Fire and Frost (Seven Realms Book 1)

by Goodner, Allen

  The two forces began their turns almost simultaneously, one toward the knot of Frost Fiends which held the Silverback and one toward the giant catapults. The second group reached their objective first. Alaric could not make out the fighting clearly, but it seemed clear enough that they had taken their foes by surprise. He turned his attention back to the first group.

  The knight-captain lined up for his charge, and all his knights lowered their lances almost as one. They charged in as only heavily armed and armored knights could. Even though he could not make out the specifics of the battle, he knew when it had been won. The line of Frost Fiends wavered, and fell back. As quickly as they had come, they turned and swarmed to the horizon.

  A cheer rose up from the men. Loud and savage, it carried on for many minutes. They had faced that terrible army and driven them from the field of battle. Even though it might return on the morrow, they celebrated as if they had won a complete victory. In some sense, they had.

  Alaric did not join in the jubilation. He turned his attention to the still shuttered window where his father should have been watching. What had happened? Why had his father abandoned the battle? He needed answers.

  CHAPTER 26

  As much as Alaric wanted to go looking for his father, there were other duties first. While the cavalry were on their way back to the castle, he set laborers to work repairing the wall once more. He scanned it with a critical eye; after the damage it had taken, that section might have to come down and be rebuilt. Hopefully it would last long enough, however.

  After seeing to the repairs, he then saw to the care of the casualties. Once again they had survived with relatively few injuries among the soldiers on the wall. He found the women and the priests already working on the wounded. Triage was already being performed, though Alaric saw no cases that appeared to be life threatening.

  Once the cavalry returned, he took their report. The group which assaulted the siege engines had suffered nothing more than minor casualties; their heavier armor and the fact there were some twenty of them had allowed them to dispatch the Frost Fiends quickly. The primary group, however, had not been so lucky. They had left five of their brothers on the field of battle, and ten more were seriously wounded. For all of that they had only wounded the Silverback. If he followed the same pattern, he would return as soon as he had healed.

  “Thank you, Knight-Captain. I will inform my father. He may wish to speak with you directly, so I recommend you relax while you can.”

  “Thank you, my Lord. I’ll see to my men and then get out of my armor. I am at your service.”

  With those duties complete, Alaric turned to the keep. He needed answers badly. He walked swiftly into the great hall. There he saw Martin and Sir Gyire in a heated argument. Before he could come close enough to hear what was being said, the castellan turned on his heel and strode quickly for the door. He passed Alaric with a barely audible growl and stormed out of the keep.

  “What was that about, Martin?” Alaric asked.

  His brother’s face was pale, even haunted as he responded, “I am not certain. I… I think I need to go check on him.” Then Martin, too, rushed toward the door.

  Alaric pondered whether to pursue. His brother’s behavior had been beyond odd, and he wanted to know why. He suspected this incident was part of that. So, he believed, was the hushed conversation the two had been having just a few days before when he had reentered the castle.

  Ultimately he decided against it. Finding his father and sorting that out was more important, and he was certain that the truth would come out eventually. So he directed his steps up the stairs to where his father had been watching. It was a goodly way up, and after the morning’s ordeal, Alaric took a leisurely pace while climbing.

  As he neared the landing where his father had been keeping watch, he heard a faint moaning. He wasn’t quite sure when he had started hearing it, but it seemed to get louder with every step. Finally, his brain caught up to what his ears were hearing, and a rush of adrenaline surged through his weary body. He leapt up the last turn and to his father’s side.

  His father lay in the floor, propped up slightly against the wall. A small pool of blood had formed around his semi-prone form and soaked into much of his clothing. His face and hands were pale, and Alaric could tell he was barely holding on to consciousness. There, still in his side, was a dagger’s hilt.

  “Father!” he yelled as he flashed across the remaining distance, “Father, what happened?”

  Eyes glazing and breath coming ever more shallowly, the baron looked at him. His mouth worked for a moment before he could speak. Even then Alaric had to bend close to hear the one word his father was repeating.

  “Treason.”

  “Help!” Alaric shouted, “Your Baron is wounded! To me! To me!”

  He bent over his father’s now unconscious form and began to administer aid. He saw that the wound was already wrapped. It looked loose and sloppy; he decided that Boores had tried to staunch the wound himself. He carefully began to pry back the makeshift bandage and found it still tacky. Not wishing to risk ripping the clotting blood out, and starting the bleeding anew, he instead began tearing strips out of his own shirt. As he had been taught, he folded several and pressed them against the cloth already in the wound.

  When the baron let out a grunt from the pain, Alaric was relieved. If he could feel the pain, he would probably survive. Using the remaining strips of his shirt, he tied the bandage more tightly to the wound. Slowly but surely the linen began to show signs of blood. The bleeding had been slowed by his father’s bandage, but not stopped completely.

  As he cast about for what to do next, Alaric heard the rush of feet up the stairs.

  “What happened, my lord?” the lead guard asked.

  Alaric looked over his shoulder. Four guards had come to his summons, but none of the women or the chiurgeon. He made his decision quickly.

  “I do not know. I found him here wounded. I have dressed the wound as best I can. One of you go inform the chiurgeon. One of you go fetch a stout blanket; we’ll fashion it into a litter and carry him down. The rest of us will stay with my father to ensure he comes to no further hurt.”

  Two of the guards bolted back down the stairs. While they waited, Alaric cast around for clues. The dagger itself was nondescript. Virtually everyone in the castle carried a knife, and every fighting man also carried a longer dagger just like the one used in this attempt on the baron’s life. From what Alaric could see of the hilt, it was unremarkable. The leather wrapped around the handle was not particularly fine; he saw no filigree work, and the pommel seemed to be a basic steel ball. It was even possible that the person who had used it had simply retrieved it from the armory.

  While he pondered, the guard returned with a stiff wool blanket. The four men folded it around two the guards’ spears, and then carefully laid the baron upon the makeshift litter. One man at a corner, they made their way down the stairs as quickly as they could without endangering their liege. It was the matter of a few minutes to get down to the great hall.

  Once there, they quickly placed him on a table and backed away to let the chiurgeon do his work. Alaric watched, concerned, as the man worked on his father. The healer worked for what seemed like hours, but must have been only a double handful of minutes. The whole time he clucked and hummed as though he were taking notes while he worked.

  Finally the man stood and turned. “Your father will live. I’ve applied a poultice which should help with the bleeding and any infection. We’ll pack the wound overnight, and I’ll stitch it in the morning. He’s quite lucky you found him when you did. He might not have survived if he’d been left there much longer.”

  Alaric slumped in relief. He suddenly found himself shaking and quickly sat on a nearby bench. The day’s events had taken their toll, and his body wanted rest. Yet he could not let himself sleep now. There was still too much to do.

  “Go find my brother and the castellan,” he instructed one of the heralds, �
��I need to see them immediately.” He then turned to one of the guards in the hall, “Go get the quartermaster and the weapon smith. I do not think there is anything special about the dagger used on my father, but perhaps one of them can find something I missed.”

  As he waited, he considered what he knew. Round and round his thoughts went, ever circling a conclusion he did not want to draw. He was suspicious of the behavior of his brother and the castellan, but he did not suspect them of treason. There was no way either would ever endanger his father.

  He was startled from his reverie by the arrival of the smith and the quartermaster. “You wanted to see us, my lord?” the quartermaster asked.

  Alaric had to get his bearings before he could answer. At some point in the intervening minutes someone had taken his father away, presumably to his rooms. The table had already been cleaned of blood as well. He shook his head to clear it.

  “Yes. Over on that table is a dagger. It appears unremarkable to me, but I would like the two of you to look at it. Perhaps it has a mark that will allow one of you to identify whose it is.”

  “Yes, my lord. Might I enquire why?”

  “It was used in an attempt on the baron’s life. The chiurgeon assures me he will live, but I would very much like to catch whoever would strike at my father.”

  The two men looked shaken, but moved purposely toward the table. The both examined the dagger carefully. As they investigated it, they also conferred with each other. Eventually they put it down and returned.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” began the weapon smith, “we could not find anything particular about the blade. I forged it, but it was simply one of scores or hundreds I’ve made for the castle.”

  “Neither could I find anything about it. It probably was stored in the armory, but who carried it I cannot say,” confirmed the quartermaster.

  “Very well,” Alaric sighed. It had been a long shot anyway, “My thanks for your efforts. Please, keep this as quiet as possible for now. Everyone in the castle will know he is wounded, of course, but I’d like to keep the wild rumors to a minimum.”

  “Of course, my lord,” they both said as they bowed and left.

  It was some minutes more before the herald returned, “I’m sorry my lord, but both your brother and the castellan have left the castle, your brother some minutes after the castellan.”

  “What are they doing?” he asked, mostly to himself, before nodding to the herald “Thank you. Please have word left with the guard that I am to be notified immediately when they return.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  With nothing left to do, and weariness dragging on him, Alaric climbed wearily to his room. He quickly shed his boots and shirt, and was asleep before his body hit the bed. Strange dreams plagued his sleep, though not the menacing dreams caused by the mysterious tablet. He could make no sense of them, but some part of his mind insisted they were important.

  Finally, unable to sleep any longer, he rose. Night had fallen outside. He could see the moon through his window. He quickly washed his face in the basin in his room, redressed, and went to find his father.

  He climbed the stairs to his father’s room. Arriving, he found the door slightly ajar. Immediately his mind flashed back to the moment when he found him. Wondering if the assassin were trying to finish the job, he drew his own belt knife. He then slowly opened the door.

  Peering in, he saw his father apparently sleeping comfortably in his bed. Alaric entered the room as quietly as possible and quickly but stealthily checked the curtains, the bath room, and the wardrobe. Finally satisfied, he sheathed his knife and moved to sit in a chair beside his father’s bed.

  Once again his conscious mind shut down as his subconscious tried to sort through what he knew. Part of his mind was sure his brother and Sir Gyire were somehow connected. Part of his mind absolutely rejected the idea. Back and forth his mind battled itself.

  “Alaric?” the voice made him jump.

  Looking up, he saw his brother. Martin’s face was taught and worried. He looked as though he had aged several years in just the last several hours. His clothes were dirt-stained and ripped in places. It was obvious he had ridden hard.

  Alaric looked at his brother. Suspicion finally won out over familial assurance, “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “No, brother, but it might as well have been. I’m sorry. I was a fool, and I fear we will all pay a heavy price.”

  “What have you done, Martin? What is happening?”

  Martin said nothing; he collapsed to the floor shaking and sobbing. When Alaric bent to help, his brother grasped his arms and sobbed like a child. For many minutes Alaric simply held his brother. Finally the storm of weeping passed.

  “Martin, I am your brother and I love you. Whatever has happened, we can get through it, but you must tell me what you have done.”

  Martin struggled to get himself together. Finally he looked his brother in the eyes and began, “When you arrived here with Father after having been missing so long, you asked about Monsignor Manitoc. When I told you he was incoherent, I lied. He had stayed here for a day, and explained what he had found. On the border with Molari, he discovered what he described as part of a ward. He believed it was designed as some kind of mystic prison for a being of great power. He believed there was a way to modify the magic of the Ancients so that the ward would not simply imprison this being, Chaos was what he called it, but that it would also siphon off its power. He believed that there were six more of these items, tablets like the one you found. He said if he could locate them all, he could reproduce the magic in them, and then modify it. We were having the problems with the Igni or I thought it was the Igni and his promises of power were simply too good to turn down. When he left, he instructed us, Sir Gyire and myself, not to tell anyone else. He said he feared interference, but he did not specify what. We agreed.

  “That night, I had a strange dream. Something wanted my cooperation in return for power. I thought it was simply a dream linked to the Monsignor’s promises. Despite that, I knew, somehow, that it would be wrong to agree. Before the dream could resolve itself, I woke.

  “Ever since then, Sir Gyire and I have been in frequent, but sporadic, contact with the Monsignor. When we informed him that our assailants were these Frost Fiends instead of the Igni, he told us that the Frost Fiends were not our enemy. He instructed us to send messengers to them to tell them where one of the shards was, and to provide them labor to remove it. Those were the laborers there when you first found the tablet.

  “After that, I started having my doubts. Something simply didn’t seem right. During today’s attack, I lost track of Sir Gyire. He must have been the one to try to kill Father. I pursued him, but could not catch him. Eventually I had to turn back for the castle; I had no supplies to follow him. Alaric, he’s going to Manitoc. I think he knows something I never found out. I think they’re helping the Frost Fiends somehow.”

  Alaric listened in silence through the whole story. He looked on the broken shell of his brother with pity, but knew the next words out of his mouth were the only ones he could speak.

  “Martin Dell, first son of Baron Boores Dell, I must arrest you for treason against your liege lord, against the duke, and against the crown.”

  Martin stared at the ground, defeated, “I know. But please, don’t throw me in the dungeon yet. Let me help you.”

  “How can you help? You just said you couldn’t follow Sir Gyire.”

  “I know where Manitoc is searching; the general area anyway. Let me go with you.”

  “You know I cannot. You will be confined to your quarters until Father recovers enough to hear the entire tale. If you want leniency, tell me where I can find the monsignor and the castellan.”

  CHAPTER 27

  “You know where we are going? It will be a hard ride, and we’ve lost too much time already to take an easier trail,” Alaric asked the two men sitting astride horses with him.

  Martin had sketched the rough area, about a
hundred miles square, where the Monsignor would likely be found. Alaric had made sure he was as comfortable as possible and sent Father Bayard to keep him company. The law was clear: Martin had admitted to treason against his liege lord, and now must wait for their father’s justice. That did not mean that Alaric wanted, or had, to be cruel.

  After learning all he could of the Monsignor’s location and likely activities, Alaric had sent for these two men. Sergeant Jehan, of course, was perhaps the canniest fighter in the castle, and his skill on horse was as good as most noble knights. Sir Rodick had proven his own ability with horse, and loyalty to the baron when he led the scouting mission that went looking for the baron and his troops.

  Both men nodded, but only Sir Rodick spoke. “Yes, my lord, we know the location, and we’re aware of the danger. Let us go put an end to this.”

  Alaric was unfamiliar with Sir Rodick, except for brief introductions at tournaments and their interaction all those weeks ago. The set of the man’s eyes and shoulders told Alaric that he was taking these raids almost as a personal insult. That fervor could be good, but Alaric made a mental note to keep tabs on the young knight. Such intensity, once unbridled, could lead to recklessness.

  Seeing that they both were ready, he turned his attention the next man in charge, his father’s chief steward. “Charles, I know you know some of siege tactics. If the Frost Fiends return before reinforcements, batten down as best you can. Kahji and his cohort should be here tomorrow or the next day, and the Duke’s men should be here about a week after that. With any luck, we’ll have driven the Frost Fiends from the field for a few days, at least. Once Kahji or the Duke arrives, brief them on what has happened, and turn over the active defense of the castle to them.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the steward nodded, “not to your father?”