The Heron Kings
Page 32
Pharamund threw up his hands. “You bitch, I’m betrayed!”
Vinian shoved Alessia aside and poked her head through the hole. “Wait!” She quickly hooked the rope on a secured plank, threw the end into the hall and slid down. She dropped the last two yards, landing on the remains of a roast boar next to Nan. As she did one of Pharamund’s guards plucked a lit torch from a wall sconce and hurled it at her. Hello, old friend. Vinian caught the brand in one hand by the flaming side and tossed it away, unfazed. “Majesty, I beg you wait! It’s no ambush.”
“V-Vinian…? Is it you?”
“Hold!” The voice boomed above the confused shouting. A slender figure fought through the crush of raised spears. “Heed me, Your Grace.” Pharamund had retreated under the table, and Trozas shielded the spot with his body. “King’s men, hold!” He turned to Vinian. “Welcome to the party.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she replied. She knelt next to Nan. “Alessia, get down here!”
“Stay here,” Alessia told Dannek above, then shimmied down the rope somewhat more carefully than Vinian had.
“Vinian,” said Engwara, “I can’t believe…how did you get in here?”
“By skills I learned at your command. And with the help of these rebels.”
“Rebels! So it’s true—”
“Many things are true, Majesty.” Alessia landed next to Vinian and paused a moment to pass her the red leather packet before tending to Nan.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Trozas.
A meek voice came from under the table. “Is…is it safe? Trozas?”
“It’s safe,” said Trozas, as though comforting a child frightened of the storm outside. “Come out, Your Grace.” A frightened man of middle age, middle height and middle build crawled out from underneath. A man with a pleasant but plain face that you might greet kindly in the street but would not long remember afterward. Engwara’s was the polar opposite, yet both vied for the same kingdom, both had been duped by the Bhasan emperor. Vinian wasted no time, taking the momentary uncertainty of the two warring monarchs for her best ally. She unrolled the letter and began reading.
“…Profit flows everywhere, Your Radiance. Your ever-kneeling and humble agent….” She handed the letter to Engwara and finished the rest from memory. “Carthagne Fadhlan ven Xedrusia. Bank Isle-Euderico, Marimine Sardicchio Esquaralle.”
Not a word, not a breath, not a heartbeat could be heard in the hall. Corren and Ulnoth had shambled down from the rafters while she read and now crouched in a corner, watching and glad to be ignored.
Vinian waited, then waited some more for someone to speak. “Is it not clear to both of you? Your true enemies are Artabarzanes and the bank. While you claw at each other they spur you on and wait to pick over the bones of what’s left.”
Engwara cleared her throat first. “I…I thought it was a trick. It seemed so impossible….”
“And I,” said Pharamund, glancing red-faced at Trozas as the letter was passed their way.
“Who says it’s not?” The voice that still brought Alessia nightmares made her cringe as its author tossed aside a guard to gain a spot near the table.
“Taurix,” spat Vinian, “how disgusting to see you again.” He was no less imposing without his battle armor, and no less ugly.
“Likewise. And…you.” He laid eyes on Alessia. “I know you – that mouthy bitch from the temple! I might’ve known you’d be part of this.” He reached for Alessia, who scrambled away from his grasp.
Ulnoth dashed in between them. “Get away from her!”
Taurix shoved him aside with casual contempt. “Queen, we have the initiative. You’re a season from victory, no more. I don’t believe this wild story and neither should you. I told you what the banker said about these peasant scum and your precious spymistress—”
“And I told you different!” answered Ludolphus, firm at Engwara’s side.
Pharamund sneered at the Marcher lord. “Who’d listen to the word of a traitor like you?”
Taurix sneered right back. “As opposed to a mewling incompetent?”
“Quiet, all of you!” Vinian trembled at how she spoke to the highborns, but the hardships of the winter had worn her patience thin. “Forgive me, Majesty, but I had to come before you both like this. It had to be a true surprise to be believed. I think now might be a good time for a drink. Some brandy, perhaps. Why not send for some?”
Engwara frowned. “Brandy? How can you think of—”
“Trust me, Majesty, if you’ve ever trusted me before.” She risked a glance at Taurix, wondering what he suspected. “Send for your crate of apple brandy, special cargo delivered just tonight.”
“What – very well. I know you have your schemes, but this one better be good.” She nodded to a guard. “Do it.”
The crate, again needing six men to move, was brought from the hall’s cellar. But when pried open it yielded not brandy but a very fat banker, unconscious.
Engwara gasped. “Carthagne! Drugged?”
“Ah,” said Trozas, “so you do know him. Take heed, Your Grace.”
“I take heed, my friend. I take heed very well. Wake that mountain of lies.”
A few hard slaps and the banker slowly came to wakefulness. “Eh? Dovastra ela tenessi lo…?” He was dragged dizzy to his feet and realized where he was, and among whom. “Oh dear….”
“My agents found him trying to buy passage to Bhasa, to his true creditor,” said Vinian. “With Ludolphus’s help I got to him first. Mercenaries and smugglers – simply a matter of who pays them more, isn’t that right, banker?”
“Your Majesty,” Carthagne stammered, “I-I can explain—”
“Majesty!” Trozas fumed, furious at having been taken for a fool. “What happened to Pharamund having the greater right and title, as you claimed when you delivered us a fortune in gold and silver?”
“It’s true,” snarled Engwara. “It’s all true, godsdammit! I’ve heard enough. Put that pig in chains, if you can find any of sufficient length.”
“No, wait— Aiee!”
She turned to Pharamund. “Well, so-called king, it may be that we have more to discuss than first I supposed.”
“Um….” Pharamund glanced at Trozas, who simply nodded. “It seems. I won’t be tricked into giving my kingdom to Artabarzanes any more than to you. But before I entertain any proposal I’ve one condition.” He pointed up at Taurix. “This turncoat’s head. Preferably in a box. That before anything else.”
Trozas squirmed. “Your Grace, is that really necess—”
“I have spoken!” Trozas flinched at Pharamund’s newfound resolve.
“What….” Engwara bit her lip. “What would you give for such an extreme gesture?”
Taurix almost choked on his own breath. “You cannot be serious. I’m the only advantage you have, you stupid old cow—”
Ludolphus lashed out with admirable speed for an old man and smashed his fist across Taurix’s jaw, and the Marcher lord stumbled back into the waiting arms of Pharamund’s guards. “Humph,” Ludolphus grunted with a smile. “Been waiting for that. Be rid of him, my queen, he’s a wolf beyond taming. And if he’s the coin that buys peace, what value is he afterward?”
Taurix spat blood at Ludolphus’s feet. “One betrayal paid for with another, eh? Best get on with it then. But I can tell you this much…you’ll have no peace so long as I draw breath.” He exploded, wrenching himself from the guards’ grasp and took hold of a sheathed sword. He drew it upward and in so doing slashed its owner’s chin. The man fell back, clawing at his bloody jaw and dropping a cross-bow.
Carthagne used the distraction to bolt from his own captors. He took up the bow, and in a last-ditch bid to escape leveled the weapon at Pharamund’s chest and pulled the trigger just as Taurix lunged at Engwara, slowed only a fraction by his bad hip.
“The queen!” Vinian yelled. “Protect the queen!”
“Save His Grace, all to me!”
What happened next, and in what order, would be the subject of debate in universities and taphouses for decades to come, but half a second later the scene stood still and bloody. A bolt was burrowed deep in Pharamund’s groin, and the author of the errant shot himself transfixed with a shaft sprouting from the top of his head. And Taurix….
Taurix’s blade was halted an inch from its target, stopped by – to his own surprise more than anyone else’s – Ulnoth. Somehow he’d flown into the path of the steel without any conscious choice to do so, and the length of it passed clear through his midsection. “Huh…” he said, looking down, as though mildly fascinated.
Pharamund howled, Carthagne came crashing down, and Alessia gave a shrill yelp. Ulnoth’s eyes fixed with Taurix’s and he staggered forward, still impaled on the blade. He took a final step and slid his knife into the Marcher lord’s chest. Taurix gasped in surprise as his blackened heart stopped. “Wait, that ain’t how it’s supposed to….”
Ulnoth used his last ounce of strength to twist the knife, then fell to the floor.
Dannek scrambled down the rope to join Alessia at Ulnoth’s side, his last arrow buried in the banker’s skull. Corren descended on Taurix to make sure of his end. “Oh gods,” whispered Alessia, “hold still. Just hold….” But she knew it was no use. She’d seen too many grievous wounds to think there was anything to be done. She cradled Ulnoth in her arms. “Just…please—”
“Ssh,” Ulnoth wheezed. “Doesn’t hurt…finally…doesn’t hurt anymore. Gods lit my path…after all. Didn’t…we almost win?”
Alessia smiled through tears. “We did. Almost won it all.”
“Just end it…please. End….” He breathed out once more and then stilled, finding his peace at last.
Engwara fought through her protectors to stand over the rebel who’d died saving her life. “I…don’t understand. Why?”
“Why?” Nan looked red-eyed up at the queen. “Didn’t you hear? He just told you.”
“We’ve been telling you all this time,” said Corren, his sword dripping with Taurix’s blood, “if only you’d listen. End it.” He looked toward Pharamund’s party. “Just end it!”
“Save him,” Trozas pleaded. “Save my king and I swear, I’ll do what I can.” Alessia nodded, still weeping for Ulnoth, and went to work.
Vinian stood before Engwara, surprised to feel the heat of tears on her own cheeks for the first time she could remember, and the pain of fire was indeed nothing compared to their burn. “Consider it, Majesty. I’m your very best, and I cannot defeat these people.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Quiet at the End
Alessia lingered in the yellow sunset that washed over the hidden entrance to the lodge, watching Corren and Wrenth lead the last patrol of the day back inside. Sally brought up the rear and paused as the others passed by.
“They’re finally cleared out – no reds, no greens anywhere in the valley. Never thought I’d be thankful to have only Marchmen to worry about.”
Alessia nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
“I heard from smugglers coming through that lots of places are being settled again…Lenocca, Wengeddy, Plisten even. More of us managed to survive than anyone thought. Ludrig’s reopening his bar, if you can believe it.”
“You’re going back, aren’t you? Into the world.” Alessia tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but it came out that way.
Sally looked away. “I thought about staying. But I’m not really one of you. There’s land aplenty now, even for the likes of me. Bed needs looking after, and with Gant gone…did Corren tell you?”
“He didn’t have to. I knew. It’s all right.”
“You’re staying out here for good then,” said Sally. “Why? It’s all over now…isn’t it?”
Alessia shrugged. “I get the feeling it won’t ever be, not really. Something ends, something begins. Besides, in the world I never really knew who I was or what I wanted or what I was doing. Here I know.”
“Those highborn lords’ll never stop hunting you after what we’ve done, no matter what Vinian says.”
Alessia grinned. “Then we’ll never stop hunting them right back. And we’re better.”
* * *
The peace negotiations had plodded on for some while, and ended just about as well as they could have. When the bank’s money ran out, Pharamund and Engwara were forced to an agreement. Effectively castrated by Carthagne’s wayward shot, Pharamund’s chance for a dynasty was snuffed out before it began. He’d remain king of Bergovny for the remainder of his days, and thereafter Engwara’s successor would rule both kingdoms united – her ‘Greater Argovan’. Which is probably how it would’ve worked out before all the bloodshed started. But nobody really cared about these details, only that the War of the Bergovan Succession was over. Whether the events here described shortened it by a season, or a year, or ten years no one could ever know. There were more important things to worry about: towns to be rebuilt, crops to be resown and children to be born without the ghost of despair in their eyes. Life went on as it always did – lords still schemed, bankers still stole, and though discredited and despised by a dozen other kingdoms for his conspiracy, the specter of Emperor Artabarzanes ever loomed in the formless east. But in the shadow of every soul from the lowliest swineherd up to kings and queens themselves, a memory of the few who stood for the many still crouched with blade and bow at hand, and a wicked smile.
It’s best left that way, Alessia decided. It’s as true as it needs to be, and I am tired. The westering sun dipped below the cleft horizon, and under the old mountains the Heron King slept.
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Text copyright © 2020 Eric Lewis
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