Kinghood (The Fourpointe Chronicles Book 1)

by Joshua Rutherford

The Voiceless tilted his helm, nodding.

  “You know we are not imposters? That we are – one and the same?

  Again, the Voiceless nodded.

  Ely remained unconvinced. With the day’s events, the man in armor before him could have easily been a traitor, one loyal to Ernald, or a Lewmarian.

  “And you are one of our guardians?”

  For the third time, the knight nodded.

  “Prove yourself.”

  The Voiceless gave no reply of movement as he considered. Then he lifted the shaft of his halberd.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  Ely drew closer, searching the man’s face, the moment of recognition dawning on him.

  “Well, I’ll be... You know your way around, don’t you?”

  The knight nodded. Ely thought he glimpsed the crack of a smile.

  “Very well. Lead the way.”

  The knight turned. He guided them from the chapel down another passageway, which spilled into another hall. Only one small window illuminated the space, though from what Ely surmised, the space hinted at being grander, perhaps as much as the Siren’s Cavern.

  Midway through the hall, the Voiceless stopped. He scanned the unlit area in front of him before dropping his torch and falling back to the brothers, where he took a defensive stance.

  Ely needed not to know what it meant. Nor did Gerry. They crouched, their backs to each other, their weapons extended as their eyes adjusted to the low light.

  All around, cloaked in the shadows, an army of Lewmarians lined the perimeter. They strode forward, the scratching of their hard leather against their furs breaking the silence. They moved as a singular unit, save for one, who stepped out from the pack. Two ovals of blue set in his face.

  Konradt.

  The three, losing their fear of the rest, focused on the Warlord. He was still dressed as he had been when he entered the dungeon, in loose trousers and shirt. He lazily draped a crude battle axe over his shoulder as he reached behind him to draw an item from his waistband. He tossed it on the ground, where it clattered and slid to rest against Gerry’s boots.

  “I thank you for letting me borrow your dirk,” Konradt said in Marlish, his gaze firmly on Gerry. “Though your dungeon guards were less appreciative.”

  Gerry stayed silent.

  “You’ll never win,” Ely blurted, at a loss to say anything else.

  Konradt cackled. “Win? Look around you, young prince. I have already won. I invaded your northern lands. I impregnated your treasured fortress, your castle-on-the-hill. And my forces have razed your city. Even if I were to die now, I have shook the foundation of your tiny island. Your Kin or any Marlish Kin will never rule the same way again. Your kind managed to avoid the bulk of the fighting on your shores during the Century War. Now, war has come to your heartland. You will never be safe.”

  The Voiceless stepped forward with halberd in hand. In response, the circle of Lewmarians tightened, their blades and weapon heads outstretched to stop the Voiceless in his tracks.

  “Spare them,” Konradt commanded. “I want them alive, if possible. To parade in Lewmar.”

  “You can’t even be certain either one of us is the real Prince Jameson,” Ely said.

  “True.” Konradt nodded to Gerry. “I know he isn’t the same one I fought on the Chesa. I’m sure of that. You... We’ll see. You could be him. Either way, we’re taking both of you prisoner.”

  The Lewmarians inched in, as did Konradt, who clapped the head of his battle axe in his hand.

  “At least tell us why?”

  “Why?”

  “Why strike here only to be captured? The escape? Why not invade Arcporte at once? Why align yourself with Har-Kin Boivin? Why all this now?”

  Konradt grinned. “A sincere effort to stall me, I see. You bought a few seconds. No matter.”

  The Lewmarians closed in. The Voiceless, desperate, swung his halberd out. The Lewmarians in its path fell back, allowing the knight to swoop in and grab his fallen torch.

  That small advance was enough to provoke a few of the enemy. Two from his right and one from his left struck out at the Voiceless. The knight, anticipating an attack, waved his halberd towards their heads, from left to right. The blade narrowly missed the first two. The third was not so fortunate, as the tip of the weapon connected with his ear. Blood spewed from the side of his head as he dropped to his knee and wailed. The commotion was such that it bought the Voiceless a moment. He gathered the fallen torch and shoved it back into Ely’s hand before drawing his arming sword.

  The attack against one of their own stirred the Lewmarians. Several rushed in, though now the knight had become the main target. The Voiceless, marked for death, swept the air in large arcs with his sword. Like a steel whip it cut through the air, slashing a few of the enemy in the process. The Voiceless maneuvered away from the brothers, who faced fewer but no less formidable opponents of their own.

  Ely intercepted blows from swords and axe heads. A few blades made it past his defensive blocks to skim off his armor. Such near misses prompted him to fight with increasing ferocity, so that within seconds the whole of the assault was a blur.

  With the Voiceless moving from his wards, the center of the skirmish shifted toward the far wall. The dimness from the sole ray in the hall faded as the mass of them gravitated away from the light. The torch in Ely’s hand provided some respite from the darkness, along with the occasional spark from the clash of weapons.

  Through the fighting, Ely cocked his sword hand to strike stone behind him. He peeked over his shoulder to notice the wall to their side.

  We’re cornered.

  The surprise was interrupted by a guttural sound. Ely snapped his head. On the ground a stone’s toss away, the Voiceless laidlay, his hand over his punctured tasset as blood streamed over the cuisse armor plating of his right leg. He grimaced as he cried out again.

  He’s never used his voice before.

  Ely bent and made to come to his aid. But the Lewmarians between them stretched out their weapons to stop him.

  “It’s done!” Konradt said. “Surrender.”

  The Voiceless, moaning, hobbled up on his good leg. A Lewmarian closed in to strike out at him. The knight blocked his advance. Another, from behind, dove his spear point into the back of his good leg. That one the Voiceless was not able to avoid. He sank to his knees and fell forward.

  “Stop this!” Ely pleaded.

  “Then surrender.”

  Ely, looking to Konradt, nodded. He loosened the grip around his hilt until his sword fell from his hand. He motioned for Gerry to do the same.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  Ely shifted his attention to the Voiceless. Laying on his stomach, he beat the stone floor with his sword pommel.

  Clank, clank, clank.

  He lifted his head to catch sight of Ely staring back at him. Having his attention, he swung out his sword. The tip of the blade glanced off the stone wall to create a spark before a Lewmarian came forward to step on his hand.

  “Now your torch,” Konradt commanded Ely.

  But Ely did not turn to him. His gaze stayed on the spot where the sword had struck.

  “Drop it. And fall to your knees!”

  From whence veins of soft blue light radiated.

  “Kneel!”

  Ely slowly turned.

  “As you wish,” he replied.

  The Voiceless shoved off the Lewmarian’s foot. Ely swung the flaming end of his torch against the wall. A web of blue radiated from the point of impact, growing brighter as it spread outward. Then from the center of the glowing lattice the stone began to crack. The Voiceless struggled to his feet. Ely turned away from the wall and tackled his brother. He kneeled over him as the whole of the wall exploded. Rock fragments sailed through the darkness. Above, the vaulted portion of the ceiling fractured and fell. Ely, with his hands around Gerry, fell forward as stone, dirt and dust enveloped him.

  The blast came to a silence. Ely peeped out from the coat of
dust that had settled on his eyelids.

  The sole window that had once been small had fractured into a gaping hole, illuminating nearly the whole of the hall. The small force of Lewmarians that had cornered them now laid strewn. The most fortunate of them remained motionless under thin cloaks of dirt and dust while the worst had been crushed by large stones.

  “Gerry? Gerry!” He shook his brother, who laid beneath him. “Are you awake?”

  Gerry, though smothered, stirred. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “Can you move?”

  “If you get off of me.”

  “I think I’m under a rock.”

  Ely shifted his weight. An object, certainly rigid in parts, had collapsed on him. Though it was not of stone.

  Dragging Gerry with him, he slid out from under to discover the limp body of the Voiceless.

  The back of the Voiceless’ helm and gorget had been dented by the falling stones. Ely turned the knight over on his back. With closed eyes and a face caked in fine dust, he laid still.

  “He, he saved us,” Gerry said, rising.

  Ely looked down at the fallen knight. He patted the pauldron armor of his shoulder. “Good form, chap. Good form.”

  Throughout the hall, those not badly wounded started to rouse.

  “The Warlord...” Gerry searched those bodies and faces that were exposed. “Did he, was he buried? Did he fall?”

  “I don’t know.” Ely searched those who encircled them. Under the debris, he could honestly not tell one Lewmarian from another, though he suspected than even shrouded in dirt and dust Konradt would have stood out. Whether that would have been the case or not, no trace of the Warlord was visible. “We must go. Arcporte needs us.”

  Ely picked up the nearest sword as Gerry sifted through the rubble.

  “Grab a weapon. The army awakens.”

  “But my sword. It was Symon’s, from Father...”

  “We’ll come for that later. Move!”

  Gerry hesitantly grabbed the sword closest to him as Ely pushed him forward to the passage from whence they came. Entering the darkness once more, they were accompanied by the groans and pained cries of the Lewmarians struggling in the wake of the blast.

  “Ely, are you sure this is the way?” Gerry asked as they walked, the lit hall behind them disappearing from view.

  No. I am certain of nothing. Yet we must press on. We must fight.

  Chapter 31

  They have gone pale. The life having been stolen from them. They bleed no more.

  Symon scanned the length of the river. Several corpses from both sides had settled in the shallows of the ford. Some were intact, nearly doubles of their former selves save a wound to the neck or thigh. Others were beyond recognition, having been slaughtered or hacked to the point that exposed flesh and entrails obscured any notable visages.

  “Sire, the rest of the pavisers have fallen back.”

  Symon closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you, Everitt. How many did we lose?”

  “They flanked us most heavily on the north side. Only a handful survived. The rear and south fared better, having lost about half each.”

  Half? That was far more than he had anticipated. “Thank you.”

  The Right Captain fell back to check on the few wounded they managed to pull behind the lines. In his absence, Dawkin – still disguised as a Voiceless – approached Symon.

  “We are surrounded,” he said solemnly.

  “Aye.”

  “We can still fall back. The threat to the west and south sides isn’t so much that we can’t fight our way through. We still have a number of horses. You can ride to safety.”

  Symon considered it again. Their horses were the one advantage they had left. While not able to build up speed and charge on the loose footing of the ford or within the close confines of the forest, if they could just create a gap in the Lewmarian ranks, then a handful could ride to safety.

  He looked back to those behind him. Scores stood as more leaned or sat, having exhausted themselves in the river fighting. It would take the lot of them to fight through even the meager force of Lewmarians who had flanked them. For what? So that he and a few could retreat?

  So many would fall and die, to allow me to cower away, all in the name of the Crown.

  “We stay,” Symon decided. “We fight.”

  Dawkin, unconvinced, leaned in toward his brother. “We do Marland no service by becoming corpses. At least if we were to escape, we could warn the surrounding manors.”

  “I thought you provided the Conclave with a surmise of the threat?”

  “You know them. Old men with nary a consideration for anything that isn’t right in front of them. Well, now the enemy is at their drawbridge.”

  “No, the enemy is here. On the ford. Before us. Those old men have had their warning. We do them better – all of Marland better - by striking down as many as we can. Right now. While our shields stand unbroken and our swords remain in our hands!”

  Dawkin leaned away a bit. With his head he motioned to those behind them. Symon glanced back, noting that several of his men had raised their brows at the sight of their Prince yelling at a guard who supposedly could not speak.

  Symon shifted his attention back to the front. On the Chesa, several Lewmarians plundered what they could from the dead, whether Marlish or their own countrymen. They strode in pairs, with one looking for valuables while another stood by his side, small shield raised should a Marlish archer release an arrow. More Lewmarians squatted behind bushes on the opposing shoreline or sat on logs, waiting for their next command.

  Then there were the most fearsome of the lot. They stayed in the frigid waters that traversed the ford not to look for loot but to stake their position closest to the Marlish lines. Those Lewmarians rested not on logs but on dead bodies. Or they paced the ford, their soaked boots sloshing through the water. Some were even so bold as to stand, unshielded or unarmored, as if to taunt the archers into firing.

  Hunold was one of those. Boldest of the bold.

  He stood in the center of the ford, the closest of all the Lewmarians. His Right Captain and guards – or at least what would pass as such in Marland – were some twenty paces behind him, their round shields raised and their knees bent, should they need to race to their Warlord’s aid. A novice commander would have assumed that was the reason the Marlish archers had not fired upon Hunold. But Symon knew better. A loosed arrow, whether it missed its target or was fortunate (or unfortunate) to hit the Warlord, would have only roused the Lewmarians to charge with such a fervor that the Marlishmen had yet to see. And certainly one they could not afford. Not to mention what Hunold would do in answer to the arrow.

  Hunold must have known what an assault against him would have meant to his men’s spirits, for as he continued to stand in the river, the shallow water rushing all about him, he casually removed layer after layer of furs from his torso. One by one, the dropped his prized pelts into the Chesa. They flopped to the water before being carried away by the clear torrent. When the last one fell, only a loose leather vest clung to his chest, leaving the Warlord almost completely exposed. In one hand he held his multi-headed halberd, while in the other he clenched the shaft of a hand axe he had chosen from a fallen comrade. Every now and then, he would extend his weapons, twisting and stretching, as if to ready himself for a charge.

  He will tire of waiting. Soon.

  Symon observed his men once more. Their faces reflected their fatigue. And fear. With every taunt of Hunold’s, the light of their eyes dimmed, their hope ebbed from them that much more.

  They can’t stand much more of this.

  “And neither can I.”

  “What?” Dawkin asked, believing that his brother had addressed him.

  “Dawkin.”

  “Don’t use my real name–”

  “I must. If only this time. Every year on the anniversary of the armistice, we read Marlish accounts of the Century War, remember?”

  “Of course. Most are
from our kin.”

  “And to honor those of our family who have fallen, what do we say?”

  Dawkin paused, not liking the direction of Symon’s conversation. “Symon, you shouldn’t be so remorseful.”

  “What do we say, brother?”

  “We recite, together, the battle poem that Grandfather composed so long ago. ‘He who suffers the sword for his country is blessed by Mar with a hero’s welcome into the War Hall of Heaven. He who falls by an arrow will be greeted by Maidens of Mar, who will become his eternal wives. He who loses his life for the sacred island of Marland will forever walk in the Sovereign Gardens, to be granted an eternal kingdom all his own, one bordered not by enemies, but by brothers.’”

  Symon turned to him, smiling. “Promise me.”

  “Promise you what?”

  “That you and our brothers will sing that same song when I have gone.”

  His brother’s mouth stayed agape. Perhaps he meant to speak but could not find the right words. Or mayhaps he did, but the wind dispersed the words. Either way, it mattered not to Symon as he stormed into the river.

  “For Marland!” Symon cried out, charging straight toward Hunold. The Warlord grinned as he stretched out his arms wide, as a raptor does with its wings, so as to invite him to strike first. Symon answered the invitation with a long sweeping overhead strike, one that Hunold easily met with both of his weapons. Undeterred, Symon pulled back his blade to thrust and cut in rapid succession, his moves more precise than they had ever been in his life. Hunold deflected every motion effortlessly, as though Symon was foreshadowing in slow motion. No matter the stab or the strike, steel rang against steel, the flesh of the Warlord uncut and intact.

  After several exchanges, Symon took the sharp edge of his sword in his gauntleted hand, turning to half-swording for the advantage. Hunold, smirking, pulled the bladed heads of his weapons close to his body.

  What is your style? Symon wondered.

  He soon found out.

  Like fists of ore, the weapon heads struck out at Symon. They landed with such force that he had no choice but to step back from each blow, lest the shock shake the sword from his grip. Symon blocked each one in rapid succession; they came not individually but as though in pairs. So rapid was the exchange between Hunold’s assault and Symon’s blocks that Symon soon found himself backing away and sidestepping without any purpose other than to avoid a fatal blow.