Stormwarden

by Janny Wurts

  The guardsmen tugged his chains, holding him spreadeagled and helpless before the royal presence. Prisoner regarded captor with a level glare of hostility. The Kielmark's chest heaved in great whistling gasps while blood dripped from his wrist, splashing scarlet stars on the marble. He waited in silence for the King to speak, but whether from stubborn pride or incapacity, no man present could guess.

  "For a man who has terrorized shipping, your harbor seems strangely deserted." Kisburn stroked the leopard skin on the chair with lean ringed fingers, an expression of overweening satisfaction on his face. "Where did you send them?"

  The former Lord of Cliffhaven grinned. "To the backside of hell, for all the good it will do you."

  Guardsmen wrenched at the chains and his shoulders jerked. In a burst of fury the Kielmark yanked back. One of his tormentors slipped, crashing sideways into a basket of alabaster pears. The container overturned. Fruit shattered with a shrill ring of sound and a spray of sparkling chips scattered the tiles. The guardsman cursed and clawed to maintain his balance. For an instant his chain fell slack; the Kielmark insolently wiped the blood from his brow, smearing his sound wrist scarlet.

  But his gesture of bravado was spoiled by a vicious rejoinder from the flag-bearer. "He lies, your Grace. The ships left last night, packed to the crosstrees with cowards. Most of us served Cliffhaven against our will, and others didn't fancy getting burned alive like pigs."

  But the King seemed unconvinced. His jeweled arm lifted, gesturing to a halberdier. The man reversed his weapon like a quarterstaff. Six feet of studded beech rose and descended and the Kielmark's smile vanished with a gasp. The flag-bearer laughed, backed by sudden ugly silence. The halberd's steel-shod butt carved arcs in the air as the guardsman raised his weapon for a second blow, then a third.

  Emien shrank in distaste from his place at Tathagres' side. He barely heard the reply which emerged half-strangled from the Kielmark's throat. The King responded with evident displeasure. Chain clanked. The halberdier closed once more, and fresh blood spangled the floor.

  The play of petty emotion across the royal countenance raised hackles on Emien's neck. In all probability the flag-bearer had told the truth; but in vindication for past dishonor, the King was unwilling to quit. The boy felt his stomach twist; linked with revulsion came cold fear that one day the man in chains would be himself. Harrowed by vivid imagination, he saw accusers lined up to condemn him, his drowned father closely followed by mother, sister and the sailors he had abused on Crow's pinnace. Beyond stood four deckhands sold to the galleys on Skane's Edge; these were joined by the King's youngest page boy and a fat leering guardsman he had cheated into subservience at cards. Each blow that fell upon the Kielmark made Emien flinch and sweat.

  The officers soon tired of the sport. Only the King remained unsatisfied. The abuse continued, ascending in violence until furnishings rocked and scattered before the halberdier's obedient enthusiasm. Repelled to the verge of nausea, Emien pressed his palms to his face. And spurred by her squire's discomfort, Tathagres stood up.

  Light from the windows sparkled over white mail as she picked her way around the overturned rungs of a chair. "Your Grace, the prisoner is no longer a threat to our position. The Thienz assures it. And with the Kielmark hostage, any captains who remain loyal can be controlled. The Gierj will gain you ships in time, but not if you waste the opportunity."

  The halberdier straightened over the Kielmark's sagging form, uncertain. At last, with a wave of bored acquiescence, the King ordered the sovereign of Cliffhaven removed to the east keep dungeon.

  The victim staggered badly as the soldiers dragged him from the hall. Shocked by his halting progress, Emien squeezed his eyes closed. A steward mounted the dais with a tray of wine and poured glasses in celebration of the victory. The Warlord-General issued orders to complete occupation of the fortress. The flag-bearer volunteered to close the boom across the harbor; he left with a junior officer and two guardsmen. The remaining troops were dispatched, some under orders to search the town and a few to stand watch in the anteroom. Boots tramped across rumpled carpeting and a blood-spattered expanse of marble with casual disregard; the Kielmark's legendary might was broken. His conquerors answered orders with a cheerful swagger, certain of fame and spoils.

  Once the light tower was manned and the town proved deserted, servants arrived and straightened the disarranged furnishings. Emien paid little notice. Concerned with his own thoughts, he lingered when the Thienz was summoned. While the Warlord-General, Lord Sholl and Tathagres seated themselves on the dais with the officers to conduct their council of conquest, the fisherman's son from Imrill Kand watched on the sidelines, plotting his mistress' downfall.

  * * *

  Motionless where he had fallen when the guards flung him through the door, the Kielmark sprawled face down in the same stone cell where he had lately imprisoned Jaric. Bruised, bloodied, beaten, he did not budge, even to ask for water. The King's guardsmen secured his chains and locked the door. Gloating over his defeat, they left him in darkness without bothering to post any sentry.

  An hour passed, then two. Metal scraped faintly beneath the floor. A length of flagstone shifted, raised, and a stealthy whisper issued from a tunnel beneath. "Lord?"

  Chain rattled as the Kielmark stirred. He turned his head and spoke through cracked lips. "No guard."

  "Fires!" said the man in the hole. "They're fools, then."

  The Kielmark offered no comment. Eager hands levered the stone aside and a man emerged, blindly drawing candle and striker from a pouch at his belt. Light bloomed beneath his fingers, revealing the intent features of the man who had played the flute in the courtyard. Still reeking of ale, one of the dancers climbed out after him, armed to the teeth and dangerously sober. He drew a key from his tunic, bent over the Kielmark and swiftly unlocked the fetters.

  Crusted cuffs fell open. In slow painful stages, the Kielmark rolled over. His expression hid very little. Cliffhaven's two wiliest captains looked on with concern and wisely offered no assistance as he sat up. Even by the weak flicker of candle-flame, they could see things had gone badly. The Kielmark's ribs and shoulders were crisscrossed with mottled welts; his back was little better. To touch even in kindness would only increase his discomfort.

  One of the captains swore.

  The Kielmark looked up. His eyes shone baleful and pale beneath eyebrows matted with dried blood. "Did the signal arrive from the straits?"

  The flute player raked dirt-streaked fingers through his hair. "Nine dead, a score and four with burns major and minor and the rest of the lot lying about in the brush, croaking like frogs, their throats left raw from screaming. But watching, they said, for your banner in the tower." He paused, suddenly contrite. "Are your ribs intact? You weren't exactly acting after the bit with the flagpole. Corley says he only followed orders, Lord, but there's a wager going round that you'll break both his legs."

  The Kielmark grunted. Split lips parted across his teeth. "I'll settle for the Kingsmen's heads," he said bluntly. "On with it, then."

  He pinched out the candle. Darkness dropped, hiding his suffering through a terrible interval while the captains lowered him into the tunnel.

  * * *

  Beneath the high vaulted arches of Cliffhaven's great hall, the Thienz coughed through its gills. It leaped to its feet with a shrill scream of warning and suddenly staggered, a crossbow quarrel bristling from its throat. Knocked backwards by the impact it fell, smashing through the rungs of an ivory-inlaid globe stand. Keithland rolled across the rug and the chamber erupted into chaos.

  "Treachery!" shouted Lord Sholl. He dove behind his stout oaken chair just as the tapestries slithered into heaps, revealing arrowslits cut through the stone walls behind. A storm of shafts flickered past the arched windows. The royal chief advisor rammed face-first into oak, pinned by an arrow through his back. The Grand Warlord-General slipped to the floor beside him, his mouth stretched wide in surprise. The advisor's flesh crumpled be
fore his eyes, melting into a form not recognizable as human; but sorcery blazed above the dais, dazzling his vision before the change was complete. He died still wondering whether a demon had shared his salt.

  Shielded by the crackling blaze of Tathagres' conjuring, Emien crouched in terror, while on the dais around him the royal council members slumped in their seats, struck down by enemy arrows. Since the Thienz' first cry, his mistress had leaped to her feet, her hands clenched over the band at her throat. She raised a crackling arch of light over the King. Any shaft which touched it exploded into sparks. But the rest of the arrows hissed to their marks with grisly accuracy; in seconds, Emien, Kisburn and Tathagres became the sole survivors amid a slaughtered circle of officials. Yet she dared not relax her defenses. The archers continued to fire.

  "All is not lost," said Tathagres urgently. "Help get the King to safety."

  Unearthly reflections flickered across her face, spangling her jewels in light. Immersed in her wardspell, Emien felt currents of energy tingle across his skin. Ozone stung his nostrils. Suddenly exhilarated by his narrow escape from death, the boy caught the royal wrist and urged the stunned King of Kisburn to rise.

  "You must walk, your Grace." Tathagres gestured toward the anteroom. "Outside I can summon the Gierj. Hurry."

  The King rallied scattered wits. Shafts banged and clattered across the marble floor, deflected by Tathagres' sorcery. Seizing the chance for survival, Kisburn permitted Emien to hustle him down the dais steps. Tathagres followed on their heels, still conjuring. The attackers switched to spears. Energy crackled and whined overhead, devouring wood and steel with seemingly endless appetite. The party crossed the hall at a run.

  Carnage met them before they reached the door, as guards posted in the anteroom belatedly acted in their King's defense. Men charged in disciplined formation, shields raised over their heads. But the tasteless opulence of the Kielmark's decor was designed to foil attack. The lines broke into muddled knots as men dodged between tables and chests. A lampstand toppled with a screeching crash and swords tangled in statuary. The archers slaughtered rescuers at leisure.

  The King shouted and extended his arm toward an injured officer.

  "Prevent him," Tathagres said quickly. "We can't stop here."

  Her violet eyes raked the King with ruthless calculation; she meant the King no kindness, Emien observed. He gripped the royal tunic with bruising force. Thin shoulders jerked under the velvet. Emien knew a thrill of excitement. Never before had a man born to power suffered discomfort at his hands. He shoved the King toward the door. Kisburn stumbled gracelessly forward. Emien followed, stepping callously on the fingers of the officer who thrashed on the floor. With Tathagres a step behind, he plunged through the arch into the anteroom, beyond range of enemy weapons.

  The heavy iron-bound panels beyond were closed, barred from without, cornering them like mice in a culvert. Emien whirled. He yelled warning, just as the archway leading to the hall exploded in a burst of red light.

  Tathagres spoke through the glare. "Move aside. Hurry!"

  She intended to break the doors with sorcery. Emien dove clear, dragging the King by the collar. The spell blazed at his heels. Shadows streaked the anteroom floor, spattered across with sparks, and the panels sagged on their hinges. Wood and steel unravelled into smoke, rendered ineffective as the weapons set against them in the main hall. But when Tathagres followed the King through the gap, she lacked her usual lithe grace. Use of sorcery taxed her, Emien realized; the discovery pleased him. If her powers were limited by ordinary human endurance, he wondered how long she could continue before exhaustion made her careless.

  A guardsman sprawled dead before the doorway, the handle of a throwing knife sunk between his shoulderblades. Tathagres saw him and stopped. With enemies about the fortress and no time left for etiquette, she spun and faced the King.

  "Where are your personal chambers? Take me there quickly. Your Grace cannot be properly defended in the open."

  Reliant upon her protection, the King answered at once. But Emien noticed she kept one hand poised on her necklace as if she expected resistance. When the Warlord-General's aide ran into the corridor, a score of guardsmen at his heels, her expression showed open annoyance. She regarded them as interference, the boy deduced. With the conquest of Cliffhaven thrown into question, Kisburn's men were allies no longer. Tathagres intended to claim the Keys to Elrinfaer by force.

  The aide saw the corpse. He skidded to a halt with a rattle of mail and gear and saluted smartly. "Your Grace, the enemy has closed and barred the main gates of the fortress. Archers fire on the courtyard. We've had to move the company inside."

  He paused, breathless, and waited. But without the advice of Lord Sholl and his council, the King seemed strangely indecisive. He made no effort to assert himself as Tathagres intervened.

  "Forget the gates. There's been an attempt on your sovereign's life. The Warlord-General lies dead." She jerked her head at the charred ruin of the doors to the main hall. "You, guards. Block this entrance. " To the aide she added, "Fetch reinforcements. There must be passages behind the walls. Purge them if you can. You will receive further orders after I have seen your King secure."

  The King accepted Tathagres' judgment without question. He dismissed the aide and fled in the direction of his chamber.

  The Kielmark's fortress proved a maze of stairs and angled passages. Winded after his rush from the main hall, Emien halted with Tathagres and the King before a brass-studded portal. Two of Kisburn's personal honor guards flanked the entrance, vigilant and alert at their posts.

  Tathagres' aggression softened like steel under velvet. She waited with poised patience while the guardsmen saluted their sovereign Lord, then stepped smartly aside to admit him. Tired, shaken and wheezing, the King leaned heavily on the latch. The massive panels swung open, revealing a wide chamber richly carpeted in scarlet and gold. Kisburn hastened to a side table where a tray waited with a bottle of wine from the Kielmark's private cellars. Ignoring the gold-rimmed goblet, he raised the flask to his lips. Fine crystal rattled against his teeth as he swallowed and his fingers marked sweaty prints on the flask.

  A choked-off cry made him start. The king whirled, dribbling wine down his chin. Beyond the opened doorway, Tathagres lowered one of the honor guards, dead, across the corpse of the first. She straightened with wicked intent, pulled the heavy panels closed, then placed her back against them.

  From the side, Emien saw her grip the latch until her knuckles blanched against the brass. Fatigued at last by her sorceries, she used the doors more to support her weight than to forestall attempted escape.

  But her eyes stayed cruelly alert as she regarded her prey across the airy expanse of the chamber. "Get me the Keys to Elrinfaer, your Grace." She turned her shoulder to the wood, one hand raised to her necklace. "Or shall I force them from you?"

  The King dropped the wine. The flask toppled across the tray and shattered, spattering glass over his gold-bordered tunic. A stain darkened the carpet under his boots as he gaped in astonished disbelief. Tathagres had betrayed him; Emien made no effort to contain the elated laughter which arose in his throat.

  Jolted by the sound, Kisburn recovered a shadow of his royal propriety. He shook his head, wine-streaked fingers clamped over the table edge. "But the Chief Advisor assured me-"

  "Lord Sholl is dead," Tathagres interrupted. Amethysts flashed as her fingers jumped against her neckband. "Fetch the Keys."

  Why does she hesitate? Selfishly eager, Emien wondered. Usually his mistress flaunted power, taking pleasure in intimidation and superiority. Emboldened by the thought that Tathagres might be tiring, Emien hoped the King would resist, compelling her to react until exhaustion lowered her guard.

  But the murders in the council had shattered Kisburn's confidence. Deprived of the support of Lord Sholl and the Warlord-General, he lacked the backbone to fight. Emien looked on in disgust while his shoulders sagged, as if the gem-crusted chain of office wh
ich circled his shoulders suddenly grew too weighty for him to endure.

  "I will yield you the Keys." Kisburn blotted his brow on his brocade cuff and glowered at the woman who blocked the chamber door. Robbed of dignity by defeat, his tone turned querulous. "I hope you have decency enough to leave after this. For your sorceries and your demons have brought my kingdom to the verge of ruin."

  The King pulled a ring from a chain at his belt and crossed the room. Sullen and slow, he knelt before the heavy steel-bound chest placed beside the hearth.

  "Go with him," said Tathagres to Emien. Her voice held a brittle edge. "Be certain he tries no tricks. The Keys of Elrinfaer lie in a box of black basalt. You will know it by Anskiere's seal set in gold on the top."

  Emien obeyed, feigning nonchalance. While Kisburn unlocked the chest and lifted the lid, the boy glanced furtively at Tathagres; her attention appeared absorbed by the King, who reached with jerky, uncertain motions and shuffled among the contents in the chest. Emien sidled closer. Careful to hide his movements, he raised his hand to his belt, closed his fingers over his knife, and pretended to peer over the King's shoulder. Slowly, nervously, he inched his blade from its sheath.

  "Here." Kisburn straightened, a cube of dark stone balanced across his palm. The symbol of Anskiere's mastery was inlaid in shining gold on its polished surface, a stormfalcon centered within three concentric circles. To Emien, the seal promised power, permanent escape from the sovereign tyranny of sorcery. With a rising surge of triumph, he seized the royal shoulder and sank his dagger upward to the hilt in the soft flesh of the King's lower back.

  Royal blood flooded warmly over his wrist. The King cried out, twisted and sank in agony to one knee. Anskiere's box slipped from loosened fingers. Emien caught the object, felt its solid corners gouge his skin. Too late he noticed the cube possessed neither seam nor catch. If the stone contained an object of power, he had no time to search for the secret. With the hair rising at the nape of his neck, Emien straightened and faced his mistress.