The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  Eventually they finished and Speaker Zafir summoned him to the Table of Judges to speak what he knew. He did exactly as he was asked. He had gone to the Tower of Dusk to confine Queen Shezira and her men. The queen was not present in the tower. He had sent other men to stand watch over Speaker Hyram. When he heard of Speaker Hyram’s death, he had ordered the Tower of Dusk to be stormed. Yes, he’d lost a good few men. Yes, the defenders had thrown back his first assault, and were only turned to flight by the arrival of the remainder of the legion. Yes, he had been impatient and possibly foolish, and yes, several of Shezira’s riders had escaped. Including, as it had happened, Queen Almiri.

  As soon as they had no more use for him, he bowed and walked away. Others would follow. His men. Good men. If there were any omissions or any falsehoods in what Vale had said, none of them knew it. They would tell the truth because they had no reason to do otherwise, but they would just as easily lie if he told them to. Orders. The Guard obeys orders. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less. Why do they always forget that?

  For most of the morning the questions went on. The speaker grew visibly impatient. King Sirion sat and twisted his fingers in his beard. The King of the Crags looked as if he’d fallen asleep. Only the two eastern kings, Narghon and Silvallan, seemed to care about what anyone had to say. They all made up their minds before they came here. All of them except Hyram’s cousin.

  He’d made up his own mind too. Made it up long ago. As he listened, he wondered whether he should consider again, question his belief and be sure. But that sort of thinking wasn’t going to get him anywhere. No one had ever asked him for an opinion and he’d never offered one. The kings and queens of the realms would make their judgment and he would execute it. That was all.

  So why are my knuckles clenched white? Why is the inside of my head burning?

  “Enough!” Zafir stood up and slammed the point of the Adamantine Spear into the marble floor. The blade drove at least three inches into the stone. Vale wasn’t sure that Zafir even noticed. She glared out from the Table of Judges at all the standing members of the council. “The kings and queens of the dragon-realms will pass their judgment. I say Queen Shezira murdered Speaker Hyram. We have a hundred witnesses to say they were alone and that no one else could have been with them. My husband was old. He was sick and drunk and hardly able to defend himself, but not so sick and drunk that he’d simply fall off a balcony. Shezira was desperate and had every reason to want revenge. Further, I say that King Valgar and Knight-Marshal Lady Nastria were her pawns. I say that their efforts to murder me were at her command.” She turned her glare onto the sitting council. “What say you? King Sirion, your judgment, please.”

  Sirion didn’t move. He was shaking his head and couldn’t have looked less comfortable. “I’ll not condemn another king on such flimsy evidence,” he said. “If Shezira’s knight-marshal was truly set on murder that night, she would not have taken her orders from anyone but Shezira herself. I say Valgar has committed no crime. Shezira . . .” He took a deep breath and shook his head even more. “I don’t know. Hyram was my cousin. My heart calls for justice and vengeance. But I cannot, despite the evidence, believe that Queen Shezira would murder him with her own hand. I simply cannot. I have nothing to say. I do not pass judgment.”

  Zafir’s face darkened with fury. “He was your cousin! Who else was there to push him?”

  “I have given my verdict,” snapped Sirion. He didn’t look at Zafir when he said it though. He looked like a man who’d be wondering whether he’d done the right thing for a very long time.

  The speaker sneered. “And we all know that Shezira offered her daughter to Prince Dyalt. Has little Jaslyn not thought better of marrying a fool?”

  “You have my answer.” Sirion stood up. “I will not be the one to start a war, Speaker, and if you mean to do so, I suggest you consider who are your allies and who are your enemies very carefully. You’d not be the first speaker who failed to see out their first year.” With that, Sirion walked away from the Table of Judges. The lords and princes of his entourage got up to follow him.

  Vale flinched. His hand moved to rest on his sword and he almost took a step forward, he was so sure that Zafir would command Sirion’s arrest. What he’d said was nothing short of a threat. Yet Zafir watched him go in silence. She only spoke when he and his were gone from the Chamber of Audience.

  “It seems King Sirion does not share my opinion.” She was all smiles now. “King Silvallan, what say you?”

  “You can have Valgar if you must. I venture no opinion on his guilt or otherwise. But you may not have Shezira. She did not murder Speaker Hyram.”

  Zafir nodded slowly. “Are those your words or Jehal’s?”

  “They are mine, Speaker.”

  “And you, Narghon? I imagine your words will be exactly the same, almost as though someone had written them down for you both. Although they are your words, I am sure.”

  “I share King Silvallan’s views. Shezira cannot be condemned without a witness who saw Hyram fall. Accept your defeat with some grace, Your Holiness, and accept that it is for the good of the realms that Shezira goes free.”

  “Then it seems I am alone. They sent an assassin after me and then, when she failed, they killed my husband. Yet none of you will condemn them.” Vale bit his lip. This is how Jehal said it would be. Shezira will go free. There will be no war between the north and the south, and the legions I command will not be hurled into battle against a sky filled with dragons. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The Adamantine Men were made for battle. Forged for it from the day they could walk and talk. They had no other purpose to their existence. The thought of war made Vale’s heart race and his blood run hot. His head filled with visions of glory, of slaughtering riders and scattering their dragons. Any of the Adamantine Men would think themselves lucky and honored to be called to war. After all, that’s what they were told from the day they took up their first training spears.

  On the other hand, he was the Night Watchman. They were his men, and his second duty, after his devotion to the speaker, was to them. To their strength and to their lives and to their health, not to honor and glory. The Viper was right about one thing. Wars were bloody. Very many would die and few would be dragon-lords.

  “King Valmeyan. Since you have graced my palace with your presence, what say you? Do you have an opinion to offer, or do you intend to doze until all the matters of this council have been closed?”

  The King of the Crags barely opened his eyes. “I’ve heard one voice either way for King Valgar, am I right? I’ve never met him and probably never will. If I remember the law, the speaker casts the final judgment if the council is tied, so I will offer no opinion. King Valgar’s fate rests entirely in your hands, Speaker. As for Queen Shezira, she I have met. She came to my eyries a decade and more ago, seeking my support to ensure Hyram sat where you sit now. I say she is quite capable of murdering a man. Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn’t. I leave her fate in your hands too, Speaker Zafir. Shezira is guilty.” He uncoiled himself from his slouch, slowly stretched and turned to look Zafir in the eye. “You hold a very sharp spear in your hand, Speaker. Who will you cut with it?”

  The smile that curled across Speaker Zafir’s mouth made even Vale’s stomach turn. The feeling was strange and new, until he realized what it was. Not fear, that was too strong a word. Anxiety. Yes, he was anxious.

  She was looking at him now. “Then they are both guilty. Yes. Since it is the duty of the speaker to cast sentence, they are both guilty and they are to be beheaded. Their remains will hang in cages by the gates of the Adamantine Palace, one on either side, until they have been picked clean by the crows. They will serve to warn all others who would overthrow the laws of the realms.”

  King Silvallan hammered the table with his fists. “You cannot do this!”

  “I can and I will. Today, Night Watchman. As soon as possible. Valgar first. Let Shezira see! Go! Do it now!”

 
; The Table of Judges was in uproar. Silvallan and Narghon were on their feet. Jeiros and Aruch were shouting at each other. Only the King of the Crags seemed unmoved. He’d slumped back into his seat and if anything looked as though he’d fallen asleep again. Vale hesitated. All his instincts said he ought to stay, that there was every sign of the council coming to blows. But he’d been given an order, clear and unambiguous. Reluctantly he bowed toward the chaos, turned and walked away. The Adamantine Men who served as his officers were all quite capable of taking his place. When it came to war, they had to be.

  Outside, he set about the execution of his duties. Orders were given. The Guard had quietly prepared for this for days, just as they’d prepared for Shezira to be released. They all knew what to do. One company of men would bring out the headsman’s block and sword and throw plenty of sand down into the Gateyard to soak up the blood. Another company would drag Valgar out of the tower where Zafir had imprisoned him. He’d get Shezira himself. The cages were a little unexpected. They’ll need some quick work to get ready but at least we have a little more time with those. She never said what she wanted us to do with the heads. Mounted on spikes would be usual.

  At the doors to the Tower of Dusk, Vale stopped. His head was filled with all the little details; underneath, something much bigger was stirring. He was old enough and wise enough to know what that meant. Doubts. He had doubts about what he was doing. And since Adamantine Men never had doubts, he was trying to hide them.

  Come on then, doubts. Speak your piece and be done. There will be war, is that it? Shezira’s daughters will fly out of the north on wings of fire. And out of the south too, perhaps. What of it? Many will die, but what of it? Is it my doing? Have I gone to their eyries and commanded their riders to fly against the speaker, who is their law? No, I have not. Or do I doubt that we will win? Well, doubts, if that’s the case, I’ve seen enough of these kings and queens over the years to know that Zafir is safe. If any of them truly have the spine to take up arms against us, as likely as not they will be stabbed in the back by their own sons and daughters, hungry for a throne of their own. So be gone, doubts. My conscience is clear.

  His doubts didn’t seem convinced but they knew their place. They slid beneath the surface of his thoughts to lurk in the depths of his dreams. He ordered the door to the Tower of Dusk to be opened and entered with a dozen men behind him. He went in with care because Queen Shezira did have a crossbow, after all, and there was just a chance she hadn’t done what he’d hoped and used it on Jehal. But he soon saw that he needn’t have worried. The floor was stained by a big pool of blood, still sticky to the touch. Jehal, assuming that’s from whom the blood had come, had obviously survived for long enough to drag himself away.

  Not very far though. Thick brown streaks led away from the blood to a second pool. Jehal looked dead at first, curled up, both hands pressed between his legs. The Viper was still breathing, though. The breaths might have been ragged and shallow, but if he’d lived this long then he probably wasn’t going to bleed to death.

  Pity. This was meant to wound. If Shezira had meant to finish him, she had ample means. He stooped to look closer. The crossbow bolt he’d given Shezira was gone. Shezira was still dangerous then. Then a huge grin spread across Vale’s face as he understood what the Queen of Stone had done to the Viper. He glanced around him, the sudden thought of finishing Jehal off running wild in his head, but there was no way to do it without being seen. Too many of his own men.

  His grin faded. He kicked Jehal in the face and moved on. Shezira was waiting for him, calm and peaceful, holding the crossbow he’d given her, casually pointing it in his direction.

  “What’s it to be?” she asked. Vale didn’t answer, didn’t break stride. He saw the tension in her face, saw her finger on the trigger straining. He saw the moment she understood that he’d come to take her to her death. He saw her pull the trigger and stepped sideways exactly at the same moment. The bolt struck one of the men behind him, who grunted. He saw the fright in her face, a momentary fleeting thing, and then he reached her. He tore the crossbow out of her hands with a casual force and threw it away. Doubtless she held some idea of walking with calm dignity to her death, but Vale was having none of that. You murdered Hyram. Murdered a speaker. For that he had her dragged out of the tower by her hair. By the time he got back to the executioner’s block, Valgar was already there, pushed down, held over the basket that would hold his head after his body no longer had any need of it. A few dozen of the Adamantine Guard stood around. Several dozen more were running into the Chamber of Audience. The council of kings and queens, it seemed, had spiraled out of hand. As expected.

  Do it now! That’s what the speaker had said, and so Vale didn’t wait. He lifted the headsman’s sword, a strange weapon with its weight and balance all wrong for fighting, but perfect for this one specific duty.

  “Hold her head and make her watch,” he said of Shezira. “Those were the speaker’s orders. She has to watch.” At least Shezira wasn’t begging or pleading or shouting. She was as calm as anyone could reasonably be. She was afraid though, badly afraid, and that made her less than the men holding her. She kept trying to tell Vale something about Hyram and the night he’d died, but he wasn’t listening. Whatever she had to say, he had no wish to hear it.

  He turned back to Valgar and lifted the sword. “Whatever you have to say, there’s little point. No one is here to hear it and no one will remember it. No one has come to witness your end, either of you.”

  The sword sang as it swung through the air. It cut through King Valgar’s flesh as though his neck was made of cheese—a slight resistance but nothing more. Soldiers dragged the body away. Vale left the head and the basket where they were. Let the last thing Shezira saw be the severed head of her greatest ally.

  In a blink she was on the block, held still, ready for him. He lifted the sword.

  “I didn’t push Hyram, Night Watchman.” That’s what she’d been telling him for weeks. Months. He wasn’t interested. Her voice was ragged. I ought to be silent. Whatever she says, it changes nothing.

  “That is not my concern. The council has spoken.”

  “He would have died without me, Night Watchman.”

  “But he didn’t, Your Holiness. He died with you.”

  Her voice broke. Was she sobbing? Whatever her last words were, Vale didn’t hear them. Something about alchemists and Jeiros and Hyram and poison, all spilling out of her mouth in a garbled mess.

  He brought down the sword, and after that Shezira had nothing more to say.

  23

  WATCHING THINGS BURN

  They slipped between the mountains of the Purple Spur in twilight.

  They were safe then, Semian thought, in the few short hours either side of darkness. In the daylight hours they hid from Zafir’s dragons flying overhead, losing themselves among the cavernous valley forests, between trees that made even their dragons seem small. Mostly they slept. At night they loitered near streams, drinking and feeding, never staying in one place for long. They could move about at night. The speaker’s riders would be in their cups, their dragons safely tucked up in their eyries when the sun went down. Only the day belonged to the enemy.

  When they were close to the eastern end of the Spur, the palace end, they slipped out only in the dark, flying down through the valleys, skimming the earth, a few miles every day, no more. The dragons hated it, flying low in the dark. Their restless anxiety suffused their riders but Semian drove them on. They forayed out to the plains and left the Picker and the blood-mage a day’s walk from the City of Dragons. They could do that now, for the blood-mage had served his purpose. Then they slipped away again, back into the safety of the peaks. The speaker never knew how close they were.

  And there they waited. Semian sat quietly while his new acolytes fretted around him. The Great Flame had brought him here, he knew that. He could feel it. Taking the Picker and Kithyr to the city to be their spies was an excuse, a cloak of shadows obs
curing something greater. In truth, he was sorry to be rid of the blood-mage. A strange understanding had grown between them as the magician had worked to save his leg. The man served the Flame with a deep and strange passion, and Semian felt stronger when he was around.

  The Flame had called him though. Called him here. His leg was far from healed, would probably never heal, but there was no poison in the wound anymore. The magician had done what was needed, and so, with regrets, Semian had let him go. We both have a greater purpose. That’s what the mage had said, and Semian understood him perfectly. In his dreams, the priest with the burned hands came to him night after night, always the same. Wait. Be strong. There is a thing you have to do.

  On the day their food ran out, a mosquito landed on Semian’s arm. Semian raised his hand to squash it and then paused. The mosquito was already bloated.

  When blood comes to you, you must heed it . . .

  He let it settle and bite him. Knowledge flowed into his veins. Shezira and Valgar are dead . . .

  There was more, much more. King Tyan, Jehal, Valmeyan. All good. All speaking of chaos, of the realms bleeding and begging to be saved. When he knew it all, Semian slapped his arm, crushing the mosquito in a smear of blood. Not his blood. Kithyr’s blood. Mage’s blood. He thought it might burn his skin but it didn’t.

  He savored what he knew, picking and choosing what he would share with the other Red Riders. They’d sworn themselves to Hyrkallan to avenge Hyram’s death and free Shezira. They’d failed, but that wasn’t really the point anymore. They served the Great Flame now. They were his. Sixteen dragons, twenty riders.

  They would have to do something, he decided. He wanted to hurt Zafir again but that was getting difficult. She was becoming cautious. Her dragons were everywhere and so were the Adamantine Men. Drotan’s Top, maybe. That was always a weak point. If he threw everything he had against it, perhaps . . .