Lyram opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, grinding his teeth so hard it would have been audible if not for the rain. On the day Zaheva lost her life, Drault had absconded from his own hunting party, forcing Lyram to break up the guards in a futile search for the prince in the woods. That he wound up beating the bushes alone that afternoon seemed unremarkable—until his wife turned up dead. But Drault knew all that.
“I want you to stop denying those rumours.” Rain streamed down the prince’s face and his eyes glittered through the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes.
“What?” Lyram couldn’t hold the explosion back. “Why would I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I will produce evidence you did kill your wife, and ruin you and your entire family.”
The cold filtering through Lyram came from more than the rain. There were ways and means to manufacture such false evidence, and Drault had the power, money, and connections to do so. With all that he possessed, there wasn’t much he couldn’t do.
Taking Lyram’s hand, Drault smiled without showing his teeth. “It’s uneventful in the borderlands, I hear. I will pray to Ahura to keep it that way.”
And he widened his smile, teeth gleaming now, though with not a hint of warmth reaching his eyes. His grip tightened until Lyram feared his bones would surely crack.
Around them, the nobles of the court and various soldiers watched, no doubt believing they witnessed a reconciliation and forgiving of all wrongs.
The prince said no more, but the prayer to Ahura for safekeeping was unusual, though not entirely nonsensical. Death, after all, belonged to her; she possessed the power to stop it—or cause it. But Ahura wasn’t Drault’s patron god, nor Lyram’s, and he could not shake the memory of that fox’s smile, all predatory cunning.
Still, if Drault could frame him for murder, why would he send an army here to kill him? For that matter, why even demand his silence instead of producing the damning evidence? The obvious answer was that Drault would not want to be even incidentally connected to Lyram’s downfall. The common people despised Drault, all while loving and feting Lyram with wild abandon. Even a passing association with his downfall would reflect badly on Drault, and his marriage was pending now. The quickest way for Drault to end his insecurities would be to settle down and father a child or two, putting that many more rungs in the ladder between Lyram and the throne.
As if Lyram wanted to be king anyway.
“Your seal?” Everard said, already spilling red wax on the first copy of the missive.
Lyram pulled his glove off to reach his signet and pressed the gold into the soft wax, leaving an impression of a coiled dragon encircled by the family motto.
Let sleeping dragons lie.
Lyram strode back down the stairs to the courtyard with the folded missives clutched in his gloved hand, turned the corner out of the stairwell, and stopped when he almost ran into the back of the castellan, Sir Janun, blocking the door to the well room.
“This is a disgrace, father!” The castellan’s son, Kastyn, stood facing Sir Janun. The young man—almost a boy really, with the soft blond fuzz of a youth’s beard—was clad in court attire that, while dignified on Everard, appeared ridiculous on him. “This is your castle,” he said, almost spitting the words at the castellan, and his face twisted with its customary sneer, “and you shouldn’t give it over to him just because he’s the jumped-up son of the Duke of Habrodeen.”
“On the contrary, Kastyn, I am handing over command because Lord Aharris happens to be the ablest military commander and canniest fighter in the whole of Ahlleyn. If your political knowledge is so scant, you’ve obviously not been applying yourself to your studies. Return to your room and we will speak shortly.”
The castellan wheeled away and started when his gaze fell upon Lyram and Everard, standing in the shadow of the Cortswood suites built along the eastern wall.
Kastyn pushed past them both, shoving his shoulder hard into Lyram as he squeezed past into the stairwell.
“Murderous bastard.” Kastyn’s voice was so low the words barely reached Lyram’s ears. “Like as not you’ll murder us all in our sleep like your foreign bitch wife.”
The heat of a wildfire temper flashed through Lyram and he lunged, only to be pulled up short by Everard’s surprisingly iron-hard grip on his elbow.
“That shit-eating little tit!” Lyram kept his voice low. Aware the castellan was still watching, he plastered a grim smile on his face.
Kastyn disappeared into the stairwell, and Everard released his elbow.
“There’d be less of that if you spoke up in your own defence,” Everard said in a sharp undertone.
And if I did that, I’d ruin the entire family. Lyram sagged, all the fury drained from him.
“My lord.” Sir Janun made an apologetic bow, made all the more formal by the court garb he’d donned shortly after Lyram’s initial arrival at the castle—or perhaps more importantly, after the arrival of Everard with Lyram’s retinue, in his formal kilt and coat. His blond hair was liberally sprinkled with white. “The boy is young, and I fear I’ve neglected his education. I should’ve sent him away to court or to be fostered.”
Lyram grimaced. He despised the political machinations of the majority of the court nobles more than much else in life and did his best not to get mired in their games, but sometimes it wasn’t easy. “The court would eat him alive.”
The castellan bowed his head in acknowledgement. “No doubt. Lord Aharris, I have heard the news, and I trust you will take command in these troubled times? Your reputation precedes you, and I can only thank Ahura and Chalon for bringing the kingdom’s foremost military genius here in our time of need. Most fortuitous!”
Lyram grimaced again, belatedly turning it into a smile. Maybe the castellan wouldn’t notice. Statements like that ruffled Drault’s feathers and were what had caused all the trouble in the first place—those, and the whispers that Lyram would make a better king. Why couldn’t Drault be at least half-competent at something so that the people might love him even a little? Competent at something besides scheming and double-crossing, that is.
“If it is your desire, I shall accept graciously.” The capitulation saved him the effort of needing to persuade the man to allow him command. Could Janun’s son cause him trouble though? Kastyn was sixteen, hot-headed and impetuous, and he clearly didn’t like this decision. “Sir Janun, if I may impose, I’ll need a full accounting of the stores, of food, water, oil, and anything else necessary to withstanding a siege.”
The castellan inclined his head again. “Certainly.”
Lyram watched him rush off, his red-and-green tartan kilt fluttering in the breeze of his passing.
Turning, he spotted Galdron on the far side of the courtyard, standing in its truncated top point nearest the gate with what looked like the castle’s entire contingent of horses gathered around him.
“Nicely done, sir,” Everard murmured.
“Back to sir, is it?” Lyram gave him a rueful smile as he scrubbed the growth on his chin. Maybe he should grow a beard. Galdron would have kittens. Maybe even hatchlings. He smirked at the image.
“Of course, sir.” Everard stared back with such a smooth expression no one would believe him guilty of even pinching flowers.
“I didn’t do anything, anyway. He just surrendered everything to me.”
“Such is the nature of your reputation.”
Lyram grunted, and strode across to Galdron. If his reputation were a little less stellar, Drault might fear and hate him a little less. But Drault had fought at the Siege of Invergahr as well. He could have broken the enemy line against all odds, could have held the men together until help came; instead, he’d spent the long eleven days of the siege shivering in fear in the top of the broken tower they’d fortified against the sudden border incursion. Few Ahlleyn troops survived that last day, and fewer Velenese, but every last one of them remembered Lyram leading what they all believed to be a doomed last charge while Dra
ult whimpered in the tower. When the Ahlleyn army arrived and drove off the Velenese, they’d found Drault still there with his head between his knees.
Three soldiers huddled nervously beside the horses, while Galdron stood at parade rest. Two were long-standing soldiers from Lyram’s guard, Obrim and Terihna, a man and woman he knew well for they had served for going on ten years now. The other was Phelip, barely more than a lad. The blood had drained from the young soldier’s face, leaving him chalky white, and he clenched his reins in a white-knuckled grip. All wore standard issue armour for Lyram’s guard: full boiled leather plate over mail, with plaids in assorted colours tossed over the top for warmth, and open-faced helms on their heads.
Galdron clapped his helm on over his red fringe of hair and saluted. “Sir. Two volunteers to ride for the capital, sir, and one for the border castles.”
Everard distributed the missives, while Lyram clapped shoulders and exchanged soft words. Eyes watched from the ramparts, though when he glanced around, each soldier on the walls stood with his or her back to the courtyard. Palpable tension filled the castle.
“Phelip, ride for whichever border castle you can get to and deliver your message to the castellan. Obrim, Terihna, hand your message to the king, and the king alone. Not to Chancellor Traeburhn, not to Prince Drault, not even to my father, Duke Habrodeen. Only to the king. Understand?”
The two older soldiers exchanged confused glances.
Terihna snapped a salute, her mail rattling. “Yes, sir!”
Obrim followed her lead, and all three tucked their dispatches away safely in their saddlebags.
Galdron hustled them on to their horses, then passed each the lead rein of a spare horse.
“Chalon speed you, and the cradle of life carry you.” Lyram lifted a hand in benediction, and the messengers turned their horses for the barbican and its multiple gates.
Everard beckoned to him from the foot of the tower stairs.
Lyram followed his aide up to the top of the turret. They stood on the eastern of the two gate towers, which afforded them a view directly down to the bridge spanning the moat, out over the northern hills and the marsh to east and west.
“We should burn the bridge,” Lyram said, the clanking of the portcullis almost drowning out his words.
Everard, ever poised to respond instantly to his lord’s needs, turned towards him, eyebrows lifting. “We would be trapped.”
“We’re already trapped.”
A muffled thunder of hooves announced the departure of the messengers, and all along the wall heads turned to follow their progress. The horses raced out of the shadows of the gate, necks stretched out and manes flying, their riders crouched low in the saddle, plaids flapping.
The thud of boots on the stairs behind distracted Lyram from the sight. Two of the castle’s regular guard emerged sideways from the narrow spiral stairs, carrying a barrel between them. Seeing Lyram, they hesitated, unable to salute with their hands full. He signalled two of the soldiers manning the battlements to assist, and the four soldiers lowered the barrel to the floor.
“Naphtha, sir,” said one of the guards, tossing off a casual salute. He was one of the castle soldiers, clad in mail with various mismatched pieces of cuir bouilli and iron making an incomplete chest harness. His companion wore lamellar of a poorer quality than Galdron’s. “Castellan’s orders.”
“Good man.” Lyram turned back to the wall. The castellan’s soldiers were generally armed to a lower standard than his own, reflecting the difference in wealth between the Aharris clan and Janun’s Maggrigs—a difference that was now critical.
The messengers had cleared the long narrow bridge and were galloping across the meadow between the two walls. Before long they would be lost from sight, through the old gate and into the hills.
The tiny dark shapes of men appeared in the trees blanketing the hills outside the ruined wall, a mere dozen or so, but with bows slung over their shoulders. Lyram pulled the eyeglass from his belt, goosebumps prickling his skin. Not bows—crossbows. Now, there in the trees, stood the horses the crossbowmen had used to arrive so quickly. The men lined up in the gateway and pulled the weapons from their shoulders, winding winches to load them.
At the sight of the crossbowmen, the messengers scattered, their horses veering away from the gateway. Their mail and leather plate was useless against a quarrel, but crossbows were slow to load. They depended on speed for escape.
Lyram leaned forward, clenching the battlements with his free hand, the eyeglass pressed almost painfully into his eye socket. The riders were moving too far away now to make out much detail. Ride, damn you, ride like there’s a dragon breathing fire up your arse.
One of the riders jerked, the impact of a quarrel throwing him out of his saddle. Lyram jerked as well, but held the glass to the scene. The horse shied violently, but the man’s foot caught in the stirrup, and his mount dragged him down the length of the wall and out of sight. A murmur of dismay rose from the watching guards.
Lyram clutched the eyeglass tighter, sweeping the scene in search of the other two riders. There in the grass, identifiable by the long tail of hair under her helm, Terihna lay motionless. Quarrels pincushioned her body. He pounded his free hand against the battlements until it throbbed.
“Close the gates!” Lyram swept the glass to and fro, seeking out the third rider.
He found the messenger beyond the outer wall. Somehow the rider had broken through the encircling crossbowmen and now charged across the hills. For only a bare moment did Lyram retain sight of the rider pressed low along his horse’s neck before the beast carried him away into the hills—a split second to register a quarrel protruding from his man’s back. Alive, or dead? And if the first, for how long?
Lyram exchanged a bleak look with Everard, and signalled the nearest soldier.
“Open that cask.” He crossed and took a torch from the entrance to the stairs.
Two guards used small hatchets to smash the lid of the barrel, splintering the wood with a loud crack.
“Pour it over the wall, on the bridge,” Lyram said. “Toss the cask after.”
The naphtha poured from the barrel in a black, viscous stream, staining the timber of the bridge and splattering all along the aged wood and up the pink stones of the castle in a rain of death. The soldiers on the north towers and nearby walls watched in silence, their faces grim. When the barrel struck the solid surface of the bridge with an echoing crash, Lyram leaned out through a crenel and dropped the torch.
The flickering orange of the flame seemed to take forever to fall.
When it landed, the bridge erupted in flames, surging twenty feet high and engulfing the near end of the bridge. A wash of heat swept upwards, and the soldiers averted their faces. A thick, black plume of oily smoke curled into the sky.
Lyram turned away, the rising heat almost enough to scald his face and the acrid stink thick in his nostrils.
It began.
Lyram stared into the rainy haze of the early morning darkness, the absence of Zaheva plucking at his soul like a master musician wringing plaintive notes from harp strings. After almost a year, the initial fury, tears and desperate anger had faded into an empty ache the whisky couldn’t fill. Every time he remembered she was gone, it was like turning around and finding his own hand missing. Every time he remembered the whole world blamed him for her death, it was another kick to the gut.
The soft drizzle brushed against the bare skin of his face and dripped down his back beneath his gambeson. With Everard asleep, his mail and cuir bouilli plate remained on its rack. His open-faced helm, though, sat abandoned on the battlements, purple plumes bedraggled by the wet. Grimacing, he leaned against a pink limestone merlon and took another draught from his flask. So far sleep had eluded him tonight, and at this hour the chances he’d return to bed were slim. The whisky burned hot and almost sickly-sweet down his throat, but didn’t touch the frozen ball of loneliness and anguish in his stomach.
He tr
ied to shake off the black emotions and focus on the army out in the dark and the rain. Although the enemy lacked the soldiers to encircle the castle, they didn’t need to do so. A deep marsh at the rear of the keep was impassable to any significant number of men, keeping the besiegers out—and the defenders in. A few fires burned out in the darkness beyond the ruined wall, but they gave no true indication of the size of the enemy force.
Closing the flask, he glanced down at the blackened ruins of the bridge. The drizzle set in only after the fire had already consumed most of the structure, and very little remained. Shivering, he drew his plaid around himself more tightly. A futile gesture; after more than an hour in the wet, the garment hung in sodden folds and dragged at his shoulders.
“A wet night, my lord.”
He jerked in surprise, banging his knee against the wall. “Dragon’s balls!”
Down the wall, a pair of soldiers stirred and glanced towards the noise.
Rubbing the knee surreptitiously, Lyram turned to fix the shadowed shape with an accusing eye. Leinahre, holding the long skirts of her kirtle out of the puddles dotting the tower top, drew closer. A plaid protected her hair from the rain and hung down around her body to blur the curves of her figure. As she neared him, the planes of her face took shape. Darkness leeched the colour from the night, leaving her in shades of grey and robbing her kirtle of its distinctive tartan pattern. Only her black hair, unusual for Ahlleyn, retained its deep midnight darkness.
“Too wet for you to be out, Leinahre. Too early for you to be out of bed.” The words came out slurred, and he struggled to focus. Too much whisky; not enough sleep.
“And you, my lord.” She stopped a few paces short of him.
“I couldn’t sleep.” He never slept these days, not without enough whisky in him to drown a dragon. When he did, only nightmares populated the dreamscape of his mind—and not all of them came from the bottle. “And the walls needed checking. You should go to bed and get what rest you can. Everyone is going to be busy in a few hours.”
In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1) Page 3
