Silence of the Soleri

by Michael Johnston

  As he glanced once more in the direction of the garden, he felt something stir within him. He’d sensed it when he took the eld horn and when he’d slain the black beast. He felt it in that strange buzzing in the back of his thoughts, and he focused on it briefly—

  Tye stumbled into Ren, breaking his concentration. “You’re shuddering,” said Tye. “You closed your eyes and were speaking some language I couldn’t understand. Get it together, man.”

  Ren massaged his temples. He’d almost forgotten Tye was moving alongside him. He’d forgotten the march, their mission, and Asher as well. The former captain of the kingsguard was looking at Ren and shaking his head. “This is no time to lose your nerve,” he said.

  Ren nearly growled. “I’m not losing my damned nerve. There are things you don’t know. Things none of you—”

  “It’s all right, Ren,” said Tye, her voice sounding warmer than usual. “It doesn’t matter what’s in that head of yours. Just keep your eyes on the street. We’re nearly at the pylons and daybreak is upon us.”

  It was true. The golden rays of the sun shot like spears through the dusty air, catching every mote of sand, making them shimmer and dance in the day’s first light.

  Asher coughed, covered his mouth, and barked at Ott, “How far?”

  “We’re close, so shut your mouth. I need to focus,” said Ott, stuttering, coughing up a bit of sand as he studied the map. He pointed to a narrow street that veered to the right, and the army hurried in that direction. Sand whipped at their faces and the soldiers jostled one another from every side. A high and tinny note pierced the early morning air, a horn calling out from some distant tower.

  “What’s that?” Ren asked.

  “A call to arms,” said Ott.

  “Then it’s too late,” said Asher, “we’ve been discovered.”

  “No, that sound has nothing to do with us,” said Ott. “The alarm belongs to the Protector, and his men are outside the city walls.” Ott was quiet for a moment, pensive. “It can only mean one thing: Barden has reached the gates. The battle is under way.”

  As they came upon the Rising Gate, the Protector’s Army swarmed the wall walk while rows of archers gathered at the pylons, readying themselves for the first volley. Men ran in every direction, but they were all focused on the desert beyond, not on the city at their backs.

  “Barden’s distracted them,” said Ren. “They’re protecting themselves from the wrong attack.”

  “He must have ridden through the night,” said Asher, “or he used the storm as cover.”

  “Or both,” said Ren.

  “He’s taken them by surprise,” said Tye.

  “Perhaps,” said Asher, “but it’ll do him little good. We’re late.”

  “Maybe he was early,” said Ren. The soldiers on the wall walk did appear to be unprepared, as if Barden’s army had materialized out of the sand itself and surprised them. Some were still gathering their armor, tying leather straps, fitting bronze plates to their bodies, or tossing arrows into a quiver. No one looked at the black shields as they crept up to the pylon. The door with the black cross marked on it stood before them, and the postern was indeed open. They never saw the man who turned the lock and pulled back the drawbar.

  Ren darted toward the door, but Asher caught his sleeve, making him wait while a foot soldier entered. Ren shook himself free and was second to enter, Asher at his heels.

  Darkness enveloped them.

  “We go our separate ways,” said Asher, “just as we discussed.”

  “I’ll see you when it’s done,” said Ren. The Harkans needed to secure the two pylons and the winch room above the passage, so they split into smaller groups. The men went this way and that, stumbling through the dark passages inside the walls. Ren agreed to secure the winch room. If Barden could be trusted, it was the least-fortified position. The main body of the Protector’s guard occupied the pylons. The heaviest fighting would be there, so Asher claimed that task.

  Tye held up a lamp she took from the wall, giving them a little light as they made their way up the stone-carved steps, across a narrow traverse, and over to the winch-room door. Ren drew his sword, Tye still holding the light, Butcher carrying Ott, the boy giving directions, though no one was listening to him.

  “Quiet,” said Ren.

  A door banded in iron and cut from blackthorn barred their path. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, but no sound penetrated the stout timbers. He raised three fingers. The fight was nearly upon them and he felt it, in his veins and in his muscles. Ren’s hunger was gone, his fear too. He lowered his fingers, one at a time.

  Three. Two. One.

  He hit the door, which gave way easily. It wasn’t locked. Clearly the men hadn’t expected an attack from within. Ren and the others stumbled upon twenty or thirty archers, bowstrings taut, arrows trained on murder holes in the floor. Past the bows, men poked staves through narrow grooves in the floor, driving them down on the invaders. Others manned trapdoors, heating oil, and tar, the smoke filling up the room.

  An enormous scuffle had broken out in the tunnel below them, and it occupied all of the workers’ attention. Barden’s army must have made it past the first gate, but Ren guessed they were caught, blocked by a second barrier. The bowmen let loose a volley and the passage echoed with a dozen different cries. The defenders nocked arrows and readied themselves for a second volley.

  Ren didn’t hesitate. The Harkans crowded into the long and narrow winch room, ready for a fight, set to meet whatever resistance was in store for them, but they saw only blank stares and looks of complete astonishment. The workers were completely unprepared for a fight. The archers had no swords, and their bows were hardly useful in such close quarters. The men with staves could not remove them from the slots, and the pots of oil were bolted and hinged. They could only rotate them this way and that, between the fire and the trapdoor. The archers had some skill, but the rest were technicians of a sort, men who were practiced in the use of all the various contraptions.

  “They’re defenseless,” said Ren. A swift knock across the jaw from one of the bowmen corrected his arrogance. He tumbled backward into Butcher, who had just laid down Ott. The stout Harkan caught Ren with one arm and used his massive hammer to smash the bowman across the chest while all around him the Harkans filled the winch room, surrounding their foes and quickly overwhelming them. Ren recovered his wits and raised his sword. He was ready for the fight, but there was none to be had.

  Without any sort of discussion, the defending bowmen simply dropped their weapons. The others abandoned their staves or left their pots to simmer. These were not soldiers. They were outnumbered and unprepared. The workers scurried to the far side of the chamber, fearful perhaps that the Harkans would slaughter them.

  “You’re him?” asked one of the workers.

  “The Bane of Solus, the one who’s been sticking it to Mered?” said another, a hint of admiration in his voice.

  “You’re the Harkan bastard,” said a third.

  “I am,” said Ren, not with pride or any another other emotion. He no longer cared whether he was a bastard. “I’m the king of the Harkans.”

  “We know as much,” said one man, face stained with oil, tunic burned at the cuff.

  “Go then,” said Ren. “There’s no need for bloodshed. Leave this place.”

  These were clearly the words the men had wanted to hear. As quickly as he spoke them, the workers cleared the corridor, throwing off their tools and hurrying out the door.

  “We’ve done it,” said Tye.

  “We’ve done nothing,” said Ren. “Listen.”

  Indeed, the fight was not yet over. Through high windows and half-open doors, the sounds of battle rattled the air. The kingsguard had not yet taken the flanking pylons. Only the winch room was clear. Sounds of hammering and scraping rang through the murder holes. Barden’s men were trying to cut through some barrier, but Ren doubted they’d have any luck.

  “There must be
a gate or some other contraption that’s blocking Barden’s army. Find it,” he ordered. But when he looked up Tye was already taking hold of a great wheel, pulling at one of the spokes and glaring at Ren with annoyance.

  “A little help,” she said. “This damn thing was made for a dozen men to turn.”

  Ren went to the wheel, as did the others. Twenty or so hands made the first turn. The floor rattled and the soldiers below let loose a great cry of joy. A few more turns and the path would likely be clear.

  With a cry, they pulled at the great wheel—one turn, then another. In a moment, the task would be complete, but when Ren put his hand to the next spoke he found himself fumbling for his sword instead of the wheel.

  The red army had entered through the door at the far side of the chamber, blades glistening in the firelight.

  51

  A barren stretch of earth served as the dueling ground between the queen of the Ferens and the would-be king. Both sides had agreed on the place. It was neutral ground, or the closest thing they could find to it. Hence, when the sun rose above the horizon, both sides rode out from their camps and met at the rift’s edge. It was an ugly place, but perhaps that was appropriate. This was a duel to the death. Blood would be spilled. For her part, Kepi quite liked the spot. The sand and rocks reminded the young queen of her desert homeland. She dropped from her saddle and handed off the reins to one of her soldiers. Ferris rode out with his sworn men. If the duel turned ugly, if it went from a civil contest to a brawl, he was ready for a fight.

  On the far side of the clearing, a red soldier held Adin by the waist as the boy slid awkwardly from his mount. She looked for the limp he’d shown at the rift. Is it there? she wondered. The boy walked with confidence, but his pose was awkward, his movements slow. He was thin, and tall. His arms were awkwardly long, his body malnourished. She pitied him. Kepi yearned for an honest fight, but she wasn’t certain she’d find one.

  Ferris had volunteered to be her substitute, so he stood at her side. Kepi leaned in close and whispered, “When you speak with Mered’s man, ask him to call it off.”

  Ferris shot her a questioning glance.

  “Look at the boy—he’s all skin and bones,” she said. “We’re here to stall for time. Killing him will be like swatting a fly. I can’t do it.”

  “You may not have a choice,” said Ferris. “Don’t forget. You asked for this duel.”

  “I know. I thought he was injured. He looks more like a sickling, and a weak one at that. They must have pulled him right out of the depths of the priory.”

  “No,” said Ferris. “Tolemy set him free after the emperor recognized Dagrun’s rule. I heard the boy was taken by traders, who sold him to one of my fellow warlords. He was sent to Rifka as a wedding gift, but the boy escaped.”

  “He was at my wedding? He’s the servant who escaped?”

  “Yes, so I suppose he’s seen your tits just like the rest of us.”

  She knocked him not unkindly on the jaw.

  “It must have been terribly cold that day.”

  She hit him again.

  “I am bloody serious and that boy was at your wedding, and if he hadn’t run he would have been one of your servants. Come to think of it, if Dagrun hadn’t taken the throne in the first place, Adin would have one day been king. Strange to ponder the paths fate offers us, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Kepi. “Not at all. I make my own fate, but I can’t stand an unfair fight.”

  “We don’t pick our enemies,” said Ferris.

  “And I don’t want to fight—not after seeing him again.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  He shuffled off, exhibiting his usual swagger, hand on the pommel of his blade, whistling a bit, as if he were off to hear a busker sing and not standing between two great armies, negotiating a fight that would cost one opponent their life.

  What a complete ass, thought Kepi. If I had the stomach to love another, I might be interested.

  A red-robed man spoke for Adin. He called himself Admentus and he wore another of those madder-colored mantles, this one jeweled with lapis and sparkling in the first rays of the sun. A deep cowl hid his face, but he threw it back when Ferris approached. She watched the young warlord talk, his fingers resting on his blade, daring the man in red to give him a reason to draw it.

  Then Ferris turned, spinning on his heel at what appeared to be the end of their discussion. As he walked back to the place where she stood, he rolled his eyes, which was his way of saying that the fight was still on, or so she guessed.

  She waited while he walked the last of the ten paces, returning to where she stood.

  “So?”

  “The terms remain intact,” he said, his tone mocking. She guessed he had just repeated the last words spoken by the man in red. Ferris leaned in close and spoke. “I did what I could, but he wanted none of it.”

  “It’ll be blood for blood,” she said. “We fight until one of us is dead.” Kepi eyed the sandy earth.

  “Are you still trying to figure a way out of this?” Ferris asked. “I’ll kill the runt if you like.”

  “And break the terms? No. I set this thing in motion. It’s my duty.”

  She drew her sword and gave it a spin. It was a newer blade, forged in Feren and perhaps a bit heavy for her taste, but it was the right length. She measured it against her hip bone, and the balance felt good in her hand. She’d chosen an angular blade with a pointed tip, one that could be used for piercing armor at the joints. She’d hadn’t bothered to don the queen’s raiment. It might have made a good show, but she’d come here to fight, so she wore leathers. It was light armor, but speed had always been her advantage so she didn’t think it an error to wear such slender protection. Make it swift, she thought, get it done and end this war.

  Chalk formed the circle in which they would fight.

  She kicked at the powder, stirring a pale cloud at her feet.

  At the far side of the ring, the boy removed his mantle while Mered’s soldiers fit the last bits of armor to his hands and neck. They placed a helm atop his head and secured it with a strap. He wore the gray mail that was common among Feren soldiers.

  Kepi tried to meet Adin’s gaze, but he looked away, choosing instead to study his feet. Maybe he was too fearful or too nervous to meet her eyes, or perhaps he was afraid he would betray whatever deception he planned.

  “Blades,” called a voice.

  “Ready?” asked Ferris.

  “Do I have a choice?” said Kepi. She called out to the other side. “Stop fussing with the boy’s armor and let’s get this over with.”

  The Ferens gave a hoot. A few clapped, but the rest came up short. It was hard to find humor in such a moment. Everyone was tense, even Mered’s men scanned the horizon, seeking some betrayal. It’s always the dishonest types who expect treachery, she thought as they fiddled with the buckles on Adin’s armor.

  Kepi planned no deceptions. She sought only to buy time, not to kill a boy, though she guessed she’d have little choice in the matter.

  Her foot crossed the white ring, initiating the fight. She raised her blade, but Adin was still fussing with his mail. Seeing that she had engaged him, he threw off his attendants and stepped across the line. He advanced a step or two before he realized that he had no sword.

  Kepi whistled when she saw the empty scabbard.

  The Ferens all whooped again, louder this time.

  She cocked her head and pointed with her blade. At the far side of the ring, a boy ran out with her opponent’s weapon. She could already see it was the wrong type of sword. They’d chosen one that matched Kepi’s, but he needed a longer blade to suit his height and reach. It ought to have been the flat kind of sword that was commonly used for slashing at leathers. The red army was as inept as it was bold, apparently.

  Adin stuck out his hand and the blade fell crooked into his grip.

  One hit, she reminded herself. I am queen. All I have to do is kill this hapless boy and my
throne will be uncontested. She advanced, careful to stay outside of Adin’s reach.

  “What did Mered offer you?” she asked plainly, openly.

  “My throne,” he said, his words sounding as honest as her own. “What is rightfully mine.”

  “The kite begs to differ.” She raised her eyes toward the sky. The great bird circled, its shadow darting across the field.

  “Perhaps it came to see my victory, to land at my side,” said Adin.

  “It came because I called it,” she said, and the kite flew low and settled upon her shoulder.

  “It’s our duel,” said Adin quickly, fearfully. “One-on-one.” The great bird was no doubt intimidating. She told it to fly, but it did not go far and its great wings cast whirling shadows across the field, reminding all of its presence.

  “You’ll never be anything more than a rich man’s puppet,” she said, advancing a bit, blade held level.

  “I’ll have a throne,” said Adin, who mimicked her stance.

  “Yes, you’ll warm it while Mered is out wielding the power that should be yours, Adin. He’ll own you.” Kepi took one careful step forward followed by another.

  “No one will own me. He’s just—” Adin’s feet froze in place, stuck like his tongue.

  “A means to an end? He’ll be the end of Feren. The kingdom will be a warren where servants grow crops for the empire.” Kepi took another step forward.

  Adin shook his head, angry, maybe even a bit confused. Perhaps the boy had not fully thought through what he’d done. Regret colored his face bright red. He took two long strides and thrust out his blade, but she had already moved out of the way before he finished adjusting his feet. She tapped his sword, teasing him.

  In anger, Adin struck again while the two stood close together, but she knocked his blade aside. The edge of his sword grazed her armor, but it did not pierce the boiled-leather hide.

  “A first hit for the Feren heir,” said a voice in the distance, someone in Adin’s camp.

  Ferris howled, then he must have uttered some joke because the Ferens all laughed. Adin’s strike was more of a miss and she guessed he’d said something to that effect.