Blood in Snow: (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book Three)

by Robert Evert

  “Why do you care?” the King hollered.

  “Why don’t you?” Edmund hollered back.

  A murmur rose up in the camp as if Edmund had just scored a point.

  The King tried to regain the offensive. “Your men killed nearly sixty of my men just yesterday, and you pretend to care whether or not they are cold and tired?”

  Don’t mention the goblins! They won’t believe you. Don’t mention the goblins!

  “If you force us to fight, we’ll fight! We know these lands and where we can hide. We’re well-armed and have supplies for the winter. But we won’t need to fight for very long. The storm—”

  “Stop talking about the blasted storm! There is no storm!”

  More snow drifted lazily from the darkness above them.

  “I propose a deal,” the King said in a conciliatory tone. “Bring your men out of hiding and let us do battle! To the winner goes the spoils!” He shook his gem-encrusted sword in the air. “What do you say?”

  “Why not just the two of us fight? Why risk everybody else’s life?”

  “Because it isn’t as fun! If I fight you, it’d be over in two minutes. What fun is that? We should have our armies fight all at once rather than sneaking around, playing hide and seek. Think of the glory! Two armies, fighting to the death in the snow! Why, they’ll be songs about it for generations! I even brought the minstrels with me!”

  A group of men with musical instruments huddled together under a single blanket.

  “Come!” The King rattled his sword again. “Let us fight a real battle!”

  He just wants glory. That’s all he cares about.

  Then give him what he wants.

  “You’re afraid!” Edmund shouted. “You’re nothing but a coward!”

  “Now take that back! You men up there, kill him! Kill the accursed rebel! Kill him right this instant!”

  The guards standing just out of Edmund’s sword reach didn’t move.

  “Kill him, and you both shall have lordship over these beautiful lands!” the King declared.

  “I’d rather have your cloak,” one guard called to him.

  “And your hat!” the other said, sheathing his sword.

  “What!” the King cried. “That’s treason! Draw your weapon and kill him right now, or I’ll have your heads!”

  “I don’t s-s-suppose you have any extra cl-clothes,” one guard asked Edmund, shaking from the cold. “Anything at all?”

  Pity welled in Edmund’s heart; their trembling blue lips had cracked and were now bleeding. He untied his blanket from around his shoulders and handed it to one of them.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more.”

  “You can’t do that!” the King roared. “Those are my men! Leave them alone! Hey! Give him back his blanket. You don’t need it! I’m your King, damn it!”

  “Thanks, mate,” one guard said, still shivering uncontrollably. “That helps.”

  But Edmund noticed both men were already frostbitten—one on his left ear, the other on his right hand’s little finger.

  “Head due west,” Edmund told them. “Go toward the smoke. If you give up your weapons, I’m sure some of my people will help you. They can give you warmer clothes and hot food at the very least.”

  The men might have nodded, or it might have been their shaking, Edmund couldn’t tell.

  “Go now. It isn’t far. You’ll be there within a few hours or so. Just make sure you approach with your weapons sheathed. I don’t want you to get shot by an archer.”

  “Wh-wh-why, why are you doing this?”

  “Because you deserve better.” Edmund stepped aside, inclined his head to the western hills. “Go. Our cook can make a hot soup that will warm you right up.”

  “May the gods bless you,” one guard said.

  “Yes,” the other agreed, “and your family.”

  Edmund watched them descend the hill, fighting through the snow drifts as they headed west. He wondered whether they could make it to Rood before they died.

  “Where are you going?” the King screamed. “Get back here this very second and slay him! Slay him, I say!”

  But, wrapped together in Edmund’s blanket, the two men disappeared into the night.

  Edmund faced the King. “You slay me!”

  “Bring out your army!”

  “You’re a coward!”

  Even from a distance, Edmund could see the King’s face redden.

  “You take that back!”

  “Coward!”

  “Stop it! I’m warning you! I will kill you if you don’t stop it! Do you hear me? I will cut your miserable head off myself and stick it on a pike! I will drag your short, stubby little body all the way back to Eryn Mas and have children kick it, do you understand? I am going to kill every single one of your men, do you hear me?”

  You’d better win.

  “Then accept my challenge!” Edmund called back. “Fight me in a one-on-one duel!”

  “I accept! And I will not allow you to die easily. I will make you suffer like you’ve never suffered before!”

  “Swear then,” Edmund shouted into the valley, now shrouded in falling snow. “Swear on your honor that if I win, you will leave the Highlands and let us be free!”

  “I so swear!”

  Edmund stepped back a pace, his body suddenly feeling the bitter cold.

  You’d better win.

  “Now come down here and die, you runt!”

  “Meet me at the … the … Field of Death! Meet me at the Field of Death at dawn!”

  The King straightened. “Field of Death?”

  You should have thought of a better name!

  It’ll do.

  “Yes! Where Lord Iliandor single-handedly killed the Undead King in hand-to-hand combat.”

  “Perfect!” the King called up. “And where is this Field of Death?”

  “Two miles southwest of here. A broad valley, completely empty save for a grove of chestnut trees. In the center of this valley, a pile of stones serves as a marker where Iliandor slayed the Undead King! I will see you there at dawn!”

  “I’ll be there, you miserable imp! Do you hear me? I’ll cut out your other eye! Then I’ll make you beg for mercy!”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Edmund stood in the valley he and Vin had gazed down upon shortly before they’d learned of each other’s secret. In the middle of the open area between the lofting hills, he’d heaped a great many boulders. From a distance, the pile would undoubtedly appear as a burial marker. King Lionel couldn’t miss it.

  Edmund took off his snowshoes and jumped repeatedly, packing the snow firmer underfoot. If things didn’t go as planned, he’d need to be able to move as quickly as possible, and he couldn’t do that in snowshoes. He continued stomping in a wide circle around the stone mound, packing the snow as flat and as solidly as he could.

  The eastern sky began to lighten to a pale blue and, strangely, seemed to promise a bright, sunny day.

  So much for your storm.

  Either way, this will be over soon, storm or no storm.

  He picked up the long wooden staff he’d fashioned out of a tree branch and thrust it into the snow near the boulder pile. It sunk two feet in before thumping up against something hard.

  Keep that staff handy. Without it, you’re probably going to die.

  It doesn’t matter if I die or not, as long as I take Lionel with me.

  He inspected his short sword. Its black blade was as sharp as any butcher’s knife, but it was short—much shorter than the longsword King Lionel would undoubtedly wield. Already outmatched in both skill and physical prowess, the last thing Edmund needed was to be outreached. He’d learned that lesson when he last fought Gurding.

  Concealing himself as best as he could, Edmund cast his enlargement spell, doubling the blade’s length to resemble a longsword. He swung it about. Any longer and it’d be too awkward to use effectively.

  A horse emerged on the valley’s easternmost hill. Then two
others, followed by fifty more. Soon a couple hundred riders and their panting horses had lined the entire eastern ridge. King Lionel stood at the line’s center under his banner of red and gold.

  “Beautiful spot for a battle,” he called down to Edmund. “Are you sure you do not wish to have our armies fight? It would be splendid!”

  “Are you too scared to fight me by yourself?”

  “Of course not!” the King shouted back, and then he added wistfully, “It’s just that you’re ruining all of my fun! I rode here with all these men and everything, endured these godless lands and its blasted weather. I want a big battle! Horses charging! Swords flashing! Wounded men screaming for their mothers! It would be glorious! What do you say? Maybe they’ll even sing songs about it. Did I tell you I brought my minstrels? I’ll make them promise to make you taller and better looking in their ballads!”

  “Come down and fight me, you coward!”

  “If you call me that one more time …” the King bellowed.

  Edmund took off his fur-lined cloak, scarf, and long, heavy coat and lay them atop his pack, next to a stack of firewood he’d piled well outside the ring of packed snow. Without his outer clothes, he was freezing, but his arms needed their full range of movement. Plus, he’d found his healing spell seemed to temporarily stave off frostbite. If he cast the spell right before the fight, he should be fine. Or so he hoped.

  “Are you coming down?” Edmund yelled across the valley. “Or are you going to send your precious army to fight your battle for you, coward?”

  “Stop saying that! I’m warning you! I mean it! I’m going to make you die slowly, do you hear me? Slowly! And not in a nice way!”

  Edmund swung his sword in an effort to keep warm and make it appear as if he knew how to handle a weapon.

  “Do you hear me?” the King shouted again.

  Ignoring him, Edmund thrust and parried and moved about the circle of snow to get a better feel for his longer blade.

  Lionel stomped away from the ridge. He soon reappeared at the bottom of the valley, emerging between the steep folds of two hills. He stormed toward Edmund, anger increasing each time his boots sunk into the waist-high drifts.

  Edmund laughed. “I thought nobility could walk across snow!”

  The King trudged forward, pulling one boot from the snow and placing it in front of the other, several times stumbling and falling to his knees. Cursing, he finally reached the trampled area around the pile of boulders.

  For all of his intellectual faults, Lionel was an extraordinary man physically: he stood nearly two feet taller than Edmund, towering above him like a mountain, broad of frame and well-muscled without being bulky. Edmund could easily see how he’d gained his fame as a warrior.

  “Is this it?” Lionel said, huffing after his arduous trek. He pointed the tip of his bejeweled sword at the boulders Edmund had stacked a few hours earlier. “Is this where it happened, the battle between Lord what’s-his-name and the other guy?”

  “Yes,” Edmund lied. “Lord Iliandor chopped the Undead King’s head off and mounted it on a pole.” He patted the long staff he’d stuck in the snow. “I have one for your head.”

  The King chuckled, his breath billowing in long grey streams.

  “You are a confident little bastard, aren’t you? I like that. Shame I have to kill you and everything. Unless,” he said hopefully, “you’ve changed your mind about the big battle.”

  Edmund leapt around, thrusting, parrying.

  “Where are they?” The King eyed the surrounding hills. “My men scouted this area earlier and found nothing but you. Where are your men? Don’t you want them to see your glorious death?”

  “They’re someplace warm.”

  Lionel took off his cloak and outer coat as Edmund had done. Watching Edmund, he shook his head and groaned.

  “You haven’t had any training, have you? I can tell. Your footwork is all wrong. And your defense has holes in it. Why, you aren’t even holding the weapon correctly!”

  “Maybe you don’t how to fight,” retorted Edmund.

  The King threw his hands up.

  “Please reconsider—about the armies, I mean. This won’t be any fun for either of us, especially me!”

  As Edmund danced and swung, one of his bootheels caught on a rough spot in the packed snow. He tripped.

  The King sighed. “What a miserable battle this is going to be.”

  Edmund hopped back to his feet and resumed practicing.

  “Well, do you at least have some sort of hero amongst your men?” the King asked optimistically. He scanned the hills again. “Somebody who’s actually held a weapon before? I can fight him instead. Oh, I know! This is what I’ll do! I’ll fight each of your captains, one at a time, until they’re all dead! No! I’ll fight them all at once. Wouldn’t that be worthy of a song!”

  “You’re f-f-fighting me,” Edmund said firmly, stammering in the cold.

  King Lionel watched him leap and sidestep and swing his sword. He groaned again.

  “I’m fighting a stuttering imbecile.”

  Edmund ignored him.

  “Well, you certainly are a brave runt,” the King said. “I will give you that.”

  Edmund started to feel warm; he was actually beginning to sweat.

  Don’t overdo it. Just keep warm and loose. And keep close to the stones.

  The King studied Edmund’s sword as Edmund flailed it before him like a flyswatter.

  “That’s an interesting blade you have there. Very interesting, indeed. Black as coal. I’ve never seen its like before. Where did you get it, pray tell?”

  “I made it.”

  “You made it?” Lionel cried. “Good God! You’re a skilled swordsmith? Now I shall really regret cutting your head off! Are you sure you don’t want to—”

  “You’re fighting me.”

  “Oh, very well! Have it your way.” The King started to warm up. In the growing morning light, Edmund could see his muscles shivering. “It’s your death and all that. It’s just a shame about the armies. I am thinking about them, you know. They came all this way for nothing. Bloody shame.”

  Edmund muttered his healing spell again. It didn’t warm him any, but he knew he would need to be healed soon.

  “All right,” the King said. “Let’s get this over with. This cold is miserable.”

  He pointed his sword at Edmund and started a lunging swing.

  “Wait!” Edmund cried.

  The King stopped. “What?”

  Delay him. The longer he stands out here without his coat on, the colder he’ll get and the better your chances will be.

  “You need to make a speech.”

  “A speech?” The King’s chilled face lit up. “What a splendid idea! Splendid! Might as well give the men something to remember.”

  Lionel lifted his polished sword above his head and turned to address the eastern hill. Most of his men seemed to have gone, though a hundred knights and lords still stood within sight.

  “Brave men of Eryn Mas,” he hollered to the hills, “today you will witness one of the greatest duels in the history of this continent! For today, you will witness my battle with the truly fearsome and hideous-looking villain, Edwin the One-Eyed!”

  “Edmund.”

  “What?” the King said.

  “It’s Edmund, not Edwin.”

  “No, no. That won’t do. Let’s go with Edwin. Sounds more fierce! Nobody will sing songs about Lionel the Fair versus Edmund the One-Eyed, trust me.”

  The King turned back to his men.

  “Here on the legendary Battlefield of Death,” he went on, “where ages ago somebody fought somebody else, and victory was his!” He paused dramatically. “Today I will selflessly offer my humble spirit and sword to stop the evil created by this foul creature! Let history show that it was I, King Lionel the Fair, who stopped Edwin the Evil! I do this for my kingdom, for my men, and for my gods!”

  A smattering of applause pattered from the distant ridge.<
br />
  “There.” The King turned to Edmund. “Not very good perhaps, but we’ll rewrite it once this is all over. My minstrels can do wonders. Have you met them?”

  “I don’t g-g-give, give a d-d-damn about your minstrels.”

  “Well, that’s not very polite. All right then, let’s get this over with before I turn to ice.” He leveled his sword at Edmund. It was quivering.

  “Wait!”

  “What now? It’s freezing out here!”

  “Now I get to say something.”

  “But your men aren’t even here!”

  “Still, I want to say something in case you win. Last words and everything.”

  “Oh, very well. Make it quick. I want to get near a fire.”

  Edmund strolled forward.

  “Men of Eryn Mas,” he called as a couple of the lords on the distant hilltop booed him. “Men of Eryn Mas, I fight for you!”

  “What!” the King cried. “You can’t say that. They’re on my side! I already said I was fighting for them!”

  “I fight,” Edmund continued, “so you do not have to!”

  “Oh, I get it …playing it up for the history books. Well, it won’t work!”

  “This war will end here. If King Lionel wins, he will be given the Highlands.”

  “Which I already own,” the King muttered, polishing the diamonds on his sword’s hilt.

  “If I win—” Edmund said this louder. “If I win, the Highlands will be free, free for all men who wish to live however they choose! Free to be their own lords, free from the oppression of the noble class!”

  The nobles on the ridge booed even louder. Several threw snowballs.

  “Wrong thing to say.” King Lionel chuckled. “First rule of speech-making: know your audience.” He leveled his sword at Edmund. “Now let us commence.”

  He lunged.

  Edmund skittered aside.

  “Wait!”

  “No more waiting!” the King said. He stalked after Edmund, shivering, as Edmund tried to scamper toward the mound of stones. “I know what you’re trying to do! You’re trying to play upon my sympathies! Well, this is your fault, you ugly little man! If you would just let my army fight yours …”

  He swung his sword. Edmund leapt back, farther from where he needed to be.