A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  Her thoughts were blank.

  Gods, don’t let her be dead. The king would never forgive him. Oli fisted the railing and looked down into the curving stairwell. No sign of anyone.

  “She does not answer my knock,” Zeroah said, coming to stand beside him.

  Oli glanced back to the council chambers. Everyone had come out into the corridor.

  “Where is Princess Vallah’s chamber?” he asked Zeroah.

  “Upstairs,” she said, starting toward the landing. “On the fourth floor.”

  Bero raced up the stairs. By the time Oli caught up, the guard was kneeling on the floor beside a woman. Lady Pia.

  “Is she dead?” Oli asked.

  “No, sir,” Bero said. “But something is strange.”

  Pia’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. Oli could hear her breathing, see the rise and fall of her chest, but she did not respond.

  “There’s a mantic in the castle,” Oli said. His mother, likely.

  A series of distant screams drifted up from below. Oli flew back to the stairs. Rosârah Zeroah, who had just reached the top, turned back, but Oli lunged forward and caught her arm. “Stay with Duke Odarka while I see what’s happening.”

  She tugged her arm away. “I will not.”

  “We are at the castle!” Grayson’s voice burst into Oli’s mind. “I don’t know how. One moment we were in the middle of the lake, the next we were coming alongside the dock. The guards were loyal to your mother, but then she changed and isn’t your mother anymore.”

  “You’re not making any sense, boy,” Oli voiced as he watched Zeroah escape down the stairs. “What did my mother change?”

  “I think she put a mask of herself on one of her maids. Her shadir must have seen me.”

  “Find my mother, Grayson.” The boy should be able to travel to her in a thought.

  “I just did,” Grayson voiced. “She’s in the great hall. She has Queen Mielle with her.”

  Oli’s heart sank. Mother must have come here to capture Rosârah Mielle while Father led his army against the Armanian force. How would Oli manage to—?

  “Who is watching the queen?” Trevn voiced.

  “I am, Your Highness.” And Oli sprinted to his room on the fourth floor. If he was going to fight, he would need his shield.

  Trevn

  The charge slowed once it reached the melee. Thick snow flurries blinded Trevn, and he steered Seeker through the throng, cutting down any Puru he happened upon. The great cacophony of voices yelling battle cries and shouts of pain shocked Trevn. His world was usually quite silent. He tried not to think about what might be happening to Mielle in the castle. The burst of fear he’d felt from her through the soul-binding combined with the tumult of emotions around him was so intense, he shielded his mind. Oli would take care of her.

  “Enemy archers firing again, Your Highness,” Miss Onika voiced.

  Trevn lifted his shield overhead, which cleared the snowy onslaught from his eyes. From the back of the Puru army, another volley of arrows shot toward them.

  “Shields up!” he yelled, ducking behind his own and praying the arrows missed his horse.

  The narrow shafts streaked out of the blizzard. One struck Trevn’s shield with enough force to knock him backward. He caught hold of the pommel on his saddle and barely kept his seat. He spurred Seeker onward, eager to reach the bowmen before they could reload. Folly, he realized soon enough, as even poor archers could be quick to draw.

  Again Miss Onika warned of arrows, and again Trevn called for shields. He somehow reached the line of archers and cleaved through a bow about to fire. The taut wood snapped under the force of his blade, and its wielder fled. Trevn let the man go and turned his sword to the archer on his right.

  A group of Puru infantry swarmed the horses, jabbing spikes into the animals and their riders. Trevn chopped his blade over a Puru soldier’s arm. As the man’s hand and spear separated from the rest of him, something sharp glanced off Trevn’s right shin. He whipped around, instinctively pushing out his shield. He struck a man’s head and sent him sprawling into the mass of bodies.

  Another Puru jabbed a pike into Seeker, causing the animal to rear. Trevn held on but his legs slipped. When Seeker returned to all fours, the force knocked Trevn off. He hit the ground on his left side and slid a few feet in the icy slush. Cold gripped his skin from thigh to waist. He scrambled to his feet and barely managed to block a pike coming at his head. The impact knocked him to his backside. He kicked his attacker’s ankles with both boots. The Puru man stumbled, and Cadoc ended his life with a sword thrust to his side. Trevn’s High Shield stepped on the dead man’s thigh, pulled out his sword, then hauled Trevn to standing.

  “Stay . . . your feet . . . Highness!”

  Trevn could barely hear him over the screams and din of clashing weapons.

  Cadoc shifted to block an attack on his right. Trevn put his back to Cadoc and engaged the closest Puru soldier. The snow was falling so thickly, he could hardly tell one side from the other. Only the pale faces set apart the enemy.

  Trevn fought for his life, knowing full well he could be cut down. He wanted to call to Oli and ask about Mielle, but instead, he voiced Miss Onika. “Have Sir Jarmyn’s men reached General Agoros yet?”

  “I will check, Your Highness.”

  The two armies hacked, stabbed, and thrust at each other, clambering over the bodies of the slain. One by one the Armanians felled the poorly trained natives.

  “The officers are still in the wagon,” Miss Onika voiced. “Sir Jarmyn and a large group of soldiers are riding to the north.”

  “What!” Trevn dodged the thrust of a spear, then jabbed his sword into the neck of the man holding it. With a violent tug he jerked his sword free, the tang coated in red. Revulsion burst within him, but he reached for Sir Jarmyn’s mind, found it, and forced himself inside. “Sir Jarmyn, you not only defy direct orders to lead an ambush against General Agoros, you flee the battlefield like a coward? Believe that all of Armania will know of this.”

  A mixture of confusion and humiliation filled Sir Jarmyn’s mind. Trevn shoved away from the deserter, dodged the thrust of another spear, and found the mind of a more trustworthy man.

  “Sir Keshton,” he voiced, again taking his listener by surprise. “Circle the melee and attack General Agoros. Take your best archers and make sure the general is defeated.”

  “Yes, Your Highness, right away.”

  Someone plowed into Trevn’s back. He stumbled headfirst toward a bout between an Armanian and Puru. He stabbed his sword into the slush, pushed his weight against the pommel, and slid around, reversing his direction. He ran back toward where he’d been, tripped on something buried under the snow, and kicked up the shaft of a broken pike.

  The majority of the Armanian line still stood, defending the hill. As more of the Puru attackers fell, many of their comrades fled, first in singles and pairs, then in larger groups. They always turned back, however, as their compulsion gave them no choice. Their uneven behavior quickly landed them in a rout. Many slipped or stumbled helplessly down the slope that had become slick with bloody slush. Trevn saw firsthand the value of Cadoc’s warning to stay on one’s feet as the Armanians assaulted the downed pale natives. Most of those who did manage to keep their feet were killed by Armanian cavalry still on horseback.

  A moment of calm settled over Trevn. He blinked away sweat and melted snow from his eyes and panted, dazed to suddenly have no one to fight. His shin throbbed. A Puru man lay dead before him, his torso and legs crushed under a fallen horse.

  “Your Highness!” Out of the blizzard, Cadoc slogged toward him. “Stay close. Here comes another group.”

  They moved together, engaging any Puru who crossed their path. Trevn parried dozens of stabs from pikes and chopped his blade over as many or more shafts. He killed one man with a lunge of his sword, another when he sliced his blade into a man’s shoulder.

  The cold faded, as did the sting on his shin. He
no longer knew pain or feeling of any kind. He fought on, slaying men as if harvesting wheat. His actions seemed impossible for his skill or strength, and he began to move instinctually, knowing only that he must kill or be killed.

  Oli

  Oli’s shield was not on the hook where he’d left it. He glanced at his bed, the floor underneath, in front of the sideboard, along the wall under the window, beside the—

  “It this what you’re looking for?”

  The door to his wardrobe opened slowly, and his father stepped out, holding Oli’s shield. A quick toss and it smacked on the floor in front of Oli’s boots.

  How could the man be here? Oli snatched up the shield, keeping his eyes on his father’s. “You’re not on the battlefield?”

  “Sir Briden is fully capable,” Father said. “And I can take the castle without an army.”

  Oli put together the pieces. “You’re using the battle as a distraction.”

  “It got the king and his army out of my way, did it not?”

  “As a general, you should be on the battlefield instead of sneaking into the castle like a coward and abandoning your compelled innocents to their fate.”

  Father’s eyes lit. “You dare call me a coward?”

  “Rebels might be heroes, Father, but traitors will always be cowards. Why are you in my chambers if you’ve come to take the castle?”

  The man curled his lip. “Your mother believes you will join us. I knew better, of course, but because she wishes it, I promised I’d give you one last chance to switch your allegiance.”

  “I made my choice. I will not change my mind.”

  Father drew his sword, letting the tang scrape menacingly against its scabbard. “Then I’m afraid you must die, my son.”

  “Your Grace?” The door swung inward and Rosârah Zeroah stepped into the room. “Oh, General Agoros, I—”

  “Rosârah,” Oli said, “would you ask Captain Veralla to send some guards to escort my father to the dungeons?”

  “Yes, of course.” She turned and ran.

  “That won’t be necessary.” Father slashed his blade through the air in a quick warning. Oli flinched but held his ground. “I will leave this engagement as acting lord of this castle,” his father declared.

  “Unless I kill you.”

  “With one arm?”

  Oli unfastened his wooden arm and dropped it on the floor. Then he looped the shield’s strap over his head and pushed his stump against the brace until it squeezed into the groove. He stepped back and drew his sword in his left hand.

  Father grinned. “I would very much like to see how you manage this great feat.” He raised his blade and stepped forward, swiping lightly. Oli stepped back and parried. Father sent another well-aimed strike. Again Oli backstepped, parried.

  Father was forcing him toward the door and jabbed his next strike deep enough it could have passed through Oli’s middle. Oli whacked his shield against the blade, deflecting the blow. The force knocked him into the doorframe. He stumbled through the exit and onto the circular landing. Zeroah watched from the stairs, one hand on the rail. Her guards were ascending the steps toward her, both with swords drawn.

  “It seems you shall have witnesses to your death, my son,” Father said. “I’m glad of it. I wouldn’t want anyone to doubt your bravery. Or your loyalty.”

  “You want help, Your Grace?” Doth asked.

  Oli gritted his teeth. “Only in carrying away his dead body.”

  Father chuckled. “Always the dreamer.” He lunged, Oli parried, and though it had been many years since they’d sparred, they fell into a familiar rhythm. Father pressed his attack hard, pushing Oli around the circular walkway. Oli focused on defense, hoping to tire his father. They completed the circle, and when they returned to the landing, Oli drove forward, swiped his blade in from the side, and bashed his shield into his father’s chest.

  Father escaped by backstepping up the stairs that led to the fifth floor. Oli struck hard with sword and shield, knocking his father back against the stairs.

  Oli tried to sneak in a jab, but a twist of the wrist and Father locked the guards of their swords from his reclined position. He grimaced and thrust forward, pushing to his feet. Oli’s one arm was no match for Father’s two, and his father easily shoved Oli back into the open.

  Oli parried and parried. The heel of his boot snagged on the edge of a carpet and he tripped. Father’s blade sliced his left shoulder, and Oli stumbled back against the wall. Father pressed forward, and they locked guards again, bodies close, only Oli’s shield between them.

  “Bleeding already.” Father tsked at the spot of blood swelling on the shoulder of Oli’s shirt. “You should have let Barthos finish you off. Was this extra year of life really worth it?”

  Oli yelled and shoved out his shield, managing to break free.

  “What did it gain you, really?” Father asked. “You saved Sâr Wilek’s life two times and still he was killed. One cannot thwart the plans of the gods.”

  “When I meet the gods, at least I’ll have honor,” Oli said. “What will you have?”

  “Riches,” Father said. “And favor.”

  They moved faster, the swords a haze between them. The sound of Zeroah’s voice startled him. Was she trying to tell him something? As they circled close and her words rose above the clash of the weapons, he realized she was praying.

  Her loyalty bolstered Oli, and he gave everything he had. To his great surprise, his blade suddenly slipped past Father’s guard and sank into flesh. Father dropped his sword, which clattered against the marble floor. Doth ran and picked it up.

  Father lifted both hands, eyes focused on the tang of Oli’s sword where it was embedded in his stomach. “You proved me wrong.” His words were tight, pained. “While I’m embarrassed to have underestimated you, I’m exceedingly proud that my son bested me. And with only one hand!” Father fell to his knees, dragging down Oli’s arm, as he still gripped his sword.

  Oli winced and pulled back. The blade slid out, the flat slick and red.

  Father’s forehead wrinkled. “Tell your mother I went bravely?”

  Something moved on the edge of Oli’s vision. Captain Veralla and two guardsmen, standing side by side with Doth, all with swords drawn.

  Father collapsed, and Oli moved back, overcome.

  The guards converged upon Father’s body. One removed his belt and tossed it on the floor, while the other checked him for more weapons. No point in that. He was no threat now.

  “Captain Veralla,” Oli said, eyes fixed upon his father’s body. “Is the queen still in the great hall?”

  “With your mother, yes. Sârah Jemesha has sixty-some guards with her, all of them Kinsman. We’ve killed or taken captive just as many out in the bailey. I have eighty-five of our garrison in the hallway outside the great hall and have sent a man to call the rest inside to help.”

  Oli tore his gaze from his father and strode to the stairwell. “Let us end this.”

  “Your Grace.” Zeroah fell into step beside him. “Please, don’t put Mielle in the middle of a battle where she might be injured.” She lowered her voice. “There’s a door to a secret passageway behind the curtain that divides the high table from the serving antechamber. If you could distract your mother, I could get Mielle behind the curtain and to safety.”

  Oli stopped midway down one of the flights of stairs. “Why did no one tell me of this passageway?”

  Zeroah blinked innocently and her lips curved in a slow smile. “Because, Your Grace,” she whispered, “it’s a secret.”

  Of all the . . . “Go through the passage and wait on the other side of the curtain. Remain hidden until I tell you otherwise. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” She fled down the stairs.

  Oli followed her. “Grayson? Can you come to the castle for a moment?”

  “Yes, sir. Which part?”

  “Meet me at the bottom of the stairs on the second floor of the keep.”

  Ros�
�rah Zeroah peeled away on the third floor, and Oli continued on to the second level. There he found Grayson waiting with the garrison.

  “I need you to divert my mother somehow,” Oli told the young man. “She is holding Rosârah Mielle in the great hall. I’ll go in and speak with her. When I tell you, I want you to distract her long enough for me to help the queen escape. Can you do this?”

  “Yes, sir. Shall I come with you now or wait for your signal?”

  “Come now, though keep yourself invisible.”

  Grayson vanished. Oli stepped up to the double doors of the great hall and peeked through the crack between them. Soldiers clad in red milled about the tables. They had moved the captives along the left wall. On the dais, Oli’s mother was seated in the king’s chair. She wore a red formal gown and a black cape. Rosârah Mielle stood stiffly beside her, unnaturally, with her arms against her sides and a vacant expression on her face.

  Oli realized he was still holding his bloodied sword. He glanced at Captain Veralla, swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Uh . . . might I, uh . . .”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” The captain took Oli’s sword and traded for his clean one.

  “Thank you.” Oli sheathed the fresh weapon. Shield still in place, he smoothed the front of his tunic, swept his hand back over his hair, and entered the great hall.

  “Mother, good midday,” he called out. He let his gaze sweep the room as if seeing everything for the first time, mentally counting the guards. Captain Veralla’s report seemed accurate. “I thought you were staying on the ship.”

  “Oli!” Mother’s face lit up. “Did your father find you?”

  Oli walked slowly down the center aisle. “Is Eudora here?”

  “We left her on the ship where she couldn’t cause trouble.”

  “Eudora? Can you hear me?” Oli voiced his sister as he continued up the center aisle. “She does not answer me. Why?”

  “A sleeping draught,” Mother said. “Had I children who loved me, I would not have to stoop to such means. Do not doubt that I can control her when the time comes.”