by Greg Curtis
“For the moment you may keep your head. But only while you continue to be useful. And if there should be another betrayal like this one, your usefulness will end in a heartbeat. Do you understand me?!”
“Yes Your Majesty.”
Vesar bowed slightly, seemingly cowed. But in truth he was unrepentant. He had done what he had done because he had to, and he would do it again when he had the need. His only regret was that he had failed. Had he succeeded no doubt he would have come up with some elaborate deception to explain Edouard's death. But he let his hand move away from his chest and that Simon knew, meant that for the moment he would be good. He had to be. Vesar had his own plans. The dreams of his master, whoever he was. He wanted the sparks and flames killed or at least driven far from the realm. And he wanted his poxy temple built. He could do neither of those things without a king to support him.
That was the deal that had been struck, and it was a deal that still had to be honoured. By both of them. For now. But he had no doubt that the advisor had some treacherous plans for him in the future. Probably fatal ones. After his temple had been built.
Vesar was not a man to be trusted. Though that was surely true of any man who refused to show his face. When this was over Simon decided, when the nearer realms and free cities were safely under his rule, he would have him killed. Killed horribly. And maybe then, before he died, he'd get to see what lay hidden behind that veil. For the moment though Vesar had his uses. As long as he could keep summing his armies of strange and terrible creatures to crush his enemies, the man was useful. In time he had even promised him an actual army. A magical army. Before that though he had another problem to deal with.
“Now tell me of your plans for Marcus.”
His oldest brother was the most serious threat he faced. Marcus was captain of the royal guard. He was well regarded by his men and by the city. And as the protégée of Lord Julius he was expected to become the next Right Hand. His word carried weight. Edouard might not bend a knee to him but Marcus would swing a sword at his head. What was more he would know how to use it. He was the brother Simon feared.
“Not to worry Your Majesty. I have a plan for him that will send him far away for a few days. Long enough that he will not cause trouble.”
Ironically enough Simon had a similar plan for Vesar. Or at least the beginnings of one. When Vesar had first come to him, pretending that he wanted only to see him claim the throne, Simon had smelled a rat. He had known from the start that the man had his own reasons for doing what he was doing. He had known that his ascending the throne was only a means to an end for Vesar. No one did anything for a stranger simply because they could. And all the lying priest's pretty words could never have convinced him otherwise.
It wasn't necessarily a bad thing that Vesar had his own agenda. Not when he could do all the things he said he could. And Simon had had need of him, especially when he had already been in a pickle with his thieves caught and sooner or later likely to talk. Their incompetence still angered him.
So an ally with an agenda didn't bother him. It could even be useful. As long as he knew the priest's agenda he would have power over him. But it didn't make for a trustworthy ally either. Especially when he continued to hide his face. So Simon had accepted his help but prepared his own plans at the same time. Those plans had begun with having the black priest watched.
Vesar didn't know it but Simon knew where his shrine was. He knew where he kept his most important magical artefacts. And where he spoke to his master. It was at the Brook Street Tannery. Vesar had thought himself so clever in buying it under the name of another, and then furtively hollowing out a basement for his dark secrets. But he hadn't been nearly clever enough to deceive Simon.
Now that Vesar had gone against his orders and betrayed him it was time to teach him a lesson. To weaken his hand. Simon pondered the myriad ways that that could be done. An accidental discovery by the city guards of his complicity in a crime of some sort. A convenient burglary of his secret storehouse – and he had the people to do it. A strategically placed bomb to destroy his temple when it was being built. Or even one set to kill Vesar himself when the time was right. Or perhaps just a simple mugging gone wrong. Something that might leave him with a couple of broken legs.
There were so many options and the man had to learn one thing above all others – you didn't go against your king. But not just yet. For the moment he had to secure his throne. So whatever he did had to be subtle. Vesar had to have no way of linking it back to him. But if it weakened the priest and forced him to rely a little more heavily on him, that would be of use. It would make Vesar more cautious when it came to betraying him again. And he could not have the damned priest crossing him again.
“Good. See to it that he doesn't enter the city. Any way you have to.”
“Any way Your Majesty?”
Simon wasn't fooled by his question. He knew what Vesar was asking, and he knew why. He was checking to see if Simon had any regard for his brother. He should have known better. Because Simon knew he could never show weakness in front of an enemy. Even the great brute Marcus would know that. And caring for others was a weakness.
“Any way.”
As Vesar left him though, Simon did feel a tinge of regret. He despised Marcus. He hated his endless sermonising about honour and duty and all that crap. He really hated being lectured by him – the bore was actually even worse than his father and in any case had absolutely no right. But he didn't hate Marcus.
On the other hand Vesar might have his work cut out for him if he did try to kill Marcus. For all his faults the man was a superb warrior. That was what made him so dangerous.
Music! That was what he needed Simon decided as he sat there thinking of ways to pay Vesar back for his betrayal. Music to plot by. It would be better if he could go out and spend the night waging good gold on games of chance, but that pleasure was denied to him for a time. A king could not frequent black market parlours. And a king who had just stolen his throne and was far from secure on it, could not spend his time on anything but securing his rule.
But still, he could have some music to listen to while he plotted.
Chapter Seventeen
Marcus arrived at the city's walls in the middle of the morning, angry with himself for being so late. He was never late. But the previous afternoon and night he had slept like a baby, knowing nothing but the infinite comfort of a warm soft bed and happy dreams. He didn't understand that. Denetta had been passionate and exciting beyond any other woman he had known, but there had been nothing supernatural in what they had done. Nothing to explain his exhaustion. Had there? All he could think was that whatever the potion the physician had given him, it must have been powerful. Far too powerful.
It had caused him to fail in his duty.
First he had slept right through a battle – a big one if what the handmaidens had told him was correct – as his brother's home was attacked. And he had to admit they were burning an awful lot of strange looking wood when he'd finally been able to speak with them. But had they really been the legendary sprigs as they'd claimed? He couldn't quite believe that – yet he couldn't doubt them either. Nor the fact that while they'd been fighting he'd been sleeping.
Then his little brother had been taken away in the early hours of the morning by his own soldiers and he'd somehow slept through that as well. That was just not right. He should have been there protecting his brother. Protecting his family. His soldiers should have woken him at the least. Their failure to do so bothered him.
He was the Captain of the Royal Guard. He should have been there at the door interrogating his soldiers about their orders. None of his men should have come to his brother's door and taken him away without his knowing what was happening. And even if their orders came straight from the king, he should have been there to make certain everything was in order. But instead he had been passed out like a lush after a hard night carousing. It was a failure of everything he had been raised to do. He was of H
ouse Barris! He had a responsibility to it. To his family. A responsibility that he could not fail. But he had.
And now it seemed that he had failed for a third time. He should have been protecting the city instead of sleeping. As the broken walls of Theria grew larger in front of him Marcus discovered that he had failed in his duty as a soldier too. Badly. Theria had been attacked, again. And all while he'd slept. What had been in the potion the physician had given him? Extract of poppies?
It had been a big engagement – and a bloody one. There were tell-tale signs of a pitched battle all around. Bodies lay everywhere. So many of them were laid out in front of the walls that he couldn't count them all. There were more hanging over the edges of them. All of them drenched in blood and most of them wearing uniforms. These were soldiers. His soldiers. The men he was responsible for. There were more of those crazy bunches of twisted wood that were the remains of the sprigs as well. Outside the gate, outside the wall, but also inside the city. There could be only one explanation. The sprigs had attacked the city in numbers and penetrated it. And all while he'd snored!
There were no words to describe how greatly Marcus hated himself when he saw that. When he saw the bodies of his men. His failure had been truly terrible. But there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. The battle was over and all he could do was help with the clean up.
Marcus galloped the last of the way to the city's main gate, determined to do everything he could and quickly spotted the city guards on duty. There weren’t many of them. It was likely that most of them were busy elsewhere he thought. Or at least hoped. The truth was that they could be dead. Still, there was a man waiting to take his horse when he dismounted. A soldier with a bandage around his arm but unlike so many others, alive.
“What happened here soldier?” Marcus didn't even wait for the man to greet him. He just snapped his question at him and expected an answer.
“The tree creatures Sir. They attacked during the night.”
“That much I can see for myself. They were beaten back? How many were hurt and killed?”
“No Sir. They just left Sir. We didn't beat them. They tore all the cannon in the city apart and killed most of the cannoneer. Not many guards survive either.”
The man looked at the ground as he said it, whether out of shame or grief Marcus didn't know. What he did know was that the man had said they'd left. Left when they were winning through. That didn't make any sense. Every soldier knew that if the field of battle was yours you took advantage of it and pressed your victory. And also the handmaidens had told him that these creatures – these sprigs – did not back off. They did not know fear. They did not know hunger or rage either. They simply attacked until they were stopped.
“How many guards survive soldier?”
The man gestured helplessly at the carnage behind him. At the blood soaked bodies everywhere. “Not enough to man the walls Sir. Not even to keep a proper watch if they return.”
“Captain Severin.”
Marcus turned as a new voice greeted him and he forgot his questions as he saw someone with far too much embroidery on his black uniform to be a real soldier approaching. He could never have earned the uniform he was wearing. Which was surely why he could see no rank on his shoulders. And why was the man wearing a veil? But he carried himself with the pride of one. Or the haughtiness of a court noble.
“Yes?”
“I am Lockbar Wright, aide-de-camp to the Right Hand, and I have been entrusted with some orders to give to you. Orders from the king.”
Even as he spoke the man was handing him the writ. Strangely Marcus noted, it was sealed. Why? If the king sent him orders he could just have a soldier bring them to him by word. He didn't need to have them written down and he certainly never had to have them sealed. And when had Lord Julius hired a new aide-de-camp? Marcus didn't know him and he spent hours most days with the Right Hand.
Still, instead of asking pointless questions Marcus opened the orders, tearing apart the royal seal impatiently and reading hurriedly as he tried to figure out what was happening.
The orders were simple. They were even logical. He was to help with the recovery of the injured. He was to try to get as many men as he could back in uniform and to transport the wounded to the infirmary. Then he had to find whatever supplies they might need. That made sense he supposed. But why was he ordered not to attend the king at the court? Why was the court in closed session? Why had King Byron simply sent him a writ?
“What? This doesn't make sense!” Marcus snapped at the man and then regretted it. It was almost as if he were accusing the aide-de-camp of some crime simply for bringing him the orders. “And where is Edouard?”
“Lord Edouard Severin is in court with the rest of the nobles. And these are your orders. The king has entrusted them to you to carry out faithfully. Do you refuse him?”
The aide-de-camp actually snapped the shocking question back at him, despite the fact that he surely didn't even hold the rank of a captain. That was unbelievable. Even insulting. It was the way you spoke to suspects and criminals. Not your commanding officers. And if the man was wearing a uniform then he answered to him one way or another.
“Of course not.”
There was no choice in that Marcus knew. The orders carried the royal seal and King Byron's personal signature. They could not be disobeyed. But it still seemed wrong. And while he was proud to hold the rank of captain, it seemed an odd thing to be addressed as such when in the same breath his little brother was given his rightful title. In fact it almost seemed disrespectful. As if he was being treated as a common soldier and not a lord. And at that by someone who was only a simple soldier at best no matter who he served. No noble would cover his face so.
“Then see to them.”
Marcus started as he heard the man give him an order. For a moment or two he couldn't believe it had happened. And then when he finally did he almost drew his sword and gutted the man on the spot for the gall. As it was, his hand had already found the hilt of his blade. The rudeness was unbelievable. Only his training and discipline held him back. And maybe his remaining shock at the man's gall. Shock that stilled his tongue for a moment. The man turned on his heels and made to walk away before suddenly turning back to him.
“I will advise the Right Hand of your arrival and your acceptance of the king's commands. No doubt there will be more orders for you arriving during the day.”
Then he did finally leave him, marching back towards the city and the court, while Marcus had to wonder if he should simply shoot him in the back. The anger was burning behind his eyes. Who in the seven hells was this man to give him orders? Even the soldier holding the reigns to his horse could see the anger in his face and had stepped away a little. He knew there was trouble coming.
“Lockbar Wright, do you hold either a rank or a title?” Marcus called it after the man, and stopped him in his tracks once more. The aide-de-camp even turned around to face him again.
“I have told you –.” Marcus was in no mood for word games and he fixed the man with his most annoyed stare.
“You have told me who you serve. Not who you are. Now do you hold either rank or title?”
“No.”
Of course he didn't. Marcus had known that from the start. The man was simply some pretentious arse given a uniform.
“Then that is no, Sir, no, My Lord or no, Captain. You may practice those addresses as you return to Lord Julius. And if you have the chance to see me again you will use them correctly or Lord Julius will be searching for a new aide-de-camp while you enjoy a few days in the barracks stockade. Do I make myself clear soldier?”
“Yes Sir.” The man reluctantly snapped out a title. He obviously didn't want to use it, to show any form of respect for his superior officer, but apparently he'd finally realised it wasn't optional.
“Then be on your way.” Marcus dismissed the man, though he still wasn't happy with things. “And be quick about it.”
Marcus ignored
the man as he marched off, unconcerned whether he had been angered or upset. Really, he was just pleased that he was gone. For the moment there was work to be done. Perhaps in a day or two he could have a word with the Right Hand about the choice of his aides. He turned back to the soldier holding the reins to his horse.
“Soldier, tell me about the wounded. Where the infirmary is and what the physicians need.” In the end there was nothing else to do but see to the wounded.
It was the final duty of a failed soldier.
Chapter Eighteen
Cold water hitting him was what woke Edouard up from whatever strange realm he'd been travelling through, and he was actually grateful for it. Even though his back was burning with agony and the darkness he'd been living in had been warm and comforting, he preferred the real world. Even when the real world was a cold, dank, dark dungeon. Besides, his dreams had been strange and frightening as he'd travelled between the heavens and the hells. Reality no matter how painful, was better. It was less frightening at least. Mostly.