King Breaker (17 page)

‘I
could
be leading you into a trap,’ he admitted, heart racing. ‘But these aren’t my people. They’re Merofynians.’ Garzik thought of his father, hanging from their great hall’s front doors with a spear through his chest, and his voice grew thick with fury and loss. ‘They invaded Rolencia, murdered my father, burned my home and enslaved me. For all I know my sister and brother are dead. I hate them. Death to hot-landers!’

‘Death to hot-landers!’ Rusan shouted.

All of them echoed him and Olbin opened a crate of wine. Uncorking several bottles, he passed them around, giving one to Garzik, who accepted it, dizzy with relief.

Rusan lifted his bottle. ‘We sail into the hot-landers’ jaws. Our children’s children will sing of this!’

The others cheered and drank.

Olbin slung an arm around Garzik’s shoulders and held Jost’s eyes in blatant challenge. ‘To Wynn!’

The raiders repeated the toast.

Garzik drained his wine, his cheeks hot with shame. He was digging himself deeper and deeper, and taking Rusan and Olbin with him.

The day after tomorrow they’d be in Port Mero. He’d stay on the ship long enough to set up the attack, then escape. Hopefully, the success of the raid would shore up Rusan’s leadership.

Why was he worrying? These Utlanders had enslaved and abused him. His duty was to Byren.

Olbin caught Garzik’s eye, winked and lifted his bottle in a silent toast.

Chapter Thirteen

F
YN WOKE TO
the soft
snick
of the door latch as someone entered his chamber. Heart racing, he remained perfectly still. After last night’s attack, he had not been able to rest easy in his bed; he’d crept into a dark corner and curled up in the shadows.

Now only a glimmer of morning light entered through the thick curtains, and Fyn could just distinguish the intruder’s outline. It couldn’t be his manservant. Kyral was short and stocky, and this person was tall and thin.

Had his attackers sent someone to finish the job?

The intruder crept towards his bed. It was a grand oak four-poster embossed with the Merofynian coat of arms. Fyn had pulled the bed-curtains closed to disguise his absence. He drew his knife and rose into a crouch.

The person pulled back the bed curtain, whispering urgently, ‘Lord Protector Merofyn, you need to get up.’

Feeling shaky with relief, Fyn came out of hiding. ‘Why do I need to get up, and who are you?’

The servant gave a gasp but recovered quickly. ‘Queen Isolt is at the war-table with the captain of the city-watch, and every merchant and noble—’

Fyn cursed, put his knife aside and thrust back the curtains. The light made him wince. It was mid-morning and his head felt stale from lack of sleep.

‘How long have they been there?’ Fyn asked as he pulled on his breeches then laced his boots.

No answer.

He looked up. The chamber was empty. With a shrug, he finished dressing and left his bedchamber.

The hubbub from the war room echoed down the corridor. The chamber was filled with angry, indignant men, the majority of them nobles and merchants he did not know. Fyn had intended to use the royal tour to meet the lords and take their measure but the only thing he’d learned was how Merofynians really felt about King Rolen’s sons.

The long chamber stretched before him. On his right, three tall windows faced north across the Landlocked Sea.

Fyn’s first instinct was to find Isolt, but he needed to understand the forces at work here. While he had never joined his father’s war-table discussions, he had experienced first-hand the power machinations of Halcyon Abbey. For now, the wisest course was to remain in the shadows and observe, find out who was driving the discussion and, if possible, learn their agenda. He slipped into the chamber unnoticed and stood in the shadows.

Just like back home, the war-table itself was a model of the known world. At the eastern end, closest to where he stood, was Ostron Isle, surrounded by the Ring Isle with its narrow entrance. Down the other end were the twin isles, sitting together like discarded horseshoes.

Merofynia’s harbour opened to the south. The kingdom was hemmed in by the Dividing Mountains on three sides. From the Divide stretched the spars, like the spokes of a broken wheel.

West of Merofynia lay Rolencia, its mirror image. The two kingdoms were linked by the Snow Bridge, a broad plateau of ridges and deep valleys.

Nobles and merchants crowded around the war-table. Fyn identified the lords and their companions by their flamboyant dress. Forbidden to wear ermine, sable and silk by sumptuary laws, the merchant margraves were clothed more austerely.

Captain Neiron and Elrhodoc strutted about like peacocks in their fashionable uniforms. By contrast, the captain of the city-watch wore plain fabric, sensibly cut. Nobles did not serve on the city-watch; grey-haired Captain Aeran must have earned his position through merit.

Fyn gathered Isolt had ordered Aeran to take his men and set sail for Benetir Estate. But the merchants protested that this would leave their warehouses and storefronts unprotected, citing the civil unrest and looting that had taken place after King Merofyn died.

‘If the city-watch went to the aid of Benetir Estate, my queen, how could we protect the city?’ Captain Aeran chose his words with care. Fyn could only catch a glimpse of Isolt between the men, who towered over her.

‘Then the nobles must sail for Benetir Estate. They’ve sworn to aid each other.’

‘And so we would, my queen,’ Lord Yorale agreed readily. His lands rivalled Lord Dunstany’s in size and, like Dunstany, he had been one of the old king’s advisors. In his mid-fifties, he wore his grey hair elegantly styled. His accent was refined, yet he still reminded Fyn of King Rolen’s trusted master-at-arms. ‘We would happily aid a fellow lord, but we lost many men-at-arms in the Rolencian invasion. We can’t leave our estates vulnerable.’

Yorale gestured to Benetir Estate. ‘If Warlord Cortigern has the gall to lead an attack over the Divide, what’s to stop Lincis Spar breaking the accord and laying waste to my estate?’

The other nobles echoed him.

‘What of the bay lord?’ Isolt asked. ‘His lands don’t back onto a spar.’

‘Cadmor?’ Neiron’s mouth twitched. ‘That inbred sea-hound. Why, he’s little better than a spar warlord himself.’

‘He did not go to war with Rolencia,’ Isolt said. ‘He must have fresh men-at-arms.’

‘He did not ride to war with us because he was not invited,’ Neiron said.

‘I must avenge my daughter.’ Skin grey with grief, an old lord shook his head. ‘Who would have thought marrying her to Benvenute’s son would lead to her death?’

‘At least she’s safely dead, Wytharon,’ Lord Yorale told him. ‘Not like the poor Benetir girl.’

The bereaved man turned to a middle-aged lord with heavy jowls. ‘Travany, your estate lies alongside Ben—’

‘I’ll do my part, as much as I can without leaving my people unguarded. The Rolencian invasion cost me dearly, my...’ Travany’s voice faltered. ‘My youngest son, Trafyn, was on the same ship as Istyn’s heir and Neiron’s brother.’

Several nobles offered their condolences; others complained that the invasion had cost more than it was worth.

Fyn had no sympathy.

‘Abbot Murheg, what say you?’ Lord Yorale asked. ‘Will you declare Lord Neirn dead, so that young Neiron can inherit? Nevantir Estate needs to be defended.’

The abbot adjusted the fall of his velvet robe. ‘The paperwork—’

‘Yes, prepare the paperwork, abbot,’ Isolt said. ‘It is the royal prerogative to formalise inheritance. Come here, Captain Neiron.’

Fyn had to change position and even then all he could see was the back of Neiron’s head as he knelt before Isolt.

‘You have served me well, captain of the queen’s guard. I name you Lord Neiron of Nevantir Estate. But there is one last task before you resign your commission. You must name your successor as captain of my guard.’

It came as no surprise when Neiron named his best friend, Elrhodoc, captain of the queen’s guards.

While Elrhodoc gave his oath, Fyn watched those who stood near the centre of power. Yorale was on the queen’s right. Abbot Murheg stood on her left with the abbess.

Everyone drank to the health of the new lord and captain.

‘The invasion of Rolencia has cost us dearly,’ Travany complained. ‘And what have we gained?’

‘Shiploads of red wine,’ one wit replied.

There was some laughter.

‘Our granaries are full, we’ve more silver plate and seven-year slaves than we know what to do with,’ Travany conceded. ‘But do we have Rolencia?’

‘No,’ they grumbled.

‘And what’s more, the market is glutted,’ a merchant protested. ‘There’s no profit to be made on my wool.’

‘Travany’s right.’ Yorale was not going to let the men of commerce divert the conversation. ‘We don’t have Rolencia. Yet we left five companies of our finest men to help Cobalt hold the kingdom. We need to recall them.’ He shook his head. ‘The spar warlord’s attack on Benetir Estate is an outrage, but until we recall our men—’

‘What of the seven-year slaves?’ the wool merchant asked.

‘Those churls?’ Travany sneered. ‘They’d cut your throat first chance they got, you know Rolencians.’

The gathering laughed and Fyn’s face flamed. It did not surprise him that the only two lords willing to bestir themselves to help Benetir Estate were the two with a vested interest—Wytharon and Travany.

‘We can’t wait for our men from Rolencia. We need to act now. What of the queen’s guards?’ Lord Wytharon asked.

They all turned to Neiron, who gestured to the new captain of the queen’s guard.

‘Naturally we despise the spar barbarians, but we swore to protect the queen,’ Elrhodoc said. ‘Our place is with her.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Isolt said, ‘because I’m going to save Lady Sefarra.’

This caused an outcry. They were quick to advise her against it, and the discussion soon deteriorated, voices escalating as tempers rose.

Old King Merofyn should never have invaded Rolencia; no, the invasion was Palatyne’s idea; King Merofyn should never have acknowledged Palatyne as overlord of the spars; Merofyn should have crushed the upstart warlord.

Sefarra’s fate was the last thing on their minds.

Anger ignited Fyn and he was just about to call for quiet when he spotted Isolt making her way around behind the arguing men. She nodded to the door.

They slipped out of the war-table chamber, going along the corridor to a window seat. Neither of them sat down. From here Fyn could see the terraced gardens stepping down to the Landlocked Sea. It was too hazy to make out the distant shore. Graceful white cyena birds glided on the sparkling shallows.

Fyn turned to Isolt. ‘Why did you start the war-table discussion without me?’

‘I didn’t call a council. I was studying the war-table, trying to think of a way to save Sefarra, when everyone just arrived.’ Fury made her eyes glitter and she shook with anger. ‘They don’t care about her. One of them told me since we can’t save her purity, there’s no point saving her!’

Isolt prowled back and forth, before dropping into the window seat. She rubbed her temples. ‘I swear my head hurts from all their shouting.’

Mid-morning sun warmed her pale skin. She looked fragile; Fyn wanted to take her in his arms.

Instead, he sat beside her. ‘Travany and Wytharon have volunteered their support. They both have something at stake.’

‘But Wytharon’s estate lies across the Landlocked Sea, and even Travany will take several days to gather his men, arm them and prepare for battle,’ Isolt said, as organised in war as she was when staging a feast. ‘That’s why I wanted Captain Neiron—I mean Elrhodoc—to assist Captain Aeran. Both guards are armed and ready. Even if the other lords agreed to help, they would have to sail home to gather their men.’

Fyn nodded. ‘I suspect some would delay in the hope we’d sail without them. More than Benetir Estate could be lost before the nobles honoured their vows. They’re greedy, short-sighted fools, thinking only of their own gain.’ Frustration welled up in him. ‘Why can’t they see that Merofynia needs them?
Sefarra
needs—’ He shook his head, unable to go on.

Isolt covered his hand with hers. ‘You’re a good person.’

He felt the heat race up his cheeks and shook his head. ‘I don’t—’

‘You see the best in people. Me, I’ve seen the worst.’ She squeezed his hand and let him go. ‘Of all my father’s advisors, Dunstany and Yorale were the most loyal, and Dunstany was my favourite. But we can’t wait for him. Every day we delay is a day Sefarra suffers in the warlord’s hands.’

‘Every day we delay makes you look weak.’

‘You’re right. And they already think me weak because of my sex. If only we could organise an attack. We could be there within half a day.’ Isolt’s eyes widened. ‘Why, Cortigern could attack the city this very night!’ She sprang to her feet. ‘We must warn the others.’

Fyn wasn’t convinced Cortigern intended to attack Port Mero, and if he did, he’d have to steal boats to cross the Landlocked Sea. If Fyn knew spar warriors, Cortigern’s men would be celebrating the capture of Benetir Estate by drinking themselves insensible.

‘Fyn?’

He came to his feet. ‘A threat to Port Mero will motivate the merchants and nobles. We might be able to pull together enough men to sail this evening.’

‘Good. The sooner we get there, the sooner we save—’

‘You’re not coming. You sent for me, let me—’

‘I didn’t send for you.’

‘Then who—’

‘Fyn, if I stay in the palace, the nobles won’t respect me. They already think that I’m fit only for bearing the next heir. If I am to be queen, I must be seen to lead.’ Isolt held his eyes. ‘I must do this.’

‘Isolt...’ There she stood, so determined yet so vulnerable. He couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her. Yet, as much as he hated to admit it, she was right.

Seeing his expression, she smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t insist on fighting. I’m no warrior.’

‘You’re Isolt Wyvern Queen.’ Fyn offered his arm. He was ready to confront the Merofynian nobles. He didn’t do this for Byren, he did it for Isolt; and he must not let her down.