King Breaker (14 page)

Fyn nodded. He did see. Loyalty was a strange thing. It legitimised Tyro’s...
Siordun’s
deception and made something noble of it. ‘I should go.’

It was still some time until dawn, but the first of the morning workers already stirred. Laden carts trundled past in pools of lantern light, delivering goods before the carriage-ways became crowded. Fyn heard cackling chickens headed for market.

He was tired. The journey across the Landlocked Sea had been filled with talk of which lords and merchants they could call on to help retake the estate. Names he did not know, alliances hinted at. Faces and phrases echoed in his mind as he let the horse make its way home.

Fyn guided his mount around two carters, arguing over right of way. A familiar tailor’s sign told him he was four blocks over from the market square and the palace gates.

As Lord Dunstany, Siordun was acquainted with every Merofynian lord. He knew their complicated alliances and whether they could be trusted. Lord Dunstany was well respected, feared even, by his fellow nobles. Truly, if Siordun’s deception was revealed, the lords would be furious. They’d lynch him like a common thief.

Fyn shivered. He did not know how Siordun kept his nerve.

Angry voices made Fyn look up to see another altercation. A wine carter had collided with a cart of farm produce. Wine barrels and smashed pumpkins blocked the road.

Fyn back-tracked and took the nearest lane. Halfway down the lane, a scurrying cat made Fyn’s horse shy, and he leant down to reassure his mount.

Something whistled past his head. A crossbow bolt struck the nearest stone wall, metal tip showering sparks.

Shocked, Fyn dug his heels into the horse’s flanks.

Sensing his fear, the beast took off for the patch of light at the end of the lane. Fyn stayed low in the saddle, cursing his bad luck.

Two figures stepped into the lane just ahead of him.

He glanced over his shoulder. Two more thugs closed off the far end of the lane. The carters’ altercation was no accident. He’d been ambushed.

Out of time and out of options, he charged the nearest men. As one of Halcyon’s warrior monks, he’d been trained to bring down a mounted man. These footpads didn’t have his training, and they’d expected him to be injured.

As he rode towards them, their eyes widened with fear.

Fyn aimed his mount for the man on the right, who leapt aside at the last moment.

The other man grabbed Fyn’s leg as he passed. The force of Fyn’s charge pulled his attacker off his feet, but the horse staggered.

Fyn drew his ceremonial dagger and slashed at the man’s arm.

‘Don’t let the lord-monk get away,’ someone yelled.

Another crossbow bolt hissed past. Fyn stabbed for the man’s eye. The blade skittered across his attacker’s skull, and hot blood soaked through Fyn’s breeches.

Terrified, the horse reared, breaking the footpad’s hold, and Fyn gave his mount its head. He sped up the rise towards the markets, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles.

At the end of the next block, he slowed his mount. Maintaining a steady pace, he wove through stall-holders and their carts, trusting his pursuers would not get a clear shot.

Heart pounding, he approached the palace gates. The guards eyed him, but did not rush to his aid. He was the son of the Rolencian king, an interloper.

Had they sent a message when they saw him ride out?

His horse shivered, dancing sideways. Fyn cursed and concentrated on keeping his seat.

By the time he reached the stables, he had the horse and himself under control. Of course the stable-master was waiting, along with several lads. When they saw the blood they set up a racket, and Fyn wished he’d stopped to wash his leg in a palace fountain.

As a lad led the horse away, Fyn tried to make light of it. ‘Just my luck to come across thieves. They spooked the horse. No harm done.’

‘But the blood...’ The stable-master gestured to his leg and then to his shoulder.

Surprised, Fyn glanced at his shoulder. A rip revealed his undershirt, stained with blood. A bolt had skimmed him. Any lower and it would have gone through his shoulder, yet he hadn’t felt a thing. He laughed. ‘It’s nothing.’

He needed to get to his chamber, strip off his bloodied clothes and make sense of what had just happened. Fyn opened the door to his chamber to find Kyral waiting to serve him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Kingson...’ The middle-aged man flinched.

Fyn tempered his tone. ‘I was raised in an abbey. I don’t need a servant, and I certainly don’t want you to wait up for me. Go back to your bed. I’ll send for you if I need you.’

The manservant backed out and Fyn wondered if he had been too harsh. But he did not know if Kyral reported on his comings and goings.

Besides, he didn’t need a servant. This wasn’t Rolencia, where they drew hot water from the spigot at the end of the hall. In Merofynia, the best bedchambers held marble bathing rooms, complete with sunken tubs and hot and cold running water.

Fyn lit a single lamp and took it into the bathing chamber. He shed his clothes as he went. His undershirt stuck to his skin, stinging when he peeled it away from the gash on his shoulder. The shallow cut started bleeding again.

Wearing only his breeches and boots, he knelt by the sunken tub to run the water. As the water poured in, he pulled off his boots. A pool of golden light illuminated the steam-filled air. He stood, unbuckled the belt that held his ceremonial dagger, and hung it over the chair, then began unlacing his breeches. One leg was drenched in his attacker’s blood.

The door flew open.

He spun, reaching for the dagger.

‘Fyn?’ Eyes wide, face pale, Isolt took in his bloodied, half-naked state. ‘They told me you were hurt. What happened?’

‘Footpads,’ he said, wishing she’d come closer.

‘Footpads?’

‘An opportunistic attack,’ he lied. They’d called him
lord-monk
.

‘I’ll double the city-watch.’ Isolt frowned. ‘You’re bleeding.’ She went to approach then hesitated.

‘A graze. I’ve had worse in training.’ He wanted her sweet hands to wash the blood from his shoulder and apply a salve. She was trained in the healing arts. He had only to ask.

No, he couldn’t. He wanted it too much.

She clasped her hands in front of her. ‘I’ll send up the healer.’

‘No need.’

‘It could fester.’

‘It could.’
But, if I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone to tend me. Fool that I am.
‘Very well, send up the healer.’

She nodded, yet she did not leave.

The tub was full. Fyn glanced from it to her.

She turned and ran.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

When he went to unlace his breeches, his hands shook so badly he had to stop.
Concentrate
.

The men had been sent to kill him. Upon his death, Isolt would need a new lord protector, and there would be many eager to serve her.

Captain Neiron, for one.

Fyn bristled. None of them valued Isolt for who she was. They saw only her position and pretty face.

He admired her strength. Lesser men would have been crippled, growing up with a father like hers. But she’d remained true to herself and good-hearted despite everything.

None of them deserved her.

Not even Byren.

Chapter Eleven

B
YREN PACED.

The captain waited for him to call off the search.

Dawn had given him no reason to hold onto hope. What was the use of Orrade’s Affinity visions if they did not warn him of the attack? He... Byren spun to face the captain. ‘There’s a wyvern eyrie nearby, right?’

The old sailor looked surprised.

‘I knew it! Take us there.’

‘It’s not worth our lives. Would you send another dozen men to their deaths?’

This was true. Yet... ‘You stood back and did nothing. You knew what Captain Talltrees intended—’

‘
Not me
,’ the cabin boy protested. ‘I didn’t know.’

Byren hadn’t noticed him there; he tempered his tone. ‘Aye, you were duped, lad, as were we.’ He met the eyes of the man who had been the boatswain and followed a hunch. ‘But you knew and you didn’t warn us.’

‘He was my captain.’

‘He was a man who put gold above honour. All it takes for evil to flourish is for a good man to stand by and do nothing.’ It was something Byren’s old nurse used to say. Now he understood what she meant. ‘You owe Orrie this much. Take us near enough for me to search the eyrie.’

The old sailor looked grim, but gave the orders. Ponderously, the ship veered due east. Byren strode to the rail.

He waited, watching, fingering the farseer.

The captain joined him. ‘You should be able to spot the outlying rocks by the time the sun is two fingers above the horizon. We have to watch out for dangerous shoals just below the sea’s surface. There’s rocks that can rip a ship’s belly wide open. The wyverns lie in wait, ready to pluck sailors off the sinking ships.’

Byren grimaced but remained determined.

If he had seen Orrade die of a wound, his blood seeping into the earth as the light left his eyes, it would be different. ‘I have to be sure.’

The captain nodded his understanding, then pointed. ‘There, that’s what we have to look out for. See the way water’s peeling back off that rock? The tide is rising, and soon it’ll be impossible to spot the shoals.’

Byren lifted the farseer.

But he wasn’t looking at the nearby rock. He’d seen another one in the middle distance, silhouetted against the rising sun. He trained the farseer on it. The rock was smooth, like a tilted table. Waves slid up the low side, then rolled back. There was something on the rock, just above the waterline.

Byren looked away and rubbed his eyes. He’d been up all night. ‘Eh, lad.’ He beckoned the cabin boy. ‘Take a look.’

Byren showed him how to hold the farseer, then lifted the lad up so he could sight along his arm. ‘What do you see?’

‘A rock.’

‘What else?’ Byren tried to keep the hope from his voice as he imagined Orrade clambering onto the rock at low tide. ‘Is there something on it?’

‘Yes. A sleeping wyvern.’

Retrieving the farseer, Byren took a look for himself. Sure enough, now that the sun was a little higher, the wyvern was no longer in silhouette.

Byren felt sick with disappointment. He searched the sea again, noting other spots where waves boiled around rocks.

‘The wyverns’ll be waking for the day soon, heading off to hunt. Best go below, lad,’ the captain told the cabin boy, who ran off. The old sailor faced Byren. ‘We must turn back.’

Byren swept the sea one last time.

A wave rolled up the low side of the flat rock. It stirred the wyvern, rolling the creature.

‘That wyvern’s dead.’ Byren pointed. They were still a good two bow shots away.

‘Mating battles,’ the captain said. ‘They fight for females this time of year. Like horses, one male protects a group of females. Mayhap he was too old and lost his herd.’

Byren nodded and scanned the sea again. Nothing.

He checked the flat rock one last time, just as another wave stirred the wyvern’s body, revealing something white and pale under it.

‘A leg...’ A dismembered, naked human leg. Byren cursed. Orrade’s dream had been a true vision. He’d had to battle a wyvern for a patch of rock.

Bile rose in Byren’s throat.

He thrust the farseer into the captain’s hands, leaned over the side and retched. There was nothing in his stomach to bring up.

Tears burned his eyes. Hardly able to see, he went to the water barrel, rinsed his mouth and washed his face. Shattered, he rubbed his face.

When he had command of himself, Byren returned to the ship’s rail.

The captain lowered the farseer, frowned then lifted it again.

‘What?’ Byren didn’t want to look.

Silently, the captain passed him the farseer.

Byren saw a wave stir the dead wyvern yet again, and this time it was clear the leg was attached to a body, trapped under the Affinity beast’s carcass.

‘Your friend... He killed the wyvern, but died of his wounds.’

‘No.’ Byren knew what Orrade had done. Hope made his heart race. ‘He’s smart. He killed the beast, slit its belly open and climbed inside to keep warm. He’s not under it, he’s inside it.’
And about to be washed into the sea by the rising tide
. ‘We have to get him off that rock.’

The captain shook his head, pointing to nearby patches of white water, evidence of dangerous shoals. ‘We can’t go any closer. We’d be driven onto the rocks.’

‘Give me a row boat.’

‘You’d never get it onto the rock in these swells. Every sixth or seventh wave is bigger than the rest.’

‘Then tie a rope to me.’ If what the captain said was true, the next big wave would sweep Orrade into the sea. ‘I have to bring him back.’

Until he held Orrade’s cold dead body in his arms, Byren would cling to hope. He snapped the farseer shut. ‘Tie a rope to me. I’ll swim out to him. When I signal, pull us both back.’

The captain studied his face as if debating with himself, then nodded.

In a mad rush, Byren went down to the middeck where he stripped off everything but his breeches. The captain made a harness from rope and leather and tied it securely around his chest and shoulders.

Byren kept glancing back to the rock. A great wave rolled up the low side, but to Byren’s relief, the wyvern’s heavy body was not sucked back into the sea.

‘Listen.’ The captain forcibly turned Byren around. ‘The sea will be cold. Get in and get over there fast. Secure him to your chest with these straps here. When you raise your arm, we’ll bring you in. Got that?’

‘Got it.’

‘You know you’re stark raving mad?’

‘He’d do the same for me.’

‘Would he?’

Byren nodded without hesitation.

Without another word, he climbed onto the ship’s rail. Early morning sunlight danced on the waves. Back home, he’d fallen in the lake early one spring. By the time they’d pulled him out, he’d been blue.