Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “Hjerneskalstyrtso,” Brynjolf interjected.

  The two Savoners and the elf lady looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted horns.

  “I do beg your pardon, your Royal Highness,” Theuderic said, pretending to look alarmed. “But I tend to doubt that anyone here, with the possible exception of your sister, understood that dreadful noise.”

  “I think you would say ‘breaks the skulls,’” Byrnjolf explained helpfully. “Not crush them. There is a difference, yes?”

  “Yes, of course,” the comtesse said with an uncharacteristically tight smile. “Skullbreaker. I do stand corrected. Well, from the various tales the dear prince has shared with us concerning his father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, most of which involve the enthusiastic slaughter of more people than even you would consider reasonable, Theuderic, you can rest assured that the Skullbreaker line is as royal as any in the Iles de Loup.”

  “Then I am indeed honored to make your acquaintance, your royal highnesses,” the magicien said gravely. He bowed to Brynjolf, then took Fjotra’s hand and kissed it. She couldn’t help an involuntary shudder, and his eyes flickered with momentary amusement at her response. He turned back toward the comtesse. “Am I genuinely to assume that you are serious about this northern alliance, Roheis, or is it simply one of your hare-brained schemes to score off the Duchesse?”

  “Score off the Duchesse?” The comtesse’s laugh was rich with genuine amusement. “My dear sieur, I could not possibly care less about Ysoude one way or the other. They must be introduced to society, and one way or another, I intend to see that they receive an audience before the Haut Conseil, if not His Majesty himself.”

  Theuderic stared intently into her face for a moment, but the comtesse didn’t flinch. She merely smiled provocatively at him. Finally he nodded, turned to Brynjolf, and extended his hand with his palm up. “Give me the blade, reaver prince. The King will be here tonight. You can’t be introduced to him in possession of that.”

  Brynjolf blinked in astonishment. Inadvertently, his hand leaped to his wrist. “How you know I have blade?”

  Theuderic sighed. “Your royal highness, I happen to be one of the King’s Own. Which is to say I am one of his royal battlemages. Detecting metal hidden about another’s person is a simple spell every court mage learns in his first year at L’Academie. You wouldn’t have come within fifty feet of His Majesty without one or another of the various counterspells surrounding him setting you on fire. Roheis, didn’t you warn them about this?”

  “I told him not to bring any weapons,” the comtesse said. “I didn’t know about any magical wards. How would I know about such things?” She made a displeased face at Brynjolf. “With all due respect to your father’s fifteen clans, if you cannot manage to follow my instructions, I will arrange to have Henriot bring you back to the manoir, do you understand? Fjotra, what about you? Do you have any knives about your person?

  Fjotra shook her head and surreptitiously kicked Brynjolf before he tried to argue about the command to surrender his weapon. It was no surprise that he was carrying a blade, since the men of her people considered themselves naked without a weapon of some kind. Chagrined, Brynjolf apologized as best his limited vocabulary would permit and slipped the knife out of his sleeve. Theuderic took it from him and adroitly concealed it somewhere in his bright blue finery.

  “Will it not make you on fire?” Fjotra asked the magicien. She wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed or furious with her brother. How could Brynjolf be so foolish? If Lady Roheis sent them away now, they might never have another chance to meet the king!

  Theuderic smiled. The magicien was handsome enough, but there was something deeply disturbing about him that made her want to shriek and flee from him. He looked at her, at everyone, in a way that put her in mind of a hawk studying at a mouse, deciding if it would be permitted to live or die. “I am one of the King’s Own battlemages, Lady. He has nothing to fear from me, and even if I was a traitor, my possession of a small and sharpened earth element would be the very least of his concerns. The wards will not touch me. But since we are speaking of concerns, perhaps you might tell me of this pressing matter that Comtesse Roheis intends the two of you to set before His Majesty.”

  She glanced at the comtesse. “We ask him that we come here, to Savonne,” she told him.

  “You mean to Lutece, the city?”

  “No, the lands by the sea. In north.”

  “Who is we? Yourself and your brother? Your family would like to move here?”

  “No, ‘we’ is…all Dalarn. All that still live.”

  Theuderic’s jaw fell open. He looked from her to the comtesse. “Are you mad, Roheis? You can’t seriously expect His Majesty to agree to settle tens of thousands of reavers inside the realm!”

  “Tell him about the ulfin, Brynjolf,” the comtesse ordered. “They call them ‘aalvarg.’”

  Brynjolf told him how the aalvarg had driven their people from the two larger islands in the Iles de Loupe. The sorcerer folded his arms, but as the story unfolded, his bearded face gradually transformed from a mask of skepticism into one of reluctant interest. Brynjolf’s tale ended with the news that the Dalarn were now reduced to less than one-tenth of their former numbers and were all living behind the walls of the great fortress of Raknarborg.

  Theuderic shook his head. “I’m truly sorry to hear about the travails of your people, highnesses, but this still strikes me as madness. To create a new demesne…to effectively create a new duchy, actually, is what you’re asking the king to contemplate here. From whom would you have him take the land, Roheis? It is a small thing to be generous with someone else’s territory, perhaps. My lady, such an act could risk tearing the realm apart.”

  “Is that anything those of true scarlet blood should fear, sieur?”

  Theuderic glared at her, and the comtesse fell silent even though her eyes still flashed defiance. “You don’t know what you are asking, Roheis. You push too far, too fast. Do not think you can expect to fully understand the Red Prince’s purposes, no matter how close you are. Even less can you understand His Majesty’s. You must let your dreams go. Have you learned nothing from the example of Montrove?”

  There was the short sound of a fanfare, and the crowd stirred as heads turned toward the entrance to the courtyard. “It sounds as if the Red Prince has arrived,” the comtesse said, her voice flat with either irritation or anger.

  Unlike the others, Fjotra wasn’t looking toward the gate and the crowds awaiting the prince’s entrance. She was looking up at the walls. A movement had caught her eye, and she noticed that there seemed to be more guards there now than before. She counted them again quickly and saw that there were now eight of them, all dressed in black to blend in with the shadows, and all armed with crossbows. She turned to Theuderic, knowing he was the only one who might be able to do anything. “My lord mage, who want to kill your prince?”

  “Kill the Red Prince?” The magicien laughed. “Depending upon the day of the week, nearly any number of people. He can be difficult. I suppose there are a few surviving rebels left in Montrove who would like to see him dead, given how he killed their duc last year.”

  She nodded. “They be here. I count eight men on the wall now. Before, only six.”

  “Merde!” the magicien swore, startling both the comtesse and his elf lady with his sudden vehemence. “Can you tell me which two?”

  “I think those,” Fjotra said, pointing to the only two guards who were walking together. Both were walking slowly but in a direction that would soon bring them to a point above the crush of people near the entry gate, which was presumably gathered around to see the prince’s entourage enter the courtyard.

  The sorcerer faced them and closed his eyes. Then he turned toward one of the other guards and closed his eyes again. When they snapped open, there was certainty in them. “They are assassins. Both of them. They’re carrying far more metal than the other guards. Brynjolf, can you cl
imb the wall?”

  Her brother nodded, as Fjotra knew he would. The bricks had enough edge on them that she thought she could probably climb the wall herself, although she would be sorry to ruin her beautiful gown.

  “Good, then climb up behind them. Out of sight. Don’t attack them right away. Do you understand? Wait until I interfere with their attack. Then just shove them off the walls. I can’t imagine both will manage to break their necks in the fall. We’ll want one for questioning, preferably both.”

  The comtesse held both her hands to her chest. “Shouldn’t you alert the other guards?”

  Theuderic shook his head. “That will cause too much confusion and panic. It might even start a stampede that would prove more deadly than the assassins themselves. Trust me, I can stop their attack.” He turned to Brynjolf. “I need you to make sure they don’t escape.”

  Brynjolf nodded eagerly, obviously pleased to be of service in the sort of activity he understood. “I will throw them down to you.” He smiled at Fjotra, bowed to the comtesse, and quickly began making his way through the crowd toward the wall.

  Fjotra was worried, but mostly because she suspected her brother was eager to do this to impress the comtesse, not for what two unsuspecting southerners might be able to do to him. Her brother had never reaved, but he had been fighting the aalvarg ever since he had been old enough to hold a sword.

  It wasn’t long before there was a ninth man atop the wall. Fortunately, none of the guards saw Brynjolf climbing up to join them, as it belatedly occurred to her that the guards would have no way of knowing his intentions in scaling the wall. All four of them—Fjotra, the comtesse, Theuderic, and the elf woman—were now watching the walls.

  Without any visible sign, the two false guards raised their crossbows to their shoulders. No sooner had they done so than the sorcerer said something unintelligible and gestured with one hand. The two crossbows erupted into white-hot flame. One of the assassins cried out in surprise and dropped his flaming weapon at once. The other, more self-controlled, somehow managed to hold onto it long enough to loose his bolt. It hit something on the other side of the wall with an audible thwunk.

  Screams erupted. It sounded as if someone had been hit. Fjotra could only hope that the prince was not the victim.

  Then Brynjolf struck. He ran up behind the first assassin and shoved the unsuspecting man off the wall. The assassin fell down into the crowded courtyard below, his arms flailing uselessly about. The people screamed. Brynjolf didn’t pause even to watch the first man fall. He was already moving toward the second assassin.

  But the second man was aware of him now, alerted by the screams, and whirled around to face Brynjolf’s approach. One moment, the assassin’s hands were empty, and the next, Fjotra saw he had a large, curved dagger in his hand.

  Brynjolf fell upon the assassin just as the man lunged at him.

  Fjotra saw the dagger plunge into her brother’s chest, causing him to stagger backward from the force behind the blow. She screamed.

  Brynjolf cried out too, but he was the son of Skuli Skullbreaker, the Reaver Lord of Raknarborg and the last clan chief of the Wolf Isles. With a shout that was more rage than pain, he grabbed the assassin’s knife arm with his right hand before the man could withdraw the blade, stepped backward, and smashed his forearm against the other man’s locked elbow. The sound of the arm snapping was quickly drowned out by the assassin’s disbelieving shriek of agony, which was abruptly silenced by Brynjolf’s forehead slamming into his face.

  “Don’t loose, don’t loose!” Theuderic shouted at the guards, two of whom were on one knee and aiming at the two combatants. “In the name of the king, I command you, do not loose! Capture them, you fools—don’t kill them!”

  The battlemage was pushing through the panicked crowd of nobles and ladies, although Fjotra couldn’t tell if he was trying to reach the prince or the first assassin Brynjolf had pushed off the wall. She tried to run toward Brynjolf, but a long-fingered hand gripped her wrist and stopped her.

  “Calm yourself, child, there is nothing you can do,” the Lady Everbright told her.

  Fjotra tried to shake her arm to escape the other woman, but the slender elf was much stronger than she looked. She gave one last futile tug, then gave up, realizing that the elfess was right.

  Up on the wall, the remaining assassin was staggering backward, his right arm hanging awkwardly from his side. Brynjolf, the dagger still sticking out of his chest, roared like a true berserker, then stepped forward and kicked the man in the chest, sparking another scream from the crowd below as the assassin plunged backward into their midst.

  Only then did her brother withdraw the dagger from his chest. He raised it above his head and shouted in triumph. In the flickering light of the flames, standing high above all the frightened shrieks and cries from below, he looked like a pagan god of war accepting a bloody sacrifice.

  “Your pet has sharper teeth than you thought, my lady,” Fjotra heard Lady Everbright tell the comtesse.

  “What a magnificent young beast he is,” the comtesse said, her voice breathy. Then she gasped and Fjotra froze, her heart in her mouth.

  Brynjolf, still holding the dagger, collapsed to his knees on the edge of the wall. The two nearest guards on the wall lowered their crossbows and rushed toward her brother, but he slumped slowly to one side, clutching at his wounded chest. Fjotra could do nothing but watch in helpless horror as Brynjolf, unable to catch himself, slipped from the blood-slicked bricks and fell toward the courtyard below.

  CORVUS

  The camp was quiet throughout the day as the legionairies were permitted to sleep late and recover from their excesses the night before. The butcher’s bill had been light: Only two more soldiers had died of their battle wounds during the night. Bacchus’s bill had been a bit higher, as there were twenty-seven soldiers who now faced castigation at the hands of their centurions because of fights and related mayhem. But Corvus knew his officers and was confident they would be laying on the strokes lightly this evening. The hangovers presently being suffered by the men awaiting discipline and hundreds of their fellows were arguably sufficient punishment for them.

  Corvus stood in front of the flaming bier that had been constructed near the stables, watching as the flames burned away the last of his nephew’s flesh from his blackened bones. He could still see the astonishment on Gaius Valerius’s face, the young man’s incredulity at the word of his fate. Had he done wrong in sentencing Fortex to die? He didn’t see how. The law of the legions was perfectly clear. And yet his conscience condemned him.

  The fire was hot, and he was relieved that the disturbingly appetizing smell of cooked meat had mostly dissipated. But soon, he would give orders for the blaze to be extinguished. Corvus did not have the heart to fully cremate the lad. The least he could do was to send Gaius Valerius’s bones back to Magnus for a proper funeral with the family.

  No reply had arrived yet from the Vakhuyu, but the Chalonu and the Insobru were already indicating their intention to submit. Corvus found he could take little satisfaction in the knowledge that he had now fulfilled fully half of the charge laid upon him by the Senate and People. He kept seeing his nephew’s pale, angry face even though it was now nothing more than a charred skull.

  He wondered how Magnus would react. Angrily, of course. He had no illusion that his brother would accept the execution of his second-youngest son with any of the stoicism of the old patricians whose standard he now proudly bore in the Senate. In time, though, Corvus knew Magnus would come to see the inevitability of his decision. After all, his brother was a general and had been forced to execute his own soldiers before. Gaius Valerius had possessed potential, there was no denying that. And bravery too. His nephew had more than merited the cognomen Fortex. But if there had been the seeds of greatness in the boy, there were even more that hinted at disaster.

  One of his guards approached. “There’s a rider from Amorr waiting in your tent, General. Says he has a message for you.
”

  Corvus nodded. He pointed to the fire. “Get that put out and see that my nephew’s bones are cleaned and prepared for travel.”

  “At once, General!”

  Corvus turned his back on the flames and returned to his tent in the middle of the camp. He pushed past the hanging leather that served as the tent’s doors and saw a small, thin man wearing heavy leather trousers turn toward him as he entered.

  Corvus recognized the man at once. He was Clodipor, Magnus’s most reliable messenger. For a moment, he felt unaccountably alarmed, almost frightened. Surely it wasn’t possible that Magnus already knew about his son’s death! No, of course not, it wasn’t possible. The news probably hadn’t even reached Berdicum yet.

  “It’s good to see you again, Clodipor,” Corvus lied. “I assume you bear the latest from Magnus? Is there anything of interest happening in Amorr?”

  Clodipor’s pock-marked face lit up at being recognized. “It is an honor to see you again, Lord Corvus. Or I suppose I should say ‘Lord Stragister Corvus,’ sir.”

  “You may suppose whatever you like, but Corvus will do. This is a legionary camp, not a ballroom.” He took the sealed scroll that Clodipor was offering him.

  The wax upon which the familiar Valerian seal was stamped was still intact, so Corvus broke it in half and began to unroll what was a rather lengthier message than he was expecting. He was relieved to see it was written in the familiar hand of Dompor, the more relaxed of Magnus’s two slave-scholars. Lazapor, by contrast, fancied himself more of a scholar-in-residence and permanent guest than secretarial slave. But even Lazapor’s hand was better than Magnus’s own writing, which was virtually illegible. Corvus glanced up and belatedly realized that Clodipor was still waiting on him. “Guard!” he called.

  One of the legionaries stationed outside his tend entered immediately. “General?”

  “Take this man, see that he is fed and that his horse is given priority with the grooms. They’ll be busy, but don’t let them put you off.” He beckoned the guard closer and whispered into his ear. “Stay by his side at all times, and be bloody well sure he does not speak to anyone else or hear about what happened to my nephew. He will be leaving within the hour. Do you understand?”