The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  He was clean and fed and sitting in the company of nobles engaged in a conversation about horses. As a boy, he had often looked from his place in the stable to the lighted windows of the great house, wondering what it might be like to be included among men of high station. He had never imagined he would actually experience anything like this.

  I am a slave. The thought shuddered through him.

  He was uncomfortable sitting in Sargon’s place. The princeling had not returned. Qhuin supposed he was licking the wounds of humiliation inflicted by his father. As long as he remained in the presence of Prince Kadesh-Cor, Qhuin knew he would be spared Sargon’s wrath.

  But he also knew the expedition would end. They would return to Blackthorn. The attention of the prince would be on other things besides the fate of a slave. Sargon’s revenge had been temporarily thwarted, but his anger and humiliation still raged and retribution would surely come.

  Qhuin felt a tingle and glanced over his shoulder to see Nimra watching him. Having the squire nearby gave him a strange sense of safety. He turned back as the prince spoke to the captain of the kings­riders.

  “In the absence of my grandfather,” the emphasis on his familial connection to the king was like the strike of a war hammer on an iron shield, “I am your sovereign lord and ruler, and thus my word to you, loyal captain, is the same as the king’s command.”

  The kings­riders at the table stiffened. A few moved their hands to the pommel of their swords.

  Even with only one good eye, the prince detected the ruffle of movement. The danger.

  “Baron Magnus of Blackthorn,” the captain said as he bowed low, “I acknowledge your eminence, but by the king’s command, I am charged with your safekeeping and the return of the king’s company to Kingsgate and of you and yours to Blackthorn.”

  A murmur of surprise and admiration scurried through the company at the captain’s bold defiance. Qhuin could see some of the gullies, cooks, and teamsters gathered about the elevated shelter, eavesdropping on the conversation that would determine their fate.

  “You are a lion, m’lord, but you misjudge your strength,” the captain said with delicate care. Two kings­riders rose from the bench. One stood with his thick arms folded across his breastplate. The other circled toward the Huszárs on the other side, who eyed him with misgiving.

  Qhuin knew the kings­riders had not been invited by the prince, but were there by the king’s command. “For the prince’s protection,” was the official explanation, but everyone knew about the king’s paranoia. The kings­riders were there to protect the king from his fears of defection and disloyalty—a fear that included his own beloved grandson and heir.

  Kadesh-Cor sat in silence and stared at his hands. A knot of ­muscle pulsed in his jaw. He rotated the tankard with the tips of his fingers and traced an emblem of a stag hammered in silver relief.

  “Well enough, then. If it is I and the king’s company that gives you cause to refuse, so be it. I will return with you. Others will remain and continue our expedition.” The prince clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “My oldest son and Horsemaster Raahud will lead a few men to the Oodanga Wilds to capture the stallion, and bring him to Blackthorn.”

  Horsemaster Raahud accepted his fate with a modest bow, but Chor’s face turned ashen. He glanced around as all eyes turned to him, and he rubbed the back of his neck. He chewed his lower lip to stop the quiver.

  The captain shook his head. “Horsemaster Raahud must go north with you and the company, m’lord. He is required to look after the stock and insure a safe return. Who else is qualified to bring the captured horses to the king’s stable?”

  Kadesh-Cor glanced at Qhuin.

  Does he see me as a horseman? Qhuin felt a fleeting flush of pride.

  “And my orders of safekeeping include the princelings. Your sons must return with us as well,” the captain added.

  Chor sighed in relief and turned toward his father. “And what of the king’s council at First Landing?” he asked. “The season of Mis’il S’atti is soon upon us, and it is impossible to say how long it may take to find this horse, and I . . .” The tendons in Chor’s neck tightened as he sucked in a rapid breath. “It is the express wish of your lord grandfather that I attend the council with you as firstborn heir. And with what has happened, with your wounds, I feel it necessary that I remain with you.”

  Kadesh-Cor hunched slightly and lowered his head. A bitter sigh slipped past a disappointed smile.

  “Nothing would please me more than catching the horse for you,” Chor said, the fingers of his hands trembling, “but there is no time and I fear that—”

  Kadesh-Cor cut him off. “I know what you fear. To your shame! The king’s gathering at First Landing is not until the Moon of Falling Leaves. There is time.”

  “Not for you and your sons,” the captain said stubbornly.

  Qhuin watched the games of the highborn with fascination.

  Kadesh-Cor punished the captain with a cyclops eye until the kings­rider looked away.

  The prince inhaled deeply and turned to the Huszárs. “It is left to you, then, noble friends. You came to hunt the wild horse. Who better than you—the fearless riders of the Huszárs! What better way to repay the endless favors I have showered upon you, my kinsmen, than for you to do for me what I cannot do for myself?”

  The prince glared at the captain with a single defiant eye. Invited guests, whether kin of the royal household or not, were outside his responsibility. Dared the captain oppose the prince yet again?

  The captain shrugged complacent approval.

  The Huszárs shifted as if the wool against their skin was suddenly unbearable.

  “Take whom you will and what you need,” Kadesh-Cor said to Huszár Elcun, the oldest among them. His beard was streaked with gray, and his weathered skin was the color of old leather. “The poets will write songs about the men who captured Equus.” Lightning flashed in his eye at the thought of it. “The children of your children’s children will know your names and sing your song, and you shall never be forgotten.”

  The Huszárs shuffled, ill at ease, trading expressions of trepidation and mumbling quietly among themselves. They arose from their stools and huddled a few paces away. They spoke too softly for Qhuin to hear, but he didn’t need words to understand what they were saying. Their discomposure shouted their rejection of the prince’s request. They were not going south. All but one.

  “I’ll go, m’lord!” It was Baaly. He broke from the huddle and limped forward. His right hand rose like he was a pupil waving for his tutor’s attention. His bravado broke the cluster of Huszárs, who turned to face the prince.

  “At least there is one of you who is not a cowering eunuch.” The insult was more spit than spoken.

  Huszár Elcun restrained the boy with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll not allow my nephew to chase after your mythical horse. None of us is willing to endure such risk, m’lord.”

  “Only cowards are afraid of fables and old wives’ tales,” Kadesh-Cor scoffed. “Have I not treated you as favored kin? What have I ever asked of you in return?”

  Baaly resisted the grip on his shoulder, but his uncle held fast.

  “You are always most gracious to those of us blessed to be your kith and kin, m’lord. We are not ungrateful, but the boy is injured, and as for the rest of us, well . . .”

  “I am more than your kith and kin! I am your prince!” Kadesh-Cor thrust his chin at the older man. “My men from Blackthorn would face the fires of the underworld on my command and take the entire company with them at the point of their swords, if required.” He glowered at the captain of the kings­riders and asked the question without words. Will you support my desires by your arms?

  The captain adjusted his broad belt and looked away. “The Huszárs may stay or go as they wish, m’lord. We shall not draw our swords to compel them.�
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  Kadesh-Cor pushed against the dressing on his face, then twisted and pushed again. Blood oozed from the edge of the silk and trickled to his chin in a jagged line of crimson. His fingers trembled. His exposed eye tightened to a bottomless black hole. The change in him was palpable. A shudder passed from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head like a wraith rising from the earth. Except for the crooked crack of red, his face was gray.

  “I want the stallion,” he growled beneath his breath. “By the gods, I swear that Equus will be mine!”

  CHAPTER 67

  “Take them alive!” Captain Machous’s orders had scarce been spoken before his twenty-five kings­riders burst from the trees and rode hard for the small group of bandits by the river west of Loonish.

  The bandits scrambled to mount their horses and plunged into the shallow river. They had hardly gotten wet before another score of kings­riders appeared from a copse of trees on the opposite bank and rode into the water toward them.

  Machous had divided his force, sending half of his men to cross upstream and block an escape to the Plains of Loonish. By the time the bandits turned their mounts, they were trapped on all sides.

  The bandits shouted to each other. Their horses thrashed the water into foam as their rumps slammed together in a defensive huddle. Three of the bandits were archers with arrows nocked and bows at full pull. The rest of them drew swords.

  Captain Machous had seen the tactic before. Are they kings­riders? The thought bolted through him and collided with itself.

  “Stand ready,” Machous commanded, and his men held their position. A young officer handed him a torch. He walked his horse into the river and rode to where the bandits gripped their weapons in grim determination. As the light of the torch fell across the faces of the captives, he pulled up short. His fleeting suspicion was confirmed. “Akkad!” He remembered the archer with whom he had ridden as a fledgling kings­rider before Akkad was assigned to Captain Borklore’s command.

  “Captain Machous?” Akkad’s face twisted in disbelief as he lowered his bow.

  The horses were picketed and camp set. Machous’s fifty filled their bellies with meat sliced from the wild boar turning over the fire. They shared a flask of wine and sipped sparingly.

  Machous hunkered in a squat before Akkad. The turncoat kings­rider sat with his back against a rock. His hands were tied. He twisted his head in a vain effort to wipe his cheeks on the shoulder of his blouse. He gasped for breath in heaving sobs.

  “You weep with fear when you should be bawling with shame.” Machous looked at Akkad, but his words were meant for all of the traitors. “You swore an oath of allegiance to the king. You were honored by the sigil of a kings­rider. You know the punishment for treason.” Machous tightened his jaw as the pain of personal loss of the slaughtered kings­riders transcended rank. “Borklore and I were friends as boys. Long before we aspired to the honor of kings­riders.”

  “Drakkor threatened to cut off our heads if . . .” Akkad gasped a sob to catch his breath. “He is a monster. I know it is hard for you to understand how we could possibly agree to join him, but—”

  Machous cut him off. “You deceive yourself by looking for a reason. Whatever the cause you conjure to salve your disgrace, there is nothing to excuse it!”

  “We were wrong. We are shamed, and we know that, but we risked our lives to escape and come back and make amends and—” His words gushed out in a flood of emotion.

  “Come back? By disappearing into the Plains of Loonish?”

  Akkad swallowed, the lie clear on his face.

  Machous clenched his teeth to control his anger. He stood up. “Where is he now?”

  “After we fled the Mountain of God, we camped in the ruins of Hellosós. He is building a stronghold there. We escaped six days ago, and so whether he is still there or not—”

  “Hellosós is a legend,” Machous snapped. “There is no such place.”

  “We did not believe it either until we went there. It lies beyond the valley of the curse’ed ones. None but the infected has been there in over a hundred years for fear of contagion. That is why he went there. He hardly needs an army to protect him when he hides behind a wall of fear and superstition.”

  “How do he and his men go in and out?”

  “We wrapped our faces with wet wool. It is said the air is poisoned by the breath of the infected. When we must cross the valley, the infected ones are driven into the caves by some of their own—scullions that Drakkor rewards with cannabis. The rest of them do as they are told for a crust of bread and sip of wine.”

  “And none of his army are infected?”

  “A few have been. They were killed and their bodies burned. One man woke with a pustule on his neck. He was dead and burned before the sun set.”

  “Drakkor shows no fear of the infection?”

  Akkad shook his head. “He passes through the couloir without the wool and comes close to his scullions. He laughs at our fear. One rumor among the men is that the lord prince is protected by a magic stone he keeps in his possession, though—”

  Machous cut him off. “Lord prince?”

  Akkad shuddered at the slip of his tongue. “No, no! Forgive me, honorable captain.” He sucked in his breath as if he could retrieve the misspoken words. “He is no lord nor prince. He is a demon. He demands obeisance. If we forget, we are put to the whip.” He twisted, and Macheous saw the telltale wound of a lash on Akkad’s back. “When we came down from the Mountain of God, some of us attempted to escape. We failed. After that, he treated us like prisoners, not soldiers. He kept us separate and under guard.”

  “Fools! What did you expect? That he would honor and trust a gang of traitors?”

  Akkad shook his head in shame and slumped forward. “We are worse than fools,” he mumbled. “We are lost men and forever doomed. Our days are ended. To stay was to live as low castes in the clutches of Drakkor’s claws or die from the plague of putrid flesh. In running, we live in fear of Drakkor’s assassins and being discovered by the king.” He shrugged, defeated. “Even if we had returned to Kingsgate, we would’ve been put to the ax.”

  Machous tightened his jaw again and narrowed his eyes. The thought came slowly but with clarity. “Who is the ranking kings­rider among the betrayers yet alive and loyal to Drakkor?”

  Akkad’s face lifted, his expression uncertain but hopeful. “Meshum Tirbodh, commander of the archers.”

  “And the first to kill one of our own!” a voice called from the darkness.

  Machous swung the torch toward the sound of it. The man was twisted on his side, his hands tied behind him. The guards let him squirm like a turtle on its back. “Shot him in the back as he rode for help!” the fallen man said. “The man he killed was my brother!”

  “By the gods, Captain Machous,” Akkad pleaded with a sudden gush of emotion. Half-light flickered on his face, one side glowing orange and the other fused with the shadows of night. “We know we are worthy of death, but we plead for your mercy. Grant us a chance to make amends for our disgrace. Let us renew our oath and, if we are to die, let it be in the service of our king.”

  “Can you take me to Tirbodh?”

  Akkad nodded. “He is likely still camped at Hellosós.”

  “Is it possible to approach in darkness?”

  “Yes, but . . .” He swallowed hard. “We must pass through the valley of the curse’ed. It is the only way.”

  “I understand. You said a wrap of wet wool around our faces?”

  “Yes, but we passed only in daylight. By night, it is too dangerous. Some of the creatures have gone mad, their brains rotted away. Like animals, they prey upon anything that moves in the darkness. If one of the unclean touches you or you breathe the rotten air they exhale . . .” Akkad licked his dry lips, obviously terrified of returning to the colony of the living dead.

  “
You’re a dead man either way,” Machous said. “You say you wish for redemption and to die with honor. This is the way.”

  Akkad nodded. Machous offered him a drink from a goatskin flask. Akkad gulped water, then choked when it came too fast.

  “We will never reach Hellosós with so many soldiers. Drakkor’s scullions will send word the moment we enter the valley.” He coughed again. “We will be caught,” he shuddered, “and Drakkor will not kill us quickly.”

  Machous stepped to a rock and held the torch high. By the length of his shadow he might have been a giant. “I seek the bandit Drakkor by command of His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King. I stand before you as if I were he, and it is his voice you hear in your ears.” The words hung in darkness before being swallowed by the surrounding darkness.

  “You are traitors to the Peacock Throne and are hereby sentenced to death!” He raised his hand, and half a dozen kings­riders stepped from the gloom into the glow of the torch. Each gripped a two-handed broadsword. Hardly an executioner’s ax, but if swung by a man of might, the same in the end. A tremor of fear rocked through the men until the ground fairly trembled.

  “But I am a merciful man,” Machous said after the condemned had time to contemplate the end of their lives. “You need not die this night—if you swear allegiance to the king anew and go with me to Hellosós and put an end to Drakkor.”

  The sound of oaths and promises filled the night like a croaking choir sung to a melody of weeping. The kings­riders returned their broadswords to their scabbards with a swish and clank. The bonds were cut, and the traitors were set free.

  Machous turned to Akkad. “Take me to Commander Tirbodh.”

  Machous and his fifty returned to the main encampment near Village Mordan with Akkad and his eight men to plan for their attack.

  A crust of bread and a sip of wine. That was all that Akkad said it took for Drakkor to buy the loyalty of the curse’ed. So that is what Machous would use to buy it for himself.