Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02

by The Usurper (v1. 1)

  More Galichians appeared, summoned by the fleeing warriors, and Bedyr led the refugees in a charge.

  There was more space for swordplay here and the Galichians rapidly outnumbered Bedyr’s group as reinforcements came running, drawn by the din of battle. Bedyr hacked a man down, reversing his stroke to drive his blade across another’s face, then kicked him aside to drive the longsword deep into a belly. He had no time to look back, could only hope that Yrla remained safe behind the defensive blades of Corradon’s men as he struggled to cut a way through to the hall beyond. He deflected a thrust, turning the southerner’s shortsword to ram his hilt against the jaw, feeling a savage satisfaction at the dull cracking sound of breaking bone, then grunted as a cut scored a bloody line through the leather of his jerkin and he turned, stepping inside the man’s guard to slice an answering blow across the throat. Beside him, Jarl whirled and spun, the speed of his sword-work belying his greater years, the curved blade of the Keshi saber clashing on armor, carving wounds from exposed flesh Corradon, too, proved a worthy battle companion, and his armor was a great advantage as he bellowed in anger and drove steadily forward through the Galichians.

  The southerners had the advantage of greater numbers and full war harness, but even so the refugees cut a swathe through them, propelled by righteous fury at the blasphemy their opponents, albeit likely unwittingly, supported and their own determination. Nonetheless, they lost men as they fought their way across the salon and as they grouped in the hall beyond Bedyr saw that their numbers were depleted, while their enemies’ ranks were steadily swelling. Yrla and Arlynn, he saw with a flood of relief, were unharmed, surrounded by a solid wall of blades, all bloodied now. The gash on his arm throbbed, his sleeve darkened by the steady welling of blood, and when he glanced at Jarl, he saw the Keshi was cut across the cheek and favored his right leg. Corradon’s armor was dented, but appeared to have protected the captain from any serious hurt, though several of his remaining men, like Jarl’s Keshi warriors, bore the marks of battle. He wondered if they had sufficient numbers to win through to the harbor, but knew even as he wondered that they had no other choice.

  More Galichians appeared between the doors opening on the courtyard and Bedyr shouted for the guardsmen and Keshi to rally, intent on cutting a way to the gates.

  Then the southerners’ ranks parted and Hattim Sethiyan appeared, Ashrivelle at his side. The usurper wore the kingly robes of purple and gold and about his neck hung the medallion bearing the tripartite symbol of Andurel. Ashrivelle wore the dark blue of mourning, her blond tresses veiled with silk surmounted by a coronet. Her eyes were dark and hollow, tears glistening on her cheeks, and she clung to Hattim’s arm as if she could not stand unsupported.

  “Put down your weapons!” Hattim shouted. “Do you oppose your rightful king?”

  “Heretic!” spat Jarl.

  “You betray yourself,” Bedyr answered, raising his voice that all there might hear him. “Darr was slain by magic and you have no right to wear the regalia of kingship. You are not our monarch, Hattim!”

  “Traitors!” Hattim’s response was calculated, designed to play upon the emotions of men accustomed to obedience, to respect of the trappings of the monarch; to trust. “They stand condemned out of their own mouths! Darr proclaimed me his heir and Darr is dead—I am your king!”

  “Ashrivelle,” Bedyr called, “you are Darr’s daughter; do you support this heresy?”

  “My Lord Hattim is king,” Ashrivelle responded, her voice slow and thick. “My poor dead father ordered it so.”

  “Your father was slain by magic,” Bedyr said, “and the Sisters are forbidden to examine his corpse for evidence of glamours. Hattim locks them in their college—why? What does he have to hide? What does he fear they will uncover?”

  “My Lord Hattim is the king,” the new queen declared, and Bedyr saw that she was either drugged or so stricken with grief that her responses were automatic, her sense lost. He felt his own hope wane then.

  “You hear?” Hattim addressed the crowd as much as Bedyr. “Darr’s own daughter denies this foul charge. These traitors act from rank envy and ambition—they would deny me my right.”

  “The king is dead,” cried a voice Bedyr recognized as belonging to Mejas Celeruna. “Long live the king.”

  “Long live the king!” echoed another, and someone else added, “Long live King Hattim!”

  “We are lost,” Jarl muttered. “Let us sell ourselves dearly.”

  “I would not have you slain like common outlaws,” Hattim declared with transparently false magnanimity. “Lay down your swords and surrender. I promise you justice.”

  “With weighted scales,” Bedyr said softly. “Try for the doors. If we reach them, we run for the gates. Yrla, stay close!”

  Yrla nodded, gathering her skirts; beside her, the rainbow hues of her gown colored further with splashes of crimson, Arlynn clutched a curved dagger, her face pale with fear.

  “I offer you a final chance to surrender,” cried Hattim. “What madness has prompted you to level these insane accusations we may discuss later, but if you refuse you stand condemned by your own actions.”

  “He uses his own perfidy against us,” murmured Yrla, and Bedyr answered, “Aye, he was ever cunning, though I had not suspected him capable of this deviousness.”

  “He has a demonically skilled adviser,” Yrla responded. “If he takes us we have no hope.”

  Corradon spoke then, seeing among the Galichians numerous guardsmen. “You soldiers of the Royal Guard,” he shouted, “you know me and you know our Lords of Tamur and of Kesh! Do you not know us for honest men? Do you believe us capable of treachery? Side with us that we may right the awful wrong done our lawful king. Until the Sisters examine his body there can be no rightful succession. Hattim Sethiyan is not your king! He has no right to give you orders!”

  “Treason!” Hattim bellowed as he saw the guardsmen falter, swayed by Corradon’s words. “The traitors have suborned your captain. Kill him!”

  “Halt!” roared Corradon as the warriors surged forward, the force of his bellow stopping them in their tracks. “Do you believe these lies? Is there a man amongst you can believe I would harm King Darr?”

  Many of the guardsmen lowered their blades at this, and several shouted in Corradon’s favor, others crossing the space between the opposed forces to join him.

  “King Darr’s daughter stands at my side,” Hattim raged, “my bride! The High Throne is mine by right of marriage! I am your king and I order you to obey me—now take them!”

  The Galichians charged at this, but sufficient of the Royal Guard remained doubtful that the numbers attacking the refugees were lessened and they were able to fight off that initial onslaught, moving steadily toward the doors. Furniture encumbered the swordsmen and the hall became littered with bodies that presented further obstacles to the attack, those of Bedyr’s party who fell left where they lay as the survivors crossed the chamber. Then a group of guardsmen reached a decision and fell upon the Galichians from behind, allowing the refugees to reach the egress.

  Bedyr found himself confronting a halberdier who stabbed his clumsy weapon at the Lord of Tamur. He sidestepped the thrust, fastening his left hand about the shaft as he plunged his sword into the man’s groin, snatching the pike from him as he fell, screaming. He sheathed his sword and began to swing the long, heavy-bladed weapon in scything arcs, clearing sufficient space that the others might follow him out into the colonnaded portico and the courtyard beyond. Here more guardsmen overcame their confusion and sided with the refugees, swelling their ranks until they were able to fight slowly across the yard toward the palace gates.

  Here, though, the advantage returned to Hattim, for the open space allowed him to bring archers into play and as the refugees approached the gates, arrows rained upon them.

  Men fell in profusion then, Galichians and loyalists both dropping to the whistling shafts as Hattim screamed orders and his bowmen fired blindly, careless of the
ir targets. There was no defense against that terrible storm and as the Galichians drew back, leaving the bloody work to the archers, Bedyr saw that his party must die there or surrender. A shaft plucked at his jerkin and he saw Yrla flinch as another tore at her gown. They had reached the gates, which offered temporary shelter beneath their arch, but beyond lay open ground and the avenue leading into the city, where they would prove easy pickings for the bowmen.

  “We are lost,” he shouted.

  “We can sell ourselves dearly,” roared Jarl.

  “Against archers?” Bedyr shook his head. “Would you sacrifice Arlynn?”

  “What other choice do we have?” asked the Keshi.

  “Surrender!” Bedyr’s voice was bitter. “Hattim promised us a trial—we can hope sense may prevail.”

  Jarl ducked as a shaft fluttered his dark hair and snarled, “So be it.”

  “Surrender!” Bedyr raised his voice above the tumult. “Lay down your arms!”

  The hail of arrows eased and ceased as his shout carried and the warriors about him lowered their useless blades. Bedyr beckoned Corradon closer, lowering his voice to whisper urgently, “Corradon, you have the best chance of going unrecognized—if such opportunity should present itself, slip away and go to the harbor. Find Galen Sadreth and the Vashti and tell him to sail north. Take word to High Fort. If Kedryn is there, tell him he is Lord of Tamur now and must act accordingly. If he is not, tell Rycol to raise the war banners and join with Kemm to oppose this cursed usurper. ”

  “I will, my Lord,” Corradon promised.

  Bedyr nodded and shouted across the wide yard to Hattim.

  “Do you accept our surrender, Hattim Sethiyan? Do you promise us justice before these present?”

  “He will have us slaughtered,” Jarl muttered.

  “I think not,” said Bedyr. “Not with all Andurel watching.”

  He sheathed his blade and put an arm about Yrla’s shoulders, defeat lending stark lines to his handsome features as he awaited Hattim’s response.

  Hattim glanced about him as though assessing the merits of accepting their surrender or having them killed on the spot. He was about to order his bowmen to slay them when a hand plucked at his sleeve and a soft voice hissed in his ear.

  “Alive,” said Sister Thera. “I want them alive.”

  “I accept,” Hattim called. “Lay down your arms and you shall receive the judgment of the law.”

  Bedyr glanced to the side and saw Corradon stooping to smear his fingers with the blood of a fallen guardsman, wiping the gory stain across his face, adding more to his battered armor. The captain smiled grimly and stretched out beneath the arch of the gates, dragging a body across his legs. Dusk had fallen and in the shadows he seemed merely one more bloody corpse. Bedyr nodded his approval.

  Yrla whispered, “Do you see the Sister with Hattim?”

  “Thera?” Bedyr’s eyes widened. “Do you suggest she betrays her calling?”

  “He heeds her,” Yrla replied. “That is strange in itself.”

  “Mayhap she pleads for mercy,” Bedyr said.

  Yrla frowned. “Mayhap. Or mayhap there is something else.”

  “We shall doubtless find out soon enough,” grunted Bedyr, then, louder: “We surrender to you, Hattim Sethiyan.”

  Corradon lay beneath the arch, watching through slitted eyes as the diminished party set down their weapons and stepped reluctantly from the shelter of the gates. They were instantly surrounded by Galichians and escorted into the White Palace, the young captain cursing silently as he saw that men of the Royal Guard sided with the traitors. Then his cursing became a slow sigh of relief as no move was made to clear the bodies and the shadows of twilight merged into the obfuscation of night. He remained still until the last of the soldiers was gone and only the watchmen remained on the wall. Then he rose cautiously to his feet and moved to the postern, sword ready in his right hand.

  Two Galichians stood watch there and as he approached they turned suspiciously, eyeing his silver breastplate.

  “Hail, friends,” he said with false cheerfulness, “the traitors are in chains by now. ”

  “Who are you?” demanded the closest man.

  “One loyal to the king and the Kingdoms,” Corradon said, and drove his blade deep beneath the man’s ribs. He twisted the steel as he dragged it loose, striking the second guard across the face before a cry could escape his gaping mouth. As he staggered back, Corradon stabbed him in the belly, stepping past him to drag the bolts free and dart through the narrow doorway.

  He began to run across the sward beyond, praying to the Lady that no guards were posted on the outer wall, weaving as the horribly familiar hiss of arrows filled the air about him. He felt a blow against his back and faltered, almost pitching to his face, but righting himself and continuing his zigzag path as shafts thudded into the frozen ground around him. A second blow caused him to cry out as fire lanced through his shoulder and he felt the grate of steel head against bone. He was hit twice more before he reached the perimeter wall and saw the outer gates standing wide, the lights of Andurel before him.

  He plunged through the opening and ran a way down the avenue, realizing that he lurched, aware of warm moisture on his back, a painful shortness of breath. His ribs seemed to clench against his lungs and the arrow protruding from his shoulder was a source of agony, but he was spurred by the shouting behind him and weaved to the side, lunging through shrubs as he entered the parkland that lay between the White Palace and the closest buildings.

  He crossed the park and staggered down a narrow alley, moving unsteadily downhill, grateful for the darkness and the cold that shuttered most of the city behind closed doors. Farther on he encountered frightened citizens who stared and pointed, drawing back in deference to his guardsman’s harness and the threat of the bloody blade he presented to them.

  Then he was in the harbor area and staggering past warehouses, seeing pale starlight twinkle on the surface of the Idre. A riverman emerged from a tavern and Corradon seized his arm, gasping, “The Vashti, Galen Sadreth, where are they?”

  The mariner, bleary-eyed from drink, pointed to the left and Corradon let him go, continuing toward the river.

  He reached the waterfront and began to lurch toward the vessels, realizing that his vision blurred, ignoring the pain that filled his lungs with liquid flame as he shouted, “Galen Sadreth! I seek Galen Sadreth!”

  A vast figure stepped into his path and he raised his sword threateningly, no longer able to speak for the agony that throbbed his chest.

  “I am Galen Sadreth,” said the mountainous shape, “and I think you are dying.”

  Corradon fell into the massive arms and Galen lowered him gently to the ground, cradling his head, his eyes sympathetic as he studied the shafts protruding from the young man’s back. One at least was lodged in a lung and two more had pierced the dented silver breastplate deep enough to be bleeding his life away into his belly.

  “You had better tell me what you want quickly,” the riverman murmured. “You do not have long.”

  Corradon spat blood onto his chin and chuckled despite himself.

  “You are blunt,” he gasped. “Are you loyal to the Kingdoms?”

  “I am,” said Galen.

  “Then you must sail north,” said Corradon, summoning the last reserves of his waning strength to inform the giant of Bedyr’s wishes.

  “I will do it,” Galen promised as dark blood joined the frothy crimson on the captain’s lips.

  “The hope of the Kingdoms rests with you,” Corradon choked out, and died.

  Galen lowered the bloody head and rose to his feet, crossing to the dark shape of the barque that bobbed on the evening swell.

  “Cast off!” he bellowed, cocking his head at the hoofbeats he heard thundering from the direction of the White Palace. “Make haste! We sail north for High Fort. For the Kingdoms and Kedryn Caitin!”

  The cordor leading the pursuing Galichians found Corradon’s body by the riv
erside, but of the Vashti there was no sign, for she was already pulling into the stream, running without lights, her oarsmen stroking as if their very lives depended on the speed of their escape; as, indeed, they did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The barque that slid wearily into the harbor below High Fort as the watery sun touched the western edges of the Lozins was a weather-beaten memory of the colorful Vashti that had earlier that season sailed south. Her sails were ragged and the brightwork of her gunnels dulled, her oarsmen lolled, close to exhaustion, in their places, and even bluff Galen Sadreth was subdued as he let go his tiller and moved toward the gangplank. Nonetheless, there was the gleam of pride in the eyes of the tired rivermen, for they had fought the wind and the winter spillage of the Idre to bring their craft swiftly northward, and they congratulated themselves on a job well done.

  Galen voiced a brief encomium and tossed gold enough for a keg of beer and warm beds to his mate before crossing the plank and starting the climb toward the citadel. There was little enough time to waste and he cursed with all the eloquence of his guild as he was required to halt before the gates and state his business, delaying further while a man was sent to bring word to Rycol, his impatience only slightly mollified by the rapid appearance of the chatelain.

  “I bring alarming news from Andurel,” he declared without preamble. “What word of Kedryn?”

  “He lives.” Rycol studied the fat captain, seeing on his ruddy features an uncharacteristic nervousness. “What news?”

  Galen drew his cloak tighter about his massive frame and pursed his lips, glancing around in a conspiratorial manner before lowering his voice and saying, “This is best told in private, I think.”

  Rycol nodded and beckoned Galen to follow him across the courtyard to enter the labyrinthine bowels of the fortress, making their way to the chatelain’s quarters, where Rycol produced evshan and Galen tossed back a cup as if the fierce liquor were water. He grunted his approval and extended the cup that Rycol might refill it, sipping more slowly as he lounged back in his chair, his bulk threatening to overwhelm even that sturdy frame. Rycol sat before the fire, absently stroking the heads of the two brindle hounds that fretted at the nervousness they sensed in the riverman.