The Uncrowned King

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Head ringing, ribs aching with each breath, Byren fought to remain conscious as two burly brigands dragged him down the hillside between them. When they reached the abandoned sled, the brigands strapped him to it, atop the belongings.

  Still dazed from the blows, Byren heard their voices fade in and out along with the rhythmic thumping of his head.

  '...are missing.'

  Sveyto swore and suddenly his face appeared over Byren. 'That's four good men you owe me, kingson!' Another blow made his head ring.

  Four men? He'd only taken down two, hadn't he?

  The sled jerked as the brigands took up the shafts and dragged it over the snow through the night.

  Byren knew he was in a bad way as he slipped in and out of consciousness. At one point he thought he was on Sapphire Lake in a rocking boat, fishing with Orrade. Something he said made his friend throw back his head and laugh. Wiping tears from his eyes, Orrade grew serious. 'You know I'm not like Lence. You should never have compared us. I'll always be true to you, Byren.'

  He was right. And Byren wanted to ask forgiveness for ever doubting him. He grabbed Orrade, pulled him against his chest, mock-wrestling. The boat rocked alarmingly. Orrade clutched him and they froze until the boat settled.

  Orrade turned his face up towards him. He wanted a kiss.

  Byren woke with a jerk, his head thumping, his body wracked with shivers. And it came back to him. He was a captive, about to be handed over to the Merofynians for a bag of gold, but first they had to get him down from the foothills and back to Rolenhold.

  Dark trees speared up into the starry night above him, unfolding around him as the sled was drawn along. All he needed was a chance to escape. For now he had to rest and build his strength.

  Dark silhouettes plodded along behind the sled. One went down and didn't get up. Instead, the body seemed to slide silently off the track into the trees.

  Byren blinked and tried to focus but they turned a bend and that part of the track was lost. What had he just seen?

  Were they being followed?

  He listened for the sounds of pursuit. There were none but, whoever it was, they wouldn't want to give themselves away.

  Nothing happened.

  Perhaps his blurred sight had misled him.

  Perhaps Veniamyn had not convinced the people at Cedar tradepost to come after him. Perhaps they would set off in the morning and hope to follow tracks. Perhaps the travellers at Cedar tradepost were concentrating on getting to safety and couldn't be bothered with a kingson.

  He didn't know. His head ached and he couldn't keep his eyes open.

  Chapter Twenty

  At some point the sled stopped moving. Byren was woken by the thump as the brigands released the shafts and it came to rest on the snow. They lit a fire, making camp for the night. The fire's heat barely reached the nearest side of him and he shivered with cold. The ulfr fur was pinned under him and gave no protection from the icy air.

  His head felt a little clearer. Concentrating, he watched the brigands. There seemed to be no leader. Sveyto told them what to do and they did it... if they agreed. Right now they confronted Sveyto, shouting something about men going missing.

  Byren tried to focus, counting five not eight men, so he hadn't been mistaken. He took hope.

  '...all they had to do was follow the sled,' Sveyto said, voice hard and flat. 'If they lost the track that's their problem. Besides, a five-way split means all the more gold for us!'

  Appeased with this cold logic, the others opened their provisions to heat food. The smell of onions and salted pork made Byren's stomach rumble and his mouth water.

  'How about some food?' he called. He had to repeat it twice before they heard him.

  Sveyto came over, chewing on some crackling. He took a bite, then held it under Byren's nose, moving it before Byren could get his teeth into it. 'Not so high and mighty now, eh, kingson?'

  Byren studied him, as much as he could, with the fire at his back, Sveyto's face was in shadow. If they'd only let him up to pee, he might get away. He knew these foothills. 'I need to take a piss.'

  'Too bad.'

  'If I piss my pants my trews will freeze. Without a blanket I'll be dead of cold by morning.'

  Sveyto considered this, then called over two of the brigands, the same burly ones who had manhandled him down the slope to the sled. They complained as they left the fire circle.

  His eyes on the other two, Byren didn't notice what Sveyto was doing, until the sell-sword lunged in and the knife plunged into his belly. He gave a grunt of pain.

  'There. You won't be running far with that.'

  'It'll kill him,' one of the brigands protested.

  'In a few days,' Sveyto replied, untroubled. 'By then he'll belong to the Merofynians. If they want him alive, they can set their mystic healers on him. Help him up.'

  Stiff with cold and bent double with pain, Byren hung between the two brigands, weak as a day-old kitten. Blood ran down his legs as they propped him up to pee. Nothing came out.

  Soon, he was back on the sled, arms tied above his head. A blanket was thrown over him, right over his face. He was as good as dead.

  Yet his mind still raced, refusing to give up hope. Through the smelly, coarse weave of the blanket, he could just make out the glow of the campfire and the silhouettes of the remaining five brigands.

  He hated them. Hated everything they represented, unbridled greed and cruelty. This was why King Rolence the First had taken the valley, to impose law on lawless men. This was why he and Lence had ridden the Divide, stamping out brigand nests and putting down rogue Affinity beasts.

  If he had the chance, he would throttle Sveyto. Just let them free him from this sled. Even with his arms bound at the wrists, his hands were big enough to circle the sell-sword's neck and choke the life from him.

  But for now, he was a captive with a belly wound that leaked his blood and body warmth into the night. What if Sveyto had miscalculated and he froze to death?

  The Merofynians would probably pay up either way.

  The rage evaporated, leaving him feeling light-headed and thirsty. He called for water, but they didn't hear him, or else were ignoring him.

  He must have slept, or passed out, because he woke to shouts, then screams. The fire had died down. He could see nothing but a dull blur of dark bodies against the snow-shrouded pine trees.

  Hope animated him.

  His rescuers must have picked off Sveyto's brigands and bided their time, until the watch dozed. He would congratulate their leader and thank Veniamyn.

  Someone yelped. He hoped his rescuers didn't pay too dearly for saving him. Especially if they couldn't get him to a healer in time.

  The fighting ceased.

  Silence stretched. He flexed his arms and legs, trying to regain circulation. His numb fingers tingled painfully. The blanket twitched, then slid down and across his body. Cold air hit his face. He blinked and sneezed. The sneeze tore at his stomach and he groaned, panting his way through the pain.

  Something damp touched his temple. He inhaled, smelling...

  Ulfr?

  His eyes flew open. At least five silky-furred Affinity beasts stood around the sled where he lay prone.

  Byren tensed, expecting to be torn to shreds before his next breath.

  Nothing happened.

  Something damp and warm nuzzled his face. Hot ulfr breath huffed over his cold cheeks. Byren opened his eyes to look into the silvery depths of the pack leader's own eyes.

  Too stunned to speak, he could only gasp as the ulfr nudged him, as though urging him to get up.

  'Can't,' Byren grunted, jerking his arms and ankles. 'Tied down.'

  And, amazingly, the beast moved to where his hands were tied above his head, fixed to the frame. He felt tugs, then, as sensation returned, hot breath and soft fur on his fingers.

  Once his hands were free, the beast moved to his legs, performing the same service on those leather straps. Its razor-sharp teeth chewed throu
gh the bindings in a heartbeat.

  Byren tried to sit up, but couldn't. Tried to roll to one side and fell off the sled onto the snow. He huddled there, panting. So thirsty. He scooped snow into his mouth and sucked on it, knowing it was the wrong thing to do. He was already losing too much body heat.

  The ulfr nuzzled him again.

  With great effort, he lifted his head, coming as far as his knees. 'I don't know why you're doing this, or even how you know to do it...' His vision blurred. He'd lost too much blood. 'But I'm spent. I can't go on.'

  The ulfr didn't believe him. Its solid shoulders nudged him. He fell into the snow on his hands and knees. Another beast nudged him from the other side. Like dogs herding sheep, the ulfr drove him to crawl.

  When he paused to gain his breath they waited. If he took too long, they nipped him, not enough to damage, but enough to sting.

  At first he was so amazed he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Orrade would never believe this.

  Then exhaustion made everything dull and grey. What was the point? Without a healer he'd die.

  All he could do was move in the direction the ulfrs drove him. Hands numb, knees numb, blinded by pain.

  When he fell over the lip of a rise, into a dip, tumbling down through the drift of deep snow, he didn't try to save himself. He went with the fall.

  This was it. He could go no further. All he wanted to do was sleep.

  Bleeding in the snow.

  Even now, some mad part of his mind refused to give in. And he tunnelled down into the snow drift, trying to make a rudimentary snow-cave. But before he could, he felt the silky-shaggy heat of an ulfr at his back, then another at his side, then another and another, until he was surrounded by the pack.

  And they started that whining vibration, with each breath, the same song they had used when the bitch whelped. He wasn't cold any more. Soon he wasn't in pain. Soon he drifted, soothed and sated.

  If only he'd had time to tell Orrade how much he regretted that crack about Lence. How could he compare Orrie, who'd never done anything but protect his back and stand at his side, with his belligerent twin brother?

  Byren dozed, feeling warm and safe, even as his lifeblood seeped away.

  He found himself walking the corridors of New Dovecote House, looking for Elina. In the great hall, he saw the fierce Old Dove himself, feeding his prize doves. Odd, the creatures weren't caged. They flew around the hall, each bird a work of art, all frothy feathers and soft cooing.

  Of course - realisation came to Byren with a surge of wonder and joy - this was Halcyon's Sacred Heart, where the righteous waited in peace for their loved ones to join them. He must be close to death, to find himself here.

  'Where's Elina?' Byren asked.

  Lord Dovecote indicated the far door. He seemed to have forgotten that he'd cursed Byren and banned him from setting foot on his estate. Since Byren was innocent of the crime he'd been accused of, this was only fair, and he silently thanked Halcyon.

  Byren found Elina in the library, of course, legs tucked under her as she read a history of Rolencia. No, it was a book on law.

  She looked up at him. 'You know, Father could have named me his heir, even though he had another son in Garzik.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Not that it matters, now I'm dead.'

  He wanted to deny the harsh truth. She was just as he remembered, slightly astringent, sharp-eyed with a dash of wry humour. How could he go on living without her?

  He wouldn't have to.

  Dropping to his knees, Byren knelt by her chair and took the book from her. 'I left it too late. I knew Lence was flawed, but I didn't want to admit it. His boasting, his need for praise, the way he used the girls who threw themselves at us. The way he spoke of you...' He touched Elina's cheek. Her features were the female version of Orrade's, softer and riper. Illuminated by her love for him, she glowed with an inner beauty.

  When he leant close to kiss her, she let him. Her lips were warm and soft on his. Inviting.

  'I'm dying,' he whispered. 'We'll be together soon. Halcyon will see to that.'

  'No.' She pushed him away. 'You still have things to do. You can't let Palatyne win. Think of Rolencia, think of your duty!'

  Duty? He was so tired. 'How much blood do I have to shed before Rolencia lets me rest?'

  But she only shook her head, fixing him with fine imperious eyes. For a moment it seemed she wasn't Elina at all, but something grander and more formidable.

  And he recalled his bargain with the goddess Halcyon. He'd pleaded with her to let him reach his family in time to warn them, promising to dedicate his life to her service. But she hadn't. His family were all dead. And this...

  Was nothing but the illusion of dying delirium. The revelation hit him with a certainty that went bone-deep. He'd never given much thought to the gods and goddesses, preferring to let the monks and nuns court them instead.

  Now it came to him that Affinity was just a tool like fire or steel, turned to good or evil depending on the user. Suddenly, his world was a much harsher place without the buffer of Halcyon's benevolence.

  He focused on Elina's face. 'There is no goddess. Life is all we have...'

  'Then live it,' she told him. 'Go.'

  A roaring like a great wind filled his ears as he was sucked out of the chamber, out of New Dovecote House, to hover high over the Rolencian valley.

  And there he drifted, watching starlight bathe the snowy fields and frozen lakes. It was so beautiful and it was his home, even without his family.

  Forget the goddess, Elina was right. He owed this land his service.

  Pity he was going to bleed to death in the snow, failing Rolencia and himself.

  Byren woke to find Orrade kneeling over him. Mid-morning sunlight filled the hollow, amplified by the brilliant white snow, so that they were bathed in a glare almost too bright to bear. Other than Orrade, he was alone. The ulfr pack must have moved on, as they had the last time. Either that or he was hallucinating that he'd passed over into Halcyon's Sacred Heart and it was his fate to hunt the high country until all those he loved had died and joined him.

  'What, you dead too?' Byren croaked, throat so dry it felt cracked.

  'Idiot,' Orrade told him fondly.

  Byren frowned. 'You're here, really here? I'm not hallucinating? How did you find me?'

  'Another of those damned visions. I've been travelling non-stop for three days, praying to Halcyon I wouldn't be too late.' He blinked back tears. 'Sylion's luck, Byren. When I found you, I thought you were dead, you lay so still.'

  'I am dying. Stomach wound.' As he moved his hand from the wound, he heard his friend hiss in consternation.

  'So much blood.'

  When Byren tried to focus on Orrade's face, the glare defeated him. But Byren didn't need to see him to sense his friend's fiercely protective nature.

  What would it have cost him to acknowledge Orrade's unwanted love? He'd been furious because it complicated their friendship. He'd been selfish. This was his last chance. 'I'm sorry, Orrie. I didn't deserve you. Kiss me before I go.'

  'Kiss you?' His friend snorted. 'Not when you stink like a day-old ulfr carcass.' Then he denied his own words, pressing his lips to Byren's. His were hot, as were his tears and the puff of his breath on Byren's face.

  It was a kiss of love that demanded nothing and gave everything. Orrade pulled back. 'Now, let's get you out of this stinking seep.'

  'Seep?' Byren blinked.

  But Orrade had already sprung to his feet. 'Florin, over here!'

  'Florin?' A protest died on his lips. He'd thought they were alone. 'Florin's here?' The daughter of Old Man Narrows, from Narrowneck tradepost, she'd helped them kill the manticore pack. Last time he'd seen her, she'd come to Rolenhold to report the Merofynian invasion. Cobalt had denied her. Byren tried to sit up and failed.

  'Wait. You'll injure yourself. Wait for Florin.' Orrade dropped to his knees again. 'She insisted on coming with me. And just as well, she knows these foothills like the back
of her hand. Her nan's cottage is not far from here. We'll take you there.'

  Byren wanted to ask more, but he was exhausted. He must have passed out because, when he came around, he was lying on his back, strung between two stout poles, pines passing him, their tips spearing high into the clear, ice-blue sky.

  It was all a dream. He was still on the sled, being dragged by the brigands.

  No, because that person carrying the end of the poles was no brigand.

  'Florin?' His parched mouth hardly formed the word.

  She smiled and called. 'He's awake, Orrie.'

  They lowered the makeshift stretcher and knelt next to him. 'How d'you feel?'

  'Thirsty.'

  Orrade glanced to Florin, then back to him. 'Can't give you a drink, not with a stomach wound.'

  Byren grimaced and tried to swallow. His throat scraped. 'Water.'

  Eyes closed in pain, he felt something press to his lips, opened his mouth and... blessed liquid settled on his tongue. He swallowed, tasting watered wine.

  'Not too much.' Florin pulled it away too soon.

  'What happened? Was there a fight?' Orrade asked.

  Byren licked his lips. 'Brigands. They were going to turn me over to the Merofynians for a bag of gold. Stabbed me, so I couldn't run. Said the mystic healers could save me. But the ulfr pack came and killed them. Saved me.'

  'He's delirious,' Florin whispered.

  Byren wanted to object, but even that required too much effort. He was vaguely aware of the sled moving again.

  Next time he woke it was late and they were manoeuvring inside a hill-crofter's cottage. He smelt barley broth and goats.

  An old woman, Florin's nan, fussed over him as he was lifted onto her kitchen table. Meanwhile, a boy's high-pitched voice demanded to know what was going on. Leif, Florin's little brother. He struggled to open his eyes.

  'We're at Florin's nan's,' Orrade told him, unnecessarily. 'She's a herbal healer. Hold on.'

  Byren nodded. They'd do their best but he needed more than a herbalist. If his blood loss was anything to go by, he needed the touch of a great mystic. 'Thirsty.'

  'Soon.'

  Lamps were lit, water heated, cloth torn and herbs crumbled into hot water. He smelt the astringent, piney aroma of rosemary.