Ruins of Camelot (18 page)

"Three!" Darrick cried.  "He keeps three guards with him when he leaves the castle!"

"Only three?" Merodach said in his normal voice, standing up straight and cocking his head quizzically at Darrick.  "Why, I recall past Kings who took an entourage of no less than six armed escorts with them whenever they toured the countryside.  King Xavier has become rather complacent, would you not say?"

Darrick shuddered.  Sweat trickled down his temples.  He struggled to control his breathing, to not show his fear.

"Three it is," Merodach commented jovially.  "A manageable number, I must say.  Thank you, my friend.  Please, do you mind if I call you Darrick?  I hate to stand on formality, especially given the circumstances."

Darrick merely stared at him, keeping his lips pressed firmly together.  Outside, lightning flashed silently.

"Excellent, Darrick," Merodach said, half sitting on the table and turning his sword over on his knee.  He resumed cleaning it with the cloth.  "How many passages are there into the castle?  Besides the portcullis entrance of course."

Darrick was silent.  He firmed his jaw and looked away, out of the dark windows again.  The rain fell steadily into the gathering darkness.

"You really do not seem to know how this works, Darrick," Merodach commented, pausing his cleaning.  "I really am trying to be patient with you.  Do you wish me to ask Brom here to break some of your fingers?  I don't want to do it, but—"

"Four," Darrick answered, glaring up at his captor.  "And I am only answering that because it is common knowledge to anyone who lives within sight of the castle."

Merodach smiled disarmingly.  "Thank you for sparing us that ugly drudgery, Darrick.  It is nice to deal with someone who exhibits such striking common sense.  I know of the four main entrances of course.  There are no secret passageways then?  Are you quite certain?"

Darrick's face was pale but bravely stolid.  "I am certain."

"Good," Merodach nodded.  "Because if I discovered that you had lied to me… well, I have already illustrated the necessity of maintaining a rather fearsome image, yes?  You would place me in the unfortunate position of having to teach you a lesson.  I am sure I do not need to explain what that would entail."

"I am not lying," Darrick said, deflating a little on the bench.

"Excellent.  Then we are very nearly through.  Brom, if you would please fetch the message I have prepared for King Xavier.  It is in the lock-box in my quarters.  Here is the key."

Brom, the guard who had first threatened Ulric to stay silent, stepped forwards.  He had ragged, black hair and pocked skin.  His eyes were strangely dead as he took Merodach's key.  A moment later, he disappeared down the tower stairs.

"You see," Merodach said, examining the glint of his sword and putting down the cloth, "I can be a reasonable man.  The stories about me are not
entirely
true."

Darrick did not respond.  He watched his captor finger his sword thoughtfully.  The stench of Ulric's blood filled the room now, mingling with the mist of the storm.

"There
is
one more thing, if you please," Merodach said, as if the idea had just stricken him.  "A trifle.  An afterthought.  Tell me, Darrick: if King Xavier determines that flight is his only hope of salvation, to where would he retreat?  I understand that there are many fortresses at his disposal.  Which would he choose for his stronghold?"

Darrick's brow lowered.  Mustering all of his courage, he straightened his back and looked Merodach in the eye.  "I'm through helping you," he answered in a low voice.  "I will not be held responsible for your success in attacking the castle and routing out the King.  My life is not worth the curse of such guilt or the deaths that would result."

Merodach frowned consideringly and then nodded.  "I understand your predicament, my friend.  If you answer my question, you may see your people destroyed.  If you resist me, perhaps only you will be destroyed.  Yes?  But surely, you see the flaw in this, do you not?"

"I do not," Darrick replied, firming his resolve.  "I am a soldier of Camelot.  I am proud to offer myself for its preservation."

Merodach drew a deep sigh and shook his head slowly, almost regretfully.  "I hate to disillusion you, Darrick, but I
will
succeed in my quest, regardless of what you deign to say or whether you choose to live or die.  By remaining silent, you will neither save Camelot nor yourself.  But by telling me the truth…"  He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a conciliatory gesture.

"There is nothing you can offer me that will make such treason worthwhile," Darrick said stiffly, turning away.

"Do you suppose," Merodach asked lightly, "that the Princess, your wife, would agree?"

Darrick froze.  He stared unseeingly into the shadows, feeling the blood drain from his face.

"I understand that she is with child," Merodach added, sighing.  "It may be that the babe, your son or daughter, is even now born.  Is this not so?"

Darrick drew his eyes back to Merodach, his expression cold.  "If you touch them…"

"Please," Merodach interrupted, rolling his eyes.  "Idle threats are such an interminable waste of time.  As I said, Darrick, I am a reasonable man.  I am offering you a bargain.  Answer me what I require, and when the time comes, I will see that your wife and child are spared.  Refuse me, and… well, I really cannot be held responsible for what happens, can I?  It is your choice."

Darrick glared at the hateful man before him.  A long silence spread out between them, filled only with the shush of the rain and the faint crackle of the torch.  Finally, Brom reappeared from below.  He approached Merodach and handed him a small package, sealed with red wax.  Merodach took it without breaking eye contact with Darrick.

Finally, in a rough voice, Darrick asked, "How do I know you will keep your word?"

Merodach grimaced again and lifted his right hand, gesturing vaguely with his sword.  "You cannot, I am afraid.  It is the nature of this type of bargain.  But I will tell you this: it is the King that I want, and his throne.  Once he is deposed, the Princess will pose no threat.  There is no point in my harming her or the child she has borne you."

Darrick shook his head very slightly, his face contorted in a rictus of agonised indecision.

"I'll tell you what," Merodach said, taking a step forwards.  "You don't have to answer aloud for all to hear.  You may whisper your answer into my ear.  It is that simple.  Let me ask again: where, in the event of flight, will the King and his people retreat to?  Answer me this, and your wife and child may live."

Merodach took another step forwards, cautiously, as if Darrick were a deer that might flee at the slightest provocation.  Then, almost comically, he leant forwards and placed his ear next to Darrick's lips.

Darrick was silent for a long, horrible moment.  And then, almost soundlessly, his lips moved.  He spoke one word, and the expression on Merodach's face changed.  His smile hardened, and his eyes grew dark.  He stood up and straightened his cape and breastplate.

"I owe you my deepest gratitude, good Sir Darrick," Merodach announced, turning back to the table.  "You have been of great help to me.  I shall not forget it."  He sheathed his sword with a ring of metal on metal.  Behind him, Darrick hung his head.  His sweaty hair fell over his face.

"What is the message?" he muttered.

Merodach glanced back, frowning slightly.  "Excuse me?"

"The
message
," Darrick repeated, an edge of ragged anger creeping into his voice.  He lifted his head defiantly.  "What is the message you mean for me to deliver to the King?"

"Ah, yes," Merodach replied, holding up the package in his hand and looking at it.  The red seal looked like a blot of blood in the dimness.  "You know, Darrick, you have been such a great help to me, such an
excellent
help," he said, drawing a short dagger from his belt, "that I think I may be able to deliver this message…
without
your help."

"And then," the page said, trembling, unable to meet either the King's or the Princess's eyes, "and then the beast…
launched
himself upon the Field Marshal.  He bared his teeth like a sort of wild animal and struck with his dagger, not once, just to kill, but over and over, even after—"  He choked a little and then raised his eyes imploringly.  "Even after the poor man was dead.  It was…," he admitted faintly, "the worst thing I have ever seen in my life.  When it was over, Merodach stood over the body, panting, and—"

"Stop!" Gabriella said suddenly, her voice getting away from her so that it came out as a half scream of anguish.  "Stop!  I can hear no more!  It is too much!"

Her father reached towards her throne and covered her hand with his own.  Helplessly, Gabriella buried her face in her other hand.  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stem the flood of emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her.  She couldn't bear to share her grief with the court, with these seemingly random people, none of whom had known Darrick like she had, most of whom would see his death as merely another casualty, one more in a long line of deaths at the hand of the unholy brute Merodach.

"How did you escape?" the King asked the page gravely.

"Sir Ulric," the page answered, swallowing past a lump in his throat.  "He had already arranged it.  He had entrusted his personal retinue to be prepared to rescue us in the event of our capture.  He knew of a hidden rear entrance to the tower, long buried in vines and most likely unknown to Merodach and his men.  This door was unguarded, allowing Sir Ulric's remaining men to steal in by dark and release us.  They killed the dungeon guard, and we were gone before anyone else came looking."

"Tell me, Master Brice," Toph said from where he stood on the other side of the King's throne, "I know this is not your purview, but in the absence of Sirs Ulric and Darrick, what is the final tally of those who returned with you?"

"Seventy-seven men at last count," the page answered, shaking his head slowly.

The King sighed deeply.  "And what of the trebuchets and siege engines?"

"Captured or destroyed, Your Highness.  None return with us."

There was a long, dreadful silence as everyone in the King's ready room considered this, realising the enormity of the threat they now faced.

"Your Highness," Percival, the chief of the palace guard, said carefully, stepping forwards, "we are left in a very unfortunate position indeed.  There is no assurance whatsoever that Merodach will take time to gloat over his victory.  Even now, we must assume that he is preparing to march upon the city."

King Xavier looked up at Percival as if the idea had not yet occurred to him.  His expression conveyed nothing but grim uncertainty.  Gabriella saw this with both pity and dismay.