There was an immediate disturbance at the back of the crowd, and Sed pushed his small, wiry frame through the clustering men. Aran stared in amazement at his foster brother, and was deeply shocked at the changes only a matter of weeks had wrought. Sed had never been a handsome man, but the recent weeks had lent him an aspect of unwashed corruption. Clad in a dirty, threadbare tunic and hosen, it looked as though he had not washed or shaved in days, and his high colour clearly indicated that he had spent all his money on endless hours in the taverns.
“So what do you think of your foster brother now?” sneered Sed, his dark eyes filled with self-hate and anger.
“I have seen you look better Sed,” Aran replied guardedly. “When did you last wash, man?”
“I don’t remember,” Sed answered shortly. “What’s it to you anyway?”
Aran took a deep breath and tried to settle his anger which was again beginning to rise.
“I asked because I am your foster brother, and despite your words I know that we have a kinship of sorts.”
“I own no kinship to you, king,” Sed spat out bitterly. “If once we were brothers it is no longer. Not since you put on that crown and sat on that northern throne.”
“What is it that you want from me Sed?” Aran growled in weary exasperation.
“Your damn life instead of mine,” he answered quietly, hatefully.
Aran took a step forward towards his dark haired foster-brother.
“My life Sed?” he replied and his voice was as the sound of a sword quietly being unsheathed.
“Do you really want my life? Do you want to be Andur’s heir and everything that goes with it?”
“You are a better man than I,” interrupted Sed. “Of course I want it…I would give anything to have it.”
“Really...” Aran grated, immediately unsheathing the King’s Sword. Unearthly cold radiance flared from the weapon, dripping down the blade over Aran’s hand and to the tavern floor below. About him the crowd drew back, muttering fearfully and casting their eyes away from the magecrafted weapon.
Aran stepped forward, “Think again Sed. The wearer of this sword may indeed sit upon a throne with armies and the province to command, but he has a heavy load to bear. Heavy it is…indeed I would not wish it upon any other man alive.”
Sed looked up and saw for the first time the new dark, angry bleakness in his older brother’s eyes, and swallowed nervously, “I would not wish the sword from you...”
“Then what would you want from me…the throne goes with the sword.”
Sed quailed at the bleakness in Aran’s face, “Your luck, and your high fortune.”
Aran shook his head and his grey eyes grew flinty, “Sed, I was born with the Abilities that took me to Glaive, and then onto the Keep. You know I cannot give you those as they are part of me, just I cannot gift you my appearance or height. As to my character, you know full well it has been crafted by you, my foster parents and Master Cody. What I have become now has been from wearing this sword, and bearing the heritage of my ancestors.”
Sed hunched even further over as the heavy anger of his brother and king washed over him, “I have no life,” he said miserably.
Aran sheathed the flaring weapon in disgust and took the last few steps that brought him to Sed.
“Look at me brother,” he commanded in a low, insistent voice.
Sed had no other choice. The power in Aran’s voice afforded no other option.
Aran met his foster brother’s eyes, “We all craft our own lifepaths Sed. We all make choices about what we do and how we do it.” Aran’s eyes hardened, “The truth is that I envy you the free will that you have in your life. By Andur man, do you really think that I wanted to have all this responsibility, all this power, this Andurian heritage? Hell Sed, I have had almost no free choice since leaving Leigh all those weeks ago. Do you really think I choose to ride to war? I have no choice…I must go.”
Aran looked up and met the nervous eyes of the men clustered about him, “I ride to war because we face the greatest threat to our peace and freedom since the occupation of the Serat. I ride to war because I am the direct descendant of Warleader Andur, and the only one who can bear the King’s Sword. In the name of the Goddess, I would choose not be here now if I was any other man.” He sighed and the power seeped from his voice and eyes, “Because of my birth and heritage, I cannot be that man. I must instead be both a soldier and a king.”
Aran placed a hand upon his foster brother’s shoulder and placed a kinship kiss upon the top of Sed’s dark head.
“Go to your parent’s home when you have come to yourself again Sed—when you have lost this anger and self-hate. They will look after you…” He straightened, “After that and if I survive this war, come to me at the Keep, you will find good friends there who will help you craft a new lifepath for yourself.”
Sed nervously looked up, and for the first time felt the hatred of his elder brother ebbing away.
“Then keep yourself safe Aran,” he admitted softly, “For I may have been in error…”
Aran nodded, his own anger dying. Wearily he turned to Darven, “Collect the Guard, Wolf Leader. The day grows advanced, we must return to camp immediately.”
*
Almost by unspoken consent, Darven and the Guardsman did not speak during the short ride back to camp, leaving Aran to mull over what had happened at the tavern. He was shocked, but not surprised by the changes wrought in his foster brother, and he hoped that his words had been able to instill a degree of sense back into Sed. Aran had not meant to speak so frankly, but like a wall breaking against a summer flood, once the words had begun he could not cease them until they were said. Emotionally drained, he put a tired hand upon the warm neck of his horse to try and derive some comfort from the touch. What he really wanted now was Alissa and her comforting arms, but all through their ride through Leigh, the golden haired girl and her female mage friends had not been seen.
Back at camp the Guardsmen took away their horses to be tethered and fed, and Aran wearily made his way to the militant luxury of his tent. Thankfully at that hour the tent was empty, and Aran quickly divested himself of cloak and mail and pulling off his boots, threw himself down upon the bed to rest.
*
Although he was bone tired and with a poor night’s sleep behind him, Aran again could not find sleep and stared open eyed at the restless movement of the canvas walls. Later it seemed he may have finally slept for a few minutes, but he was again woken by the canvas being opened and a step upon the wooden boards.
Aran turned over, and opened a bleary eye to see Darven place a tray of food upon his table.
“Dinner already?”
The Wolf Leader nodded and poured his friend a mug full of apple cider.
“Did you sleep?”
Aran shrugged and sat up, “A little I think…my mind seems constantly preoccupied with the war.”
He looked up at Darven, “And with what happened at the tavern.”
Darven handed Aran the mug and pulled a stool over to sit beside his friend.
“I personally would have killed Sed for what he said to you,” he replied dryly. “Any other man daring to insult his king like that would have forfeited his life in return.”
Aran nodded, “I know, but Sed is my foster brother and I had to show mercy and understanding. As someone once said to me, you are the king and must set the example. People can dismiss the frailty of any ordinary man; however they will be less forgiving of their king if he shows flaws in his character.”
Darven nodded, “I had not thought of it that way. Sometimes the handling of a situation may not either be black or white but somewhere in between…” He paused, “Perhaps on reflection you could not have acted in any other way.”
Aran swung his legs over the side of the bed, “So what’s the news? Have the last of the southern Legions and fyrd ridden in yet?”
Darven shook his head, “They are expected in the morning. It seems the cold de
layed them; however our wagons have been spotted on the far side of Leigh. They should be arriving soon.”
Aran smiled at that, “Good! I hope Alem is fully recovered. The mages were able to remove the sickness but they said his recuperation may be long, and he needed quiet travel.”
Darven took a chicken leg from Aran’s tray and absently began to gnaw on it, “What exactly was it that ailed him?”
Aran shrugged, “The mages did not elaborate, but I understand there was something in the water or food that disagreed with him.”
Darven pulled the chicken bone away from his mouth and gave Aran a strange look.
“Poison?”
Aran quickly shook his head, “No, thank Andur! Just either badly prepared food or stale water, nothing that rest couldn’t fix.”
Darven resumed gnawing on his chicken leg.
*
Darkness had fallen completely before the unmistakable sound of wagons and horses were heard turning off the dirt road, and to the grassy verge of the camp beyond. Immediately the Guard came to the assistance of their friends and companions, eager hands quickly helping to unhitch wagons, and offering hot dinners and blanket rolls to the saddle weary Guardsmen and waggoners.
Aran pulled on his boots, and strode from the tent, eager to see his bondsman again and learn how he fared.
Outside the stars shone brightly in the cold blowy night, and Aran could see a great crowd of people gathered about the remainder of the Guard, and the half dozen or so wagons from Andur’s Keep.
“How was the trip?” Aran asked of a Guardsman who was tiredly unsaddling his horse.
The man looked up, a deep weariness etched on his face, belatedly Aran recognised him as one of the Wolves who had elected to stay behind to ride guard on the wagons.
“Ill news my lord,” he replied. “I regret to report that we lost bondsman Alem along the way.”
Aran frowned, not understanding, “Lost, how?”
The Guardsman straightened his arms full of gear, “He died lord. His sickness took a turn for the worse. We could do nothing…”
Aran stepped back, his arms falling heavily to his side, “How could this be? He was Healed.”
The Guardsmen shook his head and put the gear down, “My lord, we don’t know. The first day he was fine…laughing, joking with us all, then by nightfall he was quiet again, and complaining of renewed stomach pains.” He looked across at the stricken face of his king, “My lord, at camp we took it in turns to sit by him as he was in so much pain. We even tried to treat him with the simple herbal medications that any soldier knows and trusts, but nothing could be done…he was dead by morning. I am sorry my lord.”
Aran shook his head in shocked sorrow then when he looked up his eyes were hard, “Did he say anything about what ailed him? Did he have any message for me?”
The soldier shrugged, “Guardsman Tenner was with him just before he died, my lord. He may know of a message.”
Aran turned away his back stiff with anger and sorrow, “As soon as you are finished here send Guardsman Tenner to me…I would know if he had any final words.”
The soldier saluted and picked up his gear, “Aye lord.”
Aran walked slowly back to the tent, his mind warring. Within himself he felt a mixture of grief, guilt, hopelessness and underlying all a terrible anger that the mages had yet again failed him. Standing with his back to the tent flap and deep in his misery he only half heard the canvas open and the light step upon the boards.
“Aran?”
Turning around he saw Alissa’s hesitant figure at the entrance.
Aran was not sure who moved first, but within heartbeats Alissa was in his arms, and he had his face buried in her fragrant hair.
“I heard,” was all she could say.
Aran held her tightly, trying to assuage the terrible pain he was feeling.
“I blame the mages,” he said at last, brokenly. “They were supposed to have Healed him.”
Alissa shook her head, “I spoke to father. He asked the Guards what had happened and it seemed to him that it was a new condition. The food poisoning was not the cause.”
Aran moved back and studied her face, “Are you certain of this? That he is not trying to protect the mages from my anger by his words.”
Alissa shook her head again, “No, from what I heard Alem was recovering well, he sickened and died from something else.”
Aran frowned at that then remembered the illness of the sailor on the trip to the Keep.
“There may be truth in that,” he said finally. “There would have been a similar death on the Falcon, Glaive’s trading vessel,” he added, “Had it not been for Trevan’s quick work.” Aran’s anger was dying, replaced by the shadow of guilt.
“Then I must blame myself for his death. I should never have asked him to come on this campaign, to leave Haulgard when he was obviously so sick.”
Alissa seized his hands, “Do not speak so Aran. You were not to know. All you knew was that Alem was recovering well and needed only to be quiet and travel slowly. In travelling with the wagons this would have been done…” she hugged him again. “Each man must at the end go into the final darkness. You cannot say that Alem was not taken by the Goddess at his right and proper time.”
Aran sighed and drew away, “That may well be. However the cause, whatever the reason, I feel as though Alem’s death is like an ill omen of things to come.”
Alissa flared her own temper now high at his words. “Don’t be crazy Aran! If lesser, unintelligent men would read portents into such a tragedy, let them…” She straightened and steel came into her voice, “The loss of one man to illness is unfortunate, but to let it affect others with talk of ill-omens and portents would imperil the campaign, and undermine the rightness of our cause. You most of all must show others that although you grieve for Alem, his death does not turn you from your course or purpose.”
Aran paused mid-step. Her words stopped him completely.
“As always Alissa you see the right in things,” he said finally, dully. “Forgive me. It was my anger and grief speaking.”
Alissa smiled and took her betrothed into her arms, “The world can be terrible at times my love. If I must be your strength and rock during those times, then so be it, do not begrudge me for I see it as part repayment for your own love and strength to me.”
Aran smiled sadly, “Lately Alissa you seem always to be my strength.”
Alissa laughed at that, “Unlike you, I am not yet required to carry the responsibility of the province upon my shoulders. Until that duty is asked of me, let me at least offer you the strength of my arm upon which you may lean.”
Aran nodded, his grief lifting a little at her words, “I will accept your offer, beloved.”
Then he paused and shook his head, “You must think me twice a fool, for yet again I have completely forgotten to ask your father about changing your sleeping arrangements.”
Alissa smiled fondly, “Let it be, I guess that there will be still more lengthy war councils here this night and the following.”
Aran nodded, “Unfortunately that is the case. We still have much to arrange and plan.”
“Then let your lady love sleep undisturbed in her father’s tent,” Alissa replied. “For it is certain that there will be no sleep for me if I have to listen to the interminable ramblings of a tent full of soldiers planning a war,” she added ironically.
Aran’s laugh may have been a little forced but he felt a lightening of the spirits, “Then think of me in your dreams Alissa,” he chuckled, “For I am the unfortunate one who has to listen and try to give advice to that rambling crowd.”
*
The night had grown long advanced before the Guard and Legion Commanders were satisfied with what they had arranged.
“So it all relies now upon the participation of the plainsmen,” growled Captain Taran, his eyes scanning yet again the leather map which marked their future route. “I would give a year’s pay to learn what thei
r plans are to be?”
“You and I both, Captain,” rumbled Commander Terdec leaning back in some relief, stretching after sitting for so long hunched over the map. “It irritates me that they have sent no word in all this time.”
“Then we must continue on as if we do not have their support,” Darven said at last.
“I agree,” Aran stood and stretched too, his bones audibly cracking after the hours of sitting in one position. “For each day of our inactivity allows the enemy to steal another day’s advance upon us.”
“If we wish to take the battle to them, to choose the location of the war, then we must be gone at the very latest the morning of the day after tomorrow,” Terdec replied. “Any later and the cavalry will be hard pressed indeed to meet the timeline.”
Aran sat down again and his eyes met Camp Commander Sennar, “Are we absolutely certain that the southern garrisons will be here by morning?”
The older officer nodded, “Aye lord. They sent an advance rider ahead of the main force. He arrived late this afternoon. They will be certainly here by midmorning tomorrow.”
“Good,” Captain Taran commented, “Then if we are done here I would like to go to my bed.”
Aran put up a hand to gather silence and attention.
“The Guard, Legion and fyrd planning is certainly as complete as we can make it.”
His eyes scanned the room and came to rest on the quiet group comprising the Archmage and the High Mages from Glaive.
“However I would like to hear from our brothers of Glaive. They have not yet indicated what their participation will be.” Aran paused and went on, “I have read my history and know that Warleader Andur’s armies were primarily responsible for the freeing of the Province. However I am aware the mages did use their powers to destroy the Serat garrison at Seawatch Keep. I would now know how this generation of mages will aid Andur’s descendant, and the army he commands.”
Listening to Aran’s words the gathering of soldiers and officers in the tent moved uncomfortably upon their stools—waiting nervously to hear how the Archmage and his contingent responded to such a peremptory command.
The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy Page 22