this boy maim me. She raised her eyes and it was then that she caught sight of the blade. In his haste, or perhaps his innocence, the boy had left his sword exposed.

  Without hesitation, she drew it and pressed the iron to his throat. Opportunities last no longer than a heartbeat. She knew this, and she also knew what must be done. Cut him and be done with it. She had the chance.

  One heartbeat. Two.

  She called out to the crowd, “If there are any here who are Harkan, come to my side. Join me against this false king.” Surely there were a few loyal Harkans left in the Hornring. She hoped they would come to her aid. She could easily slit the boy’s throat, but what then? Without the help of others, his soldiers would cut her to bits.

  Three heartbeats. Four.

  She held the iron to the boy’s throat and the coward did nothing to stop her from doing it. He merely shivered, and when she touched the place where his arm was missing, he recoiled as if she’d struck some wound.

  Five heartbeats. Six.

  She gazed out with fierce eyes, waiting for help, but none arrived.

  Her opportunity had expired.

  The false king’s soldiers advanced and the blade fell from her grip. She’d lost this fight.

  I’ll win another, she thought, but not today.

  13

  A clarion announced the red army’s advance. The groan of a hundred bowstrings followed close behind it. The archers pressed forward, lining up along the black-water stream. Ren searched for Adin, but more bowmen arrived, forming a second line. A third followed close behind, forcing Ren to stand on his toes as he tried to catch sight of his friend. A hand took hold of his shoulder and pulled him backward before he could get a good look at the boy. Someone was hauling him away from the black stream and the archers who straddled its banks, but Ren paid him no heed. He was still trying to get a look at his friend. Did I make the right decision? And what was that last bit, the words Admentus said before he retreated, something about needing Adin alive and me dead? Ren wondered what that first part meant as arrows rained down upon the place where he’d stood a moment earlier. Are they going to march Adin back to Feren and put him on the throne? That seemed the likely answer. Admentus said he needed an heir, and as far Ren knew Adin was the only heir to the throne of Feren.

  “Stay sharp, boy,” a voice cried out. It ought to have interrupted Ren’s thoughts, but he still wasn’t listening. The voice was only a whisper, and a faint one at that. The world felt distant and dreamlike, or maybe he just wanted it to be a dream.

  Another volley of arrows clattered against the stones, forcing the Harkans to once more retreat. And when the arrows ceased, the spearmen advanced, the clap of bronze-heeled sandals replacing the thrum of the bows. The men in red marched shoulder to shoulder, heaving deadly spears, staves that were two or three times the height of a man. In the darkness, the red paint of their armor turned to blood, and he realized this was no longer a dream. It might be a nightmare, but even his nightmares had never held anything as terrible as those pikes.

  The red army made its slow march toward the kingsguard, and the black shields readied themselves for the fight. Hands clenched spears as lips mouthed silent prayers. Men called out the names of their loved ones or their gods. The worry was palpable, the tension everywhere. The black shields stomped, too fretful to stand idle, packed too tightly to move in any other fashion. The red army continued its slow advance, spears jostling, shields clattering, shouts bounding across the chamber. Even the ground seemed to tremble.

  “What’s that shaking?” Ren asked.

  Tye shuddered, unable to speak.

  “They’re nearly upon us,” said Kollen.

  “I can see that,” said Ren.

  “Can you?” Kollen asked. “If we’d seen how may spears they had or the length of those things, I doubt any of us would have stayed.”

  “I’m not afraid, not really,” said Tye. “There are worse ways to die, slow ways.”

  “It won’t come to that,” said Ren. He was looking at both of them and thinking about the promise he’d made. “We’ll find a way out.”

  “Will we?” asked Tye. “Because that’s what you promised, Rennon Hark-Wadi.” She looked at him, her fist pounding against his chest. “You said you’d get us out of this place, so you’d better do it.” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes and she shook uncontrollably. He wanted to take hold of Tye and say that everything would be all right. He went to comfort her, but she slipped from his grasp, deftly moving out of reach. She obviously did not want a shoulder to cry upon; she wanted a way out of this mess, and so did Ren.

  A call rang out from the far side of the cistern. The red soldiers were howling some terrible war song, chanting in time. With each grunt they advanced, one foot forward, one thrust of the spear. Stomp. Thrust. Stomp. Thrust. One after another, a grunt, a stab, they were coming, inexorably, or so it seemed.

  “Fuck, there’re thousands of them,” said Kollen.

  “Tens of thousands,” said Tye. “I’ve never seen so many spears. It looks like a briar patch.”

  “And we’re stuck in it,” said Kollen.

  A shout rang through the cistern. It was the first cry of the battle, but others followed close behind it. A shriek. A yelp. The scream of iron as it ground against bronze. The lines shifted forward and back as each side jostled for position.

  Ren found the captain.

  “They’re trying to overrun us,” Gneuss said.

  Ren saw it. The main thrust of the red army was aimed at the Harkan shields. The kingsguard did their best to hold their position, to dig in and push back, but the enemy were superior in number, fresh-faced and ready for battle. The black shields were haggard, uneasy, uncertain if it were day or night. Their sweaty hands fumbled at their weapons. Gneuss was already shaking his head as he glanced up and down the line.

  “The wall’s going to break … I see it,” he said. “We can’t hold them back, so listen.” Gneuss turned abruptly, grabbing Ren by t
he tunic and pulling him close. “Here’s how it’ll go: When our lines break, it’ll be every man for himself, or so it will appear, but we’ve been through this before. The men are grouped in squads. We’ll allow the red army to stumble forward when they crash through our lines, and while they’re fumbling about we’ll re-form our squads into smaller circles. I’ve done it a dozen times. Stay at my back and remain inside the ring.”

  It sounded like a good strategy. It would buy them a scrap of time. But what then? What next? Beyond the spearmen there were more sentries, men in a dozen different house colors, all of them with swords and shields and armor. Behind them, past the household armies, in the shadows of a columned hall, more soldiers waited. The yellow cloaks of the city guard stood watch, ready to arm themselves should there be a need. Army stacked upon army waited in the not-so-distant corridors of the Hollows.

  “Oh, this is hopeless,” said Kollen, his gaze fixed on all those soldiers, voice shaking, sword nearly falling from his grip.

  “Hold tight!” cried Gneuss as a solid wall of men slammed into the Harkan line. Shields buckled or were thrown into the air, swords bent, and the kingsguard were either trampled or beaten to the ground, legs bent into odd contortions, bones shattered, men howling in pain. The war cries of the red army continued, unabated, undisturbed by the weeping of the wounded. A second shove sent Ren tumbling, but Kollen caught him and helped him back up to his feet. “Stand or they’ll trample you.”

  “I was trying,” said Ren absently, his eyes on the battle, spears thrusting at his face.

  “Oh, this is bad,” muttered Tye.

  “Holy Mithra,” said Kollen. “Stay tight.”

  “Do nothing,” cried Gneuss.

  Shields locked around Ren and the other ransoms, Gneuss too. Just as he’d said, the Harkans had re-formed their lines. They were safe for now, but that hardly seemed to matter. These lines would soon break, and if they formed new ones those would only break too. Ren saw it. A shield struck his shoulder. They were all jostled, pushed this way and that as the Harkans tried to maintain their new formation.

  Meanwhile, the red army drove their spears high and low and in between the Harkan armor. A red stave pierced one soldier just above the ankle, the shaft going clear through it and coming out the other side. Another man took a spear right through his open mouth. Two men fell to the earth and a third joined them, cursing as he bent double, blood pouring from some unseen wound.

  “I’ve never seen so many men, so much red,” said Tye. In all likelihood, she was referring to the red armor and not the blood, though Ren guessed it could be either.

  “Aye,” said Kollen, picking up the conversation, “and so little fucking black.”

  “There must be thousands in the cistern,” said Tye.

  “More,” said Kollen, “the whole fucking city wants us dead.”

  The earth rumbled again, just as it had at the start of the battle. Back then, Ren had thought it was Mered’s army that made the stones tremble, but the soldiers were no longer marching in time, and their chants had all but ceased.

  The rumbling continued.

  “Do you hear that?” Ren said.

  “What? The Harkans? The ones crying out for the mothers?” Kollen asked.

  All around them the injured were indeed whimpering. Dressed in red or black, it didn’t matter, a dying man was a dying man, and each of them called for their wives or their daughters or the last good whore they’d bedded. A chorus of grunts and moans replaced the chants of war as the dying heaved their last cries. It was a terrible song, but beneath it Ren heard something else—a sound that was not a part of this battle.

  “Listen,” he said.

  “There’s a thousand men screaming and twice that number whimpering—which one should I listen to?” Kollen asked.

  “None of them,” said Ren. “Just shut up and listen,” he said, and for once Kollen did listen, but it was Tye who heard it.

  “There’s a rumbling. Someone’s moving stones,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Ren, “but where?”

  They were all looking around, ignoring the fact that their defenses were about to crumble. In a heartbeat, this second shield wall would collapse and the red soldiers would at once be upon them.

  “There!” said Ren. He pointed to one of the cistern’s great archways. It was filled in with rock, but heavy wooden posts replaced a missing row of stones at the base of the arch. Someone was removing the wall, but they were doing it from the bottom up.

  “What is that?” Tye asked.

  “Another trap. Mered’s men are clearing the stones and when they’ve made a wide-enough opening, they’ll come at us from behind,” said Kollen.

  “No,” Ren said, “I think someone’s trying to open a door, a way out.”

  “What?” Gneuss came out of nowhere, spinning around, his sword wet with blood, eyes darting. “What door? What sort of silliness is this?” he asked, but the one-eyed man had already caught the ransoms’ gaze. He observed the shifting stones with skepticism, with the look of a man who thought he knew a trap when he saw one, a captain who’d lived long enough to know that luck was a thing men seldom encountered on the battlefield.

  “Look,” said Ren, “they’ve removed another row.” As a matter of fact, a second and a third row of stones had been removed from the bottom of the wall. Wedges and dowels supported the missing blocks, keeping the upper portion of the wall intact.

  “It’s wide enough,” said Tye.

  “For you to scuttle beneath?” Ren asked. It was indeed just wide enough for someone as slim as Tye to slip beneath the missing stones.

  “The way’s open. And I don’t see spears, or soldiers either. It’s no trap,” said Ren. He looked to Gneuss, but a shield slammed into the commander’s chest, catching his attention. All around them the men were shifting, the spears pressing deeper into their lines as their shields fell and their defenses thinned.

  “We’re going to make one last attempt to re-form the lines,” said Gneuss. “We’ll head for the arches. Then we’ll regroup. Maybe we can make a run for it.”

  “A run for it?” asked Ren. “Just when we’ve found a way out?” If they rushed the arches, they’d be cut off from this new opening. “See the stones?” Ren said. “They’ve started at the bottom and they’re moving their way up. It’s an illogical thing to do. Why not start at the top?” he asked, but he already knew the answer and guessed Gneuss knew it as well.

  “Because, if you start at the bottom, you can pull out the posts and collapse the stones behind you,” said Gneuss.

  “That’s our way out,” said Ren.

  “Or our way into a trap,” said Kollen. “We all scurry under that wall, then they pull out the posts and trap us. It’ll be like walking into our own grave.”

  “No, someone’s given us an exit. Any fool can see it,” said Ren.

  “Any fool can see that it’s a fuckin’ tomb,” Kollen shot back.

  “Oh, shut your mouths,” said Tye as she pushed past the boys, slipping between two shields as she left the protection of their ranks. She scurried past the men whose lines had already broken and were fighting sword-to-sword, blades whistling in the dark. She was a slender thing and small. No one paid her any attention and the back half of the cistern was dark, near lightless save for a faint glow emanating from the far side of the gap. In fact, Ren almost lost sight of her as she slid into the narrow opening at the base of the archway.

  They waited, wondering if the girl were alive or dead.

  The moment stretched.

  Perhaps it stretched for too long.

  “Time to go,” Gneuss said. “We need to re-form ranks, or we’ll have too few men to make any sort of wall. I can’t wait for that girl.”

  “I’ll wait,” Ren said. “Do what you must, but I’m not letting go of Tye.”

  Ren needed to know what lay beyond the gap. He waited again, but Tye did not appear and the Harkans were readying themselves for that next maneuv
er, the one that would take them out toward the row of archways and the black river. Gneuss gripped Ren’s tunic, but he slipped from the captain’s hold. “For Mithra’s sake, man, give us a moment.”

  “Battles are lost and won in moments, and you’ve lost yours. Soldiers—” he cried, but Gneuss was once more cut short. The shield wall had collapsed. The men ran in a dozen different directions, all except Gneuss. He stood, transfixed, as a spear broke through his chest, entering at the back, blood and sinew splattering in all directions. He fell and Ren caught him as he dropped, the soldiers in black surrounding them.

  Ren helped the captain down onto the ground.

  Gneuss took hold of Ren’s fist. Their eyes met and Ren could see that some notion had formed in the captain’s head, some final command. The battle raged, but all eyes were on Gneuss.

  “Find my second, Edric, he’ll help you,” said Gneuss, his words coming in gasps. “Butcher will do the same,” he said, nearly out of breath, out of life.

  “Help me?”

  “Yes, you fool. I’m done. That’s plain enough—isn’t it? I’ll need a replacement and you’re the man. It’s the only way to secure your position, so don’t even try to argue with me. You need the help. Mered named you a bastard. Your crown is in question. If I make you captain, the men’ll have to follow you. No questions and no doubts. It’s done. You are the leader of the kingsguard of Harkana. You always have been,” he said, his voice failing, skin turning pale and white as his body fell still.

  Ren removed the spear from his chest. He placed a cloth over the wound. He’d have given the man a moment of silence or a word, but they had no time for either—no time at all.

  If he lingered beside the body for a moment longer, there would be no kingsguard left to command. The men had all heard Gneuss’s command. Ren was captain, so he wasted no time getting started at his new job. He knew Edric by sight and found him easily.

  “We form up at the arch.” Ren pointed to the place where Tye had gone. He trusted she was safe, that this was the way out. It was a risk, he knew, but Ren was ready to take it.