Fynch shrugged and bringing together the items from his vast storage of information he began to impart some of that knowledge on General Wyl Thirsk from his earliest days to the present. In spite of her gloom Valentyna found herself fascinated by the story of Wyl and amazed by Fynch’s recollection of the General’s life. She was especially interested to hear that Wyl’s dislike for Celimus went so far back.
‘So he’s never liked the new King?’
‘No, Princess. He has always despised him.’
‘How can he serve a man like this?’
‘He has not had a chance, to tell the truth. King Magnus died the same day Wyl was despatched on this mission.’
‘Well that means Celimus has been plotting it for a while; his intention always to rid Morgravia of its influential General. You say Wyl controls the Legion?’
‘Completely. If he chose, he could overthrow Celimus in a blink.’
‘And this business with the witch. You actually saw his eyes change colour?’
‘One grey, one greenish. It was very alarming but it disappeared so quickly, I hardly dared believe what I saw.’
‘And Knave belonged to her?’ Valentyna asked, deliberately double checking the more curious facts of Fynch’s tale.
‘He was a pup apparently. She gave him to Wyl just moments before her death. I hope you won’t consider me loose-headed, your majesty, but it is my belief that Knave is somehow enchanted.’
‘How so?’ she asked, her interest irresistibly piqued now as she stroked the big dog’s head, though completely disbelieving of Fynch’s claim.
Fynch told her everything he could about the curiosities of Knave.
‘Well, well, you certainly have my attention now,’ she said, nodding as Knave groaned with pleasure as she scratched his ears. ‘How strange it all is,’ she admitted.
‘Do you believe in magic, your highness?’
‘I don’t. I’ve never been exposed to anything magical,’ she admitted. ‘I believe only what I see.’
‘I’m the opposite, your highness. I do believe,’ the boy shrugged. ‘I’m used to his oddities now. Knave really hates other people unless they are somehow linked favourably to Wyl. That’s why he likes you.’
She smiled at the serious little boy. ‘You are very loyal to him, Fynch. He’s fortunate to have you in his life.’
‘I am compelled, your highness. Knave chose me.’
She frowned in some bemusement at this, then grinned sadly. ‘Fynch, I’ve been thinking — I must return to the palace. I can’t believe I ran away in the first place. I have to go back and see my father.’
‘No, your highness! I promised to take you away, to keep you safe,’ her small friend implored.
‘I can’t stay in hiding. It’s cowardly, Fynch, surely you appreciate this?’ Her voice had a pleading tone as she beseeched the grave-faced child to understand.
‘I don’t, your majesty. It is not cowardly to protect yourself — the heir to the throne — against killers.’
‘Then I shall fight them — alongside my father!’ she declared.
‘And you’ll die,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ll be useless to Briavel.’
‘How dare you!’ she raged, jumping to her feet. ‘Who are you to order me about?’
Fynch shook his head and she saw his despair. ‘Forgive me, your highness. I am a nobody. A gong boy who clears the sewers and not fit to so much as be in your presence. But I am charged to protect you and I would sooner die than let anyone harm you.’
It was his sincerity which broke her anger and she was on her knees in a moment, hugging him and apologising for her haughty behaviour. ‘Fynch, I didn’t mean it. You and Wyl have been true. Say you’ve forgiven me, I beg it.’
She was so distraught that Fynch could tell she was drowning in a sea of emotions, from grief to guilt. Perhaps there was a way he could alleviate her despair. ‘Your highness, what would you say if I asked you to remain here a little longer? Knave will stay with you.’
‘And where will you go?’ she asked.
‘I’ll go back to the palace and see what I can find out. It is not dangerous for me.’
‘I would thank you, Fynch, and ask you to leave immediately.’
‘You must give me your word, your highness, that you will not leave this place,’ he cautioned.
‘Not until I hear back from you.’
Fynch looked at Knave and realised the dog already understood what was required of him. He bowed to the Princess. ‘Knave will keep you safe, your highness.’
Valentyna had no doubt of it as she watched the little boy run off into the night.
The fighting was ferocious in the confined space of the chamber. Man after man had burst through the door only to be slayed by the superbly balanced and supremely skilled pair of Wyl and Romen, fighting back to back. Valor could only watch for the time being, for Wyl had cleverly blocked the entrance with his attacker so that the men coming from behind would have to wait for the outcome. So far he counted four corpses.
Romen called over his shoulder: ‘Six more.’ Then he grunted as he leapt over a fallen chair and spun on his heel to strike low and viciously with a two-handed slash. The fifth fell, one leg almost chopped through at the thigh. Romen kicked his sword away, knowing a major artery was severed. The fellow would be dead within a minute or so.
The King could not help but marvel at these two beautiful fighters. Both had contrasting styles. Wyl was dogged; a real thinker. To Valor it seemed that Wyl had interminable patience, content to parry and block, feint and twist. But now two of his opponents were dead. He was a much smarter sword fighter than them and more skilled, prepared to wait for the perfect opportunity to strike.
Romen was far more flamboyant, preferring to be the aggressor and taking the fight to his enemy. Romen would never give ground, Valor observed. He continued to push his opponent with a barrage of scintillating cuts and thrusts where the man found himself with no option but to defend constantly. And Romen was fast: lightning speed in his strokes, which was probably the reason why his third attacker had just taken a mortal wound. Valor watched Romen kick the dying man’s sword away. Already forgotten, Romen stepped over the groaning man to engage his next opponent leaping through the door.
Except this time two came through. Valor knew his time had come. It had been too many years since he had lifted a sword in battle but he did not hesitate. With a roar he lifted his trademark sword with its intricate and beautiful carvings on its hilt. He raised it over his head and brought it down with a second roar, a battle cry this time. Sparks flew off the two swords as they met and Valor once again fought for his life. He was a match for his opponent — where the mercenary had brute strength, Valor had height — but the man who grimaced back at him was far younger.
Valor knew immediately he would have to despatch him fast if he was to survive or, more likely, if the fight continued, he reasoned as he went through a series of hard blocks and parries, that he would need one of his younger companions to finish it for him.
He did not mean to lose concentration but his thoughts helplessly fled to Valentyna. She was still so young and yet with the right people around her there would be no better sovereign for Briavel. She possessed his courage and genuinely loved her people and this land of theirs with a fierce passion. But she was headstrong, like her mother. That would need to be controlled or at least channelled in the right way. He felt sure Valentyna would be willing to lead the charge onto a battlefield if she could — if it meant one more Briavellian might be protected. But war must be avoided. He wished now — as he recalled her look of despair as she climbed into that drophole earlier — that he had counselled her about Celimus. He should have said that no matter what, the marriage should still be considered if peace was to be achieved. And yet Wyl’s advice was so alarming. He hoped he had gathered the right people around him these past few years who would advise her well, should he fail today. She would need strong counsel … shrewd counsel in the decisions
ahead.
Valor felt a dazzling blaze of pain at the top of his sword arm. He yelled and winced but did not have time to look at the damage. He knew he had lost concentration or that cut would not have made it through his defence. Angry with himself and spurred on by the throbbing pain, he now used his height to beat the man back. Already, though, he knew he was in real danger. Apart from fatigue so shockingly swift in its claim over his body, his muscles in that all-important arm felt weak and a numbing tingle was edging its way towards the fingers which gripped that famous hilt. He intensified his effort. The man must fall soon or he would prevail.
Wyl realised as he killed another mercenary that the more cunning amongst them had held back. With each new opponent greater skills seemed to present themselves and this had been a clever ploy. Using the less skilled ‘hackers’, as Wyl thought of them, they had worn himself and Romen down, making them perhaps easier prey for the more talented fighters coming through. He hated that one had managed to engage the King and as he grimaced at this thought, it seemed Romen read his mind.
‘Valor has taken a serious cut. He’ll tire quickly,’ was all he had time to say.
‘Two left,’ Wyl said in reply chancing a look towards the King.
There was no doubt the King was exhausting his last reserves of stamina. Blood flowed freely and fast from a particularly nasty slash at the top of his arm. Wyl understood immediately that muscle had been severed as well, which would mean Valor would be rapidly losing all strength in that fighting arm. He wondered if the old campaigner had trained himself to use either arm. He thought not. Many had scoffed at the suggestion but the new breed of Morgravian soldiers — such as Gueryn — had insisted upon the level of skill being upped in the non-natural hand. Wyl knew no different. Although his right arm was strongest, he was certainly adept with his left.
He glanced towards Romen. ‘Can you hold them off?’
Romen grunted his reply and slashed his man across the throat. ‘Help Valor!’ he roared, kicking his opponent over and out of the way so he could see what was rushing towards them.
Just as Wyl turned to deal with the man intent on killing a King he heard the monarch cry out.
Valor staggered backwards, another, deeper sword wound evident at the top of his shoulder, slicing diagonally through major vessels, blood flowing in a torrent from it.
‘Protect our Queen, Wyl,’ was all he had time to say before he hit the floor.
Arkol, who had struck the blow, laughed and spat at the prone body of the King of Briavel. Romen had despatched his own man with a slash which nearly decapitated the mercenary. He turned around to see the wrath on Wyl’s face and the familiar figure bleeding on the fine carpet.
‘Wait, Wyl! He’s mine,’ he said. ‘There’s one more outside, probably hiding.’
As Wyl dropped back, Romen even found time to thank him and with a grim smile on his face went about pitching his skills against his would-be killer. Wyl had already been amazed at Romen’s swordplay. His own abilities aside, if he thought he had seen the best fighter in Celimus then he was wrong. Romen was indeed superior and he felt sure it would not be long before Arkol’s smile was wiped once and for all from its ugly mouth.
Wyl and his final opponent ended up fighting in the hall. The man soon discovered that despite his own high skills he was no match for the General, but he knew how to defend and so it was simply a case of wearing his man down. Wyl cleared his anger as he had been taught. He found his focus, withdrew into himself and began a flurry of attacking strikes, one finally finding its mark to sever an artery. He left the man bleeding to a swift death and returned to the King’s chamber to see Romen all but toying with a savagely wounded Arkol, struck in many damaging places, but none fatal yet.
Wyl dropped on one knee by the King and felt for a pulse, knowing it was useless. It was a momentary joy to find a faint heartbeat but good sense told him it would disappear within moments. Valentyna was about to become Queen of Briavel. He cast a silent prayer for her safety as he heard Arkol gurgle to his death, Romen’s sword thrust through his throat.
‘Help me get Valor on the settle,’ Wyl said. ‘No King should be left like this.’
Romen grinned without his usual humour. He was not even out of breath, although his face and clothes were spattered with other men’s blood. ‘Do you always do the right thing, Thirsk?’
‘I try,’ Wyl said, heaving at the old man’s body.
They carried the dying man and laid him on a couch. Wyl took his hand. ‘Sire?’
Valor opened his eyes, their sight already blurring as more of his life force leaked out onto the couch. His breath rattled through his throat as he struggled to speak. It was little more than a mumble. ‘You must protect her, son, despite your loyalties.’
Wyl nodded. ‘I will give my life for her, sire. I promise.’
‘Even better than your father,’ the King slurred and then in one last rally of strength he whispered. ‘Overthrow Celimus. Take the crown!’
Valor, King of Briavel, died holding the hand of the General of Morgravia, leaving between them a thought of such treachery that Wyl caught his breath. Valor was the second King now to urge Wyl to commit a traitorous act. But Wyl could not bring himself to think on that now. He snatched away the dampness which blurred his vision, deeply upset that he had failed to save this man’s life and his thoughts rushed towards Valentyna. Once again, as if reading his mind, Romen echoed his thoughts.
‘Where’s the daughter, by the way?’
Wyl realised Romen had not seen Valentyna enter her father’s chamber, having used the concealed internal entrance. Romen was perhaps not even aware that she had been in their company.
He told the truth. ‘I have no idea.’
‘And what did Valor say to your suggestion?’ Romen asked as he settled one of the old man’s legs which had slipped from the couch.
Wyl folded the King’s arms across his chest and then leaned down to kiss the man on both cheeks. Romen held his tongue. He watched Wyl stand up and waited for an answer to his question.
‘He agreed with my reasoning that such a union would bring peace to both realms.’ He did not lie.
‘Congratulations. Your part of the bargain is kept, then,’ Romen said, reaching for his sword. ‘Now I must keep my side of it.’ He flicked Wyl’s sword from the floor into the air and Wyl deftly caught it. ‘Unfinished business, my friend.’
‘We don’t have to do this, Romen,’ Wyl said, desperately hoping he could persuade the man not to duel.
‘We do, Thirsk. We have a deal. I have a purse to collect … and a score to settle.’
‘And if I best you?’
‘Then you must settle it for me. You hate him enough to do it.’
‘I promise,’ Wyl said, realising his hopes of them both surviving were very much in vain. One of them would die in this room alongside a King.
‘And so what can I promise in return?’ Romen asked, tapping his sword against Wyl’s.
‘Aside from your original promise to take care of Ylena?’
Romen nodded. ‘I will marry her, if I must, to give her security. It would hardly be a chore. She is very lovely.’
Wyl considered and then dropped his sword to speak solemnly. ‘I want your word that you will offer your services — your life — to Valentyna.’
Romen was amused at this. ‘To the new Queen? Why? You kiss your enemy King whilst you hate your own. Passing strange, Wyl, for someone who claims to be a loyal Morgravian.’
‘Do it, Koreldy!’
‘Or else?’ he said, the smile back.
‘I won’t fight you. You’ll have to just run me through in cold blood and somehow I know you are too honourable. Nobility runs in your veins, Romen. It is obvious.’
‘You would change your loyalties? A Thirsk wanting to protect the Briavel monarch? Oh this is rich.’
‘Swear it, Romen.’
‘Yes, yes, I swear,’ he said as if weary of a pointless conversation.
> In a flash, Romen found a sword levelled at his throat, reminding him not to underestimate the prowess of the short but powerful man who stood before him. ‘Mean it!’ Wyl yelled.
Romen’s silver-grey eyes darkened. He slashed his blade across his palm and, relieved, Wyl immediately followed suit.
‘I swear it, Wyl Thirsk. I will protect the Queen of Briavel with my life,’ the mercenary said, joining his bloodied palm with Wyl’s. ‘Now fight for your life.’
Wyl kissed his blade. And Romen smiled. A new dance had begun.
FOURTEEN
WYL AND ROMEN FOUGHT in frigid silence.
Silence as the castle at Werryl grasped the shock of attack — fifteen of the palace staff were dead, another dozen were injured and the rest lay in their beds, drugged. Silence as the Briavellian Guard raced back to their King upon realising that the threat which most of them had been despatched to deal with was a hoax. Briavel was not under attack and their clash with a strange company of mercenaries was little more than a skirmish, the foreigners fleeing, having barely clashed swords or lost a single man.
And silence as both men, professional fighters, lost themselves in a battle for their lives. The only sound, in fact, was the harsh ring of their blades. Faces set with grim determination, they duelled in synchrony. Romen, Wyl realised, was indeed a superior swordsman to Celimus. He did not let his emotions get in his way and, like Wyl, he fought with cunning, although with little patience. Lots of bravado and flamboyance, yet each move was lightning fast and deadly.
Everything Wyl threw at him, every trick he had learned from Gueryn, every stroke he had taught himself, Romen countered. He was fast, agile, strong, but most of all, Romen was a strategist. He could think several strokes ahead, was planning moves in advance of where he was fighting now. If Wyl could have stopped their duel, he would like to have told his opponent how much he admired his skill, but there would be no halting now, no more sardonic banter, no more quarter given.
The Quickening Page 20