Magician (105 page)

Kulgan’s reminiscences were
interrupted by the sound of shouting from outside. They jumped up and
rushed out of the tent.

A blood-covered rider, in the tabard of
LaMut, sped past them, and they ran to follow. They reached the
command tent as Lord Brucal came out. The old Duke of Yabon said,
“What news?”

“The Earl Vandros sends word.
Victory!” Other riders could be heard approaching the camp. “We
rode through them like the wind. The line on their east is breached,
and the salient is rent. We broke them, isolating those in the
salient, then wheeled to the west and rolled back those who sought to
aid them. The infantry now holds fast, and the cavalry drives the
Tsurani back into the North Pass. They flee in confusion! The day is
ours!”

A wineskin was handed to the rider, who
sounded as if his voice would fail. He tilted it over his face and
let the wine pour into his mouth. It ran down his chin, joining the
deeper red splattered over his tabard. He threw aside the wineskin.
“There is more. Richard of Salador has fallen, as has the Earl
of Silden. And the King has been wounded.”

Concern showed on Brucal’s face
“How does he fare?”

“Badly, I fear,” said the
rider, holding his nervous horse as it pranced around. “It is a
grievous wound. His helm was cleaved by a broadsword after his horse
was killed beneath him. A hundred died to protect him, for his royal
tabard was a beacon to the Tsurani. He comes now.” The rider
pointed back the way he had come.

Pug and the others turned to see a
troop of riders approaching. In the van rode a royal guardsman with
the King held before him. The monarch’s face was covered in
blood, and he held to the saddle horn with his right hand, his other
arm dangling limply at his side. They stopped before the tent, and
soldiers helped the King from the horse. They started to carry him
inside, but he said, in a weak and slurred voice, “No Do not
take me from the sun. Bring a chair so I may sit.”

Nobles were riding up even as a chair
was placed for the King. He was lowered into it and leaned back, his
head lolling to the left. His face was covered with blood, and white
bone could be seen showing through his scalp wound.

Kulgan moved to Rodric’s side “My
King, may I attend?”

The King struggled to see who was
speaking. His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, then became
clear. “Who is speaking? The magician? Yes, Borric’s
magician. Please, I am in pain.”

Kulgan closed his eyes, willing his
powers to ease the King’s suffering. He placed his hand upon
Rodric’s shoulder, and those nearby could see the ruler of the
Kingdom visibly relax. “Thank you, magician. I feel more at
ease.” Rodric struggled to turn his head slightly. “My
lord Brucal, please bring Lyam to me.”

Lyam was in his tent, under guard, and
a soldier was sent to bring him out. Moments later the young man
knelt before his cousin. “My liege, your wound?”

Kulgan was joined by a Priest of Dala,
who agreed with his assessment of the wound. He looked at Brucal and
shook his head slowly. Herbs and bandages were brought, and the King
was cared for. Kulgan left the priest to his ministrations and
returned to stand where the others looked on. Katala had joined them,
holding William in her arms. Kulgan said, “I fear it is a
mortal wound. The skull is broken, and fluids seep through the
crack.”

In silence they watched. The priest
stood to one side and began praying for Rodric. All the nobles, save
those commanding the infantry, were now arrayed before the King. More
horsemen could be heard riding into camp. They joined the others who
stood watching and were told what had happened. A hush fell over the
assembly as the King spoke.

“Lyam,” he said in a faint
voice. “I have been ill, haven’t I?” Lyam said
nothing, his face betraying conflicting emotions. He had little love
for his cousin, but he was still the King.

Rodric ventured a weak smile. One side
of his face moved only slightly, as if he could not control the
muscles well Rodric reached out with his good right hand, and Lyam
took it. “I do not know what I have been thinking of late. So
much of what has happened seems like a dream, dark and frightening. I
have been trapped within that dream, but now I am free of it.”
Sweat appeared upon his brow, and his face was nearly white. “A
demon has been driven from me, Lyam, and I can see much of what I
have done was wrong, even evil.”

Lyam knelt before his King. “No,
my King, not evil.”

The King coughed violently, then gasped
as the attack subsided. “Lyam, my time grows short.” His
voice rose a little, and he said, “Brucal, bear witness.”
The old Duke looked on, his face an implacable mask. He stepped over
next to Lyam and said, “I am here, Your Majesty.”

The King gripped Lyam’s hand,
pulling himself a little more upright His voice rose as he said, “We,
Rodric, fourth of that name, hereditary ruler of the Kingdom of the
Isles, do hereby proclaim that Lyam conDoin, our blood cousin, is of
the royal blood. As oldest conDoin male, he is named Heir to the
throne of our Kingdom.”

Lyam shot Brucal an alarmed look, but
the old Duke gave him a curt shake of his head, commanding silence.
Lyam bowed his head, and his sorrow was heartfelt. He tightly gripped
the King’s hand. Brucal said, “So do I, Brucal, Duke of
Yabon, bear witness.”

Rodric’s voice sounded faint.
“Lyam, one boon do I ask. Your cousin Guy has done what he has
done at my command. I grieve for the madness that drove me to have
Erland deposed. I knew his going to the dungeon was his death
warrant, and I did nothing to halt it. Have mercy on Guy. He is an
ambitious man, but not an evil one.”

The King then spoke of his plans for
the Kingdom, asking that they be continued, though with more regard
for the populace. He spoke of many other things: of his boyhood, and
his sorrow that he had never married. After a time his speech became
too slurred to understand, and his head fell forward upon his chest.

Brucal ordered guards to attend the
King. They gently raised him and carried him inside. Brucal and Lyam
entered the tent, while the other nobles waited outside. More new
arrivals were gathering, and they were told the news. Nearly a third
of the Armies of the Kingdom stood before the commander’s
pavilion, a sea of upturned faces extending down the hill. Each stood
without speaking, waiting out the death watch.

Brucal closed the tent flap behind and
shut out the red glow of the sunset. The Priest of Dala examined the
King, then looked at the two dukes “He will not regain
consciousness, my lords. It is only a matter of time.”

Brucal took Lyam by the arm and led him
to one side. In a hushed whisper he said, “You must say nothing
when I proclaim you Heir, Lyam.”

Lyam pulled his arm from Brucal’s
grasp, fixing his gaze upon the old warrior “You bore witness,
Brucal,” he whispered back. “You heard my father
acknowledge Martin as my brother, legitimizing him. He is the oldest
conDoin male. Rodric’s proclamation of succession is invalid.
It presumed I was the oldest!”

Brucal spoke quietly, but his words
were ungentle. “You have a war to end, Lyam. Then, if you
should accomplish that small feat, you have to take your father and
Rodric back to Rillanon, to bury them in the tomb of your ancestors.
From the day Rodric is interred, there will be twelve days of
mourning, then on noon of the thirteenth, all the claimants for the
crown will present themselves before the priests of Ishap, and the
entire, bloody damn Congress of Lords. Between now and then you’ll
have plenty of time to decide what to do. But for now, you needs must
be Heir. There is no other way.

“Have you forgotten Bas-Tyra?
Should you dither, he’ll be in Rillanon with his army a month
before you. Then you’ll have bitter civil war, boy. As soon as
you agree to keep your mouth shut, I’m ordering my own trusted
troops to Krondor, under royal seal, to arrest Black Guy. They’ll
toss Bas-Tyra into the dungeon before his own men can stop them—
there’ll be enough loyal Krondorians around to ensure that. You
can have him held until you reach Krondor, then cart him off to
Rillanon for the coronation, either your own or Martin’s. But
you must act, or by the gods, we’ll have Guy’s lackeys
brewing civil war within a day of your naming Martin the true Heir.
Do you understand?”

Lyam nodded silently. With a sigh he
said, “But will Guy’s men let him be taken?”

“Even the captain of his own
guard will not stand against a royal warrant, especially
countersigned by the representatives of the Congress of Lords I shall
guarantee signatures on the warrant,” he said, clenching his
gloved fist before his face.

Lyam was quiet for some time, then
said, “You are right. I have no wish to visit trouble upon the
Kingdom. I will do as you say.”

The two men returned to the King’s
side and waited. Nearly another two hours passed before the priest
listened at the King’s chest and said, “The King is
dead.”

Brucal and Lyam joined the priest in a
silent prayer for Rodric. Then the Duke of Yabon took a ring from
Rodric’s hand and turned to Lyam.

“Come, it is time.”

He held aside the tent flap, and Lyam
looked out. The sun had set, and the night sky glittered with stars.
Fires had been lit and torches brought, so that now the multitude
appeared to be an ocean of firelight. Not one man in twenty had left,
though they were all tired and hungry after the victory.

Brucal and Lyam appeared before the
tent, and the old Duke said, “The King is dead.” His face
was stony, but his eyes were red-rimmed. Lyam looked pale but stood
erect, his head high.

Brucal held something above his head. A
glint of deep red fire reflected off the small object as it caught
the torchlight. The nobles who stood close nodded in understanding,
for it was the royal signet, worn by all the conDoin kings since
Delong the Great had crossed the water from Rillanon to plant the
banner of the Kingdom of the Isles upon the mainland shore.

Brucal took Lyam’s hand and
placed the ring upon his finger. Lyam studied the old and worn ring,
with its device cut into the ruby, still undimmed by age. As he
raised his eyes to behold the crowd, a noble stepped forward. It was
the Duke of Rodez, and he knelt before Lyam. “Your Highness,”
he said. One by one the others before the tent, nobles of both East
and West, knelt in homage, and like a wave rippling, all those
assembled knelt, until Lyam alone was standing.

Lyam looked at those before him,
overcome with emotion and unable to speak. He placed his hand upon
Brucal’s shoulder and motioned for them all to stand.

Suddenly the multitude was upon its
feet, and the cheer went up, “Hail, Lyam! Long live the Heir!”
The soldiers of the Kingdom roared their approval, doubly so, for
many knew that hours ago the threat of civil war had hung over their
heads. Men of both East and West embraced and celebrated, for a
terrible future had been avoided.

Lyam raised his hands, and soon all
were silent. His voice rang out over their heads, and all could hear
him say, “Let no man rejoice this night. Let the drums be
muffled and the trumpets blown low, for tonight we mourn a King.”

Brucal pointed at the map. “The
salient is surrounded, and each attempt to break through to the main
body has been turned back. We have isolated nearly four thousand of
their soldiers there.” It was late night. Rodric had been
buried with what honor could be afforded in the camp.

There had been none of the trappings
common to a royal funeral, but the business of war made it necessary.
He had been quickly embalmed and buried in his armor next to Borric,
on a hillside overlooking the camp. When the war was over, they would
be returned to the tombs of their ancestors in Rillanon.

Now the young Heir looked over the map,
gauging the situation in light of the latest communique from the
front. The Tsurani held in the North Pass, at the entrance to the
valley. The infantry had dug in before them, bottling up those in the
valley, and isolating both the forces along the river Crydee and what
was left of the salient.

“We have broken their offensive,”
said Lyam, “but it is a two-edged sword. We cannot attempt to
fight on two fronts. We must also be ready should the Tsurani try to
move against us from the south. I see no quick ending yet, in spite
of our gains.”

Brucal said, “But surely those in
the salient will surrender soon. They are cut off, with little food
or water, and cannot expect to be resupplied In a matter of days they
will be starving.”

Pug interrupted. “Forgive me,
Lord Brucal, but they will not.”

“What can they gain by resisting?
Their position is hopeless.”

“They tie up your forces that
would otherwise be attacking the main camp. Soon the situation in
Tsuranuanni will be resolved enough for magicians to return from the
Assembly. Then food and water can be transported in without
interference. And each day they hold strengthens the Tsurani as
reinforcements arrive from Kelewan. They are Tsurani and will gladly
die rather than be taken captive.”

Lyam asked, “Are they so honor
bound to die, then?”

“Yes. On Kelewan they know only
that captives become slaves. The idea of a prisoner exchange is
unknown to them.”

“Then we must bring all our
weight to bear upon the salient at once,” said Brucal. “We
must crush them and free our soldiers to deal with other threats.”

“It will prove costly,”
Lyam observed. “This time there will be no element of surprise,
and they are dug in like moles. We could lose two men for each of
theirs.”

Kulgan had been sitting off to one side
with Laurie and Meecham. “It is a tragedy that we have gained
only a broadening of the fighting. And so soon after the Emperor’s
offer of peace.”