Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)
Page 68
“What if she's really Lady Katarina?” Kerrel asked. She kept her gaze level, and hoped that her calm voice would prevent one of Hector's repeated outbursts.
“If she lives...” Hector shook his head. “You say you will not be my assassin, but in that case, you must be, or at least arrange for her death. Even if she isn't an impostor... she must be, am I understood?”
“So that you can consolidate power?” Kerrel asked.
“So that I can keep this Duchy from flying apart,” Hector said. “My spies report that the Armen have withdrawn from their siege at Boirton. They'll return home to sow their seed and grow their crops, it's high summer here, but in Noriel it is barely spring. After their harvest, winter will be on them too soon for them to campaign again. They will spend the winter in their camps and villages and then come at us in the springtime, after they've spent their wealth and grown tired of their slaves. Worse, the loot they took from Boir will embolden other tribes of them.” Hector stood, and he began to pace, like a caged animal. “They swarm to where they scent weakness and all of the Five Duchies reeks of it. My spies report a civil war brewing in the Grand Duchy of Boir. We stand on the brink of it ourselves. By spring, we must have this issue settled.”
“You think killing the last of the Ducal line will secure the Duchy?” Kerrel asked.
Hector gave her an odd look. He finally walked over to a locked cabinet and unlocked it. Without a word, he drew out a sheathed sword that lay inside. He raised it up, one hand above the handguard and the other grasped near the tip of the blade. “Recognize this?” He asked.
Kerrel studied it with a frown. The blade had the Masov Ducal crest on the pommel and she saw a number of runes worked into the filigree along the crossguard. It was a long, slender blade. She felt a shock, though as she remembered the stories. “The Ducal Blade?” She asked finally. “Rumor had it that Duke Peter kept it locked in his vaults below Castle Emberhill. I would think it difficult to access those.”
“Almost impossible,” Hector grimaced. “But I spread those rumors so that I would not be required to carry the blade and so that people would not question why I feared to carry it. But this blade will respond only to the rightful bloodline... and the runic magic worked into it is tied to the spirits of the Duchy, who can sense the rightful heir... and will only respond to the rightful Duke's touch.” He drew the blade and a moment later it burst into a warm red light. “I am the bastard son of Lord Mihkel... which makes me Duke Peter's nephew. The only way that I would be the rightful heir is if Lady Katarina was truly dead. I drew this blade after Grel informed me that he had murdered her. That is the proof that Duke Peter's line is dead.”
Kerrel felt a stir of unease. His information conflicted with that of the Luciel Order... but she could not tell him that. For that matter, his proof seemed irrevocable. What if he was right, what if someone sought to deceive them?
Hector seemed to sense that he had at least partially convinced her, “The death of this imposter will stamp out some of the unrest and it will prevent further uprisings, especially if it seems that someone else meddled in our internal politics,” Hector responded. “For the sake of that, this impostor must die. And to do that, I must appease the nobility. Do those two things for me and I can hold the Armen back without worries of a revolt in the south.”
“What if they won't deal?” Kerrel asked
“Then I will lead my army south and destroy them,” Hector said. “I will show them how terrible indeed an army of conquest would be... and I will spare not one man or woman who supports rebellion. If they cannot remember to fear the Armen, they will come to learn to fear me.”
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
Aboard the Ubelfurst, The Boir Sea
Fifth of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Lady Katarina sat at the Boir Naval Admiral's conference table and could only shake her head at the turn of events that had led her there. With the help of the Boir nobleman, they had withdrawn their wounded to his ships. Thankfully, he hadn't asked directly what brought them to Southwatch and Katarina's people hadn't told them of the wealth they found there. That prevented any awkwardness about rightful owners and disputed territory. “I thank you, again, for your hospitality... though I note you have made no mention of my request for help against Lord Hector.”
The tall and almost skeletal Admiral gave her a slight smile, “We are engaged in what may well become a civil war of our own. I will not directly involve us in yours.” He cleared his throat. “However... Captain Elias did have a thought and as it is hypothetical in nature, I could not see the harm in passing it along.”
“Oh?” Katarina asked. She could not mistake a certain sense of satisfaction on the Admiral's face. No doubt whatever plan they cooked up helps them as much as it does us, she thought.
“Yes, well,” Captain Elias said. “You see, I could not help but think that the Ryftguard controls access to the Duchy of Masov. You see it as the main flow of the Usurper Duke's mercenaries from Taral, Marovingia, and the Duchy of Asador. We see it as a threat corridor that could allow more corsairs or even rebellious Boir Ducal Navy ships to enter the Boir Sea.”
“Hypothetically, of course,” the Admiral said, his voice grave.
“Yes, of course,” Captain Elias said quickly. Katarina saw the stocky captain take a deep breath and then gather himself, as if he needed to pick his words with caution.
“While it has very strong defenses, both from the sea and land, it is nevertheless vulnerable, as are all fortifications, to a sudden assault. And if these attackers came by sea, they might secure the fortress without the cost of storming the walls.” Elias shrugged his powerful shoulders, “This would, of course, be a dangerous operation, one which would require absolute surprise and secrecy... and some inner knowledge of the layout of the fortress, as well as some information on the garrison.”
“Which would be costly,” Katarina said. Her eyes narrowed, “It could be very costly, indeed, especially if that information might threaten to embroil another duchy into the politics of Masov.”
“True,” the Admiral said. “But of course, anyone who seized the Ryftguard would secure it against any passage to establish proper security. They might especially prevent military traffic of any kind.”
“Which might secure the Ryft against any threats from the south,” Captain Elias said. “And, speaking hypothetically, that would be a very good thing if the Boir Ducal Navy had concerns about the loyalty of its Southern Fleet.”
“I see,” Katarina said. She had to shake her head at that. “I think that it this would have to happen quietly. But the value of such a prize cannot be understated.” She glanced at the Admiral and gave him a slight smile, “So how would this take place? Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
“That is something we will need to discuss,” Admiral Tarken said, his voice dry. “I'm certain it will require a greater level of participation on our – that is, on the people giving their assistance, than some others believe. However, if you agree, I would like to begin preparations.”
“I will have to consult with...” Katarina looked up as the steward opened the door. Bulmor, Cederic, Arren, and Eleanor entered. “...my advisers, who are here now. And lest you think we came as paupers... I have a goodwill gift, which I present on behalf of the Duchy of Masov.”
She took the sheathed sword from Bulmor and drew the blade out. She heard a gasp of shock from the men in the room as they saw the rune-covered blade revealed. “Among the treasures we recovered from Southwatch, Aerion...” Katarina had to clear her throat. “That is, one of my companions recovered what we believe is the Ducal Sword of Boir... lost since the Sundering.”
Her pronouncement met with complete silence, and the look of shock on the faces of the Admirals officers drew a nervous giggle from her. Captain Elias seemed to recover first. “Lady Katarina... this is indeed a great gift. Might I... Might I hold it?”
Katarina looked at the ship's captain
and the look of awe on his face suggested an almost religious experience. She glanced at Arren, who gave her a slight nod of reassurance. Katarina passed over the light blade, hilt first.
Captain Elias took it, and a broad smile lit up his face as he cradled it, almost like a child. He stared down at the decorations and runes that marked the blade, hilt and crossguard. “I think it truly is the Ducal Blade, Admiral.”
Admiral Tarken looked uncomfortable, “There have been many copies, many forgeries made.” He gave Katarina an apologetic glance, “Not that I doubt you, necessarily, but it could be one of those.”
“I suppose the word of a Shrouded Wizard would not hold sufficient sway?” Cederic asked. The wizard had a sardonic smile on his face.
“No need,” Captain Elias said calmly. “My family... well among my ancestors I count several of the Ducal Guard of Boir. Our legends retained specific details. And it is something that you cannot mistake... not when you hold it in hand.”
The Admiral gave a sigh and Katarina saw him shake his head slightly. “I'll accept your word for it, for now Captain Elias. Yet I think it best if we keep this quiet. Best to allow the Council to reveal it, rather than for us to spread it about, I think.” He frowned and Katarina wondered what thoughts troubled him.
“A marvelous gift, though one that brings complications,” Captain Guntor said. “I should like to examine it as well?” Captain Elias reluctantly passed over the blade, and the wizard captain turned it over in his hands. “High Magic weaves, more than on any artifact I've ever seen. I can verify that the magic on the blade is authentic, at least. Though I have no idea what might activate it, nothing beyond the legends of the ancient bloodlines.”
“Of which few remain,” Captain Elais said, his voice somber. “The original Ducal House were murdered when Dalton seized power and declared himself Emperor centuries ago. Truthfully, I don't know if any of the other Houses which survived his butchery would have the blood to activate it. And even if they did... well, Duke Becket's House had the strongest claim and at the time of the Sundering, they were only a minor House.”
“Something for others to worry about,” Admiral Tarken said quickly. “And in the end, while it is a pretty treasure, I will not allow a relic from those times to further add to the confusion and chaos that our nation faces.” He extended his hand towards Guntor. “I think it best, Lady Katarina, that we secure your gift and allow those with the proper authority to deal with it.”
Guntor passed the blade over, hilt first. Katarina saw the Admiral take it and lift it to gaze at the blade. A bright flare of blue light made her look away in surprise. When the glare faded, Katarina turned back to see Admiral Tarken frozen, blade still raised before his face. A corona of light enveloped the blade and blue flames seemed to crackle from the runes on the blade.
She heard Cederic give a dry chuckle from behind her, “Well... it seems the sword feels otherwise. Apparently, it recognizes the proper Duke of the Grand Duchy of Boir.”
***
Captain Grel, The Duke's Hound
Ryft Peaks, Duchy of Masov
Fifth of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
The dark clad figure stumbled a bit as it staggered in out of the night towards the campfire. Grel drew his sword and readied himself. He felt his heart race as he waited. For the past five days he had run from the Armen and their Noric allies. In that time he saw no sign of other people. His horse had collapsed from exhaustion and died the previous day.
If this were one of the Noric's scouts or, worse, one of their demons, Grel would kill him. Come to think of it, if it's another traveler I'll kill hm just for his supplies, Grel thought. He had some trail rations left, but anything more would be welcome, especially with many miles to travel to the safety of lands controlled by Duke Hector.
“Stop right there,” Grel called out.
The figure stopped, much to his surprise. The dark figure's head came up, and Grel bit back a curse. “Grel... I should have known you would survive that mess back there,” Xavien said. His high pitched voice sounded tired, but Grel did not care to try his luck against the wizard. “What... no greetings? No gratitude that I am not dead?”
Grel sighed, “I knew I would not be so lucky. I tried to control the Armen and Norics in your name... but they did not believe.”
“You did well or as well as I could expect of you,” Xavien said. He walked up the fire and almost buried his hands in it. Grel saw the wizard dripped water. Where he had found a lake or river to dunk himself in, Grel couldn't guess. His own water-skin was empty, he hadn't found so much as a stream in the past day. “It seems my enemies are more organized than I expected. The Armen and Norics have paid for their failures... and I will remember and reward your loyalty.”
“Reward?” Grel asked sharply. He felt his heart beat a little faster. Rewards with Xavien often were often double edged. For that matter, the scary bastard has a sick sense of humor, Grel thought sourly.
“Yes...” Xavien smiled a bit. “Do you know why they ordered my execution in Boir, Grel?” The way the fire reflected from his dark eyes made Grel shiver
His words took Grel by surprise. “No, my Lord. A, uh, misunderstanding perhaps?” Grel licked his lips nervously. What did this have to do with his reward?
“No. My sister stumbled upon me while I conducted an experiment of sorts. She knew the signs of blood magic... of sorcery, as all people do. I could not well deny it, either, especially not after my father brought the city guard,” Xavien's smile grew more broad as Grel shivered. “Yes, my study of magic goes beyond wizardry. What greater magic exists than to command the forces of life itself, after all? I've made use of sorcery to achieve things I might not otherwise accomplish.”
“What...” Grel cleared his throat. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Why, everything, my friend,” Xavien said. “Because I think your proper reward possible only because of my knowledge of sorcery.” He raised his hand and Grel felt his guts twist in terror. “I'll make you a better man, Grel. Trust me, you'll thank me later.”
Grel let out a scream as his muscles twisted and he felt his bones snap. He saw Xavien's eyes begin to glow a sullen red color as the world went dark.
And then he knew only pain.
***
Aerion Swordbreaker
The Eastwood
Fifth of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Aerion came awake in a large, soft bed. The sheets over him seemed almost absurdly smooth and for the first time in a while, he woke up warm, comfortable, and without any aches and pains. Well, so this is what the afterlife is like, he thought, or at least, this is my mind spinning some dream as I bleed out.
He sat up, and as he did, he looked around the room. A low nightstand held a carafe of water and a fluted glass. The stone walls held tapestries and paintings, some of it strange nature scenes, others of people he had never before seen. He saw his sword, sheathed, atop a pile of unfamiliar clothing. Aerion reached for the glass and the water first. He drained three glasses of water, one right after the next. Aerion swung his feet out over the edge of the bed and then stood. His left leg twinged a bit and he saw a faint scar that ran down the outside of his thigh. Curious, he looked at his arm and saw another faint scar there.
He felt his face heat as he realized that someone had stripped him of his clothing and put him in bed. Aerion tried not to think of some of his odd dreams, of beautiful, red-skinned women and men.
He reached for his sword and then picked up the clothing underneath.
The leather breeches looked his size and he gratefully pulled on the underclothes from the pile. He lifted up the dark green shirt last and stared at it in confusion. He almost never found clothing his size, yet the shirt seemed to match him. Aerion drew on the breeches and then the green shirt. He looked down at himself in surprise, for the clothing fit him better than anything he had ever worn.
He belted on his sword, gave one last look down at himself and then
tried the door. It opened at his touch and Aerion stepped out into a room set with couches. A curly-haired blonde woman in a green dress looked up. “Ah, the sleeper awakens.”
“Excuse me?” Aerion asked.
The woman rose and Aerion saw that she stood five feet tall at the most. “My apologies. I am Lady Amelia Tarken of Boir. Like you, I am a guest here as well, though I volunteered to watch over you while King Simonel and Princess Tirianis attend a Council meeting.”
“Where am I?” Aerion said. He looked around the room, “And how did I get here?” None of those names sounded familiar and he didn't know of any kings. For that matter, he didn't know why a noblewoman of Boir might even deign to speak to him.
“You are in the Eastwood, and your fight with the Armen and Norics inspired King Simonel enough that he made you a Royal Guest, which among other things, means they brought you to the Heartwood and healed you up,” Lady Amelia said.
“The Eastwood?” Aerion repeated in confusion. “But isn't that where the Wold live?” He remembered the stories of the Wold and the ancient legends, of their blood-lust and that they killed for trespass upon their lands.
“Yep,” the blonde answered. “Which, once you connect the dots, makes you the guest of the King of the Wold.” She said the last with relish.
“Oh,” Aerion said. “The more likely suggestion is that I died and this is all some strange afterlife.” He paused and another thought percolated through his brain. “Either that, or I've simply gone mad.”
“I thought that myself,” she responded. “And some days, I still think that.”
“Well–”
The far door opened, and a tall man stepped through. He paused, as if surprised to see Aerion up and about. Amelia gave him a warm smile, “Simonel, welcome back. He's just come out.” The Wold King had reddish-bronze skin and a long flowing mane of raven black hair. His green eyes stood out sharply against his lean face. He wore leather armor of some type, dyed the same color green as his eyes, and heavily worked with symbols or decorations of some kind.