Authors: John Marco
The Eyes of God (36 page)
Dawn was coming, and that meant battle was near. In the growing light, Hogon could see the first hint of Hanging Man on the horizon, its ugly turret poking out of the rocky earth like a cobra. He ordered his company to come to a halt. His six hundred men silently obeyed. Raxor, who rode beside Hogon, repeated the order to his own men, and down the line the order went. Together they surveyed the terrain.
“So?” asked Raxor. “Do we wait or do we ride?”
Hogon wasn’t sure how to answer. He wanted to give Akeela enough time to meet with Mor. At just past dawn, it seemed unlikely they would already be meeting. But Akeela had given him clear orders. He looked at the sun rising in the east, echoing his king’s words.
“Just past dawn.”
Raxor nodded. “We’re already close enough to be seen. If we don’t ride, we’ll be discovered too early.”
Still Hogon hesitated. Even from such a distance, Hanging Man looked formidable. Between himself and Raxor, they had over a thousand men. Akeela’s company added fifty to their ranks, but still. . . .
“I hope Akeela knows what he’s doing,” muttered Hogon.
“Don’t fret for your king,” said Raxor. “All he has to do is get the gate open. If he succeeds, we will triumph.” He looked at Hogon for an answer. “Chancellor, there isn’t much time.”
Hogon didn’t argue. He gripped the reins of his horse tightly, raised one hand above his head, and gave the order to advance.
King Mor and his ubiquitous cat were already seated when Akeela arrived in the council chamber. As before, there was food on the table and wine to toast the treaty. General Nace was present with several other soldiers, all bearing the same smug expression. The general and his underlings rose when Akeela entered. Breck kept close to Akeela. Akeela looked about the room, disappointed that none of his other men had been invited. On the table sat the treaty Mor had ordered written, a single piece of parchment rolled out flat. Next to it was a quill pen in an inkwell. Mor’s face hovered over the treaty, smiling triumphantly.
“Welcome, King Akeela,” said the old ruler. “I trust you slept well?”
The incongruous question vexed Akeela. “Well enough. Is that the treaty?”
“Indeed.” Mor pushed it across the table toward Akeela. “It reads just as you said it should. You will pay us a tribute of gold for every Liirian and Reecian ship that passes south of Hanging Man. It says that the price of the tribute will be determined at a later date by our factions, likely based on tonnage, and that you, King Akeela, take full responsibility for seeing this agreement implemented.” Mor picked up the pen. “Ready to sign?”
“No,” said Akeela. “You have these soldiers here to witness for you. All I have is Breck. I think I should at least have more of my men present, don’t you?”
Mor made a sour face. “Yes, I suppose,” he sighed. He looked past Akeela toward his son, Fianor. “Go and bring three of King Akeela’s men. Tell them to leave their swords. Be quick.”
Prince Fianor did as he was asked, disappearing down the hall. Akeela tried to relax, sure that he had bought himself some time.
“General Nace,” he said cordially, “would you mind giving up your seat for the signing? I should be next to King Mor, I think.”
The general was about to sit down but stopped himself. He gave Akeela a peculiar look, then glanced at his king.
“It’s tradition, Nace,” said Mor. “Sit at the other end, will you? Let King Akeela have your chair.”
Akeela thanked the general and took the seat to Mor’s right. This close to Mor, he could smell the old man’s breath and the odor of his cat, still perched lazily in his lap. Breck remained standing. Knowing that he needed to stall for time, Akeela leapt on the first idea that came to mind.
“Great Fate, I’m starving,” he said. “And look at all this food! Shall we break our fast together, my lord?”
“Certainly, my friend,” said Mor. Then he took the pen from the inkwell. “But let’s eat after we take care of business, hmm?”
Akeela reached across the table for a loaf of bread. “Well, my witnesses aren’t here yet, so we have some time.” He held the loaf out for Mor. “Bread, my lord?”
Mor shook his head. “No.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I help myself.” Akeela tore off a great hunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Seeing a servant in the corner, he said, “You there. Pour some wine for me, will you? I’m as dry as the Desert of Tears! Breck, sit down and eat. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”
“King Akeela,” said Mor, “don’t you even want to read the treaty?”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Akeela. As the servant filled his glass, he pulled the paper closer to him. “Yes, have to read this carefully indeed.”
“As I said, it’s not complicated.”
“No, no, you’re right, my lord. Let me read this carefully. Don’t want to sell my country into slavery, now do I?”
Mor sat back impatiently. “No, of course not.”
With both eyes on the treaty, Akeela pretended to read. As he did he snuck a peripheral glance at the chamber’s only window. The stained glass began to lighten, warning him. Soon he would get his signal. He quelled his growing nervousness by draining his glass.
“Yes, well, this looks fine, mostly,” he said. “But we’ll have to work out a payment schedule, to make sure Liiria isn’t cheated. The treaty should address that, I think. Perhaps I could leave a man or two behind to account for the ships that pass?”
“Cheated?” The word made Mor bristle. “Why would you say such a thing? Norvor only wants what it deserves.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re correct, my lord,” said Akeela. “Still, a strict accounting is necessary. Do you think you could have some changes made before I sign it?”
“Changes? No, King Akeela, I don’t think so. I—”
Before Mor could finish, Fianor returned with three of Akeela’s men. The Royal Chargers greeted their king, then bowed to King Mor. They were, as Mor had insisted, without swords. Breck quickly explained to them about the treaty, and how they were to witness its signing.
“Yes, the signing,” Mor insisted. Again he held out the pen for Akeela. “Or are you changing your mind, my lord?”
“No,” said Akeela. He wanted to stall further, but couldn’t think of another ruse. Just as he reached for the pen, his salvation came.
“My lords!” cried a voice. “Soldiers!”
Akeela moved like lightning. While Mor sat up, confused by the call, he dashed his hand beneath his cape and freed his waiting dagger. Breck and the three Chargers did the same. Akeela exploded out of his chair, took a handful of Mor’s shirt, and put the dagger to his throat.
“Don’t you bloody move!” he ordered. “Or I swear I’ll cut your throat.”
Breck had his own blade at Fianor’s throat. A panicked page boy stumbled into the chamber, crying that soldiers were approaching. Outside the chamber, men were shouting amid sounds of struggle. General Nace and his men stood still as stone, unsure of what was happening.
“Get out of the chair!” Akeela roared, pulling Mor from his seat.
“What is this?” Mor sputtered.
“Shut up and listen,” said Akeela. Quickly he maneuvered himself behind the gasping man, wrapping an arm about his throat and keeping the dagger to his cheek. “Do as I say, you stinking toad, or you’re a dead man.”
“Let him go!” barked Nace, even as the Chargers held him, too. All three of Mor’s men were subdued, as was Fianor. The prince fought violently against Breck.
“You cowardly scum!” gurgled Fianor. “What are thinking? You can’t get out of here!”
“Quiet!” snapped Breck, pressing hard against Fianor’s throat.
“Release us!” the prince wailed
Breck dragged him roughly around, faced him against the wall, and drove his head into the hard stone. Akeela heard the crack of his skull, then watched him slump slowly to the floor, leaving a smudgy trail of blood down the bricks. Mor writhed in Akeela’s grasp, crying out for his son. Breck turned like a wildcat on Nace and his men.
“Still don’t believe us?” he hissed, brandishing his dagger.
Mor’s fingernails tore at Akeela’s arm. “You won’t get out of here! You won’t escape!”
Akeela pushed the blade against Mor’s cheek so that the old man wailed. “We will, and you’re coming with us.” He barked at the page, “Get in here!”
The boy stepped into the room. He looked at his king helplessly, then back into the hall where the commotion was rising.
“How many men are approaching?” Akeela asked.
The page barely stammered a response. “I . . . don’t know. Maybe a thousand . . .”
Satisfied, Akeela dragged Mor toward the door. “Now listen to me, General Nace. We’re going to leave here, slowly and in order. I promise you, nothing is going to happen to Mor unless you disobey me.”
“I don’t take orders from you!” Nace spat. With the blade of a Charger still at his throat, he laughed defiantly. “Go ahead and kill us. You’ll never get out of here.”
“No?” Akeela tightened his arm about Mor’s thin neck. The tension in the chamber had overcome him, drowning him in a flash of madness. “Is that what you want, you greedy old reptile? You want to die?” Again he pricked Mor’s cheek with the dagger.
“Stop!” wailed Mor.
“Who’s the coward now, eh?” Akeela asked, jerking him backward. “You dirty bastard. I should kill you for what you did to me!”
“My lord, stop!” ordered Breck. “We have to get the gate open!”
Still breathing hard, barely able to think, Akeela glanced at General Nace. “You heard him, General. You’re going to order the gate open, understand?”
“Never!”
Breck cursed, took hold of Nace’s hairy head, and put his dagger to his throat. “Mor, do you think we’re bluffing you? Do you think we actually won’t hurt you?”
Mor was panting in fright, unable to answer.
“Well, watch then,” said Breck, and quickly ran his blade over Nace’s throat, slicing it open. The general’s eyes widened as blood poured down his chest. The Charger holding him let go, and Nace hovered in shock for a moment before falling in a gurgling pile to his knees. Stunned by the murder, Akeela almost dropped his dagger. Before Nace was dead, Breck rushed to Mor and put his own blade to the king’s throat.
“Believe me now?” he asked.
Mor erupted into cries. “Great Fate, don’t kill me!”
“Are you going to open the gate?”
“Yes!”
Breck looked at Akeela, instantly in charge. “Get him out of here.” He whirled on the rest of his men. “Get their weapons and come with us.”
The Chargers took the swords from their captives, then lowered their daggers and hurried toward Breck. The terrified page went to the Norvans, who all stood in shocked disbelief.
“Follow us and the old man dies,” Breck promised them. His men were armed now, and having Mor as a hostage buoyed his confidence. With only his dagger in hand, he said to Akeela, “All right, let’s move. Slow and easy, my lord. They’ll let you pass once they see you have Mor.”
Akeela barely heard Breck’s orders. Still riveted by Nace’s corpse, he stood like a cold statue near the door.
“My lord, what’s wrong with you?” shouted Breck. “Get going!”
Collecting himself, Akeela fixed his dagger beneath Mor’s chin and inched to the door. He began to perspire and shake, but he kept his blade against his frightened captive and stepped out into the hall. The fortress rang with sounds of battle, the screams of men and clashing steel. Breck and the others formed a ring around Akeela as they slowly crept out of the room. Breck took the lead, waving frantically when he saw his men up ahead, battling their way into the fortress.
“Randa!” he called. “Randa, Hanas, here!”
When the two soldiers saw Breck and Akeela, they shouted at their Norvan opponents. “Look there! Your king is captured!”
The Norvans continued pouring against the Chargers. Akeela knew he had to act fast.
“Lower your weapons!” he cried. “Or your king dies!”
One by one the Norvans noticed their captured king. Slowly the combat ebbed. Randa, Hanas, and the other Chargers fell back, joining Akeela. Mor continued sputtering, blood trickling down his slashed cheek.
“Stop!” he gurgled. “They’ll kill me!”
“Open the gate,” Akeela ordered them. “Now!”
The Norvans simply stared. More of them entered the hall, ready to fight, but their brothers held them back, gesturing to the king.
“My lord,” called one of them. “Are you all right?”
“Do I look all right, you idiot?” spat Mor. “Open the gate!”
“But my lord, there are soldiers coming!”
“Open the gate and surrender,” Breck ordered, “Or Mor dies.”
“Surrender?” gasped the Norvan. “My lord?”
“Seven hells, Virez, they’ve already killed Nace. Just do as they say!”
The soldier stood in mute shock, then reluctantly ordered his men to open the gate. Relieved, Akeela started forward again, protected now by a wall of Chargers. Virez and his men slowly parted as they approached, careful not to imperil their king.
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