“No, not—please, my lord, hurry! Tursel ... words cannot—”
I raced to the picket. “BOLLERT! WHERE’S EBON?” I fumbled to free my cloak, entangled on my scabbard.
Long anxious moments while the saddle was tightened; I could almost have run faster. Well, perhaps not. The moment Bollert thrust me the reins I scrambled into the saddle, wheeled Ebon, took off at a gallop through the dust. My bodyguard raced behind.
In moments I was at the battlement. Men paced back and forth, cursing. A few had swords drawn. At the far battlement, Tantroth stood with his aides. Abruptly, he gestured and Sandin left the wall, mounted and cantered off toward camp.
Captain Tursel beckoned me up the stair. “Here, sire.”
I peered. In the meadow between Hriskil’s camp and the wall, just beyond arrow range, were a few Norlanders and a ramshackle wagon. Outside the wagon, what appeared to be a pile of clothing. “For that I raced through camp as if an imp bit my tail? Have you no sense? Only call me when—”
“Watch.”
They helped a youth climb into the wagon.
“That’s the twelfth so far.”
A distant shout. “Eyurf, of Brooksend village.”
Head down, he stood in the bed. He seemed curiously still. After a time I became aware his hands were bound.
The flash of a sword. He toppled to the pile of clothes ... no, bodies. For a moment his feet scrabbled and kicked. Then he was still.
I frowned. “They’re executing their shirkers?” Hriskil was savage enough, but why he would advertise his troubles to us. ...
Tursel’s fingers locked over my wrist. Pardos looked askance but didn’t interfere. “Eiberians,” Tursel said softly. “Captives.”
“Lord of Nature!”
A woman was next. She kicked and struggled. It took two Norlanders to hoist her up.
“Alia, wife of Sril!”
A Norland savage seized her hair, pulled back her chin.
A long, gloating moment.
“No!” A cry, from our wall.
“Silence!” Tursel.
A sudden wrench. They slit her throat. She fell lifeless.
I pried loose my wrist, rubbed the white finger-marks. “WHY?”
“Look at our men.” Seasoned troopers, most of them. One full-bearded fellow wandered about, looking lost. Another soldier stood silently, tears coursing down his cheeks.
“Gena, wife of Sutlin!”
Sickened, I turned away. Tursel snarled, “If you value your throne, you’ll watch.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Advice.”
I stole a glance aside. Bewitched as if by foul encant, every man’s eyes were fastened on the gruesome spectacle. I gulped, did the same; the deaths deserved no less. “Send out Groenfil’s regiment!”
Tursel’s voice was barely audible. “Beyond the brush, at the edge of the wood.”
I squinted. Norland pikemen, spearmen, Lord of Nature knew who else. Hriskil was daring us to intervene. “That son of snakes and demons. Spawn of—”
The stride of boots. Tantroth, duke of Eiber, loomed. His face was gray. “Rodrigo ...”
“My lord.”
“For every wrong I’ve ever done you ...” His voice was thick. “I ask pardon.”
“Granted.” I offered my hand, but he drew back.
“Forrel of Keth!”
Below the battlement, the thud of hooves. Tantroth’s cavalry trotted down the road, toward the gate and the field beyond. They came to a stop below us, and Sandin hurried up the stairs.
“Sire,” said Tantroth, “I must ... take my leave.”
I said gently, “I can’t allow that”
His eyes glistened. “We must put cease to it! A charge would scatter them.”
“They wait at the wood for just that. You can’t thwart them, my lord.”
“Yet I’ll try. My men go mad.”
“And after your death?” Brutal, but necessary.
Tantroth said simply, “I won’t see it.”
I said, “I forbid—”
“I will not obey you in this.”
“Pardos.” My voice was low.
“Sire?”
“My lord Tantroth does not leave the wall. See to it.”
Pardos took a step back, as if struck. “Rodrigo, he’s my liege lord!”
“Stand away!” Tantroth, trembling.
I said quickly, “My lord, don’t play Hriskil’s game. He rubs his hands, hoping we’ll—”
“Don’t presume to instruct me, you callow child! Pardos, remove your hand or I’ll slice it off!”
Drawing swords, two of the duke’s captains sprinted across the battlement. Tursel’s hand went to his scabbard.
In a moment, all would be lost.
“Jath and Kanna, sons of Lord Sleak!”
I took two steps toward Tantroth’s officers, drew my sword, threw it at their feet. It clanged on the flagstones. I tore open my tunic, bared my breast. “Come, regicides, honor your duke!”
They skidded to a halt.
“Sandin, Azar, no!” Even as he spoke, Tantroth struggled to free himself. “I forbid it!”
I turned, my voice ice. “Who are you, sir, to forbid a vassal?”
“I’m their ...” Slowly, he crumpled. Somehow, he shook off Pardos and peered over the wall. “You know ...” His tone was too bright. “Jath and Kanna are my nephews. A hundred times, in my lap ...” To his credit, he’d been intent on his suicidal charge long before their names were called.
We watched two hapless youngsters dragged toward the wagon.
Uncertainly, Azar slid his sword into his scabbard. He appealed to his duke. “What do we do?”
“We wait.” My voice was harsh.
“They slaughter Eiber!”
“Look upon evil, Azar.” My voice rang out, to him and the horsemen below. “And you, Tantroth. All of you!”
“Brewer Jon, of Keth.”
Tantroth gritted his teeth.
“When comes our time, remember this day!” I looked about. “I’m cruel of speech and callow, but compared to them, I’m sweet light itself! Know you why we fight! Know you why Caledon must triumph!”
The grisly day wore on.
Unbidden, by twos and threes, then by tens and hundreds, our army began to assemble under the wall. Tantroth huddled with his men of Eiber, just off the road.
Men jostled each other for places on the battlement. Five deep, soldiers peered over each other’s shoulders for a view of the atrocity.
On the hillside, our strongest bowmen loosed useless shots that fell thirty paces short. I had Tursel signal them, to put a stop to it.
I dared not step away, or avert my eyes. Surreptitiously, I massaged aching calves.
Afternoon passed toward eve, and still the Norland host dragged captives to the wagon. Thrice they had to move the cart, to make way for bodies.
As dusk approached, they brought out torches, to light their work.
Like Tantroth, I yearned to give battle, but the narrow pass blocked by the wall was our only advantage. Without it, the foe outmanned us by such proportions as to make a fight hopeless. I dared not say so to my men whose tempers had begun to unravel. First harsh words, then jostling. Quarrels, with an edge.
Eyeing the troops, Tursel made his way to me. “We need do something,” he said. “When one man breaks, they’ll ...”
I nodded, knowing what must come next. “Clear the battlement.”
He looked aghast. “They may not ... sire, don’t give an order they may not obey.”
“Tell them the king will speak. Assemble them below the wall.”
Tursel took deep breath, as if to gird himself. “You men, off the battlement. You there, make way ...”
Much grumbling, but they did as they were told.
From the parapet I looked down on the upturned faces. “What the Norlanders do is an abomination that sears the spirit. There is vile magic in it that robs the mind of reason.” I drew my c
loak against the evening chill. “You may see no more.”
An angry mutter, that swelled to a growl. “You’d let them die unseen? Throats slit by those savage—”
“No,” I said. “I will watch, for Caledon.”
Utter silence.
“You crowned me; the burden is mine. Find a ritemaster; let him break a jar to ward off imps, that my soul not be stolen this night.”
Uneasy looks.
Someone blurted, “We have to know. Our friends, our kin—”
“I will say their names.” My tone was sober, but firm. “Those of you who would, stay below on the road, that I may have the solace of your company. The rest, go to camp. I’ll send herald when the nightmare ends. I faced the field, knotted my cloak.
“Sleek, lord of Rivendon!”
I turned to my men. “Sleak, lord of Rivendon.” Anavar had fought for him in Tantroth’s assault on my lands, and been captured.
Tantroth put his head in his hands.
I turned back to me battlement.
Rustin, I know you’re gone, your voice isn’t real. I speak to what’s left of you within me. Be silent other days; tonight I need reply.
“Lara, daughter of Sith!”
“Lara, daughter of Sith.” My voice grates.
They are names, no more. Remote vassals I’ve never met. I know not these folk. So why do I weep?
Please, Rust! Murmur, “Ah, my prince.” Tell me I’m a fool, that it’s my blunders that brought us to such straits. Say anything; I only pray you: speak!
Our whole camp has gathered below. They sit, craning their necks for a glimpse of me. Some cry quietly, some slam their knee with knotted fist. One whittles a stick with such savage strokes the wood is reduced to splinters. A man who made a quip nurses a bloody mouth.
I don’t want the throne, Rust, not if I must stand sentry to the slaughter of my churls. My legs scream with ache; if not for that penance, I couldn’t stand it. Only the calm of my voice as I declare death upon death prevents the army’s dissolution; if the king can abide it, it must be bearable. They credit me with the breadth of soul to absorb utter evil.
“Garst, plowman!”
My voice rasped. “Garst, plowman.”
I’d known a Garst once. Captured with Anavar, he’d later betrayed me to Tantroth when I sneaked into Stryx. But now it’s well into night; the doomed Eiberian Garst is but a silhouette amid flickering torches.
Even if we win, Rust, what worth a crown bathed in blood? If I were certain it would stop the slaughter, I’d strike my standard and submit to a Norland axe.
You know my ways, Rust. When I said I’d watch the butchery on behalf of Caledon, it was as a mummer on stage: fine empty words to impress the lords and ladies seated in the hall. How could I know that my speech would make itself true: that my tongue tastes of ashes, that my knuckles are raw where I’ve pounded them on the obdurate stones of the parapet, that sharp stabs clutch my stomach as if I were pierced by a dagger.
My countrymen die!
Twenty
THE NORLAND WAGON REMAINED in the moonlit field, bodies piled about it.
The ghastly slaughter had halted, but still I remained on the wall, lest it resume. I was not sure I could leave, even if I cared to. My knees were weak, my stomach roiled.
What’s this? A horseman, bearing a torch. He rode toward the wagon. Was he the harbinger of a new squad, coming to resume their labors in the dark of night?
They’d made their point; we were sickened, to a man.
But he cantered past the wagon.
Toward our gate.
I licked my lips.
Hriskil must want parley. My life for the Eiberians? I should surrender, but tomorrow Hriskil might wreak on Caledon what he inflicts on Eiber.
“Guardsmen at the gate!” My voice was a croak. “A rider!”
The clop of hooves, as the horseman’s brown gelding cantered near. Fire jogged in the night, as his torch jounced with the rest of him.
He reined in, a moment’s trot from the wall.
“Rez Caledi!”
“What want you?” My tone couldn’t be described as civil.
He called, “Iv ot, Danzik!”
From our hilltop, a whir. A dozen arrows flashed in the night. Four found his horse, who whinnied once and went down. The torch went flying. Another volley. Instantly Danzik scrambled to wedge himself behind his expiring mount. Four more arrows went home; the gelding kicked once and was still.
“Hold! Hold your shafts!” My voice rose to a scream.
Below, on the road, voices swelled. “It’s Danzik!” “The whoreson’s back!” “Get him!” The gate crashed open as a new flock of arrows whirred from the hill.
“No!”
A clamor of men surged through the gate.
Oh, Rust. Look what it comes to.
I leaped atop the parapet, threw myself from the battlement.
It was a goodly fall, over two men’s height. I crashed on hard ground as our men rushed the Norland chief. Had I smashed my ankles? No, I could move, if I hobbled. I stumbled to the dead horse, threw my cloak across Danzik. “He’s mine! Don’t—AIYEE!” I pitched backward, gazing stupidly at the shaft protruding from my left breast.
A charging Eiberian skidded to a stop. “YOU SHOT THE KING!” The voice held horror.
A burly soldier knelt before me, his battered shield raised to guard us both. He screamed to the hill, “Hold! No more arrows!”
A horde of men poured through the gate, Pardos among them, driving aside any who stood in his way.
I scrabbled at the feathered dart. I ought say something, knew not what.
“Sire, don’t touch—a litter for the king!”
“I don’t need ...” Perhaps I did need. My fingers were strangely weak.
“Hurry, before Hriskil mounts a charge—”
Kadar’s squad formed, blocking my view of the distant Norland wagon. They bristled with pikes, bows and swords.
“Snuff the torch!”
Danzik growled, “Qer vos mord, rez.” I wish you dead, king. Then he added in his wretched tongue, “But by my hand.”
“Watch it, that savage is alive behind the horse!”
“Kill him!”
“No!” I searched for a face I knew. Not Pardos; he’d never leave me now. “Azar. I charge thee with Danzik’s care ...” I coughed; fire blossomed. My voice was ragged. “... not harmed.”
Men ran up with a litter; canvas wrapped across poles. A sea of hands lifted me into it. I cried out.
“Gently!”
“Get him through the gate!”
“Did you call Darios the surgeon?”
Rust, they’ll cut me! I shuddered. I’d always been terrified of wounds, sewing, saws. My recent work only augmented my fright. My bearers stumbled over a rut, and I cried out.
The gate crashed shut behind us.
Darios straightened from my bloody bed. “It’s not reached the lung.”
Around the tent, a collective sigh of relief. Earl Groenfil leaned against the centerpole, his eyes for a moment shut.
“Time to get it out. Who’ll hold him?”
I made a sound through gritted teeth.
Outside, a commotion. “—me pass, or I’ll—NOW!” Elryc’s voice was shrill. “NOW!” He burst through the flap. “Roddy—Lord of Nature!” His hand flew to his mouth.
“It’s all ri—”
He threw himself to my side, careful not to sway the bed. “Don’t die!” His voice wavered. “I need you.”
My hand stole to his. “... going to cut me. Hold me tight.”
“—with Lor’ Elryc! Lemme in!”
“So much blood. Will he—”
“Not if I get him bound. First the shaft must out.” Darios raised his voice, as one used to command. “You, Pardos, hold his feet.” He set out his instruments.
“I’m here, Roddy.” Elryc gave my fingers a firm squeeze. “It’ll hurt.”
“I know.”
“�
�Elryc’s man! Han’ off me!”
Elryc said over his shoulder, “Let Genard pass.” His voice was low, his tone not much more than a child’s, but Kadar leaned out the tent and snapped a command. In a moment Genard’s lithe form crouched near Elryc’s.
I raised my head, managed only an inch. “Tantroth.”
“Sire.” Gaunt and gray, he stifled a cough.
“If I should ...” No. Don’t think of it. “While I heal, Groenfil speaks for Caledon.” Lord Groenfil turned, stared at me fixedly.
Tantroth’s eyes burned through mine.
Desperately, I garnered myself. “My lord ... Duke, I have utmost faith in ... your honor and skill. But what Hriskil has wrought—” I tried to nod to the battlement and the carnage beyond. “—you are but human. Forgive me.”
“You, there, his left arm. Boy, move aside. Kadar, take his right, don’t stretch it. My lord King, bite on this.”
Darios leaned to his work.
A razor, red with blood. Anguished cries. Iron hands forcing me down. Entreaties. “Stop, I command—”
A howl.
“There it comes!”
Pressure eased. The room whirled. A bloody cloth, pressed to my wound. “Bind it tight!”
My cheeks, drenched with sweat and tears.
Elryc’s white fingers, flexing. Eyes that glistened.
“It’s all righ’, m’lor’, he’s come through it. Don’t fret. Now he needs rest—”
“Not another word, Genard!” Elryc shook his head as if to clear it. “Not now. Please.”
In the morn they let me sun myself. Nursing my bound arm, I sat weak as a newborn calf. Tantroth was the first to attend me. “Sixty-seven more during the night.”
“Who watched?”
“Groenfil, ’til dawn. Then I.” Hollows darkened his eyes.
I squinted at the cloudless sky. “Today they’ll attack.”
“Oh?”
I said vaguely, “I feel it.”
“Then someone ought ask Hriskil why he wastes half the day. Battles begin at dawn.”
“Where is it written?”
He said, “It gives an army time—”
The distant blare of a horn.
Throughout the camp, men paused, listening. They began snatching up clothing and arms.
Tantroth said, “It’s eerie how you do that.” A short bow. “I’m off to—”
Jaw clenched, I struggled to my feet. Painful, but I managed. “Elryc, bring the Vessels.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 28
