The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (50 page)

"Good thing it missed."

"It struck closely enough," John snapped. "Unfortunately, Brion has done too many good works, and said too many prayers, for evil magic to kill him—but it did take him out of my way, though not quite long enough." He glared daggers at Brion. "Curse you, for coming back before my power was secure!"

"Your power would never have been complete as long as you treated the people so cruelly," Brion snapped. "What did you do with Mother? Did you slay her, too?"

"Mother? Of course not!" John's eyes glittered with contempt. "Really, Brion, you are unbelievably stupid!"

Brion strove to master sudden fury, and Matt wondered what ace John thought he had in the hole.

"I kept Mother alive, though also soundly locked in her gilded prison," John said. "Fool that I was, I had some vague hope that, with you gone, she might lavish upon me the affections she gave to you, and which I craved. Twice foolish I was, for she was still in love with Father, no matter how she railed at him, and had no love to spare for me!"

"So when your father had served his purpose and declared you his heir," Matt said, "you poisoned him." John frowned. "How did you guess that? No matter, for you are quite right—I commanded Niobhyte to bring me poison, and mixed it in my father's wine. Then the archbishop declared me king, and I
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proceeded to lord it over everybody, deriving great satisfaction from seeing the ones who had treated me with contempt now fawning over me."

"Except for Earl Marshal, and one or two others who would not fawn," Brion said, tight-lipped.

"Yes, I shall tear down the earl's castle when I am done with you." John speared his brother with a venomous glance, apparently forgetting who had the upper hand—or confident that he himself did, which gave Matt cold chills.

Of course, John gave him cold chills, period, now that he had dropped his simpleton act.

"Yes, there were those who would not grovel," John said, "or who had treated me far too badly to forgive—so I had them tortured and executed. I derived a great deal of pleasure from their screams, I assure you, except for those obdurate few who were determined to spoil my fun and refused to cry out. But I gained my greatest pleasure from the sense of power, proved by caprice—making people miserable, then occasionally freeing a felon or showing mercy for no good reason at all, then hauling him back and watching him hang."

"Murderer!" Brion cried, his face darkening.

"Listen to him!" John said, lip twisting in scorn. "It matters not to him that I tried to slay his very self, but learning that I slew a blameless commoner ignites his rage! What a fool, to care more for another's life than for his own!"

Brion's face turned thunderous. He gripped his sword, moving his horse closer. John waited, lips parting, eyes glistening.

"Yes, almost fool enough to lose his temper with you and give you an opening for hitting him with evil magic that would explode his brain," Matt said quickly.

Brion froze, and John seemed to deflate with disappointment. He turned to glare at Matt, as though counting the tortures he would visit on him.

It was so venomous a stare that Matt shuddered. "You've dedicated yourself to evil," he whispered.

"You've sold your soul to the Devil."

"What, sign a bargain with the Prince of Liars?" John sneered. "I am not such a fool! No, I have sold nothing—but I have seen that power is won not by virtue or justice, but by breaking every Commandment, especially since my enemies choose to let those absurd laws limit them!"

"As I said—you've sold your soul."

John turned pale, trembling. "I have not! I am not damned!" Matt wondered what had gone wrong in John's childhood, but realized that he couldn't know the whole of it. Some he could guess—that the child-prince had been ugly and scrawny and acquired zero social skills, so went after negative attention, and had his Oedipal feelings inverted because his mother so plainly favored Brion and barely tolerated him. That had set John to being eaten with envy, especially when she was quite willing to send him away with his father. But he had seen courtiers bowing and scraping to the king, imitated them and ingratiated himself with Drustan, and decided to become king himself by killing his
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brothers, which had gained him the added satisfaction of revenge.

"You can still repent," Matt told him, "though I doubt that you will, when you take such pride in having assassinated your father and your eldest brother."

"Yes, that was my doing—the planning, though not the actual stabbing." Instantly, John was preening again, showing off his cleverness. "I would have loved to stick the knife in him myself, but I had to be far away at the time so that I could avoid suspicion."

"You knew you'd have a chance when the family went visiting Queen Alisande," Matt guessed. "When your brothers decided to go wenching—"

"Decided? It was I who put the idea into their heads!" John cried. "Or into Gaheris', at least—I knew Brion's stupid loyalty would make him follow, whether he wished such pleasures himself or not. I only regret that he went in disguise and my man could not find him in the melee."

"So the disguises weren't your idea?"

"They were indeed, but who would have guessed Brion would dress as a common soldier?" Anyone who knew him, Matt thought, and realized that John didn't—but this wasn't the time to say it.

"So you sent Niobhyte to do the actual killing."

"No, only to see that it was done," John said, grinning without the slightest hint of remorse.

"As the prince commanded, I waited until Gaheris was embroiled with his doxy, then slipped into the chamber and stole his purse," Niobhyte said. "That I did myself, but could not slay Gaheris with my own hand, for I had to brew magicks that would make everyone quick to anger."

"Why did you jump out the window, then?" Matt held up a hand, the answer dawning even as he asked the question. "No, let me guess—to draw attention away from the real murderer long enough for him to escape."

"Or to avoid suspicion," Niobhyte confirmed.

"Then who committed the actual murder?" Matt asked, more at sea than ever. John threw back his head and laughed. "If you can guess that, Lord Wizard, I shall surrender my crown here and now!"

The offer of the reward, and of all the lives saved by avoiding John's last-ditch magical assault, kicked Matt's brain into overdrive. Suddenly, the teaming of chief synthodruid and false king made him connect a series of other facts, leading to only one possible conclusion. "I'll take you at your word. It was Sergeant Brock."

Brion and Sir Orizhan turned to stare at the sergeant.

Brock, white-faced and trembling, slowly sank to his knees, bowing his head with a cry of anguish.
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Matt risked a quick glimpse at Brock and noticed, for the first time, a tall archer in a peasant's hooded smock standing in the shadows with an arrow nocked to his bow. His face was in shadow, but his leggins were furry. Matt felt his stomach sink and hoped Buckeye liked him today.

"Sergeant, you have been a good and trustworthy companion!" Sir Orizhan exclaimed. "Why have you done this dreadful deed?"

"Because he was one of the original synthodruids," Matt said. "He didn't really know what he was getting into, only liked the sound of it. Besides, Niobhyte told him battle was good and said the strong had the right to take what they wanted—very appealing, to a soldier."

"It is true," Brock said through stiff lips. "I forswore the Christ, to my shame, and followed Niobhyte with all my heart. Even when he bade me find a moment to slay the prince and promised me chaos to hide my deed, my heart sang with joy, for none wanted to live in a Bretanglia ruled by Gaheris—your pardon, Majesty…"

"Given," Brion snapped. "What assurance have I that you would feel differently about me?" Then he answered himself. "Yet you do, for in that cavern in Erin, you had chance after chance to slay me if you had wished. You did not, though. Why?"

"Because you are a soldier!" Brock told him, and the gaze he lifted to Brion was filled with wonder and total loyalty. "You are a skilled commander who rarely loses, and arranges the order of battle so that as few of the common soldiers as possible will be slain!"

Brion frowned. "Can this alone be reason enough for loyalty?"

"It can," Sir Orizhan told him.

"There is more." Brock turned his gaze away. "The longer I marched behind you, Majesty, the greater my respect grew, for you are not only a good prince, but also a goodly man, loyal to your friends, courageous in the face of any danger, devoted to your fiancee." John cried out as though his heart were being stabbed, and Niobhyte snarled, "Traitor! You shall roast in wicker for this!"

"Traitor yourself!" Brock surged back to his feet, face suddenly suffused with rage, pointing a trembling finger at the chief druid. "You lied to me, to us all, you preached a travesty of the ancient religion! I learned the truth of it, heard it from real druids in Erin, aye, from a pouka's mouth, from one of the ageless spirits of the land! There is no truth in you, betrayer of thousands, and I repent the day that ever I listened to your lies!"

Niobhyte stood unmoving, but his eyes glowed with malice, as though he were memorizing every slightest feature of Brock's face and form, to work upon him a spell that would cause him endless agony. The sergeant didn't even notice. He turned to Brion again, dropped once more to his knees. "The longer I served you, Majesty, the more I came to know that you were as good as your brother was bad, and swore in my heart to serve you. So I still swear. My life is yours, to take or to give as you will." He wrenched off his helmet and bowed his head, his neck level and naked, waiting for Brion's sword.

"How did you know!" John hissed.

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"Mostly by the silver sickle he had in his pack—he didn't rank high enough to rate gold, did he?" Matt turned back to John. "He said he took it off a dead synthodruid when they raided a sacrifice and saved a maiden, and I never thought to doubt him. But seeing Niobhyte standing beside you made me realize how tightly politics and religion have been bound together in this, and Brock was the only man who was both caught up in that binding and had the opportunity to kill Gaheris. There were a host of small details, too, the look on his face when he saw Brion for the first time, the superstitious fear that fell over him now and then, his original wariness of me—a dozen of them, plus the fact that the wound in Gaheris' back was too broad for a sword, but might have been made by a sickle piercing, then hooking to cut its way out." He didn't mention that Gaheris' ghost had talked about a stabbing pain followed by a ripping, only looked down at Brock. "Niobhyte said it had to be done with the sickle, didn't he? To make Gaheris a sacrifice to the old gods."

"He did," Brock confirmed, head still bowed, "and fool that I was, I believed him."

"So you knocked out the other man who was protecting Gaheris' back—how were you supposed to know it was Brion, dressed up as a trooper? Then you fought off a townsman or two, pulled out your sickle, and stuck it in Gaheris' back. After that, you pretended to be knocked out yourself, fell down, and were just one more unconscious victim of a brawl, along with the rest." Matt turned back to John. "That's how I guessed I believe you said something about surrendering, Your Highness? A matter of your word of honor?"

"Honor is for fools and weaklings!" John snapped. "If I had known you had the slightest chance of guessing, I'd never have said it! Niobhyte, slay them!"

"I think not," the chief druid said, though his hands began weaving a spell. "Your army has abandoned you, and it is clear I shall not triumph by supporting you. What say you, King Brion? Would you have your kingdom so securely in the palm of your hand that none dares strike against you? Would you have every subject, from high to low, tremble in fear of your name?" John whirled, screaming in outrage.

"No!" Brion snapped. "I will never stoop to hold power through fear, with no love! And I will never lower myself to borrowing power from a man who is such a coward that he dares not strike his own blows, but must suborn others into striking for him!"

"Then die, fool!" Niobhyte raised his hand to throw a death-spell—but John, still screaming, yanked a sword from under his cloak and stabbed.

Niobhyte fell, howling, clutching the wound high on his breast.

"He isn't dead!" Matt shouted. "Sergeant, sap him! As long as he can still chant a spell, he's a danger to us all!"

Brock stared up, amazed at still being trusted enough for an order. Then life flooded back into his face, and he leaped at the chance to serve—leaped up and over to Niobhyte as he pulled out a small cudgel and cracked his former leader over the head. Niobhyte went limp, but Matt snapped, "Tie the man up and keep him unconscious!" He knew from personal experience that it was quite possible to work magic just by thinking, if there was enough emotion behind the thoughts, and he was sure Niobhyte had some very strong feelings at that moment.

"My lord, I shall!" Brock took up station by Niobhyte, cudgel up, alert for the slightest movement.
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"It is you who have unraveled all my plans!" John shrieked at Matt, "it is you who have stolen a tenth of my land, sinking it deep in the ocean! Feel the force of my hatred, fool!" He chanted a verse in an old language as he swung the sword down, but not in a blow, only pointing it at Matt, and a lightning bolt jumped from his blade.

Matt snapped out,

"Be it live or be it dead,

Ground this spark to spare my head!"