The Warrior King: Book Three of the Seer King Trilogy

by Chris Bunch

  The chamber was already full of the court retinue, all the noblemen in their finery. There was no more than a scattering of wives or consorts, but that was the unfortunate way of Numantia when the event was less social than business.

  Barthou and Scopas weren’t advertising their ignorance in military costuming this time, but wore nearly identical white robes dressed with red and gold, their breasts covered with flamboyant unknown and therefore meaningless decorations.

  They greeted me effusively, were properly polite if a bit condescending to Cymea, and ignored Yonge. I looked about for Svalbard, but he’d vanished. I shrugged, thinking that he, clearly wiser than I, had chosen to go belowstairs with the other soldiery so he wouldn’t have to suffer oratory with his beef.

  I moved around the room, making small talk and being congratulated for “dealing with” King Bairan, although it was clear none of them had any knowledge of what a bloody business it had been, no doubt believing we met on the field of battle in sparkling armor and hewed mightily at each other until the better man won. If I survived the war, there’d be great paintings about the duel, none of which would suggest how filthy and smelly I was and how brutal the murder from a cloakroom had been.

  I was amused to see noblemen blustering and cooing over Cymea. It would have been very funny if she’d suddenly draped a yellow silk cord about her neck and told them about her brethren.

  After half an hour or so, we were escorted to our places by servants. I was seated between Barthou and Scopas, Cymea was down the table next to some fairly young baron, who appeared thrilled at his dinner companion, and Yonge was put, as befitted a secretary-aide, somewhere far away, well below the salt.

  Naturally, the service was perfect, and the banquet began with a sparkling wine — I was mildly impressed that someone had been coached, and I was given mineral water instead — that accompanied dilled shrimp on cucumber. The next course was another wine and a wild mushroom soup I would’ve liked better if it hadn’t had a float of a sweet-sour wine atop it.

  We finished our soup, and the table was cleared. Barthou and Scopas were both making sure I was well entertained, filling my ears with the latest court chatter. I listened politely, not telling them I gave a thin rat’s ass about who’d said what to whom and who was sleeping or not sleeping with whom. Most of the names were unfamiliar, anyway. For the past few years I’d been, as the phrase went, “out of town,” and hardly following who’d found favor or been exiled by the Grand Councilors.

  The wait for the next course grew long, then longer, and diners began looking at the kitchen doors curiously, then a bit angrily. A couple of thumps came from behind them, and I wondered what disaster was occurring, if a cook had gotten drunk and was crashing about, or if the next course had caught on fire, when the center door slammed open.

  Domina Cofi stood there, in dress uniform with all his medals, holding naked sword high.

  “Traitors! No one move! In the name of the Numantian Army, we who hold the heart of Numantia …”

  His voice broke off. I was on my feet, sword halfway out.

  Cofi’s face paled, and the huge room was completely still.

  “Guk!” was all that came as blood poured from his mouth. His fingers opened limply, and his sword clattered to the floor. About six inches of reddened steel stuck out the front of his chest.

  Svalbard kicked the corpse off his sword, spun through the door, pulled the doors to behind him, and shoulder-blocked one of the serving carts against it.

  “The Peace fuckers’ve attacked!” he shouted. “They’ve taken the palace!”

  Barthou’s eyes went wide, and he dashed to a window, peering out. He screeched peculiarly, turned, and there was an arrow through his throat and he sagged down.

  Another kitchen door came open, and three soldiers burst through.

  “No one move! You’re all — ”

  I was across the room, spitted one, and slashed the other one down as the third gaped, then died under Svalbard’s blade. Another drink cart went tumbling to block that door, but the third door was open, and ten or more men ran in.

  I had time to glance out a window, down at the courtyard, and saw a roiling mass of fighting men, some in gray, some in the green of Lasleigh’s men, others the gray of the Guardians. There were more of Trerice’s men than mine, but they clearly hadn’t been ready for my well-armed soldiery and were falling back, Lasleigh pressing them hard.

  But there was greater danger close. A man ran at me, was tripped by Cymea, and her short sword went into his back before he could get up. A bruiser almost the size of Svalbard was grappling with Yonge, swords hilt to hilt, growling as if he were a bear. Yonge got one hand free, grabbed a crystal goblet from the table and shattered it into the brute’s face. He screamed, stumbled back, face all blood, and Yonge killed him, went for another target.

  The banquet room was an abattoir. A few noblemen were trying to fight back, either with their pathetic ceremonial shortswords or with weapons taken from corpses. More were trying to run anywhere, nowhere, or holding up their hands in surrender. No quarter was being given — I saw a man with his hands up, a woman sheltering behind him, and three soldiers killed them both.

  No one had come through the main entrance yet, and I guessed Lasleigh’s men in the courtyard were keeping that prong of Trerice’s attack at bay.

  “Come on,” Yonge shouted. “Away from here!”

  I reflexively glanced at the window, where my men were fighting and dying.

  “Forget them!” Yonge bellowed. “They’re doing what they’re supposed to! Dying to keep you alive! Out of here, Cimabuan!”

  For an instant I didn’t know what to do, then remembered the palace’s layout.

  I yanked a long tablecloth off the table, and crystal and dishware smashed to the floor. I knotted one end of it, ran to just below the balcony, where the orchestra played numbly on, not knowing what else to do.

  “Here!” I shouted, and tossed the cloth to the band’s leader. He automatically caught it, thought better of involvement, started to drop it.

  “Let go of that and I’ll kill you!” I shouted, and he began nodding jerkily, holding it close as if it was his newest, dearest possession.

  “Tie it to the railing!” He clumsily wrapped it around the railing twice, made a knot, and Yonge swarmed up it before it could pull free.

  There were four men coming at me, and I went to one side, letting them block each other. I fought with one for an instant, dropped to my knee, and ran my blade into his thigh. He yelped, hopped away, and I came up into the guts of a second man, my sword burying itself to the hilt. He stumbled sideways and fell, pulling the sword from my hand. The third man drew back for a lash, I stepped into his guard, butted my head into his face, and Yonge’s dagger was in my hand, and I cut his throat open. The fourth man jumped back to get fighting room, and Svalbard came in from behind and put his sword into the man’s heart.

  I pulled my sword out of the corpse, looked for another soldier, saw one struggling with Scopas. Scopas had his hands around the man’s throat, strangling him. He may have been soft, but he’d been strong as a young man, and the soldier’s face was purpling. The soldier brought both hands up, smashed Scopas’s grip, and I was running toward him as the soldier pulled a knife and drove it into the Councilor’s chest.

  Scopas whimpered like a struck dog, clutched at the knife-handle, collapsed forward in stages, like a suddenly loosened puppet, fell dead, and I killed his murderer.

  There were still a handful of soldiers in the room, but they seemed as confused as the nobility.

  “Up here,” Yonge shouted, and I saw Cymea clamber over the railing and ran across the room, sheathing my sword. Svalbard caught up with me as I began climbing, grabbed my leg, shoved hard, and I went straight up; Yonge caught my free hand and pulled me to safety.

  A soldier was running toward Svalbard, sword back for a cut, and I hurled one of my iron pigs into his face, and his skull smashed and he fell cross a c
hair.

  Svalbard sheathed his sword, pulled himself up the cloth as far as he could, and somehow I muscled him up to the balcony. I had an instant to realize the musicians were still playing, intent on their sheet music, trying to ignore the bloody four amongst them.

  “After me,” I shouted, and ran to the back of the balcony, through the door, and down a long hall to the servants’ area. The palace had been carefully constructed, so that the nobility would seldom have to see the servitors who made their lives not only comfortable but possible, and I hoped that would make our escape easier.

  I knew its intricacies well because one concern, long years ago, was whether an assassin could creep in and attack the Emperor Tenedos, and so I’d spent some days wandering the maze with a chamberlain to keep me from getting lost.

  We encountered only three soldiers, killed them handily, and wove toward a palace exit, only losing our way twice.

  The closer we got to the exit, the more servants we ran into, some with crude weapons ready to fight Trerice’s forces, not knowing their masters were dead; others wanting only to flee; still others in complete shock, wandering about, some numbly dusting the same place over and over, others carrying brooms, candles, vases of flowers.

  I found the door I wanted, was about to go through it, when Svalbard pushed me back. He unlocked the door, booted it open, and jumped out.

  “Clear,” he said. “Come on.”

  We ran out into the late afternoon sunshine. Far along the wall, I saw a detachment of soldiers. They shouted at us to stop, but when we ran they didn’t follow.

  We came to a boulevard, with carriages and a scattering of soldiers on horseback.

  “That one!” I pointed at a closed light carriage with a team of four, and Svalbard had the lead animal by the harness, and Yonge was swarming up to the postilion’s seat, yanking the reins away.

  I tore the carriage door open, saw a couple in a deep embrace, grabbed the man by his half-unfastened pants, and pulled him bodily out of the carriage. He made noises like a beached fish, and his nearly naked lady began screaming, no doubt thinking she was about to be attacked. Cymea had her by the arm and pulled her out. She stumbled on the doorsill, fell into my arms, and was dumped into the gutter in an ungentlemanly manner.

  I jumped in as Yonge whipped the horses into a gallop, and Svalbard leapt onto the running board, and I dragged him inside.

  Yonge drove the team hard around a corner, careening through a narrow alley onto another broad street, then slowed the carriage to a trot.

  We went through the city toward the outskirts as though we were nothing more than a wealthy couple out for the air. Twice cavalry galloped past, but no one even glanced at the carriage.

  I was afraid they’d have the bridges blockaded, but the revolt hadn’t gotten that far yet. We abandoned the carriage at the docks and found a boatman to ferry us across the main tributary.

  It was a momentary embarrassment that none of us except Svalbard had any gold to pay the man with.

  Then we were at the camp’s gates, and I shouted for a provost to call the alert.

  I’d sold Trerice very short. Obviously he’d been very aware of Barthou and Scopas’s plottings and skillfully set a counterplot in motion.

  All three of us, myself, Barthou, and Scopas, had been intended to die. No doubt he’d blame the deaths on some evil noblemen or such and broadcast the wonderful news that once again the Peace Guardians had saved Numantia.

  Now he ruled Nicias, and he who held Nicias held Numantia.

  I mourned, for a moment, for Lasleigh, Baron Pilfern of Stowe, and hoped he’d been lying about being a virgin and there was a bastard child somewhere to inherit his estates, and hoped Saionji would reward all of them with better lives when she judged them on the Wheel. But there wasn’t time for anything more. Later, if peace came, we’d have proper sacrifices for him and his fifty who’d died doing their duty.

  But the dead had to give way to the living. There were far more important matters to worry about.

  • • •

  Less than half a time later, things were very much worse.

  We’d fortified our camp to prevent the Peace Guardians from attacking across the wide branch of the Latane, and saw Trerice’s forces doing the same on their bank. They seized all watercraft up and down the river.

  Kutulu’s spies reported Trerice had taken over the broadsheets, and they were braying the obvious explanation for what had happened: A cabal of rural barons had plotted to overthrow the Grand Council and install themselves as Numantia’s rulers.

  This was a good choice of enemies — the ancient barons were mostly absent from Nicias, which always makes an enemy easier to despise; and they had a long tradition of considering themselves not only above the law, but able to write their own on their vast estates, which was fairly close to the truth for many.

  The Peace Guardians — the Army of Numantia — had heard of the plot at the last minute and attacked the palace to save the Grand Councilors.

  They’d been too late to save Barthou and Scopas, and only I’d escaped the barons. The army had taken terrible revenge against the plotters. Since their treason was obvious, no trials were necessary, and besides, the “righteous wrath of the army” had been aroused, and no prisoners were taken.

  There was considerable wonderment about how I’d managed to escape the evil noblemen and why I’d fled Nicias, instead of joining Trerice’s forces in restoring order.

  A few days later, dark whispers began, and the broadsheets legitimized them slowly. I hadn’t escaped; in fact I was the leader of the conspiracy, one of those country land barons myself, and had cravenly abandoned my co-conspirators for the safety of the ragtag rebels.

  If it hadn’t been for Trerice, a new despot would have taken over Nicias and Numantia, the truly evil Damastes á Cimabue, a monster whose crimes were manifold, from betraying his emperor to the Maisirians; murdering high officials in the Numantian Army, which I assumed meant my killing of Herne in my prison escape; and allying myself with the demon-worshiping Tovieti and the blackest of magicians so that I could seize power and then allow the murderous barons freedom to bring their iron heel down on the country. There was an omission we found interesting: any mention that Trerice, who’d now taken on the title of general of the army, had ever had anything to do with the Maisirian puppet government of Barthou and Scopas.

  “Do they think the people of Numantia are complete fools?” I growled.

  “That’s exactly what they do think,” Yonge agreed. “The Maisirians were yesterday, and since more than a few Nicians collaborated, the whole time should be not forgotten but rewritten to become palatable as quickly as possible.

  “The swine on the streets will lap this swill up without gagging for even an instant.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Cymea said. “You’re a nobleman, Yonge, even if you come from the Hills, so you don’t really know what the people think, not in your guts. Don’t you think the Tovieti, for instance, will remember?”

  “I don’t think Trerice cares,” Yonge said. “I’ll wager he and his officers think the Tovieti are too small a group to worry about. With the ‘peepul’ behind him, what else does he need?”

  “A great deal of luck,” Linerges put in. “Because now he’s got Tenedos to deal with. Which brings up a good question, Damastes. What are we going to do next?”

  “I think,” I said slowly, “I’m going to forget about Trerice for the moment. Leave him hiding in Nicias. I think we’ve got to turn south and prepare to meet Tenedos when he comes within range.

  “He’s by far the more deadly enemy. When we’ve beaten him, then we worry about Trerice.”

  “I don’t like leaving that bastard in our rear,” Linerges worried.

  “He won’t be,” I said. “For we’ll have no rear. We’ll move as we paraded, taking everything and everyone with us. We’ll guard our rear and flanks, assume that once we clear an area, it’s the enemy’s.

  “We’l
l have to fight a new way, like partisans, and not measure our success by the amount of land we hold. Our only goal must be the destruction of Tenedos and his army.”

  But it didn’t happen that way.

  Twelve days after the revolt, Sinait woke me at midnight. Her magicians had reported great spells being built, and the first had already manifested itself.

  By dawn we could see the river near our camp was a frothing maelstrom, worse even than in the Time of Storms, although the sky was quite clear and a soft breeze blew. Nothing smaller than one of the great riverboats could have chanced the tossing waves and swirling currents, and even it would be hard-pressed.

  Sinait used the Seeing Bowl and found the storm only roiled this one branch of the river. Elsewhere it was as calm as the skies above it, and the weather was clear. Then something struck at her out of the Bowl, something dark and deadly, and if her assistant hadn’t overturned the copper vessel, she might have been killed. Clearly Tenedos had learned how to strike against snoopers, as the demon Thak had almost killed the two of us years ago.

  I ordered Sinait to assemble her magicians, Cymea and her staff to help, and try to overcome this water spell, but if she couldn’t, to accept it, and broadcast it to all branches of the Latane. Whatever was happening, and I had a fairly good idea what it was, if the river was storm blocked everywhere, we might be able to keep the worst away.

  I sent skirmishers south on the fastest horses.

  The camp was ready to march or stand off an attack. But nothing came, not mortal, except periodic battlespells of depression and fear, spells broken by Sinait’s wizards without trouble.

  The skirmishers trickled back late in the day and through the night. Some were wounded, some never returned, all were ragged and torn by hasty flight after coming in contact with far-ranging heavy cavalry patrols.