The Sworn fkc-1

by Gail Z. Martin

  Instead of scattering, more people were streaming toward the fight. Some of them might have intended to be onlookers, and others might have been fleeing the fires. But like it or not, they had become combatants.

  “Bows drawn!”

  Reluctantly, Cam sheathed his sword and drew the crossbow that was slung across his back. An ugly night was about to become even uglier.

  The first salvo of quarrels sailed through the air, and a row of men at the front of the opposition crumpled and fell. Rocks and bits of wood studded with nails sailed through the air returning the fire. A chunk of wood the size of a man’s fist barely missed Cam’s shoulder. Another round of arrows flew, and more rioters fell.

  Suddenly, three small barrels sailed through the air, slamming into the cobblestones just ahead of the soldiers and their horses. Cam had a heartbeat to recognize the smell of the liquid that burst from the kegs to realize what the rioters intended.

  “Fall back!”

  Torches landed in the pools of brandy, and a wall of flame flared, forcing the horsemen to back up. Too late, Cam could hear the pounding of footsteps behind them and he realized that more rioters had closed in on them from the rear.

  “Ride for it!”

  Cam wheeled his horse and rode hard as the alleyway behind them began to close, choked off by rioters who were screaming obscenities. Bodies scattered as the heavy war steeds forced their way through. Blows fell on the soldiers and horses as they passed, and Cam knew blood was running down his good leg where a dagger had been jammed into his thigh.

  Suddenly, the night was as bright as day. A blinding white light illuminated the alleyway, forcing soldiers and rioters alike to turn their heads and shield their eyes. To Cam’s utter astonishment, the rioters began to topple over, their expressions showing total confusion as their bodies, still frozen in place, wavered and fell over.

  “By the Crone! What-”

  Cam and the others turned to see two gray-robed battle mages behind them. Wilym grinned broadly and motioned for his soldiers to lower their weapons. “You’re a welcome sight, my friends.”

  One of the battle mages, a tall man with graying temples, stepped forward. “Sorry it took us a bit to get to you. The king sent us out to do what we could to stop the fires, and when riots broke out, it got to be difficult to move from place to place.”

  Cam could see the concern on Wilym’s face. “It’s like this all over the city? By the Whore! What about the fires?”

  Even as Wilym spoke, the second battle mage, a woman with a long, dark braid, raised her hands and put out the sputtering fire that still guttered in the pools of spilled brandy. The alley reeked of blood and scorched alcohol.

  “We’ve put the worst out,” the man replied. “Some of the rest will have to burn themselves out, but we’ve managed to contain them.”

  “And the rioters?” Wilym asked with a jerk of his head toward the jumble of bodies that lay still behind their barricade.

  The battle mage’s face was streaked with soot, but he managed a tired smile. “They’re not dead, though they’ll wake up with headaches that might make them wish they were. I dare say that a bout of diarrhea will keep them from taking to the streets again for a few days, at least.”

  Wilym looked at the mage skeptically. “Glad you’re on our side.”

  The mage turned his attention to Cam and seemed to note the crest on his breastplate and shield that marked him as King’s Champion. “Cam of Cairnrach?”

  “Aye.”

  “We were told to tell you and the leader of the Veigonn that the king wants you in the palace as soon as you can be spared from the fight.”

  Cam and Wilym exchanged glances. “Any idea why?” Wilym asked.

  The battle mage shook his head. “I didn’t think it wise to ask. We were all told to keep an eye out for you, and to tell you to come straightaway, without taking time to clean up.”

  Cam spread his arms and looked down at himself in dismay. “I’m covered with filth!”

  The mage shrugged. “Those were the orders. I’m guessing that the king could guess what you look like and doesn’t care.”

  They paused only long enough for Cam to pull the dagger from his leg and bind up the wound. Wilym shouted terse orders to his second in command, and with a nod of thanks to the mages, he and Cam headed uphill toward Aberponte. As they made their way to the palace, the night’s toll became more apparent. Injured townsfolk stood aside to let them pass, following them with baleful gazes. Whole blocks of buildings were charred wrecks, with smoke still rising from fallen timbers. Many of the stores and pubs had broken windows, and more than one woman leaned out of an upper window to shout curses at them as they galloped by.

  “Why do I have the feeling that the night isn’t going to get any better once we reach to the palace?” Cam asked.

  Wilym’s expression told Cam that the other had shared the same thought. “I hope Donelan meant what he said about coming straight to the palace. We both look like we’ve been to war, and we smell like a sewer!”

  The portcullis had been dropped, blocking their entry into the palace. Soldiers behind the gate motioned for them to leave their horses outside and come through a door in the thick bailey wall that allowed only single-file entry. Cam and Wilym motioned for the servants to help them hurriedly unbuckle their armor, hoping to leave the worst of the blood and muck behind. Heeding Donelan’s orders, they did not take time to clean the grime from their faces and hands, although Cam cast a longing look at a trough of fresh water as they ran for the palace door.

  Inside, Allestyr was waiting for them. “Thank the Goddess you’re safe. The king asked me to send you to the Council Chamber as soon as you arrived.”

  “What’s going on?” Wilym asked.

  Allestyr looked from Cam to Wilym. “The king’s in chambers with The Council. He’s arguing to muster the army to defend the coastline.”

  The men took the stairs two at a time, with Wilym leading the way. At the entrance to the Council Chamber, they slowed. The guards at the door gave a sharp rap, and Tice, one of the king’s advisors, leaned out. “Good. You’re here. Come in.”

  Cam drew a deep breath and followed Wilym into the chamber.

  “Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,” Lord Mannon spoke. His arms were crossed and he sat back sullenly in his chair. Cam had the thought that perhaps he and Wilym were not the only ones facing a long battle this night.

  “Are you completely mad? Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” Count Renate was purple in the face with rage.

  “A kingdom can’t exist in anarchy. If it takes a dark summoner to put things in order, then perhaps it’s a gift from the Lady,” Mannon retorted.

  “A curse from the Formless One, you mean!” Renate looked as if he were about to launch himself across the table. Cam glanced at the other faces. Donelan sat, stony faced, at the head of the table. Next to him was Kellen, head of the palace guard and a trusted protector. To Donelan’s other side was Tice, whose thin face clearly showed his displeasure with the way the debate was going. Lady Marja sat beside Tice. Her eyes were bright with emotion, but Cam could not guess whose side she was on. Beside her, Baron Tahvo’s fists were balled.

  “Isencroft does not have the manpower or the will to wage a war. Our own people are burning the city as we argue!” Duke Yrje’s voice cut through the debate.

  “Yrje, you’re an ass,” snapped Tahvo. “We have no choice. Isencroft has never stood by and let invaders take our land.”

  “Unless they marry into the family.” Mannon’s face was flushed and it was clear his blood was high for a fight.

  “Silence!” Donelan’s roar quieted the room. “Wilym, report!”

  Wilym squared his shoulders and stepped forward. “With the help of the battle mages, the rebels were stopped. The worst of the fires have been put out, and my men remain with the other soldiers and the mages to mop up.”

  “How do you expect to fight a foreign invader when we can’t stop th
e damn Divisionists?” Mannon’s tone was acerbic. “Where are your conscripts going to come from, and how will you keep them from knifing you in the back?”

  Donelan’s barely contained rage made his eyes glint. “Cam, give The Council the full report you gave me from Brunnfen. Hold back nothing.”

  Cam swallowed hard and moved to stand beside Wilym. He repeated the account he had provided to Donelan, leaving out no detail, even though his cheeks flamed with the shame of Alvior’s treachery. Although he did his best not to look at the Council while he spoke, he had the sinking feeling that even if the Formless One and her Wild Host were at the gates of Aberponte, Mannon and Yrje would remain resolute. When he finished, the chamber was quiet for a moment, and then Yrje leaned forward.

  “I would ask Your Majesty exactly what we would be protecting if we raise the army for this supposed ‘threat.’ ”

  Donelan glowered. “Isencroft.” Though the king did not say it, Cam was certain that Donelan had mentally added, You idiot.

  “But we’ve already given Isencroft as a wedding gift to Margolan. What is a joint throne if not a peaceful coup? Our heir has been brokered off to marry the king of our hereditary enemy, the kingdom that has attempted to invade Isencroft more times in our history than any other. Sire, the invasion has already been accomplished, and we are but a Margolan territory.”

  Renate rose to his feet and in one, swift moment hurled his wine at Yrje, dousing the man. “What kind of treason are you spouting, Yrje? We’ve been at peace with Margolan for a generation.”

  Yrje shook himself off and gave a killing look at Renate. “Perhaps that’s because the Margs took with a betrothal contract what they always wanted to seize with an army.”

  “We’ve been over this before-”

  “Been over what? Been over how we delivered our heir like a purchased whore right to the Margolan doorstep?” Yrje spat.

  “Look around yourself, Yrje.” Tahvo’s voice was like ice. “Neither the Margs nor the king caused three poor harvests in a row. Naught but the Crone brought plague on us. The alliance with Margolan makes sense, and if we’re about to be invaded by Temnotta, then we can be damn glad that Margolan is an ally instead of a worry.”

  “You think Margolan would risk a hair on its king’s head to save Isencroft?” Yrje was standing now, shaking with rage. “For all we know, they’re in league with Temnotta. Margolan’s army doesn’t have the manpower to invade us, but they could let Temnotta do their dirty work and then share the spoils.”

  “Enough!” Once again, Donelan’s growl brought the room to silence. He got to his feet and sent a sheaf of papers and his goblet flying from the table with a sweep of his arm. “Isencroft is endangered from within by the Divisionists and from outside by Temnotta. We must fight.”

  “Fighting is not an option.” Mannon’s face was set. “Perhaps we can win an accommodation from Temnotta. We have no issue with them.”

  “Are you deaf?” Renate’s voice was loud enough to make himself heard even if Mannon were hard of hearing. “We already know Alvior has a deal with Temnotta. And we know Alvior used his gold to support the Divisionists. The die is cast, Mannon. Temnotta comes to our shores as an invader, with a puppet king already in hand. We must fight, or die.”

  “Our city is on fire, burned by our own people. There’s your ‘no confidence’ vote if ever there was one,” Mannon shot back.

  “And you hope to do what with your accommodation?” Contempt was thick in Renate’s voice. “Keep the Temnottans from pillaging your lands while they loot the rest of the country? Hand over our women so long as they keep their hands off your daughters?”

  “Ask Donelan. He knows all about handing over a daughter to invaders.”

  Renate’s answer was a punch that caught Mannon square in the jaw and bowled him over the back of his heavy chair. Lady Marja screamed. Kellen rose to his feet, protecting Donelan, and both Cam and Wilym closed ranks around the king.

  Mannon rose to his feet slowly and waved off assistance from Yrje. Tahvo had gone to stand beside Renate, and from the look of him, he was ready to finish the fight if Mannon came at him.

  “It’s clear the crown seeks capitulation and not counsel,” Mannon said, rubbing his jaw. “I am through with this charade.” With that, Mannon turned and stalked from the chamber, with Yrje close at his heels. Lady Marja looked as if she meant to call after them, and then sank back into her seat miserably. Renate and Tahvo still looked ready to fight, and neither one of them made a move to stand down until Donelan cleared his throat.

  “That went about as well as I expected,” Donelan said and sighed. He motioned for the others to sit, and waved Cam and Wilym forward to take the seats vacated by Mannon and Yrje. “Let them carry that tale back with them.”

  Lady Marja glanced sharply at the king. “You suspect their loyalty?”

  Donelan shrugged. “I suspect the loyalty of any man with more spleen than spine.” He leaned forward. Cam thought that Donelan suddenly looked older and very tired. “Let me make myself completely clear. There will be war, and it will be hard fought. I don’t know whether or not we can win, but I’m damn sure not going to make an accommodation with a traitor.” He sighed and passed a hand over his forehead as if a headache pounded in his temples.

  “Tonight won’t be the last of the riots. People are scared and hungry. The plague advances farther into Isencroft every day. By the Whore! I don’t even know if we can field an army, or how long we can hold the line. But I will not give up the crown or give an inch of land without a fight.” Donelan’s eyes narrowed. He looked in turn to each one seated around the table. “Where do you stand?”

  Kellen and Tice pushed their chairs back and knelt. Cam and Wilym stepped up and knelt beside them. One by one, Marja, Renate, and Tahvo joined them.

  “We will support you with our lives, lands, and honor, my king,” said Renate, his voice catching.

  Cam could see the emotion in Donelan’s eyes. “Thank you,” Donelan said wearily. “Ready your people. Those who can fight should muster. Have the rest put back supplies for your households.” He looked to Tice. “Work with Allestyr to provision the castle for a siege, and then work with the generals to supply them for war.”

  Donelan’s gaze fell to Cam and Wilym. “I know your men are tired. I’ve asked a lot of them, and I’m going to have to ask more.”

  “They’re ready, my liege,” said Wilym. “Ready and willing to serve.”

  Donelan nodded. “Good. Let them know what we’re up against. The Veigonn will be the last line of defense if Alvior’s goal is the crown.”

  “Alvior’s mine.” They all turned to look at Cam. He barely recognized his own voice, thick with anger. “I want to be the one who kills him, for the troubles he’s brought down on Margolan and for betraying his kingdom.” Cam held up his maimed hand. “And I owe him for this.”

  “May Chenne grant your vow,” Donelan murmured. He motioned for them to rise, looking genuinely touched. “Realize that your loyalty may place each of you in danger. It’s clear the Divisionists are hardly vanquished. Go nowhere without a trusted armed guard. Our numbers are few enough. We can’t afford to give those bastards any more of an advantage than they already have.”

  Renate, Marja, and Tahvo each bowed low and kissed Donelan’s ring in fealty, reaffirming their loyalty before they left. With a nod and a glance that seemed to speak volumes, Tice went to find Allestyr to begin preparations, and Kellen went to stand guard inside the door. Cam and Wilym lingered, and Donelan waved at them to sit back down.

  Donelan went to the decanter of brandy that sat on a table near the fireplace, and he poured three generous measures, returning with nearly full goblets for each of them. Donelan sank heavily into his chair, nearly sloshing his brandy.

  “By the Crone’s tits! I hope you appreciate the restraint it took not to put my sword through Mannon’s tongue!”

  Wilym and Cam chuckled, accustomed to Donelan’s dark humor. “I was actually w
ondering how put out you’d be with me if I had slipped a blade between Yrje’s ribs.” Wilym’s tone was dry, and Cam wasn’t quite sure how much Wilym was joking.

  Donelan chuckled. “Now there’s a pleasant fantasy. Perhaps I’ll fall asleep tonight picturing it.” He shook his head. “Dark Lady take my soul! This is not the legacy I’d hoped to leave Isencroft.” The smile faded from his face, and his eyes grew dark.

  “Have you heard from the other kingdoms? Will they give aid?” Wilym sipped at his drink, and from his expression, Cam knew Wilym was already formulating battle plans.

  Donelan nodded. “I’m trying not to take it as a bad omen that all of them sent replies by vayash moru to shave time off the trip. Kalcen is readying his army, and he says we can count on him to hold their coast. Of all the allied kingdoms, Eastmark is probably in the best position to defend itself. Plague hasn’t taken hold there, and their last harvest was good. Word came from Principality that their mercs would rise to the cause, but Staden’s seneschal added a note that the king is very ill.”

  “Jonmarc Vahanian is Princess Berwyn’s liegeman,” Cam said quietly. “If war comes, he’ll be at the forefront. I know Dark Haven will rally.”

  “Tris Drayke pledged his support, of course, but that’s a thorny problem.” Donelan took a long drink of his brandy and sighed as it burned down his throat. “We don’t dare let the Margolan army onto Isencroft soil, and it’s anyone’s guess whether Tris can put much of a force together, after all they’ve been through over there.”

  “What of their navies?” Wilym asked.

  Donelan shrugged ill-humoredly. “I’m not entirely sure what Eastmark has in ships. Principality runs its navy the same way it runs its army. It provides sanctuary to mercenaries and privateers who pledge never to sell sword against them. The letter from Principality said they had the gold to assure the privateers’ loyalty. Margolan never has had much of a navy, but I believe Tris when he says he’ll bring everything they have against the invaders. Damn it all to the Abyss!”

  “Do you believe what the Oracle said? That this could be a War of Unmaking?” Cam asked quietly.