The only hint that this was clearly their murderer lay in his eyes, glazed as if he couldn't see in the present. "Why did you do it?" she hissed into his ears.
His head jerked about, as if he couldn't hear her through the voices in his head. Chance raised him higher and shook, "Answer the lady."
Slowly the wild eye rotated onto Ciara as if he saw her for the first time, "Dark night demon, you can't hurt us anymore. We've joined the Winter Lady in her castle of ice."
"What?"
Chance glared into the crazed eye that rolled over towards him and then it tsked, "Walk with the monsters and expect the sword."
The lonely brother opened his hands, letting the prisoner fall to the ground, his legs catching poorly under him. A loud crack resonated around the silent glen, and the man screamed in pain. Kynton dashed forward, already calculating how to set a fracture in his head, but that dark assassin grabbed him by the arm and held him firmly in place.
"Not much point in healing the dead, priest," Taban said as Chance leaned into the squealing face.
The prisoner's cries cut off into low moans as Chance said through gritted teeth, "Why?"
Perhaps it was the shock of the pain, or the realization he was moments from death but logic suddenly broke through the almost endless haze on his brain, "They says you were trouble. You swoops down out of the mountains to pick our bones clean. All of 'em about how dangerous the wagons were."
The prisoner fell silent, his mind slipping away, but Chance leaned on his shattered tibia, getting a scream and a stream of consciousness confession, "Scepticar's left us all! There's no way to gain his favor. We're all dead unless...unless them monsters, them demons of his enemies. Yes, slay them, burn them, bring light into the darkness. AH! End it all so that others can live!"
"He's barking mad," Kynton argued, "You can't be seriously considering this."
"From my home, we put down mad dogs," Taban said simply.
"He doesn't even know where he is! Or who he is," Kynton pointed out as the prisoner began to crow like a cockerel into the rising sun.
"And what would you prefer, priest?" Isa's voice was a breath of ice in the fires of rage, "that he be freed to kill again? Madness like that cannot be broken, cannot be burned out, it can only be stopped."
Kynton broke her pale gaze. There'd been a few; wanderers, pilgrims, their minds consumed by fever even as their bodies healed, that were little more than husks. It was put to a committee vote what was to be done, even though the answer was always the same. The priest sagged, "At least let me administer his confession."
"So you can assure his place in the heavenly afterlife?" Isa mocked as the broken creature tried to crawl away.
Aldrin searched his mind, trying to find an answer, "There has to be something, some place, that he can be sent."
"And the softhearted king would let a murderer roam his lands," Isa turned on the boy. "And what will you do when he kills again, perhaps next time it will be a bunch of widows or children. Where do you send him then?"
The witch's poisoned words slipped into the morning air as Chance watched the mad man still trying to scrabble to his feet despite his broken leg. He'd get to his knees before the pain would spasm and he'd drop again, blood already pooling down his pants leg and onto the snow below. Ciara laid a comforting hand on his arm, and Chance turned to look into the same broken eyes reflected from his lost brother. With her head, she gestured to the mad man and nodded slowly. For the first time pity overtook rage and Chance closed his eyes in bitter tears for the man he'd hurt.
"The Solude of the Lost Boys," Chance whispered to himself before shouting out, "Priest, come here!"
The bickering behind him stopped as Isa folded her arms in supposed triumph over the runny king. Taban released his grip on Kynton, who adjusted his robes before shuffling to Chance's side.
"Bandage him up as best you can," he said to the priest, "and check the restraints. We'll need something he can live with for a while."
"I..." Kynton stuttered, watching the man watching the broken soul crawling upon the ground. But he didn't wait for conformation from Chance and palpated the mad man's leg searching for the obvious break.
"We take him to the Solude of the Lost Boys, they take special cases," he said as he rose to face his fellow brothers. It hadn't been an easy life under the ever-watchful eye, but it was better than blood on all their hands.
"You cannot be serious; he killed your brother!" Dean shouted, trying to get some sense though that thick skull of the Bother.
"Yes," Chance nodded slowly, "and he could be someone else's brother. What gives me the right to kill him?"
"Ah..." Dean tried to start, but only found a burning in his throat from the night's fire.
"The Solude is where we should go," Chance continued in the face of no opposition, "Assuming it is approved by the Chancellor."
Bartrone blinked as all eyes turned to him. He'd been as ready as any of them to spill the madman's blood upon the snow, but watching Chance deflate somehow changed everything. "Very well. We must pick through the remains, make proper burials and transfers, and then we head far into the east for the Solude."
The new Chancellor turned to Aldrin, his eyes wiped clean of the hatred that had always burned there for the boy king, "I am afraid that we can no longer accompany you, my King. If we take this...man, we must set out for Solude immediately."
Aldrin nodded slowly, "Medwin," his voice caught at that name, "He only agreed to take us this far. I would expect no more." And he put out his hand, which Bartrone took and shook deeply. For the first time the two of them agreed upon something.
Chance watched Kynton trying to subdue the madman kicking wildly at the doctor poking his wounds. "Did I do the right thing?" he asked the wind, wishing it was his brother.
Ciara slipped her hand inside his and said softly, "I don't think any of us can ever know. Best we can do is try."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The roar of battle erupted from Marciano's throat as his pike stuck into the chest of a man not much into his adult years. He hurled the corpse to the ground, his pike of little use now, and unsheathed his sword. Gaining ground was proving more unstable with each blood-letting minute. The land was flat and unwelcoming to any strategy of ambush, but still the rebels pushed against them. Men, boys, and he suspected even some women, threw their whole lives against the steel of the Empire.
Marciano's sword turned quickly, slicing deep into the belly of a man kitted in little more than a pair of washtubs tied to his midsection. The well seasoned arm of Lanza bashed into a pair of boys, breaking apart their attack, before swinging his axe around to finish the job.
This wasn't war, it was suicide.
And, on the only bit of high ground, overlooking the massacre was the force behind it all. A breeze blew back Marciano's damp curls and he paused to watch the Queen of the Osteros pacing upon her vantage. She seemed to be giving signals to another man yards away.
"Lanza!" he called to his right hand.
"Wha'? I'm a bit busy," Lanza shouted back, his fingers slipping from the blood pooling over a small flesh wound. This gave his axe a disarming wobble as he hatcheted off the pair of daggers some idiot thought would look cool. His opponent only had time to mutter a "Hey, that's unfair," before his neck was slashed.
"She's controlling the flow of her troops. I take her down, we can regroup and end this," Marciano explained, waiting for his oldest friend to finish.
Lanza yanked off his gauntlet and inspected the bloody gash, his fingers stupidly poking it, before he ripped off a section of his lieutenant cape and knotted it into a bandage. He glanced up at Marciano, the fabric still in his teeth, "Wha' was that?"
"Get me to that bitch!"
Lanza rose and saluted with his axe, "Sir, yes Sir!"
The screams of his own men faded into the background as they always did, as they always must. To get distraught, emotional over one loss could doom thousands. Despite being kitted out i
n little more than kitchen and serving ware, the rebels were holding their own. They, used to the colds of the fresh northern spring, waited until the sun was beating high overhead when most of his men stripped their armor in the unexpected heat. It would have been a near perfect ambush had Marciano been anyone else.
Rather than scatter in terror, his men banded, falling behind the first barricade to regroup and come back anew. This gave enough time for the back troops to join and all out war began. After so many were lost in the hellish ship ride to even get to this scrap of land, the general began to doubt he'd have any left but Lanza by the time this brutal fight was done.
Lanza, ever the wall, ran in front of the General, his shield acting as a battering ram. Hell, the thing was certified a battering ram in over twenty different city-states. The size of a small man, it was smelted from an old pile of swords the Emperor declared obsolete. Sharp points emerged, as if the process never fully took and the shield was still half sword. It lost its gleam long ago, fading to a flat grey, until blood was spilt upon it. The rivulets of crimson shined up the shield until it glowed.
The Lieutenant ran balls out, screaming every vaguely inflammatory statement he could think of. While trampling across a man crawling along the ground he shouted back, "Your mother enjoys the scent of pine!" It had been a very long day and Lanza was running out of ideas.
Marciano, the steady sword at the side of their two man show, sliced through a pair of invaders. "Their armor's getting more professional," he said to his friend as his blade bounced against real gauntlets.
"I noticed," Lanza grunted, before throwing his axe into the lad's chest.
The body dropped instantly, and Lanza walked forward to retrieve his axe. He eyed up his friend and said, "You got a bit of blood on you."
Marciano laughed, "Is that a joke?" He looked like he'd run nude through a sausage fest; gore was worked deep into his pores.
"This 'uns your own," Lanza said, gesturing to the General's leg.
His eyes followed Lanza's axe to a gash, little larger than a rapier blade, running the length of his thigh. He hadn't felt it, his body was a machine operating its own programming in battle. Injuries were something to deal with later. But a small knot formed at the back of his throat, any deeper and that small gash would have been his death sentence.
A roll of smoke broke over the two, as the fire machine erupted, trying and succeeding to break through their barriers. "Sir, I don't want to be a Donatilla Downer, but if we don't take their heart down soon..."
People liked to say that failure was not an option. Typically, the same people about five minutes from having their throats slit. For Marciano failure was always an option, lurking on the edges of his vision, driving him to out maneuver it. The General scanned the battlefield again. A hard climb over rocks coated in actual soldiers awaited them to get to the Queen. She was a smart one, letting her farm boys die upon the field while saving the seasoned veterans for later. If he wasn't under orders to kill her, he'd like to shake her hand. Though she'd certainly use that opportunity to kill him.
Marciano kicked over the boy Lanza chopped through and yanked off his quiver. Only a half-dozen arrows remained, most lost in the first bombardment against their defenses. The General kicked through the snow bathed in red, hunting. "Fuck," he picked up the kid's bow, smashed in half, and tossed it violently to the side.
"What do you need, Sir?" Lanza asked, eyeing the advancing forces upon them.
"A bow."
"Any particular brand? I hear them new Avengers are a popular model," Lanza quipped.
"Do the job you're paid for," Marciano bantered back, not unkindly.
"You don't pay me enough for this job, Sir," Lanza's good eye was already tracking a particular beauty.
"I know," Marciano said, his eyes on the line out of the east, pouring from the mountains, "Take it up with the Emperor."
"Be back in a tick, Sir," Lanza said crisply before cranking back his head and roaring like a dragon. This startled the advancing men for a moment, one even dropping his sword in surprise, but they rebounded as Lanza whacked his axe against his back breaker and charged.
Most of the boys scattered like paper in the wind, a few didn't make it in time and crumpled under the weight of the siege shield, their bones snapping like fresh celery. But Lanza had his eyes on only one of them, a young thing, freshly shaved because he finally could, with a grandfatherly bow. The child flitted his bow with record speed, but each arrow bounced off the shield as if they were little more than water droplets. Lanza laughed and roared, a disturbing mix like a hyena circling around its prey. He didn't even bother with his axe, only picked up his shield and rammed it directly into the kid's tender exposed vitals. The idiot didn't even flinch; like all archers, his ass was planted in place still trying to break an impenetrable shield. The boy crumpled up, landing against the shield, and leaned into Lanza.
But the lieutenant was so focused on the prize before him he failed to notice a wily lad, most likely a petty criminal, who snuck around from behind, sharp teeth drawn at the ready. A pair sunk into Lanza's kidneys, and the old veteran cried in agony before spinning about and embedding his axe into the vagrant's chest.
Marciano turned from his own bloody work to find his right hand man sinking to his knees. He finished off the last of his line before rushing to his old friend's side. A hand slick with ichor held up the coveted bow, triumphantly.
"Lanza, you old fool," Marciano chided, "you should have waited for me."
"No time, Sir. Here," he waved the bow at his General again, hoping he'd take it.
Marciano removed the strung wood and Lanza plummeted to the ground. The General dropped to a knee to follow but the lieutenant placed his hand upon his shoulder.
"Go, Sir. You have a duty," a small stream of blood dribbled out of his mouth. "I'll be fine."
Marciano bowed lightly, his head brushing against the dying fool's cheek, "You fought bravely for the Empire."
"Sod the Empire. I fought for you," Lanza said grinning through the pain, "Now go and make that bitch pay for every inch."
The General nodded and slotted the bow around his shoulder, keeping his sword drawn and ready for action. Without looking back at the man he left to die in the mud, Marciano ran forward into the hordes. Most were turning towards his men; still trying to remain in formation as their commanders issued what few orders they could form. But a few broke off, watching the man in the suspiciously simple armor, who moved with purpose.
The General breathed in slowly to steady the blood rush of battle in his heart. He sheathed his sword and drew the bow. A small breath escaped through puckered lips as he lined the shot at a man rushing at him.
His mind traveled away from the battle, from the frozen hell of the icy barbarians, back to his home amongst the olive trees. His son threw his small bow to the ground, a very familiar pout forming along his strawberry jam encrusted lips. Marciano tutted and scooped up the bow, "Only a fool blames his tools."
He placed it back in the boy's hands, which held onto the wood as if it were an asp. Marciano walked behind his son, little past his tenth year, and lined the bow up, one of the smaller arrows slotting into place. His still wounded hands cupped his pristine son's and drew back the tight string.
A tender voice, foreign to the one he used in battle, whispered into his son's ear. "You mustn't be afraid of the target. You are not its enemy. You move with it. Track the arrow with your heart and then your eyes."
Then he let loose the string.
The arrow wobbled in the air, dancing with the wind as the arrowhead bit deep into one of the melons his wife picked out for dinner. His son's mouth fell open in shock, then he turned to his father in joy and cried out, "It hit it? Did you see? It hit it!"
As the exhilaration wore down, a familiar pain bit into the boy's skin and he looked at a rising welt on his inner forearm. "Why didn't you tell me it'd hurt, Father?"
Marciano scooped his boy up easily into his arms
and nudged his forehead with his own, "Pain can only be overcome with joy. If I'd told you it hurt, you wouldn't have tried."
The hazy vision vanished from his mind as his own fingers let loose the arrow. It traveled straight and true, right through the throat of the advancing soldier. Lanza found him a good bow. Marciano unleashed another pair of arrows into the horde trying to surround him, getting a feel for her aim. He knew he only had one shot at this. As the final man fell, the others retreated towards the Queen's side. Marciano looked toward the towering woman, her arms flailing about. Something very large was coming.
Like a berserker clean out of his mind, the General chased after the retreating soldiers. Luckily, they ran faster than the man in true splintmail. He was uncertain what he'd do if he actually caught or surpassed some. No, he needed to cut as much distance as he could between himself and the Queen.
The dot on the hill became more menacing the nearer he drew; her hair pulled back into a braid danced like a snake as her head whipped about. Marciano paused, easily under a hundred yards now, and fitted an arrow. He counted out his heartbeats and willed them to slow as he raised his arm. The dot paused as if she noticed the lone archer aiming for her. Hands slowed and then cupped over her mouth, calling for something. Marciano aimed high, adjusting for the fall, and released.
His single arrow flew straight and true over the heads of the regrouping soldiers, around the personal guard trying to snap to attention, and deep into the shoulder of the woman who only turned in time to keep it from her breast. The queen flew off her feet and crashed to the grass.
Marciano dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword, prepared for battle. Only a slight stinging in his arm made him wonder if he'd would've loosed the arrow if he'd known the pain was coming. Then he unleashed his sword upon the boys trying to swarm the General.
It was pure pandemonium on the rebel's side after their Queen was shot. With the only true military mind taken off the field, their ranks burst, entire units were slaughtered by only a handful of Marciano's men. They'd have finished off the entire lot of them, but that merciful sun chose her moment to set as the Queen was drug off the field of battle and deep into their camp.
The King's Blood Page 40
