Angus Wells - Novel 04

by Yesterday's Kings (v1. 1)

“I cannot,” he said. “He’s Durrym—the enemy. But I shall do what 1 can. Believe me, eh?”

  Abra had no choice save to agree.

  Lofantyl LAY in HIS cell, hurting, and waited for Per Fendur to return.

  He knew the priest would, for that had shone like evil lamplight from his black eyes: a dismal promise of pain to come. And the next morning he did return, smiling.

  “Shall we speak again?”

  “I’ve not been fed,” Lofantyl replied. “And I’m mightily hungry.”

  “No doubt.” Per Fendur aped apology. “You must forgive me my faulty memory—I thought only of getting answers from you.” He bowed, elaborate and mocking. Then, to the hulking soldiers who accompanied him, “Bring him!”

  Lofantyl was once again dragged from the cell and flung onto the rack. Per Fendur smiled at him as the straps were buckled about the wrists and ankles.

  “A little tighter, today,” he said. “Perhaps enough to break your joints. Are Durrym limbs stronger than ours.7 We’ll see, eh?”

  “I cannot tell you anything more,” Lofantyl declared. “No more than what I’ve said.”

  “We shall see.” Per Fendur smiled equably and turned the wheel.

  Lofantyl screamed, for all he’d vowed he’d not. He could not help the shriek that burst out as his hurting body was stretched farther.

  “That hurts, no?” Per Fendur leaned close, smiling. “1 cannot imagine how much it must hurt. And so much more to come. Until I’m satisfied.”

  “With the truth or the pain?” Lofantyl moaned.

  “Are they not the same?” The priest swung the wheel a notch tighter. “Truth is often painful—and the sooner you give me yours, the sooner this can end."

  He turned the wheel again: Lofantyl howled.

  Per Fendur laughed.

  And then the dungeon door slammed open and Lord

  Bartram entered. Laurens stood behind lum, and six solid men.

  “What is this?” Bartram’s voice echoed the expression of disgust on his face.

  “I question the prisoner,” Fendur said.

  “You torture him.” Bartram stared at the rack. “I’d forgotten this existed."

  “It’s a useful tool,” the priest returned.

  “Let him up!” Bartram gestured and Laurens stepped toward the horrid table.

  Fendur darted in front of the master-at-arms. “Leave him be! He’s mine to question.”

  Laurens hesitated, looking back at Lord Bartram, who smiled sardonically and repeated, “Let him up. Get him off that thing!” And then: “Put your sword into any who oppose you.”

  “Treason!” Fendur howled. “You defy the Church and your king! Disobey me and you shall be excommunicated!”

  Laurens glanced at Bartram, and saw his lord nod. So he cut the straps and lifted Lofantyl from the rack.

  “I’ll see no man tortured in my keep,” Bartram said.

  “He’s not a man,” Fendur snarled. “He’s a Durrym!”

  “Even so,” Bartram replied, “he deserves respect.” He looked to Laurens, who held Lofantyl upright. “Take him back to his cell. And see it’s decent, eh? Fresh straw and clean water; and see him fed properly.”

  Laurens ducked his head and hauled the stumbling Durrym away.

  Bartram and Fendur glowered at one another, mutual dislike in their eyes.

  “The Church shall hear of this,” Fendur threatened, “and not like what it hears.”

  “Likely so,” Lord Bartram agreed. “But for now get out of my sight, lest I lose my temper.”

  He watched as the priest quit the torture chamber. It was an afterthought to command the guards who’d aided Fendur to stand the midnight watch until he changed his mind. And then he ordered the men with him to destroy the apparatus of torture that filled the room. He saw the horrid instruments tom down and hammered; the tables set ablaze, until the dungeon was filled with smoke and fire. And then he wondered what he’d done, and if Per Fendur might not still bring him down in disgrace.

  Save, he thought, it would not be disgrace, but only whatever honesty he could find.

  Seven

  ABRA WONDERED how Lofantyl fared. She was terribly afraid for him, and for herself. She sensed that if Per Fendur had his way, they’d both be executed— save her father intervened, which might well lose him his holding, or worse. She thought, as she lay restless on her bed, that the worst had arrived and all her roads were come together in a ghastly tangle that could leave only sorrow in its path. Had she refused Lofantyl’s advances none of this would have happened. He’d not have risked the keep’s walls to visit her, nor been captured, and then her father would have not have been in opposition to the Church.

  She poured a glass of wine and stared from her window at the bleak walls of her home.

  The snows had ceased now, and froze under a cold east wind. The keep’s walls were glassy with ice, and the land beyond lay frozen and white, as empty as her hopes. A new moon rose, a yellow sickle that mocked her, looking as lonely as she felt, but more regal. She made a decision.

  She tugged on a robe and found her way to the dungeons.

  There were no guards—the night was icy, and who’d free a Durrym? The key to the outer gate was hung in a box by the wall, the turnkey gone to his dinner. She took it and opened the gate. There was a flight of stairs, descending into darkness and the stench of ordure and ancient straw, so that she coughed and muffled her sleeve about her nostrils as she found a lantern and carried it lit before her, calling Lofantyl’s name.

  He answered and she brought the lamp to the front of his cell. Then dropped it as he took her hands and drew her against the bars.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “And I you,” she answered. “But what can we do?”

  “Are you safe here?”

  She nodded. “The dungeons aren't guarded.”

  “Then—if you can, safely—bring me paper and pen.”

  “To what end?" she asked, clutching his hands.

  “I can send a message to my father. Does he hear of my plight, he might well sue for peace—agree to some treaty between us.”

  “I’ll do it," she promised.

  Lofantyl returned to his straw-laden bed. His cell was cleaner now that Lord Bartram had ordered he be tended well. He had fresh water and decent food, but even so he was held prisoner by the Garm’kes Lyn. And even did he trust Bartram, he could not trust the priest, or the one called Amadis. He thought that in time they’d put him back on the rack, or send him to the Church or the capital, where he’d he hung or burned. Unless he could escape, which would he difficult without help.

  Without Abra.

  He waited for the sky to brighten and then summoned the raven.

  The bird settled noisily on the ledge of his cell, where he spoke to it and told it to return at sunset.

  Which it did. But before then Abra had brought him a scroll and a nib and an inkpot, so he was able to compose a message that he fixed to the raven’s leg before he bade it fly.

  The BIRD LOFTED over Lyth, black wings beating. It crossed the forest and the Alagordar, and came to a gentler land, leaving winter behind. It rested a while in the sun and then, compelled by Lofantyl’s command, flew onward, over such country as the Kandarians had never seen. Ahead lay Kash'ma Hall, all glossy and wooden in the late afternoon light, set in a great clearing, yet still part of the expansive woodland.

  The bird landed on a tree that had no right to grow so green in winter—save it was not winter here—and waited until a caller, whose name was Arym, came and brought it down. It sat atop his wrist as he took off Lofantyl’s message, then hopped onto his shoulder as he brought it to the aviary and fed it nuts and grain.

  Arym took the message to Isydrian.

  The High Lord of Kash’ma Hall was settled by a hearth that burned so bright it should, in Kandar, have devoured all the keep, did they not live inside stone places. In Coim’na Drhu, however, the flames only caressed the wood, decorating the hearth w
ith reflections of fire, giving back only warmth.

  Isydrian felt the cold now: he was growing old, and he felt a terrible presentiment as Arym delivered the message, bowed and departed. He doubted it was any good news.

  His courtiers rose as he opened the scroll; he waved them back. This was something he’d read alone.

  He held his aquiline features steady as he read of Lofantyl’s plight. Then beckoned Afranydyr to his side.

  “I’ve a task for you.”

  Afranydyr bowed his head. “As you command, Father.”

  Isydrian said, “Your brother is held captive by the Garm. In Lyth Keep. The barbarians have tortured him, but the Garm woman aids him. She’ll help him escape, all well. I want to rescue him.”

  “How?” Afranydyr demanded. “Kandar’s snowbound—how shall we make the way?”

  “I don’t care—make it!” Isydrian glowered at his older son. “Your brother is held prisoner by the Garm. Shall you see him executed?”

  Afranydyr shook his head.

  “Then go!”

  “How many warriors shall 1 take?” Afranydyr asked.

  “Ten should be enough,” Isydrian replied. “You face, after all, only Garm’kes Lyn.”

  “Yes, my father.” Afranydyr ducked obeisance. “As you command, my father.”

  Coim’n a Drhu rested autumnal. The grass grew green and the trees were still leafed, so from Kash’ma Hall to the Mys’enh they made good time.

  Beyond the river, however, winter locked the land. The west hank of the Alagordar was all snowy, and the big Durrym chargers protested the cold with snorts of disapproval. They were larger and fleeter than any Garm horse, hut accustomed to the benign climate of Coim’na Drhu, so their riders must urge them on, themselves shivering as the cold gripped, watching their mounts blow great steamy breaths into the chill air.

  “It’s my brother we come to rescue,” Afranydyr declared dutifully. “Shall we let a little inclement weather halt us?”

  Gofylans, who was his second, blew on his hands and said, “No. But I cannot like this miserable country. I wonder if the Garm didn’t do us a favor when they drove us out.”

  Afranydyr chuckled. “Coim'na Drhu is surely more pleasant. I think the Gann don’t understand the country. I think they only seek to own it, and make it theirs.”

  Gofylans stared at him. “How so? How can anyone own the land?”

  “They’re Garm,” Afranydyr said. “They don’t understand.”

  Gofylans shook his head in disbelief.

  They reached the edge OF THE WOODS, with Kandar stretching out before them. They halted inside the forest and built a fire, spreading their bedrolls on the snow. Afranydyr and Gofylans sat together, discussing their strategy.

  “The keep is there.” Afranydyr tapped the parchment his father had given him, drawn from Lofantyl’s raven-delivered instructions. “There are farms between here and there, and a village below the keep.”

  “So we’ve little chance of approaching unobserved.”

  Gofylans snorted laughter. “What do we do? Ride through the village and storm the walls? And then die?”

  “No.” Afranydyr shook his head. “The girl aids us. Lofantyl promises that she’ll let us in when the moon is full.”

  “And you trust a Garm?”

  “What other choice?” Afranydyr sighed. “He’s my brother, no?”

  “And I’m your friend,” said Gofylans, “but I doubt the wisdom of the venture.”

  “It’s my father’s command,” Afranydyr replied. “And my brother in the prison. Honor demands I rescue him.”

  “Remember, they’ll come for me when the moon grows full.” Lofantyl clutched Abra’s hands through the bars. “You must open a gate for them.”

  She shook her head. “How can I ? You ask me to betray my father.”

  “Then Per Fendur shall have me. He’ll rack me and then send me off to die. Do you want that?”

  “No!”

  “Then you must help me. Else I’m dead.”

  “I must think on it,” she said, and left him before any guards came.

  She returned to her chambers and thought on all he asked—on what it must mean for her and her father. And wondered, torn between love and loyalty, what she should do.

  “IT SHALL SERVE YOU WELL, that we’ve a Durrym to question.” Per Fendur raised his glass in toast. “He might well give us information of their land, and make our conquest easier.”

  “Under torture?” Lord Bartram shook his head. “A man racked will tell you anything.”

  “Even so,” the priest returned, “we can learn. The rack gives answers."

  “But not necessarily the truth."

  “You dispute my methods?” The priest fixed the keep lord with an accusing stare.

  Bartram nodded. “I do. I’ve no taste for torture.” Fendur smiled, directing his gaze to Vanysse and Amadis. “A squeamish Border Lord?” He chuckled, taking the sting from his taunt. “I’d thought you hardier.” “I’ll face any man in hattle,” Bartram replied indignantly. “Or any Durrym. But I’ll not condone torture.” Fendur’s smile evaporated, his eyes growing cold as frozen stones. “You'd defy the Church?”

  Vanysse said, "Heed him, husband." And Amadis nodded his approval.

  But Lord Bartram shook his head and said, “I’ll not agree to torture.”

  Fendur exaggerated a sigh. “Then I must send a message to my prelate, who will doubtless speak with Khoros, and ...”—he let a breath go by—“you shall receive orders.” “Perhaps,” Bartram said. “And does my king command, I must obey. But that shall take a while, no?” He gestured at the misted windows. “Traveling is hard out there, Per Fendur, and I wonder how long your message shall take. And until you’ve sent it, and I’ve a response, you’ll not touch the prisoner.”

  Fendur glanced at Amadis, who shrugged and said, “Weeks, in such weather as this.”

  “So be it.” Fendur nodded. “I shall compose a letter.” He looked to Amadis rather than Bartram. “You’ll see it sent?”

  Amadis ducked his head.

  “And meanwhile,” Fendur said with oily mildness, “I see fit to question your daughter, my lord.”

  “No!” Bartram shouted.

  “Why not?” Fendur asked. “If she is innocent, she’s nothing to fear.”

  He fixed Abra with a smile, and she made her decision.

  Afranydyr halted his mount with Lyth in sight. The moon stood full above, painting the snow with silvery light, so that he could see the sleeping village clear as day. It was shuttered against the chill, and he grinned as he gave his instructions. Unlike his brother, he savored the prospect of combat.

  “We’ll skirt around,” he told Gofylans, “and approach from the north. There should be a lantern to mark the gate.”

  “And if there’s not?”

  “Then we’ll do what we can, no?”

  “Which is what?” Gofylans asked.

  “Fight our way in and rescue my brother,” Afranydyr said.

  They reached the walls and waited.

  “They’re sleepy folk," Afranydyr remarked, studying rhe ramparts. “We could easily take this place.”

  Stretched flat against the frozen snow, Gofylans was in worse humor than his commander. “Until they wake up,” he said. “Then it might be different."

  Afranydyr chuckled. And then a light showed as a sallyport opened.

  “Now!”

  They RAN TOWARD the lantern Abra held and swept her up in their charge. She opened her mouth to scream, startled by their onslaught, but a hand clamped firm over her mouth and she heard her captor whisper, “One sound and I slay you.”

  His tone left her in no doubt, and she nodded as best she could against hts hard, musky hand.

  It went away and she looked up at a Durrym who seemed a larger, sterner version of Lofantyl.

  “I am Afranydyr,” he whispered. “Lofantyl’s brother. Where is he?”

  She saw that he held a sword made of no metal she
had ever seen, perhaps no metal at all. It was against her neck, and his eyes told her he’d not hesitate to use it. She felt very afraid. “There.” She pointed toward the dungeon’s entrance, and Afranydyr took hold of her arm and urged her in that direction. His cohorts followed, moving silent as shadows across the frosted courtyard.

  The WIND BLEW cold as Abra made her way to the dungeons. She wore a cloak, but even so the chill gripped her like panic, and she could hardly stop her teeth from rattling as she heard her feet crunch—loud—on the ice. Sentries manned the walls, but they were cold as she, and held mostly to their posts and, anyway, looked for assault from outside rather than within.

  She found the entrance to the dungeons and took the great key from its hook. It chilled her fingers and she could not insert it in the lock for the trembling of her hands. Afranydyr took it from her, wincing as he touched the metal. Then he inserted key to lock and, with a grunt, turned it.

  He shouldered the door open and Abra stared around, terrified that the grating sound it made should alert the guards. She stared at the walls, where the sentries were, and saw the night all still and cold, and heaved a sigh of relief when no alarum sounded.

  “Show me where he is.”

  Afranydyr’s blade rested on her shoulder and she led him down the damp steps to Lofantyl’s cell.

  The turnkey was long gone to his bed, the dungeons lightless save for a single torch that spread long shadows over the miserable confines, rats and cockroaches scattering at their entrance. Afranydyr snorted his disgust.

  “This is no way to imprison a son of Kash’ma Hall.”

  “Nor my way,” Abra returned. She found Lofantyl’s older brother uncouth, not at all like her Durrym lover. But she set that thought aside as she took him and his men to Lofantyl’s cell.

  “We honor our prisoners,” Afranydyr muttered. “We treat them well.”

  Abra had no answer for that, so all she said was, “He’s here,” as she pointed at rhe barred gate.

  Lofantyl rose, scattering his blanket of rats, and stared at the gate.