When Malden discovered that Wildon had assisted the traitors in leaving the King’s domain without capture, he threatened the young knight’s very life and the silence he swore he would keep was broken.
Wildon defended his position among the traitors, ensuring the King he meant to find out the defectors’ plans and then inform His Majesty. He gave Orsak the names of those who had escaped and for many their destinations.
Orsak, growing ever anxious that his former soldiers would mount an assault against him, initiated a hunt that resulted in the deaths of many of those who had turned their backs on him.
Roimas had known of Wildon’s betrayal from the very guards who had carried out the sentences of death upon those who desired a life beyond Orsak’s rule. He had dragged it out of them before he took their lives, or else they would, without hesitation, rob him of his.
He also knew Wildon’s actions had guaranteed the young man a comfortable place among the knights in the King’s service; it provided a sense of security he thought would find nowhere else.
“You heartless traitor.” Roimas growled as he stepped forward, putting more pressure upon Wildon’s throat. “You gave them up. You traded their names, their lives, for your own gain. For what—a purse full of rusting gold?”
The guards moved fast, reaching for Roimas.
Not taking his eyes off Wildon, not loosening his grip on the knight’s throat, Roimas pointed the sword at the approaching guards, the first of which stopped short of running into the blade.
“No,” Orsak ordered them back. “Let them be.” The King grinned as if pleased to see the two men struggle. “This is growing interesting.”
The old man’s speed surprised Orsak; Rojimon was graceful, quick. It caused him to wonder for a moment if Rojimon’s age was nothing more than a facade.
For a moment, the thought of Galyan crossed his mind. He hadn’t considered the old wizard in years, but for a brief instant Orsak wondered if the wizard did not have something to do with Rojimon’s sudden return.
He handed the broadsword to the guard standing closest to him and swaggered over to Rojimon’s side. Wildon’s hands were wrapped around Rojimon’s wrist, struggling to loosen the grip.
“I did not know the two of you were friends,” Orsak said with a taunting sing-song quality in his voice.
“We never were.” Rojimon’s face contorted with anger. To Wildon, Roimas said, “You broke a promise and men died.”
“You place trust in others too easily, Rojimon.” Rojimon looked at Orsak. The look on his face wore a disgusted expression. “You always have.”
Orsak placed his hands behind his back, folding one over the other. He paced around the two men as if they were a piece of art—a sculpture—enjoying its composition. His entire demeanor had changed.
“I could not well let former loyalists run wild throughout my kingdom, undermining my reign,” Orsak said. “It would have been a matter of time before they plotted against me. In fact, I am not so surprised to see you alive after all this time. I am, however, surprised to see you never organized a little uprising against me. Not unlike what you and I once staged against Albetais.” The King paused. “Of course, not that it would have done much good.”
Orsak positioned himself beside Wildon, facing Rojimon, and grinned. The way his head shifted to one side suggested he was studying Rojimon, sizing him up, while at the same time mocking him.
Rojimon sighed in frustration, a rational man trying to maintain control of the anger that boiled within. He pushed Wildon, knocking him to the ground.
“I grew tired of war,” Rojimon said after staring at Orsak for a long while. “I grew tired of, oh, so many things.”
“Then why disillusion my idea of you having been dead by appearing now before me?”
“Because you have my son and I intend to free him.”
“Ah, yes. Your son. Well, you see, old friend, I cannot help you there. I do not know your son, and thus assure you I do not have him as you so insist.” The King’s grin grew wider.
“I can take you to your son” said Wildon in a weak voice, out of breath. Both Roimas and the King turned to him.
He walked toward them, rubbing his throat. Orsak shot him a warning glance. “I know where he is,” Wildon continued. “He is my squire.”
While he lay on the ground, Wildon had glanced back at the structure housing the Royal Quarters where Delcan, Sandrion, and Aria still stood peering from behind the rear wall. The three were watching anxiously. As he rose to his feet, Wildon had locked eyes with Aria and had motioned for her to lead the other two back into the tunnel and out of sight.
Roimas turned to look at Orsak momentarily. He and the King exchanged a silent, knowing glance. Wildon did not know if Orsak knew of Delcan being Roimas’s son. He suspected the King had realized it, but had concealed his knowledge as a means of manipulating Roimas. But now, however, Orsak’s mind was certainly clear of any doubt.
“Delcan,” the King said. “Your son is the squire Delcan.” He laughed.
“How did you know he was my son?” Roimas asked Wildon.
“He has told me about you.” Wildon glanced at Orsak. Control of the situation had swung over to him and he intended to play the game. He nodded at Orsak, hoping the King would catch his meaning—that Delcan had finally broken and spoken during torture. “He has spoken much about you lately.”
Roimas kept his eyes on Wildon.
“I can take you to see him,” Wildon said. “If your Majesty does not oppose.”
Orsak stared at Wildon for a while before responding. He was serious, thinking. Then, he smiled his wicked smile and nodded. “It may be a fine idea,” he said, “for Rojimon to see his son, before he hangs.”
Roimas still looked at only Wildon, as if trying to read him; as if asking himself who the King meant to hang: Delcan, Roimas himself, or both father and son together. Wildon expected it would be the latter.
Wildon suspected something distrustful in the King’s eagerness. His eyes kept darting between Roimas and the King. He hoped the instincts of the soldier turned farmer would kick in and tell him to follow Wildon’s lead, even if for the time being.
He urged Roimas to follow and headed for the barracks. Four guards followed behind them.
Chapter Thirty-four
As they walked, Roimas kept silent, considering the situation in which he now found himself. He was surprised Wildon had not relieved him of his sword, and shocked that the detail had escaped Orsak’s notice—he had slipped the sword back in its scabbard as he walked away from the King.
Delcan was being kept prisoner. Making Orsak take him to the dungeon would be the fastest way in which to reach his son, even if he were to become a prisoner himself. Wildon had accomplished that for him. Once in the dungeon, Roimas would release Delcan and escape the castle through tunnels of which very few knew. The execution of this plan would take much swordplay and Roimas took advantage of the silent walk to the barracks to mentally prepare. He would have to begin with Wildon.
As they approached the barracks’ entrance Roimas broke the silence.
“Are we going to the dungeon?”
Wildon glanced over his shoulder. “He is waiting for you,” he said, without answering.
The comment stirred yet another spark of anger within Roimas. To him, it insinuated the inevitability that he would end up in a cell like his son. At the same time, however, Wildon’s voice lacked mockery; his tone was quiet and confidential.
Roimas looked back over his own shoulder and past the guards who followed them. The King was no longer in sight—he had headed back into the Royal Quarters; the small army that had greeted Roimas had begun to disperse.
They entered the building and walked to the end of the main hallway flanked with doors at either side. Long ago, Roimas himself had slept behind one of those doors. Now, he was being marched before them on his way to the dungeon.
They arrived at the doorway from which descending stairs led to the
long and dark corridor. Roimas turned back to Wildon, surprised to find the knight looking at him. Wildon signaled with his eyes, moving them to his right, seemingly careful not to raise his eyebrows or move his head in the process. “He is waiting for you,” he repeated “You should prepare yourself.”
Roimas frowned.
Wildon motioned Roimas to enter the corridor before him. As Roimas stepped into the gloom that began beyond the open door he saw three figures in silhouette move quickly against the walls and melt into the shadows. He had hoped to use the narrow corridor to turn on Wildon and the guards, rid himself of them so that he could reach the dungeon alone. Now he would have to wait a bit longer.
“Go,” Wildon said, pushing Roimas forward. He stumbled inside. When he turned to look back at Wildon, prepared to give him an enraged look, he caught the knight in the midst of drawing his own sword and turning on the guards.
Orsak left Malden’s quarters seething. The head of his guards, his second in command, could not be found.
“Malden,” he said to one of the two sentries standing outside the throne room. “Find him.”
The guard saluted and rushed off as Orsak entered the Throne Room.
Orsak had barked that same order to numerous guards and knights throughout the castle. As his rage built he had repeated the same command to yet another member of his security force. He had not spoken with his second-in-command all day and his patience was dwindling.
Of course, he wished to boast about the way in which Rojimon had practically walked into the castle and had surrendered, but he most desperately needed Malden to lead in his incarceration. The thought of Rojimon behind bars—or better yet, face-down in the dungeon’s dirt pit—made him smile.
“The pit,” he said aloud. “He belongs in the pit.”
He would move the squire, he thought, and throw Rojimon, his most formidable, most reviled rival into the pit. At this thought, he was unable to stifle the laugh that burst out of him. “Such irony,” he said. “Father and son sharing such a precious bond—the intimate gloom of that pit.”
He called in the guard posted at the Throne Room door and said, “When Malden arrives, tell him that I want to see him in the dungeon.” The guard nodded and the King headed out into the hall.
The first guard received Wildon’s sword with a shocked expression that still dawned upon his face as life began to pour out of him. The second was halfway through drawing his own sword when Wildon’s foot struck him in the stomach, pushing him back against the other two. Wildon then lunged and drove the blade deep into the spot where his foot had most certainly left a bruise.
By the time the remaining two guards drew their blades and stepped forward, Roimas stood beside Wildon gripping his broadsword with both hands. He had stepped into the fight without hesitation, without giving any thought to the reasons why Wildon—the man who only a moment before led him to an expecting prison—would now stand and engage in battle with him.
Roimas acted and reacted with sure movements, the steel a mere extension of his hands. With the warmth of adrenalin burning within him, he fell back into the role of warrior he had so long ago struggled to suppress.
The fight was dominated by decisive movements. There was no exchange of blade striking blade—only the initial groan as steel penetrated flesh and the final thump of bodies falling on stone.
Roimas turned to Wildon perplexed, his sword still raised defensively, not sure what to do. Wildon responded to Roimas’s expression by sliding his sword into its scabbard.
“Father.”
The whisper came from behind Roimas. The voice he recognized immediately.
Delcan stepped out of the shadows, followed by Sandrion and Aria.
Roimas embraced his son. “Delcan. You are safe.”
Delcan grimaced in pain as Roimas pulled him close. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to free you. I have been haunted by an image of you in danger.”
“I am fine. A bit sore, perhaps, but fine.”
Roimas glanced at Sandrion who smiled in return—he was well accustomed to seeing Sandrion wherever his son went—and then at Aria. He lingered on her face. He saw Orsak’s eyes in her, and also something more.
“This is the princess, Aria,” Delcan said. Roimas bowed. “She helped free me from the dungeon.”
“You are royalty,” Roimas said. “And yet you risk your entire being for a farmer’s son.” The young woman blushed and Roimas saw more than friendship in the way she glanced at Delcan.
“But, you are not just a farmer,” Aria responded.
For the first time since he had left Berest, the reminder of his true essence—that of a man who is defined not just by his farm but by his past—sounded right to him. After today, the title of knight, of warrior, seemed once again appropriate to his name; second to the label of traitor, sure enough.
Roimas turned to Wildon who stood near by, glancing back over his shoulder.
“He saved my life,” Delcan said, seeing the way in which his father looked at the knight.
“I find it difficult to read you, Sir Wildon,” Roimas said. He smiled. “Have you changed?”
Wildon returned Roimas’s grin. “Haven’t we all?”
“I thank you for helping my son.”
“He has gained my respect; and the love of Her Highness.” Wildon looked at Aria. “It was her plea that brought us together.” Now it was Aria who smiled and Roimas reciprocated.
Delcan glanced at them both and frowned. A realization then dawned upon him—that the selection of Wildon as his master had been not one influenced by a divine hand but rather by Aria’s.
After a moment Wildon said, “The guards will soon look for us, once the King finds neither of you in the dungeon.”
“One guard already did,” Sandrion said pointing at the floor behind them. In the darkness, Wildon could make out the body of a fallen knight. He walked closer to it and recognized the dead eyes looking up at him.
“We cannot stay here,” Wildon said. “This is where you must part from us, princess.”
Aria stepped forward, shaking her head. “No. I am with you.”
“Your Highness, you cannot. If you leave the castle now with us you can never return. The King will search for you more than he has for any of his past dissenters; more than he will for any of us. It will put in peril not only your life but the rebels’. You provide them with invaluable support from within the castle itself. Without you here the presence of the rebellion in the castle will be gone.”
“I cannot stay behind and watch my grandfather gather strength while he hunts you—all of you. I must leave the castle now. It will not be until the morning before he finds that I am no longer here. Perhaps even longer than that. I have become invisible to him in many ways. In that time we can organize. We can unite and move forward.”
“They are not ready,” Wildon nearly shouted. “You, yourself, have agreed we must wait.”
“We can wait no longer. The Head of the Guards is dead. Without Malden, Orsak has no command of the army, or his guards. Only the older knights have any actual contact with him—and I dare say any real loyalty. All others took their orders from Malden.
“Even if he were to order the guards directly they would hardly know how to carry out those orders without leadership. If we were to strike now it will be a challenging task for him to establish himself as their leader.”
“He is King,” Sandrion added. “Of course he will lead them.”
“Yes, in time,” Aria responded. “A week; perhaps two. But at first, Orsak must overcome the void left by Malden’s death—he must become familiar with Malden’s command and the knights must learn to follow the direct orders of a king rather than one who has always been among them. Malden has no successor.”
“She is right,” Roimas stepped in. “Orsak ceased to lead this kingdom long ago. He controls it but not much else. That is why little change has come to Paraysia in the past forty years. Now, at this
moment, he is at his weakest. There is a narrow chance of which the rebels must take advantage. When that gap in leadership closes, we must wait and truly prepare for a full-out war. Now is the moment.”
Wildon’s expression did not hide his dissent. He looked at Aria. “Do what you must, Branis.”
Aria nodded.
Roimas placed his arm around Delcan’s shoulder. “Come. I know of a way to get beyond the wall undetected.”
Orsak walked purposefully through the gloomy corridor. His steps echoed among the aging stones.
He stopped at the sight of the first lifeless body partly covered in shadows. It was a guard; his helmet having rolled off his head lay like a bowl at the King’s feet.
Prior to heading to the dungeon Orsak had tied the scabbard to his waist for the first time in many years. It was his old sword. Not Marcius’s ceremonial sword, not the one passed down from king to king for generations, but his own battle sword—a sister to Rojimon’s own blade. His hand now moved slowly to the adorned hilt and he drew the sword hardly making a sound.
He looked behind him, expecting someone to emerge from the cloaking shadows. Nothing. He looked ahead, listening. Nothing.
As he stepped cautiously over the slain guard’s body he glanced at the life-drained corpse. He did not know the face and he briefly wondered how many of his guards would he indeed recognize. Several steps ahead he found the bodies of two other lifeless guards, both surrounded by drying stains of maroon blood on the stone floor. Beyond them he saw a face that he did recognize instantly.
The Head of the Guards lay on his back, his arms spread wide like those of a boy who has been lying on a grassy field all afternoon gazing at the pulsating sun. On Malden’s chest a scarlet stain embraced a protruding arrow.
Dragon Fire Page 25
