Rancor drew close to the bars, resisting the urge to quail before his father’s unflinching gaze. “There is merit in how you spent your days. No one doubts that. But you never paid attention to those who were here.” Rancor shook his head bitterly. “As mother lay dying in bed, I was the one holding her hand as she fought off the pains of fever. I was the one who stood alongside her tomb as her body was laid to rest. But never you. You were always off on some damn crusade.”
Nochman looked away from his son’s heavy stare, shame finally coming over him. “I loved your mother dearly,” was all he could manage.
“But not in the way she needed you to, not in the way I needed you to,” said Rancor, scorning his father’s lamentation. “And that is where the spite comes from.”
Rancor turned and parted for the door. He stopped at the jamb, making sure the jailer could clearly hear his remarks. “When I return, you must have an answer, or I will compel you to speak.” He shuddered at his own false demeanor, disgusted with himself for stooping to threats of violence to appease his aunt. He rushed from the cell hoping distance might quiet the wrongness he felt in his heart.
Rancor found Evelyn where he had left her. She was waiting in his parlor hunched over on a couch, her chest nearly to her knees. She appeared as fretful as ever. The mysterious girl had a way of disarming him. At one moment she was forthright and abrupt, while at another bashful and unsure. She was learning to play her lordly part, just as he was. Yet war was no time to play king and queen, and here they were in mock council with one another, pretending that they had the wisdom to see their people through the coming storm. Sometimes he wished Desperous had taken on the mantle of high lord, but Desperous was far afield and Rancor was here. He bowed his head in frustration.
Evelyn glanced up at him with hopeful doe eyes.
Rancor shook his head. “As stubborn as he’s ever been. My father revealed nothing.”
“Then we need to talk,” said Evelyn.
“Fair enough,” said Rancor. He prepared to take a seat beside her, but she motioned for him to stop. He saw then that her eyes were inflamed, wreathed in red.
“Not here,” said Evelyn quietly. Then with uncertainty, “I need you to see something.”
She took him by the hand and began to guide him through the streets of Luthuania. From the direction they were heading, Rancor had a good idea where she was leading him. Already, Rancor could hear the cries coming from the amassed refugees gathered beyond the wall.
“You’ve brought me here for a reason,” said Rancor.
Evelyn nodded as they ascended the battlement steps.
Arriving at the top, Rancor gazed in horror at the sight beyond. The throngs of humans gathered outside numbered in the thousands. Some beat at the gates while others sat on the ground in utter defeat. Several hundred yards beyond, only outlines in the growing darkness, lay dozens of artillery regiments. Their throwing arms were arched back, prepared to fire.
“This is my final plea, Rancor,” said Evelyn, gesturing out over the crowd below. “My people have precious few moments to spare.”
“I can’t,” said Rancor, hardly able to look her in the eye. “The Council has forbidden such actions. I am at a loss to do anything. We warned the peasants. We gave them an alternative.”
“And those that could make the journey have already traveled to Ruary or Melock. The people that remain are the sick, the elderly,” said Evelyn curtly. “Look, the Council be damned. You’re the High Lord of Luthuania.”
The catapults became ablaze, their combustible payload flicking orange flames. The mass of people began to panic, beating at the doors with growing urgency. It would only be a matter of moments until the deadly rain of fire began.
“They have made a mockery of your power.” Evelyn was screaming, the urgency of the situation taking over. Her voice quivered with fear as she pointed accusatively at the gilded dome that rested adjacent to High Tower. “They sit in their marbled hall while my people are about to be slaughtered. The seat of power comes with responsibilities, yet what power do you have if you cannot save the very lives within your grasp?”
People were now clawing at the walls in a maddened frenzy.
Rancor’s eyes rapidly shot between the mass below and the council chamber. Screams drifted up from the plain while Evelyn’s words echoed in his head. A sudden lucidity overcame his thoughts. I have heard these leading words before.
“Who told you to say these things?”
Evelyn looked away sheepishly. “A queen has a responsibility to save her people.” Her voice wavered.
“As every lord does,” said Rancor, kindly. He gently turned her chin upward with his hand, so that she could not look away. “Who told you to say these things?” he repeated sternly.
“Tulea Farsidian.”
Rancor nodded knowingly. This is how she intends to take my throne. He made up his mind.
“Throw open the doors,” shouted Rancor to the sentries below.
“Sir?” sputtered the man, unsure he had heard correctly.
“As High Lord of Luthuania I command you, open those damn doors!” screamed Rancor.
The sentries rushed to the gatehouse and ordered the heavy barring gates lifted. The wooden doors parted, and the iron portcullis squealed as it slowly rose in its tracks. The people rushed in, pushing the portcullis skyward, and the mob ducked through the opening, nearly stampeding the sentries in their path. As the last refugees entered the city, the arms of the catapults swung into motion.
Orange balls of light raced through the night sky, an endless rain of fire. Rancor winced with each thunderous impact. Flames raged as the dry grass of the plain became awash. Soon the squatter settlement became engulfed, and even from atop the battlement Rancor could feel the lick of heat from the conflagration on his face. The walls would hold for now; fire could not burn down stone. Yet it could tear apart a people’s will to resist. That was the necromancer’s first stroke; he would break the wistful belief that Luthuania was impenetrable. Eventually, the carrions would come forward with ladders and engines. What would happen then, Rancor was not sure. The siege of Luthuania had begun, but before Rancor could defend his city he would have to deal with his conniving aunt.
He kissed Evelyn on the forehead. “I have saved your people, Your Grace, but now I must go save my throne.”
Darkness fell over Luthuania. The stars and the moon became hidden behind columns of black smoke. The streets were nearly barren, save for soldiers wheeling firewagons from one hotspot to another. The citizenry were seized by a consuming dread, and most fled indoors to be with their families.
Wreathed by his guard, Rancor marched toward the capital. He knew what had to be done, although it stood against his deepest values. The thought made him shudder, but what other hope did he have?
A runner was sent ahead to inform Captain Nerso to rally the High Tower guard, and Rancor was pleased to find four dozen men standing at attention within the palace court. He glanced over the tri-rays insignia each man bore on his breast. He could only hope that these men wore the standard of their lord in earnest. Their loyalty would soon be tested.
High Tower was silent. This was a positive sign. The Council has not yet received word of what I have done. He slipped into his private study and set his guards at the door.
For a while, he sat in contemplation. He did not have much time, but he knew his decision needed to be certain. There would be no going back. He stood and walked to a cabinet in which he kept things that were dear to him. He unclasped a rosewood jewelry box and pulled out an object swaddled in velvet cloth. He unfurled the fabric, revealing his mother’s death mask, and gingerly ran his fingers over the contours of her face. All her features were bony, her countenance contorted. It hardly resembled her likeness in life, but this was the closest the artisan could manage given the wasting effects of the plague. Rancor shook off the disquieting memory, and gently returned the mask to its wooden box. Next he pulled out his father’s helm. He lifted it on his
fingertips, measuring its weight. How he had always wanted to wear this as a child. Now he had the chance, and he recoiled at the opportunity. He set it aside, thinking that he would need it soon enough. He wondered how his father would advise him at this moment of grave choice.
Rancor let out a sigh. There was only one way forward. He sat and quickly wrote his edict with deft and certain strokes of his quill. It called for the disbandment of the Council, and the arrest of Riggin Vis, Melo Tener, and Hayne Kerris.
“Captain Nerso,” beckoned Rancor.
The captain of his guard entered the room, bowing obediently. “Yes, High Lord?”
“Send out messengers to each of the councilors. They are summoned to the chambers immediately. When they arrive your men are to carry out these orders.” He handed Nerso the edict.
Captain Nerso read over the orders silently and then nodded. “I will see to this.” A truly good and loyal man, thought Rancor. Others might scoff at such intrigue. Nerso accepted the orders without flinching.
“There is more, but it is only for your ears.” Rancor motioned for the other guards to depart and quickly told Nerso what must be done. Captain Nerso saluted dutifully and left the room.
When he was alone, Rancor rose from his chair and dressed in his armor. His breast plate shone of silver and gold and the horsehair plume of his father’s helmet waved. He set his sword at his hip and with a low sigh he ran his fingers over the engraved tri-rays seal of his household. He silently waited, wondering what he had begun.
A scream drifted from beyond the curtain wall, sounding from the direction of the councilors’ estates. The clash of steel briefly rung in the night. Silence ensued. It was the absence of noise that Rancor found most haunting. His nerves slowly frayed. Finally, after some time had passed, a hard rap from beyond his door broke his thoughts.
“My High Lord...”
“Come in,” instructed Rancor.
A young High Tower guard entered. He was breathing heavily and a smear of blood ran across his breast. His eyes were wide with fear. “The Council has met in secret. Lord Riggin has set a ram to the citadel gate. General Bailrich is with him.”
The words sounded faint to Rancor, distant as if he was overhearing a conversation not intended for his ears. He had been outmaneuvered and surely betrayed.
“Shall we barricade the doors? They will be here soon.”
Rancor shook his head. “See that my guard is arrayed and wait in the court. I will be out soon.”
Rancor looked over the chair where his father had sat before him, running his hand over the supple leather and the graven golden frame. He wondered if he would ever sit upon the throne of his line again.
A challenge sounded from the court.
“In the name of the Council, you are summoned, High Lord Rancor.”
Rancor could spy dozens of shapes through the opaque stained glass that illuminated his study. He sighed in resignation, and walked silently through the empty halls of High Tower, thinking perhaps it would be for the last time. He exited into the courtyard. There, arranged in neat rows, were the soldiery of Riggin Vis and General Bailrich. Rancor’s guard stood at attention, barring the entrance to the tower. They numbered less than a tenth of the men possessed by the two lords.
Rancor cast his glowering gaze over the host of soldiers who would dare commit treason. All averted their eyes, too filled with shame over what they were here to do. Only the two lords stood unwavering ahead of the gathering. In his hand Riggin Vis held a bloodied knife. He threw it at Rancor’s feet.
“The blade of the assassin,” said Riggin. He spit the words out venomously.
“What of this?” inquired Rancor, gesturing to the blade.
“Lordess Farsidian is dead, killed by the captain of your household guard,” said Bailrich. The general’s voice was level, showing nothing of his own feelings on the matter.
“A tragedy,” said Rancor. “Captain Nerso acted through misguided loyalty. This was never my intent,” lied Rancor. “Does the assassin still live?”
“No,” said Riggin. “The coward took his own life. Even so, Lordess Farsidian did not die in vain. The Council passed a resolution before she was betrayed.” Riggin handed Rancor the parchment. “It calls for your abdication. You will see that it has been signed by all members of the Council, including the late lordess.”
“But it certainly does not include the signature or your lord father Steflan Vis,” said Rancor, not needing to see it in writing. “I denounce the false resolution of the Council. I will not abdicate my throne to such wanton effrontery.”
“Then we are ordered to place you under arrest,” said Riggin. The hulking youth took a step toward Rancor, reaching for Rancor’s arm with one hand, while fingering the pommel of his sword with his other. Rancor’s entire guard unsheathed their blades with one unified hiss. Riggin froze midstride.
Rancor looked to General Bailrich. He had known the man for years. Bailrich was devoutly loyal to the state. “You have your orders from the Council, but I will give you my own. If Tulea Farsidian is dead, and Steflan Vis is absent, the Council no longer has merit. Dissolve the Council and defend your state. War is at our door. We haven’t time for their bickering.”
“My High Lord, I could never grant your request,” began Bailrich. “What the Council has done is not right, but the law supports their actions. While I would rather take my own life than carry out this dishonorable order, I cannot rightfully disobey it.”
“Such is the purpose of the law,” said Rancor. “And such a loss of life would be wasteful. Stay your blade, Luthuania will need you in the coming days.” Rancor now raised his voice so that all gathered could hear his words. “If it be the Council’s will they may lock me away, but I will not give their order legitimacy by willingly abdicating the throne.”
“Then we are ordered to escort you to your cell,” said Bailrich, with the same tempered intonation with which he always spoke.
This is how kings fall in Luthuania, thought Rancor; without pomp, without violence, but with the steady refusal of lesser men to follow the voice of their lord. For now he must acquiesce to this fate. “Blood will not be shed here,” said Rancor. “I will go. General Bailrich, would you do me the honor of walking at my side?”
“Of course.”
When Bailrich was near, Rancor whispered to him so no one else might hear. “The Council may have the right of law today, but I have the rule of the people. When the time comes, I will need you. Will you be ready?”
“As I always have been, High Lord.”
CHAPTER
VIII
THE WALL
The Ravor swamp gave way to a blistering swath of sun-blasted earth. Desperous trudged forward doggedly, carrying between his hands the hafts of two spears they had used to fashion a makeshift litter to bear Ivatelo’s unconscious body. Bently and Dolum took up the litter’s train, struggling to keep in step with Desperous’s relentless pace.
Early in the morning, a black line had emerged on the horizon, shimmering like a mirage. They all hoped in secret what it might be, yet no one dared to speak their mind. The hope of reaching the outer wall had been a dream; a dream that would have proven all but impossible were it not for Ivatelo’s intervention the night before.
Desperous did not fully understand the limits of a wraith’s body, nor did he fully comprehend the power of a magic. Yet he knew whatever he had witnessed the night before would have killed a mortal man, and for his part, Ivatelo was paying a dire price. Dolum had tried pinching Ivatelo’s nose, while Bently had fluttered an open flame across the magic’s palms. Ivatelo did not react to any stimulus. The magic’s body had become a wasted shell.
The emptiness was palpable. Ever since Desperous was raised by the magic, there had been something that drifted just on the eaves of Desperous’s consciousness, an intuition or guiding voice. It was now conspicuously missing, a void he could not put to words. This is the bond between necromancer and wraith, Desperous supposed.
The silence only made his cruel existence seem more damnable.
By noon, the vision was a reality. The Ravor Wall loomed high. Capernican soldiers dressed in dull scale armor were scrambling atop the battlement, set into a frenzied panic by the arrival of this sizable army.
Desperous eyed the Wall of Ravor with wonder. It was a feat to marvel. It originated from a ridge of blue granite, built upon the brink of an ancient fault line that sheared the land in two. Block by block, the structure was raised with dry fit stone, until it loomed over the waste of Ravor, solid and insurmountable. Desperous found it hard to believe that goblins, who seemed to only have the capability to destroy, could have constructed so monolithic a structure.
“How do you propose we approach without getting struck by an arrow?” asked Desperous of Bently, as the two walked side by side toward the wall. The wall was certainly ominous and unwelcoming. Every hundred paces or so a gibbet was hung out over the expanse, bearing the leathery body of a goblin.
Bently snickered. “The men here couldn’t hit the ocean with a bolt if they were standing on the beach.” Much of Bently’s vigor had returned; the frailties he had exposed during his stupor were once again hidden behind a stone-faced facade. Bently pointed to a cluster of men atop the wall. Fear was evident in their posture. “This is a training ground for our young men. If they’re lucky, they see a little bit of action. But in all likelihood, most never set an arrow to a string. The goblins learned long ago not to challenge the wall and typically keep their distance. You’re more likely to suffer from fever here than to face the goblins.”
Deciding that they were within earshot, Bently cupped his hands over his mouth and called up to the wall. “Hello up there!”
He was answered by an explosion of sand as an arrow dug into the earth near his feet.
Bently cursed loudly and sprinted back a few paces. “Hold your damn fire!” he screamed.
A few heads peeked over the wall, but oddly enough the majority of the figures held stationary, arms down along their side, spears aloft. “Be gone with you, goblin scum,” yelled an aged voice from above. “This is no place for you.” The head of an elderly man jutted through an embrasure.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 8
