Rythe Falls

by Craig R. Saunders

  'Plenty. I've been Kinging.'

  'Kinging? Is that a word?'

  Renir gave her a bow. 'It is tonight. Good night. Until the morning.'

  She returned the bow, deeper. 'My liege. A small piece of last advice, if I may?'

  'You may.'

  'Even a king needs to stop Kinging, sometimes. Sleep. Morning will be soon enough.'

  He nodded, then turned and walked away. He couldn't stop thinking, he found, as he wandered toward his room. But slower, now. Slower.

  When he reached his room a servant waited, a young man no more than fourteen.

  'I can manage to undress myself,' he said and sent the boy away. 'Tell your master I was pleased,' he added. He didn't know the rules.

  Time to learn them, he thought, as he slipped into his bed, dirt and soot and sweat and blood and all.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  After his time on the road Renir had become accustomed to early starts, rude awakenings and any number of nightmare sleeps. Still, being woken in the dark by the young lad who turned out to be his very own servant, the youngster coughing politely, was probably the worst. Not terrifying or even a rude awakening...but all the more horrible for the politeness of it. Renir's first instinct was to whack the phantom cougher with his axe and let the day light sort out the mess. But he was a king, now, wasn't he? Don't start out on the wrong foot, he thought, carefully opening his eyes. Consider this urchin a...test. A warm-up for the day. If a man can deal with a morning cougher, he can probably run a country.

  'Hmm...' mumbled Renir, not sure about his own early morning wisdom.

  'Your Grace?'

  'What?'

  'You said something?'

  'No I didn't. I made an exclamation of sorts, at best. Anyway, why are you looming over me like that, at this ridiculous hour in the morning?'

  'I...your Grace. I...'

  'Who are you, anyway?'

  'We met last evening, I'm your manservant.'

  'Yes, but who are you?'

  'My name, your Grace?'

  'Grace? King'll do. Yes, your name, lad. I believe it's customary in these situations.'

  'Small Peter...er...my King?'

  'Small Peter?'

  'My brother is Tall Peter.'

  'Your mother named you both Peter?'

  'Our father, sir. He was drunk. Mother died birthing us. Twins, sir.'

  'And Tall Peter...he's taller than you, is he?'

  'No, sir. A slight part shorter.'

  Renir stared at the lad for a moment, unsure if he was able to process quite so much not two minutes after opening his eyes. Still wondering if, in fact, his axe might not have been the wiser option.

  But he clapped his hands, making the lad jump. 'Right. Might as well get dressed, see about sorting out this mess, eh?'

  'Yes, your King.'

  Renir let that pass.

  'Bath?'

  'Me?' said Renir.

  'My king...yes.'

  'Is it ready?'

  'I drew it this morning, sir,' said Small Peter carefully.

  'It's barely a new day...you been awake all night?'

  'I...'

  Renir looked at the lad, saw his red eyes and his narrow cheeks. The boy looked bloody starving.

  'Well, Small Peter, I'm going to give you an order. You can follow orders, right?'

  'I can.'

  'Then go and have that bath. Get some food, from the kitchens. Any man gives you a hard time, tell them to come to me. Then...get some sleep. I presume you've got a room?'

  'I...I sleep outside your door.'

  'On the stone? In the autumn?' Renir shook his head.

  Start this day like you mean to go on, he reminded himself. 'Well, bath, eat. Then sleep. But not on the bloody floor. In here, this bed. We'll sort something out for tonight, but if you're going to be my man, then you're not sleeping on the stone anymore. Got it?'

  'Sir,' said the lad. Renir wasn't sure if he looked mortified, or pleased, or if both expressions were simply the same on Small Peter's face.

  'Go on then, I can dress and feed myself, thank you.'

  The lad bowed, clumsily, but it seemed heartfelt, then scuttled out the door.

  Renir sniffed himself.

  'Bath. Nonsense,' he said to the empty room, and began to dress.

  *

  Renir Esyn (King Esyn, he supposed, but he'd be damned if he'd start thinking of himself by title rather than name) stared at the human wreckage strewn around the courtyard. Bodies and parts of bodies. Burned and stabbed, hacked or smashed. Death everywhere. The night's rain dampened the corpses' hair, gave the dead a sheen, rather than a pallor. Eyes were open, staring. Moist.

  A few men in armour milled around, some servants. People going about their day. Checking over their shoulders, like the dead were watching and judging.

  Renir settled his aching shoulders and looked around for a good spot. Strangely, his finger and ribs still pained him, but where his finger had seemed...loose, now it was moving when he told it to.

  Hertha, he thought. Still meddling. But this thought, for the first time, caused him to smile.

  A good spot...where everyone can see me...

  There, above the front gates, the battlements were low. A few stones were loose or even blown clear. A body leaned out between the crenelations, a Drayman arrow in his back. Renir took the steps up, strode along the walkway and then heaved the unfortunate man down to the courtyard. Then, first job done, he called to a guardsman who he saw limping along on some errand or other.

  'Name?' He should probably learn to recognise men by their rank, but name would suffice for the morning.

  'Deitor, my lord,' said the man, pausing in along his way, standing uncomfortably on a bad leg.

  'Is there a bell, or a horn, or some such? To rouse the castle?'

  'My lord?'

  Renir sighed. 'I want to wake everyone up, Deitor, and I don't want to have to shout my lungs out like a hawker or a fishmonger.'

  'Sir,' said the man, snapping out a sharp bow. Then the man bellowed at the top of his voice. 'Rise! Rise at the King's command! Rise, one and all!'

  Renir covered his ears.

  'Anything else, my lord?'

  'No. No. Very good,' he said.

  Second order of the day. Get a horn.

  *

  Bear made a show of sniffing Renir as he stood beside him, facing the morning crowd. Tirielle smiled behind her hand.

  'Bit ripe, my lord.'

  Renir bit back a retort and made yet another note. Bath. Sometimes.

  'Where are the others? Drun?'

  Quintal stood at Renir's right, resplendent. Probably never even needed a bath, thought Renir. Neat trick.

  'Sorely tired, King Esyn. Drun is...sorely tired.'

  Renir nodded. He wasn't blind. He knew the priest was sick with something. 'Let him rest. Has anyone seen the mage? Garner?'

  Tirielle nodded. 'Saw him first thing, taking his breakfast with his brothers. Shall I send for him?'

  'Please,' said Renir.

  Next note...you don't have to do everything yourself.

  So he allowed Tirielle to find a messenger and send them to find Garner.

  'What you thinking, Renir?' asked Bear. Bear's hair was...clean. Renir didn't think he'd ever seen Bourninund with a patina of grease covering every inch.

  Definitely time for a bath...

  Renir inclined his head toward the remains of the inner, walled, city. Pointed out, further still, to the flattened mess that was the outer city, once little more than slums, now nothing but mud, littered with dead and burned things.

  People were beginning to gather.

  'I'm thinking we need to start cleaning up. Before people get sick, or bored and turn to looting. I'm thinking people like a good speech. And there are a lot of people. I want them to hear, if they can. I'm thinking so much, friends, that my head's liable to fall off any minute with the weight of all these thoughts.'

  '
A king doesn't need to think of everything himself,' said Quintal. 'Nor do everything.'

  'I know,' said Renir. 'I'm learning. I'll need a council, too. I think my friends should definitely share in my...joy.'

  'By joy, you mean misery, don't you?' said Bear, not looking enthralled at the prospect.

  'That's the word, Bourninund. Yes. You're learning already.'

  Renir winked, and Bear groaned.

  Garner approached along the battlements, and bowed deep and slow before Renir. The young mage seemed tired, but he wore his robe and his back was straight. In short, thought Renir, he looks like a bloody mage. Which was just the job he wanted...and a little extra.

  'Garner, thank you. Can you...lend my words strength?'

  'Yes,' said the wizard, simply.

  Renir looked out at the city...his city. But his people, within it. Hurt, tired. Homeless, probably, and the euphoria of living never did last long, especially when you found you had no home, no food, and maybe lost those you love, too.

  'I always did enjoy a rousing speech,' said Bear, nudging Wen, who'd come to watch.

  'Well, you might want to nap through this one,' said the King, and began to speak.

  *

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  'Sturma!' Renir did not yell, but with Garner's aid, his words boomed across the city.

  A small cheer, which was more than Renir expected. Cheering a single word? Maybe people needed something a little more rousing for a larger cheer. Early days. He'd settle for no one stoning him.

  'We fought a brave battle and won victory. A hard victory that cost us dear, but our enemies now know we will not fade, nor shirk when it comes to the ugly duties of war.' Best get that bit in early, he thought. Better forewarned where unpleasant tasks were concerned. Hit them with something pleasing before asking them to do anything they might not want to. A man's more likely to set to a tough task if he's got a bit of cheer about him. Set him grumbling first, and the nice stuff pales to meaningless.

  Renir had done his share of make-work in his life...kinging, he figured, was just about having a little sense when it came to people.

  He figured...he hoped, was more like it.

  After all, people thought differently, didn't they? They weren't all the same. Otherwise, Kinging would be so easy any fool could do it.

  Gods, he thought...I hope that's true.

  Renir lowered his head a moment, to be sure he really meant what he was about to say. Then, he looked up, straight to those close enough to see his eyes, his face.

  'War's a hard business. We lost friends, family. Lost lovers and children. Some, most, no doubt, are without their homes and their possessions.'

  A few not so friendly 'ayes' chorused through the people. Renir held up a hand. 'We will rebuilt. But we can't build on the dead. Nor will we bury the Draymen.'

  A few gasps. Burial was the Sturman way. Some believed a man couldn't pass Madal's Gates through the air, but only through the dirt.

  'We will built a great pyre, beyond the city limits. The city will grow, yes, but the pyre will stand as a monument. The flames from their dead will light the sky for days. The Draymen will know never to return. When the fires burn down, in days, or weeks, we will cover their bones with a mountain of dirt. The mound will serve to remind all of the folly of choosing Sturma for an enemy!'

  At this last, Renir put some volume and passion into his voice. A larger cheer, this time. And the crowd had grown, too. People came to listen from the outskirts, even from the nearer farms to the east, untouched by the battle.

  'Atop the mound we will plant the tree of mourning, as is right, for all should remember that war bears bitter fruit.' A few nods, here and there. 'Always, a tree of mourning shall stand atop the mound.'

  'Friends, we will honour and remember. Our Sturman dead, and our allies, will be interred within the city, in the Tomb of Heroes.' Sounded suitable, thought Renir, as names went. 'The Sturman dead will be remembered. It will be a shrine, and each year a feast day will mark and thank them for their sacrifice.'

  Another cheer.

  Damn, I should stop talking and just make up heroic names for things. Be quicker and a sight easier...

  'Don't get cocky,' whispered Wen, at his shoulder.

  Good advice, he knew. And advice he planned to heed, wherever he could.

  'For now, all able bodied men and women should begin to move the Draymen dead to the site of the pyre. There is much work to be done, but your homes will be rebuilt. The treasury will bear the cost. We will help each other. Sturma, Naeth...we are one. We will be stronger than ever, and Naeth will once again be the greatest city in the land...and greater still. This city was the first city of the Sturmen, when our forefathers came from across the seas. It will be great again...and...'

  Renir faltered, and his makeshift council of friends faltered, too. As they did, the majority of people in the crowd around the walls to the castle turned to see why...and a panicked cry went up.

  Some began to reach for arms, but from the courtyard below, the man Sutter cried out. 'Banner of the Spar, my Liege, and more. They are friends...reinforcements...' he laughed.

  Renir frowned. Thousands of men-at-arms...maybe as many as three thousand. Armour glinting now the suns were out again. Banners flapping in the chill autumn breeze, a hint of the winter's cold to come. Long supply trains dawdling behind, auxiliaries, too. Might have been an impressive sight if they hadn't only just stood down the might of the Draymar plains with naught but a handful of men.

  'Best see what they want,' said Quintal.

  Renir nodded. 'With me, Tirielle, Bear, Wen, Quintal, Garner...and Sutter, too.'

  He took the stairs down, walked with his back straight and his crown seated firm on his head, through the crowd who parted willingly. Refrains of, 'My Liege,' or, 'My Lord,' followed him.

  Finally he stood at the edge of the city and met the envoys of the army before him, with his own council, his trusted friends, around him.

  He did not have his axe at hand.

  The Lord and Thanes of all the southern lands, come to aid...or steal away?

  Aid, Renir thought, but show no chink now...show strength, determination. He wasn't a fool. Men might want this shiny crown for themselves. That was easy enough to read. Some men loathed power. Some would die to have it.

  'You'd be the king then, aye?' A gnarly old warrior spoke for the men before him.

  'And you are?'

  'Frederik. King Esyn, is it?'

  'It is. Frederik...well met, I trust? You and your...army...are a little late.'

  'Takes time to ride the length of the country. Some buggers didn't want to fight, didn't want to answer the call. Forget their duty. Took a time to remind them.'

  Frederik stepped down from his charger, a big and heavy horse that looked right tired after riding all that way.

  'Glad to find there's still a man knows how to swing a blade in the north,' said Frederik. 'If you'll have what aid we can give, then the Spar and it's men are at your...service.'

  Frederik dropped to his knee.

  'You're the Thane of Spar?'

  'My Liege, I am.'

  Renir was at a mild loss. For some reason, when he'd taken the crown, he'd overlooked the fact that he'd be wanting the Thanes to take the knee to him. Better them kneeling than plotting to kill him.

  'Get up, man,' said Renir, and took the old warrior's gauntleted hand. 'Friends are hard to come by these days.'

  'The Spar remembers the days of Kings, my lord. We will do our duty.'

  'And nothing onerous, I hope,' said Renir. 'Well met, Thane Frederik. And thank you.'

  The man nodded, and turned to his men, his retainers. He gave the other, lesser Thanes in his company a bold stare, and they too dismounted and took the knee to pledge their allegiance. All but one.

  'Really, Frederik? We bow to this man because he wears a crown alone?'

  'This man led the defeat of the entire Draymar nation and the blood of kings flows
through his veins!' Bourninund looked just about ready to take the man's head off.

  'You are?' asked Renir, calmly. His heart beat, yes, but he was calm. No reason not to be.

  The man preened. An older man, with a long beard and heavy gut. 'Thane Yerrod, of the Fresh Woods, the Lare lands and the Marching Lord of...'

  Renir cut him short. 'The Crown of Kings sits upon my head, Thane Yerrod. Yes, by right, I rule Naeth, because I and my men won it hard and saw rivers of blood. But Sturma? My land calls my blood, the people call me king. What right? Right of blood. The blood of Kings. Want to try it on, Sir?' Renir took the crown and held it easy out for the man to try to take, should he wish. 'None but those of the King's line may wear this crown, or bear it's weight. But feel free, Sir. Take it. Go ahead.'

  Yerrod's hand snaked out, then, back to his wide lap.

  'So much talk of blood,' sniffed the fat man. 'Rather distasteful...'

  'Distasteful, eh, my Lord?' said Renir, holding out a hand to stall any interference from the men who bristled at his back. 'Distasteful? Today, we build a pyre from a mountain of dead Draymen. Tomorrow, we build a shrine in the heart of our ruined city to the brave brothers and sisters of Sturma. We mourn our friends, and give thanks for our victory. And you sit atop your horse and snivel at the mention of blood?'

  'I...my Lord...' said Yerrod, sensing, at last, the change in the wind. 'I did not mean to give offence.'

  'And I have taken none,' said Renir. 'Now kneel to your Liege. By the right of my blood...or...yours.'

  The fat man quivered, but he got down. He looked to the other Thanes for their support, but there was none. A grin or two, perhaps, though subtle, if at all. Yerrod knelt.

  Good enough...for now.

  Then, louder than Renir could even bellow, the Thane of the Spar yelled out above the sound of his men's clanking steel and the whinnying of the horses.

  'Hail the King of Sturma! Rejoice in a new day dawning! For the King! For Sturma! For Sturma!'

  The men knew their duty. They roared, the crowd of townsfolk roared.

  Renir did his best not to soil himself.

  'Buggers made me jump,' he whispered in Bear's ear, and the old bastard had the nerve to laugh. 'I wasn't joking,' said Renir, sternly.