Legend of the Swords: War (41 page)
Read Legend of the Swords: War Online
Authors: Jason Derleth
The king looked into Hesiod’s eyes, tilted his head to the side. He was silent for a several moments before finally saying, “No. I would not have done anything differently. This was the only solution, only one best thing to do.” He turned away, looking into a corner of the room. “But still…”
Hesiod was silent.
“I’m not so sure. Maybe there was something that I could have done differently?”
“Such as?”
“Well, Hesiod,” Renek looked unflinchingly into Hesiod’s eyes. “I dearly wish the real king were here.”
“Sire…”
“You tried to tell me that it might be better to kill James.” Renek shrugged and turned away. “But I couldn’t do it. I don’t think I would do it now, even if I could—it just seemed like such an evil thing to do.”
“Sometimes, the consequences of a seemingly evil act are good.” Hesiod shrugged. “Do good consequences make an action good?”
“No.” Renek sighed. “I don’t think so.”
“So you would not have done anything differently, if you had it all to do again?”
Renek shook his head, slowly, and walked towards the stairs. He paused to talk with the healer.
“You should move from the ground floor, Singer.” He shook his head. “I know it was best to not move the men, but the Triols will undoubtedly breach the door today.”
The Singer nodded, and called some soldiers over to help.
Renek climbed past the first floor, where two hundred men stood and sat in the kitchen and dining room. As he passed, they all stood and saluted.
“As you were," Renek said, smiling sadly. “Make sure to eat all the food you can find, men.” He turned and continued his climb.
The next floor held several rooms, each with a large bed and beautiful chest of drawers. Several of the chests had small polished silver mirrors perched on top of them. The rooms were packed with soldiers. A lucky few were catnapping on the beds, the rest stood, tensely listening to the sounds of sizzling magic, explosions, and death wafting through the windows.
They, too, saluted him as he passed.
Finally, he opened the heavy door at the top of the stairs. The top floor was devoted entirely to a large, regal bedroom—although a circular stairway leading to the roof stood near the western wall. There were fewer soldiers, here—only the generals, and one or two of the captains. A map obscured the ornately carved chest of drawers. Petrin was bent down, face close to the paper.
“Petrin, how stands the battle?” Renek asked.
He looked up from his map. “I’m sorry, my tired eyes didn’t see you coming. Hello, sire," he said. “Hello, Hesiod,” he added, as Hesiod entered a few seconds behind Renek.
“Sire, we have lost nearly two thousand men.” Petrin shook his head.
Renek simply nodded.
“They have taken heavy losses again today, your majesty,” Petrin continued. “Perhaps another six thousand men. That leaves them with only nine thousands left.
“I fear, though, that nine will be enough. Unless a miracle occurs, today will see the end of our army.” He shook his head again. “I have requested that several of the Singers come down to protect us as best they can during our final defense.
“For what it’s worth, the Triols will take heavy losses," Petrin said. “We should thank whichever god moved the hand of this keep’s architect. That architect seems to have had this kind of defensive battle in mind. The Triols will pay dearly before they can defeat us.”
* * *
Renek paced back and forth. The main gates below had been breached an hour ago.
Hesiod put his hand out, stilling Renek for a moment. “We still have a time to wait. The stairway is easily defensible.”
Petrin nodded from the doorway. “Yes, our defenses are holding well, and the enemy advances only slowly, taking heavy losses.”
The king cocked his head to the side slightly, and quietly spoke so that only Hesiod could hear. “Would you have done anything differently?”
“No, sire, I would not.” His answer was immediate and certain. He had expected the question, and knew the answer that the King needed to hear. He knew the answer that
Renek
needed to hear.
They stood, shoulder to shoulder, pondering the battle that was waged by only a few men at a time on a twisted, narrow stairway.
Petrin grunted, and closed the door. He dropped a large bar across the door, and nodded to the warriors around him. They all drew their swords. The small group of archers prepared their bows.
Petrin pulled the King toward the stairs, behind the row of archers.
Three men descended the western stair, wearing the solid robes of the Singers. The king looked up at them as they came down the stairs. They nodded at the king, who had become visibly disturbed at their presence, and bowed shallowly to Petrin, who sighed.
“I think two of you should stand here, one on either side of the door, behind our warriors," Petrin said, gesturing at the captains and generals, who were arranged in two wings facing the door. The Singer quickly moved into place.
He turned to the third Sorcerer, the man who had helped the healer when he had healed Hesiod’s leg. He had flowing black hair that framed warm brown eyes. “You, stay back in the center with me, right behind the archers to help guard the king. We can flee up the stairs to the roof if it comes to that, we’ll take a few more of them…” Petrin petered off, looking at the king.
Renek’s mouth hung open in shock. He was staring at the third Sorcerer, the one that was supposed to stay with them.
“What … “ Renek’s voice cracked. “What is your name, Singer?”
“Sire?” The man was clearly confused.
“Your
name,
Singer! What is it?”
“Edmund, sire. Why do you ask?”
The King sank to his knees, silently, eyes round in awe.
Hesiod knelt next to him. “Sire, what is the matter? What is wrong?” There was no response. “Sire? Sire?” A note of panic had entered his voice.
The king turned his blue eyes to look into Edmund’s brown. “I know you.” Tears rolled down his face. “I know you.” In the back of his mind, music played, overwhelming him. It was the Dragon’s Threnody. The dragon had seen all of what had been and what was still yet to be, had seen the tragedy of his life.
“Sire,” Edmund held out a hand, grasped the King’s arm to steady Renek. “I am certain that
I
do not know
you
. We have never met.” He glanced sideways at the door. There was a clamor on the stairway. A clamor of swords, shouts, and armor clanging off of the stone floors of the keep. The enemy had almost arrived.
Renek snapped his head around to look at Hesiod. “I
had
it all to do again, Hesiod!” He smiled, sadly. “I had it all to do again.” He slowly turned back towards Edmund, as if dreading seeing his strong brown eyes. His mouth opened, he could not speak.
Finally, words came, his voice gravelly and broken. The ringing of iron-shod feet on the keep’s floor grew louder, closer, until it seemed that the men were outside of the reinforced door. Then the noise stopped.
“I had it all to do again. Did I do any better, this time?” Renek seemed uncertain.
“Sire?” Hesiod glanced at the door. The din had ebbed away, there were only a few feet moving outside. They were preparing to try to breach the doors, and Renek was not responding. “What can we do for you, sire? The enemy is nigh, we must prepare to do battle.” Finally, he looked deeply into the king’s eyes, and said gently: “What is wrong? We need you now, Renek!”
The King’s eyes focused, suddenly, and he snapped his head upright. “My name is not Renek.” The King bit back a sob, and focused on Edmund. He could not close his eyes, could not turn away.
“My name is Ryan.” He drew in a shuddering breath. The noise beyond the oaken doors began again, as several people walked rhythmically.
“My name is Ryan, and I have failed the kingdom twice.”
There was a hollow boom as a small battering ram hit the doors—but all that Ryan could hear was the Dragon’s dirge playing in his mind.
“Sire!” Yelled Edmund. “SIRE!” Renek finally turned to look up at Edmund.
“I am not your sire, Edmund," Renek said, although it appeared he was speaking to himself. “I am Ryan, and I have failed the kingdom twice.
“Once, I killed an honorable man, on that mountainside; a man that did not truly deserve to die. The Universe punished me for it.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I am still being punished?
“Now, I failed to kill a man who truly deserved to die, and the Gods laugh as they give me back my memory. Just in time to see thousands more kingdom soldiers die.”
The king shook his head again, then spoke to Edmund. “Did you ever find our families, after the town burned? Or did Sirs Gregory and Armand misdirect your life, too?” There was another boom as the battering ram hit the doors again.
Edmund shuddered. “How could you have know—” Slowly, his eyes widened. “Ryan?” he said, tentatively. “RYAN!” He hugged the King, who slowly raised his arms to clasp Edmund.
“Sire—” Edmund began.
“Don’t call—” The King said, flatly.
“Sire!” Edmund called over the King’s protestations. “I will call you sire! You are the King, regardless of where you started, who you were, or what happened!” The chamber echoed with the sound of another battering ram strike on the doors. “You are the King. Your subjects chose you, and you are needed!
“You see your life and see failure,” Edmund continued, pushing his face in close to the King’s, forcing his friend’s gaze to meet his own. “But ask yourself this:
why are you here?
Why?”
The King furrowed his brow in confusion.
“You were dead. I was one of the very few who survived the battle that ended the first Triol war. You died in that battle, you must have—nearly everyone did. You were a warrior, a knight in training.” His eyes unfocused, they seemed to be looking far away. “When the explosion of the gods came, almost everyone was lost. Only a few of us, and the Sorcerers, survived.”
The bar on the doors cracked as the ram struck home again. Edmund drew breath, speaking more quickly. “Yes, it’s true, the Triols have finally come back with more forces … but you were part of the army that
saved
us, the first time.
“And now you’re back.” He shook his friend’s shoulders. “And yes, it’s true, the Triols have succeeded in destroying our army. They have pushed through even this keep’s defenses.” He drew in a deep breath. “And maybe some of that is your fault, I don’t know. But you’re still here.
“
You’re still here
,” he said again, pushing his face in close enough that Renek could feel Edmund’s breath. “And that’s something.” The hinges on the doors bent as the Triols struck again. “That’s really something.”
Did the King’s eyes gleam? “Why are you here?” Edmund asked again. “Are you here to be a part of saving us again?” He grinned. “Maybe a god brought you here, or maybe your own heart was strong enough to bring you back from the dead so that you could right your wrongs.”
Hesiod stepped over. “Ren—I mean, Ryan—what you did by not killing James was a noble thing," he said. “I don’t know what happened, when you ‘killed an honorable man’ on the mountainside, but I’m sure you had good reasons for it.
“In the end,” he said, quietly, but forcefully, “these were only single actions. Actions of great import, but only single actions. I know you now, Renek, and you were right—I would not trust you like I trust you now, had you killed James.
“And I
do
trust you.” Ryan looked into Hesiod’s eyes, surrounded by matted, sweaty, silver hair, and saw the truth of what he said.
The battering ram struck again, and the doors failed. Splinters flew everywhere, and the door tipped and fell inward with a deafening crash. The men stiffened while the rest of the Singers all started to hum audibly.
Edmund, however, did not leave Ryan’s side. He did join his comrades. “Regardless of why, Ryan,” Edmund was yelling over the sounds, staring into Ryan’s hardening eyes. “You are here, you are here now. You’ve been given a second chance, a chance to do the right thing, make the right choice! What are you going to do, sit here and let them kill us all, or take that chance?”
The enemy had broken through. There were a few dozen of the most intrepid Triol soldiers who had ever lived, facing the scant score of men who fought with their king, fought
for
their king.
Ryan’s control had returned. “I haven’t been given a second chance,” he said to Edmund in the sudden quiet, smoothly coming to his feet. “I failed as Ryan, once. Then I failed as Renek.” He gestured at the Triols, who glanced around the room, sizing up their remaining foes. “And we stand defeated on this day.”
The Triols streamed in over the fallen door, and the archers let loose. The first few men fell as fletching sprouted from their chests, but the men behind them simply ran over the fallen bodies.
King Ryan drew his sword. “Today, I have been given a
third
chance," he said, his face lit by his sword’s faint red glow. “And I choose to take it.”
About the Author
Jason Derleth is an author. He is also an aerospace engineer and Program Manager, currently working at NASA in the Innovative Advanced Concepts (NIAC) program. He’s also an instrument builder, a computer gamer, a husband, and soon to be a father.
After many years’ hiatus, he’s finally returned to writing. You can read all the trials and tribulations that he goes through (plus see a few pictures of his hand-carved cello, his cats, and fish tanks) at his blog,
http://www.jasonderleth.com/
The blog is updated approximately weekly.
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