by John Marco
‘I know she paid you,’ panted Lorn. He was a big man and easily held down the stunned Jarrin, straddling his midsection while the stiletto hovered threateningly. With one push he could puncture the gorget. ‘How much I wanted to believe you hadn’t betrayed me,’ Lorn hissed. ‘But you’re like Rihards and the others; you love only money.’
Jarrin tried to speak, but his fractured jaw garbled his words. ‘Butcher!’ came the cry, spit out with blood and saliva. Lorn lifted Jarrin’s bald head and slammed it into the stone floor. Jarrin’s eyes fluttered wildly. Seeing his captain still awake, Lorn roared and hammered a fist into his temple. The stiletto’s pommel broke bone and skin; Jarrin drifted into unconsciousness.
Lorn leaned back, exhausted. He closed his eyes and caught his breath, straddling his near-dead captain. Poppy was crying. Inadvertently they had struck her crib, knocking it aside. Lorn’s eyes shot to the door. He had left strict orders not to be disturbed, but Lariza was like a second mother to the child and always ignored Lorn’s gruff commands. Hurriedly he rose and went to the door, opening it. Not surprisingly he saw the nursemaid coming down the hall. The young woman stopped when she saw the king.
‘I heard the child, my lord,’ she said, trying to look past him. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine.’ Lorn hardened his expression. ‘And I knew you’d be on your way. What did I tell you, woman? I’m not to be disturbed.’
‘Yes, my lord, but-’
‘Go!’ ordered Lorn. ‘I’m with Captain Jarrin.’
‘Then let me look after Poppy. .’
‘Away, woman!’ barked Lorn, pointing down the hall. ‘Now.’
Swallowing her anger, Lariza spun and huffed down the hallway, her skirt billowing behind her. Lorn cursed under his breath and closed the door. Poppy was still crying in her crib. Lorn ignored her, going straight to the unconscious Jarrin. Stupidly, he had left his stiletto on the floor beside him. He picked it up, then noticed Jarrin’s own dagger thrown across the floor. Its blade was flat, like a carving knife, a better tool for the work at hand. Lorn picked it up, tested its edge with his thumb, and decided it was perfect.
Knowing there was no turning back, he bent over Jarrin and pried open his mouth. Inside was his unmoving tongue. Lorn took the tongue in his left hand and pulled. With his right he worked the dagger, slicing off the tongue like bacon. Blood sluiced from Jarrin’s mouth. Amazingly, he did not awaken. He was a dead man anyway, Lorn knew, and sat back with satisfaction, the pink muscle from Jarrin’s mouth bloody in his palm.
Time was his enemy. Lorn rose and walked across the chamber to his dressing area, where a basin of water stood below a mirror. A small bale of white cloth rested on the dressing table. Carefully Lorn wrapped Jarrin’s tongue in some of the cloth, then placed it on the table. He dipped the bloody dagger into the basin of water, rinsing off the gore, then went to work on himself, carefully shaving his head, shedding salt-and-pepper hair at his feet. After a few minutes he was done and stared at his bald reflection in the wavy mirror. His eyes were nearly the same colour as Jarrin’s, he noted with satisfaction.
While his daughter Poppy continued to cry, King Lorn the Wicked shook the blade in the water once more, then began shaving his beard.
At the foot of a small, dentate mountain range, Duke Rihards of Rolga waited impatiently atop his armoured horse, eager for a sign of success. Around him were a handful of his loyal knights, men of his own country who had accompanied him from Rolga to lead the assault on Carlion. He had come with an impressive force of a thousand men, a mix of Rolgans and mercenaries from Jazana Carr’s conquered territories, men who were well paid for their loyalty to the Diamond Queen. After years of resistance, Duke Rihards had finally joined the ranks of Jazana Carr’s whores. He was not proud of himself. A man of few friends, the duke had counted King Lorn among them, but war and Jazana Carr’s wealth had conspired to change that. The duke looked out across the craggy plain toward Carlion, the fortress lit with torchlight as its defenders awaited their fate. According to Jarrin there were still two hundred men in the garrison. Rihards could barely believe King Lorn the Wicked had held the loyalty of so many in the face of certain death. But he had a strange and ruthless glamour. Rihards smiled a little. A breeze blew across the plain, making him shiver. In the moonlight his men looked ghostly, their polished armour dully gleaming. Behind him in the foothills, his mercenary force laughed and ate and sharpened their pikes, sure of the coming victory. They were northerners mostly, from places even more north than Rolga, from the Bleak Territories where Jazana Carr was most powerful. Duke Rihards suppressed a sigh as he spied Carlion, looking so forlorn in the clouded night. All across Norvor Jazana Carr’s forces were tightening the noose. In Vicvar and Poolv, the dukes of those southern cities were gasping their last. Rihards himself could have easily been among them, and he wondered now if he should have stayed loyal and died with honour like those brave fools.
‘Ah, but she pays, you see,’ he whispered.
A knight of his cavalry heard his lament and turned his helmeted head toward the duke. ‘My lord?’
Duke Rihards slowly shook his head. ‘Nothing, Glane. I was just thinking,’ he said. He did not trust his men enough to share his melancholy. He was a turncoat and could trust no one these days. That’s what Jazana Carr had made of him. It’s what she made of all Norvan men; lapdogs to perform for her. Rihards ground his jaws together, knowing the misery of being gelded.
For more than an hour he sat atop his horse, refusing to move or rejoin the rest of his troops, even when Glane suggested he rest. It was very late. They had plans to attack in the morning, with or without Jarrin’s success. But Jarrin’s plan would make everything so much easier, and Rihards could not bring himself to rest or to eat until he knew of Jarrin’s progress. He had already told the captain of Lorn’s secret escape route, a hidden collection of doors and tunnels the king had revealed one night in a drunken stupor. Jarrin had said he knew of the route, but had never seen it because it was part of the king’s private chambers, which consisted of an entire wing of Carlion Castle.
So far, though, Captain Jarrin had not appeared. The Duke of Rolga began to fret. Lorn was a resourceful man. Perhaps he had discovered his captain’s plan. Perhaps they would need to battle the king after all.
Then, like an angel from heaven, a lone rider appeared out of the misty moonlight, slowly riding away from Carlion across the rocky plain, toward Duke Rihards and his waiting army. The knights surrounding the duke noticed the rider at once and began murmuring. The rider was a wide man, barrel-chested and wearing a royal uniform. As he drew closer his helmet could be seen, forged into the likeness of a bird. Duke Rihards was overwhelmed with relief. Not wanting his army to see what was about to happen, he snapped the reins of his patient stallion and rode forward to meet Jarrin, calling to his knights.
‘Ride,’ he commanded them, and the five cavalrymen followed, leaving behind the safeness of their army and entering the bleak flatland. Rihards rode at the forefront, keeping a watchful eye on Jarrin. The captain seemed to slump in his saddle. In his arms was a bundle of cloth, which he cradled carefully as he rode. Sighting the parcel brought a grin to the duke’s face. Amazingly, Jarrin had succeeded. As he drew closer his wishes were confirmed; the thing in Jarrin’s arms was indeed a baby. But Jarrin himself looked horribly wounded. Blood trailed down from beneath his closed helm, soaking his chest. He looked on the verge of collapse, teetering in his saddle. Finally he stopped riding and waited for Rihards and his men. The Rolgan duke reined in his horse, halting his company a pace from the wounded captain, who sat seething on his mount, bloodied and battered, his breath rasping beneath his helmet, the crying child of King Lorn in his left arm. Suddenly he let out an angry grunt, and with his right arm tossed something pink into the sand between them.
‘What the …?’
Rihards grimaced as he studied the bloodied thing. He looked up at Jarrin. ‘What the hell is that?’
The
captain shook his fist in rage, then tilted up the visor of his helmet. Stuffed into his mouth was a wad of bloodied cloth, holding back the worst of the gore like a stopper. Rihards reared back, confused and disgusted, then shocked when he realized the pink thing in the sand was Jarrin’s tongue. He could barely see the captain’s face for the blood. Jarrin pointed down at his tongue, cursing in angry squeals.
‘He cut out your tongue,’ Rihards deduced aloud. ‘Why?’
Of course Jarrin couldn’t answer. All he could do was rage and wince in pain.
‘But you have the child,’ said Rihards. ‘What of Lorn? Did you kill him?’
Jarrin nodded. He held the baby jealously against his bloodied breast, and when Rihards trotted closer he slammed down his visor and roared his anger.
‘We had a bargain, Captain Jarrin. Give me the child. I will see that Jazana Carr pays you your due.’
Jarrin shook his head wildly. Again he grunted his curses. The way he held the child explained his meaning perfectly.
‘All right, then, deliver the child yourself,’ Rihards said. ‘Jazana Carr is in the hills near Harn. My men will take you to her.’ He ordered Glane and two of his other knights to take Jarrin to the Diamond Queen. It didn’t concern him at all if the captain bled to death on the way; he had killed Lorn and stolen his child, and that was all that mattered. ‘You’ve done well, Captain Jarrin,’ he said. ‘Without your king, Carlion should fall in a day.’
Jarrin tried to speak, then stopped. Rihards supposed his pain was enormous.
‘Go,’ said the duke. ‘It’s a full day’s ride to Harn at least. You may rest first with my men if you wish. We have a surgeon who can look at you …’
Shaking his head, the captain steadied himself in his saddle then rode off, heading northwest toward Harn with the child in his arms. When he had gone only a few yards, he looked back at the knights who were to accompany him, as if to ask why they were dawdling.
‘Go with him,’ ordered Rihards. ‘See that he gets his money from Jazana Carr. He’s brave enough to deserve his pay.’
Glane, the duke’s lieutenant, nodded. Taking two of his fellows with him, they started off after Jarrin, who immediately took to riding again, obviously in a great hurry to get paid. As Rihards watched him go, he felt a twinge of regret. He knew that the child would be well taken care of by Jazana Carr, so that didn’t worry him. Any child the Diamond Queen encountered was well treated, so long as it was a girl child. But the death of King Lorn bothered the duke. For a moment he thought of all the good times they’d had together, the fine wines and stories they had shared, and all those dreams they had voiced about defeating Jazana Carr.
But then he thought of conquering Carlion, and how he would be rewarded for the deed. He thought also about Lorn’s jewelled ring of kingship, and how his old friend had kept it hidden in a chest within his private wing, afraid to wear it for fear of theft in these dark days. And when Rihards thought of the ring — which he had always coveted — his feelings of remorse abruptly fled.
Two hours before sunrise, Uralak went in search of his master, King Lorn. The old manservant was concerned that he hadn’t seen his king for some hours, not since he’d retired to his chambers. When it occurred to Uralak that he had not seen Captain Jarrin either, he began to worry. Up until then he had stayed with the soldiers of the garrison, guarding the main gate and watching the forces of Duke Rihards in the far, far distance. Because it was too dark to see anything, the guardians were uneasy. Uralak shared their fears but did not voice them. Though he was old and only a manservant, he would die with a smile on his face.
Leaving the place he had come to call his ‘post’, Uralak went through the silent courtyard and entered the halls of Carlion, which were empty now of women and children and rang with his footfalls as he shuffled along. Pensive, he remembered his prior conversation with his king, and how his master had seemed so forlorn, sure that their cause was hopeless. There were not many in Carlion who loved King Lorn, but Uralak counted himself among the handful. There was nothing he would not do for his king, no secret he would not keep. As he walked through the castle, he kept his suspicions to himself.
Because King Lorn’s chambers were in the tallest of Carlion’s towers, it took Uralak long minutes to reach them. When he did, he was exhausted from the climb. He found the area of the king’s chambers empty; those servants who hadn’t fled the castle had long ago gone to sleep. Carefully, he made his way through the darkened hall. He didn’t expect to be startled, but when he rounded a familiar bend a figure frightened him.
It was Lariza, the nursemaid to the king’s daughter. She was outside the king’s chamber door, listening. Angrily Uralak cleared his throat.
‘What are you doing?’ he whispered.
Lariza straightened indignantly. ‘I’m worried about Poppy. The king is in there with her, but I haven’t heard a sound from them in hours. And I didn’t see Captain Jarrin leave, either.’
Uralak nodded as if nothing were wrong. ‘Did the king give you permission to disturb him?’
‘Of course not,’ replied Lariza sourly.
‘Right. So why don’t you stop meddling, woman, and be on your way. I’ll look after the king. Go now.’
The nursemaid started to protest, then decided not to be quarrelsome. She said only, ‘Make sure the child is all right, old man,’ then turned and departed. Uralak waited until she was well out of sight around the bend, then followed her a bit to make sure she was truly gone before doubling back. Lariza was right — the king’s chambers were strangely soundless. Once more he contemplated the dark possibilities. He drew a deep breath to steady himself, then knocked on the door.
‘My lord?’ he queried. ‘It’s Uralak. Forgive the disturbance, please, but I thought I should check on you.’
There was no reply. Hoping the king was sleeping, he pushed open the door and peered inside.
‘My lord?’
Except for the moonlight from the unshuttered windows, the vast chamber was dark. Uralak opened the door wider to let in the hallway’s torchlight. It took a moment for his old eyes to adjust as he cautiously shuffled into the room. Not sure why, he closed the door behind him. Whatever he was to discover, he wanted to find it alone. The light of the moon was feeble but enough for him to get his bearings, and as he moved deeper into the chamber he saw the dark outline of Poppy’s crib against a far wall, safely distant from the window. Then he saw the table overturned and shards of shattered crystal twinkling on the floor. What looked like blood or wine or both stained the wood, spreading out in a dull pool of scarlet. A sweet stench assailed Uralak’s nostrils. He paused, trying to unravel what had happened. Oddly, he was not afraid. Since the news of Duke Rihards’ betrayal, he had expected this night, or one like it.
‘My lord?’ he asked softly, sure that his master wouldn’t answer. Walking in tiny steps, he made his way across the chamber, carefully avoiding the glass and blood as he made his way to the king’s dressing chamber, led there by a slick of crimson. This chamber was windowless, and without a lamp Uralak felt blind. He did his best to decipher the darkness, but once he reached the threshold he stopped.
There on the floor, naked and bloody, was a body. Headless.
Uralak stared at the corpse. Horrified, he wondered if it was the master’s. The mutilated cadaver lay on its back, seemingly all its blood spilled from its severed stump of a neck onto the carpeted floor. Ridiculously, Uralak thought about the expensive rug and how it would never be the same. Reality blurred, and the old man did not know what to do. It was a large corpse, large enough to be the king.
But Uralak did not stay to investigate further, or to search for the missing head or even to bother wondering why the corpse was naked. He simply backed out of the dressing chamber, paused in the main room where the broken table and goblets littered the floor, and composed himself. He could not begin to conceive the plans of his lord and master, and had never tried. King Lorn the Wicked had earned his epithet rightf
ully. Uralak had never faulted him for that. His only concern was how he would explain things to the other soldiers now that their garrison commander was missing. Without Lorn and Captain Jarrin, their defeat was assured. By tomorrow, certainly, they would be dead.
Ever the loyal servant, it took only a moment for Uralak to resign himself to this. When he was ready, he left the dark and bloody chamber and went in search of Lieutenant Vadrick, who he supposed was in command now.
They travelled by moonlight, the three knights of Rolga leading the way north through a canyon shadowed with high peaks, guiding the man from Carlion toward Harn and Jazana Carr. The infant in the man’s arms cried constantly, obviously distressed and hungry, but the group did not rest. At the insistence of the man from Carlion they rode as quickly as they could, ignoring the danger of darkness, picking their way along the rutted road. Despite his wound Captain Jarrin kept an admirable pace. More than once he refused Glane’s offer to take the child from him. Glane did not care for children himself but saw the value in this particular whelp and wanted no harm to come to her. He worried that Jarrin might collapse from his saddle or otherwise drop the infant. But the captain continued, riding without a word because he could not speak, occasionally putting a hand to his bloodied mouth and fixing the bandages while he rode.
Finally, when Glane could take no more without a rest, he called his company to a halt. Looking up at the craggy peaks, he decided it was as good a place as any to stop, at least for a short while. He was cold and knew that the child was, too, and so ordered a fire to be made and food to be distributed.
Captain Jarrin did not protest.
King Lorn watched through the eye slit of his helm as the Rolgan knights dismounted. In one arm was cradled his daughter, Poppy, whom he warmed the best he could by holding her close. His other arm — his sword arm — kept hold of his stallion’s reins. He watched the Rolgans carefully as they began unpacking food and flint. Lorn could do with a fire, but that would have to wait. He had gotten this far without being suspected, but the moment he took off his helmet would be his discovery, and he couldn’t risk losing that advantage. He couldn’t fight from horseback, either, and that troubled him. With Poppy in his arms, he couldn’t wield a sword while riding. But he had done a good job of keeping up his ruse of being wounded, and had earned Glane’s sympathy. It did not surprise him when the knight came and offered aid.
