The Faerion (14 page)

The mill rose dark against the sky. Shadows moved across the yard slipping into the crack of the door lit by a muted candle. Apal led them quickly to the door. The interior, warm and dimly lit, hosted a score of people, sullen and earnest. Lord Tercha stood on a box. He was a man of ideals, of the memory of High Nantitet and although he thought Yeates a poor king he acknowledged his right to rule.

"Gentlemen, we are in a terrible situation. Treteste is a monster, unfit for the crown. However, his power is very real. We must band together, landowner and shopkeeper to secure the future of Calendia. There is nowhere to go for assistance. Wierland is too weak, Mordyn unstable and Curesia laughs at our distress. We must take the crown away ourselves."

"And then what?" someone asked. "Who then rules? A committee? We can't agree on anything. Who becomes King?"

"How do we choose a new king? Strength of arms? Wealth?"

"There are rumors," said Tercha. "And like any rumors they must be proved. However, Prince Estes was not found in the ruins of Stormridge. It is to be hoped he escaped."

"And if he didn't?"

"There are a number of nobles with slight claims to the throne. One of them will take the throne."

"Somehow that is not reassuring," said Apal, standing in the wing.

"Ah, our friend," said Tercha, seeing Apal. "Your background is suitable."

Apal shook his head.

"You flatter me. However, I am not the best choice. I suggest we search for the prince. Then we move against Treteste. We must be agreed in our methods. United and strong else adversity will smite us."

"What about Sir Kirkes?" asked the crowd. "There's adversity."

"He can be approached and reasoned with," said Tercha. "Whether he agrees with us is another matter, but he won't kill us for speaking our mind."

"Unless ordered to do it!" cried a man by the door.

"Yes! He's the king's vassal. He helped Treteste gain the throne. Why should he change sides now?"

"Truly spoken," said Apal. "But he will listen to one or two of us without recourse. He follows his own counsel, whatever the rest of you may think. Without his aid, it will prove difficult, but once Treteste is dead, Kirkes will be freed of his bonds."

A shadowy figure stood in the rear of the room wearing a monk's robe. Carle had slipped in unnoticed. He had followed the singers to the tavern, waiting until they emerged again. The singer called Rapert had to be Prince Estes, even under that disguise. Carle had heard the prince singing to himself once last year and this minstrel's voice was the same. He was certain of the identity, especially after the attempt to stab Treteste. The rage on the young man's face was savage. He would listen and see what unfolded. Perhaps he would have something to tell Lord Daass in place of the Queen's confession.

The meeting continued for another hour. Voices rose to shouts as disagreement reigned. Apal shook his head. "This is no help. Treteste is laughing at us."

"What do you suggest?" asked a red-faced man. "You appear to know so much. Give us an answer!"

Before Apal could answer, a low thunder seemed to build up around them.

"What's that?" someone cried. Several people ran to the doors.

"Horses! And coming fast!"

Horses pounded the roadway to the mill. A lookout saw at once the king's colors.

"The king! The king!" He cried to the people inside.

Shouts rose in the night as people ran from the mill; weapons brandished. The soldiers rode many people down, slashing with swords. Figures scattered in the darkness, but the torches of the soldiers lit up the countryside and the night filled with the death cries of the rebels. They looked around the mill, seeing the torches of the king's soldiers surrounding the mill.

"You cannot escape!" cried the captain. "Surrender or die!"

"Seems the same to me," said Apal to Estes.

"Look!" said Estes, pointing to a hill beyond the soldiers. A large mounted figure watched the developments below.

"Kirkes!"

"What can we do?" said Estes.

"Go to the river. Swim for it!" He pushed Estes in that direction. Suddenly, the soldiers roared and charged, crashing into the remaining rebels with lethal forces. The crushing of skulls sent Estes running. Three shadows rose up before him and he tried to run through them, then everything went black.

Carle saw the blow that disarmed Estes and watched the prince dragged off by the soldiers, oblivious to his identity. Carle decided to follow the soldiers and keep an eye on the prince. A soldier saw him but Carle's habit forestalled questions. Carle found a horse and kept the limp figure of the prince in sight. They were taking him back to the castle.

Apal had made it to the rear of the mill, looking for a suitable place to jump into the river. The river flowed quickly and he knew it cold.

"Halt" Two soldiers cornered him. He drew his sword. A third soldier with a bow rode up.

"Drop your sword or you are dead."

Suddenly, the thunder of hooves heralded the entrance of Sir Kirkes who killed two soldiers with one blow. The bodies danced head over heels at Kirkes' feet. Apal killed the bowman.

"Leave now," ordered Kirkes. "I will not do this again. I have killed brave men for you. I may have to answer for it."

Apal saluted Kirkes and jumped into the swirling waters. Kirkes rode back into the battle. The rebels resisted stubbornly. Several archers took refuge in the mill, raining arrows upon the soldiers. A torch was tossed in the mill, igniting a fire.

An arrow found the unprotected area under Kirkes' arm. He growled, his sword dipping. A sword struck his shoulders sending him sprawling. The big body rolled under the horses. A shout went up as they closed around the knight to kill him.

"Where is he? I saw him fall."

"Right there!"

"There's nothing here! It was Kirkes wasn't it? Where did he go?"

"He couldn't have vanished."

"The ground swallowed him up. "

"Nonsense."

"Magic."

They never found him. It was magic and he was several yards away draped in a cloak of darkness, blacker than the night. The figure next to him was silent, content to wait until the area was still. The last of Treteste's soldiers rode off leaving the bodies of the dead conspirators in the mud.

"Thank you my friend," whispered Kirkes.

"Is the pain severe?" asked Navir.

"Yes, but it is bearable." The broken section of the arrow protruded from under his armor.

"I should be able to heal it tonight. By the second day you will be free of pain."

"That is more than I can ask for. How can I repay you?"

Navir shook his head.

"Did you find Wynne?" asked Navir.

"No, she eluded us. Entered Paglo."

"The Tuors! Excellent. She will find help there. Now, I wish to ask you something."

"Ask away, I owe you my life."

"Can you see the type of man Treteste is?"

Kirkes thought for a moment, weighing his answers. "I know he is mad."

"And you still remain loyal to that murderer?"

"It is difficult," said Kirkes, at last.

"These people who died here worried that any attempt to wrest power from Treteste would result in a duel of champions, a fight you would not lose and Treteste retains his crown. You, Sir Kirkes, are the only person keeping the crown on Treteste. The nobles who oppose him are more afraid of you."

Kirkes was silent. He sighed. "I can make no promises."

"I ask for none, just follow your own heart. I know you are a true man without deception."

Kirkes snorted. Navir raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Duke Armas rose to address the High Council of Wierland.

"My friends, we have all heard of the terrible death of King Yeates of Calendia at the hands of Baron Treteste. Some of us have heard of the divided opinion of the people of Calendia towards the usurper King Treteste. Hear now for the first time, the news that Treteste's soldiers have ambushed a meeting of Calendia nobles who were plotting Treteste's overthrow. Nobility and merchants, farmers, and even knights have banded together to resist Treteste.

"Why, you may ask, does this concern us? There are two reasons, which overlap. One, as you know Wierland is poor and hungry. Much of our wealth and food have found their way to Calendia. Yes, to Calendia. Our spies have confirmed it. The agents for King Yeates and now King Treteste have diverted foodstuffs and stolen gold that belongs to us. Calendia, a country we have never harmed, has stolen our future. This must end. This jewel of Landermass, the city of Nantitet has grown dark with greed.

"Two, Treteste is a hated man. He oppresses his people. If we ride into Calendia to end the plunder of our kingdom, Treteste will not have full support of his people, while we bring the desperation of the entire Wierland people to his door. We will crush him with his people's consent and we shall regain our respect. I call for the muster of Wierland!"

The roar of cheers greeted the old ears of Armas which validated his movement of soldiers prior to the council meeting. It was good to be in action again.

The old duke shuffled out to review the army. His stiff joints and the prospect of days in the saddle caused him to curse his age. He hoped the weather would hold although it was too dry and dusty for him. Better than rain. The dampness caused breathing problems and he wouldn't have his soldiers see him infirm. Better to die with a sword in his chest.

He had come to grips with aging, once. However, that was before he was to lead an army to war. War. Even as a young man, he detested war, for he was not a skilled swordsman. Defeat found him even on the practice field. He believed himself a poor choice for a military leader, but there was no one else. He had failed miserably with the prince who spurned the throne as if it would burn him. The prince was a leader and Armas believed the young man would revitalize Wierland after the death of the king. Armas watched the king despoil the country for his personal satisfaction and vowed to assist the prince in restoring prosperity. However, the prince fled the throne. Armas believed this war his only chance left to right his judgment errors to the people of Wierland. What there a chance that this too, was a mistake? Only the prince had ever accused him of errors. Were any of the nobles honest with him? Could he have avoided the decay of Wierland? He shook his head. He would never know.

His head ached. He knew he was too old for war just as he knew he would die during the campaign. What could he do else? Wierland sought hope like a starving man, and Wierland was starving too. He watched the soldiers finish preparing to march. The wagons loaded with gear seemed to creak under the weight of the burden. They had few war wagons; most were farm equipment, idle because of fallow fields. All the iron they found was hammered into weaponry. If they lost the war there was no reason to return to Wierland.

The sun seemed too bright, throwing perilously long shadows off his soldier's shoulders. Easy targets for archers. He shuddered at the thought of the hundreds of deaths that would befall his men. He stumbled, steadied by the strong arm at his side.

Sir Galen walked with the duke alert for such a moment. Galen was in the prime of his life, a master swordsman and the real military leader of Wierland. Duke Armas ran the kingdom in the absence of the prince, who had not been crowned as the rightful king, whom Galen secretly hoped would return one day. His hopes grew fainter daily but he still clung to them in the darkness as he tried to sleep on his bed. He still wore the medallion around his neck that the king had given him before riding out of Wierland forever.

Galen believed he would win this war and revive his kingdom. Perhaps his prince will come back. He thought of it often. First a year passed then two, ten, and twenty. Still somewhere Galen found the faith to watch for his prince's return. He had been the prince's squire until the old king died. When the prince declined the throne and departed Wierland. Galen watched daily for his return. It was his reason for rising each morning and putting one foot in front of the other. He kept his obsession to himself, rising to the head of the Wierland military. His prowess with his sword won him renowned and the respect needed to lead men. Galen lost himself in thought. Could it really have been twenty years?

"I said are your men ready?" asked Armas.

"Sorry. Yes, they are. I have trained them long and hard. No men have had such training. They are well prepared to fight any kind of battle. We may march anytime."

"Good. I am not deceived to think myself a warrior but I want to ride with you at the head of the army. If we are not victorious, there will be no reason to go back to Wierland."

"We shall win."

"Your spirits lift me up, Galen. But I fear the rumors of Sir Kirkes. He is said to be a giant without peer in battle. Armies have left the field at his appearance."

"Do not worry over rumors. I had the best training and I have continued improving my skill. I am a master swordsman. No man can defeat my sword. Even the renowned Kirkes will fear my blade." He stared off into a distant battle playing only in his mind, blood beginning to pound his temples.

"Good, good. Keep reminding me. I'm afraid my age has brought frailty to my mind as well as limbs."

Galen hesitated a moment, realizing that Armas was still talking to him. The words slowly registered in his brain. He shook his head.

"Nonsense, Duke Armas. It is you who has rallied Wierland, none other. We shall be victorious because of your vision, your wisdom, and your faith in the Wierland people. Do not undervalue yourself; we would not be Wierland without your leadership."

Armas stood silently. Galen suddenly feared he had taken his flattery too far, allowing Armas to see the deception of his words. The old duke did not speak again. Galen watched the old man, wondering what fears gripped Armas. Galen wanted to fight this war. He dreamed of it at night-the coarse sound of the swords clashing, the cries of the knights, the thunder of hooves, and the red of the blood covering the grass. The blood. He could almost taste it; he could already smell it.