Two hundred or so kingdom soldiers and Singers had managed to get far enough away to only be thrown violently to the ground. They picked themselves up, and gathered as many things as they could find that had not been pummeled into dust.
They began the long march home that very day.
When they arrived at the castle, the king greeted them as heroes.
* * *
The mountain that had seen the world end watched from above. The winds flew around him in a different way, now that he had shifted. They carried more water. There was more rain than before.
There was more snow, too, that winter.
It was only a matter of a year before the hollow that had once been a hill was filled with stagnant water. The next year saw plants and insects thriving. Within a few more years, the swamp was a thriving ecosystem in its own right.
Ten thousand corpses lay at the bottom of the cold water for a score of years, until, at last, Ryan opened his eyes, a circle of light just above his resting head.
He struggled to his feet, unconsciously holding his sword in his hand. He saw the road that ran just beyond the swamp’s shore. He saw the mountains in the distance.
He sighed a useless sigh.
It seemed he had a long way to go.
Interlude
“Father, he is awake.”
Father Matthew looked at the young man who spoke. Dressed in the traditional black robe of learning, the Neophyte seemed nervous, rocking back and forth on his feet. Matthew sighed.
“Awake, and confused, I’m sure.” The father was old, bald, and had a bit of a paunch—his white robes, stained here and there with dirt and grass, accentuated his girth. His blue eyes still twinkled with energy and a certain … lightness, despite the corpulence of his body. “I’ll be along in a minute, Gregory. Please make him as comfortable as he can be—and make sure that William and George continue the chants of strength for our guest.”
“Yes, Father.” Gregory ran off through one of the doorways that led out of the garden.
Matthew had been digging up some small red potatoes when Gregory had come to him. He struggled to his feet, pulling himself up with his staff of yew. He rinsed his hands in the fountain before turning towards the northeast walkway. It was time to see the patient.
***
William and George were hoarse, but they continued the chant of strength. Matthew nodded appreciatively at them as he entered the infirmary. The Awakened Man was flexing his fingers, and his arm twitched.
“You will be weak for a few days, my new friend,” Matthew said. “You were further along the path of death than anyone we have ever called. We were not sure that you could return, despite the fact that you clearly wanted to.”
The poor Awakened man’s eyes were so crusted with salt that he obviously couldn’t open them. Matthew brushed the salt away, smiling as the invalid’s eyes snapped open, revealing hazel eyes, green fading into brown. Matthew reached out to the bedside table and took the cup of vitlach, a strong drink made with the Abbey’s healing mineral water and fermented roses. They came from the garden that he had been tending for as long as he remembered. He tipped some into the mouth of the Awakened, who swallowed eagerly. Matthew smiled.
“Rest, now, and know joy. You have survived, which in this time of war is no small thing. Most men who walk the path do not return. You must have had great reason.”
The Awakened’s eyelids were already shutting. This must have been a tremendous effort for him to be awake, and to begin to understand what had happened. Just as his eyes closed completely, though, his body stiffened and his eyes opened wide with fear.
“What troubles you, my new friend?” Matthew said, his voice full of concern.
“I …” His voice was scratchy, his throat parched despite the vitlach. And weak with unuse. “I don’t remember anything.”
Matthew’s eyes rose. “Nothing? That is unusual, but not unheard of. Perhaps it is important for you not to know. Perhaps you had gone too far along the path when we called you back. Or, perhaps, you will remember all in due time.”
Matthew stood. The Awakened needed rest. “But there is nothing you can do about it now. Sleep, my new friend. Tomorrow is a new day. A new day for your new life.”
Realization
The next day, the Triols broke the external gates. A thousand kingdom soldiers died in an hour—but several thousands of the Triols found themselves in the perfect sleep.
Renek had stayed in the courtyard until the last possible second, his blade whirling around him. Death found any Triol that came near him, but even he could not withstand the press of hundreds of men. In the end, Hesiod had to grab him and pull him in before the gates closed.
Renek looked around the room, teeming with soldiers and sighed. “This isn’t how I planned it to be, Hesiod," he said, quietly. He glanced over in the corner of the room, where several wounded were being bandaged.
“It’s not, sire?” Hesiod’s eyebrows were raised questioningly. “To be completely honest, Renek, I hadn’t known there was a plan.”
Renek smiled. “No, Hesiod. It is not what I had planned.” He paused. “Or maybe you’re right. There wasn’t really a plan—but it’s not what I had hoped.”
Hesiod put his hand on the king’s arm. “If you had it all to do again, would you do anything differently?”
The king looked into Hesiod’s eyes, tilted his head to the side. He was silent for a several moments before finally saying, “No. I would not have done anything differently. This was the only solution, only one best thing to do.” He turned away, looking into a corner of the room. “But still…”
Hesiod was silent.
“I’m not so sure. Maybe there was something that I could have done differently?”
“Such as?”
“Well, Hesiod,” Renek looked unflinchingly into Hesiod’s eyes. “I dearly wish the real king were here.”
“Sire…”
“You tried to tell me that it might be better to kill James.” Renek shrugged and turned away. “But I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I would do it now, even if I could—it just seemed like such an evil thing to do.”
“Sometimes, the consequences of a seemingly evil act are good.” Hesiod shrugged. “Do good consequences make an action good?”
“No.” Renek sighed. “I don’t think so.”
“So you would not have done anything differently, if you had it all to do again?”
Renek shook his head, slowly, and walked towards the stairs. He paused to talk with the healer.
“You should move from the ground floor, Singer.” He shook his head. “I know it was best to not move the men, but the Triols will undoubtedly breach the door today.”
The Singer nodded, and called some soldiers over to help.
Renek climbed past the first floor, where two hundred men stood and sat in the kitchen and dining room. As he passed, they all stood and saluted.
“As you were," Renek said, smiling sadly. “Make sure to eat all the food you can find, men.” He turned and continued his climb.
The next floor held several rooms, each with a large bed and beautiful chest of drawers. Several of the chests had small polished silver mirrors perched on top of them. The rooms were packed with soldiers. A lucky few were catnapping on the beds, the rest stood, tensely listening to the sounds of sizzling magic, explosions, and death wafting through the windows.
They, too, saluted him as he passed.
Finally, he opened the heavy door at the top of the stairs. The top floor was devoted entirely to a large, regal bedroom—although a circular stairway leading to the roof stood near the western wall. There were fewer soldiers, here—only the generals, and one or two of the captains. A map obscured the ornately carved chest of drawers. Petrin was bent down, face close to the paper.
“Petrin, how stands the battle?” Renek asked.
He looked up from his map. “I’m sorry, my tired eyes didn’t see you coming. Hello, sire," he said. “Hello
, Hesiod,” he added, as Hesiod entered a few seconds behind Renek.
“Sire, we have lost nearly two thousand men.” Petrin shook his head.
Renek simply nodded.
“They have taken heavy losses again today, your majesty,” Petrin continued. “Perhaps another six thousand men. That leaves them with only nine thousands left.
“I fear, though, that nine will be enough. Unless a miracle occurs, today will see the end of our army.” He shook his head again. “I have requested that several of the Singers come down to protect us as best they can during our final defense.
“For what it’s worth, the Triols will take heavy losses," Petrin said. “We should thank whichever god moved the hand of this keep’s architect. That architect seems to have had this kind of defensive battle in mind. The Triols will pay dearly before they can defeat us.”
* * *
Renek paced back and forth. The main gates below had been breached an hour ago.
Hesiod put his hand out, stilling Renek for a moment. “We still have a time to wait. The stairway is easily defensible.”
Petrin nodded from the doorway. “Yes, our defenses are holding well, and the enemy advances only slowly, taking heavy losses.”
The king cocked his head to the side slightly, and quietly spoke so that only Hesiod could hear. “Would you have done anything differently?”
“No, sire, I would not.” His answer was immediate and certain. He had expected the question, and knew the answer that the King needed to hear. He knew the answer that Renek needed to hear.
They stood, shoulder to shoulder, pondering the battle that was waged by only a few men at a time on a twisted, narrow stairway.
Petrin grunted, and closed the door. He dropped a large bar across the door, and nodded to the warriors around him. They all drew their swords. The small group of archers prepared their bows.
Petrin pulled the King toward the stairs, behind the row of archers.
Three men descended the western stair, wearing the solid robes of the Singers. The king looked up at them as they came down the stairs. They nodded at the king, who had become visibly disturbed at their presence, and bowed shallowly to Petrin, who sighed.
“I think two of you should stand here, one on either side of the door, behind our warriors," Petrin said, gesturing at the captains and generals, who were arranged in two wings facing the door. The Singer quickly moved into place.
He turned to the third Sorcerer, the man who had helped the healer when he had healed Hesiod’s leg. He had flowing black hair that framed warm brown eyes. “You, stay back in the center with me, right behind the archers to help guard the king. We can flee up the stairs to the roof if it comes to that, we’ll take a few more of them…” Petrin petered off, looking at the king.
Renek’s mouth hung open in shock. He was staring at the third Sorcerer, the one that was supposed to stay with them.
“What … “ Renek’s voice cracked. “What is your name, Singer?”
“Sire?” The man was clearly confused.
“Your name, Singer! What is it?”
“Edmund, sire. Why do you ask?”
The King sank to his knees, silently, eyes round in awe.
Hesiod knelt next to him. “Sire, what is the matter? What is wrong?” There was no response. “Sire? Sire?” A note of panic had entered his voice.
The king turned his blue eyes to look into Edmund’s brown. “I know you.” Tears rolled down his face. “I know you.” In the back of his mind, music played, overwhelming him. It was the Dragon’s Threnody. The dragon had seen all of what had been and what was still yet to be, had seen the tragedy of his life.
“Sire,” Edmund held out a hand, grasped the King’s arm to steady Renek. “I am certain that I do not know you. We have never met.” He glanced sideways at the door. There was a clamor on the stairway. A clamor of swords, shouts, and armor clanging off of the stone floors of the keep. The enemy had almost arrived.
Renek snapped his head around to look at Hesiod. “I had it all to do again, Hesiod!” He smiled, sadly. “I had it all to do again.” He slowly turned back towards Edmund, as if dreading seeing his strong brown eyes. His mouth opened, he could not speak.
Finally, words came, his voice gravelly and broken. The ringing of iron-shod feet on the keep’s floor grew louder, closer, until it seemed that the men were outside of the reinforced door. Then the noise stopped.
“I had it all to do again. Did I do any better, this time?” Renek seemed uncertain.
“Sire?” Hesiod glanced at the door. The din had ebbed away, there were only a few feet moving outside. They were preparing to try to breach the doors, and Renek was not responding. “What can we do for you, sire? The enemy is nigh, we must prepare to do battle.” Finally, he looked deeply into the king’s eyes, and said gently: “What is wrong? We need you now, Renek!”
The King’s eyes focused, suddenly, and he snapped his head upright. “My name is not Renek.” The King bit back a sob, and focused on Edmund. He could not close his eyes, could not turn away.
“My name is Ryan.” He drew in a shuddering breath. The noise beyond the oaken doors began again, as several people walked rhythmically.
“My name is Ryan, and I have failed the kingdom twice.”
There was a hollow boom as a small battering ram hit the doors—but all that Ryan could hear was the Dragon’s dirge playing in his mind.
“Sire!” Yelled Edmund. “SIRE!” Renek finally turned to look up at Edmund.
“I am not your sire, Edmund," Renek said, although it appeared he was speaking to himself. “I am Ryan, and I have failed the kingdom twice.
“Once, I killed an honorable man, on that mountainside; a man that did not truly deserve to die. The Universe punished me for it.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I am still being punished?
“Now, I failed to kill a man who truly deserved to die, and the Gods laugh as they give me back my memory. Just in time to see thousands more kingdom soldiers die.”
The king shook his head again, then spoke to Edmund. “Did you ever find our families, after the town burned? Or did Sirs Gregory and Armand misdirect your life, too?” There was another boom as the battering ram hit the doors again.
Edmund shuddered. “How could you have know—” Slowly, his eyes widened. “Ryan?” he said, tentatively. “RYAN!” He hugged the King, who slowly raised his arms to clasp Edmund.
“Sire—” Edmund began.
“Don’t call—” The King said, flatly.
“Sire!” Edmund called over the King’s protestations. “I will call you sire! You are the King, regardless of where you started, who you were, or what happened!” The chamber echoed with the sound of another battering ram strike on the doors. “You are the King. Your subjects chose you, and you are needed!
“You see your life and see failure,” Edmund continued, pushing his face in close to the King’s, forcing his friend’s gaze to meet his own. “But ask yourself this: why are you here? Why?”
The King furrowed his brow in confusion.
“You were dead. I was one of the very few who survived the battle that ended the first Triol war. You died in that battle, you must have—nearly everyone did. You were a warrior, a knight in training.” His eyes unfocused, they seemed to be looking far away. “When the explosion of the gods came, almost everyone was lost. Only a few of us, and the Sorcerers, survived.”
The bar on the doors cracked as the ram struck home again. Edmund drew breath, speaking more quickly. “Yes, it’s true, the Triols have finally come back with more forces … but you were part of the army that saved us, the first time.
“And now you’re back.” He shook his friend’s shoulders. “And yes, it’s true, the Triols have succeeded in destroying our army. They have pushed through even this keep’s defenses.” He drew in a deep breath. “And maybe some of that is your fault, I don’t know. But you’re still here.
“You’re still here,” he said again, pushing his face in clos
e enough that Renek could feel Edmund’s breath. “And that’s something.” The hinges on the doors bent as the Triols struck again. “That’s really something.”
Did the King’s eyes gleam? “Why are you here?” Edmund asked again. “Are you here to be a part of saving us again?” He grinned. “Maybe a god brought you here, or maybe your own heart was strong enough to bring you back from the dead so that you could right your wrongs.”
Hesiod stepped over. “Ren—I mean, Ryan—what you did by not killing James was a noble thing," he said. “I don’t know what happened, when you ‘killed an honorable man’ on the mountainside, but I’m sure you had good reasons for it.
“In the end,” he said, quietly, but forcefully, “these were only single actions. Actions of great import, but only single actions. I know you now, Renek, and you were right—I would not trust you like I trust you now, had you killed James.
“And I do trust you.” Ryan looked into Hesiod’s eyes, surrounded by matted, sweaty, silver hair, and saw the truth of what he said.
The battering ram struck again, and the doors failed. Splinters flew everywhere, and the door tipped and fell inward with a deafening crash. The men stiffened while the rest of the Singers all started to hum audibly.
Edmund, however, did not leave Ryan’s side. He did join his comrades. “Regardless of why, Ryan,” Edmund was yelling over the sounds, staring into Ryan’s hardening eyes. “You are here, you are here now. You’ve been given a second chance, a chance to do the right thing, make the right choice! What are you going to do, sit here and let them kill us all, or take that chance?”
The enemy had broken through. There were a few dozen of the most intrepid Triol soldiers who had ever lived, facing the scant score of men who fought with their king, fought for their king.
Ryan’s control had returned. “I haven’t been given a second chance,” he said to Edmund in the sudden quiet, smoothly coming to his feet. “I failed as Ryan, once. Then I failed as Renek.” He gestured at the Triols, who glanced around the room, sizing up their remaining foes. “And we stand defeated on this day.”
Legend of the Swords: War Page 32
