Blood in Snow: (The Riddle in Stone Series - Book Three)

by Evert, Robert

  “Get away from me, Kravel!” Edmund brandished his sword. “Leave me alone!”

  “Yes, yes,” Kravel replied, sheathing a bloody scimitar, “I missed you, too. I trust you are well. It appears you’ve put on a little weight. Sure that’s wise at your age?”

  A goblin next to Kravel nocked an arrow, while others ran along the fissure, looking for a narrower place to cross.

  “Put that down,” Kravel told the goblin with the bow.

  “But I can shoot him,” the goblin said. “He’s right there. I can’t miss!”

  Kravel sighed. “That’d take all the fun out of capturing him alive, now wouldn’t it?”

  “I can shoot him in the leg, before he gets away!”

  Edmund began to retreat.

  “Filth? Get away? That won’t happen. Thankfully we always know where he is. He’s charming in that respect.”

  Other goblins ran up to Kravel.

  “No way across.”

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  “We can use a tree branch to create a bridge.”

  Kravel rolled his eyes with the pain of patience that had been worn thin.

  “Yes”—he smiled—“that would be splendid, wouldn’t it? Then Master Filth here could kill you all as you step across, one at a time.”

  Two goblins laughed.

  “Him?”

  “Sir, we just killed at least fifty human warriors,” the one with the bow said. “Fifty against five, and he’s going to kill us?”

  Kravel turned to Edmund. “Honestly, I hate the enthusiasm of youth, don’t you? Which reminds me. What did you do with our Mr. Gurding? He never returned home. You didn’t dispatch him, did you?”

  “I cut his eyes out.” Edmund watched nervously as the goblins scurried along the edge of the gorge, still searching for a way to get over. “That’s what I’m going to do to you when I get you alone.”

  “You cut out his eyes … and let him live?” Kravel clapped his hands. “Poetic, simply poetic! Honestly, you’re an inspiration! But I dare say, he’ll be hunting you until he’s dead. Mr. Gurding is nothing if not persistent, and there are other senses besides—”

  “Shall we see if we can get across farther down the hill?” one goblin asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Kravel said irritably. “Please, go and seek a suitable spot to traverse the fissure and leave me be so I can chat with my friend for a while.”

  The goblins hesitated, appearing confused.

  “Go!” Kravel commanded, shooing them away.

  The four goblins took off southward along the lip of the fissure.

  Watching them, Kravel sighed again. “If you get the opportunity, please kill them. I’m so weary of hearing their endless thoughts and opinions.”

  “Leave me alone, Kravel! Just leave me alone!”

  “Of course I won’t, Filth. We all miss you back in the mountains; His Majesty misses you terribly, in fact. I’m afraid our lives are going to be entwined for some time, if not until yours reaches its eventual end—far into the future, you understand.”

  Edmund backed away again, preparing to flee into the forest, when something occurred to him.

  “Where’s the girl? Molly’s baby, where is she?”

  Kravel groaned, his smile becoming strained.

  “Ah, yes. Little Molly. We have her. She is alive and well. Just between you, me, and the corpses in the woods, I wish His Majesty would do away with the little imp. But alas, he’s taken a strong liking to the creature. He’s soft-hearted that way, always caring about other people’s problems. In fact, he spends whatever time he can with her. Too much time, if you ask me.”

  Edmund growled.

  “She is most extraordinary,” Kravel conceded, “I’ll give her that. Though I dare say I’ll enjoy her more when she gets older. I hate the crying baby phase. Makes me want to drown her in boiling water.” His smile turned mischievous. “Human women are far more pleasurable, don’t you agree?”

  “Let her go!”

  “No. No, I don’t think so. She’s part of the family, you might say. But let us discuss other things, you and I.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Yes, indeed. A wonderful place, to be sure. At any rate, I am authorized to offer you a lucrative arrangement. You see, we have learned from one of your companions that you are intent on rebuilding the fallen northern kingdom of your kind, and His Majesty is willing to guarantee your fledgling kingdom’s survival. He will personally give you all the lands west of the river you call the Celerin, I believe.”

  Edmund suddenly realized what the goblin had said. “Companion?”

  “Yes,” Kravel replied merrily. “A delightful fellow we found not far from where we’d first encountered you, as a matter of fact. He says hello, by the way.”

  “Who? Who is he? What’s his name?”

  Kravel tapped a mitten against his chin.

  “That, I do not recollect. He and a few others were setting fires. Which reminds me, was his purpose to draw this human army away from your little village? I have a wager with some lads back home, and we need you to determine who the winner is.”

  He’s lying.

  “What’s the man’s name? What does he look like?”

  Kravel sighed. “A big muscular fellow with brown hair and beard.” He snapped his fingers. “Bain, I believe. An interesting name, since it means ‘a cause of misery or death.’ But it was something delightful like that.”

  Edmund’s heart sank.

  “Yes.” Kravel continued thinking. “Yes, I do believe that’s what he kept screaming: Bain. Sadly, he did not learn as quickly as you did. However, he was kind enough to tell us a good deal about you and your efforts. Very noble to allow everybody a say in how things are run. A foolish system of government, though, unless you’re willing to kill off the idiots who disagree with you.”

  “Let him go!”

  “Well”—Kravel shrugged—“we can certainly add that to our little offer, if he’s still alive. But you’ll need to come with me and give His Majesty the formula you so callously burned.”

  “You can tell Your Highness—”

  Yells erupted behind Edmund. Turning, he found the four goblins charging from the woods. Two came directly at him, while the other two went north and south, cutting off any escape.

  The lead goblin swung his bloody scimitar at Edmund’s midsection. Edmund parried the blow. Blue sparks flew where the two blades met. Half of the scimitar sailed off into the woods. Before the goblin could recover, Edmund lunged, burying the point of his short sword into the goblin’s heart. Blood gushed, staining the snow red.

  A second goblin wrapped his arms around Edmund’s chest from behind, pinning Edmund’s own arms to his sides.

  “Drop the weapon!” the goblin said. “Drop it!”

  Shifting his weight, Edmund rotated his sword so the blade now pointed behind him and drove it through the goblin’s thigh. The shrieking goblin collapsed, clutching his leg.

  Seeing their comrades needed help, the goblins guarding against Edmund’s escape came at him from different sides. One charged headlong, screaming, scimitar held high. Edmund dodged and countered with a slash across the midsection. For a moment, the goblin seemed fine; he stood motionless, staring at his stomach. Then pinkish intestines slid out of the wound.

  Edmund spun, sword ready to parry the remaining goblin’s weapon. But that goblin had nocked an arrow to his bowstring. From such a short distance, he couldn’t miss. Then the goblin stiffened, swayed, and fell to the blood-splattered snow, a knife hilt-deep in his chest.

  “So.” Kravel drew his cloak over his empty knife sheath. “What shall I tell His Majesty?”

  Panting, Edmund drove his sword into the goblin with the nearly severed leg, ending his screams.

  “Tell him—”

  “Please don’t say ‘go to hell,’” Kravel said wearily. “It’s a tiresome expression. It isn’t as if we cou
ld actually go there, even if we wished. If you don’t have anything cleverer to say, best not to say anything at all.”

  Edmund wiped the thick blood and guts from his sword using one of the fallen goblin’s fur cloaks, noticing a new notch in the black blade.

  “The formula doesn’t work.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Edmund pointed to the chips in his blade.

  “Iliandor’s steel didn’t break. This is strong and light and sharp”—he slid his sword into its sheath—“but it’s not Iliandor’s steel.”

  “Perhaps you did something wrong.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong! I followed the directions from the diary to the letter. It doesn’t work. Not … not like the way it should, at any rate.”

  Kravel appeared unconvinced.

  “Don’t you think that if it worked,” Edmund said, “I would have armed my men in the stuff? Don’t you think things would be different now? King Lionel’s army would already be defeated, and we could live in peace.”

  “There is no such thing as peace, Edmund. Just life and death. Nothing else.”

  Somewhere on Kravel’s side of the fissure, a dying horse bellowed.

  Kravel sniffed the frigid air. “Besides, I don’t think you need to worry about the human army. A storm is coming. They’ll all be dead soon, stiff as pretty blue statues in the snow.”

  Edmund began to hobble away.

  “Filth!” Kravel called. “Before you go, settle the bet for us. Why was your man, Bain, setting those fires? It was because you were trying to draw the army away, wasn’t it?”

  “Just leave me alone!”

  “I can’t do that, Filth. You know that, right? Filth? Wherever you go, I will be able to find you.”

  Edmund disappeared into the forest on the other side of the hill.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cave walls flickered scarlet. Edmund crouched closer to his bright campfire. One blanket covered the narrow entrance to keep the whistling wind out and the firelight in, while every scrap of clothing Abby had given him was wrapped about his trembling body. He had enough wood and kindling to last a day or so—if he used it sparingly. Past that, he’d freeze to death.

  He was more concerned about King Lionel’s men, however; their cold, haggard faces haunted him. Having grown up in the Highlands, he knew all too well the pain of long-term exposure to icy winds and blowing snow; winter storms in the Far North were relentless, and people caught outside unprepared didn’t last long.

  There was once a grim tradition in the Highlands called “thaw day,” a spring ritual where Rood’s menfolk would look for those who’d gone missing the winter prior—boys who’d sought stray sheep, tradesmen who’d traveled to the outer ranches, furriers and hunters who’d checked their traps at the wrong time. As if to lighten the bitterness, people would often bet on how many bodies would be found, frozen in the melting snow. If Edmund was correct, hundreds of bluish-grey corpses would be discovered throughout the countryside come April.

  But the situation this time wasn’t his fault. It was Lionel’s. If only Lionel would listen to reason. If only he’d leave Rood alone. If only he weren’t so pigheaded. Still, Edmund couldn’t just let those men die. Enough people had already been killed, and he couldn’t let hundreds, if not thousands, more freeze to death in the snow.

  He repositioned the hissing logs to burn better.

  Outside, the wind moaned.

  He threw another stick on the fire and, for some reason, thought of Abby.

  Then he thought of Pond. And of Toby and Hendrick and Gabe and everybody else in Rood.

  With the tip of his short sword, he stirred the orange embers.

  Lionel’s army was a day’s ride from the east gate, and with the smoke rising out of Rood’s chimneys, they couldn’t miss it.

  The King would soon assail the town.

  Hendrick and his guards would be ready. They might even kill many of the knights with arrows. But there weren’t enough men to defend the entire wall. Sooner or later, the King’s army would climb over and the slaughter would begin.

  Stabbing at the fire, Edmund considered giving himself up. Rood and the Highlands would once again fall under the crushing boot of nobility, but people would live.

  He shook his head.

  “No, there’re things worth dying for,” he said to the growing flames. “Perhaps this is one of those times.”

  So what, then? What should I do?

  Edmund leaned back against the cave wall, watching shadows flit around the crevices.

  “What do I know?”

  You know everything will be over in a day or two.

  I don’t know that.

  He sighed.

  But it seems likely.

  You know Lionel’s men are suffering. Perhaps they won’t fight.

  Suffering men will fight even harder if they believe their lives are in peril. You heard those scouts. They want battle. Battle and women. When they see they can be warm inside Rood’s buildings, eating good food, they’ll fight to the death. They’d have no choice.

  Edmund pushed aside the blanket from the mouth of the cave and peered outside.

  The evening was younger than he’d anticipated.

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Keep the fire burning and you should be fine.

  For lengthy moments, he stared at the flames while waves of heat wafted past his face. His fingers and toes still felt painfully cold.

  What would happen if Lionel died? What would his army do if he froze to death first? He doesn’t have an heir.

  Some other prince or lord would take over. Prince George of Eryn Minor, more than likely. He’s the closest male relative.

  The thought of Lionel’s death stirred something within Edmund, as if an answer sat there, still unseen.

  Keep an open mind …

  “A dead Lionel …”

  Perhaps a new king would allow the Highlands to remain free.

  No king would want to appear weak. And no nobility would want the Highlands ruled by common people. It may start rebellions all over the continent.

  But it would buy us time.

  We need a solution. Next year, or the year after that, or the year after that, Rood will fall, and everybody associated with the revolt will be hanged.

  “A dead Lionel …”

  So far, the best option is to buy time, maybe lead the army away from Rood and hope the storm kills them all.

  No, I don’t want that. No more deaths. No more blood.

  But somebody’s blood is going to be spilled, even if it’s just yours.

  “Just mine …”

  A thought started to germinate.

  My blood, or Lionel’s blood.

  Me versus Lionel.

  He recalled the story of Lord Gail and King Hampton, how the two had fought for the woman they both loved. Ironically, she’d ended up marrying somebody else.

  “Me versus Lionel.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You what?” King Lionel shouted up the slope.

  In the middle of the night, Edmund stood on a rocky outcropping overlooking the King’s encampment, flaming branch in one hand, sword in the other. Two shivering guards stood before him, weapons drawn, though reluctant to test Edmund’s black blade.

  Edmund called to the crowd below. “I hereby ch-ch-challenge, I hereby challenge you to a duel!”

  “You versus me?” the King said. “Are you mad?”

  “These are my terms.” Edmund kept his eye on the two guards he pointed his sword at. “If I kill or otherwise subdue you, you will officially recognize the Highlands as its own sovereign region.”

  The King scoffed.

  “You will allow us to rule ourselves however we wish,” Edmund went on, “governed by whomever the people of this region select.”

  “And I suppose that will be you,” the King called up. “Do yo
u know what it takes to be a king, you stuttering imbecile? It’s hard work!”

  “We will not have a king, nor will we be ruled by any nobility! Everybody will have a say in how things are run!”

  This caught the two guards’ interest. Their shaking swords lowered slightly.

  But the King only laughed.

  “The people can’t rule themselves! They are stupid simpletons, like yourself! Worthless for nearly everything except for working the land and doing what they are told. Why, without the nobility, there would be chaos—utter chaos! A kingdom without a king? That’s lunacy!”

  “Maybe so. But that’s for us to decide.”

  “If you win, that is.”

  “Yes. If I win, you will allow us to do as we please. All lands north of the Stone Heights will belong to people willing to settle here and work for the common good!”

  King Lionel hooted, slapping his knee.

  “Oh!” he cried, nearly falling over into the snow. “You … you should be a jester!” He dabbed his eyes with the end of his fur-lined cloak. “Work for the common good!” He laughed. “Ah, that’s precious. Simply precious!”

  The surrounding lords and knights laughed with the King, but many of the men-at-arms simply trembled in the cold.

  “Ah!” the King said, his chuckles dying. “It’s a shame I have to kill you.”

  “You haven’t killed me yet. Do we have an agreement?”

  King Lionel turned to his courtiers in exaggerated puzzlement. “But you have not said what reward I would get for my effort. What does the King of the Highlands have to bargain with, pray tell?”

  “The lives of your men.”

  This got everybody’s attention, including the King’s. “What on earth do you mean?” he asked. “Do you honestly think you can kill all of us? The knights of Eryn Mas are legendary for their strength and skill in battle; they’ve never been defeated!”

  A few men lifted their swords or beat them against frost-covered shields. Most merely hunched closer to their campfires.

  “A storm is coming,” Edmund announced loudly, “one that will freeze all of you.”

  The King waved his hand, scoffing again.