Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  “My Lord... please, who better than a former Ducal Guardsman to get you inside the Castle? Just be certain your men can do the job,” Covle grinned. “Though I would like the opportunity to kill the Duke himself.”

  “A little awkward for you to become his daughter's guardian then, isn't it?” Hector asked. “No, I have... men for the task. Captain Grel will lead the attack on Duke Peter. Captain Vanikir will lead the team against his son and his guards. Can you procure a group of men to capture his daughter Katarina?”

  “Of course,” Covle said. He frowned, “I dealt with a mercenary, Rasev Ironhelm. He has a company of men hard enough... though a long term contract might go some way towards sweetening the deal.”

  “I'll take that under advisement,” Hector said. He frowned, for in truth, he dreaded what Duke Peter had forced him to do. He had already seen the danger in any army from Duke Peter's reign. It would become necessary to defend the lands with men loyal to Hector either from duty, reward, or payment in coin. Most likely, he would have many positions for mercenaries such as Ironhelm.

  Covle gave him an unpleasant grin, “Excellent, my good Baron... or should I call you Duke?”

  ***

  Lady Katarina

  Castle Emberhill (Ducal Seat), Duchy of Masov

  Seventh of Ravin, Cycle 995 Post Sundering

  Katarina moved with quiet feet down the dusty passage. She hiked up her dress as much as she could, but she still worried that the hem would catch the dust. She also worried that the dust and cobwebs might catch in her black hair, which would be even harder to clean. It was thick enough that if she tried to wash it, it would still be damp by the time she went to bed. Not that she cared too much what she looked like or even what the tutor would say about her missing her afternoon classes. I'm a pariah here, she thought, only my brother even bothers to speak to me now.

  She felt no remorse that she'd eluded her newly assigned armsman. Bulmor had arrived only a week before and he had followed her almost constantly, a sharp break from her previous armsmen, most of whom had given her plenty of time to herself. Those others had viewed their task of guarding the Duke's wayward daughter as a punishment detail.

  Her mother had become more and more withdrawn over the past cycles, especially after Katarina's last clash with her father. Her father had ceased to even pretend to care what she did. She felt more and more isolated over the past cycle since even the servants seemed to avoid her or outright ignore her. She felt a little better when she could go and explore the hidden passages below the castle. There, away from other people, she felt her isolation less– perhaps because it was by her choice. Her explorations would also give Katarina the opportunity to slip into the children's wing and apologize to her little brother.

  As if on cue, she came to the intersection of the hidden passages. One way led deeper into the maze of corridors and the other led up to a door that opened into the corridor near her brother's room. “Best to talk to my brother, first,” Katarina muttered to herself. She gave a slight sigh, though, before she started up the corridor. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. She knew that, for some reason, he looked upon her with some envy. As the eldest, she had some privileges that he must think marvelous. In truth, however, she envied him. For the past two cycles he had trained in the martial chamber. The Master of Arms had already begun his training and as a boy, he would train every day until combat became something of reflex and muscle memory. He had also begun to learn sufficient runic magic to operate various relics and weapons of the Ducal House.

  As a girl, even a nobly born girl of almost eight cycles, the Duke allowed her only the basic arts of self defense and studies of runic magic sufficient to operate only the most basic runic items. I'm not the heir, and I'm still only a female, she thought, little Peter doesn't realize how much I envy him.

  That still didn't excuse her mistreatment of him earlier in the day. She'd no cause for her words, despite her frustration. She dearly loved her little brother and her recent movement from the children's wing to Estera Tower had only made her realize how much. Her father, always so distant, spoke with her only in passing. Her mother had seemed to withdraw into herself even more after her father's failed betrothal plan... and had ceased to take any visitors not long after Katarina moved into the women's quarters at Estera Tower. Little Peter was the only one who cared for her and she knew that her angry words had hurt him more than his childish petulance deserved... so Katarina would make it right.

  She reached the hidden door and paused a moment to listen. This one opened into the small storage room at the end of the corridor, she knew. Katarina had first discovered it when she had needed some place to hide from her tutors. Her explorations had led her deep beneath Castle Emberhill in the five cycles since.

  She paused as she heard what sounded like a muffled cry. Katarina frowned, and her fingers dropped to the two wands tucked inside her dress skirts. Technically, they were her mother's, but Katarina had learned to use the two wands last cycle, and her mother had never realized that Katarina had kept them rather than putting them back. She'd practiced with them too, though she'd had to find a quiet spot out in the countryside to do so, and timed it with thunderstorms so that it didn't attract attention. Well, other than the time I missed, she thought sheepishly, and it's not like the entire forest would have burned down.

  She shook her head and pushed the concealed door open. Whatever the noise she'd heard, she didn't hear anything else. She set her lantern to the side and moved through the small storage room. She paused again at the heavy wooden door. She opened it just a bit, and then froze when she saw movement.

  Her fear at discovery turned to something else as she felt the blood freeze in her veins. A tall man stood with drawn blade just outside the door, his back to her. At his feet lay Maran, the old nurse who had changed her diapers and brought her her meals. Her mouth and eyes were wide and she lay still in death, her face twisted into an expression of pain. The broad spill of bright red blood and the red stains across her simple dress made it clear how she died.

  Two of her father's armsmen lay face down further along the corridor. Katarina bit into her knuckle to hold back a shriek when she saw several more armed men. All of them wore strange scale armor, and the cut of their clothes seemed odd to her, as did their golden skin and strangely curved blades.

  Then she saw one of the men step out of the open door to her brother's room. He grunted something in an odd language even as he wiped blood from his sword with what recognized as her brother's favorite tunic.

  The cold ice in her blood flashed into white hot heat in a heartbeat. Her light body should not have been able to kick the heavy wooden door hard enough to knock down the warrior beyond. She felt the jolt all the way up her back a moment later she stood over his prone body. She leveled her wand with a scream and triggered its runes. A wave of fire and destruction swept down the narrow corridor. For a moment, the image lay seared into her brain, burned into the back of her eyelids as her brother's murderers burned to ash. The moment passed and Katarina blinked away tears as her eyes tried to adjust.

  She felt an iron-hard hand clamp around her mouth. Her hand went to her second wand, but her attacker's other hand grasped it and held her still. The man I knocked down, he must have captured me, she thought. Still, she struggled, she would not let this assassin kill her– not without a fight!

  “Hold still, damn you, girl,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I'm not one of them! I'm on your side.” The rough voice teased at her memory, until she recognized it as her new armsman. She stopped fighting as soon as she recognized his voice.

  When she ceased to fight, the hands pulled her back into the storage room. The hand over her mouth let go long enough to pull the door closed.

  “What's happening? Is... Is my brother dead?” Katarina asked. She hated how her voice broke, yet in her mind she saw Peter still and cold in a pool of blood like poor old Maran.

  “I think so, lass,” Bulmor grated. He released he
r and she turned to face him. “Those were Vendakar, probably paid mercenaries.” His face, when she looked at him in the small dark room, looked to have been carved of stone. “Do you know a passage that leads out?” He took up her lantern in one hand.

  “Yes...” Katarina frowned. “Shouldn't we head up, though? Find my father... my mother?” She turned back towards the door, ready to run to warn her mother, but his iron strong hands locked on her shoulders. “Let me go! I have to warn them!”

  “Stop and think, lass- my Lady, I beg you, think!” For a moment his voice broke from the gravel strength and some raw emotion leaked through. Katarina realized then that Bulmor feared for her. All of a week on the job, and her new armsman already viewed her survival as essential.

  That realization bored through her and forced her to stop and consider. The nursery lay at the center of the keep itself. It was the most heavily defended area and any attackers would have to fight their way through the other living areas to get here first. Any warriors who had arrived here must have already fought through her father's armsmen...

  “No...” Katarina froze. “That can't be. It's not possible.”

  “My Lady, until we know more we have to assume they've already overrun the entire castle. We must leave. You seem to know these passages... how do we exit?”

  Katarina felt an icy hand clench on her heart. Her brother was dead... and her last words to him had been cruel and childish. Her parents were dead... everyone she had ever known, Erik, her father's armsman, Tomus, her mother's armsman... had the old scholar Mattews been murdered as well? Had they killed him as he dozed in the library, surrounded by his old books and scrolls?

  Why had they died? Why did she still live?

  She felt Bulmor's hand on her shoulder. He pulled her along, down into the dusty passages. She heard his voice, heard him ask her questions as they walked. She couldn't understand him over the roar in her ears. Katarina couldn't bother to care over the ache as she realized everyone she loved had died.

  They moved through the passages for what felt like an eternity. Now and again, Bulmor would pause at some intersection and slowly Katarina came back to herself. She noticed the moisture that lined the walls first. That bothered her, for some reason, until she remembered that she'd heard that the deeper tunnels wound under the river... and that those old tunnels were thought to be dangerous.

  Danger... she thought, what danger need I fear now?

  Bulmor froze. Over the drip of water, Katarina heard the soft scuff of leather on stone. A moment later, Bulmor pushed her in front of him and spun to face the rear.

  “Hold, armsman, I'm not your enemy,” A light voice spoke.

  “Oh?” Bulmor asked. His squat body tensed, and Katarina saw him loosen his sword in its sheath. “Then you're some random stranger who happens to be out for a stroll... through the hidden passages of a castle under attack by mercenary assassins?”

  “No,” the voice spoke. “I came here to warn the Duke... and for my troubles he had me thrown in the dungeon. I broke out in the chaos of the attack and I stumbled across your tracks on my way out.” Katarina could barely make out his shadowy form against the darkness of the tunnel.

  “How did you know of the attack?” Bulmor asked.

  “I'm a scout,” the other man answered. “I came across the tracks of several dozen Vendakar and followed them to their camp. From its location, I guessed their target and came here.”

  “So why wouldn't the Duke trust you?” Bulmor asked. “Show yourself.”

  The other man gave a sigh, “Very well.” He stepped forward into the light. For a moment, Katarina thought her eyes played tricks on her. The man's dark skin almost seemed to blend into the darkness of the passage. His smooth shaven scalp shone slightly under the light from the lantern. His blue eyes, however, caught the light and sparkled. He wore a stained undyed tunic of wool and a dirty leather vest.

  “Armen, no wonder the Duke distrusted you,” Bulmor grunted.

  Armen, Katarina thought, how did an Armen scout come so far south?

  “Halfblood,” the other man corrected automatically. “I was raised here in the south. I'm as loyal to the Duchy as anyone.”

  Bulmor grunted. Katarina marveled at his ability to put derision, distrust, and a sense of hostility into a mere grunt.

  “Look, unless I'm tragically mistaken, you've got Lady Katarina, Duke Peter's daughter. You have to know that you're alone. You need help, and I'm offering that.”

  “For a price?” Bulmor grunted.

  “Not that I'd protest some kind of reward,” the halfblood answered. “But this is the right thing to do. Those bastards up there want her alive... and I'm sure you have heard of what the Vendakar do to their prisoners.”

  Katarina saw the muscles on the sides of Bulmor's jaw stand out as he clenched his teeth. “How do you know that?”

  “I heard some of them talking. They've killed Duke Peter and Lady Alexia as well as their son, Peter. There are some other mercenaries, not Vendakar, who want Katarina alive. And those ones mentioned their employer: Lord Hector.”

  “Hector?” Bulmor asked. “Isn't he the bastard son of Duke Peter's brother?”

  “Do I look like I pay much attention to lineage?” the other man asked and gestured down at his stained tunic and his dirty leather vest.

  “Point,” Bulmor nodded.

  “Why would Hector kill my family?” Katarina asked. She barely remembered the man, though she'd heard he'd taken over the Longhaven Barony after Baron Estrel died.

  Both men looked at her as if they'd forgotten about her presence.

  “We're wasting time,” the halfblood said. “If I could find your tracks, I'm certain others can. You need all the help you can get. You've plans to get the girl to safety? Maybe to some of her family?”

  “None to trust,” Bulmor grunted. “Her mother is from Marovingia. They might welcome her.”

  “Marovingia?” the scout nodded. “You can't risk the main roads, not if Hector has men elsewhere. So you'll have to take the back roads. I can scout your way and provide another sword for her defense.”

  Bulmor grunted. Finally he extended his hand, “Bulmor.”

  The scout smiled slightly, and clasped hands with her armsman, “Gerlin.”

  “Very well, scout, get out front.” Bulmor said.

  ***

  Lady Katarina

  Zielona Gora Barony

  Twenty-Fifth of Ravin, cycle 995 Post Sundering

  Katarina ached with every step as she plodded along the old, almost overgrown, road. She knew that they needed to let the horses rest, to retain their strength for when they truly needed it. Even so, as she glanced up at the mare that Gerlin had stolen for her, she wondered how her slight form could in any way impair the animal. Yet, from how her horse had its head lowered, she could tell she was near the end of her strength.

  The past two weeks had blurred together into a haze composed of the fear of discovery, exhaustion, and brief moments of terror as Bulmor and Gerlin fought to protect her. It seemed to her as if Lord Hector's men were everywhere, and a part of her had given up hope that they might escape at all.

  The doors slammed in her face, the people too fearful to even meet her eyes, those things were more real. The men in Lord Hector's colors of yellow and black that had attacked them along the road the first day were far more real. The assassins who'd attacked out of the night without warning later that week had cemented the emotional realization that men she didn't know and had never harmed sought to kill her. It brought a profound sense of terror, at first. She couldn't move, couldn't breath, could barely react to Bulmor's shouted commands. Yet, that instant terror was nothing compared to the grinding, overpowering dread that each new hillcrest would bring more men to take her life, that each door they passed would spill forth more assassins.

  That kind of dread made it hard to think, hard even to eat or sleep. She had found that it was best if she didn't sleep, in fact, in those rare moments that they
found a place to rest. With sleep came the nightmares. When she slept, she was trapped, a prisoner to her dreams... she couldn't escape.

  She had come a long way in both attitude and appearance since the day Lord Hector had made her an orphan. Gone was her quick smile and laughter along with her expensive dress and soft velvet slippers. Katarina wore a simple woolen dress and stockings, both of dull brown, along with a woolen cloak, all of it either purchased with their meager funds or stolen and Katarina didn't care which. She found it hard to care about anything at this point.

  Katarina couldn't even find the energy for anger or bitterness. Those would draw attention or waste time; either of which would lead to her death. She felt tired and sad, in part, but mostly she felt cold. She built up a shell of cold that would protect her. If she felt cold, she didn't care about the blood and fear and death... and with the cold, she didn't have to care any more about her father, mother, brother, and all the people who she had loved and lost. She no longer wondered what might drive men to kill a little boy and to try to kill his older sister. She understood, on some level, that Lord Hector had to kill them both, but that logic had been a distant thing, at first. The death of her brother was something removed, something that she could almost believe that she had imagined.

  She didn't realize that Bulmor had stopped until she almost ran into his horse. She followed his gaze back down the road to an approaching figure. She recognized the easy gait before she could make out the halfblood's dusky skin. It looked as if Gerlin had returned from his scout of their back trail.

  Bulmor waited for the scout to reach them, “Anything to worry about?”

  “Wagon from behind,” Gerlin said. “It's a mule cart, only the one fellow on it, looks like a merchant.”

  “You sure he's just a merchant?” Bulmor asked. “Not a lot out this way to bring someone like that.” Katarina's armsman stood like a solid granite statue, stocky and as immovable as stone.