The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  * * *

  When they crossed into Missiluse, the horrors began. First there were the crosses. In scattered clumps, they rose across the landscape like parodies of trees, bearing their hideous fruit. Many of the corpses had been stripped of flesh, so that only skeletons remained pinioned to their branches, or in piles of desiccated bone around the bases. Carrion birds flocked the skies and the buzz of insects was a constant hum.

  Vapor steamed through deep cracks in the ground, and here and there boiling springs of sulfurous water spouted without warning. But nothing challenged the passing of the great army as they moved with ponderous pacing.

  Their passage was often blocked by the rubble of the ruins of old roads, torn from their beds of earth, heaved in great piles to the sides in gorges deep and rocky. The bodies of animals of every description lay rotting beneath the merciless sun. The air was wet and dank; a man could move no more than two or three feet before he was soaked to the skin.

  The swamps seethed with unseen life; at night the men were wary and silent. More than once there were reports that a soldier had lain down to sleep and had disappeared by morning. At last, the scouts reported word of Amanander’s position. “Less than two days march, Lord Prince,” they said, twisting their hands nervously. “There’s something—something bad about that place.”

  Roderic scanned their faces and did not press. Instead, he surveyed the ruins of the ancient city which lay around them.

  “And that’s not all. We can go no further, Lord Prince.” The scout wiped the sweat off his face with a grimy linen square. It left a smudge across his forehead. “The river south of here is fouled; this is the last fresh water supply.”

  Roderic nodded. “Then we have our answer.” He pointed to a jagged spur that rose out of the swamp, the highest ground for miles. One side rose nearly a hundred feet, the sheer rock raw and striated. The other side sloped gently to the river’s edge. “There. If the engineers say that ground’s stable, we’ll move up there.”

  The men were set to the task of constructing the fortifications. Near the top of the crest of the rise, the remains of a high tower rose three stories in the air. Once the engineers determined that the foundations were stable, Roderic gave orders to make that the center of command.

  As the days passed, he watched the endless digging and hauling, and partly out of restlessness, took a turn riding out with the patrols. Less than six hours from the keep, he found a sloping hill which rolled down onto level ground. He turned to look at Deirdre. “What do you think?”

  She scanned the area with a practiced eye, taking in the natural contours of the land. “Looks like a good place for a battle to me, Lord Prince. This slope gives us some advantage—those trees will make good cover for our men.”

  “I say we make our move, Deirdre.”

  She grinned, even as the sweat rolled down her face and trickled down the collar of her opened shirt. “Thought you’d never say so, Prince. Me and the boys, we’re itching to get home.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The scouts reported movement in the swamps as Roderic ordered the army into position on the battlefield he had selected. From the top of the ridge, he stared out over the plain, fancying that beneath the moon he could see the gray, ghostly forms of those men whose eyes had haunted his dreams for so long. The full moon stared like the flat eye of some uncaring god, casting a cold light over that land of nightmares. In the distance, over the trees, he saw a dark smudge on the horizon which was Amanander’s keep.

  “What are those things we fight?” Evan Lewis spoke quietly behind him. Lewis had spent a lot of time listening to the scouts, as well as the survivors from the Dlas expedition. He, too, had ridden out with the patrols, and he had seen firsthand what the enemy looked like.

  “Only bodies, without mind or will or spirit.” The Kahn’s voice sounded harsh in the soft night air. “They do their lord’s bidding;‘tis all they exist for.”

  A flash of orange lightning split the night sky and Roderic was reminded suddenly of the battle at Minnis. The flames of the campfires of the foot soldiers in their trenches twinkled, like fallen stars.

  Roderic squared his shoulders. “Come, gentlemen. I want to review our strategy for tomorrow.”

  Miles nodded. “I shall summon the captains of the regiments to join us.”

  “And my men, Prince,” said the Kahn.

  Lewis followed Miles and the Kahn down the hill. Roderic watched them leave and turned to Deirdre. Her face was blank, her eyes unreadable in the dark. “You know, Roderic, despite our numbers, we face long odds tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” he answered softly. “I know.”

  “If one man out of a hundred still lives by this time tomorrow, you may count yourself a wise general. Our men, these armies, they are nothing—he uses mindless minions against them. The only life which counts tomorrow is yours. Yours is the only life he wants.”

  “What about Annandale?”

  “I do not mean that others are unimportant. But if you fall, all will be lost.”

  He stared at the southern horizon. “You’ve been with me all through this, Deirdre. No man could ask for a more loyal ally, a more faithful friend. I’ll never forget what you’ve done.”

  She shrugged, and for a moment, her face softened and she looked almost girlish. “Then don’t betray my trust, Prince.”

  “How can you still call me that? You know the truth— why do you call me Prince even when we are alone?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “A Prince isn’t something you’re born. A Prince is something you live. There are men among my people who are born in places not much better than byres and they are Princes. For to be a Prince means you know how to show other men how to live, and how to die.”

  Her voice was not much more than a husky whisper.

  “And you think I am a Prince? After all you know about me?”

  “I know you are, Lord Prince. The question is—do you? A man may go crazy from time to time.‘Tis how he acts afterwards that matters. You win tomorrow, you will be King. Can you do that, Roderic? Can you show other men how to live, and how to die?”

  The question was nearly unanswerable. “Deirdre, do you think she’s still alive?”

  “Aye.” Deirdre nodded. “She’s stronger than anyone I have ever met—though it worries me how he got to her. I don’t understand that part at all. I wish your father had been able to tell us more.”

  “Yes,” Roderic agreed. “If I lose her, Deirdre, I don’t know what I will do.”

  She looked at him sharply. “You’ll go on, that’s what you’ll do. You’ll raise your son in her memory, and you’ll make this land a better place. If you choose to be King.”

  “Choose to be King?”

  “Aye. Didn’t that ever occur to you? You could lay all this down and walk away. You’ve been so worried that the people might not want you, you’ve forgotten that you, too, have a choice. The choice has always been yours, Roderic. You could have gone a long time ago.”

  “But—”

  “But you didn’t. That’s what I meant when I said you were a Prince.” She gave him a crooked grin and pushed her sleeves further up her tanned forearms. “Come. The captains await.”

  “Deirdre—” His words stopped her as she turned on her heel. “I haven’t forgotten our bargain.”

  “No, Prince. And neither have I.” She winked at him over her shoulder and strode away, whistling.

  Like the breaking of an enormous wave, the battle began as a red sun rose over the plain. As Roderic eased into the saddle, the first of the scouts from the front lines galloped up to him. “Lord Prince.”

  Roderic wrapped the reins in one hand. “Tell Lewis to hold his men in reserve on our left flank. Are the Harleys ready to ride?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

  “Yes, Lord Prince. The Kahn is leading his men in the first assault on the other side of the ridge.”

  “Good.” Roderic nodded. He spurred the horse on and gal
loped down the ridge. He caught Deirdre’s eye. “Well?” he asked as he reined in beside her.

  “Well, Lord Prince?”

  He could see the gleam of battle in her eyes. Her stallion danced beneath her, and the wind whipped at her battle-plaid. “Ready to win the battle?”

  “Ready to win the war,” she returned. “Lead on.”

  He raised his hand and shouted the order to advance.

  The battle raged as the sun ascended, and the heavy heat was like molten lead poured from the sky onto the backs of the men. In the middle of the morning, another messenger, holding a bloody side, lurched up the rise. “Lord Prince,” he gasped, “their first line has broken, and the second is breaking down—the road is open. It looks as though they’re retreating.”

  Roderic glanced at Deirdre. “Follow with caution. I don’t trust Amanander.”

  Like a flood, the troops swept over the plain, down the wide road bed, following the black-garbed soldiers to the very base of Amanander’s fortress. On another hill overlooking the fortress, Roderic gave the orders to halt. “We’ll make camp here for the night,” he said. “Make sure the men who cannot fight are sent back. We don’t want the wounded in our way tomorrow.” He gazed grimly at the wooden walls rising before them. “Nothing will get in our way tomorrow.” With a feeling of satisfaction, he went to rest.

  It was close to dawn when something roused him He came awake with a start, reached for his sword, and sat up. Something niggled at the back of his awareness, some detail he seemed to have forgotten or overlooked. The element of surprise had worked well to their advantage; Phineas had been correct with his assessment of Amanander’s troops. Although they fought with deadly precision, the greater numbers easily overwhelmed them, especially when coupled with surprise or unexpected counter-maneuvers. But hadn’t it been almost too easy?

  He rose and paced, wishing Brand or Phineas or even old Garrick was there. Or even Vere, for that matter. A dark figure approached. Evan Lewis nodded a greeting. “Restless?”

  Roderic nodded. “Hard not to be, I suppose.” The gray light intensified. Before Evan could reply, a high-pitched scream rose over the camp. Roderic jerked his head in the direction of the sound. From his vantage point on the higher ground, he could see the whole camp, the sleeping forms of the soldiers spread out, the few who stirred at that early hour.

  “By the One,” gasped Evan.

  Roderic squinted. Along the perimeter of the camp, a long line of dark figures were shambling into position. What light there was gleamed on the edges of their weapons, and even in the dim twilit dawn, he could see that some wore the uniforms of the King’s Guard.

  “What in the name—” Evan breathed.

  The missing information clicked into place. “The dead,” murmured Roderic. “The dead walk in his service.”

  Without another moment’s hesitation, he was off, shouting for his sword, calling to the men. They bolted awake, reaching for weapons, gathering in tight formation, as the dead advanced upon some unseen signal. Deirdre grasped his arm.

  “We won’t win this way,” she hissed between clenched teeth. All around them the air was thick with bodies, the weapons flashing in the growing light. “Our men cannot hold up under the onslaught—there’re too many—too many who do not die.”

  He wiped the back of his sleeve across his forehead. “What are you suggesting?”

  She gestured with her sword. “We’ve got to get in there—into the garrison. Amanander is the key to this. We’re just food for him out here.”

  Roderic wrapped the reins of his horse more tightly around his hand. “Think we can get through?”

  Deirdre stood in her stirrups. “Darmot—Donner—to me!” She looked back at him with a grin. “Or die trying, Lord Prince.” She pointed with her sword. “The walls aren’t guarded. He’s not balanced his offense. If we can just drive a wedge through, enough to get us in the gates, we can let the ranks close behind us. I have a feeling all it’s going to take is one stroke of a broadsword through Amanander’s neck.”

  A spear, thrown across some great distance, landed in the chest of a soldier near Roderic. His stallion reared beneath him and he brought the animal under control. “All right, Deirdre,” he said as her men formed a tight group around them both, “let’s go.”

  The tide of soldiers which swept across the plain was a like a river at spring thaw. Roderic dug his spurs into his horse’s sides, and the animal leapt forward, into the thick of the melee. The enemy bore their weapons in rotting hands. He hacked on either side, right and left, with an eerie, steady rhythm. The dead made no noise as they fell, and all the world seemed to filter down into that one horrible time and place, where the dull thunk of his blade biting bone and the soft slump of the dead falling to the ground, the weird whisper of their strides surging inexorably forward were the only sounds that came to his ears. Beneath his horse’s hooves, the ground cracked in long fissures, and steam seeped in a low hiss.

  The horse reared and screamed, and Roderic wrapped the reins around his hand again, desperate to maintain control. Clouds roiled in the sky, blotting out the sun, and the sky grew green and purple with a weird, unnatural light. Lightning forked beneath the clouds, arcing in jagged spikes. It struck the earth, lashing the ground with tongues of blue-white flame.

  Pressing on and on, Deirdre’s soldiers forced an ever widening wedge, which closed behind them as they moved forward. It was then Roderic realized the advantage they had: the dead didn’t turn and follow. Amanander couldn’t think of every contingency at once.

  Finally they rode through the open gates of the garrison. Deirdre’s face and arms were slick with blood, and all the Islanders were covered in gore. Roderic wiped his blade against his thigh. Their horses trotted into the wide inner courtyard. Nothing moved.

  The silence which greeted them was even eerier than that on the battlefield. Slowly Deirdre urged her horse to the very steps of the keep. She tossed her reins to Donner and dismounted.

  Roderic handed his horse over to another soldier. He gestured in the direction of the keep and she nodded. She looked back and put her finger to her lips. Donner saluted.

  With drawn swords, they crept inside. Silence hung thick as the dust on the furniture. How odd, thought Roderic. Amanander had always been so fastidious. Long wooden benches were strewn haphazardly on the floor. Deirdre gestured to a flight of steps. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and halfway up they heard a gasping sob.

  “No!”

  Roderic froze. “That’s Annandale.”

  He took the rest of the steps two at a time, Deirdre hard at his heels. Down the long corridor, he followed the sound of Annandale’s sobs. He cursed beneath his breath, and without warning, the earth shifted beneath their feet with a sound like lightning striking wood.

  The floor lurched underneath him. Roderic staggered, fell against Deirdre, and recovered. Annandale screamed.

  Together, they ran down the rest of the hallway and burst through the last door. On a narrow pile of blankets, Alexander lay prone—claw-like hands gripping at his covers, staring with terror-wide eyes.

  Annandale crouched by his side. She looked up in disbelief as Roderic and Deirdre burst into the room. “Roderic, stay back,” she cried.

  “Come here,” he shouted.

  At the foot of the bed, Amanander stood, his hand on Vere’s throat.

  “Let him go, Aman,” Roderic said, sidling toward Annandale. “Let him go. I’m the one you want. Let Vere go”

  “In turn, Roderic.” His voice was like the purr a lycat made as its fangs found its prey.

  “You can kill him,” put in Deirdre as she moved to the edge of the room, “but you won’t get away with it.”

  Amanander turned his head. “Such a brave little girl.” With a swift motion, he threw Vere into her. He bent down, reached for Alexander, and Roderic shouted, “Annandale, get away from him.”

  But Annandale threw herself on Alexander’s chest and wrapped her arm
s around him.

  Amanander’s face contorted, and any resemblance he had to a human being melted away like hot wax under a flame. “You will not defy me!” His voice echoed like thunder in a summer night.

  Alexander found the strength to cling to her like a drowning man to a rope.

  Amanander grabbed Alexander’s legs. “Get away from them, Annandale,” Roderic cried.

  Amanander threw him a triumphant smile. “Oh yes, little changeling Prince. Save your bride. Be a hero.” The air thickened, as though the oppressive breath of some hideous beast was exhaled. The shadows flowed and swirled like black water, and the floor gave a warning tremor.

  Annandale looked up, over her shoulder. Her face was wet with tears. “Beloved, this is the only way.”

  Where Annandale clutched Alexander, the healing light glimmered, a mere flicker at first, gradually intensifying, changing from a soft shimmer of gossamer flame into a beacon of a light, radiant and clear. Roderic stared, unable to look away, as it grew brighter, until he was forced to turn his head and cover his face with his hands or be blinded by its brilliance. As though a thousand suns had come to earth, the light shone, encompassing them all, dispersing the darkness, chasing the shadows from every corner, and though his eyes were shut against it, he felt its terrible, glowing blaze. The tower shook, bucking like a beast in its death throes, and the land rocked on its foundations. He heard the roar and the rushing of a mighty wind. Horses screamed, and the cries of the soldiers outside were like children lost in nightmares.

  He fell to his knees, blindly groping for some steady anchor, and the floor collapsed beneath his hands. They crashed in a heap of splintered wood to the ground below. The light faded, and the wind died. The land heaved once more and was still. On knees that shook, he struggled through the debris to his feet. Annandale and Alexander lay entangled a few feet away. He picked his way through the wreckage and gently lifted her. She opened her eyes. “Roderic.” Her skin was red and peeling, blood oozed from her mouth. “My love.”