A Coronation of Kings

by Samuel Stokes

  More and more Wolf broke through the tree line. There must be almost two hundred of them, Tristan thought, as they milled about. His thoughts of escape diminished with every second. He had hoped to give his captors the slip and disappear into the woods as they attempted to return him to Belnair, but such hopes diminished quickly as the number of his captors increased.

  The gruff captain rode over to the waiting Listarii lord and addressed him. ‘Tristan Listar, you are wanted for theft, arson, sedition, and murder. We have orders to take you to Belnair to answer for your crimes. Will you come of your own accord or will we be forced to lug your beaten and unconscious body back to our Lord?’

  ‘One man against a hundred. Even I don’t fancy those odds, Captain. Lead the way. Though I doubt I will see any justice at the hands of the Wolf....’

  The captain delivered a wicked kick to Tristan’s shoulder and sent him sprawling into the dirt. ‘Enough of that then. It’s a long ride back to Belnair and I won’t put up with any more of your mouthing off.’

  Tristan picked himself up of the ground and stared coldly at the captain. ‘Do that again and you will be dead before your foot leaves the stirrup. You’ve made it abundantly clear that Falen wants me alive. I’ll kill you without a second thought and see one of these other idiots gets an undeserved promotion.’

  The captain glowered back at him before turning to his men. ‘Bring the manacles and make sure they are tight. I don’t want him to be able to scratch himself without our leave.’

  With that, the newly-married Listarii lord was led away, bound and chained, his prospects looking more perilous than ever.

  *****

  Hours later an exhausted Tristan was thrown, still shackled, into the dungeons beneath the Black Iron Keep. In the heart of Belnair, the stronghold was a daunting structure. The dank cell stank something terrible. From his time in the sewers, the stench of human excrement was easily identifiable. Fighting the urge to gag, he tried to recover his breath.

  Tristan was exhausted. Hours of marching under the hot sun without so much as a drop of water, had taken its toll. Fatigued and dehydrated, Tristan attempted to ponder his options. Escape from the cells would be difficult, particularly in his current condition. He was confident that, given enough time, the Guild would be able to break him out. With the Wolf Host arrayed against King’s Court, the remaining garrison would find themselves vastly outnumbered by the Guild’s forces. There had to be little more remaining than the cavalrymen he had confronted earlier.

  Tristan heard the cell door open. Looking up he saw Falen step into the dungeon, a very satisfied grin spreading across his face.

  ‘Why, look who we have here!’ he declared, reveling in his new found position of power. ‘Tristan Listar, heir to the ashes of the eastern duchies, here to visit us at last. I’m flattered, I truly am. How kind of you to skulk out of your sewers. Quite the trouble you’ve caused us these past few years. All that is at an end though. Tonight, you rot in your own waste, tomorrow you will die! ‘

  ‘Save your breath, Falen. I may die, but those I lead will live on. Tomorrow, when you kill me, there will be rioting in the streets. When your father is vanquished at King’s Court, he will return home to find Belnair in ashes.’

  ‘I highly doubt that, Tristan. Our plans have been carefully crafted over decades of preparation.’

  ‘And yet they will fail in a matter of days,’ Tristan retorted.

  ‘Enough!’ Falen shouted. ‘I tire of your impudence.’ Falen called to the guards at the door of the cell. ‘Pick him up!’

  The guards lifted Tristan off the floor so that he hung exhausted between them. ‘I am going to enjoy this next part a great deal,’ Falen stated smiling. Before Tristan could brace himself, Falen drove a fist into the bound Listarii, driving the wind from his lungs.

  Tristan spluttered and wheezed, struggling for air. ‘You… still...hit...like...a...girl...,’ he managed, between tortured breaths.

  The second blow hit him in the face and Tristan found his head spinning. Falen grabbed him by the hair and inching his face close to his captive, he spoke very deliberately. ‘You are in for a very long night.’

  Planting his feet against the cobblestones, Tristan launched forward, driving his head into his gloating tormentor. A sickening crunch told him Falen’s nose had been broken, but before he could revel in his accomplishment, something struck him in the back of the head and his world went black.

  Falen rose from the ground, blood pouring from his broken nose. ‘Why did you do that, you imbecile? He’s no fun at all unconscious.’

  The berated guard responded quickly. ‘With all due respect, Sire, if he’d got on top of you in those chains he might have choked you to death.’

  ‘I very much doubt that,’ Falen retorted. ‘Now fetch us some water so we can bring him around. His night ends when I say it ends.’

  Chapter 28

  Beneath Belnair...

  For the first time in three years, the High Council of the Guild of Thieves met without Tristan’s presence. The mood in the room was sober - news of Tristan’s capture by the Wolf was a crushing blow. The assembled council members looked searchingly to Halmir for guidance.

  Halmir stood and cleared his throat. ‘I am sure you are all aware that this morning Tristan was taken. The Wolf ambushed him at his wedding and he sacrificed himself rather than see the rest of us perish. It could not come at a worse time. Gerwold marches on King’s Court with his men at arms numbering almost fifteen thousand. The Mizumura and forces of Fordham stand with them, bringing with them another twenty thousand men at arms and irregular forces. We imagine they are likewise marching on King’s Court, meaning the defenders there are outnumbered almost four to one.

  We must rally our forces to aid King’s Court at once. If we fail, all we have fought for will be lost and Gerwold will ascend the Golden Throne. Messengers have already been dispatched to Sisaron and Tanamere who will make for King’s Court at once. They have been mustering their forces for weeks and should be marching within hours of our messengers reaching them. We will likewise assemble our own armies and march for King’s Court. Our forces should be ready to move out by tomorrow evening. That leaves us today to free Tristan - an army without a general isn’t much of a threat. We need Tristan. Sven, what do we know?’

  The spymaster addressed the council, ‘We know Gerwold stripped most of the garrison for his army. There are probably fewer than five hundred soldiers remaining in the Black Iron Keep. Unfortunately, if we make an attempt on the citadel tonight, we may force Falen’s hand. He’ll kill Tristan before we can free him. Our agents in the palace tell me there will be an execution in the morning. Falen plans to make an example of him. A platform for the occasion is being erected just outside the keep. Our best chance to take him will be when he gets onto that platform. If we can kill the guards and make it safely off the platform, we will be sheltered from the archers on the wall. Maneron, if your sentinels can provide covering fire against the soldiers on the wall it should heighten our chances.’

  ‘They would give their lives for Tristan a dozen times overawe will be there,’ the yeoman turned sentinel answered hastily.

  ‘Excellent. Now we ensure as many of our men as possible are amongst the assembled crowd. We will rescue Tristan and if the opportunity presents itself, we will press on and seize the Keep as well,’ Sven stated authoritatively.

  ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ Halmir started resuming control of the meeting. Tristan, the Keep, and on to King’s Court. I’ve sent word to King’s Court already that Gerwold is en route. They will need to hold against his siege for at least two days before any relief will arrive. Sisaron should ride unimpeded on the heels of Fordham. We have been tampering with their communiqués. They expect Sisaron to meet up with Tanamere and strike out through the Mizumura’s territory. Velas has left a substantial portion of his strength to protect the Riverhold.

  Our messengers will take longer to reach Tanamere, but they will stri
ke out by sea and reach King’s Court within a day. Three days from now, we should be able to hit Gerwold with everything we have. With the Allfather’s assistance we can end him once and for all. Brethren, we have much in the way of preparations to attend to. Be about your business quickly and rest well tonight. It may be the last sleep we get for some time.’

  *****

  There was a buzz of excitement about Belnair as morning came, the news of an execution had been circulated about the town and the masses were out in force. There is a sad sickness in human nature that allows people to delight in others’ misery. The market that lay in front of the Citadel was thronged with peasant folk, eager to glimpse someone whose lot in life was worse than their own.

  The walls of the citadel were lined with guards, presumably to provide an illusion of strength. More Wolf guards lined the base of the platform and others still were positioned by the gates to the citadel which were wide open with the heavy steel portcullis raised.

  Atop the platform an executioner sat quietly waiting, his identity hidden beneath the black hood he was wearing. In his hands he held a wicked looking axe; one swing from the broad shouldered giant would certainly bring a swift end to the sentenced.

  A more perceptive observer might have noticed that amongst the thronging peasants there were those that moved with purpose, carefully positioning themselves around the market. Others still lay hidden in nearby homes ready to take to the streets at a moment’s warning. Ogryn could be seen in his preferred guise. That of a burly teamster struggling with oxen and a cart full of goods near the Keep’s gates. Presumably he was peddling refreshments to the eager folk that passed by.

  The hubbub was disturbed by a great fanfare as a string of trumpets sounded. When the noise died down a party appeared on the wall of the citadel. Immediately visible amongst them was Falen, at his side Hitomi of the Mizumura stared out regally at the masses. The Heir of the Wolf signaled to a nearby herald to begin the proceedings.

  The herald drew himself up to his full stature and projecting his voice loudly declared ‘Citizens of Belnair, yesterday there was apprehended an enemy of the state. He has been found guilty of arson, theft, treason, and murder. His sentence is death, before the gods and with you as our witness we will see justice done this day. Bring forth the condemned!’

  A group of guards moved out from the citadel, all eyes strained to catch sight of the prisoner. From his vantage point Sven struggled to make out Tristan amongst the guards. He should have stood heads and shoulders above many of them and yet he could not be seen. As the guards reached the top of the platform they parted and for the first time Tristan became visible. There suspended between two burly guards hung the Last Lord of the Listarii.

  Battered and bruised, dried blood caked the side of his face from a nasty wound on his brow. It was abundantly clear that the carrying out of his sentence had begun hours ago. Halmir hastily began to rethink his plan. Much of what he had planned relied on Tristan being able to move of his own accord.

  The guards let him go and he slumped to the platform with a heavy thud. The herald continued ‘Tristan Listar, you are sentenced to death for crimes against this people, which sentence will be carried out forthwith, is there any here who would speak in his defense?’ There were movements around the market, but none were foolish enough to answer the obvious bait. Falen was unconvinced; he motioned for the herald to repeat the question. The herald acceded to his lord’s demands, ‘Will no one speak for him?’

  ‘I will speak for him!’ The voice rang out loud and clear. Falen sprang forward to glimpse the challenger. A space was rapidly clearing around a hooded figure in the centre of the square as peasant folk hastened to distance themselves from the source of the objection. With Falen’s temperament the speaker would almost certainly be joining the condemned.

  Falen shouted in jubilation, his plan to lure the other divisive elements into the open was coming to fruition. ‘Another thief springs to aid his master,’ he jeered.

  ‘I am no thief,’ the figure continued, not missing a beat ‘Nor is he my master, but I will speak for him against you... Falen of Belnair. You speak of arson and murder and yet you have practiced those same crimes under the cover of darkness, desperately hoping your sins will not see the light of day. Today they will be revealed.’

  Falen grew red with rage ‘Who are you to speak to me this way? Guards, take him now; we will have a double feature!’

  The guards began to move forward, but the figure remained unperturbed as he threw back his hood.

  ‘Who am I you ask? I am Syrion, second son of Marcus Lord of the Listarii, whom you murdered in cold blood. Brother of Tristan Listar whom you now seek to kill to conceal your crimes. This sad display is not justice, it is murder, and there will be a reckoning.’

  There were gasps among the assembled onlookers; Tristan lifted his battered head to look for his defender. A young man about his own age stood in the middle of the clearing market square. Where Tristan was strong and broad shouldered, Syrion was lean and limber, with black hair that was cropped short, and his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into a man’s soul. Where Tristan had the softer appearance and natural charisma of a born leader, Syrion’s features seemed sharper; in spite of the contrast in their demeanors the resemblance was undeniable.

  As Tristan looked at Syrion, movement behind the newcomer caught his attention. Amongst those below he could make out many familiar faces, Guild Warriors making their way through the square, taking advantage of the distraction caused by Syrion’s appearance.

  Falen’s anger was evident in his voice as he cried from the battlements. ‘Another Listar you say? Clearly you too are guilty, guards take him and put him beside his brother, he can share his fate.’

  The guards continued shoving their way through the crowd. The peasant folk hurried, eager to get out of the way, Syrion however did not even acknowledge the guards advance, but instead kept his gaze fixed firmly on Falen on the battlements. The guards surrounded the young man, one of them holding a set of iron manacles, another grabbed hold of the Astarii’s arm in an attempt to restrain the youth.

  Syrion looked from the eager soldier to the manacles; closing his eyes he recalled his brief and terrifying incarceration aboard the Mistress of Misery. Power built up within the young mage until the hairs on his arms stood on end. At his command the power exploded outwards in a burst of light, the surrounding soldiers were thrown like rag dolls across the square.

  When the townsfolk recovered their faculties, Syrion stood alone in the centre of the square, the arcane energy was still tangible in the air surrounding the wizard. The surging forces provided an air of terrifying majesty. Chaos broke out as terrified citizens sought to distance themselves from such a being.

  Falen recovered quickly shouting from the battlements, ‘Archers, kill them! Kill them both.’ The soldiers lining the battlements lifted their longbows, and let fly a hail of black shafted arrows. The cloud of steel tipped death descended from the stone parapets. A battered Tristan looked up unable to move. In an instant Syrion was at his side having flown from the market square below, the arrows flew onwards and Tristan closed his eyes waiting for the end.

  To his great surprise rather than the shafts of dozens of arrows bringing swift death, he heard them clatter harmlessly to the platform as if they had struck an iron shield. Opening his eyes, he saw the stranger up close for the first time, his hard eyes staring down as he examined Tristan’s wounds.

  ‘Brother, I am sorry I am so late, if I knew earlier of your fate, you would not have suffered so.’

  Tristan struggled to smile back as he spoke ‘On the contrary, you are just in time. Things were beginning to look… a little grim.’ Tristan pointed feebly, ‘Watch out!’ Syrion turned to see the executioner with his axe raised high. Syrion swept his hand to the side as if shooing a bothersome insect and a concussive force slammed into the black-hooded killer. The executioner grunted in pain as the force of the impact threw him off the raise
d platform, his moan turned into a panicked scream as he plummeted to the cobblestones below.

  From the executioner’s platform Syrion could hear voices in the market behind him, one of which was barking orders authoritatively ‘Maneron, take your sentinels and kill anything that moves on that wall. Ogryn, get the gates, this tyranny ends today.’

  A shout of affirmation went up in response. Syrion looked behind him to see a symphony of motion in the courtyard. Dozens of the assembled spectators were now armed with bows and loosing arrow after arrow at the walls. With a hunter’s grace they picked off the Wolf with practiced precision. A great hulking bear of a man was pushing a cart headlong at the gates, several Wolf endeavored to stop him but were swept up with the momentum of the moving wagon before being crushed mercilessly beneath its wheels.

  The sentry on the gates spotted the cart and the tide of warriors behind it and attempted to lower the portcullis. The heavy iron grill descended heavily only to slam into the cart. It’s heavily reinforced frame taking the weight of the gate and holding it ajar. The tide of angry Guild Warriors surged under the stalled portcullis into the Black Iron Keep.

  The man barking orders was joined by another and they made their way onto the platform. As they approached Syrion raised a hand, but the leader bought both hands in front of his face and gestured frantically. ‘Whoa, whoa stop we are friends not foes. If you are truly here to save your brother we have common purpose. I am Halmir.’

  Syrion looked at them with distrust, but Tristan lifted his head and spoke ‘Halmir, it’s...good to see you...where is Falen? This must stop.’

  ‘Patience, Tristan, we will have the Citadel firmly in our grasp shortly. We must get you to a physician and soon, your wounds are great.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Chimed Sven from beside Halmir, ‘You look terrible, your lady will skin us alive if we return you to her in this condition.’