“Indeed, what idiocy is this?” asked another of the gathered lords.
“It is an honest question!” Lord Breyerton declared. “If there is to be war—”
“Then you should choose wisely your alliances,” Aydrian interrupted. “If in his disappointment, Prince Midalis cannot accept the vision of King Danube and acts foolishly and traitorously, then he will face the wrath of the crown. You have seen but a fraction of my army and my power, I assure you, and yet Palmaris wisely relented their folly before the city was laid to waste. Even Bishop Braumin, so dear a friend to my mother, came to understand the inevitability and the correctness of my rule. This is no longer about who will sit on the throne of Honce-the-Bear, Lord Breyerton, for that issue is long decided.
“And as your king, I have come to understand that I must reach out to the great cities and the great men who lead them,” Aydrian went on. “King Danube ruled long and ruled well, mostly because he understood that his eyes and ears alone would never suffice for a kingdom as large and powerful as Honce-the-Bear. His wisdom lay in his ability to recognize the attributes of others and to allow those other great leaders the freedom to serve the kingdom within their own judgment.”
That last line had nearly every head bobbing, had several of the lords staring with hopeful and sparkling eyes. Olin and De’Unnero had schooled Aydrian well here. A king who offered the ambitious and greedy merchants free reign over their own little kingdoms within Honce-the-Bear would be a beloved king indeed—at least by those people who mattered. Even Lord Breyerton seemed a bit off balance, as if suddenly torn between the carrot Aydrian had just subtly dangled and his loyalties to Prince Midalis.
Aydrian recognized clearly the conflict within Breyerton, and he determined then and there to sway that conflict in his direction.
The lords continued to argue amongst themselves for a bit, until a page rushed in, running over to stand beside Lord Breyerton. The young page bent low, whispering excitedly into Breyerton’s ear, and the lord’s eyes widened immediately.
“What is it?” Aydrian asked of him.
Lord Breyerton rose from his seat. “A minor disturbance, my King,” he said, and it was clear that the man was quite unnerved. With a quick bow, Breyerton turned and started away.
“Lord Breyerton!” Aydrian said suddenly, stopping the man in his tracks. Breyerton turned about to look at the king.
“What have you learned?” Aydrian coolly asked.
“There is a disturbance by the north wall, my King,” Breyerton admitted. “A group of Palmaris soldiers have taken control of the smithy. Some of your Kingsmen were wounded, I am afraid.”
Aydrian rose and moved beside the man. “Lead on,” he instructed.
“My King, the area will be dangerous,” Breyerton protested, and several of the others, especially the escorting Allheart Knights, seconded the notion. “You have not even your armor to wear.”
In response, Aydrian gave a wry grin and put a hand to the hilt of Tempest, belted at his hip. “Lead on, Lord Breyerton. I wish to speak with these … confused men.”
“My King—” Breyerton started to argue, but Aydrian cut him short.
“Lead on,” he insisted, and he practically shoved the man out of the door.
The Allhearts and Duke Monmouth were close behind, followed by the other lords. This particular house wasn’t far from the northern wall and the area of the disturbance. As soon as they exited the building, they could hear the sounds of battle.
Needing no guidance, Aydrian moved ahead of Breyerton, striding confidently toward the sounds. He found many of his Kingsmen encircling a small barn set against the northern wall of the city. Nervous horses nickered and skittered about a small corral to the side of the structure. A few men lay dead about the place, most wearing the armor of the Palmaris garrison, but a couple showing the insignia of Kingsmen. All about the area, hundreds of Palmaris citizens looked on at the spectacle, mostly from distant balconies or from behind the protection of stone walls or water troughs.
Their focus quickly shifted, though, from the fighting to the unexpected arrival of the new king of Honce-the-Bear.
As always, Aydrian found that he liked the feeling of so many people looking at him, of so many people looking on in awe of him. He shook away the distraction, though, and continued ahead, reaching into the pouch on his hip to sort through the gemstones.
The front of the smithy was open, an orange-glowing hearth showing within, but bales of hay had been piled there. Every so often, a man would pop up and loose an arrow out at the encircling force, only to have it answered by a barrage of return fire.
Aydrian drew out Tempest and put a soul stone into his left hand and continued to stride right past the ring of his own soldiers, heading for the smithy. When one of the commanders took the cue and started to call to his men to follow their king into battle, Aydrian turned and hushed him and waved him away. Similarly, when Aydrian’s Allheart escorts rushed up beside him, one grabbing at him to pull him back to safety, the young king shoved them away and ordered them to stop.
“You cannot approach, my King!” a frantic Allheart Knight cried.
“Find cover and watch,” Aydrian commanded. “These men do not understand the truth of their new king, so I am going to show them.”
“I am sworn to protect you!” the Allheart insisted. “With my life, and I willingly give it, my King!”
“King Aydrian, be reasonable!” cried Lord Breyerton. “Allow the soldiers to put down the traitors! That is their duty.”
“Come not another step beside me,” Aydrian said, and the young king kept walking.
“You have not even your armor!” Breyerton protested, but Aydrian merely grinned, knowing from the receding voice that the man had not only stopped, but had rushed back behind some cover.
Aydrian strode out from the encircling ring of barricades and cover, into the open area before the confiscated smithy. He was in plain sight of all of them now, of the rebels, of his own soldiers, and of the many Palmaris onlookers.
He saw an archer pop up from behind a hay bale at the side of the door and he fought hard not to flinch, not to slow his stride at all. The greater shadow in the mirror of Oracle had told him he could do this, that he could find a place between spirit and body where he could not be harmed.
Aydrian clutched the hematite more tightly and fell into its swirl. He kept enough of his physical consciousness to witness the archer let fly his arrow—and Aydrian had to fight hard to resist the reflexive urge to snap Tempest across to attempt a deflection.
The arrow dove into his side and he felt a burning explosion of pain.
But only for a second, and the young king didn’t swerve a step. He kept his breathing steady and focused his thoughts on the wound, visualizing the damage and sending waves of soul-stone healing power to the region.
Still keeping stride, the young king reached down and pulled forth the arrow, casually tossing it aside. He lost some blood, but not much, for the waves of healing magic had the wound closing almost immediately behind the withdrawing arrow.
Another archer popped up, straight in front of Aydrian.
But Aydrian didn’t want to feel that pain again and so he raised Tempest’s tip even as the man leveled his bow. And he reached into the graphite set into Tempest and sent forth a bolt of lightning even as the man loosed his arrow. The line of cracking energy blasted the arrow into harmless splinters, then slammed the archer, launching him into a short flight back into the smithy.
Aydrian changed the sword’s angle and loosed another stunning bolt, this one hitting the ground right before the hay bales with a thunderous report, shaking every building on that side of the town and blasting away the makeshift barricade, and a couple of hidden defenders, as well.
“You defy me?” Aydrian shouted as he calmly and confidently strode into the smithy.
A man came at him hard from the right, spear stabbing, but Aydrian casually reached Tempest out that way, rolled it about
the man’s spear, over and inside, and shoved the thrusting weapon out wide. A quick retraction and sudden stab, and then again, and then again, had the spearman falling backward, a stunned expression on his face, his hands clutching at his chest in desperation.
But Aydrian hadn’t finished any of the three stabs, putting only superficial wounds into the rebellious Palmaris soldier. Enough to stop him, certainly, but not to kill him. Aydrian didn’t want to do any more of that than was necessary.
Another desperate man charged out from the shadows, and then another beside him, both brandishing swords. They came in hard and fast—too much so!—and Aydrian knew that they were terrified.
And Aydrian knew that they were right to be terrified.
Tempest slashed across hard to the left and down, taking the thrusting tip of one sword with it, then came back up and across in the blink of an eye, deflecting the second blade only an inch from Aydrian’s face, moving the sword up and out.
Falling into the stance of bi’nelle dasada, the young king moved back suddenly, out of range, and the pair of hastily retracted and then rethrust blades fell short of the mark. And both attackers were suddenly off balance from the unexpected and clean miss, with not even a parrying blade to counterbalance their desperate thrusts.
Now Tempest snapped right and left, tapping one blade and then the second just enough to open a lane between them. Before the two soldiers could even put their weapons back in any kind of defensive line, the perfectly balanced Aydrian rushed ahead and stabbed the man on the right in the thigh, sending him howling to the floor. Aydrian retracted Tempest way back, then turned the tip over to the left and shot the blade that way, cutting under the second swordsman’s weapon as he tried to swing it Aydrian’s way.
Up went Tempest, lifting the swordsman’s blade and arm as it went, and Aydrian stepped in behind, moving right near the man, and hit him with a short and chopping left hand to the chin.
He went down hard.
Instinctively, Aydrian spun about, slashing his blade across, and picking off an arrow as he did!
The archer was in the loft, along with at least one other man.
Aydrian picked out a path to the ladder, but before he even started away, he heard a feral roar behind him.
De’Unnero, he knew before he even turned, and sure enough, the former monk, half in human form and half in the form of a great tiger, bounded past him and easily leaped the ten feet to the loft, bowling over the archer as the man frantically tried to fit another arrow to his bowstring.
Aydrian gnashed his teeth as he heard the monk’s devastating work up above, as blood began to run freely through the spaced planks of the loft.
One man came to the edge and moved as if to leap out, screaming wildly, but he barely got off the ledge before a great paw hooked his shoulder and brutally tore him back to the loft. His screams continued, even intensified, and Aydrian could see one arm flailing wildly.
And then it suddenly stopped.
Commotion from behind stole Aydrian’s focus and he turned about to see the Allheart and Kingsmen soldiers rushing into the smithy. With a sigh of frustration, Aydrian sheathed Tempest.
Before he put his soul stone away, the young king went back to work one last time on the wound from the arrow, just to make sure he had properly repaired it. A few moments later, satisfied that he had, he slipped back out of the trance of the stone. He heard Marcalo De’Unnero, who had come down from the loft and was standing over by the door, shouting at Duke Monmouth, scolding him for allowing Aydrian to walk into such danger.
Aydrian smiled, considering that Monmouth had been given no choice in the matter. Or maybe he was just smiling because he liked hearing De’Unnero so utterly outraged.
One of the rebels from the loft came forward then and pitched over, falling hard to the floor at Aydrian’s feet and splattering the young king with blood.
De’Unnero was there in an instant, lifting an arm that was still a tiger’s paw as if to finish off the man.
But Aydrian held him back, then reached down and grabbed the wounded Palmaris soldier with his right hand. He fell back into the soul stone and sent a burst of healing energy into the man, but the poor fool was too far gone, fast falling into the realm of death.
Aydrian snarled and fell into a kneel beside him, and then, as he had done on the field with Duke Kalas so long ago, the young king’s spirit leaped through the portal of the soul stone and chased the spirit of the dying man into the dark realm.
A few moments later, Aydrian opened his eyes and fell back, and on the floor before him, the seemingly mortally wounded man coughed and sputtered and looked up, completely overwhelmed.
But very much alive.
Aydrian grinned and looked around at the many obviously impressed, obviously awed, onlookers.
Only Marcalo De’Unnero didn’t seem very pleased. He came forward to crouch before Aydrian and roughly pulled the young king to his feet.
“What folly is this?” the monk cried, then quickly lowered his voice.
“Less carnage and more manipulation, if you please,” Aydrian calmly replied, and De’Unnero could only stare at him in a stupor.
“You think this a game?” the monk asked.
“I think it an opportunity,” Aydrian answered, and he pushed De’Unnero aside—pleased to see Sadye standing there directly in his line of sight, watching closely.
Aydrian went to the man he had just saved and roughly pulled him up. “Do you not understand who I am?” he asked the man, who was trembling and obviously completely overwhelmed. “Do you not understand that I was born to be your king?” As he finished, Aydrian looked up, as if addressing them all.
“Ye … yes,” the healed man said, blinking, crying, trembling, and melting down to the floor.
“Clean this place, bury the dead, and bring the prisoners and wounded to Chasewind Manor,” Aydrian commanded his soldiers. “But do not mistreat them! We will learn much from them,” the young king declared. “And they will learn the truth of King Aydrian of Ursal. They will learn that we are not their enemies.”
The others began to filter off, giving Aydrian and De’Unnero a moment alone together.
“What are you …” De’Unnero started to ask, but then he just stopped and shook his head, clearly at a loss, clearly caught completely off his balance here—almost as much so as had been the man Aydrian had pulled from the realm of death.
Aydrian certainly understood that nearly blank expression. It was not easy for De’Unnero to see his former student step so far ahead of him!
With a snort and another helpless shake of his head, Marcalo De’Unnero walked away.
Sadye went up to Aydrian then, though she was looking back at her departing companion.
“He is only beginning to understand who I am,” Aydrian said to her, drawing her eyes to his own. “He is beginning to recognize that I am beyond him now.”
Sadye looked at him curiously, and a bit suspiciously.
“He fears that his own position will be compromised,” Aydrian went on. “He fears that I do not need him, perhaps that I will even begin to see him and his well-earned reputation as a detriment to my progress.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The truth,” Aydrian replied, and his blue eyes sparkled with intensity, boring into her. “And you know it. But Marcalo De’Unnero does not.”
“He has done so much for you,” Sadye reminded. “He found you in the Wilderlands and showed you the way—all the way, from the Timberlands, back south to Ursal, and all the way to Entel. The gemstones of Pimaninicuit were his doing, and those riches more than anything else have funded your ascension. Are you so quick to forget?”
“I have forgotten nothing,” Aydrian replied. “If I had, then I would have left De’Unnero in Ursal, for his true usefulness to me ended on the day King Danube died. Do you not believe that I would have found more acceptance here in Palmaris if I had not arrived beside the hated former bishop?
&nb
sp; “But I’ll not forsake him,” Aydrian went on. “And I will grant him his Abellican Church, as he so desires.”
“You act as if everything from this point forward will be your doing alone.”
That wry grin returned, and it was a quite convincing and clear answer.
“I taught these rebels the truth of Aydrian this day—those who were not slaughtered to satisfy the blood thirst of Marcalo De’Unnero. That man who was so close to death will welcome Aydrian as king, and will tell others of rebellious disposition to lay down their arms and embrace the savior that is Aydrian.” He paused and tilted his head back, just a bit, so that he was looking down at Sadye more completely, and more suggestively. “When will Sadye come to accept that same truth, I wonder?”
Sadye brought a hand up to brush a strand of hair from in front of her gray eyes, a gesture that told Aydrian just how much he had rattled the normally unshakable woman. She held his stare for a short while longer, but then had to relent, and she turned and started away.
Aydrian touched her shoulder lightly and she stopped as surely as if the strong young man had grabbed her and tugged her back, and when she glanced back at him, he moved his hand from her shoulder to the side of her face, lightly running the back of his fingers down across her pretty cheek.
Sadye closed her eyes and her breathing deepened for just a moment, then she blinked her eyes open and walked away.
Aydrian knew that he had gotten into her soul in that moment. She was walking away from him, stubbornly defiant to the bitter end, but he knew beyond any doubt that she wanted to turn about and leap into his arms. He knew something else, too, and the knowledge rang sweetly in his thoughts: in many ways, Sadye almost hoped that he would kill De’Unnero and be done with it, alleviating any guilt or fears that she might harbor.
Oh yes, he had touched her soul.
Pony pulled the blanket tight about her, never blinking as she stared at the elven Lady. She had no idea how Dasslerond had accomplished this feat, taking her from Dundalis so completely that she was still wrapped in the blanket she had thrown across her shoulders when she had sat on the floor of her room to meditate.
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 198
