Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Oh yes, they say it’s the ghost of a king who died at this very spot. Of course, he wasn’t really a king, just a crown prince who might have worn the crown one day. You see, as the tale goes, the prince was returning home one night in the company of his brave soldiers when one of them took it upon himself to chop the poor bastard’s head off and put it in a sack.” Trumbul paused as he pulled a burlap bag off his horse and held it up to the prince. “Just like this one here.”

  “What are you playing at, Trumbul?” Alric inquired.

  “I’m not playing at all, Your Royal High-and-Mightiness. I just realized I don’t need to return you to the castle to be paid; I only need to return part of you. Your head will do fine. It saves the horse the effort of carrying you the entire way, and I have always had a fondness for horses. So whatever I can do to help them, I try to do.”

  Alric spurred his mount, but the man with the reins held it firmly, and the horse only pivoted sharply. Trumbul took advantage of the animal’s sudden lurch and pulled the prince to the ground. Alric attempted to draw his sword, but Trumbul kicked him in the stomach. With the wind knocked out of him, Alric doubled over in the dirt, laboring to breathe.

  Trumbul then turned his attention to Myron, who sat in his saddle with a look of shock as the baron approached him.

  “You look familiar,” Trumbul said as he pulled Myron roughly off the horse. He held the monk’s head toward the moonlight. “Oh yes, I remember. You were the not-so-helpful monk at the abbey we burned. You probably don’t remember me, do you? I was wearing a helm with a visor that night. We all were. Our employer insisted that we hide our faces.” He stared at the monk, who had tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t know if I should kill you or not. I was originally told to spare your life so you could deliver a message to your father, but you don’t seem to be heading that way. Besides, keeping you alive was related to that job, and unfortunately for you, we have already been paid for its completion. So it seems what I do is completely at my discretion.”

  Without warning, Myron kicked the baron in the knee with such force that it broke the baron’s grip on the monk, who leapt over a fallen log and bolted into the darkness of the trees, snapping twigs and branches as he ran into the night. Screaming in pain, the baron collapsed to the ground. “Get him!” he yelled, and two soldiers chased after Myron.

  A commotion erupted in the trees. Alric heard Myron’s cry for help, followed by the sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Another scream ended as quickly as it began, cut abruptly short. The silence returned. Still holding his leg, Trumbul cursed the monk. “That will teach the little wretch!”

  “You all right, Trumbul?” asked the guard holding Alric’s horse.

  “I’m fine, just give me a second. Damn, that little monk kicked hard.”

  “He won’t be kicking anyone anymore,” another soldier added.

  The baron slowly climbed to his feet and tested his leg. He walked over to where Alric lay and drew his sword. “Grab him by the arms and hold him tight. Make sure he doesn’t cause me any trouble, boys.”

  The guard Myron had been riding behind dismounted and took Alric’s left arm while another secured his right. “Just make sure you don’t hit us by accident,” he said.

  Trumbul grinned in the moonlight. “I never do anything by accident. If I hit you, you’ve done something to deserve it.”

  “If you kill me, my uncle will hunt you down no matter where you try to hide!”

  Trumbul chuckled at the young prince. “Your uncle is the one who will pay us for your head. He wants you dead.”

  “What? You lie!”

  “Believe what you will.” The baron laughed. “Turn him over so I get a clear stroke at the back of his neck. I want a pretty trophy. I hate it when I end up having to hack and hack.”

  Alric struggled but the two soldiers were stronger than he was. They twisted the prince’s arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and shoved his head to the ground.

  There was the sound of snapping twigs from the thick brush by the side of the road. “It took you two a long time to kill that little monk,” Trumbul said. “But you got back just in time for the night’s finale.”

  The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. “No! Stop! You can’t! Stop!” His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip, and years of wielding swords and shields in battle had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.

  Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul’s blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The one nearest the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man, who held a sword in each hand.

  Again the sound of twigs snapping came from the woods nearby.

  “Everyone, over here!” shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.

  The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.

  Myron climbed out of the woods and stood in the moonlight, his rapid breath forming little clouds in the cold night air.

  Alric heard Royce’s voice: “Your friends aren’t coming. They’re already dead.”

  The two guards wielding swords looked at each other, then raced down the road in the direction of the Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier, holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted.

  Alric could not stop shaking as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.

  “They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to kill me!” he screamed.

  He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.

  Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from the Silver Pitcher Inn and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.

  “Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”

  “As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”

  “Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.

  “Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”

  There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.

  The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge and began to divvy up the loot as best he could.

  “Give the elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.

  “What?” the innkeeper asked, stunned. “You want us to give him a horse? Are you sure? I mean, most of these men don’t have a good horse.”

  Drake quickly cut in. “Listen, we all fought equally tonight
. He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”

  “Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.

  The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm but his eyes smoldered.

  “What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, them is his horses, right? His soldiers was a ridin’ ’em. We should ask him to decide—okay?”

  There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He had come within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back at the crowd.

  “Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, coldly. “They are my royal protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys them will be executed.” There was silence in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”

  Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then mounted. The monk was quiet now and walked in a daze. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.

  As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-breed gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I’ll hold everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once, it will be legal.”

  The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed, “It was my own uncle.” Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Hadrian mentioned. “The archduke stands next in line for the throne after you and Arista. But being family, I figured he’d be just as big a target as you, only he’s not a blood uncle, is he? His last name is Braga, not Essendon.”

  “He married my mother’s sister.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “No, she died years ago, in a fire.” Alric slammed his fist on the saddle’s pommel. “He taught me the blade! He showed me how to ride. He’s my uncle and he is trying to kill me!”

  Nothing was said for a while, and then Hadrian finally asked, “Where are we going?”

  Alric shook his head as if coming out of a dream. “What? Oh, to Drondil Fields, Count Pickering’s castle. He is—was—one of my father’s most trusted nobles and our closest friends. He’s also the most powerful leader in the kingdom. I’ll raise an army from there and march on Medford within the week. And Maribor help the man, or uncle, who tries to stop me!”

  “Is this what you wanted to see?” the archduke asked Arista, picking up the dagger. He held it out so she could read the name Percy Braga clearly spelled out on the blade in her father’s blood. “It looks like you have indeed learned a thing or two from Esrahaddon. This, however, proves nothing. I certainly didn’t stab your father with it. I wasn’t even near the chapel when he was killed.”

  “But you ordered it. You might not have driven the dagger into his body, but you were the one responsible.” Arista wiped the tears from her eyes. “He trusted you. We all trusted you. You were part of our family!”

  “There are some things more important than family, my dear—secrets, terrible secrets which must remain hidden at all costs. As hard as it may be for you to believe, I do care for you, your brother, and your—”

  “Don’t you dare say it!” she shouted at him. “You murdered my father.”

  “It was necessary. If you only knew the truth, you’d understand what is truly at stake. There are reasons why your father had to die and Alric as well.”

  “And me?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. But these matters must be handled delicately. One murder is not unusual, and Alric’s disappearance has actually been a great help. If things had occurred the way they were planned, it would have looked much more suspicious. I suspect your brother will meet death in some quiet remote area far from here. I had originally planned for you to die accidently in an unfortunate accident, but you have provided me with a better approach. It’ll be easy to convince others you hired those two thieves to kill your father and your brother. You see, I already planted the seeds that something was amiss. The night your father was killed, I had Captain Wylin and a squad of men at the ready. I’ll simply explain that having failed the double murder, you sought to correct matters by freeing the killers. We have several witnesses who can attest to the arrangements you made that evening. I’ll announce your trial at once and call all the nobles to court. They’ll hear of your treachery, your betrayals, and your foul acts. They’ll learn how education and witchcraft turned you into a power-craving murderess.”

  “You won’t dare! If you put me before the nobles, I’ll tell them the truth.”

  “That will be difficult, since you’ll be gagged. After all”—he looked at his name glistening on the blade—“you’re a witch and we can’t allow you to cast spells on us. I would have your tongue cut out now except that it might look suspicious, since I haven’t yet called for the trial.”

  Braga looked around the bedroom once more and nodded. “I was wrong. I do approve of your choice of quarters after all. I had other plans for this tower once, but now I think it will be the perfect place for you to await the trial in isolation. With the amount of time you’ve spent here by yourself, practicing your crafts, no one will notice a difference.”

  He walked out, taking the dagger with him. As he left, she saw a bearded dwarf with a hammer in hand standing outside the door. When it closed, she heard pounding and knew she had been locked in.

  CHAPTER 7

  DRONDIL FIELDS

  The four rode on through most of the night. They finally stopped when Myron toppled from the horse after falling asleep behind Hadrian. Leaving the horses saddled, they slept only briefly in a thicket. Soon they were back on the road, traveling through an orchard of trees. Each plucked an apple or two and ate the sweet fruit as they rode. There was little to see until the sun rose. Then a few workers began to appear. An older man drove an oxcart filled with milk and cheese. Farther down the lane, a young girl carried a basket of eggs. Myron watched her intently as they passed by, and she looked up at him, smiling self-consciously.

  “Don’t stare, Myron,” Hadrian told him. “They will think you’re up to something.”

  “They are even prettier than horses,” the monk remarked, glancing back repeatedly over his shoulder as the girl fell behind them.

  Hadrian laughed. “Yes, they are, but I wouldn’t tell them that.”

  Ahead, a hill rose, and on top of it stood a castle. The structure was nothing like Essendon Castle—it looked more like a fortress than a house of nobility.

  “Drondil Fields,” Alric said. The prince had barely said anything since his ordeal the night before. He did not complain about the long ride or the cold night air. Instead, he rode in silence with his eyes fixed on the path that lay ahead.

  “Odd name for a castle,” Hadrian mentioned.

  “Brodic Essendon built it during the wars following the fall of the Steward’s Reign,” Myron said. “His son, Tolin the Great, finished the work, defeated Lothomad the Bald, and proclaimed himself the first king of Melengar. They fought the battle on fields that belonged to a farmer named Drondil and later this whole area became known as Drondil Fields, or so the story goes.”

  “Who was Lothomad?” Hadrian asked.

  “He was the King of Trent. After Glenmorgan III was executed, Lothomad seized his chance and sent his armies south. Ghent and Melengar would both be part of Trent today if it wasn’t for Tolin Essendon.”

 
“That’s why they called him the Great, I assume.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nice design. The five-pointed star shape makes it impossible to find a blind wall to scale.”

  “It’s the strongest fortress in Melengar,” Alric said.

  “What brought the Essendons to Medford, then?” Royce asked.

  “After the wars,” Myron explained, “Tolin felt it was depressing living in such a gloomy fortress. He built Essendon Castle in Medford and entrusted Galilin to his most loyal general, Seadric Pickilerinon.”

  “Seadric’s son was the one who shortened his name to Pickering,” Alric added.

  Hadrian noticed a distant look on Alric’s face, a melancholy smile on his lips.

  “My family has always been close to the Pickerings. There’s no direct blood relation, but Mauvin, Fanen, and Denek have always been like my brothers. We almost always spend Wintertide and Summersrule with them.”

  “I’ll bet the other nobles aren’t too happy about that,” Royce said. “Particularly those who actually are blood relatives.”

  Alric nodded. “Nothing has ever come of their jealousies, though. No one would dare challenge a Pickering. They have a legendary family tradition with swords. Rumor has it that Seadric learned the ancient art of Tek’chin from the last living member of the Knights of the Order of the Fauld.”

  “Who?” Hadrian asked.

  “The way I heard it—the way Mauvin told me—was that they were a post-imperial brotherhood who tried to preserve at least part of the ancient skills of the Teshlor Knights.”

  “And who were they?”

  “Teshlors?” Alric glanced over at him, stunned. “The Teshlors are the greatest warriors who ever lived. They once guarded the emperor himself. But I guess like everything else, their techniques were lost with the fall of the empire. Still, what Seadric learned from the Order of the Fauld, and I guess it was just a tiny fraction of what the Teshlors knew, made him a legend. That knowledge has been faithfully passed from father to son for generations, and that secret gives the Pickerings an uncanny advantage in combat.”