“F-fourth toumen?” queried Murar. He swung round on Jumo. “You never said anything about the garrottemen!”
Jumo whined. “I didn’t know.” He walked up to Aurelan. “There can’t be many, can there?”
Aurelan shook his head in bewilderment. Sometimes, good fighting men had no common sense; and the same could be said of officers, too, he allowed. “King Saurosen has permanently stationed the fourth toumen throughout the forest. We live to pass through only with their permission.”
“Oh… Yes, I knew that,” Jumo said sheepishly.
“You’re full of Lamsor!” snapped Murar.
“Who raises the black lesslord of winds in vain?” enquired a soldier who stepped out from behind a tree. He was dressed entirely in black armour, yet had not made a sound. The foresters wore black to signify their allegiance to the Black Sword. All other armour within Floreskand was made of either silver, greysteel, or bronze.
Both Murar and Jumo jumped and backed away.
“These two are part of my company, forester,” Aurelan said. “I am captain of the palace guard, Aurelan Crossis, and I intend to enter Lornwater on the morrow.”
Stepping closer, the soldier said, “I know you, Captain.” He thumbed towards Jumo and Murar. “Since you will vouch for these two, I will give you safe passage to the manderon gate.” His hand rumaged in a leather pouch and produced a round piece of wood with a burnished metal crest clamped to it. “Show this if you are accosted.”
“Thank you, forester.”
As the soldier in black moved to the trees, he said over his shoulder, “Make sure those two do not wander off the accredited path. That crest will not serve otherwise.”
Frantically nodding, Murar and Jumo gulped and said, “Yes, yes, we will, honest!”
***
Lornwater
Using narrow secret watchman passageways, Welde Dep was able to weave his way through the three cities, taking risks with his life every time he emerged. Yet he was determined to gauge the measure of the populace. Without them on his side, he and his fellow watchmen would not be able to maintain peace. Peace? That seemed a hollow concept now, he realised. Well into the night, steel clashed and shields clanged. There were plaintive cries of wounded men and bereft women. A horse whinnied, and dogs barked constantly, doubtless disturbed by the clamour. Despite the efforts of addional watchmen reinforcements from the Second City, fighting continued in the New City, becoming bloodier and widespread. The fanes of Brilansor and Arqitor were overwhelmed with wounded. His heart heavy now, he gained a viewing point on the Old City wall. From here, he observed a contingent of the royal guard arriving at the Nemond palace, led by a tall soldier by the name of Ban-anter.
Ban-anter rapped his spear on the door and demanded that the occupants hand over Nemond Thand to the king. Windows in the palace walls above opened and pots and pans were thrown down at them. Raising a shield, Ban-anter cursed them. A couple of arrows flew at them, one piercing the leg of the man next to Ban-anter. Immediately, before he could stop them, the troop fled, despite Ban-anter’s pleas.
Welde Dep sympathised with the men who had fled. They had been repelled and would be reluctant to report their failure to the king.
Now alone, Ban-anter made his way to the royal palace. nd Welde Dep returned to his clandestine passage so he could sneak back to the New City, where he was most needed.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
NHYRACHONS
“Hear a pig’s cries at the butchers, and you know
what the battlefield is like.”
- Dialogues of Meshanel
Second Sabin of Fornious
New City, Lornwater
Dawn light bathed the city. The sun’s warmth had yet to reach him. Welde Dep hunched in his cloak. From this vantage point on the ranvarron corner of Neran Square, he surveyed this sector, flanked by two watchmen, Snaglip and Xiat.
Many of the tradesmen set about dismantling their stalls, carnival floats and theatrical stages. A few attempted to retrieve the broken pieces of their upset stalls and carts, damaged during the vociferous tustles with pro-Saurosen factions.
Other watchmen stood nearby, looking on, but not interfering.
The mood was ugly.
A good number of residents leaned out of their upstairs windows and berated the watchmen, while some vented their ire at anyone who passed under them. A woman emptied a piss pot on a passerby who wore the garb of Goldalese; he spluttered and cursed, raising his fist, but the nearest watchman told him to move on.
At the opposite corner, Dep heard the shouting grow in volume. “Go and see what’s happening,” he ordered Snaglip.
Eyeing him warily, Snaglip said, “Yes, sir!” He drew his sword and walked across the square.
***
Oquar II forest
Aurelan Crossis awoke and heard the clamour; even at this early hour. The sounds carried through the forest: shouting, shrieks, the crashing of metal and wood, and the pounding of drums. But there was no rejoicing.
Jumo and Murar rose sleepily and moaned that they were hungry.
“You can eat when you’re in the New City.” He had no wish to be hampered by these two once within the city walls. “You can leave me when you’re inside. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” whistled Jumo.
He saddled his horse, struck camp, and rode sedately towards the manderon gate, while the two men jog-trotted on either side.
His emotions were mixed. It seemed that the tyrant wasn’t dead. That meant he couldn’t bring his men yet. But it did mean that the honour of killing the king might still fall to him. Despite this disappointment, he liked that.
He glared blackly at Jumo and Murar. If only I can get the king alone, he thought. Lord Tanellor might think I don’t care about living or dying, so long as I kill the king, but he’d be mistaken. Life is too precious to throw away needlessly. In a fight, that’s different. He didn’t doubt that Saurosen was a good swordsman; he’d heard swordmaster Cla-Damen Estan praise the king; certainly, Saurosen should be no match for Cla-Damen, but even so he was a formidable opponent.
***
Underground
“I’ve got the scent of them here!” barked a Ratava man, very near.
Without uttering a word, Sos directed Dasse down one tunnel and he sped along another. For a fleeting instant he was amused; they had acted as though they had read each other’s mind.
Soberly, he considered his chances. The torch would last only so long. Now, he was walking uphill slightly, so perhaps he was on the right track, heading to an exit from the underworld.
He didn’t like splitting up from Dasse, but he believed that their chances were better this way.
***
Dasse cast a glance behind him, wishing he had a knife, or any weapon. If only he could have taken that wooden club off that bellicose swine! He let out a curse. And how would I fare with that, he mused, his arm misshaped at the elbow, thanks to that hammer blow from Rujon Sos. His chest filled with ire, he limped along a passageway, mindful of the pain. He couldn’t blame Rujon Sos for that, though, since the leg had broken when he fell down the vent shaft. The Ratava had done the best, but it had set badly.
Now, he wondered if it might have been better if he’d perished in the mine explosion.
His mind wandered or he might have noticed them sooner.
Two of them. From the descriptions he’d heard, they were Nhyrachons. Both with, large noses, protruding ears, and pronounced brows that overshadowed narrow slits for eyes. Woe is me, he thought, for these were supposed to be more warlike than the Myndrachons.
No words passed between them. The pair advanced on him, both wielding wooden clubs, their intentions plain.
Dasse scanned his surroundings. Rubble, stones, dust… He stooped, scooped up a handful of dust and flung it in the face of the advancing Nhyrachon, who gave a guttural yell. Dasse slammed his fist under the chin and the Nhyrachon fell backwards, unconscious, dropping his club. The second Nhyrac
hon roared loudly and swung his club.
A glancing blow hit his head. Dizzy, Dasse staggered, righted himself and swung his torch into the Nhyrachon’s face. Screeching, the Nhyrachon faltered. Dasse didn’t hesitate and grabbed the fallen club, slammed it against the Nhyrachon’s head, crushing his skull.
He stared at the two dead Nhyrachons.
He raised a hand to his temple; it came away bloody. His head ached.
Get away from them. Don’t know why. But must go from here.
Get away.
Head aches.
Dasse blinked, staring at the club in one hand, the torch in the other. Why was he carrying these things? No matter. They seemed almost a part of him.
He let out a moan, part agony, and part bewilderment.
Head aches.
Must go on, get away.
Along this passageway; as good as any.
***
In a separate tunnel, Sos found he could not outpace the militant Ratava men. He must find a place suitable for an ambush.
They would see his torch, though.
That was it. He hurried ahead, ducking under rock intrusions and came to a section of passageway that widened; in the centre was a rock monolith. He passed it, then rounded a bend in the tunnel, jammed the torch in a crevice. Hurrying back to the monolith, he concealed himself in shadowy cleft nearby.
There were two of them, both carrying a torch and a wooden club each.
“There, see!” shouted the one in the lead, pointing to the light from the torch ahead.
As the second man passed, Sos leaped from the shadows and stabbed him in the back.
“What?” yelled the first, twisting round, holding up his torch.
Sos skirted round the fallen torch and grabbed the dead man’s club.
He advanced, crouching, ready, the knife in one hand, the club in the other.
“You tricked us!”
“Live with it.”
“You stabbed him in the back!”
“And what did you intend doing to me with those clubs, eh?”
“I’ll do it now, damn your eyes!” The militant charged, wielding the club.
Sos used his club to ward off the blow. His whole arm vibrated with the force of it. They kicked dirt into dust as they circled each other in the confined space in front of the monolith.
The man didn’t think to use the torch as a weapon, simply holding it aloft while he swung his club. Bruised and battered from several blows, Sos countered with his club, pressing the man back. Rashly, the man stepped into the fallen torch, and shrieked.
Sos leaped, discarding his club and rammed the knife with two hands deep up to the hilt, right into the man’s chest. They both fell to the dusty earth. The militant beneath him lay very still, his face close to Sos’. He couldn’t detect any breathing.
Picking himself up, Sos sheathed the knife and then gathered a club and a torch.
As he continued on his way through the tunnels, he ached from those blows from the club, and his mind reeled. At first, he pined for Telicia. She would tend his bruises, as she had done a number of times in the past when he’d survived small cave-ins. Yet gradually, as he trudged on and on in the flickering torchlight, he thought less of her and wondered about K-Kwan.
***
Lornwater
Outside the Arqitor fane, Telicia spoke to Daughter Charja. “I know you have but returned from your duty at Oxor… But I am anxious for any news about my husband Sos.”
“Sergeant Bayuan Aco made a list of… of the dead.” Charja shook her head. “None on that shift survived the explosion.”
“Explosion? None survived?” Telicia repeated and let out a wail. “Oh, curse Bridansor!”
“I am sorry for your loss, but have a care when you disparage the gods.”
Then they were both caught in a surging crowd of people who stormed from the fane to jostle with groups of men and women flocking from a cluster of overturned market stalls.
***
Welde Dep despaired now as civilians began fighting the watchmen and even the Named Quarters that supported Saurosen.
Whispers had been rife, that freedom from the grasp of Saurosen was at hand. Nobody could voice why these rumours should be more believable than the two score others that had spread through the three cities for the last month. Yet so many people seemed truly frustrated this time to learn that the king still lived.
Whispers and disaffection sought alcohol and weaponry – and scores to settle. Familiar old certainties were being shunned, pushed aside.
On his rounds, Welde had already heard from Gildmaster Jentore of the assassins gild; the man was disgruntled. “Our funds are vastly depleted already if townspeople start taking the law into their own hands and mete out their own form of ‘justice’. Nobody will want to hire assassins then!”
What a crazy topsy-turvy world Lornwater had become!
***
Lander paced at the manderon gate of the Old City. His men were becoming impatient and he couldn’t blame them. If a coup was imminent, he reasoned, then word should have reached us by now.
Fanur voiced his thoughts precisely: “Do we storm the gates and foment rebellion – or not?”
Simple enough query. No simple answer, though. “We wait.”
“I’m fed up waiting. Saurosen’s edicts have ruined the businesses of my cousin and my brother-in-law. We need to strike at the palace now!”
“And if he isn’t dead?”
“We’ll be rebels, traitors. Aye, I know that. But I’d rather be a traitor than suffer him a day longer!”
“We wait. We’ve seen the rising disturbances. Loyalists are being harried by men and women with just grievances. Cudgels and fists have been used.”
“Knife and sword blades, that’s what those loyalists need in their innards!”
“It may well have come to that already, though Baron Laan hoped there’d be no bloodshed.”
“An idle hope, Lander, and you know it.” Fanur cackled. “And it won’t be the baron’s blood that’s spilt, but ours!”
“Be patient. As yet, none of Saurosen’s guard have been involved in any fighting. And none of the fourth toumen have entered the city.“
“Aye, but they’re not far – camped in the forest.”
At that moment, Lander recognised Aurelan Crossis as he rode through the manderon gate with a group of travellers and tradesmen on foot. “Wait here,” he told Fanur. “I have business with that man.”
Lander approached and impulsively held the bridle of Aurelan’s horse. “Excuse me, sir.”
Two men striding beside the horseman melted into the crowd.
“Do I know you?” Lander asked.
“Yes, Lander, you do. What are you doing here?”
“Baron Laan’s bidding. What about you?” He studied Aurelan. “Why is the captain of the palace guard not wearing his finery?”
Aurelan peered down at him. “I prefer not to announce my arrival or inflame unruly sections of the populace.”
“That’s probably a wise decision.” He let go of the bridle. “Is your business with the king?”
“My business is my own affair, Lander. I come to report on the Oxor disaster.”
“Aye, we heard about that. But you’re late in getting here. Word has it that Lord Tanellor has already been given an audience with the king. From what I heard, his highness was not too pleased!”
Aurelan surveyed his surroundings. “It looks like a lot of other people are not too happy, either. Are tempers fraying?”
“They are, Aurelan. Take care, lest they take out their grudges on you!”
“Thank you for your concern, Lander.” Aurelan kneed his horse forward and entered sector ten.
***
On Aurelan’s left loomed the manderon barracks for the wall sentries. Here, from the corner of Neran Square, he noticed a group of three watchmen backing away while trying to fend off the attack of a mob brandishing lengths of wood and tools. Aurelan urged his hors
e forward; its withers slammed into a big burly attacker and sent him flying into the group.
Aurelan withdrew his sword and sliced in half a raised wooden club. “Get back if you want to live!” he warned.
His horse whinnied and crashed its hoofs on the stone flags, raising sparks.
With Aurelan’s aid the three bruised and battered watchmen forced the mob of civilians towards the inn, The Hangman’s Noose. So many of their skulls were cracked and bleeding, they had no will left to continue the fight and ran off.
“Thank you for your intervention, sir,” said a watchman with a slight squint and a bleeding forehead.
“You need to get medical aid for that wound, Watchman…”
“Watchman Dasse Clan. I will, sir.” He studied Aurelan and his clothing. “And who are you?”
“Captain of the palace guard, Aurelan Crossis.”
“Well, your arrival is timely. I fear that the populace in the New City is in open rebellion. Yet no action seems to have been taken to quell it – save the gates are closed to the Second City.”
“I noticed. You could do with reinforcements, Watchman Dasse. I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“Thank you, Captain Aurelan.”
Aurelan led his horse across the bridge over the canal and then the moat.
He produced his metal disc of office and raised it to the soldier stationed above the Second City gate. After a slight delay, the gate rumbled open and six soldiers flanked him as he rode through. The gate shut noisily behind him.
“Welcome, Captain Aurelan!” called a soldier.
“All is tranquil in the city?”
“It is, sir. Not like out there!”
Aurelan studied the barracks on his right, then the rampart guards, who paced anxiously.
The contrast here was striking – very calm and peaceful. This calmness persisted all his way through to the next gate.
His entry into the Old City was a mere formality.
Yet when he finally reached the royal palace, it was a different story.
The place was in turmoil – not due to the civil war, he quickly learned, but because a large black spider had been sighted.
The whispers had swiftly spread throughout the palace: Queen Neran’s prophesy must not come true! He too hoped that the king didn’t succumb to a spider bite; he dearly wanted to kill the man.
Floreskand_King Page 14