The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy

by Rosemary Fryth

  Unconcernedly he walked over the mess of twitching bodies, and with a howl of rage took on half a dozen more Thakurian spearmen who had pinned down two of the hard pressed Guards. Aran waded into the fight, seeing nothing but red rage before him, and hearing nothing but the roaring anger in his ears. Two, three, four, then five of the spearmen fell down before him with the last one turning in desperation to flee. Unconcernedly, Aran took his dagger and aimed, that unfortunate soldier took only two steps before he toppled forward, falling face first into the red churned slush, his back sprouting the dagger from between his shoulder blades. Pushing the blade in, Aran savagely twisted it deeper then pulled it free, Aran thrust it still bloodied into its sheath and walked on into the roaring battle...

  *

  Aran pushed the body of the soldier from his blade, then immediately swung the weapon up, cleaving another man in two. Around and behind him were littered over a score of bodies. All were dead, Aran had made absolutely certain of that. A horseman appeared through the biting sleet, Aran went for the killing stroke, but his hand was stayed from behind. White rage engulfed him and he turned to kill the enemy who would lay a hand upon him, except he was immediately wrestled to the ground.

  “My lord! My lord king, in Andur’s name, stop I pray you.”

  White hot with rage, Aran writhed and twisted to free himself and fight, but he was finally immobilised when three men sat down upon him, pinning him to the ground.

  “My lord King! Aran, we implore you, stop…there is no one left to fight,” Darven cried out.

  Aran lay for a moment in the dirty and bloody slush, his head pounding, and his body shaking with fury. Finally the cold snow in which he was half buried, cooled the white hot rage, and finally he growled, “Let me up. I will not hurt you.”

  Aran felt the weight leave his back, and wearily he eased himself to his feet. Looking about him he saw the Guards clustered a few yards off, exhaustion and fear were openly displayed upon their faces.

  “How many did we lose?” he asked heavily.

  Darven went to put a hand on his king’s shoulder, but Aran shrugged it off, swinging around in barely controlled anger.

  “I ask you. How many of the Guard did we lose?”

  Darven stepped backwards in shock and bewilderment. “Thirty-seven, lord King. The wounded have been returned to camp. The Healermages…”

  “Don’t talk to me about the mages,” Aran snapped turning away. “They refused to come to our aid.”

  Another Guardsman stepped forward, blood running down his face, “My lord, the last of the enemy are fleeing the field. What do we do?”

  Aran stared at the man and saw him quail at his barely checked anger.

  “None are to survive. Kill them all, so others may see against whom they war.”

  “But, but…Sire,” Caldor loomed out of the murk. “This is not honourable.”

  Aran’s hand tightened on the pommel of the King’s Sword and the point lifted, “You dare defy me Bear Leader?” he snarled, his eyes flat with rage.

  Caldor dropped bonelessly to his knees, “Nay Sire.”

  “Then do as I order… Now!” he snapped furiously.

  There were hasty bows and nods, and the Guard dispersed to dispatch the last of the enemy, only Darven and Bini remained, bewildered at the day’s events.

  “Sire?”

  Aran furiously looked up from the blood soaked snow at his feet, “I gave you an order soldier.”

  Darven’s face tightened as he too struggled with his composure—bitter, hasty words trembling unsaid on his lips.

  Aran stared at the Wolf Leader, at the man he called friend, and tried to grasp what little sanity remained, “I am not myself Darven” he grated. “Leave me be…I need time…alone.”

  *

  “Go carefully, he’s changed.”

  Darven was hastily leading Maran back to where he had left Aran.

  “I will…” Archmage Maran stopped, and stared at the distant figure kneeling amongst the blood and carnage. “I have heard of battle rage before but never in my wildest dreams did I think Aran would be prone…” his voice trailed off.

  “Is he sane?” Darven asked apprehensively, as he finally bent to wipe clean his blood encrusted sword on the snow, and wearily sheath it in his scabbard.

  Maran shook his head, “No, at least not yet. It will take a while for the anger to seep out of him. I should try to talk to him but I don’t think he will hear me.”

  “He single handedly killed over twenty men in as many minutes,” Bini’s voice was hushed with awe. “I saw him. He walked through them as easily as if he was scything a field of ripened grain.”

  Maran’s brow lifted, “I did not think of that. I know Aran has the Andurian temper, but this is new. He is a Warriormage; perhaps this rage is a manifestation of that Ability?”

  Darven’s face paled again, “He will be like that at each battle? In Andur’s name, how will we control him? He came close to killing two of my men before he was pulled away and restrained!”

  Maran shook his head, “We know little about the early Warriormages. I think this madness may be because he is half-trained. Perhaps when he has a better control of his Ability?”

  Darven stood and regarded the distant hunched figure, “So what do we do now?”

  Maran pulled his robe closer about him against the cold. “Wait here and hope he returns to us soon.”

  “And Alissa?” Bini asked. “Will she come?”

  Maran nodded, “I found her working frantically with the Healermages back at camp. She has already heard what happened…” Maran looked out into the deepening gloom, “She railed at me and blamed me entirely for not allowing the mages to aid the Guard. I understand her anger, but there was no other way.”

  “He will blame you too,” Darven said unhappily. “Now that you’ve told me I understand why…. I realise we can’t afford to drain the mages of their power so soon, but…”

  Then his face hardened, and he turned upon Maran, forgetting for one heated moment that he spoke to the Archmage. “By Andur mage…you were not out there! It was a killing field and the only reason the Guard lives still is that Aran broke the Thakurian attack,” Darven’s eyes went like hard slate. “Do not be surprised if he will not listen to you. I have never before seen him, or any man alive, so angry.”

  Maran eyes flared with suppressed power, “You forget yourself Wolf Leader…” then he too remembered himself, and his voice gentled. “I doubt you will see the same Arantur back again. He is now a blooded Warriormage and will be perilous until he has sorted himself out.”

  Bini looked longingly back at camp. “Alissa would help. Why does she not come?”

  The Archmage’s face tightened with leashed emotions. “She wanted to, but I commanded her to stay. Aran is not fully in his right mind and cannot be healed with salve, bandage or even a High Healermage’s touch. She will come when the wounded are settled, and then she will wait with us.”

  Darven’s pain went out to the forlorn figure of his friend kneeling amongst the slaughtered enemy.

  “Can we not get closer Archmage, let him know he is watched and protected.”

  Maran shook his head, “I am certain he knows we are here. With his heightened awareness he most likely knows where every man and woman is for the next league about. No, we will wait for him to come to us. There is no other way.”

  *

  For over two hours Aran sat staring at the ground, his sword thrust into the bloody slush before him. The snow which had started up again, fell unheeded across his armoured body, his eyes staring sightlessly at the reddened and broken ground. Over and over in his mind he replayed that horrifying yet exultant time, in which he felt wholly consumed by the frightening powers of the Warriormage Ability. He felt sickened to his stomach and soul by the things he had done in the name of war, and yet he knew that that he would have to do the same things in the days to come. Nausea enveloped him, and leaning over to one side he voided his stoma
ch again and again, until at the last he heaved only thin bitter, acid bile. Heavily again the snow fell, as if the Goddess herself wished to cover the evidence of his horror.

  *

  ‘Brother,’ a quiet, gentle voice whispered at his ear.

  “Go away Sarana. This is a very bad time” he groaned painfully.

  The voice fell silent but Aran, deep in his power could sense her presence nearby as truly as he could sense the growing knot of people waiting for him.

  ‘Arantur…brother, do not blame yourself for what has happened.’

  Sarana’s voice came again, more insistent as if knowing this time she could not leave, or even be forced to go.

  Aran stared bitterly into the swirling snow, “How can I not blame myself Sarana? I went mad, berserk. I could not control my rage…in Andur’s name; I almost unknowingly killed two of my own men.”

  ‘It was your power, not you brother. It took hold of you. Everyone names you Warriormage and speaks of what you did in hushed and terrible voices, but you are still my brother, my soul and what you did here cannot overcome the goodness that is in you.’

  Aran glanced over at the small group waiting in the snow for him.

  “Do you see them sister? See how they stand back, they don’t even want to come close for fear of what I will do. Even Alissa, how will I face her?”

  The voice sighed, but said nothing.

  Aran reached for his blood splattered sword, and carefully cleaned it in the snow, he then noticed his blood encrusted dagger still sheathed in his belt.

  ‘The dagger?’

  Aran shook his head, “No it shall remain so…as a reminder and warning to me of what I can never do again.”

  ‘You will not fight?’

  Aran grimaced in pain, ‘If the madness comes over me again, then I will be surely lost. But you are right in what you say sister…it was the Ability that drove the madness. I am only a half-trained Warriormage, and until I know how to control this dark power of mine, I should never again lift a sword in anger.”

  ‘What about this Warleader Se-Taanata?’

  “The Thakurian Warleader? Is that her name?” Aran asked in weary puzzlement, “I guess I must kill her, but after today the mere idea of lifting this sword in anger is abhorrent to me.”

  ‘Then go to your friends, brother,’ Sarana whispered gently, ‘For they fear for you, and think that you are sickening. It is near nightfall. Go quickly before you freeze to death out here.’

  Aran eased himself to his feet his body trembling with fatigue. With his movement the snow which had piled upon him fell from his plate armour and mail hauberk, onto the broken, sullied ground.

  I am sick, he thought bitterly, still tasting the acrid vomit in his mouth, and I doubt if I will ever again be well.

  *

  The small group that had waited with their king in the cold and the snow rose stiffly to their feet when they saw that at long last he had roused, and that the battle rage had finally left him. Most of Wolf Company who were still standing had joined Maran, Bini and Darven in their silent vigil. Alissa, still covered in the blood and grime of the field hospital, took a step or two towards Aran, before halting grief stricken, as she saw clearly the unmistakable lines of horror and weariness now seemingly permanently etched on his blood splattered face.

  “Aran,” she whispered, then her feet grew wings and she flew to him, stopping as if she had hit a stone wall when he held up his hand in protest.

  “No Alissa…I am not yet ready to speak of this.”

  Alissa hung her head in bewilderment, and salty tears leaked out from beneath her tightly closed eyes.

  With a supreme effort of will Aran lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek, “Give me time beloved,” he breathed, “This has been a difficult day. I will need your strength more than ever now.”

  Alissa looked up and nodded, her tears drying.

  He waited until the others walked up. Silently, grimly he scanned their faces, “We must return to the main camp at Mount Solstice,” he said at last. “Are all fit to ride?”

  Alissa nodded, “The wounded have been treated, and if we set an easy pace we will not lose any more along the way.”

  “The Thakur will soon search for their lost vanguard. I mean for them to come upon this place and see what has happened here.” Aran growled as he looked about him and saw the bodies of the Thakur—where they had fallen, under his sword.

  Darven stepped forward, “We could not destroy the entire enemy, my liege. Several escaped into the darkness before we could reach them.”

  Aran nodded curtly, “Then we have done enough here. Those who escape will carry my message to their leaders. I want them to understand clearly who they dare war against.”

  “There is no doubt about what happened here lord,” Maran added.

  Aran spun, and to the Archmage’s deepest horror, saw the sudden movement as the King’s Sword was raised and fell, striking him from breast to hip. Maran fell to his knees, his chest a wreckage of bone and blood…

  “I would hear now why you refused to send the mages to the Guards’ aid, Archmage,” Aran said, and his voice was as quiet as a sword being drawn, and his eyes were deadly cold.

  Maran knelt in the snow and felt his chest…there was no wound! Fearfully he looked up, and met the cold, hard and calculating eyes of his king. The others looked curiously on, seeing nothing but the old man kneeling in the snow.

  ‘I have learned new skills today kinsman,’ Aran whispered, his voice pitched so only the Archmage could hear.

  Archmage Maran met his king’s eye and quailed. Looking at the cold grey eyes of his king, and seeing him as if for the first time he was forced to reassess everything he had ever known about Aran. Had he so misjudged this man’s character?

  ‘By Andur, what have I loosed into this world?’ he whispered, horrified.

  Finally he took himself in hand, and unsteadily got to his feet, “My lord King. If the mages had fought today in this minor skirmish then they would have been unfit for use in the greater battles that lie ahead.”

  “Why?” Aran’s voice grated as steel over stone.

  “The power needed to cast the weather, and the very earth against our enemies would have drained the mages empty. I am sorry my lord king, but the mages cannot be used again until the main battles when we are facing the enemy’s true force.” Maran’s eyes tightened in grief at what the day had brought. “Lord, you know that power has limits. Surely you see now especially after what happened today, that the magepower and Ability can only be used at its right and proper time.”

  Aran’s head snapped up, and his eyes smouldered with barely contained rage, “Do you dare imply that I acted improperly, mage? If I was not there today not one of the Guard would be left standing!” Aran moved closer to the mage and his face was a mask of anger. “I think you saw clearly that the Guard were fighting for their lives, yet you chose not to aid them.” he snarled.

  Maran stepped back from the force of his king’s anger. “You misunderstand me liege. What you did today was necessary, and as a Warriormage you could not have acted otherwise. Indeed you were the only hope the Guard could ever have had.”

  Darven stepped forward, and stood beside his friend and king. “The Guard lives still because what Aran has done. I would not gainsay anything that he has done today,” he stated bluntly, daring the Archmage’s anger.

  Aran glanced across at Darven, and smiled tightly, approving the Wolf Leader’s implicit support. Then he turned again to the others, “And yet it will not happen again,” he replied clearly and coldly, whilst grimly taking in hand the white hot anger which burned deeply in his chest. “The Guard will rest and recoup its strength, and when ready, will be the vanguard in the final, major battles. Those who have survived can teach the rest of the army the tactics and methods used by the enemy here. In Andur’s name we will learn by this day,” he growled.

  Darven turned to his friend and laid a hand upon his mailed arm. Ara
n at last was comforted by the touch and did not shake it off.

  “And you my lord? Will you fight with us?”

  Aran looked down at the dagger stained black with dried blood and shook his head.

  “I cannot control the power, and if I fight again, I cannot be responsible for my actions or sanity afterwards,” he admitted in a low voice. “No Darven, I will not fight in battle again…leastways not until I understand this heavy Ability of mine and can control its dark madness.”

  *

  Chapter 8—Into the Dark Night

  If there were any living Thakur still on the field to give witness to the closing of the day, then the heavy, oppressive evening darkness effectively hid the silent, watchful retreat of the Guard, and mounted Legions back to the second mustering point just west of Mount Solstice. Cloaked in snow, and the remains of the mage-called mist, the company, for the most part still blood and gore splattered, turned their weary horses heads to the beckoning east. All rode quietly, but the most silent of all the company was their High King and Warriormage Arantur.

  Flanking the silent, dark figure on the dun mare, were the three cloaked and still armoured figures of Darven, Bini and Alissa. They rode as close as they dared to Aran to show him their support, however with the events of the day branded so deeply into their minds, they instinctively knew that unnecessary speech or actions would be ill-advised, and so kept their distance and counsel.

  Within the rest of the Legions and Guard however, stories of Aran’s exploits had spread like wild-fire, and all regarded the distant mounted figure with awe, and a great deal of alarm. All had now heard of the mage-driven attack of the Thakur against the King and Wolf Company, and how their young Warriormage had almost single-handedly turned the tide of battle in favour of the Guard. The remainder of Wolf Company, lessened in number by well over two dozen men, rode slumped in their saddles and almost mindless with fatigue. Despite their wounds and pain, they rode knowing in their hearts that they owed their lives to the dangerous magepower of their young king. Already the rumours were starting to spread that how King Arantur, still in the depths of battle rage, had brought the Archmage to his knees with a just a look and a word. Both Guardsmen and legio shook their heads at that, knowing that there were few, if any who could speak such words against the mages of Glaive, and still walk away unscathed.