“I have sworn also to defend the Citadel. And I am your captain. I plan to lead you into battle.”
“We have a new captain now,” one man growled. He drew his sword to join the other two. Hob and the others put their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them as well should Whelan move. But he had no intention of fighting.
“Where is this captain? I would expect Roderick to have an army to crush the enemy when he puts his first foot in Eriscoba. Indeed, to drive the dark wizard back to Veyre and protect the freedom of our allies in Balsalom.”
“Your brother rides in the north,” Hob said curtly.
“Yes, and the Knights Temperate fight amongst each other. Or so I’ve been told.”
Hob stayed quiet, then nodded slowly, removing his hand from the sword hilt. “It is true that the Brotherhood has been in turmoil since you left, but if you ride to the Citadel, things will turn ugly in a hurry. It would be best if you returned to the khalifates.”
“Then nothing will change,” Whelan protested. “And the Knights Temperate must come together to defeat the dark wizard. No, I will ride to the Citadel and beg the king to forgive me.”
“Then I have no choice but to take you to Arvada as a prisoner.”
“As you wish,” Whelan said. “But before I surrender, I must have your word that you won’t kill me until I have a chance to speak with the king and ask his pardon.”
“You have my pledge,” Hob said. Whelan made to hand over his sword, but Hob held out a hand and shook his head.
“In that case,” Whelan said. “Let’s ride.”
“First tell me, have you seen any lights in Estmor, captain?”
“Lights?” Whelan asked.
Hob explained as he turned his horse around, “Yesterday a man rode into Sleptstock and said the swamps of Estmor were alive with wights. He saw hundreds of lights. We rode to investigate.”
Whelan considered. “The wizards will know what to do about ghost lights. Our worry is gathering the Knights Temperate. And that means a pardon from the king.”
“And Roderick?” Hob asked. “Will you ask his pardon? He is the captain of the Knights Temperate until you unseat him.”
“He will obey the king.”
“No,” Hob said. “He will fight.”
Chapter Four
Darik heard a loud commotion as someone passed through Eastgate and into the Citadel. He looked out the window of his rooms, located in the barracks usually occupied by Knights Temperate but currently empty. Whelan rode into the courtyard between the two towers, surrounded by Knights Temperate. There were only eight other men, but they made a fearsome sight, heavily armored and banging sword hilts against their shields. Their horses snorted and stomped and one man pulled out a trumpet and sounded several short, sharp blasts.
Darik hurried from his room to the courtyard, anxious to see Whelan and wondering what the commotion was about. He met Markal on his way down, just emerging from the library. The wizard rubbed his beard thoughtfully and lagged behind Darik as he rushed outside.
The noise gathered others to the courtyard, many from Sanctuary Tower. Men, women, young knights in training, the old and the crippled. Lay brothers, Markal called them. Those who belonged to the Brotherhood but were not Knights Temperate, the lay brothers name was somewhat misleading as a large part of their duties included caring for the spiritual life of the followers of the crooked path and the teaching of the Martyr’s words. Together with these came a number of the king’s guard, regular soldiers of Arvada who manned the gates and walls, and any others in the Citadel at the time.
There were perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred in all. Markal appeared and stood next to Chantmer the Tall who watched the knights with distaste written clearly on his face.
The knights rode twice around the courtyard, still making noise, until at last they came to a stop directly between the two towers. They formed a circle around Whelan that looked both protective and constraining at the same time.
Scree soared from Markal’s room above the close, and landed on Whelan’s gloved wrist with a happy squawk. Whelan stroked her feathers but his attentions were on the knight who picked his way from the circle to stand in front of Chantmer.
The man shouted in a voice loud enough for all to hear, “My name is Hob! Lord Roderick appointed me his marshal in the east. I have brought a prisoner. Summon the king.”
“Why should we do that?” Chantmer asked in a sharp voice. “He is ill.”
“We demand that Whelan be judged at once. Here, in this courtyard in front of witnesses.” Others shouted their agreement.
Chantmer said, “He cannot rise from bed. We’ll bring Whelan to his side. Later, after he sleeps.”
Hob’s face turned grim. “Summon the king. If he cannot rise, we will carry his bed to the courtyard. My men will hear whatever passes between them with no others to interpret his words.”
“No,” Chantmer said. “We will relate your message to the king. Until then, Whelan shall—”
“No, wizard,” Hob interrupted. “I tell you, we won’t be delayed. The Order and the Brotherhood share a common mission and this Citadel, but there will be trouble between us if you stand in our way.”
“Yes,” Whelan urged. “This must be settled at once.”
“At once!” Hob agreed.
“Summon the king!” someone else shouted from the crowd.
“The king!”
“Yes,” Darik urged Markal quietly while Chantmer glared at him. “We can carry him down. A few minutes in the sun and open air won’t hurt him, and might even do him some good.”
Markal nodded. “Very well. We will bring the king.”
Chantmer started to say something, but when he glanced around at the jostling, anxious crowd, his mouth closed without speaking.
It took almost fifteen minutes to rouse the king and bring him down to the courtyard on a bed carried between half a dozen men of his guard. Sweat poured down his face and his hands shook, but he looked alert. He blinked at the sun and shaded his eyes for a moment before his eyes adjusted. Daniel’s mouth tightened into a thin line when he saw Whelan.
Whelan jumped from his horse and dropped to his knee, Soultrup held out in front of him. He didn’t look at Daniel but kept his eyes on the flagstones.
“Let me down,” Daniel said in a weak voice. Nobody moved to stop him, but put him to the ground. He rose onto his feet. He wore a simple white tunic, bound with a blue sash. Stubble stood out on his gaunt cheeks and on his chin. A few gasps sounded from the crowd, those who hadn’t understood how deeply the sickness had sunk its claws into their king.
He walked over to Whelan, so very slowly, then bent and took Soultrup by the hilt. Darik never thought he’d be able to lift the sword, but it rose unsteadily into his hands. Darik started forward, sure that the king meant to strike down his brother. Markal put a hand on his sleeve and restrained him.
“Why have you returned from exile? Did someone tell you that I summoned you?”
Whelan looked up. “No, Daniel. But I heard of fighting amongst the Brotherhood and I returned to lead them against the dark wizard. He marches against Eriscoba and will come all the way to Arvada if we don’t stop him.”
“We will fight the dark wizard, but it will be without you. You are my brother, so I won’t kill you for defying my wishes.” He looked at Hob. “These are troubling times, so I will forgive any lapse in judgment by the Knights Temperate. Whelan, you will turn around and ride from Arvada. I give you two days to leave Eriscoba. This is my edict.”
“I will not leave,” Whelan said.
The courtyard sat dreadfully quiet.
“Then the knights and the king’s guard will hunt you down and kill you.”
“No,” Darik said, surprised by his own voice. “No, my king. This is not the way.”
“Quiet, boy!” Chantmer shouted. Angry shouts sounded from the crowd that he would be so bold.
“I won’t be quiet!”
Hob moved his horse to intercept the king’s guard and lifted his hand to stop them. They obeyed for now. Hob turned back to Darik. “Who are you, boy?”
“My name is Darik Nendra of Balsalom,” he said, his family name sounding unfamiliar on his tongue. “I am Whelan’s friend.” He felt strangely calm. “He rescued me from slavery, saved me from the Desolation, and returned to help my queen fight against the dark wizard. He is a good man.”
“Darik,” Daniel said. He fixed Darik with a patient, but tired gaze. “Surely you are aware of my brother’s crimes.”
Darik nodded. “He told me, yes. I saw him break down and weep in the Desolation when he saw a vision of Queen Serena dying.”
This was perhaps not the best thing to say. Daniel’s eyes turned hard. “And you think this is repentance? Still weeping over my dead wife as if he had any right—any right!—to claim grief.”
“I know something of betrayal,” Darik said. “I know how you must feel.”
Chantmer found his tongue at last, “My king. You’re arguing with a child. Let me silence him.”
“No, Chantmer,” King Daniel said, not even affording the man a glance. “I wish to hear what the boy has to say. I owe him a debt for staying by my side last night when the terrors came upon me.”
It shocked Darik to hear him speak of his frailties so openly. In the khalifates such an admission by a khalif would be tantamount to admitting that he was unfit to rule. But Daniel’s humility also impressed him. In many ways he reminded Darik of Whelan. Including the stubbornness.
“My father betrayed my family,” Darik said. He looked at Markal, remembering when Markal and Whelan had purchased him on the slave blocks. “When my mother died, he fell into grief much as you did. He neglected his business, until the moneylenders took everything, and sold my sister and me into slavery on the blocks of the Grand Bazaar.” He hesitated, afraid of his own words. “It is said in Balsalom that when Queen Serena died, King Daniel also neglected his affairs, and turned against his own daughter. There is no mention of the king’s brother or his part.”
This time there were no angry shouts. Daniel nodded slowly. “And why did you come to Eriscoba? To flee slavery?”
“Sanctuary. To face the Ordeals, purge myself of slavery, then join the Knights Temperate and regain the family honor.”
“And then what?”
Darik said, “I will return to Balsalom for my sister. Then I go to Veyre to win my father’s freedom and give him my forgiveness. It will heal us both. It will heal you too, my king.”
Darik stopped and held his breath. The entire courtyard held its collective breath. King Daniel looked back and forth from Whelan to Darik, then to Chantmer and Markal, and finally to Hob and the gathered knights and Brotherhood before settling back on Whelan again.
He put a hand out and lifted Whelan to his feet. Daniel said nothing, but gripped Whelan in an embrace. Whelan hugged back so fiercely that Darik feared he would break the sick king in two. Tears streamed down both of their faces.
The crowd cheered. Markal slapped Darik on the shoulder. Even Chantmer didn’t look displeased, and that was a rarity for the sour old wizard, Darik thought.
#
Darik, Markal, and Whelan met in the close after the excitement died down and the crowd dispersed. Whelan didn’t look exhausted, as Darik had expected, but invigorated to be back in Eriscoba and gathering the Knights Temperate to battle.
Whelan turned to Markal. “Have you seen Ninny?”
Markal said, “She’s not here yet but I wouldn’t worry. They had seventy miles to go on foot before Hoffan could outfit them with horses, and another day’s ride from there.”
Whelan rested his free hand on Darik’s shoulder. “Thank you. I must say, I was surprised to hear you speak.”
Darik shrugged, embarrassed.
“Tell me what happened at the battle. I was worried.”
Darik gave him a brief summary of how Daria and he were captured in the Cloud Kingdoms, and how Markal had appeared to save them. “And Balsalom?” Darik asked when he finished.
Whelan nodded. “We captured the palace and Mol Khah, but lost Cragyn’s Hammer. Flockheart and I flew south when we reached the mountains, crossing over the Tothian Way. The good news is that the dark wizard is several days out from the valley, still securing the passes. But he’s assembling an army that will put the Free Kingdoms to slaughter if we don’t bring everything we’ve got.”
“Look here,” Markal said. “My head feels like it’s just been used as the slam bag in a jogu ball match. All this wrestling with Chantmer. We can talk over a hot pot of tea.”
Darik had enough of enclosed spaces after the suffocating air in King Daniel’s bed chamber so he convinced the others to drink their tea in the clear air of the close.
“But speak in a quiet voice, “ Markal warned. “I don’t know who can and can’t be trusted.”
Whelan told them about the battle for Balsalom and about the choice the khalifa faced and how she had refused his suggestion that she marry Ethan.
“That’s no choice,” Darik protested. “She has to root it out. Poison it, tear it out, I don’t care. She can’t have the dark wizard’s child. It will be a monster.”
Whelan nodded. “Saldibar agrees with you. As do I, truth be told. But the Martyr said that a child isn’t beholden to the sins of its father. Whether the child will be a monster or not is its own choosing.” He sighed. “The power it will give the dark wizard over Balsalom is another issue.” He shook his head. “Perhaps it is because of her hatred for the dark wizard that Kallia wants to let his child grow. She is determined to defy him.”
Darik and Markal shared their own information, although the wizard’s details were sketchy.
“So who is this owl man that both of you saw?” Whelan asked.
Markal said, “I thought maybe an old wizard at first, but now I’m not so sure. It might be the Mountain Brother.”
“Really?” Darik exclaimed. “I thought the brothers went into hiding when Toth killed the Forest Brother.”
“That’s true enough,” Markal said. “But the Wylde is growing again. It has grown to the edge of the Tothian Way in the west. When the Wylde breaks Toth’s magic and rejoins across the road, legend has it the Forest Brother will be reborn.” He hesitated. “As for the Mountain Brother, when he was seen at all it was as a bird or an old man so it could be him. It comforts me, in any event, that he may be on our side.”
“Does Mithyl end at the far edge of the Wylde?” Darik asked, intrigued by the Wylde. He’d heard stories about the Mountain Brother, since Balsalom was near the mountains, but knew little about the Forest Brother.
Markal got a faraway look in his eyes. “I’ve been to the western edge of the world. Well, to the edge of Mithyl anyway; Memnet the Great believed there were other lands beyond the western sea. Some great island perched on the edge of a cliff, where the two Ocean Brothers pour their waters into the stars.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”
These fanciful ideas of an ancient wizard didn’t interest Darik, but the first statement, casually dropped, certainly did. “You’ve been past the Wylde?”
“Of course. It was much diminished during the Tothian Wars, and not impassable as it is now. There were cities and kingdoms in the far west, destroyed by Toth.” He shrugged. “I saw the far west about a hundred years ago from the top of a cloud castle. The cities still lay in ruins then. Since then, maybe they’ve rebuilt as the khalifates and Eriscoba have, or maybe they remain desolate. There is no way to cross the Wylde and see.”
“Not even on the Tothian Way?” Darik asked. He glanced up at the sky, which remained clear but for the cloud castles and the sun pleasantly warm on his skin. “Or has the forest uprooted the road?”
Whe
lan scratched the stubble on his chin, “No, the Way is still there. But deep in the Wylde, the trees hang their branches over the road and block the sky. Branches grab men from their horses and throttle them. I’ve considered making the attempt, but dismissed it as too risky.”
“A wise choice,” Markal said, nodding his head. “I too, have wanted to cross the Wylde. I made a deal with the forest about seventy years ago to pass through unharmed, but different parts of the Wylde don’t always agree. I fell asleep leaning against an oak tree and woke three months later with moss growing from my nostrils and ears. My back and shoulders were halfway buried in bark. You have no idea what a stiff back is until you’ve had a tree growing from your shoulder blades for three months.”
Darik shook his head. Wizards.
Markal continued, “The problem is, the Wylde has a long memory. And its memory of men is not pleasant. I suspect the trip would be doubly treacherous now.”
The wizard rose to his feet and drank the last of his tea. “I have business to attend to. I trust the two of you can find something to keep you occupied.” He turned and walked from the close.
Whelan went to the armory and returned with a sword that he gave to Darik. It had a well-balanced blade of hardened steel, longer but lighter than Hoffan’s short sword.
Whelan said, “It’s yours. Soultrup will be glad to see me rid of the thing. Magical swords get jealous.”
“Thank you!” Darik weighed the blade in his hand. He no longer felt like he would chop off his own leg, but he also knew that two sparring sessions did not an expert swordsman make. “Where did it come from?”
“The captain of the Brotherhood presented it to me when I became a Knight Temperate. After Sanctuary. I had put away Soultrup for some time, afraid of its powers, and carried this sword for over a year. It served me well.” He added hastily, “After everything you’ve been through, I figured you deserve it. The steel came from Southron, a small kingdom about a hundred and fifty miles from here, next to the southern seas. With money from Daniel, they have developed a new method for purifying steel and use it to make layered blades. This was one of the first. They use hard steel on the outside which cuts better. But hard steel is brittle, so the core is a softer metal.”
The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Page 7
