King Breaker

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘I’m no coward,’ Vilderavn said.

  The older corax gestured to Byren. ‘Why die for a thick-skulled Rolencian royal?’

  ‘At least I choose who I die for. Who do you serve?’

  ‘House Nictocorax,’ the younger assassin said with pride. ‘Our Lady Death.’

  ‘But who does she serve?’ Vilderavn countered.

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Hraefe,’ the grey-haired corax ordered. ‘I’ll deal with him. Incapacitate the usurper, then kill his lover.’

  Vilderavn did not take his eyes off the two coraxes. ‘Go now.’

  ‘But—’ Orrade began.

  ‘We can take them,’ Byren said.

  ‘This man was my mentor,’ Vilderavn said, holding the older man’s gaze. ‘Get out while you still can.’

  Before Orrade or Byren could argue, the assassins attacked.

  The young corax went for Orrade. Byren darted between them, caught Hraefe’s strike on his blade and deflected the blow.

  The older corax leapt for Vilderavn. Their blades sang as they sliced the air. Hraefe turned his wrist, trapped Byren’s blade, twisted and disarmed him so effectively his hand went numb. Instead of closing in for the kill, the young corax kicked Byren’s knee and turned on Orrade.

  Byren went down, falling hard. He had to roll aside as Vilderavn and the older corax surged past him, their blades flying in a flurry of blows.

  Outside, someone yelled. ‘This way. I hear sword fighting!’

  Byren could see that Hraefe was every bit as skilled as Orrade, who was the best swordsman of their generation. His friend backed away, defending without counter attacking as he weighed up his opponent. He would not be lured into a strike that left him open.

  Byren sprang to his feet, staggering as his left knee gave way. Furious, he drew his knife and threw it. The angle was bad, but it was enough to distract the young corax. Orrade cut him down.

  Fight dirty, fight to win, Captain Temor’s words came back to him.

  Sudden silence made Byren’s ears ring. He spun to see Vilderavn near the table. He stood over the older corax, his blade through the man’s chest. Byren heard shouting and the thunder of boots on the steps.

  Vilderavn withdrew the blade and saluted his old teacher.

  The landing filled with Merofynian men-at-arms.

  Vilderavn stepped forward to meet them, calling over his shoulder, ‘Go!’

  With a ragged shout, the men-at-arms charged.

  Eyes hard and glittering, Orrade grabbed Byren and pulled him towards the window.

  Behind him, Byren heard a cry of pain, smashing crockery and angry shouts. Ahead of him, Orrade shoved the screen aside and flung the window open.

  He took Byren’s shoulder and shoved. ‘You first.’

  With one foot on the sill, Byren levered his weight up and onto the roof. Orrade followed. Byren reached down to help him. Someone made a grab for Orrade, but he kicked the man in the face and the Merofynian retreated, cursing.

  The moss covered slates were slippery as a wet mountain slope. They ran across the steep incline, making for the building at the far end. Byren lurched with every second step. Two Merofynians followed.

  As the gap to the next roof opened up before them, Byren swore under his breath. They couldn’t go back. Orrade did not hesitate.

  He jumped, landed lightly and beckoned. ‘I’ll catch you.’

  Byren had no choice. His bad knee went out from under him as he landed.

  Orrade steadied him as several slates came loose and skittered off the roof to fall into the alley below.

  ‘Come on.’ Orrade took off.

  Grimacing with annoyance and pain, Byren scrambled after him, up the slope and over the apex of the roof. Thank Halcyon there was an easy jump to the next roof.

  But instead of making the jump, Orrade pulled him sideways along the roof, until they were hidden behind a dormer window.

  Byren stretched out on the steep incline, taking the weight off his bad leg. Orrade grabbed a roof slate and threw it at an adjacent rooftop. The clattering sound lured the Merofynians onto the other roof.

  As soon as the last pursuer disappeared, Orrade forced open the dormer window and helped Byren into the attic. It was littered with ragged blankets and rubbish, and the wattle and daub walls were exposed in places.

  ‘Can you walk?’ Orrade asked.

  ‘I can limp.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to dress as beggars to escape.’

  Orrade draped them in rags and soon they looked sufficiently disreputable to blend in.

  Byren was glad of Orrade’s shoulder as they navigated the narrow steps. On the next floor he heard a baby crying listlessly and women arguing. On the ground floor, he caught glimpses of couples in darkened alcoves. No one stopped Byren and Orrade as they passed down the passage and out into the street.

  The lane was narrow and fetid, and there seemed to be shouting from every direction as the Merofynians searched for them.

  ‘Lucky for us I know my way around,’ Orrade muttered, and they set off.

  Byren winced with each step as Orrade led them through back lanes and beer gardens to the nearest square. Seeing the stretch of open ground, Byren hesitated.

  ‘We need to get across to the lakeside docks before the Merofynians can close the wharfs,’ Orrade whispered. ‘This is the quickest way.’

  Byren nodded.

  Head down, he leaned on Orrade’s shoulder and watched the cobles under their feet. They were halfway across the square when someone shouted at them. ‘You two! The crippled beggar and his friend, stop. Stop, I say!’

  Orrade reached under his ragged costume.

  ‘Don’t even think about fighting,’ Byren muttered. ‘Leave me.’

  Orrade pulled out the corax’s bag of coins and tugged the draw-string open with his teeth. ‘Pity we have to waste gold, when coppers would’ve served as well.’ He raised his voice. ‘King Byren’s blessing.’ And tossed coins left and right. ‘King Byren’s blessing on his people!’

  Like flies on a corpse, beggars, ragged children, desperate women of the night and eager molly-boys clustered around them. As the port’s poor fought over the coins and the Merofynians fought to push through them, Byren and Orrade took off, Byren lurching badly with every second step. Tomorrow, he would not be able to use his leg. But if he didn’t push himself now, there would be no tomorrow.

  They had to get to the lakeside wharves and find passage on a ship going to Rolenton. And it had to be a fast one, if they wanted to save Piro from her own foolishness.

  A little later, Byren hid in an alley out the back of a lakeside tavern, while Orrade went to negotiate passage to Rolenton. Three drunken sailors sprawled in the rubbish nearby, sleeping off a night’s overindulgence. From the smell, Byren suspected one of them had been there for several days and would not be waking.

  At the far end of the alley, respectable folk walked by with their faces averted. This would never have happened when his father was still king. When he was king, he’d have to make sure—

  Half a dozen Merofynian men-at-arms strode past, hands on sword hilts. Byren slunk lower and pretended to snore.

  A mangy dog came down the lane, investigated each of the drunks, licked up something which could have been vomit, then sniffed Byren. It went past him and lifted its leg to pee on the dead man before trotting off. Byren was grateful for small mercies. Between the stench of the alley and the ale Orrade had sprinkled on his disguise, he felt ill. It didn’t help that his knee throbbed with each beat of his heart.

  He tried to flex his left leg, only to discover it had seized up entirely. He was helpless. Equal parts frustration and terror surged through him. If he couldn’t run or fight, what use was he?

  Orrade darted into the alley, picking his way through the snoring drunks. He carried a bundle of white material and was speaking even before he reached Byren, who struggled to haul himself upright.

  ‘...a lake captain will give us passage. He gav
e me this.’ Orrade unrolled the fabric with a flick of his wrist. ‘Get rid of the rags.’

  ‘What—’ Byren began, then he realised what it was. ‘A fever cloak? Has the blackspot come back?’

  ‘Yes. And, with the over-crowding in port and the filth that’s piling up, it’ll spread.’ Orrade kicked the rags aside, then draped the hooded cloak over Byren’s shoulders. ‘Now, show me your hands.’

  Byren complied, palms up. Orrade turned his hands over, dipped into a jar and dabbed an oily black substance on Byren’s skin, producing a scattering of uneven black spots.

  Byren lifted his hand to sniff the paint. ‘Eh, what is it?’

  ‘An old mummer’s trick. Charcoal and oil. Hold still.’ Orrade added more spots to his face and neck. He produced another jar. ‘Now your hair.’

  Orrade rubbed ash through Byren’s black hair. ‘Now you are my elderly uncle, who’s sick with the blackspot fever. No one will stop us.’ He pulled the hood up so that it mostly covered Byren’s face. ‘Don’t forget to moan and stagger.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be moaning and staggering all right. I can barely stand.’

  Orrade grinned and offered his shoulder. ‘Come on, Uncle, not far now.’

  Their passage out onto the street and down the steps to the dock was painfully slow. Byren heard Merofynian voices ordering people about, but no one tried to stop them.

  He struggled along the wharf and up the gangplank. The moment they stepped onto the deck, the boat cast off. As he and Orrade made their slow way to the cabin, the sailors gave them sharp looks, but did not venture close.

  In the cabin, Byren dropped into a chair with relief, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. He gestured to the table, laden with food. ‘We’re being well looked after.’

  ‘I should think so, Uncle.’ Orrade pitched his voice to carry. ‘I had to pay double for them to transport a fever patient. I hope you’ll remember this next time I gamble away my allowance.’

  Orrade closed the door and stood still for a moment, concentrating on the motion of the ship. ‘Good, she’s making decent headway. The sooner we’re out on the lake, the better.’

  He dropped to crouch beside Byren. ‘Now show me your knee.’

  ‘I don’t think anything is broken.’ But he couldn’t bend his knee to take off his boot. Orrade had to help him.

  As he rolled up Byren’s trouser leg, Orrade whistled softly and Byren’s heart sank.

  ‘I shouldn’t have run on it.’

  ‘You had no choice.’

  ‘I was hoping the voyage would give it time to mend, but...’

  ‘I’ve bribed the captain to take us straight to Rolenton. If the winds are good, it’ll only take two days.’ Orrade looked up at Byren. ‘You’ll need the full use of your leg when—’

  ‘I know.’ Frustration ate at him.

  Orrade rubbed his jaw then seemed to come to a decision. ‘You healed me.’ He touched his chest, where the scars of the Wyvern attack had faded to pale silver threads. ‘You could heal yourself if you drew on my Affinity.’

  ‘I didn’t know what I was doing. It was instinct.’

  ‘Then go with your instincts.’ Orrade came to his feet. ‘What did you do?’

  Byren glanced away. They’d been naked, and he’d held Orrade close to warm him.

  ‘The monks told us not to let Power-workers touch our bare skin,’ Orrade said. ‘You need skin, the more the better, right?’

  Byren nodded and watched with growing misgivings as Orrade unlaced his jerkin and hung it over the chair. After tugging off his boots, Orrade pulled his shirt over his head and stepped out of his breeches, which left him wearing nothing but a linen breechcloth.

  Byren looked away.

  Orrade unrolled a blanket and spread it on the floor, then went to the door and bolted it shut.

  Byren still hadn’t moved.

  ‘Come on,’ Orrade told him. ‘If I can do this, so can you.’

  He was right. Byren gave an apologetic nod and gestured to his bad knee. ‘I’ll need a hand.’

  Orrade helped him to undress and stretch out on the floor, then joined him.

  Byren pulled Orrade’s back against his chest. ‘Now let down your barriers and summon your Affinity if you can.’

  ‘I’m always repressing it,’ he admitted. ‘What if I get lost in the visions?’

  ‘Has that happened before?’

  ‘No...’ Orrade swallowed. ‘But I did some reading in Lord Dunstany’s library and...’

  Byren hated hearing fear in his voice. Instinctively, he tightened his hold. ‘I won’t let you go.’

  Orrade nodded.

  A heartbeat later, Byren felt a teeth-grating sensation as Orrie’s power rose. Taking shelter in the seep with the ulfr pack had irrevocably changed him, just as asking the crazy old seer to heal Orrade had changed him. She’d warned Byren his friend would never be the same, and for days afterwards Orrie had been blind. At first, Byren had believed this was what she’d meant, his life in exchange for his sight. But...

  ‘Ready,’ Orrade whispered.

  ‘Ready.’ Byren slipped into the ulfr breathing pattern. He let each breath take him away and, as if from a great distance, he heard a deep rumble like a great cat purring. A healing warmth built in his body and he focused the power on his injured knee.

  Everyone believed he and Orrade were lovers. As he tapped into Orrade’s Affinity to heal himself, Byren realised that what they shared went much deeper than that.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  FYN MISSED ISOLT. She hadn’t spoken to him since the war-table meeting two days ago. He’d put the time to good use, researching what was known about bonding with Affinity beasts, but all he could find were myths, and he didn’t put much credence in such things.

  Isolt ran into the chamber of knowledge. ‘Here you are.’ She seemed hot and flustered, and unreasonably annoyed with him. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you, and you’re reading!’

  Heart racing, Fyn marked the place in his book and came to his feet. The urge to grab her and kiss her was very strong.

  And completely irrational.

  The force of his feelings surprised Fyn. He’d always been the sensible one, yet with Isolt a kind of wonderful madness threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘The nobles have called a meeting in the war chamber,’ she told him. ‘Did anyone send for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They didn’t let me know, either. I only just heard.’ She bristled and held out her hand. ‘We need to make it clear that we’re in charge. Come on.’

  Fyn took her hand, welcoming any excuse to touch her. As they made their way to the war chamber, Fyn spotted Mitrovan. Clearly the scribe had been trying to find him to warn him.

  They strode into the chamber, but Isolt dropped Fyn’s hand the moment the gathering turned to her. Everyone looked angry and troubled. There were half a dozen merchant margraves, five of the ten lords of Merofynia, and both captains, Aeran and Elrhodoc.

  A chorus of voices greeted Isolt.

  She signalled for silence. A servant arrived with wine and another with food. Isolt took a glass, before sending the servants around the gathering. ‘Now, what is the problem?’

  ‘The spars have attacked my estate!’ Neiron announced. ‘Amfina and Lincis warlords have come over the Dividing Mountains. My man reports seven hundred spar warriors—’

  ‘Seven hundred...’ Dismayed whispers filled the chamber. ‘So many...’

  ‘My people had no warning. My estate is already in spar hands. The spar warriors have headed west—’

  ‘West?’ Young Wythrod looked horrified ‘To my estate?’

  ‘He said west, not southwest,’ Yorale said. ‘It’s my estate that’s under threat.’

  ‘They have to take my estate,’ Wythrod insisted. His land jutted into the Landlocked Sea. ‘They can’t leave an enemy behind their lines.’

  Fyn was inclined to agree with him.

  ‘This is terrible.’
Wythrod turned on Fyn. ‘You encouraged my grandfather to save the Benetir Estate, to teach the spar warlords a lesson. He died for nothing!’

  ‘He died to avenge your aunt’s murder,’ Fyn said. ‘If Amfina and Lincis Spars have already taken Nevantir Estate, that means they planned this attack before Benetir was taken. There hasn’t been time for them to hear about the fate of the Centicore warlord.’

  ‘First Centicore, now these two. If three of the spar warlords have dared to come over the Divide, what’s stopping the other two?’ Travany asked, jowls trembling.

  ‘When they hear I hold the Centicore warlord’s son hostage—’

  ‘It’ll be too late then!’ Travany snapped. ‘Spar barbarians are no better than Utlanders. Look what they did to the Benetir girl. Now Neiron’s sister is in their clutches. Our wives and daughters are not safe in their own homes!’

  Neiron gasped. ‘My sister!’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Elrhodoc slid an arm around Neiron’s shoulders. ‘You can’t do anything for her. She’s ruined.’

  Lord Rhoderich ran his hand through his receding hair. ‘How dare they—’

  ‘They dare because...’ Yorale bowed to Isolt. ‘Forgive me, my queen, but I must speak frankly. When the spar warlords look on Merofynia, they see a fifteen-year-old queen, her armies depleted by war. They see a queen who is betrothed to a deposed Rolencian king and they think us weak!’

  ‘Then they’re wrong!’ Fyn stepped forward. ‘They might look over the Divide and see your rich estates and think you soft. They might think to emulate Palatyne. But Cortigern already tried it and we proved him wrong. We executed him, driving his warriors over the Divide with their tails between their legs. And we’ll drive these two warlords back to where they came from!’

  The margraves voiced their support. War meant the nobles needed armour, weapons and supplies; war meant profit.

  Fyn deliberately drew Isolt forward. ‘It’s time to unite behind Isolt Wyvern Queen.’

  ‘My lord protector’s right,’ Isolt said. ‘It’s time to teach the spars a lesson!’

  Fyn lifted his glass. ‘To another two hundred years free of spar rebellion!’