Crown Conspiracy

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Royce removed his helm as well, as he moved past the dwarf, running quickly down the hall.

  “Stop him, you fool!” Braga ordered the dwarf, but he was too slow to react. The thief was already far down the hall and the small dwarf ran after him. Braga drew his own sword and turned his attention to Hadrian.

  “Do you know who I am? I know we met in the dungeon recently when you were hanging in chains, but are you aware of my reputation? I am Archduke Percy Braga, Lord Chancellor of Melengar, and more importantly, the winner of the title of Grand Circuit Tournament Swords Master, for the last five years in a row. Do you have any titles? Any ribbons won? Any awards bestowed? Are there trophies shelved for your handling of a sword? I have bested the best in Avryn, even the famous Pickering and his magic rapier.”

  “The way I heard it, he didn’t have his sword the day you two dueled.”

  Braga laughed. “That sword story is just that—a story. He uses it as an excuse to account for his losses or when he is afraid of an opponent. His sword is just a common rapier with a fancy hilt.”

  Braga moved in and swiped at Hadrian in a savagely fast attack that drove him backward. He struck again and Hadrian had to leap backwards to avoid being slashed across the chest.

  “You’re fast. That’s good, it will make this more interesting. You see, Mister Thief, I’m sure you have the situation here all wrong. You may be under the impression that you are holding me at bay while your friend races to the rescue of the damsel in distress. How noble for a commoner like yourself. You must entertain dreams of being a knight to be so idealistic.” Braga lunged, dipped, and slashed. Hadrian fell back again, and once more, Braga smiled and laughed at him. “The truth is, you are not holding me at all. I am holding you.”

  The archduke feinted left and then short-stroked toward Hadrian’s body. He dodged the attack, but it put him off balance and off guard. Although Braga’s stroke missed, it allowed him the opportunity to punch the hilt of his sword hard into Hadrian’s face, throwing him back against the corridor wall. His lip began to bleed. Immediately, Braga lashed out again, but Hadrian had moved, and the archduke’s sword sparked across the stone wall.

  “That looked like it hurt.”

  “I’ve had worse,” Hadrian said. He was panting slightly, his voice less confident.

  “I must admit, you two have been quite impressive. Your reputation is certainly well earned. It was very clever of you two, slipping in the sewers behind those rat catchers, using them as a decoy. It was also intelligent of you to send that note causing me to direct you right to the princess, but your genius ended there. You see, I can kill you whenever I want, but I want you alive. I need at least one person to execute. The mob will insist on that. In a few moments, Wylin and a dozen guards will come up here, and you will be taken to the stake. Meanwhile, your friend, whom you are sure is rescuing Arista, will be the instrument of her death and his as well. You could run and warn him, but oh—that’s right—you are keeping me at bay, aren’t you?”

  Braga grinned evilly and attacked again.

  — 5 —

  Royce reached a door at the end of the hall and was not surprised to find it locked. He pulled his tools from his belt. The lock was traditional, and he had no trouble picking it. The door swung open, but immediately Royce knew something was wrong. He felt, more than heard, a click as the door pulled back. His instincts told him something was not right. He looked up the spiral stairs that disappeared around the circle of the tower. Nothing looked amiss, but years of experience told him otherwise.

  He tentatively put a foot on the first step and nothing happened. He moved to the second, and the third, inching his way up. Listening for any telltale sounds, he searched for wires, levers, or loose tiles. Everything appeared safe. Behind him down the hallway, he could hear the faint sounds of swordplay as Hadrian entertained the archduke. He needed to hurry.

  He moved up five more steps. There were small windows, no more than three feet tall and only a foot wide, just enough to allow light to pass through, but nothing else. The brilliant wintry sun revealed the staircase in a colorless brilliance. Weight, rather than mortar, held the smooth stone walls together. The steps were likewise made of solid blocks of stone also fitted with amazing artisanship so that a sheet of parchment could not slip between the cracks.

  Royce moved up to the sixth step, and as he shifted his weight to the higher stone block, the tower shook. In reaction, he instinctively started to step back and then it happened. The previous five steps collapsed. They broke and fell out of sight into an abyss below him. Royce shifted his weight forward again just in time to avoid falling to his death and took another off balance step upward. The moment he did, the previous step broke away and fell. The tower rumbled again.

  “Your first mistake was picking the lock,” Magnus told him.

  Royce could hear the dwarf’s voice from the doorway below. When he turned, he could see the dwarf standing just outside the door in the castle corridor. He stood there, spinning a door key tied to a string around his index finger, winding and unwinding it. He absently stroked the hair of his beard.

  “If you open the door without using the key, it engages the trap,” Magnus explained with a grin.

  The dwarf began to pace slowly before the open door like a professor addressing a class. “You can’t jump the hole you made to get back here. It’s already too far. And, in case you are wondering, the bottom is a long way down. You started climbing this tower on the sixth floor of the castle, and the base of the tower extends to the bedrock below the foundation. I also added plenty of jagged rocks at the bottom, just for fun.”

  “You made this?” Royce asked.

  “Of course, well—not the tower, it was here already. I spent the last half-year hollowing it out like a stone-eating termite.” He grinned and flashed his eyes. “There’s very little stone left in it. All those very solid looking blocks of rock you see are parchment-thin. I left just the right amount of structure in place. The inside looks like a spider web made of stone rather than thread. Tiny strands of rock in a latticework of a classic crystalline matrix—strong enough to hold the tower up, but extremely fragile if the right thread is broken.”

  “And I take it each time I take a step up, the previous one will fall?”

  The dwarf’s grin widened. “Beautiful, isn’t it? You can’t go down, but if you go up, you get into an even worse state. The steps work as a horizontal support for the vertical planes. Without the steps to steady the structure, it will twist on itself and fall. Before you reach the top, the entire tower will collapse once enough supports fall away. Don’t let my talk about hollow walls put you too much at ease. It is still stone, and the full weight of this tower remains immense. It will very easily crush you, and the lady at the top, should the fall and the sharp rocks at the bottom not manage to do the job. You’ve already weakened the structure to where it might fall on its own now. I can hear it with the blowing of the wind—the tiny little cracks and pops—all stone makes sounds as it grows, shrinks, twists, or erodes—it’s a language I understand very well. It tells me stories of the past and of the future, and right now, this tower is singing.”

  “I hate dwarves,” Royce muttered.

  Chapter 9: Rescuers

  The water pitcher and basin hit the floor and shattered. The crash jolted Arista, who sat on her bed, disoriented and confused. The room was shaking. All summer the tower had felt strange, but nothing like this. She held her breath—waiting. Nothing happened. The tower stopped moving.

  Tentatively, she slipped off the bed, crept gingerly toward the windows and looked out. She saw nothing to explain the tremor. Outside the world was blanketed white by a fresh layer of snow that was still falling. Is that it? She looked up at the tower’s eaves. Is it the snow, sliding off the roof? It did not seem likely…it also did not matter. How much time do I have left?

  She looked down. The crowd still circled the front gate of the castle. There must have been more than a hundr
ed people there, all pressing for news of her trial. Around the perimeter of the castle, three times the usual number of guards patrolled in full armor. Her uncle was not taking any chances. Perhaps he thought the people of the city might rise up against him rather than see their princess burned? She knew better. No one cared if she lived or died. While she knew all the lords, earls and barons by name, and had sat down with them for dozen of meals, she knew they were not her friends. She did not have friends. Braga was right; she spent too much time in her tower. No one really knew her. She lived a solitary life, but this was the first time she ever really felt alone.

  She had spent all night trying to determine exactly what words she would use when brought before the court. In the end, she concluded there was little she could do or say. She could accuse Braga of the murder of her father, but she had no proof. He was the one with all the evidence on his side. After all, she had released the two thieves, and she was responsible for Alric’s disappearance. And what good did that do?

  What was I thinking?

  She handed her brother over to two unknown thugs. Alric personally explained his intent to torture them to death, and she left him to their mercy! What were the odds of his survival? What was a promise to thieves? She felt sick whenever she imagined them laughing at her expense as they drowned poor Alric in the river. Now they were likely halfway to Calis or Delgos, taking turns wearing the royal signet ring of Melengar. When the scouts had returned with Alric’s robe, she was certain he was dead, and yet, why was there no body?

  Is it possible Alric still lives?

  No, she reasoned, it was far more likely Braga kept Alric’s corpse hidden. Revealing it before her trial would allow her to make a bid for the throne. Once the trial was over, once she was found guilty and burned, he would miraculously reveal its discovery. It was very possible Braga had Alric’s body locked away in one of the rooms below her, or somewhere in the vault.

  It was all her fault. If she had not interfered, perhaps Alric might have taken charge and discovered Braga’s treachery. Perhaps he could have saved both of them. Perhaps she was nothing more than a foolish girl after all. At least her death would put an end to the questions and the guilt consuming her. She closed her eyes and once more felt the unsteadiness of the world around her.

  — 2 —

  The Galilin host was now a full five hundred strong as it marched through the wintry landscape. Sixty knights dressed in full armor carried lances adorned with long forked banners. They snapped like serpents’ tongues in the numbing wind. Myron had overheard Alric, when they were back at Drondil fields, arguing with the other nobles, about marching too soon. Apparently, they were still missing the strength of several lords, and leaving when they did was a risk. Pickering finally agreed to Alric’s demands and convinced the others once Barons Himbolt and Rendon arrived, bringing another score of knights. To Myron, the force was impressive at any size.

  At the head of the line rode Prince Alric, Myron, Count Pickering and his two eldest sons, as well as the land-titled nobles. Following them were the knights who rode together in rows four abreast. An entourage of squires, pages, and footmen traveled behind them. Farther back were the ranks of the common men-at-arms: strong, stocky brutes dressed in chain and steel with bullet-shaped helms, plate metal shin guards, and metal shank boots. Each was equipped with a kite shield, a short, broad-blade sword, and a long spear. Next in line were the archers in leather jerkins and woolen cloaks that hid their quivers. They marched holding their un-strung bows as though they were mere walking sticks. At the rear came the artisans, smiths, surgeons, and cooks, pulling wagons that hauled the army’s supplies.

  Myron felt foolish. After hours on the road, he was still having trouble keeping his horse from veering to the left into Fanen’s gelding. He was starting to get the hang of the stirrups, but he still had much to learn. The front toe guard, which prevented his feet from resting on the soles, frustrated him. The Pickering boys took him under their wing and explained how only the ball of the foot was to rest on the stirrup brace. This provided better control and prevented a foot from catching in the event of a fall. They also told him how tight stirrups helped to hold his knees to the horse’s sides. All of Pickering’s horses were leg trained and could be controlled by the feet, thighs, and knees. They were taught this way so that knights could fight with one hand on a lance or sword and the other on a shield. Myron was working on this technique now, squeezing his thighs, trying to persuade the horse to steer right, but it was no use. The more he used his left knee, the more his right knee also squeezed to compensate. The result was confusion on the part of the animal, and it wandered over and brushed against Fanen’s mount once again.

  “You need to be more firm,” Fanen told him. “Show her who’s in charge.”

  “She already knows—she is,” Myron replied pathetically. “I think I should just stick with the reins. It’s not like I will be wielding a sword and shield in the coming battle.”

  “You never know,” Fanen said. “Monks of old used to fight a lot, and Alric said you helped save his life by killing one of those mercenaries who attacked you. So you’re one ahead of me there. I’ve never actually killed a man.”

  Myron frowned and dropped his gaze. “I wish he hadn’t told anyone about that.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Slaying a villain in the service of your king is the stuff of legends and what heroes are made of.”

  “It didn’t feel very heroic. It made me sick. I don’t even know why I…no, that’s a lie. I really have to stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Lying. The abbot told me once that lying was a betrayal to one’s self. It’s evidence of self-loathing. You see, when you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie to hide it rather than accept yourself for who you really are. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you. It’s like when a man would rather die than be thought of as a coward. His life is not as important to him as his reputation. In the end, who is the braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?”

  “I’m sorry, you lost me there,” Fanen said with a quizzical look.

  “It doesn’t matter, besides, the prince asked me along strictly as a chronicler of events, not as a warrior. I think he wants me to record what happens today in a book.”

  “Well, if you do, please leave out the way Denek threw a fit at not being allowed to come. It will reflect badly on our family.”

  Everything they passed was new to Myron. He had seen snow, of course, but only in the courtyard and cloister at the abbey. He never saw how it settled on a forest or glittered on the edges of rivers and streams. They were traveling through populated country now, passing village after village; each one larger than the one before. Myron could only stare in fascination at the many different types of buildings, animals, and people he saw along the way. Each time they came into a town, the villagers came out to stare at them. They scurried out of their homes aroused by the ominous thrump, thrump, thrump of the soldiers marching. Some summoned the courage to ask where they were going, but the men said nothing under strict orders to maintain silence.

  Children ran to the edge of the road where parents quickly pulled them back. Myron had never seen a child before, at least not since he had been one. It was not uncommon for a boy to be sent to the abbey at ten or twelve but rarely, if ever, before the age of eight. The smallest of the children fascinated Myron, and he watched them in amazement. They were like short drunk people, loud and usually dirty, but all were surprisingly cute and looked at him in much the same way that he looked at them. They would wave, and Myron could not help but wave back, although he assumed it was not very soldierly to do so.

  The war host moved surprisingly fast. The foot soldiers, responding in unison to orders, alternated between periods of double-time marching with a more relaxed stride, which was only slightly slower. Each of t
hem wore a grim face without a smile among them.

  For hours, they marched. No one interfered with them. There were no advance formations lying in ambush, no challenges along the road. To Myron, the trip felt more like an exciting parade than the preparation for an ominous battle. Finally, he saw his first glimpse of Melengar in the distance. Fanen pointed out the great bell tower of Mares Cathedral and the tall spires of Essendon Castle, where no standard flew.

  A vanguard rode up and reported a strong force entrenched around the city. The nobles ordered their regiments to form ranks. Flags relayed messages, archers strung their bows, and the army transformed themselves into blocks of men. In long lines of three across, they moved as one. The archers were summoned forward and moved ahead just behind the foot soldiers.

  Ordered to the rear, Myron and Fanen rode with the cooks to watch and listen. From his new vantage point, Myron noticed part of the army had broken away from the main line and was moving to the right side of the city. When the ranks of men reached the rise, which left them visible to the castle walls, a great horn sounded in the distance.

  One of their own answered the castle horn, and the Galilin archers released a barrage of arrows upon the defenders. The shafts flew and appeared to hang briefly in the air like a dark cloud. As they fell, Myron could hear the distant cries of men. He watched with anticipation as the mounted knights broke into three groups. One stayed on the road, while the other two took up flanking positions on either side. The main line increased their pace to a brisk walk.

  — 3 —

  When they heard the horn, Mason Grumon and Dixon Taft led their mob up Wayward Street, effectively emptying the Lower Quarter. It was the sign Royce and Hadrian told them to wait for; it was the signal to attack.

  Ever since the two thieves woke them in the middle of the night, they spent their time organizing the resistance in the Lower Quarter of Medford. They spread news of Amrath’s assassination by the archduke, of the innocence of the princess, and of the return of the prince. Those not moved by loyalty or justice were enticed by the chance to strike back at their betters. It was not difficult to convince the poor and the destitute to take up arms against the soldiery who policed them. In addition, there were those hoping for a possibility to do a little looting, or perhaps receive some reward from the crown if they prevailed.