This must be a dream. A nightmare.
The Lewmarians marched through the smaller gatehouse of the barbican, momentarily disappearing into their own cave of shadows. Silhouettes of their brethren appeared behind them, giving the false impression that the enemy was stepping into the abyss. As the first line of Lewmarians emerged from the gatehouse into the barbican yard, though, Ely knew would never be so lucky.
Ely groped through the darkness. He must have passed the chainwheels to the main gatehouse’s drawbridge ten thousand times in his life, never giving them much attention. Sometimes he would note the guards on duty by them or the oxen harnessed to them. Only now did he realize the importance of their position, their crucial purpose to the castle’s defenses.
Even if I find one, the two must be handled together. And the oxen are absent. As are the guards.
Still, he searched. The damp and cold of the stones around him greeted his fingers first. Then a sconce. He turned to his left to reach for the ground when his shin struck a rounded shaft.
“Owww!”
The shaft! Ely nudged the base of it with his foot. The portcullis chainwheel!
He scrambled blindly over the other protruding bars and square teeth of the cylinder mechanism. It was smaller than the drawbridge chainwheels, which by comparison were massive. It also sat vertically whereas the other two operated horizontally.
As he felt the wheel, his hands came to rest on an oblong piece that seemed bolted to the floor, which laid attached to a triangular wedge.
The brake!
Ely pulled the handle of the wedge, the other end of which was firmly planted between two bottom wooden teeth of the chainwheel. It gave a little yet did not pull free. From the barbican yard, the footfalls of the enemy became emphatic.
He scanned the interior of the gatehouse as his sight adjusted to the darkness. The pitch gave way to dimness, with shapes and patterns materializing.
In the nearest corner, Ely spotted a small pool that had collected from the droplets of the slanted ceiling above. A temporary support beam had been wedged between the top and the floor, with sandbags outlining the edges of the puddle.
Ely hurriedly heaved one of the sandbags from the floor onto the handle of the brake. It budged then slipped back into place, stubbornly serving its purpose. Ely threw another sandbag atop the first. Again, it moved, edging further from the teeth.
The harsh language of Lewmar struck Ely’s ears. He glanced over his shoulder to spot the first line of Lewmarian warriors on the fixed bridge.
Ely pushed down on the sandbags, which were in danger of falling over and away from the handle of the brake. Come on, you bloody bastard!
He turned again as the Lewmarian boots clapped the heavy wood of the drawbridge.
“Ahhhh!” he cried as he plopped the whole of his self onto the sandbags and the brake.
The sudden momentum pried the wedge free from the teeth. Unhindered and without another to man its handles, the chainwheel spun, unfurling the chains that had kept the portcullis suspended.
Those Lewmarians nearest to the iron barrier bolted forward as it fell. All but two slammed against the patchwork bars. Of the two, one had dove beneath its spikes only to be impaled. The other had made it through uncut and now scrambled to his feet.
Ely drew his arming sword as the lone Lewmarian straightened and drew two hand axes. Through the crossbars of the portcullis the Lewmarian’s brothers-in-arms beat the iron and cheered on their compatriot. The rancor distracted Ely for a moment, at which point the Lewmarian blazed forward, axe heads raised.
Ely deflected them with ease. The Lewmarian circled him, then struck out again. Ely blocked those as well, but the Lewmarian had made his way close enough to shove him back. Ely lost his footing, stumbling to one knee.
The enemy on the other side of the portcullis chuckled. Their cheers rose.
Ely hopped back to his feet as the Lewmarian dashed upon him again. This time, an axe blade glanced off the pauldron on his left shoulder. Though it did not pierce or cut the steel, Ely nonetheless felt the brunt force of its impact.
I need to end this.
The Lewmarian smirked, clearly impressed by his own efforts to wear down Ely. He took the opportunity to gander at the chainwheels for a second.
Now!
Ely swung his sword. Over his head. Across. In large, overbearing arcs. The assault was wild, a flash of steel striking from the depths of the shadows.
Yet the moves were also too wide. They lacked precision. The Lewmarian could foresee them as Ely stepped in each assault, winding up his arms for the next. He defended himself with ease, his guard let down.
Exactly as Ely had intended.
Ely minded his advance, putting thought not inasmuch in regards to time or force but direction. For each lunge and strike, thrust and blow, forced the Lewmarian back closer to the crossbars of the portcullis.
The increasing proximity brought the calls and jeers of the enemy upon their ears. The Lewmarian, prodded by his countrymen, fought back with increased aggression. His moves, in turn, became ill-timed and chaotic.
He swung at Ely and extended his reach just a tad much. Seeing the opening, Ely plunged his sword into the pit of his arm. The man shrieked. With his eyes closed briefly, Ely came into him with a knee to his torso. The Lewmarian, dropping his hand axes, fell back into the crossbars, his fellow warriors shocked by the turn of events.
Reaching down for one of the hand axes, Ely lobbed it straight at the Lewmarian. The downtrodden warrior had nary a chance to spot his own weapon when it cleaved into the flesh of his neck, nicking an artery.
A geyser erupted from the fresh wound. The Lewmarian gripped his neck with both hands. He looked up to Ely, who came up to deliver the tip of his sword to the base of his gut.
The Lewmarian slumped over as his brothers-in-arms slammed against the portcullis, reaching through the bars. They pounded the barrier and cursed at Ely as he wiped clean the length of his sword and slinked away.
Though victorious, Ely hardly felt the champion.
Where are the bloody guards? The soldiers?
Emerging from the shadows of the gatehouse into the light of the bailey, Ely saw the attendants and servants who had heard the commotion of his battle flee from the entrance. Aside from them, though, the castle grounds felt abandoned.
“Very well,” Ely said to himself, resigned.
He sheathed his sword. He unhooked his leather chin strap and removed his helm. A few servants took notice while many others continued to scatter.
“I command you to stop!” Ely roared.
Recognizing his voice, the rest paused. Ely tucked his helm under his arm as he strode to the middle of the bailey.
“Will one of you miserable wenches and swine tell me what the hell is going on?!”
All turned their gazes to the ground, unsure of how to answer him.
“Answer me!”
“Your Highness?”
Really? That fool is in the castle?
Ely turned to the parapet stairwell to his left to find Master Reysen emerging. Dressed in a doublet and hat of crushed red velvet, one could have mistaken him for a member of the court had it not been for his face.
“Prince Jameson!”
“Yes?” Ely groaned.
“What are you doing here?”
Ely, his mouth ajar, was about to answer that he had snuck back earlier than expected from the Chesa. Master Reysen, however, would not allow him a word edgewise. “Why are you not with the rest of the castle’s soldiers? They left on the hour of noon, as you commanded.”
Me? “I commanded?”
“Yes, they marched to the north on your orders. The scouts remain with the main force, as you requested, though the commanders did not like it.”
Not send scouts ahead of a force? “Master Reysen, the day has been long. Come with me and recite all that has happened. Start with your coming to the castle and go over every details concerning my edicts.”
> “What of them?” Master Reysen asked, pointing to the gatehouse.
Ely shifted to spot the Lewmarians at the portcullis, continuing to bang on the iron crossbars. The gatehouse is unmanned. They’ll gather grappling hooks and ladders soon. It’s only a matter of time.
He turned back to Reysen to discover that other servants were coming into the bailey, eyes wide and eager to hear of what their prince would do to save them.
“The rest of you, to the chapel. Once the lot of you have entered, bar the door. It was built not only as a House of Mar but as a sanctuary in times of invasion. Reysen, let us go. And speak quickly.”
The latter command proved easy for Reysen to fulfill, so that by the time that they came to the corridor leading to the Throne Room, Ely had a greater sense of the mutiny within Arcporte Castle.
“I can scarcely believe it,” Ely said, after Reysen paused after his piece.
“We thought it was you, Sire, giving them commands.”
“And my grandfather?”
“Asleep. Mage Wystan gave him two doses of Truscubium root potion, just as you had –”
Ely shot a glance at the town crier. “Pardon.” Master Reysen lowered his head.
“No time for apologies now.” Ely hastened his stride as the corridor curved to reveal the double doors that led into the Throne Room.
As was protocol, two guards stood at attention, their halberds crossed to dissuade entry. Upon seeing Ely, the two exchanged looks, hesitantly pulling their long pole to their sides.
“Open the doors!” Ely barked.
The guard to his right offered a look to his partner. “We never saw you leave...”
Ely, astounded, reached for the handles of the double doors. In one motion he pushed them open as Reysen and the two guards stood aside.
Within, before the throne stairway, paced Prince Jameson.
“What is the meaning of this?” Ely demanded.
The Prince paused, looking to the others in the room. There were several knights in his presence, along with a few counts from various parts of the island, accounting for the bulk of the two dozen men inside. Only one lord stood in the ranks, though: Baron Tristan.
“I am talking to you.” Ely nodded to the Prince.
“A Voiceless speaks,” the Prince replied, initiating chuckles from his small audience.
“You know who I am.”
“Indeed. An imposter.”
“What?”
The Prince waved to the guards at the double doors, who promptly closed them behind Ely. The knights and counts around him then drew their swords and dirks as Reysen backed off to the side.
“Marlishmen,” Ely began, his hands raised and extended, so as to urge calm. “I understand your folly. You have been tricked, duped, by one who appears as me. That is an honest offense I can forgive. Lay down your arms, and I pledge to you, all will be spared the gallows.”
“Marlishmen,” the Prince before the throne began. “You know me well. I have been with you the whole of the day before this fraud appeared from out of nowhere just now. In the armor of one of our Voiceless knights, no less. What did you do, pretender? Kill one of our unsuspecting silent knights, knowing full well he could not scream?”
Ely ground his teeth. He had had enough of this ruse. “I killed no one but the Lewmarian who tried to overtake the gatehouse. As we speak, the enemy beats upon our gates. And this, this fox, stands before you as me, doing nothing!”
“Nothing! Why, what an accusation. I have done plenty. Who do you think sent the bulk of the castle soldiers and guards away, so as to allow our guests to enter unopposed?”
Ely stepped back.
“Yes,” the Prince said, stepping forward. “The Lewmarians are most welcome. They are just the scourge we need to rid Marland of the fat, lazy and entitled barons that have filled their bellies and their coffers in the days since the Century War. This kingdom lost too many of its best from Kin and Har-Kin alike due to the errors and misgivings of the Saliswaters.”
Ely’s peripheral vision to all those who weren’t the Prince was fleeting. Still, it was enough to gather a sense of those who surrounded him. Dressed in perhaps their finest, the clothes bore years of use, with frayed collars, cuffs stitched in haste and pairings that reflected no taste for aesthetics. The weapons drawn were even more telling, bearing tints and other discolorations, products of smiths with only a rudimentary sense of metallurgy. The men hailed from lower manors and poorer hamlets, who families no doubt suffered losses during the centennial conflict from which they never recovered.
Save for Baron Tristan.
It then dawned on Ely. Tristan’s brother, that bloody fox. “Sir Ernald?”
The Prince, sly and careful though he was, could not help himself. His mouth curled into a crooked grin.
“All those who look upon me will know me as Prince Jameson.”
Those around Ely leaned in, eager. A knight stepped forward.
And that was enough.
Ely unsheathed his sword. Without knowing whom was closest nor caring how many he could reach, he swung his blade like a wild man. Hacking and cutting, his sword shivered against the others, whose owners wielded them with their own sense of desperation. None could match the training of Ely though, who expertise came out in that rush of conflict. The tip of his sword soon bore blood, convincing the traitors to pause. In their lull, they encircled Ely, pitting him against the eastern wall of the Throne Room as the brother Ernald and Tristan brought up the midsection of the mob.
“You will never–” Ely started.
“What?” Baron Tristan interrupted. “Win? That is the problem with your kin. You never stop to consider your propensity for losing. As the family that provides our nation’s sovereigns, you are bound to lose the Crown – and your heads – someday. That day just happens to be now.”
“No imposter can serve for long.” Ely dodged a thrust from a determined knight. He slashed at the traitor’s throat, only narrowly missing as the man leaned back. “Marland will find out. They will know.”
“You’re right. An imposter’s day are numbered. Just look at the False King of Belgarda. However, in the case of our great nation, my brother – pardon, Prince Jameson – will not serve as monarch for long. Once crowned, he will have a public mishap, and in the interest of our island, will name me chamberlain. That designation will hold as he will not have sired any heirs by then and your grandfather will be made too feeble and weak to rule. Then, another melee of circumstance will occur, I will go from chamberlain to... Well, you can guess the rest.”
The semicircle around Ely tightened. He swung out at his approaching assailants, who met his strikes with increasing aggression of their own.
“Halt!”
The mass shifted their focus to the far corner of the Throne Room. From one of the servant entrances, another in the guise of the Prince emerged.
Gerry.
Gerry, striding toward the mob, stopped in the center of the hall. With both hands he held the grandest sword the lot of them had ever seen. “Lower your weapons!” he demanding, feigning authority.
The façade was easily dismissed. Ernald and Tristan laughed, as did some of the counts.
“Now who is this?” Ernald asked, chuckling.
“Prince Jameson,” Tristan began, turning not to his brother but to Ely. “Have you a royal double you have been hiding? I should have known.”
“I am a royal, Jameson of Kin Saliswater,” Gerry pronounced loudly, though his voice wavered.
“Pardon, Your Highness, but I believe you are mistaken.” Tristan motioned to Ernald. “We already have our Prince Jameson. As these good gentlemen can attest, he is the one and only.”
Nods and a collection of affirmative words rose from the audience of knights and counts. In their unified reaction, some even shifted their blade tips toward Gerry, which did not go unnoticed by him.
“Tell you what,” Ernald said. “Drop that fine sword in your hands so that I may keep it as a
gift, and I will give you a head start.” He pointed at Gerry first. Then he motioned his head toward Ely. “So that you don’t have to watch him be hacked to bits. Who knows? Perhaps you will even outrun the knights that chase after you.”
His entourage chuckled. A few even closed in further on Ely.
Gerry tightened his grip on his sword as he looked past the mob to his brother, still pinned against the wall by a row of swords.
“Run, you fool.” Ely meant only to mouth the words, yet they escaped in a whisper. Save yourself. Go on, now. Run!
Instead, Gerry breathed deeply. He straightened as he took a proud step forward.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he proclaimed.
Bollocks.
“As you wish,” Ernald waved his hand in the air absentmindedly. He turned to Ely. “In the name of Kin Saliswater, and of the Crown, I, Prince Jameson, command all of you to–”
A thud against the outside of the double doors cracked through the cavernous Throne Room. The whole of them shifted their attention to the entryway as another pounding noise from the opposing corridor resonated through the chamber.
Before either Ernald or Tristan could bark a response, the doors flew open. A grouping of Voiceless knights charged in, creating a defensive perimeter for the one they guarded:
Artus.
“What is the meaning of this?! Swords drawn in the Throne Room? I’ll have every one of your heads.” Artus stopped midway between Ely and Gerry, with his retinue of Voiceless around him. He shot a glance at Ely, then Gerry. He recognized each for who they were – and for a moment, exhibited paternal leanings of concern – before furrowing his brow and fixing his stare on the brothers of Har-Kin Boivin.
“Your Majesty!” Baron Tristan exclaimed.
“Baron Artus, now,” the elder Saliswater corrected.
“I was only following your grandson’s orders. These two, two imposters here stormed the castle together, hoping to assassinate him much like they did your son–”
“Do not mention my boy!”
Ernald placed a hand on his brother’s forearm, drawing him back. “Grandfather,” he said, his arms extended. “It is I, Jameson. Do not let these frauds deceive you. I am who the good Baron Tristan says I am.”
Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1) Page 38
