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

by Rosemary Fryth

  The mages themselves rode silently and protectively around the huddled form of Archmage Maran. They did not know the full details of the meeting of the Archmage with their enraged king, but they had felt the Warriormage’s use of the magepower like a sudden thunderclap in an otherwise calm and clear day. All wondered about it, but there were a few who had accurately guessed the meaning behind it.

  *

  “He will be loath to trust us again,” commented Drayden to Trevan.

  “You and I he trusts. He counts us as his friends,” the Healermage replied confidently.

  The High Earthmage looked across at the older man. “You perhaps he may see as a friend…” his face wore an ironic smile, “I however am regarded only as a useful tool.”

  Trevan shook his head “Aran, despite his rank, has the soul of a craftsman. Believe me he will not soon put away a fine tool. Do not be surprised if he asks for your future counsel.”

  The Earthmage’s eyes flickered up, “You think so? Is there no bridging this rift between him and the Archmage?”

  Trevan shrugged, “Archmage Maran made a poor decision today in not aiding the Guard.” He sighed heavily, “He will long rue it I think.”

  “Would you have done otherwise?”

  Trevan’s eyes clouded over, “Knowing Arantur as I do, yes I would have. Despite the power drain from the mages I would have done everything to assist him. Glaive needs to prove herself to her king. Everything that has been done in the past has been in Glaive’s name, or to better advance Glaive’s plans and calculations…”

  He looked up and his eyes were grim, “In the past Glaive erred badly in the handling of Prince Greve, yet I believe Glaive errs worse in the handling of his descendant”

  “Yet Archmage Maran is his kinsman,” Drayden said abruptly, “Should blood not show?”

  Trevan shook his head wearily, “I think that may be the very reason for the rift. There is very little understanding between them. They are too alike in character I think, for them to get on.”

  Drayden nodded, “Aye, our king has greater love and respect for his young companions Darven, Bini and Alissa…”

  “Alissa,” the Healermage mused out loud, “She is the one good thing to come out of this war. If it were not for the strength and love of that young woman, I believe we would have an insane and uncontrollable king and Warriormage on our hands—and you don’t need to tell me that would be an intolerable situation.”

  There was an uneasy pause at that then Drayden finally spoke.

  “So what do we do now?”

  Trevan shrugged, “We watch, wait and hope that Glaive does not misstep around Arantur again. We must all weigh our actions and words in the King’s presence. He will not be quick to forgive or forget any of our blunders.”

  *

  Aran meanwhile was immersed in a heavy period of self-analysis. He spoke not, for fear any words, hasty or otherwise would allow his slow burning rage excuse enough to flare up again. Although he was comforted by the presence of his three closest friends, he was immeasurably glad that they had given him space and silence in which to come to terms with what had happened. Despite the resounding victory and success of the ambush, the day had come at too great a price for him. There had been other losses from the army, it was only to be expected given such a battle, but Aran felt the deaths of the Guardsmen most keenly, and knew that some of these could at least have been avoided if the Archmage had intervened.

  ‘Ah…Archmage,’ thought Aran, his eyes hardening at the memory, ‘You withheld your hand and in doing so proved irrefutably where Glaive’s position lies in all this. I see now that Glaive will follow its own path and will assist, if the King’s course lies upon the same route as Glaive. But woe betides the King, and the Province he commands, if Glaive sees his path as separate.’ Aran frowned at that realization, and stared ahead into the darkness. He had learned much from this day, and would now be far warier of the mages and treat their words like a double-edged sword. Only the few mages he could utterly trust would be kept by his side.

  But who could he trust? Aran wondered sourly. Trevan of course, that went without saying, but there were few others within their ranks with whom he had felt any kind of affinity. Drayden too seemed honourable, although he did not know the High Earthmage well. As of the others he knew only Kaled, and he was just a novice, still studying at Glaive and unlikely to be allowed to leave the college until he gained his mantle.

  Aran shook his head bitterly unhappy in the knowledge that he had to still work with the mages, frustrated that he had no choice in the matter. Belatedly Aran remembered Master Cody’s words, ‘Lad the mages are inscrutable and ought to be avoided, for they have their own plans and needs which concern us not…’

  Back then, the young apprentice Arantur had not really understood his master’s words and ignored them; but now, in the full power of kingship and after today’s events, Aran readily appreciated the truth in what Cody had said. Even then the general opinion of Leigh had been that you interfere with a mage at your peril, and a sensible man would turn and walk away if he saw a mage approaching.

  It was far too late to walk away now, Aran mused miserably. Already this kingship and war was turning him into the sort of man he did not recognise nor like. True, the Abilities had always been within him, but the strain and responsibility of being a soldier king were bringing out hidden, dormant aspects of his character that were better left undisturbed, buried. Already he suspected that he was becoming very like his ancestor, Warleader Andur; but surely even Andur did not have the depths of power that Aran himself had displayed today. Power very like those of the ancient Warriormages—dark power little understood and uncontrollable.

  Aran now fully understood why the ancient Warriormages and Metalmages had set up their own college at Rapier. The ideologies and disciplines were very different, and there was no way that the mages at Rapier could have happily co-existed with the ones at Glaive. The standard magepowers at Glaive seem to be entirely based upon spell learning and casting, quiet study, years of research and testing and employing the senses to work in harmony within the natural laws. The Warrior and Metalmage Abilities however, from Aran’s own experience, seemed to be directly linked to the mind and emotions of the mage himself. Raw passions, intuition, dark emotions, far reaching senses and a knack for losing oneself in the metal or with the weapon seem to be the keys to the manipulation of the Abilities. Keys which Aran seemed to be rapidly gaining…

  Aran shook his head again. As quickly and as surely as he opened each door to the Warriormage Ability, he was faced with the uncomfortable and frightening realisation that he did not yet have the skills to shut them. He was not even certain if they could ever again be closed.

  “No,” he muttered under his breath, knowing that his earlier decision was correct. As far as he was able he would not fight again, least not until he gained the self-discipline required to leash the magepower each time it flared. Uncomfortably Aran was beginning to suspect that the rage was merely the physical manifestation of the Warriormage Ability. If so the rage had to be controlled, had to be channelled, perhaps transmuted into a thing that had borders, boundaries—presence. The rage had to be like a fierce hunting dog, leashed most times but able to be controlled when let out. With an effort of strain that cast immediate lines upon his haggard face, Aran tried to constrain the rage—his mind spun and his eyes grew dark with effort. Finally, tiredly he allowed himself to relax again. Despite all his determination there had been no success. The rage refused to be controlled or contained. Aran frowned and sighed heavily. Unconsciously his fingers worked tangles into the mare’s long dark mane. This gaining of control would take days, perhaps weeks, even years to master. In the meantime he hoped that nothing would happen to set it off again…

  *

  It took the column most of the night to wind their way back to the meeting point at Mount Solstice. Their way lit by the ever burning lamps of Glaive that had been hung from the saddles,
the tired horses and even more weary men stumbled through the snow and tussocky grass, till at last dawn, and the distant watch fires of the main camp showed that they were almost home. Despite the presence of the Healermages, they had lost one legio on the ride back. The young cavalryman had sustained terrible leg wounds and had lost much blood during the battle. The Healermages had worked continuous shifts about him to stem the bleeding and give him strength for the journey ahead. However it seemed that he had lost too much blood, and despite his youth, his life could not be sustained and he slipped away into the final darkness sometime between the second and third hour of the morning. When told, Aran frowned, and a heavy weariness settled again over his face.

  *

  “The camp is just ahead my lord Aran,” Darven said quietly, finally breaking the terrible silence.

  Aran nodded, “As soon as we arrive everyone must sleep and rest. I would have no more deaths today,” he replied curtly.

  Darven swung his horse back towards the main part of the column, “My lord, I will let the leaders know.”

  Alissa nudged her black mare forward, “How do you fare, Aran?” she asked quietly.

  Aran turned around and gave her a tired smile, “Weary Alissa, wearier than you could ever imagine. I believe that if I put my head down I could sleep for a year and still think that insufficient.”

  Alissa nodded, “Aye, war is not easy work and I even did not fight.” She paused, as if to gather courage, “The anger…is it gone now?”

  Aran turned again towards her, and his eyes were bleak, “No, in fact I doubt if it will ever go. However, for the moment it is contained and quiet.” He stared at her face, seeing for the first time the tiredness and pain etched into the fine lines there.

  “I ask your forgiveness Alissa,” Aran said simply. “I have been selfish, and too caught in my own troubles to ask how you fared. Are you well my love?”

  Alissa nodded, “It has been a long, hard day and night, and I only wish my small Earthmage Ability was Healermage instead.”

  She sighed heavily, her face drawn with tiredness and grief. At last she spoke again, “There were many deaths the Healermages could not prevent Aran. The soldiers either lost too much blood, or spirit, or both, and however hard the mages called to them and stemmed the internal and external bleeding, the men just slipped away…as if the battle for their lives was far harder than the battle against the Thakur.”

  “I know, after what had happened I too did not want to come back,” Aran owned, finally finding solace in this quiet conversation. “I had turned into a ravening beast on the battlefield, and after it was all over I felt sick to the core of my being. I believe that if I had the strength or the courage, I would have fallen on my sword there and then.”

  Alissa said nothing, what indeed could be said in the face of such an admission?

  “I turned myself back,” Aran said finally into the silence. “Despite what I had become I knew I had to go on. There were too many people relying on me, my crown and my Abilities. Despite my complaining at times Alissa, I really am a man who takes duty very seriously. I have a duty of care to these people, and I really could not go into the final darkness, besides…” and there was a hint of the old Aran in his hesitant smile. “How could I take my life knowing that I was leaving you behind? You who are my heart and strength Alissa, How could I do such a thing to you?”

  Alissa spurred the black mare forward and reached out to take Aran’s cold hand.

  “Wherever, whenever you need me,” she urged. “Call me. Let me know…I will be your strength. Only promise me…” and her voice faded.

  Aran looked up to see tears brimming in her eyes, “Promise you what?”

  “That you will not think again about taking your life…” she turned away so Aran could not see her tears. “That I could not bear…”

  “Alissa, I was full of fear, shame and horror at the things I did,” Aran explained ruefully. “But I must live with that knowledge, and try not to let my magepower rule me…else I am afraid I will be consumed,” he finished wearily.

  “You did something to the Archmage,” Alissa said at last. “Not everyone noticed, but I felt you use the magepower, and then I saw the fear and the horror in his eyes. What did you do?”

  Aran’s head fell in shame, and for a moment he remembered that awful time.

  “Tell me,” she urged, “I need to know. You are the man with whom I have pledged myself. If you cannot tell me, who can you tell?”

  Aran looked up and there was dark emptiness mirrored in his grey eyes.

  “I showed him his death…” he replied hollowly, finally. “Do not press me Alissa, I will not speak of this again,” he said painfully.

  Alissa nodded, whilst implicitly understanding that she did not really want to know the absolute truth to the demons which plagued him.

  “Come,” she said at last, and her voice was strained. “I can see the tents of the camp ahead…let us put aside the horrors we have seen and tell instead of the great victory we have had over the Thakur.”

  Aran smiled tiredly, “Let others tell of such deeds. I crave only my bed and uninterrupted sleep…”

  Alissa’s eyes gentled, “You will have that soon, my lord. I will personally make certain that no one disturbs you.”

  Aran inclined his head, “I would be grateful.”

  And so they rode into the waking camp.

  *

  Although the main part of the army had only arrived at the meeting point the day before, already all the spare tents had been erected, and the picket lines prepared for the absent cavalry. With dawn breaking on the horizon, the keen eyed watchmen had long since spotted the large column of horsemen making their way wearily from the west, and alerted the camp commanders to the news that the King, Guard, and Legion cavalry were returning. Hurriedly grooms and cooks were roused from their beds to start meals and prepare feeds for the exhausted men and their mounts.

  “How went the day?”

  Camp Commander Druec was dressed only in a hurriedly thrown-on tunic, but his face was grave when he saw the reduced number of the column and the exhausted men and horses.

  “Well enough,” Aran replied shortly, even now unable to speak fully about the previous day’s events.

  “We won Druec!”

  Legion Commander Terdec had ridden up from where he had been keeping station with his men as soon as they had reached the camp.

  “We lost some,” he added, “That was only to be expected…but you should have been there. The Thakur were fighting like men possessed.”

  “As indeed they were,” Darven interjected, spurring his tired grey forward. “We are all weary unto death, and everyone here needs food and sleep before we can relate tales from the front.”

  Druec nodded and his blue eyes flickered curiously across to Alissa.

  “And how does Lady Alissa fare?” he asked guardedly.

  “Well enough,” she answered abruptly, unconsciously echoing Aran’s reply. “As Wolf Leader Darven said, food and sleep is of the highest priority. We have fought all day and have ridden all night, and the men and beasts are half-dead with exhaustion.”

  “Tents and bedding are erected, and even now meals are being prepared,” Druec replied.

  Darven turned to his friend and king, “My lord Arantur…we await only your order to fall out.”

  Aran nodded, tiredly dismounting from where he had been slumped in the saddle, “Do so Darven. I for one cannot go a step further…”

  Stumbling, leaning wearily upon Alissa’s shoulder, Aran finally reached the king’s tent and fell heavily upon the bed, his face grey with exhaustion and grief.

  Alissa knelt down and gently began to work free the stiff buckles of the armour. Slowly, feeling like a woman three times her age, she managed to one by one detach the armour pieces, and pile them in a corner of the tent.

  Aran pulled himself to a seated position, “Alissa, don’t. One of the rested soldiers should be doing this. Not you…yo
u are as tired as I.”

  Alissa shook her head, “Let me do this much for you Aran.”

  Aran stared at her blearily and nodded, “As you wish my love.”

  Finally, the last of Aran’s armour was stacked away, and Alissa bent over to shake off her own light mail hauberk. Wearily she picked it up, and placed it next to Aran’s pile of blood and gore flecked armour.

  Sitting on the bed, she pulled off her boots and tiredly unbraided her messy plaits, and with her fingers, combed free the worst of the tangles. Aran, with the last of his strength, pulled over his head the dark blue, rust marked gambeson and slumped tiredly, dressed only in his plain wool tunic and hosen.

  “Those ought to go too,” Alissa said pointing to his tunic and hosen. “They smell of oil and sweat and worse…come, I will help you.”

  Aran looked up tiredly at her, “Will you leave me no modesty, love?”

  Smiling, she shook her head at that, whilst quickly and efficiently stripping him until he was sitting naked on the blankets.

  “Now into bed…”

  Aran obediently swung his long legs up and Alissa covered him with the blankets and furs.

  Bending over, she placed a light kiss upon his lips, and then gently pushed back strands of his lank blond hair which had fallen across his face.

  “Sleep now my love…” she whispered gently. “I will soon return.”

  Aran nodded and closed his eyes; within a heartbeat he was asleep.

  Alissa stood and stretched wearily. She was more tired than she had ever been before in her life but still she had one more task to complete before she too could rest.

  *

  “How is he, daughter?”

  Captain Taran was overseeing the last of the Guardsmen to their tents, when he espied Alissa with hair unbound, walking serenely barefoot towards him through the melting snow and frost-burnt grass.