He pursed his lips. “I’ll try to contain my fear for you.”
My voice quavered. “It’s more than that. In the days when you were dead ...” But it was too cruel; I couldn’t say it.
“Go on, my love.” His tone was soft.
“I was noble, Rust! Truly I was!”
“I doubt it not.”
“Don’t you understand?” I pounded the mossy rock. “I was brave and clever. I was magnanimous to Jestrel, and on behalf of Caledon I watched the death wagon at Pezar. I redeemed myself with the troops, and—and—”
He steeled himself to meet my eye. “What of it?”
“I was noble, Rust! As I can’t be with you!” There, it was said. Might Lord of Nature strike me dead; I deserved no less. I rushed on. “With your guidance I’m a boy, as always I was, when I need to be a man! Always, you would save me, from Norland swords, from my nobles’ ire, from myself. Now I must save myself, or deserve no crown.” Nor would I keep one, if Rustin’s caution prevailed. That, I couldn’t say to him, not for Caledon itself.
He threw a pebble in the rushing stream, and another. “Ah, Roddy.” His tone was wistful. “I put aside our bed play because you wished it, and I imagined ...” He blinked hard. “I consoled myself that I’d be your true friend, your right arm. I thought to ride with you, revel in my pride of you, see you at last triumphant. It wouldn’t be long, I knew, until you reached man’s estate. But not so—so soon, so—” Abruptly, he stared away, at a twisted tree.
“Oh, Rust.”
“I rejoice.”
“You weep.”
“From gladness.”
“Liar!”
“I don’t—I ought be glad, whether or not I’m decent enough to feel joy. But I matter not. You are Caledon, and must have your way.”
Sudden doubts assailed me. “Let’s think on it, Rust. Stay a while. Perhaps if you gave up the regency ...”
“No, I’ll go.” He brushed his cheeks. “We both know you’re right. I had word from Anavar, from Groenfil, from your own lips. I tried hard not to understand.” A sigh. “I’ll always take pride in you. Now I’ll see it from afar.”
I cried, “I lost you once! How can I bear it again?”
“I cherish you not one whit less than before. It will always be so. There, my prince. Squeeze my hand. Aye. Tell me again of Pezar. Speak of great things.”
The morning sun rode pale and fretful, to fade behind scudding clouds. Our camp was hushed, awaiting the summer storm. I sat awry on dew-damp grass, staring dully at the trail down which Orwal had trotted, bearing Rustin.
He hadn’t looked back.
Was it not on Rustin that I’d spent my only chance at Return? Was it not for him that I’ll pass my life a hideous creature?
Behind me, the rustle of cloth. At arm’s length, Anavar sat cross-legged, his gaze fixed on his boots.
My fists knotted. You will not take his place!
But Anavar knew; oftimes, I’d made it all too clear.
I reached to my brow, toyed with the coronet Rustin had set upon my locks a few moments before leaving, when in ringing tones he’d resigned the regency of Caledon. In the moment before, I’d given him royal warrant, badly scrawled on crumpled parchment, to hold the Keep as Householder of Stryx, for as long as he should live. Not long, he’d said, acknowledging for a moment what we all knew; that Hriskil had won.
The main Norland force was encamped in Soushire, looking anew, word had it, toward Groenfil. My earl reported the news in flat tone, eyes fixed on a point far behind me.
Groenfil Castle. As good a goal as any, now that saving Elryc was beyond us. Cumber was too far from our other duchies, important only to deny Hriskil the pass he already possessed.
I might retreat to Stryx, but then I’d seem to be following Rust. Besides, Willem and Tresa had matters there in hand; I must go elsewhere to rally Caledon, and to gnaw at Hriskil’s heels.
To Groenfil, then.
Come, Roddy, you’ve moped enough. You’ve sharp blade in your sheath; when wretched night proves beyond bearing, you’ve means to make an end. Until then, be king.
I straightened, rubbed my aching spine. “Anavar, have I a horse?”
He started. “Aye, sir, there’s more horses than Groenfil has men, after ...”
I grunted. “Pack this in my saddlebag.” I handed him the coronet. “And find Groenfil.” I drew my cloak, as a gust brought more raindrops.
A few moments later the earl heard me out. “As you command, my liege.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not pleased? Your sons—”
“Pleased I might die with them, in lieu of saving them?”
I was taken aback. “What was your hope?”
“That we might draw Hriskil elsewhere.”
“Where?”
“To the demons’ lake!” Groenfil’s eyes glowed. “Don’t look to me for wisdom. I’m not king.”
I regarded him a long while. He asked no more than he deserved. Then, at last, “Prepare for march.”
“To my castle?”
“No,” I said. “To Soushire.” I’d not remain king by fleeing my oppressor.
Why to Soushire, Anavar inquired.
Because Hriskil was there.
Danzik’s eyes glinted with hard humor. Was that not reason to ride elsewhere?
Anavar asked: if a cohort of two thousand Norlanders broke our cavalry, why throw ourselves on a still larger force?
To free Caledon.
Had I a plan? Some scheme undivulged?
Of course, I said, and lapsed silent.
A plan. I ought have one.
In mid-afternoon, as we rode down the muddy trail under dripping boughs, Anavar cleared his throat. “It seems to me that Hriskil holds the high terrain. Soushire is his, and with Cumber, the passes to Eiber. Groenfil’s lands too, unless you’re on hand to wield the Still against the Rood. Verein’s wall is abandoned, Stryx barely defended. Our—excuse me, sir—your treasury is empty, the land in chaos. What shafts have we in our quiver?”
“Fear.” I’d pondered for hours, to achieve the single reply.
“Sir?”
“Last fall we captured Danzik, Hriskil’s most trusted lieutenant, when he was on the verge of seizing Stryx.” Danzik scowled. I said, “I even sent him to his king, under parole. So Hriskil sees Danzik corrupted by Caled ways.” Danzik’s mien darkened. I added, “I’m the king he cannot kill. At Pezar, I taunted Hriskil in his own camp—”
Anavar reminded me, “That didn’t happen.” It was before the Return; in true life, Rustin had forbidden that I leave camp.
“Hriskil has ghost memory of it, as do we.”
My young baron looked dubious.
I said firmly, “Then Sarazon took Stryx harbor. Yet we burned his fleet; it must be long before Hriskil can again assemble so many ships. He attacked Groenfil Castle, but I wouldn’t let him lift the Rood. He was so unnerved that he fled.”
Anavar began, “But still he—”
“By treachery Hriskil took Soushire, and Elryc. He sent my brother home to Ghanz with escort of two thousand. But we slew Sarazon. What thinks Hriskil now of the child king?”
Anavar was silent.
“He fears us,” I answered myself. “And we’ll use that fear.”
“How, sir?”
“Ahh.” That was the puzzle I sought to solve.
Early morn, cold and wet. We roused ourselves amid bleak mist. I took great care saddling and tacking my mount. She was an unpleasant beast, one I’d do well to replace at the first opportunity. Adjusting her tack was a trial; I’d finally tied her firmly between two trees.
A soggy day’s march, but a short one. We’d be upon Soushire by noon.
Long before midday, we came on the first of Hriskil’s patrols. Fifty men, well armed, but outnumbered ten to one. They turned tail, and I recalled our pursuers.
We slipped down from the brooding hills, the damp and dripping woods eerily silent. Beside the road we came on a cle
aring where a meadow sloped down into a vast sea of fog. Across the ocean, the uppermost ramparts of Soushire Castle loomed: remote, isolated islands founded in gray billows.
“We must wait.” Groenfil had come alongside. “No battle can be fought—”
Some trick of wind scattered tufts of fog, and for an instant we glimpsed a wide plain crowded with tents, campfires, wagons, the paraphernalia of war. Hriskil’s army. The king, though, and his lieutenants would no doubt be housed in the castle’s most comfortable chambers.
“We must not wait.” My tone brooked no refusal, even as swirling gray once more enveloped the enemy camp.
From where the road met the plain, it would be a long walk, or a few moments’ canter, to the first of the mist-hidden tents. I dismounted.
Groenfil said dryly. “What, then? Sound the attack? Feel our way?”
“No.” On the long, subdued ride, I’d devised my “plan.” My lunacy. The last vain taunt of the child king. “Form for battle,” I said. “Pikemen and archers, there, and here. Defend this rise. Groenfil, you have command. Assemble your horse behind the pikemen.”
“What for?” He led, after all, a mere five hundred.
“To rescue me, if a moment comes. Anavar, my crown. Be quick.” As if lashed, the boy jumped to my saddlebag. “And the Vessels.”
“Rodrigo, what do you?” Groenfil’s voice was taut.
“I summon Hriskil.” I brushed the dust from my rumpled clothes, knotted a cape over my shoulders, donned my bejeweled coronet.
“Sir, please!” If he’d dared, Anavar would have snatched the crown from my brow.
“They must be shown who I am. Danzik, where would you stand?”
“With you, Rez.”
“No, you’ll be cut down. There, in front of our pikes, you’ll have unobstructed view.” I hesitated. “Farewell, Guiat.”
“Salut, Rez Caledi.” An awkward bow, in the Caled manner.
Despite my pounding pulse, I smiled.
Into the mist, carrying my burden, I trudged across the fog-strewn field.
From time to time, as I neared, the mist disgorged me to the enemy. Men shouted alarms to their officers. Groomsmen raced with stallions of war; campfires were doused, cohorts assembled.
I strode across the sodden meadow, as to a damp picnic. Was Groenfil in place? I glanced over my shoulder, but all beyond five paces was obscured. Something solid clouted my ear; with a squawk I tumbled on my rump. I blinked. I’d walked into a thick sapling.
I got to my feet, rubbing furiously at my stinging ear.
Thirty paces before the first Norland tents, I sat cross-legged. The precious Receptor I balanced between my knees. I unstoppered the Chalice, poured shimmering stillsilver. Almost instantly, it stilled.
A deep breath, for composure, and I slid my palms across the bowl. I murmured the words of encant, and my Power burned through the mist.
Hriskil, slayer of children, where do you hide?
My questing thought roamed, found no response. Perhaps this day Hriskil had set aside his Rood. In that case I’d not find him unless he was within a few paces. Such was the way of the Still; only another Power could coax it beyond one’s immediate presence.
Now, the tricky part. I took breath, focused my Power, raised my voice to a shout that might be heard in the tents. “Come forth, coward! Fight Rodrigo for Caledon!”
I waited a moment, hurled more jeers and taunts.
No response, of course. But my purpose was to expose his fear before his men. Yet, in truth, I judged him not so cowardly, but reasonably cautious. He had more to lose than I. And why had we armies, if not to do our fighting? Still, my example made poor contrast of his.
All the while, with the Still, I searched for a whiff of him. With the doubled vision I’d lately mastered, I probed within the tents while observing the Norlandic cavalry mounting, setting spears, preparing their charge.
Hriskil, you contemptible savage! Come out and play!
As before, nothing.
The mist disclosed a rank of Norland bowmen, and another line behind. Hundreds. I shivered. Ever since my wound had become infected at Pezar, I’d hated the deadly feathered barbs of war.
I forced my words into Norl. “Foolish men, who fight for Hriskil! He is nobody, nothing! He flees the child king! Is he worth your death?”
A whir; I did my best not to flinch. A hundred arrows, most loosed blind into the mist. A lucky pair landed within a hands-breadth, quivering hungrily in the sod.
“It takes more than arrows, children of the north! Take care lest you anger me!”
The thud of hooves. The Norland cavalry charged. One rider, braver than the rest, or on a faster mount, led by a half dozen paces. I was the target. I nursed my Power.
Fifteen paces. He loomed out of the gray.
Mother, help me in this. I’m not sure I—
Ten paces.
I unleashed my full fury. Margenthar, Hriskil, Bouris, all that I hate, you are this man! My eyes rose, met the foaming stallion’s. The sorrel warhorse neighed shrilly, dug in his heels. The rider flew over its head, tumbled over and over in the grass.
He staggered to his feet.
I bent to the stillsilver.
The unhorsed rider screamed, slapped at himself, whirled about. He bolted toward the Norl camp.
I had just time to settle on another. As he raised arm to launch his spear, I struck him with all the rage I nursed. His spear went wide. He yanked his reins so hard his mount stumbled. They righted themselves, dashed toward the tents.
The brave Norland charge foundered. Riders deliberately steered wide, missed me by a full length or more. I bent anew to the Still.
They need not know I could challenge but one man at a time.
Uneasily, the horsemen withdrew, regrouped before their line of archers, who loosed over their heads.
A flock of barbs. I steeled myself, bent to the bowl. Hriskil, where are—
“Unh!” I rocked.
“RODRIGO!” Anavar’s shrill cry.
My ribs oozed crimson anguish. I closed my eyes, whispered the encant, inwardly explored myself.
Behind me, half shrouded in mist, Groenfil raised an arm in signal.
Hold, my lords! It’s not mortal.
Startled, Groenfil hesitated. His hand fell.
It hurt now, to draw deep breath, but I must. “Soa Rodrigo, qa nan vos modrit!” I am Rodrigo, whom you cannot kill! I coughed, dreading the salt taste of blood, but none came to my lips. The arrow protruding from my ribs quivered with each breath.
Another volley. This time, all missed. It’s not that easy, from afar, to hit a solitary target perched cross-legged on the grass.
“Think you I fear your shafts? Who loose at me, your mothers and sisters and children die! Even now, they wither!”
I bent to the stillsilver, ranging, searching for Hriskil.
The Norl cavalry formed a line; Groenfil their obvious mark.
Time, now. I set down the bowl, poured the silver back into the Chalice, stoppered it. I gritted my teeth, managed to stand without snagging the arrow on my cloak. As if red agony weren’t ablossom, I began my walk toward the Norland tents.
“Roddy!” A distant wail.
I trudged onward. For this death I’d be remembered. Perhaps Caledon needed martyred hero more than king.
The urgent call of trumpets. Their bowmen, unsure at first, fell back. The Norl cavalry charged.
Groenfil would die now, or flee.
No. Summoned by urgent horns, the cavalry raced not to charge us, but to the Soushire gates.
I trudged toward the nearest white tent. One hand gripped the sack with my Vessels, the other clutched my leaking ribs.
As Norland trumpets called, their camp emptied. Men streamed ever more urgently toward the battlements of Soushire. They jostled each other in their haste to crowd through the gates.
Pikemen, archers, horse, even a cookwagon or two lumbered through the tall gate. Abruptly, the portal swung c
losed.
I came closer. The wall of Soushire resolved itself through mist. From its battlements, ten thousand peered through swirling fog, seeking a glimpse of Rodrigo, king of truncated Caledon, as he strode unopposed through the Norland camp.
Abruptly, I sat. I had little choice.
Wearily, my mind seeking some distant peace, I fished in the sack. Unstopper the Chalice. That’s right, lad. Pour.
Let go your ribs. You need cover the Receptor. Oh, it hurts.
Roddy, take heed! Mother sounded cross. Do what you must!
And what is that, madam?
BE KING!
Is that the accumulated wisdom of Caledon? I coughed, and red fire bloomed. I hadn’t much time. I peered at the field, to our defenseless rise, where my vassals fretted.
Lord Groenfil! Anavar of the Southern Reaches! I summon you ... ten men, unarmed. No sword, no bow, no pike. Yourselves alone.
I raised my voice to the looming battlements. “Hriskil, timid mouse! A king awaits you!”
Perhaps the defenders heard. None deigned to respond.
Presently, the clop of hooves, invisible in the gray.
I sat still, waiting. At last they emerged.
Groenfil had divined my intent. Cloaked, scabbards bare, he and Anavar led ten soldiers in solemn procession. They rode at a stately walk, heads erect, deigning to glance to neither side. Through the Norland camp they made their way, oblivious of the billowing tents, the stacks of supplies, sheaves of arrows, equipage of war. Straight to me they rode, leading a riderless, prancing stallion.
Anavar leaped down; Groenfil dismounted more slowly, wrapped in dignity. Together, they bowed.
I swallowed. “I’ll try to stand. No, don’t help; they watch.” Abandoning my Vessels, I lurched to my feet. “Sir, your shoulder.”
Groenfil said urgently, “You can’t mount with a shaft—”
“Do be quiet, there’s a good fellow.” I raised a leg. “Oh!” My face was pasty, but I sat astride my stallion. I straightened my coronet:
“Anavar, to the king’s right. We slow walk to the rise, where our pikemen—”
My tone had an edge. “Follow, my lords. To the wall.”
Groenfil might have objected, if my command hadn’t shocked him speechless. Anavar, bursting with pride, too young to heed his peril, gladly guided his mount alongside mine.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 53
