by M. C. Elam
“Klea’s come home,” she called. “My son’s come back to Falmora.
“Aye, Ma. I be home.”
“Hungry, I’d be guessing. Never was a time I can reckon when you wasn’t ready for a bit of my stew.”
“Well you know me, Ma. Well you know me.”
“And Knight Marcus. How comes the building?”
“No more a knight, Mistress Levon. Only Marcus.”
“Some say Baline grows day by day.”
“They tell a true tale.”
“And the lady? How does the lady fair?”
Marcus raised a brow. News spread faster than sweeps breathed in the sooty smoke diving over the rooftops. “Milady Evangeline works harder than any to bring Baline to life.”
“Drink up, boys and I be fetching a belly full of my best for you.” She ladled huge bowls of rich barley stew from a huge black iron kettle and set them on a round tray.
She toed open the door to the kitchen.“Bring a fresh loaf and a goodly amount of butter, Patrice. Hurry now, got hungry men to feed.” When she brought the tray on the table a few minutes later, a hint of irritation wrinkled her forehead. “Blasted girl a mine be slow as molasses in winter.”
“Aw ma, seemed spritely enough to me.” He flashed one of the smiles she always called his secret weapon and winked at the girl before continuing. “Ma, me and Marcus be in need of a messenger.”
“Messenger is it? Now what would the likes a you be needing with a messenger?” She set the meal in front of them.
“Klea’s right, mistress. We be needing a messenger to ask audience with young King Hawk.”
“Runners beat you to my door, boys. An hour back I paid a dwarf to carry word you’d come to Falmora. I expect King Hawk be knowing already.”
“You’re a marvel, Ma.”
She gave him an appreciative clout and ruffled his hair. “Eat up, boys. I doubt your answer will be long in coming.”
Mistress Levon was right. They had scarcely finished the stew and ordered a second tankard when Hawk burst into the tavern. Dressed in trail leathers nothing about his appearance bespoke his station. He scanned the room searching for Marcus and Klea. Three long strides brought him to their table. They made to take a knee, but he waved formality aside and sat next to Marcus on the long bench.
“Milord, we be honored,” said Marcus.
“It’s just me, Marcus. I didn’t change because my father died.”
“No, lad. I expect you be the same on the inside. But you be king now. That’s a mighty difference. Me and Klea come offering a hand if one be needed.”
“Ah, Marcus. What I don’t know about this business would fill a thousand ships. I’m mightily in need and glad to see the both of you. I know I’ll get truth from you.”
“Who be telling lies, milord?” asked Marcus.
Hawk ran a hand through his unruly shock of black hair and pushed it back from his forehead. “I don’t know that they lie. But every one of the council has a different idea what do.” He shoved a scroll across the table. “Look at this. They started the minute my father died.”
“I be slow to read the words, milord.”
“They’ve set a plan to bury him in the ground.”
“Nay, no king of Ascalla’s been set in the ground,” Marcus looked indignant.
“They say the people need a place to come to pay their respects.” His eyes scanned the room and looked toward the loft above. “Did she come, Marcus?”
Marcus knew he meant Evangeline.
“Nay, milord. She be safe in Baline. Sent me and Klea as soon as word come.”
“A message then, did she send me a message?”
“She said I should tell you of her sorrow.”
“Nothing more?” But he knew the answer. She’d fled Falmora and probably cringed at the idea of even seeing him. Well, he’d make everything right. By the gods he’d make it right.
“Me and Klea come soon as we heard.” He hoped if he turned King Hawk off talking about Lady Evangeline, he’d avoid trying to make explanations. Truth be, he had none. Honor bound not to mention she be full of Hawks shine, what more could he say. He suspected Hawk would ask again. If dragons had wings, maybe they would send him the wits to answer.
***
At dawn Klea and Marcus followed Hawk back to the palace where Wryth stood guard over King Ian’s body. Having the two former knights beside him lent strength to his bearing, and Hawk’s first order called for carpenters to build a funeral bier high enough that when the morning sun lifted over the distant mountains, it would strike his father’s body before shining over the streets of Falmora.
“Build it there.” He told them. “Build it so that my father’s spirit rises over Falmora as the smoke rises from the bier. Build it where all will see his soul rise on the smoke.” Impossible, they insisted, but he was adamant and sent Klea to oversee the work.
Tradition called for the king’s council to prepare the body, Hawk saw no love in their eyes and sent them away.
“Go,” he said. “Your hands show the taint of men who come for duty’s sake. I’ll not have you touch my father”
“You cannot dismiss us without reason, nephew,” Andrew Goatman challenged.
Hawk turned on him, eyes spitting fire. “Get you gone from my sight, Uncle. I can and do dismiss the lot of you.”
Hawk bathed his father in water scented with sweet herbs and oiled his skin with sandalwood. Wryth’s clumsy fingers dressed the tangled hair while Marcus trimmed the old king’s beard. Through a veil of tears, he sharpened a bone-handled razor and, ever so gently, shaved the cold, white skin. Wryth brought King Ian’s crimson coronation robe, and the three of them dressed him.
They laid him out in the great hall and opened the doors to landed gentry and farm folk, alike. For two days the people came. They bore small gifts, pine boughs to sweeten the air around him and tiny bundles sprinkled with jasmine, lemon and the oil of lavender flowers. Some left small pouches that held wishes and notes to make his journey safe and swift. Children brought their sweet voices and sang the lullabies they knew. All for the old king they loved.
On the fourth day, Marcus led the procession that carried King Ian through the dark streets and out of the city. They bore the body to a high place above Falmora. Only marching feet broke the silence when Ian Hawkins passed through the streets of Falmora born upon the shoulders of the men he had once commanded. Before they carried his body to the top of the bier, Marcus removed the Sword of Ascalla from the scabbard that lay beside him and presented it to the new king. Hawk sheathed the weapon and, humbled by the transfer, stood with head bowed until King Ian Hawkins rested high above the people of Ascalla on a bed of winter moss. Klea passed a lit torch into Hawk’s hand and stood down. All that remained was striking the fire. Marcus nodded and the high guard flanked Hawk on each side. He stepped close to the bier and set the kindling ablaze.
“Safe journey, Father. Fly free,” he whispered though he need not have. The roaring blaze obscured his words.
***
“Milord Hawk, I be proud for your asking me to take the oath,” said Marcus.
“I hear reluctance in your voice,” said Hawk. He knew Marcus had resigned his commission to follow Evangeline to Baline.
“Aye, you hear rightly. I’m sworn to protect Lady Evan. I be honor bound, Your Majesty.”
Hawk paced up and down behind the long table in the chamber room. He’d expected the argument and had an offer he thought might convince him. No one wanted Evangeline safe more than he did and no better man lived than Marcus. She’d left him, left Falmora, but he didn’t love her any less, and until he could convince her of that love, he wanted Marcus to protect her.
“What if, Marcus, what if the king calls you to serve by asking you to head an order of soldiers sworn to guard the Lady of Baline? That Knight might take the rank of High Warrior without breaking any vow he made to the Lady Evangeline.”
“Aye, a knight be in service to the king and t
he lady. But King Hawk, the vow be my own. Milady pledged me to serve you.”
Hawk stopped pacing and looked at him. “Matters not friend Marcus. I call you now to serve Lady Evangeline and wear the cloak of Ascalla. Word of my father’s death makes all of Ascalla vulnerable. Baline stands at the foot of those mountains.”
“King Ian stood against Lawrenzia.”
Hawk slumped into the chair with his head in his hands. “You knew that time, Marcus. Why didn’t he cross the mountains and lay siege to Brendemore?”
“Winter come heavy that year.”
“Aye, but winter snows melt. Why not then?”
“Never think King Ian be a coward. He called upon Andors but none answered. Feared they were. Then he sent riders to Glynmora, and they denied him.”
“Only man what come be the one King Ian called Griffin. Brought two hundred warriors, good men all.”
“Not enough for Lawrenzia.”
“Nay, not enough but we rode on them anyway. Five hundred in all and only eighty returned.”
“They beat him?”
“Aye, struck from every side like they knew we’d come. Hit us in the mountains first and threw riders off the cliffs. Then we come to a bog. Fog so thick and the stink of rot heavy. I rode beside King Ian and be hard put to see him. Picked us off one by one. Fifty men gone in that stinking mist. We found them later. Lined the road with their dead bodies hung from posts hammered in the ground, Peter Brenan’s warning sign. Their innards dripped, their faces white and empty.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You be a wee boy.”
“He didn’t tell me ever.”
“Not much point in that. Addled your papa for a while, but your mama and that Griffin brought him round and put the life back into him. That be when King Ian set me to guard the pass through the mountains.”
“Where you found Evangeline?”
Marcus nodded and shifted from one foot to the other. “Only time the patrol rested from it was when the snows lay deep in the mountains.”
“Will you take the oath on the terms I give?”
“Aye, and glad to be in the ranks again.”
“An order of fifty to guard Baline, and you can hand pick them.” Hawk extended his hand.
“Milord?”
“Your hand on it, Marcus. An agreement between friends.”
“One thing more I got to tell you,” said Marcus. “Afore I be taking an oath on my knee. By my life I got to say it, and if it be your way to strike me dead, then it be your way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“ Lady Evangeline be my wee girl, King Hawk. My daughter in the world. Not of my body, but she be the daughter of my heart. Comes a time I got to choose between the two of you, I be choosing Lady Evangeline sure as I stand.”
“Then I’ll not have to worry knowing you protect her.” He grabbed Marcus’s hand and pumped it up and down. “The bargain’s sealed. Let’s head out to Levon’s Tavern. I’d like another bowl of that famous stew Klea’s mother makes.”
“I be proud to break bread with you, my king.”
***
Marcus tried to concentrate on the words he had to repeat, but by the hair on a whore’s ass, he knew he’d never get them out without King Hawk didn’t slow down a bit. Klea had stumbled a time or two when he spit them out, now hadn’t he? Damned council looking on waiting for him to stutter through the words the old way. He’d be damned. Hide his face maybe, but the oath came clear and loud. He looked at them sideways and saw that fat bugger Albert Goatman raise an eyebrow his way. Goatman, good name for him. Swallowed more Ascalla gold in the name of building that domed creation he be calling a monument to King Ian. Far as he knew, Ian Hawkins never set a foot in the place and only kept Goatman around because he was the queen’s bastard brother. Damned shame such a beautiful lady had to bring that priggish lout along.
Hawk nudged him with the side of his foot. His turn to speak. Trouble be, he didn’t have a clue what came next.
“Aye,” Hawk whispered.
“Aye,” Marcus said.
“All gathered in my presence shall from today forward follow the leadership of the man I dub High Warrior Knight of Ascalla. Knight Marcus commands by authority of the king.” He raised his head and eyed each member of the council. “Do all assembled so swear?”
Marcus watched Goatman. He bet that pisser’d be trying to get by mouse quiet. He grunted his distaste, and Hawk nudged him once more.
“Shh, Marcus.”
A smart one, King Ian’s boy, he meant for them to swear and swear they would. He called their names one by one. Aye, aye, aye, all down the line until he got to Goatman.
“Abstain.”
“What’s that, Lord Goatman? Abstain? What do you mean?”
“Milord, Hawk.” Goatman made a sweeping bow. “I only meant that for now I must abstain. I wish to observe the actions of the man you name High Warrior Knight of Ascalla.”
“Wish to name, Lord Goatman? I do name him.” Hawk’s timbre deepened. “I name him, and you will swear to respect and honor him by my command.”
“Milord, you are young, newly come to rule and grief stricken by your father’s death. Surely you can understand my reluctance to swear loyalty to a man who resigned his command deserting Ascalla while her borders are threatened.”
Leave it to Goatman to wage a challenge. No doubt Hawk would bite off a piece of him and chew on it a while. He be getting a neck crick hunkered down on that stone floor. And damned if the scar on his kneeling leg hadn’t started to scream. He tried to keep his eyes on Hawk’s boots and thought of the tankard he’d share with Klea when the whole blasted business ended.
‘Lord Goatman, need I remind you that new to the business of kingship or not, I am your sovereign lord. You enjoy your position because of my forbearance.”
Marcus smiled behind the linen mask. His leg be holding up just fine, at least long enough to get through Goatman’s demise.
“Milord, I do not mean to question your authority,” said Goatman.
“Ah, but you have. I fail to understand why my father didn’t boot your silk-clad arse all the way back to Andors. For my mother’s sake, no doubt. I have no such loyalty to you, Uncle. I dare say my mother would applaud my action. You brought nothing to Ascalla but your gluttony.”
“Milord, I only meant to…”
“What? You only meant to what? Put me in my place? I know my place, Uncle Albert, and you are nowhere in the picture. I hereby dismiss you from the council.”
Goatman sputtered, his face turning an angry red. “You have no right.”
“Oh and that is where you err. I have every right. Get you gone from my sight; gone from Ascalla before I cast your treacherous arse into a cell.”
Spitting mumbled oaths, Albert Goatman stumbled from the chamber.
Hawk turned to a newly appointed guard. “See he takes only the clothes on his back.”
“A tad tired down there, Marcus?”
“Aye Majesty, a bit,” Marcus grinned.
“Then let’s get on with it. I dub thee Sir Marcus, High Warrior Knight of Ascalla. I name you friend and brother.”
Marcus felt the tip of the Sword of Ascalla touch each of his shoulders.
“Rise up, Sir Marcus. Stand beside me.” He passed the sword to Klea and extended his hand.
“Behold my friend, my teacher, Marcus Cailin. Let no man question his authority.”
21 - Abducted
Annabelle Runderly was late. She gathered a shawl around her shoulders, secured the ends with a loose knot and hurried across the commons. Her footprints cut a clean path through four inches of new snow. Bright moonlight turned night shadows into a false dawn and changed the frosty blanket from pristine white to an eerie blue. Ice crystals floated around her face, settled in the braided coils of her hair and on the folds of her woolen shawl. Not snow, she thought, not with the moon so bright and a cloudless sky. Must be frost devils taking liberties. Cussed thin
gs took to freezing the skin before they melted. She would a lot rather sink to her neck in snow than get caught by a tangle of frost devils.
The first pinkish hues of dawn tipped the jagged mountain peaks. Backlit by the sun, the tiny ice particles glittered with false fire. Pretty as jewels except when they fed on bare skin, and Annabelle knew all about that. She had learned it firsthand tending Horace when he came off the mountain after searching for Billy and Devon all those years ago. Cussed things cost him two toes and a finger on his using hand. Might have snatched Horace away too if not for that healer woman what lopped them off before the black flesh ate him.
She shook the gathered particles from her shoulders and quickened her step. In an hour when the sun cleared the eastern range, and all Baline awakened, her tracks would disappear amid the village bustle. By now, Lady Evan should have rung the bell. Annabelle had lingered with Horace over a mug of hot tea waiting for it to sound. When it didn’t she grabbed her shawl and set off lickety-split to do it herself. Some of the cottages did show life, and a rooster crowed in the distance.
“Hold up, Annabelle. I’ll come along,” Horace had offered.
“Got a bit of work needs doing before sunrise, husband. Don’t fret yourself.” She had set off before he had time to pull on his britches. She liked to think of him resting in his chair, his bare feet propped on a low stool toasting hearthside while he sipped the last of his tea. Horace had earned a late start or two for a lifetime of dawn to dusk toil.
As soon as she reached the inn, Annabelle knew something boded ill. The door stood ajar. She would have shouted out to Jem Miller about wasting firewood by sending heat straight into winter, but a silence that choked the whole place made her wary. The newly built wind wall Horace insisted Lady Evan’s inn must have blocked her view of the common room. She eyed the row of pegs that lined the wall. Most times they stayed bare unless it rained. When that happened, mud-wallowed cloaks hung there to dry, and Jem picked up a few coppers brushing them clean. He swept the great room and spread clean rushes every morning. The rest of the time, he helped his ma. The two of them had struggled to make their way alone in the world when Jem’s pa went off and didn’t come home. Some said he had never jumped the broom with poor Jenny. The likes of them turned up their noses, but Lady Evangeline took them in and made it known right off, that a slur against Jenny or the boy was the same as a slur on her name. Lady Evangeline measured the worth of a body by deeds and not the merit of kin. Had a heart as big as the whole sky, that lady.