“Tell Malden,” Roimas said in a loud, clear voice, wanting all who gazed upon him to hear him well, “that Sir Rojimon has come to see the King.”
The guards began to laugh again, but Roimas was no longer interested in them; his eyes were on the knights atop the wall.
“Move aside,” one of the knights said as he pushed his way to get a better look at Roimas. The raising of his brows showed the knight recognized him instantly. “Let him pass,” he shouted. “I believe this man is who he claims to be.”
Roimas looked up at the knight and bowed his head. He did not know the soldier, or at least he could not recall his face from where he stood. Perhaps at a closer distance he might. Possibly, the knight did not know Roimas either, only was familiar with the name, or had perhaps even hunted him in the past. Regardless, it would be a rewarding night for him who delivers Sir Rojimon, alive, to the King.
The guards looked up at the knight, unsure.
“Open the gate,” the man yelled again.
Guards inside the castle walls turned the large wheels that raised the portcullis and opened the wide door. Roimas sighed, preparing himself for what was to come. Thus far all had marched forth as expected. Yet, a stirring within him suggested that not all would run smoothly tonight and death was never far.
He stepped inside the courtyard with his horse in tow. An unexpected sense of returning home swept over him.
“What are we to do with him?” Sandrion asked of Wildon. He kept his eyes on Malden’s grinning face and his sword at Malden’s throat.
Wildon locked eyes with Malden.
The two men were of comparable age. Both had served Orsak during his rousing call for the kingdom to arm itself against King Albetais. Malden had been among the youngest to throw a longbow over his shoulder in response to that passionate urging to rescue Paraysia. Wildon, a blacksmith whose wife and son had been killed by Albetais’s guards as they burned to ashes a village they thought protected the rebels, sought revenge and a home within the thundering rebellion. After his noted displays of fervent bravery Orsak had knighted him alongside Malden following the coronation.
As the course of the new monarch’s reign led to a tightening control of the kingdom, Malden embraced Orsak’s thirst for dominance and made it his own. With nothing of his past left to salvage, Wildon lowered his head and closed his eyes to the squeezing of the peasants’ pockets and of the defiant nobles’ throats. He was not blind to their suffering, yet focused his eyes instead on the glories of military rank, on the comfort of being loyal to a king. Repression increased, and then it doubled. And even when Wildon had occasion to turn from it all and run to Norcia, or the outskirts of the kingdom where other knights like Rojimon hoped to renew their lives and their sense of honor, he chose to remain in Castilmont; away from the poverty of the farms and villages; away from the lives where the uncertainties of a new beginning were felt more strongly; away from the memories of places he had once shared with his young family.
Now, as Wildon looked upon Malden, the man whose orders he had spent twenty years answering seemed nothing more than a sour remembrance of the blinding war he fought under Orsak’s banner—a reminiscence of the blunder he had made in continuing to stand under that banner as a means of pushing aside the tightening of his throat and the tears that came with thoughts of the past.
Watching him grin, Wildon wanted to rob Malden of his life. He wanted to tell Sandrion, Delcan and Aria to leave the two of them there in the dungeon so that each man could fight for his conviction—Malden for the honor of a tired king, Wildon for a redemption of sorts. With all of the past raging inside he wanted desperately to run him through.
“Put him in a cell,” he said. “Lock him behind the bars built for criminals.”
Sandrion placed his hand upon Malden’s shoulder and pulled to turn him around. Malden spun and struck Sandrion on the base of the neck with the side of a fist. As the squire lost his balance, Malden grabbed his arm and pried the sword out of his hand. He shoved the much younger and lighter man violently and Sandrion fell, the back of his head landing hard on the floor. Malden raised the sword intending to run Sandrion through.
Wildon lunged toward Malden but just before he reached him an arrow struck Malden’s chest with a soft thud. Wildon stopped and watched Malden stumble back.
He turned and saw Aria staring at Malden with a crossbow in her hands. The calm on her face surprised him. It drew him in as if it were a spiraling of colors from which he could not avert his eyes. With death now in her hands, she did not look like a girl to him, nor did she seem like a woman. She was transformed into something entirely different. She was a creature whose eyes were the source of passion itself; whose face, covered in shadows that swayed with the dancing flames of torches, was the book upon which the history to come would be written; a creature whose confidence in the virtues that occupied her mind emanated with every breath she released to the world.
Aria withdrew another arrow from the quiver at her feet. Her movement seemed to awaken Malden from the perplexed state into which he had fallen. He blinked. The rate of his breathing increased.
As Aria reloaded the crossbow, Malden raised the sword with a growl, meaning to bring it down upon Sandrion’s still body regardless of whether the princess standing ten feet away prepared to fire the next arrow or not.
The second arrow struck him in the stomach. He looked down at it; his arms raised high above his head. His hands loosened their grip on the sword. He lowered it and held it with one hand while the other wrapped itself around the short arrow piercing his midsection. He laughed and stumbled forward.
“Fools.” He looked up at Wildon then at Aria. “Fools,” he yelled and raised his sword yet again. This time Wildon stepped forward and pushed the arrow deeper as he took the sword from Malden.
Malden closed his eyes and fell back against the wall, his hands against his bloody chest.
Chapter Thirty-two
When Orsak emerged from the Royal Quarters followed by a group of guards, Malden was nowhere to be found.
“The dungeon,” Orsak said to the knight who waited outside the door. “Did you inspect the dungeon?”
The knight shook his head. “I am on my way there now, Sire.”
Orsak caught sight of Rojimon and smiled. In the light and shadows of the torch lit courtyard the man looked utterly trampled by life. The last time Orsak had set eyes on his once-upon-a-time friend, Rojimon’s hair had been full and dark; his face, as if chiseled from a square stone, had worn the few scars upon it as tokens of a valiant struggle. His posture had been sure, honorable. Now, nearly three decades behind them, it seemed the knight had fallen prisoner to the decaying inevitability of approaching death. The scars were now hidden behind weathered folds of skin that made his face hang with despair. As Rojimon stepped forward his feet shuffled, dragging behind them a set of slouched shoulders. The once great warrior was now a beaten man.
Orsak’s smile widened. He squared his shoulders and pride visibly radiated from him. He approached Rojimon, stopping five feet from him, standing almost a full head taller than the farmer-knight.
“It has been long since I last thought you were alive.” Orsak beamed as he spoke. The last of the original opposition to his reign stood before him in the shape of an old man surrounded by guards. The King was aware of the dwellers of caves who strove to unite into a rebel force against him but they meant nothing to him. He viewed them as children playing soldiers compared to the warriors that men like Rojimon were in their time. The Cave Dwellers had no organization; they had no leader; they posed no threat for they lacked the passion that had once made the man now standing before the King so dangerous. Orsak had feared Rojimon, long ago. He had kept that fear well concealed, even from himself. Once and again it made itself known when he wondered if Rojimon still lived. Now, that fear would be put to rest at last.
He eyed Rojimon from feet to head. “Where were you hiding?” the King asked.
“Closer th
an you ever imagined.”
Rojimon’s voice sounded strong and in conflict with the feeble image he portrayed.
On the surface of his being, on the outer layer his kingdom could see, Orsak was calm and sure. Yet, he wondered if Rojimon could sense the puzzled anxiety that swelled underneath. Inside, his heart raced. Excitement, he thought, at finally having Rojimon within his grasp; or perhaps it was trepidation at something about the old knight he could not quite put his finger upon.
“And now you choose to show yourself. Why is that?”
The corner of Rojimon’s mouth twitched as if he were fighting back an urge to smile. “You have something of mine,” he said.
“Something of yours?” Orsak’s laugh was hearty, emerging from a deep source. “And you aim to take it back now, whatever it is?”
Rojimon gazed at Orsak with a grave and obscure expression the King had never seen on his former comrade’s face. It gave him no indication of what thought or emotion was behind it. The old man’s face seemed to almost visibly change before Orsak’s eyes.
“I will take it back,” Rojimon said. His words were almost a whisper. “Then I will run you through and end this.”
The guards standing around the two men may have seen the farmer’s lips move but Orsak doubted they had heard his words. With anger suddenly flushing in his face, Orsak stepped decisively forward.
Rojimon threw his cloak open and drew out a broadsword. On the long hilt the old weapon still bore King Marcius’s coat of arms. Orsak stopped his advance and stumbled back at the sight of the emblem.
Wildon led Sandrion, Aria and Delcan through the tunnel that ran beneath the castle.
After back-tracking the same path that gave them access to the dungeon, they reached the point where the corridor split. Wildon motioned for the others to follow him through the passageway on the left that would bring them to the yard, behind the castle keep.
The night air was cold. A gust of chilling wind hit Delcan on the face like a mace and he was glad for it. He had spent two days in the musty dungeon, among the remnants of death’s last visit to the place, and all the scents carried by the fresh air bathed him like crystal-clear water. At the moment, all he wished to do was close his eyes and let it overcome him.
“We must reach the front gate without notice,” Wildon said, motioning for Sandrion to cover his head with the hood of his cloak. To Aria he said, “Pass your cloak to Delcan. We shall lead him out as one of us, just another guard. You stay within the castle, as if all were well.”
“And Malden?” Aria asked, handing Delcan the cloak.
“You know nothing. The prisoners will not speak a word of it. The only inference Orsak could draw would be that he was slain by rebels or by Delcan in his escape.” Wildon exchanged a knowing glance with the squire. The two were now in the same path—their lives in Castilmont had come to an abrupt end that night.
As Delcan wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, Wildon looked out at the large group of soldiers standing near the gate. “What are they doing?” he asked. “They seem like a small army out there.”
“Perhaps we can use it as a distraction, an advantage,” Sandrion chimed in.
Wildon nodded as if already formulating a plan. He was about to speak when Delcan stepped forward, blocking his view.
“That is my father,” Delcan whispered. “That is my father surrounded by guards.” He stepped forward, meaning to break into a run. Wildon took hold of Delcan’s shoulders and held him.
“No.” Wildon’s forceful whisper was like a soft growl. It paralyzed not only Delcan but Aria and Sandrion as well.
“That is Orsak with him,” Aria said, looking out at the group of guards.
“What is your father doing here?” Wildon turned Delcan around to face him. “Was he aware of your capture?”
Delcan shook his head. “I do not know.”
“I shall find out what is happening,” Aria said, making both Delcan and Wildon turn to look at her.
“No,” Wildon found himself saying yet again. “I shall go.” He looked at Sandrion and pointed a finger at Delcan. “Make certain he stays here. None of you goes forward without me signaling you to do so. If there is a chance for you to make for the gate unnoticed I shall let you know. Understood?”
Behind Wildon, the group of guards surrounding Roimas and the King had grown into a small crowd.
“I am not leaving here without my father,” Delcan said, nearly shouting.
Wildon smiled. “Nor am I. Leave that to me.”
Roimas’s steel blade glimmered as if with a light source from within. It might have been the torches throwing their light against it, or the impossible reflection of the moon.
It was the sword which had been presented to him by King Marcius at his knighting ceremony—the same ceremony in which a similar sword had touched Orsak’s shoulders. It was the same sword Roimas wielded in battle at Orsak’s side when they reclaimed the kingdom from Albetais. The sword Roimas had undone from his waist, had polished, and had hidden upon his leaving the castle for what he had presumed would be ever.
A few of the guards seemed to recognize the adornments on the sword, their significance, their history. They stood back, perhaps in admiration, perhaps with reverence. Others moved forward, toward Roimas, unsure, glancing at their king, waiting for his command.
Orsak gazed at the weapon for a long while. Presently, he raised his eyes to meet Roimas’s. “You still have that old sword.”
Roimas stood at the ready, both hands wrapped around the hilt.
He had expected the sword to feel awkward, heavy. Instead, he found it light, almost solacing. He rubbed his fingertips on the hilt and found the old worn spots on the leather where his hands had so often gripped it in the past. His fingers fell into the old grooves and he sighed as the feel of the weapon settled down upon him.
He smiled, this time not bothering to fight against it. His chin down, he peered at Orsak from under his brow. He had fallen into the second-nature mode of combat into which he had not tapped in forty years. On his forehead he felt beads of sweat streaming.
“I doubt you are ready to, or even capable of, using that,” Orsak looked around at the guards, making it a point to exaggerate the motion so that Roimas would know what he was facing.
The warrior turned farmer now let his warrior instincts flow once again. He said nothing. He only gazed at the King with challenging eyes while taking notice of the others around him without shifting his gaze.
Come; draw your sword, those eyes whispered. Step out and face me.
As if Roimas had spoken the words aloud, Orsak grinned and reached out his hand. “A knight’s broadsword,” he said in his bellowing voice. He never moved his eyes away from Roimas’s.
A crowd of guards had now gathered around them, among them some knights—some incredulous at what was happening, at whom they saw standing before the King. To them, Orsak appeared to have lost all sense and all grasp on the world around him. They were about to watch their King engage in a martial confrontation as if he and his opponent stood alone in the courtyard.
One of the younger knights standing behind Orsak handed the King his sword, bowing as he stepped away.
“Is this how you wish to die?” Orsak gripped the sword with both hands and stepped back into a sparring stance.
It had been fifteen years since Roimas had wielded a sword aimed at another. The same may have been with Orsak. As King he had others who did the fighting for him.
“Is this what you desire?”
Roimas shook his head. “No.”
Orsak chuckled. “What then?”
“I want my son.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Wildon broke through the guards and knights whom had gathered around the two men and stopped, mouth agape, as he saw Roimas with a sword in hand facing the King’s own blade.
“Your son.” Orsak said. The hand holding the sword faltered and he lowered the blade slightly.
Roimas k
ept his own sword and eyes steady.
Wildon was still unnoticed by the two men whose eyes bore into one another. He had to act, now.
He stepped beside Orsak and drew his sword. “My Lord, may I rid this nuisance from your presence?” he said nodding toward Roimas.
The King turned to Wildon with an irritated look on his face. “Sir Wildon,” he said, one eye still watching Roimas. “Although honorable, this is an inopportune time in which to display your loyalty. I do not need your assistance.”
“Wildon.” It was now Roimas who was distracted by the knight’s sudden presence. His eyes narrowed to near slits.
As Wildon turned to return Roimas’s gaze, the former knight lowered his sword and stepped forward. With his free hand he took hold of Wildon’s throat.
Forty years past, when Rojimon rode away from the castle for what he and everyone else thought was to be the last time, he had inspired a wave of exiles.
With the sudden departure of the King’s closest knight, men who once believed their new ruler would rejuvenate their homeland fled the kingdom. Many guards and a good number of knights, who grew tired, and fearful, of Orsak’s tightening grip on their lives, saw in Rojimon’s action a way out and departed Castilmont in search of a safe haven. Some left for the northern kingdom of Norcia in makeshift vessels. Others retreated to remote villages in Paraysia near the forest, where one could easily hide along with one’s past. Knights who had fought at Orsak’s side against the reign of Albetais sought out Rojimon for leadership, for help in escaping the castle without the King’s knowledge. Inside Castilmont, three other knights facilitated the flight of those eager to leave Orsak’s shadow. Of those, Wildon was one.
Wildon was passionate, though indecisive, as a young man. Fifteen years Rojimon’s junior, Wildon had lost his wife and son before he could become accustomed to being a husband and father. His service to the King was all he knew to be lasting in his life. Although anxious about Orsak’s demanding reign, just as most all those around him, when the time came to realize the plot of leaving the castle behind, Wildon found he could not carry it out. He stayed. Alone. Fearful of risking all that he had come to know, all that was promised for the price of loyalty. He stood in the parapets as his brothers-in-arms defied the King and fled to the edge of the kingdom and beyond.
Dragon Fire Page 24
