Demon King

by Bunch, Chris

  There were thirty horses tied to a rail in front of the main house. They were still saddled, and showed signs of hard riding. One was a sleek thoroughbred I knew. There were cased bows on most of the saddles, quivers tied to the skirts. Some had spear cases under the stirrups, and many had bulging saddlebags, bags, and rolls that held obvious loot. My temper snapped.

  “Legate!”

  “Sir!”

  “Dismount the Lancers for action! Kill anyone who threatens us! Four men, seize those horses!”

  “Sir!”

  Two men in armor peered out of the main entrance, saw my soldiers, and, shouting the alarm, ran out, pulling swords.

  “Legate!”

  “Fire,” Segalle shouted. Bowstrings twanged and the two skidded down the stairs, feathered shafts sprouting from their chests. Other men ran out of the house, shouting. My voice rang over all.

  “Silence!” And silence there was. “All of you,” I ordered. “Lay down your weapons or die! You have a count of five! One …”

  “Those men are mine,” another voice bellowed and Marán’s brother Praen came out. He wore riding gear, a steel waistcoat, and a sword belt.

  “I ordered silence,” I shouted. “Count Agramónte, do not interfere with my men, or be prepared to face the consequences! Two! Three!”

  Swords thudded to the ground, and men unbuckled their belts and let them fall.

  “Your hands in the air,” I ordered.

  “Damastes,” Marán said.

  “I ordered silence!”

  She obeyed.

  “Legate, escort these men to that stone barn. Remove all animals and anything that can be used for a weapon. Secure and guard all doors until we can have them nailed shut.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I said, those men are under my orders,” Praen shouted. “You have no right — ”

  “Count Agramónte,” I said, “I am an officer of the emperor. These men have committed a series of horrible crimes, and I propose to escort them to the nearest city, turn them over to the warders, and prefer charges, as I once promised you I would.”

  “Charges of what? Killing vermin?”

  “Murder, sir.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I assuredly can and shall,” I said. “Further, I may well choose to prefer charges against their leader.”

  “The hells you will! These brave men are soldiers, and they’ve been helping me rid the land of traitors! Tovieti! Don’t you realize the good they’re doing? Or are you one of the yellow-cord men yourself?”

  “Legate,” I said, “this man is clearly disturbed. He is on property he has no right to be on without my leave. Take two men and escort him off these grounds.”

  Segalle hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir.”

  “You have a choice, Count,” I said. “Leave Irrigon of your own will — or tied across the saddle of your horse!”

  “You son of a bitch!” Praen said. But he came down the steps quickly, and took the reins of the thoroughbred from the soldier holding them. He pulled himself into the saddle, then glowered. “You’d better rethink your decision, Cimabuean,” he said. “For you don’t know the hornet’s nest you’re bashing around!”

  He didn’t wait for a response, but spurred his horse into a gallop.

  “Legate, assist your men,” I ordered, then dismounted and went inside, not waiting to see what Marán and Amiel were doing.

  • • •

  Marán found me in the library. “I can’t believe what you just did,” she said. “Treating my brother … my own brother, like he was a common criminal.”

  “Exactly what he is,” I said, trying to hold my calm.

  “So you feel free to do as you wish, ignoring any promises, any oaths you might have made,” she snarled.

  That did it.

  “What oaths, my lady?” I shouted. “Are you assuming that because I married you, I’m under some sort of obligation to kiss the ass of anyone who carries the name Agramónte? Or that I’m supposed to ignore any crimes your thug of a brother chooses to commit? An oath? The only oaths I can remember taking are those to the emperor to serve him well, and a vow of marriage to you.

  “I’ve never broken either, nor thought of breaking them. I’ll remind you of my family’s motto: We Hold True. What’s yours? We do whatever we want? Is that what it is, Countess? Is this what you call honor? I piss on your honor, your dignity, if you think the name Agramónte somehow entitles you to kill anyone you wish.

  “Do you remember that baby, Marán? Remember the baby you lost? Do you think that baby’s mother had a moment to mourn, to scream, before she was cut down by your fucking brother?”

  Marán’s eyes were cold, hard. “Praen called you a son of a bitch,” she hissed. “And you are!” She stormed out.

  • • •

  I had to go to our tower for a change of clothing. The door to our bedroom was closed. Amiel was huddled on a couch outside. Her eyes were red, her face drawn. I said nothing to her, nor she to me. I went into my dressing room, and got what I’d come for, and came back into the anteroom. Amiel gazed at the closed bedroom door, then at me, and her eyes welled once more. The door clicked shut behind me.

  • • •

  The next day the Feast of Corn began. The small village beyond Irrigon was packed, and tents were set up for a league on either side. Every village in the Agramónte reach had sent at least one representative, plus there must have been a hundred hawkers and merchants with trays or booths. The first day wasn’t a feast, since the elaborate dishes and dancing could only begin after the corn was planted. Before the seed was sown, we would eat only unleavened bread, no meat, and raw vegetables without salt.

  When the seeds were in the ground, and seers had cast spells to notify other village wizards to begin planting, the real merriment would begin — five days of feasting, dancing, and celebration.

  Our duties were quite simple, in spite of what the emperor seemed to think. We would merely offer a prayer for the success of the sowing, then stand by and look noble and approving while a respected seer ordered a maiden, chosen for her virginity and beauty, to sow the first seed. The Agramóntes were expected to mingle with their people for the whole of this day, and so, about two hours after dawn, we left Irrigon for the village and the midway.

  Marán behaved as if I didn’t exist, I reciprocated, and a miserable Amiel brought up the rear. We wore gaudy finery and were expected to be unarmed. However, it was absurd to go into that throng without any weapons, so I had a sleeve dagger hidden, and, in my belt pouch, a particularly nasty little device Kutulu had given me. It was a knuckle-bow, with a slender, spring-actuated dagger in the grip, locked in place by a stud worked by the thumb. In addition, I had Karjan; Svalbard, a monstrous Lancer who’d been with me since Kait; and two other Red Lancers. I’d considered having them wear Agramónte livery, but my stomach roiled at making honest soldiers wear the garb of murderers, and so the four wore undress uniform, with hidden knives.

  We reached the midway and strolled down the line of tents. I was examining a bauble, a cleverly made carving from a root, that quite accurately represented Irrigon, when I heard shouts. I craned to see what was going on. It was Praen and two of his flunkies! I swore — I’d assumed Praen would’ve had sense enough to be invisible on this day. But here he came, in bright regalia, bluff, arrogant face gleaming, no soldiery at his beck.

  The outcry grew louder, more enraged, but Praen appeared to take no notice. He pushed his horse into the throng, intending, I guessed, to ride down the carnival way to the sowing grounds. A melon arced through the air and burst against his green silk vest. Praen realized the crowd’s temper and, being Praen, did exactly the wrong thing. “You dirty pigfuckers,” he bellowed, waving a fist.

  There was a roar of laughter, and then a rock thudded against his side. He shouted in pain, and another rock struck his horse, and it reared, neighing in surprise. Praen scrabbled for his sword. He had it half-drawn when a man dar
ted up and grabbed his leg. Praen kicked, but couldn’t free himself. His blade flew through the air as he fought for balance, then he was pulled from his mount into the crowd. The mob growled pleasure and closed in. I saw fists, then cudgels, rise and fall.

  “We’ve got to help him,” Marán shouted, and started forward. I grabbed her arm.

  “No! They’ll get you, too. Get back to Irrigon,” I ordered. She fought with me, not listening. “Karjan,” I shouted. “Take her! We’ve got to get out of here!”

  There was a rearing, shouting mass where Praen and his retainers had been, but I paid no mind. There were angry faces much closer, glaring at us. My dagger flashed into my hand, and I kicked away the merchant’s table in front of us. His eyes were wide in horror. I shoved him aside and pushed my way out the back of the tent, Lancers and the women on my heels. Tents from the next row were almost back-to-back here, forming a maze of ropes and piled merchandise. I slashed the ropes of the tent we’d gone through, and it collapsed limply, keeping anyone from coming after us for a moment.

  We ran down the cluttered way, leaping ropes as we went. Amiel tore away her skirt to run faster, and Marán did the same. At last she’d realized our desperate jeopardy. We reached the row’s end, and I held up my hand.

  “Now,” I said, “into the open. But walk. Try to look calm. Maybe the craziness hasn’t spread down here yet.”

  Breathing hard, the seven of us walked out, trying to pretend nothing had happened. All eyes were on the screaming mob around the bodies of Praen and his lackeys, and no one noticed us at first. We hurried out of the midway, onto the road back to Irrigon.

  I looked back, and saw Praen’s horse, blood-drenched, rearing above the throng, hooves lashing. A man wearing a butcher’s smock, waving an already-bloodied ax waited his moment, then swung, burying the ax in the animal’s neck. It screamed like a woman, then went down. “Run now,” I ordered, for I knew where the blood on that ax had come from, and the murderers would soon be looking for other victims.

  For precious moments we had no pursuers. Irrigon was in sight when I saw, coming toward the mansion, a group of forest workers, carrying their tools. They saw us and exploded into screaming rage, unlimbering their axes and brush hooks.

  Now it was a race to see who could first reach the yawning gates of the castle. We were first, but only by moments. The guard dropped his lance, ran to the ropes that slid the gates closed, and fumbled with their ties. “The tower,” I shouted, then cried for the Lancers to turn out.

  One forester, a rustic wearing ragged homespun pants and no shirt, ran through the still-open gate, waving a rusty, ancient sword. He saw me, shrieked hatred, and charged. He swung, and I parried his blow with my dagger. Its blade snapped clean, just at the hilt. The forester shouted in triumph, recovered clumsily, and came in again. I ducked inside his guard, smashed his face in with the knuckle-bow, flipped the blade out, and slashed his throat as he stumbled back — then I had his sword.

  Two men charged the man at the gate ropes, and his panic grew worse, as he tried to defend himself, tried to free the ropes. One forester smashed a shovel blade into his neck, almost cutting his head off.

  The Lancers boiled out of their quarters, buckling on their gear, fumbling with their weapons. There was no chance to close the gate, as more landsmen ran into the courtyard. A peasant cut at me with his brush hook, and I slashed its wooden handle in half. He gaped at the stub he held, and I ran him through, then booted his corpse into another, turned, and fled.

  Marán and Amiel disappeared into our river tower, and Karjan and the other three held at its entrance.

  “Fall back,” I shouted to the Lancers. “Fall back into my tower!” I ran hard for its doorway. Our only chance was to barricade ourselves inside it, hand out the weapons in the small armory, and prepare for a siege. I don’t know if Segalle misunderstood my orders, or if he had ideas of his own, for there was no one behind me when I reached the tower. Instead, the Lancers were going on line in the middle of the courtyard. Perhaps Segalle thought the mob would break against his thin line, and he could drive them out of Irrigon after that. Perhaps he could have, with a hundred men instead of a bit more than a dozen. Fifty, a hundred, peasants crashed into the courtyard, saw the handful of soldiers, and roaring black madness, charged. My Lancers were good men, experienced, trained soldiers. But fourteen men and one officer can’t stand against a hundred. The wave roared over them, dissolved into knots of battling men, and then I saw no more scarlet uniforms, just the screaming mob.

  “Inside,” I ordered, and Karjan and the others obeyed. There were two huge crossbars inside the door. We heaved them over the heavy iron brackets set into the stone walls, and the only entrance was secured. We blocked off the internal passageways out of the tower with foot-square pieces of firewood and were safe for the moment. There were no windows on the ground level, and those above had heavy iron bars. Men slammed into the outside of the door, and I heard shouts of anger. “One man stand guard here,” I ordered, and a soldier nodded.

  We went up the winding steps to the second level. Here was a small warming kitchen and storage chambers. One held an assortment of weapons. I found the keys in our bedroom and opened the armory, and we took out bows, arrows, and swords, then went on up into our living quarters.

  Marán had found a dagger, and held it ready. Amiel was close to panic, looking about wildly. “Come now,” I said, trying to sound calm. “We’re safe now. They’ll never break through fifteen feet of stone.” She nodded nervously, and forced calm.

  Marán took a bow and arrows from Svalbard, and strung the bow. She went to a window and cranked it open. A rock clattered against the wall below, and she drew back.

  “Open them all,” I ordered. “Break the glass. If something shatters the window, flying splinters could blind you.” The panes smashing drew howls of glee from outside.

  The courtyard was a seething mass of people, shouting, screaming, staring up. An arrow arced, and I moved away from the window. The ledges were machicolated, so I could peer through the slots without becoming a target.

  The mob screamed delight as five men appeared on the main building’s inner steps. They held two struggling, naked women. I recognized both — young peasant girls Marán had trained as maids. A man lifted one and cast her spinning, screaming, into the crowd, and the horde closed around her. The second landed nearby. Their screams tore through the rabble’s cries, and I looked away. I hope they returned to the Wheel quickly.

  I spotted three people — two men, one woman — shouting orders, trying to bring the crowd under control. All three had yellow silk cords looped around their necks. An arrow whipped into the woman’s rib cage, and she cried agony and fell. “Die, you fucking bitch,” Marán shouted, and I grinned tightly. But there were more Tovieti down there, and they kept behind others while trying to bring order.

  But the mob remained out of control. It swirled back and forth, going in and out of Irrigon, smashing, looting. Other servants died, or else, sensibly, joined the chaos. The rabble found the barred barn, tore away the barricades, and discovered Praen’s homemade warders. The people knew them for what they were and tore them apart. Those I hope died very slowly. Minutes later, they dragged Vacomagi, our bailiff, out of the main house, and didn’t allow him to return to the Wheel for a long, terrible time.

  It grew quieter, and I had a moment to take stock. It didn’t take long, and wasn’t heartening. In addition to Amiel, Marán, myself, Karjan, and the three other soldiers, there was a scullery maid and one of our candle lighters in the room. Neither of them knew anything about weapons, so they wouldn’t be of any use.

  “What now?” Marán said, voice tight, controlled, again proving herself an Agramónte.

  “We have food,” I said. “And arms.”

  “For how long?”

  “We’ll have to use our supplies carefully.”

  “What’ll they try to do next?” Amiel asked.

  “Probably find ladders,” I s
aid. “We’ll shoot the climbers off when they get closer.”

  “Then what’ll happen?” she asked.

  “They’ll try again, and we’ll stop them again.”

  “Will they win?”

  I considered and decided honesty was best. “They could,” I said. “It’ll depend on whether anyone gives a damn about us and rides for help. Or maybe a passing boat might see what’s happening.” I glanced out a window that overlooked the water, and then down. The course was smooth, deserted.

  The scullery maid moaned. “Twa, three days gone ‘fore anyone notices? They’ll be gnawin’ our bones.”

  “Not mine,” Marán said, touching her dagger. “I’ll go to the Wheel without their help if it comes to that.”

  “Good,” I agreed. “None of us will give them any pleasure.” I went to Marán and hugged her shoulders. I felt her body stiffen, and quickly took my arm away.

  There were shouts outside, and I chanced peering out. A man stood in the center of the courtyard.

  “Agramóntes,” he shouted. “See what we have?” He waved something. Marán came up beside me, but I pushed her back. I’d seen what the man held — a cock and scrotum.

  “Guess th’ count won’t be takin’ no more of our women f’r a lark, eh?” the man went on. “Now it’ll be th’ other way roun'. Wonder how many men your titty countess’ll handle ‘fore she goes mad? An’ what about her friend? Mebbe she can take all of us on!”

  I heard a grunt from Svalbard at the next window, and a spear arced out. The man tried to roll away, but he was too slow, and the weapon drove through the small of his back and pinned him, screaming, to the ground. I could have finished him with an arrow, but I let him die slowly.

  “Now they’ll attack,” I said grimly.

  But I was wrong. They came with fire.

  • • •

  The first fires might have been by accident. But once Irrigon began burning, no one tried to put the fires out. The cheering, laughter, and shouts grew louder, and I saw men and women tossing things into the flames.

  Some of those “things” still moved …