The Road of Kings: A Strong Woman in the Middle Ages (A Medieval Tale Book 8)

by Lina J. Potter

  "Tell him how you hunted me in the wilderness yourself while you're at it," Jerisson added hoarsely.

  Another punch silenced him.

  All right, his mission was to buy time.

  Edwin walked forward, and Jerisson was forced to follow him, as he was holding the chain of his manacles, while two soldiers kept jabbing him in the back.

  So where were they going?

  He didn't have to guess long as they came up to the doors of the king's study, and the baron vanished behind them. Jerisson was left to wait.

  Before long, Fremont stepped out and pushed the count in his back.

  "Get going."

  "I'd rather you get gone," Jess snapped, but still walked inside the door.

  So that's what you look like, Duke Alcine.

  Chapter 5

  The man sitting behind the Lion of Wellster's desk could only be described as average. Dark hair, a purebred face, attentive eyes...what could Jess say? Men with such looks were a dime a dozen among nobles.

  But something felt off about him. Something was wrong.

  Jess instantly realized what it was; his experience allowed him to. It was the dark water at the bottom of his pupils, hiding either a Kraken or a wyrm...or madness. You never knew what could look out from his eyes, but you'd never like it.

  Why couldn't anyone notice that? Had it showed up only recently, with the duke suppressing that side of him until then? And after reaching his goal, or a part of it, and gaining power, it was unleashed.

  Yes, it might be.

  "Count Earton."

  A smooth voice was somehow scarier than shouting.

  So that was the man whom Jess was going to speak to? He needed to be killed straight away, no words, just straight-up attack!

  He should be crushed like a venomous snake!

  But not yet, alas.

  "Your Excellency," the count replied, not waiting for an invitation to sit down in a chair on the other side of the desk, "Could you pour some wine? I'm parched. What kind of rabble do you employ? They seem to have no idea about manners."

  The duke definitely didn't expect such a question. He smirked, appreciating Jess's cheekiness.

  "Well then, I suppose I could pour you some wine...as a last favor."

  "Well, if it's the last favor, I'd like twelve-years Sharonian," Jerisson retorted, not about to concede. "My life should have something nice in it, should it not?"

  "Do you want to complain about your life?"

  "Are you willing to listen?"

  "I am. But first, could you tell me the whereabouts of Her Highness Maria?"

  Jess shrugged.

  "She's with Her Highness Lydia and His Highness Miguel. I personally handed her over to the Iverneans."

  "What for?"

  "To cause problems for you." Jess gave him a charming smile. "So, where's my wine?"

  Robert touched a bell and gave orders to the scared servant.

  "Just a minute. So tell me, Count, how did you get Her Highness out?"

  "From the very beginning?"

  "Yes, please. You don't want to be tortured, do you?"

  "I really don't," Jess confessed.

  "Then go on."

  The temptation to start with Lily's favorite "In the beginning, there was a word, and that word was 'Get lost'" was unbearable, but unfortunately, it never worked even with Miranda, so Jess decided to start with the ball. His task was stalling. If they wanted to listen, he would sing them a song so pretty nightingales would die of envy!

  ***

  Altres Lort touched the stone.

  It was right where it was supposed to be.

  "We need to move this boulder."

  The soldiers pushed all at once.

  It was already dark, and nobody could see them from the city walls. As for the noise—well, who said nobody made noise under the walls at night? The guards were used to stuff happening there, and nobody paid any attention to it. It was more trouble than it was worth.

  Moving the boulder was pretty hard, but ten men were enough to succeed. The underground passage into the city was finally open.

  Alas, they couldn't get too many people inside. It might sound nice, smuggling a thousand soldiers through a secret route, but in reality, the more people were there, the likelier was failure. Fifty men were the maximum.

  "Follow me and try not to make noise."

  Count Lort led the descent.

  They needed to make haste.

  Count Earton had been left at the gates thirty minutes before, an hour, tops. It was Altres' turn at the moment; Chantaine would approach the city walls an hour later, starting the real party. By that time, Altres had to be inside the palace—or die trying.

  The conspirators had cut off Wellster's head, and that's what he wanted to do to them. It needed to happen quickly, just in one clean cut. The mercenaries would never give their lives for those who wouldn't pay them.

  Count Lort walked downstairs, feeling for the stairs with his feet. The air was damp, and the staircase was moist. It hadn't been cleaned in forever.

  They needed to go through the tunnel, enter the city, and enter another secret passage into the palace.

  Altres wondered if he would make it in time. He must. He had already been late once; it should never happen again.

  ***

  Sipping his wine, Jerisson told his story. He was good with words, so the duke had spent the last half an hour listening to the story of Jess and Maria's escape in graphic detail, including how ravishing Princess Lydia had looked.

  Have you met her? No?Too bad!

  You are going to rule, aren't you? Really? Then who's on the throne? Not my business? Oh well. I wouldn't take it for free, anyway. So, where was I? Ah, Lydia! And Miguel! And Maria, of course—it's her you care about the most, Duke, am I right?

  Where are they headed, you ask? To the nearest temple, I suppose, to be wed. You know, politics... I'll never get the princess to Ativerna, anyway—you'll capture her as you've already captured me.

  So the Iverneans will get a claim on the throne of Wellster, and you'll never get rid of them. Sooner or later, you'll come to blows, and we'll sit on the sidelines and wait it out. And then, we'll deal with the one who's left.

  Yes, Duke. I suppose I am a bad man.

  Alcine nodded, agreeing that politics was for villains. Then he threw up his hands.

  "If so, Count, I suppose you won't have a problem."

  "With what?"

  "With you being the one to kill poor King Gardwig."

  "Really?" Jerisson, who had no idea about such a detail in his biography, was quite surprised.

  "Of course," Alcine affirmed. "And you confessed to it, too."

  "Are you sure I did?"

  "You have two options. Either you confessed willingly or under torture."

  "These two are options, right?" Jerisson wasn't even mocking the duke; he was simply inquiring.

  "Of course," Alcine confirmed. "In any case, you'll be executed tomorrow. As for whether you'll go to the gallows with your head high or crawl there crippled, it’s your choice, Count."

  "I'm not sure. I need to think. Do I have time?"

  Duke Alcine chuckled, looking like a man who had the life and death of all of Cardin in his hands.

  "Five minutes?"

  "Duke, would that be enough for you? I spend longer reflecting in a latrine."

  The crude joke seemed to amuse the count.

  "Well then...I'll even give you company for your thoughts."

  "A lady, I hope?"

  "Almost, Count. Almost."

  The bell rang once again.

  "Send the count to the Ativernans in the northern tower for half an hour, then get him back here."

  Jess weighed in.

  So he got half an hour.

  Would he see the Ativernans?

  So some of them were still alive? Great! The rest could be fixed.

  "You're very kind, Your Excellency."

  "I hope you appreciate
it, Count."

  The door swung shut behind Jerisson.

  ***

  Altres Lort led his group across the city.

  He really wished they could have exited somewhere in the vicinity of the palace, but no luck.

  They still had several streets to cross. But Aldonai didn't seem to hold him in his favor that night.

  "Halt! Who goes here?"

  Alcine did have the streets patrolled.

  Killing several guards wouldn't be hard, but the noise they would make...

  But how was he supposed to explain fifty people being outside at night?

  Altres might have figured something out, but his face was too well-known in Wellster.

  "The King's Butcher!" someone far too sharp-sighted for his own good yelled out.

  What were they supposed to do after that?

  The soldiers charged forward like wolves. Swords clashed, and a dozen guards were felled before they knew it. Unfortunately, they still managed to cause a ruckus.

  Altres looked around.

  "Forward! Run!"

  Orders like that were carried out immediately.

  Behind them, people screamed, and weapons thundered. The alarm was sounded all over the city.

  Where in Maldonaya's name was Chantaine?

  ***

  At that moment, Count Chantaine was headed toward the gate.

  He was taking his time as he deployed the troops in battle formation.

  All of them were carrying torches: famously, danger could make mountains out of molehills. Let the enemy think he had a not a hundred-plus men, but many more.

  "Knock!" he told the runner riding by his side.

  One didn't knock at the city gate with his hand, so the runner used the handle of his poleaxe to strike at the wood. It looked impressive enough.

  "Who's there?" a voice asked from the wall.

  Chantaine could swear the man was trembling.

  "The Armored Regiment! Open up, thug!"

  "WHO?"

  The shriek from behind the wall was full of genuine horror.

  "Didn't I make myself clear? Open up! If I'm not inside the city in five minutes, then in half an hour, you'll be missing your head!"

  Silence fell.

  In a moment like that, even the torches seemed to crackle quieter so as not to bother the men.

  In a few moments, everything changed.

  "Chantaine?" a clearly higher-ranked officer asked.

  "For you, it's Your Grace!"

  The runner was shouting at the top of his lungs as if he had been picked specifically for the strength of his voice.

  "Your Grace, I won't let you inside Cardin." The voice was calm. "But, I can invite you to negotiate."

  The runner turned around and looked at Chantaine. The count nodded.

  All of it had been planned in advance. Those few minutes could mean the world to Lort or Earton. Both of them were risking their lives, so fair was fair.

  "Come out of the gates if you're no coward," the runner replied. "The count guarantees your safety during parlay."

  The man didn't hesitate for long.

  "I'll be down in a minute."

  ***

  Cortho Lingar, the leader of a mercenary band, was a man who couldn't be called a coward. Of course, he had been called a bastard a fair share of times, or a dirt bag, a murderer, a lowlife, a rat... Not a coward, though.

  Cortho, a child of a Khangan man and Virman slave girl, had never been accepted by either of those nations. He never felt at home in Virma, while living in the Khanganat stifled him. The sea didn't call to him, so he chose the land.

  At fifteen years old, he ran away from home to leave with mercenaries and hadn't regretted that once.

  He never spared a thought to his mother or his siblings. Having inherited contempt for fellow human beings from his father, he left home for good, not caring about it a bit.

  Why would he? He learned everything the other mercenaries had to teach, was injured many times, and lost and gained money many times. Still, money always ran out eventually, and age was catching up to him.

  Like prostitutes, mercenaries had a short shelf life. After that, they either retired or advanced to the next level. Cortho got his own back, but what came next?

  He had several options. Enter the service of some nobleman, join the king's men, or scrape up a small fortune and settle down somewhere.

  Alas, he could not. Both Cortho and his gang were infamous for nobody being foolish enough to hire them for good. All they could get was dirty work, after doing which their employers usually paid up and tried to forget about it.

  Dirt was dirt, after all. Nobody liked to think of themselves as evil, but what else would you call killing women and children, abductions, and...other stuff?

  With such a record, any king would send Cortho only one way: to the gallows. Lords didn't seem to be in a hurry to acquire his services, either. And money... Money was running out.

  That's when Robert Alcine came in.

  When the mercenary first heard his offer, he twisted his finger at the temple. Not physically, of course—who'd do something like that? But then he thought again.

  Alcine paid generously. If it worked out, Cortho had a comfortable retirement ahead of him and a title. If it didn't... Well, a part of the payment was made upfront, and a good part, too. If anything went wrong, all they needed to do was make a run for it and lie low with their money in a quiet spot somewhere far away.

  Cortho liked both of those options. Stupid mercenaries didn't live long, and they always knew when to run.

  And so, Cortho decided to accept the offer. Thus far, it seemed to be the right choice.

  The capital fell into their hands like a ripe apple. Had he known himself how easy it would be... But no, it wouldn't have been easy for just anyone. Alcine had planned it out well and waited for the right moment to strike. Someone else might have missed it.

  Cortho held no illusions about himself. Petty tasks were his limit; he wasn't cut out for bigger things, simple as that.

  Some people couldn't play the flute, some couldn't even wield a knife without cutting their legs, and he wasn't meant for anything large-scale.

  He could plan out a scuffle, but not a war.

  He had, however, to hand it to Alcine: crazy or not, the man was really good.

  But where had Chantaine come from? With so many men, too?

  Cortho leaned over the wall, estimated their number, and shivered. He had a score of people at the gate, and he'd be lucky if Chantaine had gathered less than a thousand. They had no chance of holding the entrance—maybe only stall for time.

  Cortho grabbed one of his men by the hand.

  Dying for Alcine?

  He wasn't dumb enough for that.

  "Prepare the cloaks and the horses."

  The mercenary gave an understanding nod and disappeared in the darkness of the gate. Cortho didn't doubt that it would be done. If Chantaine would rush the gate, let anyone but Cortho defend it! It wasn't his battle. He had money stashed in a safe place, and getting out of the city wasn't impossible for young and healthy men.

  But first, he would stall. Maybe Alcine had a contingency for that?

  Money was good, but a noble title was still a better prize.

  Cortho sent a runner to Alcine and went down to parlay.

  ***

  Chantaine watched a small door open in the gate and a man come out.

  He was alone, even if armed. He was also holding a red scarf as a sign of parlay.

  The count spurred his horse forward but didn't ride up to the wall. He didn't want them to fire an arrow at him from the wall. Cortho had to walk for quite a while to reach Chantaine, which didn't put him in a better mood. Still, the clock was ticking.

  "Your Grace," he greeted the count.

  "With whom am I speaking?"

  Chantaine got down and stood to face the mercenary, as etiquette required. Cortho appreciated that. The count, due to his title, could speak t
o him while mounted, but he decided not to humiliate his counterpart.

  "Cortho Lingar, mercenary leader," Cortho said, introducing himself the way he was used to.

  Chantaine nodded.

  "And what are you doing at Cardin's gate?"

  Cortho feigned innocence.

  "Your Grace, you must not know that a mutiny broke out in the city."

  "Really? "

  The count's tone gave Cortho a toothache.

  So he knew?

  Apparently, Chantaine knew everything. Still, he continued to stall.

  "Yes. The Ativernans treacherously assassinated His Majesty Gardwig and tried to kill the princesses. My master was able to resist them, but unfortunately..."

  Chantaine didn't let Cortho finish, raising his hand to break off the stream of lies.

  "And who's this master of yours?"

  "Duke Alcine."

  "By what right did he close the gate of Cardin?"

  "We're afraid of being attacked." Cortho threw his hands up. "What if civilians get hurt?"

  Chantaine nodded.

  Upon giving it some thought, he suspected he would have bought it, had he not known the truth. They would have convinced him. Everyone had their flaws. Some couldn't lead troops into battle, and some easily fell for deception, especially such a disgusting one, when everyone knew the truth, but nobody could catch the liar red-handed.

  "Then get me Alcine. Let him open the gate."

  "I've already sent for His Excellency."

  Chantaine nodded.

  "Great. I'll give you...half an hour."

  "Your Grace! It's Cardin, not a field in the middle of nowhere! It's going to take a while..."

  "Fine. An hour."

  "Your Grace!"

  "Mister Lingar, in an hour, I'm going to send this gate down Maldonaya's nethers and hang anyone who dares to resist on the walls. Then I'll come to Alcine myself."

  Cortho could only bow as a sign of understanding.

  "All right, then. I'm waiting."

  Cortho bowed again. Chantaine nodded, and the envoys left.

  The count returned to his men.

  "Your Grace? "

  "Make a racket, guys. Let them think we have thrice as many people."

  Having figured out his order, the soldiers rushed to raise some noise and scare the guards on the walls—no point in letting the enemy know your true numbers.