Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1)

by Barclay, Alex

Oland’s stomach turned again.

  All three walked to the door.

  “After you,” said Viande, nodding at Oland.

  Oland hesitated.

  “I said, ‘after you’,” said Viande, squeezing Delphi’s throat. She made a terrible choking sound.

  Oland stepped into the hallway and, in a flash, Viande threw Delphi back into the cell and locked the door.

  “Sweetling,” he called. “I will return for you.”

  He grabbed Oland by the arm. “Now,” said Viande, “let’s be on our way.”

  Oland’s veins filled as they had in the arena and that same sensation rose up through his body. He didn’t understand where this power was coming from, but this time he knew that he would release it without question.

  Viande, oblivious to what was happening to Oland, spun towards him. He threw the key up into the air and caught it in his mouth like it was one of his Brussels sprouts, swallowing it in one go.

  “Now,” said Viande, “only I know where the second key is, so you better not have any plans other than to keep nicely in line with mine.”

  IANDE AND OLAND WALKED BY THE CELLS WHERE only months earlier Oland had tended the starving animals. Jerome Rynish appeared from the darkness, running towards them.

  “Viande, Villius wants you,” he said. “You must go to him immediately.”

  “With the boy?” said Viande.

  “Alone,” said Jerome.

  “Before or after I take the boy to the slaughterhouse?”

  Oland froze.

  “I am to take the boy,” said Jerome. “According to Villius, you are to be at his side for today’s coronation. It appears he has decided to have a warrior at each shoulder.”

  Viande’s eyes lit up.

  “You need to see the Tailor Rynish immediately,” said Jerome. “He is preparing Villius’ robes and needs to do the same for you. They’re in his quarters. I am to take the boy.”

  Viande nodded. “I’ll go at once.” He strode down the hallway out of sight.

  “Warrior…” said Jerome. “What a fool. And I’ve told each member of The Craven Lodge the same story, and each fool has believed it. Arthur will keep them contained.”

  “But,” said Oland, “I’ve seen everything – I know everyone has been turned by Villius Ren. I know what’s happening.”

  “Oland, despite your wisdom,” said Jerome, “you have no idea what is really happening.”

  “Delphi!” said Oland. “My friend Delphi. Viande locked her in the cell. She’s—”

  “We’ve freed her,” said Jerome. “She’s in very safe hands.”

  “Who’s hands?” said Oland. “Where is she?”

  “She is with Prince Roxleigh,” said Jerome. “He knows the castle inside out. He’ll keep her safe.”

  Oland smiled. “Thank you Jerome.”

  “No,” said Jerome, “Thank you for bringing Prince Roxleigh home.” He laid his hands on Oland’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “It’s nearly over,” he said.

  “What do you mean it’s nearly over?” said Oland.

  “Come,” said Jerome, “we have been waiting for you.”

  “Waiting for me?” said Oland.

  Jerome Rynish said not another word as he led Oland through the castle grounds and they walked up the first hill. Where earlier there was a sea of people preparing for the coronation of Villius Ren, there was now a sea of soldiers, dressed in uniforms of gold and teal – the colours of King Micah’s Decresian.

  Jerome turned to Oland. “Yes,” said Jerome. “We have been waiting for you.” Tears shone in his eyes.

  “There must be a thousand men!” said Oland.

  “There are two thousand,” said Jerome. “Two for every one of Villius’ men.”

  All at once, they raised their lances to Oland Born.

  LAND RETURNED THE SOLDIERS’ SALUTE. HE SAW THAT, like the tin soldier Frax had stolen from him, some held arquebuses, the weapons that fired balls of lead.

  He could barely speak. “I… I thought everyone had turned; I thought everyone had vowed their loyalty to Villius Ren.”

  “Oh, no,” said Jerome. “All of it, the feigned loyalty, everything, is so that the people of Decresian can finally reclaim their kingdom.”

  “I… I have no words,” said Oland.

  “The livelihoods of almost everyone in Decresian were destroyed,” said Jerome. “The farmers’ lands were taken from them. We were all cast aside. But we wanted to fight, for ourselves, for our wives, for our children. So that is what we did. Yes, the souls screamed from midnight until daybreak every night, but those screams at least drowned out what we were doing: while The Craven Lodge were rampaging across the land, we built underground rooms where we made weapons and trained our men. We started our campaign before you ever received King Micah’s letter. But, from the night you arrived at my door onward, we worked harder and faster than we ever had. And what you see before you is testament to that.”

  Oland thought of his life at Castle Derrington. How could he have stayed so long, passing, as he did, from one miserable experience to the next? In the time he’d been away, he had seen a world that, despite the dangers it presented, was an amazing world, and it was a free world, and it was nothing like the only world that he had known.

  Jerome took out a map of the castle grounds.

  “A cavalry of one thousand will charge the castle from the north,” he said, “while the infantry will move to the east and west of the outer walls. Do you see those wooden towers by the castle walls? Villius Ren thinks they are platforms from which to view the festivities. But they are siege towers and they will allow us to drop bridges to the battlements. The trebuchets will launch their attacks here, at the northern corners of the castle. Our men can enter the outer ward through the breached walls. Chancey the Gold is considering access through the moat.”

  “Chancey the Gold is here?” said Oland. “He’s alive?”

  “Yes,” said Jerome. “He is.” He paused. “I’m sorry we couldn’t let Delphi know, Oland. But she will, soon.”

  Oland nodded. He pointed to the map. “The northeast tower,” he said, “that’s the library… and my room… None of The Craven Lodge will be there. There is no reason to attack that.”

  “I’ll see to it that it remains untouched,” said Jerome. “As we speak, Villius Ren, in his dazzling new robes, will be reading the letter that will offer him the chance to surrender.”

  Oland turned to him. “I know Villius,” he said. “I know what he’s going to do. He won’t surrender. He’ll find a way to stall things for nine days and nine nights… he will wait for his Fortune of Tens. And, on the tenth day, he will welcome an attack.”

  “Ah, he has no supplies,” said Jerome. “He has no sense that this is upon him. Today, his castle was stripped of all food and water right before his eyes – after all, he was hosting an outdoor banquet. His soldiers helped a great deal.”

  Oland laughed.

  “In fact, some of them may not be feeling too well after the food they ate,” said Jerome. “Our wives made some interesting dishes.” He paused. “So, Oland, Villius Ren and his army will fight today or they can starve to death.”

  From above came an inhuman howl. Everyone looked up as Villius Ren charged to the edge of the parapet.

  “I am The Great Reign,” he roared. “I am The Great Reign.”

  Below, from a trebuchet manned by Malachy Graham’s sons, the corpse of a dead panther was launched, and sent flying over the parapets to land at Villius’ feet.

  He jumped over it and disappeared from view.

  Within minutes, Villius Ren’s patchwork army began to rush into the grounds from their garrisons. Oland Born rode his horse to the head of the cavalry. He raised his lance and charged towards them.

  Everything Oland had taught himself in all his locked-away hours had come to life around him. Here he was, on a battlefield, with the cold air rushing through his lungs and the strength of a loyal army behind hi
m.

  And so, as the two groups came together, the battlefield became a fight for survival on one side, and for freedom on the other.

  Oland was fuelled by the people’s belief in him, by the Rynishes’, by Roxleigh’s, by Delphi’s. He could never have imagined how all his worlds would collide and that, if they did, how truly spectacular it would feel.

  OURS PASSED AND THE BATTLE RAGED ON. THE AIR was filled with the sound of the rocks striking the castle walls, the battering rams, the roars of soldiers, their cries of pain. Smoke wafted across the battlefield, carrying the smell of death, and sweat, and blood.

  As the sun rose to its afternoon height, Oland realised that Villius Ren had not reappeared. Oland rode across the castle grounds to find Jerome Rynish. He recognised a familiar shape up ahead. It was Wickham. As he waved at Oland, Oland could see there was blood streaming down his arm. Wickham quickly clutched his side, but not fast enough so that Oland could not see the gaping wound. He cried out to Wickham, charging towards him. He jumped from his horse as Wickham collapsed to the ground.

  Oland knelt at his side. “I can see now your Pyreboy origins,” he said, “All that practice telling stories on the shore.”

  “You’ve been to Curfew Peak…” said Wickham. “Did you meet my brother, Mark?”

  “Yes,” said Oland. “He’s here. He brought Prince Roxleigh and me back. He helped save Decresian.”

  Wickham looked down at his wound. For a moment, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were shining with tears.

  Oland began to rip the tunic that Jerome had given him. He took Wickham’s hand away from his side and pressed the bundled fabric against it. “Just a few minutes,” said Oland. “Then I’ll go and get him. I’ll find him for you.”

  Wickham nodded, and his eyes started to close again.

  “Don’t sleep,” said Oland, knowing that he had to keep Wickham conscious to give him every chance to survive. “Look at me. Tell me what happened when you left Curfew Peak.” He glanced down at the makeshift bandage, already soaked with Wickham’s blood.

  Wickham, his breath shaking, began, faltering between his words: “The night I delivered Prince Roxleigh’s message to King Micah was several nights before Villius Ren staged his attack. The night of the attack, I had already left the castle for the inn in Derrington. The young archivist was in the stables helping his father pack up a cart with their records. Villius believed that, after The Craven Lodge attacked, King Micah was dead and he had thrown him there to be taken away in a cart and burned. But, despite the arrows that Villius had twisted in his wounds, King Micah was still alive and as he lay there he discovered, under a pile of straw, a newborn baby, discarded just like him. That baby was you.”

  A terrible pain ripped through Oland’s heart. “My parents abandoned me…” he said.

  Wickham took a surprisingly fierce grip on Oland’s arm.

  “No, Oland,” he said. “You were taken from them… they did not leave you there…”

  “Who were they?” said Oland.

  “I don’t know,” said Wickham. “I’m… sorry.”

  Oland wanted to scream at the dead ends he kept reaching when it came to discovering who his parents were. He felt selfish and cruel to even think of it as he crouched over the failing Wickham.

  “King Micah dictated your letter to the young archivist, Tristan Ault, who tracked me down in Derrington and gave me the letter to give to you.”

  “By joining The Craven Lodge, you did even more than you were asked to,” said Oland.

  “For a good cause, Oland.” His breath faltered.

  Oland gripped his hand tighter. “No,” he said. “No. Don’t… don’t. I’ll go and find a doctor. I’ll find Mark. You will—”

  “No,” said Wickham, struggling to shake his head. His lips were almost white. “Wait. I wanted to say… sorry… that for so long I could do nothing. I had my brother to think of on Curfew Peak. Prince Roxleigh, the entire kingdom, the futures of so many…” He drew in a shallow breath. “You have no idea how many times I wished I could have taken you away.” His breathing grew weaker. “I don’t know how, but King Micah knew that one day in the arena, as a young man, you would save another and show strength and bravery that were beyond human. On that day I was told to deliver that letter.” His voice was barely a whisper. “What was confusing…” he said, his eyes closing, “was that to me… every day of your life… you showed strength and bravery that were beyond human.” He managed to smile. “The Banon Servant… I wrote. Is inspired by you. Oland Born-Lord Banon.” Wickham’s eyes closed for the last time.

  “No,” said Oland. “No, Wickham, no. Not yet. No. I wanted time to become your friend.” He started to weep. “I wanted to thank you for teaching me. I wanted to say sorry for thinking you were the same as them. I wanted… to hear more stories.” He wept harder.

  After a time, he placed Wickham’s hands on his chest and held his own there, willing for him a safer passage than the other souls who had fallen at the hands of evil men.

  TILL WEEPING, BUT MORE ANGERED THAN HE HAD EVER been, Oland left Wickham’s side and jumped on his horse. He rode towards Jerome Rynish.

  “Where is Villius Ren?” said Oland.

  “Villius has barricaded himself in the great hall and has surrounded it with soldiers,” said Jerome. “Luckily for us, his towers are coming down with curious ease.”

  “That’s because it’s Rigg Island stone,” said Oland. “It’s fragile and porous, but Villius requested it specially, for whatever reason. He will be regretting it now.”

  As they turned to survey the damage, a huge plume of smoke rose from inside the castle. Through the gaping hole in the castle walls, Oland could see where it came from. He stopped dead.

  “You said you wouldn’t touch the northeast tower!” he shouted.

  “We didn’t,” said Jerome.

  They watched as smoke billowed out from the tower’s base.

  “It’s on fire!” shouted Oland. “The tower is on fire! My room!”

  “We didn’t do it,” said Jerome, “I swear to you. It’s King Micah’s castle; it’s Decresian’s. We would never…”

  Oland and Jerome turned to each other as they both came to the same realisation: Villius Ren had already undermined King Micah and his rule, already undermined the people of Decresian, so it could only follow that he would have no concern about undermining the castle that they all held so dear.

  Oland roared and kicked his horse, sending him galloping away. Jerome Rynish rode up alongside him.

  “No, Oland, no!” he shouted. “It’s not safe. There’s nothing we can do about that. A fire has been burning under that for quite some time now. We can’t save it. We have destroyed the outer wall, we can easily—”

  “We can put out the fire now,” shouted Oland. “The water from the moat, we can—”

  “No!” said Jerome. “Remember what we’re here for, Oland. To overthrow The Craven Lodge.”

  “But not destroying the castle—” shouted Oland.

  “There will always be casualties,” said Jerome. “And, a tower is the least of them.”

  Oland drove his heel into his horse, and he sped ahead of Jerome. In his desperation to reach the tower, he failed to see the shape riding towards him, until a sword crashed against his chest plate, and he was thrown to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him, and his head was spinning. He staggered upright, and there, in front of him once more, was the Bastion, Villius Ren’s newest recruit. He smiled a dullard smile.

  “You,” he said. “Dead.”

  Oland glanced down at the Bastion’s hand and saw a sword. He hadn’t expected a weapon other than the Bastion’s bulk. But the Bastion moved the blade at breathtaking speed, laughing and swiping the air inches from Oland’s face.

  Oland pulled his sword from his scabbard. At first, he fought competently, but, with each strike that followed, he began to feel more panicked, as he feared the loss of The Holdings. A burst of rage dro
ve him forward and he battered the Bastion’s sword aside. Just as he was poised to pierce the Bastion’s chest, his eyes were drawn to the flames that suddenly plumed from the northeast tower. The Bastion struck and Oland’s sword flew from his grip, on to the muddy earth. As the Bastion bore down on Oland, a dark shape plunged from the sky towards them.

  LAND STARED UP AT THE WINGED FORM OF BLAISE, descending in front of them. The Bastion looked like he had seen a ghost. Panicked, he struck out with his sword, slicing down Blaise’s wing. Blaise cried out, but he rose into the air, plucking the Bastion from his standing, flinging him across the ground. Despite his pain, Blaise managed to dive for more victims, hauling them into the air and releasing them in a broken pile below. He had cleared a path through the battlefield for Oland and his horse.

  “Thank you,” said Oland.

  Blaise landed. “A pleasure.”

  Suddenly, Blaise looked down at his wing. Blood was streaming from it. “I’m sorry,” he said to Oland. “I won’t be able to take you anywhere.”

  “You have done more then enough,” said Oland. “It is with great sadness that I must tell you of your brother’s passing.” He led Blaise back to Wickham’s side, leaving him to grieve for everything his future would not hold.

  With his sights set on the castle, Oland rode towards Jerome Rynish, who was in a fierce battle with Hazenby, their swords now locked, steam rising from their bodies. Jerome’s strength was holding, while Hazenby looked close to defeat. Jerome pulled his sword free, and with a swift downward movement sliced Hazenby’s hamstrings and he collapsed, screaming, to the ground. Jerome staggered upright, looking up in time to see Oland pass, unscathed, through a downpour of arrows from the battlements and disappear through the breached walls of the castle. He roared out his name and quickly drew the attention of Malachy Graham’s sons, who charged like a wall towards the soldiers before them, toppling them to the ground, not breaking their stride as they too ran for the castle.

  Oland made his way through the eerily quiet outer ward. Villius Ren’s discordant army had clearly been no match for the unity of the Decresians. Oland ran past their scattered bodies to the northwest tower. The Decresian soldiers who had felled Villius’ men were moving back and forth between the kitchens and the stables, filling every vessel they could find with water. They had laid wooden planks across the moat, and between them they carried water in a line to the burning tower. When the flames died down, Oland ran up the steps into the library. The walls were black, the air heavy with the smell of burning wood and paper and leather. He splashed through the water and the burnt-edged pages of the books that floated there. His room was still locked. The flames had not reached it. He was flooded with relief. He slumped to the floor. He was drenched, and black with soot.