Floreskand_King

by Morton Faulkner

  Sauri’s plum lips curved, as if amused, and she gained some small measure of comfort from his bravado.

  Still defending himself from his awkward position, Sauri sliced left and right, the tip of his blade catching Cla-Demen’s doublet, slitting it, and it spewed gaudy padding mixed with blood.

  In that same instant, Sauri disarmed Cla-Damen with a couple of slick, underhand parries. The weapon clattered to the floor and Sauri levelled the point of his blade on the swordmaster’s throat. Normally after a hard-fought bout, he would be good-natured regarding a triumph, suggesting Cla-Damen had let him win; which was often the case. But, today, uncharacteristically, Sauri was conceited about this victory.

  “This time, Swordmaster,” he rasped, catching his breath, “I believe I properly bested you, no?”

  “You did, sire. Your skill surpassed all previous engagements and at the last you caught me completely unawares.” Chagrin showed on Cla-Damen’s face, imparting truth to his words. “Until now I had been beaten by only two other men in my long career: Aurelan Crossis and Ulran, the owner of the Red Teller.”

  “Rumour has it that Ulran is a formidable foe.”

  “He is, sire.” His jaw jutted, voice resonant. “I regret to say that he beat me with consummate ease.”

  “Not an admission you take lightly!”

  “No, sire.”

  Why hadn’t Sauri lowered the Black Sword? There was a sinking in the pit of her stomach and she sensed something greatly awry. She detected tension in the air, yet normally there’d be relief and virtual comradely jesting after a hard-fought bout. The nevus on Sauri’s left cheek, in the vague shape of a spider, deepend in shade.

  “Even so,” Sauri went on, his sword not wavering, “you cut me and came close a couple of times to skewering me.”

  “Aye, I did, sire.” Cla-Damen looked glum, as if annoyed with his failure. His eyes flicked at Sauri’s sword, a hand resting on the knife hilt at his belt. “Your defence was too much for me.”

  “Just so.” Sauri said and thrust his sword into Cla-Damen’s chest and left it there. “Just so, traitor!”

  In that same instant, she realised that Cla-Demen had intended to kill Sauri. Swiftly withdrawing her jewelled dagger, she leaped from the dais and levelled the knife at the neck of the swordmaster’s aide. “Do not think of slinking away!” she snapped.

  Eyes wide in alarm, he whimpered, “No, your highness, I will not slink.”

  “Good. Now, empty your pockets!”

  A leather pouch of coin, a slip of paper appropriate for a saptor, and a good-luck charm clattered to the floor. She pressed the point of the blade into his throat, drew blood. “Pick up the paper. Carefully.” She noted that the aide’s bladder had rebelled and a yellowish puddle surrounded his feet.

  Docilely, he bent and retrieved the paper slip.

  All the while, she kept the blade against his neck, careful not to soil her sandals.

  He handed it over and she scanned the scrawl. She slid the knife into his throat with ease and he sank to his knees, choking on his own blood. Red mixed with the yellow urine.

  Stepping to one side to avoid the mess on the floor, she held up the message slip. “Ready to be sent. ‘The king is dead.’ Your informant Badol was right.”

  Sauri swore.

  Both of them studied the bloody corpse of Cla-Damen, the sword still protruding from the man’s chest.

  She walked to Sauri’s side, tearing a strip from her dress. As she bandaged his wounded arm, she asked, “Do you think Cla-Damen was suborned by Aurelan Crossis?”

  Sauri withdrew the sword, wiped its blade on Cla-Damen’s clothing. “I don’t know, my dear.” He sheathed the Black Sword. “From now on, I shall carry this at all times.”

  She chortled. “At all times?”

  “Yes. You question my intent?”

  “No, though it may prove uncomfortable in our bed, my dear.”

  He chortled. “True, my own trusty sword can pierce you fine enough.”

  “Indeed it can, dear Sauri,” she purred.

  He kicked the corpse. “I want Tanellor detained and executed.”

  She felt her throat constrict. “We have no proof,” she said. “Badol’s insinuations are not enough. And the Prime Watchman has reported nothing untoward regarding Tanellor.” She didn’t want her staunch admirer dead; locked up, perhaps, where she could visit and bestow magnanimity at a later date; that would be fine. She was faithful to Sauri, but it thrilled her to be admired and even desired. “I thought you didn’t count Tanellor as a threat?”

  “He has no intention of being a ruler; that I do know. But he can rally troops to his pennon. How many men-at-arms does he have in his town-house?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never visited it.” She gestured at the varteron wall. “It’s next to the Madurava House, across the road from the palace, I believe.” She laughed lightly. “Not far if he wishes to mount an assault!”

  “Well, you may jest, but I’ve heard he’s transferring men from his Oxor toran.”

  “Not enough to cause concern, surely?”

  “Don’t you see, he’s popular, damn his eyes! His fate will be the bier of ash – the same for all traitors!”

  She stroked his arm. “Even if Tanellor schemes against you, dear, he is wasting his time.”

  “You advocate leaving him alone for now?”

  “I do,” she said. “I fear his loyalty is misguided, nothing more. He is too close to the miners – they bleed, he bleeds, in a sense.”

  Saurosen swore. “Oh, those damnable Oxor miners; they deserve what they got! I heard the rumours; they’ve blamed it all on me!”

  She chuckled. “Mere tittle-tattle, Sauri dear. Those miners always seem so dirty!” She scowled and shuddered.

  He pointed to the smaltglass windows and let out a bark of a laugh. “From such dirt emerges much beauty, my dear.” He eyed her, his brow creased. “I wonder how many rebels are already assembled in the New City.”

  “Rebels?”

  “Yes, of course! Everyone seems to be against me. I’m disappointed in Aurelan. He was supposed to lean on Tanellor, not be in league with him!” He paced up and down. “By the gods, yes, they’re all rebels!”

  She sighed. “I will try to learn more.”

  “Haven’t your Goldalese spies told you?”

  She looked askance at him. “No. The message paper is small, the amount of detail limited…”

  “Get bigger birds, then!”

  She sneered. “A bird of the Overlord, perhaps?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Don’t be absurd, Jikki. Besides, I believe all the red tellars have flown towards Arion…”

  “Just so, my lord.”

  His manicured finger stroked the small tuft of hair under his bottom lip. “If Tanellor intends to oppose me, I will need to draw to me as much power as possible. Maybe some dark arts, too.”

  “Power – beyond Quotamantir, then?”

  “Yes. One thing that upsets me is that Old Queen Neran didn’t divulge the secret of Shaldron, the key of power, before she died.”

  “I take it you’re thinking of using witches?”

  “I see no other way.”

  “It’s a risk, Sauri.”

  “I know. But there are too many imponderables. And the big question mark for me is my second cousin.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect the great Lord-General Launette will fight against you?”

  He shrugged. “My dearest cousin has the strength to make his side the victor. It is well known that he detests usurpers; he would rather die than carry the Black Sword as a Usurper, which is the dirtiest word in that old soldier’s vocabulary.” He slammed a fist into his palm. “The question is: which side will Launette support?”

  “I will try to obtain information from my sister Aniri.”

  “You’re still speaking, then? The last I knew, you both made no secret of a mutual loathing.”

  “Sauri, Sauri, we might hate each other,
but where blood is concerned we’re allies. We set aside our personal animosity when it suits us.”

  “I will never understand women!”

  She caressed his cheek, pouted and then planted a kiss on his lips. “You’re not meant to understand us. Your sole purpose is to please us, as we see fit…”

  He clasped her to him, grinning. “By the gods, I will please you!”

  They both spun round as one when a general hubbub from outside carried to them.

  He glanced at the open windows that led to the balcony.

  “Sauri, I think your people need to know their king is safe.”

  “You’re right, Jikki,” he replied grimly. He withdrew the Black Sword and strode over to the corpse of Cla-Damen.

  Presently, he stepped out onto his balcony, Jikki a pace behind him. He was taken aback by the twenty-deep throng of people, faces staring up at him; all behind the high palace fence; palace guards were stationed at intervals along its length. Some of the people had been brought here because it was traditionally the end of the carnival and the king and queen made a point of distributing coins from the treasury. Not today, though. There was no money to spare. He had harangued Fel-adnat Pin, the old treasurer over the lack of cash, arguing that Lornwater was one of the wealthiest cities in Floreskand, sitting at the centre of the trade route between the Tarakandan Empire and the free cities of the Manderon. Its toumens patrolled the routes and levied taxes for protecting the countless trade caravans.

  “Until your edict began to bite,” the treasurer had countered. “Now, caravans divert around the three cities, even avoiding your tax-collectors!” Fel-adnat Pin had pointed to the waning bruise surrounding a cut on his forehead. “Worse, we’ve had no revenue from the carnival, naturally – and, I have only this to remind me that they wouldn’t pay fines either!”

  He knew the truth of that, too. A few days ago, from his viewing platform at the top of the Eyrie, Saurosen with Jikki by his side had spotted the occasional cloud of dust, signifying that the treasurer was right, caravans were wending their way beyond.

  Jikki interpreted his creased brow: “I shall miss those special delicacies that arrive but once a year; they are already a scarcity.” She shrugged resignedly. “You don’t need those caravans, dearest, if you sought help from the valley.”

  He had sighed and shuddered. “True, Quotamantir has drained my resources. But the work the almaturges do is too valuable to divert or disrupt.”

  “I fear this obsession will be the ruin of us all, Sauri!”

  His mouth twisted. “If the triune effects the transformation, dearest, we won’t face ruin; we shall have our armour against time itself!”

  She stroked her cheeks, ran a finger over her lips. “If only myths were true!” she had said scornfully.

  Now he stood on the palace balcony and gritted his teeth.

  All the people behind the fence grew silent, expectant.

  His mouth felt dry; he licked his lips. There were no smiling faces; he thought he detected surprise in those at the front rank.

  He cleared his throat, lifted aloft Cla-Damen’s severed head, and declared, “Quotamantir has only just delivered me from a cowardly assassination attempt by, of all people, my trusted swordmaster!”

  As blood dribbled down his arm, he studied the crowd, trying to guage their mood.

  Word spread among those assembled like wildfire: “The attempt on the king’s life failed!”

  There were no cheers or cries of joy, he noticed. “The sounds from the populace don’t seem encouraging, do they? I’d have thought they’d be ecstatic at my deliverance.” He grasped Jikki’s hand. “I think you may be right. My enemies have more support than I credited them with.”

  “You have enough troops to quell any rebellion,” she said.

  “But we never allow our toumens into the city. They must stay outside, to protect the city.”

  “You have no choice. If your people are threatening the crown, then you must use the toumens!”

  “No, the watchmen will keep the peace, I am sure.”

  For now, he would put his trust in the incorruptible Prime Watchman Zen-il.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CARAVAN

  “Correct hitting is invisible.

  An enemy should fall without seeing your hands.”

  - The Xadra of Quotamantir

  The plains, dunsaron of Mt Astle

  Lord-General Launette reined in his horse and twisted in his saddle, the leather creaking. He watched his long caravan with a mixture of pride and ire. They moved with ponderous slowness, yet announced to all and sundry that he was a power to be reckoned with in this benighted land.

  Yellow and green pennons fluttered at the ends of upraised spears. Vigilant mounted soldiers rode on either side of the many vehicles: twenty wagons of provisions, eight covered wagons for the womenfolk, and ten carts draped with rich brocade and colourful silks, stacked with gifts for Endawn’s royalty and of course for the forthcoming wedding. Wheels creaked and trundled as oxen strained. Sinister white snatchbirds fluttered in their wake, beaks stabbing at any shreds of discarded food.

  Captain Omagma drew his horse alongside. “We make good time, my lord.”

  “I suppose so. We are committed to the speed of the slowest, alas.”

  “At least there should be no more lugarzos!”

  “There are other concerns, however,” Launette countered. He pointed to their left.

  Rising from the Manderranmeron Fault, Mount Astle’s cone gushed thick brown-black smoke, billowing into an otherwise azure sky. “You’ve felt the tremors?”

  “Aye. Nothing to worry about, my lord, we’ve had them before.”

  “Not so frequent, not so widespread.”

  “Have you consulted the Daughter?”

  “Yes. She has prayed to Lady Arqitor but while she admits it is unusual, she is unwilling to commit to any prediction. She says she isn’t a seer but a scientist!” He sighed. “I’ve said it before: something is amiss.”

  “Do we go on, my lord?”

  “Oh, yes, we have a wedding to prepare for.” He tapped the side of his prominent curved nose. “No word about my misgivings to the women – particularly my sister.”

  “Lady Yordine Ukasur will be blissfully unaware, my lord.”

  “There’s nothing blissful about her, Omagma. Believe me!”

  ***

  Old City, Lornwater

  In the shadows by the dunsaron gate, Fanur said, “We will get no signal now, Lander.” He pointed at the groups of people jostling through the street, many walking from the palace square that overlooked the royal balcony. “They say an attempt on the king’s life failed.”

  Lander’s shoulders slumped. He swore.

  “What do we do now?” Fanur asked. He gestured at the eight men with them, all lounging against the Old City wall near the gate.

  “We wait. Stand down, all of you. Take shifts. Get refreshment and food. We wait until the baron tells us to quit – or to attack.”

  ***

  Saloar Teen

  Aurelan Crossis reined in his horse alongside his lieutenant’s at the manderon bank of Saloar Teen. To their left was the unmanned entrance of Dhur Bridge, and close by rank upon rank of soldiers assembled to meet them. These additional men must number in the thousands, as he’d hoped. Saurosen was indeed most unpopular.

  “Danscar, I’m going into the city,” Aurelan told his lieutenant. “Welcome these new detachments and set up camp here.”

  “Why this side of the teen, Captain?”

  “If the fourth toumen threatens, we can hold them at the bridge. They may be peerless fighters in the woods, but they are not so proficient in battle in open fields.”

  “You expect an open battle?”

  “No. I expect the tyrant to die today and tomorrow we should be able to ride in unmolested. But what I expect and what may happen could be completely different things.”

  “If the gods decree it, then it will be s
o.”

  “Aye, if the gods will it.” Aurelan wheeled his horse round, urged it across the bridge and headed in the direction of the city of Lornwater as night closed in.

  He had to negotiate Oquar II forest, which would be teeming with soldiers of the fourth toumen. As he was captain of the palace guard and they were loyal to the king, he should be able to pass with impunity. He might have to adjust his allegiance once he entered the New City, if the talk of rebellion was accurate. The gates would be closed by the time he arrived. He would rest his horse overnight and sleep alone under the stars and enter the city at first light.

  Long before Aurelan reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the city walls, he heard the unmistakable sound of fighting carried on the night air, beyond the dark curtain of dense forest.

  Dusk was falling as he reined to a halt near the first trees.

  While unsaddling his horse and setting camp, he wondered how did it come to this? His place was supposed to be at the king’s side – all the better to protect the monarch or, in his case, to assassinate him. Perhaps this outbreak would provide an adequate diversion, allowing him not only to gain vengeance but also to escape.

  Resting against the bole of a tree, he heard footsteps approaching. It couldn’t be a soldier of the fourth toumen – you never heard them until it was too late. “Who goes there?” he called, hand on his sword pommel.

  “Ho, Captain Aurelan – it is Jumo Bem and Murar Hun.” The pair emerged from shadowy light. “We also are travelling to the three cities.”

  “Why?” Aurelan stood and withdrew his sword. “The last I saw of you was at Dhur Bridge with my men. Do you disobey orders?”

  “No, sir,” said Jumo, his voice whistling. “Lieutenant Danscar sent us ahead to spy on the walls, in case there is to be a direct assault.”

  “Really?” Aurelan was impressed. “I know you acquitted yourselves well in the tournament, but have you ever tried evading a soldier of the fourth toumen?”