The Exiled King

by Sarah Remy

  “Drink,” Liam ordered, handing her her own flask. “It helps.”

  She did, watching as Russel kicked through the coals. The water cleared the taste of ash from her mouth. “I can’t keep putting out fires if you expect me to keep wards up,” she said.

  “Can you wrap us all in those wards?”

  “Russel—Ai, mayhap. If we stand close. Not the horse. I’m sorry, my lord, but Wilde will need to fend for himself.”

  “Good.” Russel nodded once. “Because I recognize this cottage, or what’s left of it. Maiden Gate’s that way. And that corpse, in the crop, that’s Black Abbey. Black Abbey infantry, this far out, which means Black Abbey garrison broke just like Wythe. We’re almost home. But things are about to get hairy. If the lines are broken, west and east, I cannot but assume by now the city’s under siege.”

  Chapter 22

  Either Crom Dubh had not counted on an uprising beneath the skin of the earth, or he hadn’t paused to care. And if Everin had guessed the barrowmen hadn’t consented to an influx of steel-wielding mortals through their tunnels, even the dullahan’s ferocity would not have convinced him to lead unsuspecting tribesmen through the gate. But he hadn’t guessed or, like the dullahan, he hadn’t stopped to think, even though afterward he knew Drem’s conspicuous silence on the matter should have been warning enough.

  The desert braved the rose-gold gate in the deep night, hours before the sun rose on white sands. Everin rode at Nicanor’s stirrup as promised. The sand lords knew well how to whip fanfare into a frenzy. Spear clashed against spear, tribe shouted down tribe, much was made of each family’s bravery and loyalty.

  “We ride to victory!” Nicanor howled, shaking his spear at the sky. “We ride to prosperity!” Everin, sitting his stout coastal pony at the foot of the gate, looked out across the sand. The city had turned itself into an army. Those things precious enough to pack were carried. The rest was left behind. The men and women and children on ponies and on foot did not intend to return under the mountain. They were finished with privation. They meant to make the flatland their new home or die trying.

  Fear and tenderness tangled together on Everin’s tongue. He was selfishly grateful the injury to his throat prevented his voice from carrying. He might have begged them all to stay.

  The dullahan, in human form still, had disappeared early into the crowd with vague promises about guarding the army from behind and joining the battle later. Everin searched for sign of him in the crowd but was disappointed. Sidhe did not break their promises. Nevertheless, they delighted in twisting a vow to cracking, and Crom Dubh’s absence did not sit well in Everin’s gut.

  “May your enemies fall beneath you!” Nicanor screamed. The desert returned his adulation fourfold, roaring at the night. “And if they do not—may you find god’s cradle in good time!” He wheeled his horse toward the gate. The rose-gold light turned his eyes to fire. “Myron! Hypatia! With me! Erastos, you must show us the way!”

  Crossing into the barrows was little different than stepping through any door. The sidhe light was a muted yellow glow once inside the tunnel mouth. And because it was sidhe made, and outside of mortal time, the tunnel stretched to encompass their need, expanding until five men could ride abreast and still not scrape boot or head on curved, muddy walls.

  The ponies were not pleased. Probably, the tunnel smelled distinctly of sidhe. Possibly they did not like the confined space, the dearth of fresh air, the diffused light. The first tribesmen through were not any more pleased. Sand lords and proficient warriors all, still they muttered amongst themselves, starting at every echoing hoofbeat or sound of dripping water. They were no more used to the underground than the animals they forced ahead along the tunnel.

  Drem wore Crom Dubh’s bronze barrow key on Desma’s wrist and the Aug’s sword on her back. The lesser sidhe rode ahead of Erastos and Nicanor, choosing each turning whenever the passage branched. If Erastos was the desert’s ceremonial guide through the earth, Drem was their guide in truth. Everin hoped he would notice if the barrowman led them awry. He’d studied the tapestry map until he could see it with his eyes closed, and centuries of imprisonment had instilled a necessary sense of direction without stars or sun to guide him, but Drem had proved itself clever and Everin did not wholly trust it to steer them true.

  There were sounds in the tunnels, faraway pops and whistles, whispers and mutters seemingly come from the walls. The sounds of the earth shifting, of underwater rivers pooling in the depths, of a clandestine kingdom waking to invasion.

  Everin’s pulse began to pound in his ears. Nodding stiffly Nicanor’s way, he kicked his reluctant pony ahead to Drem’s side.

  “Tell me the dullahan gave them some warning.”

  “And whom do you suppose Crom Dubh would warn?” Drem replied, gaze fixed on the passage ahead. “The elders sleep on and my kin, as always, are beneath his notice.”

  “Not beneath mine.” The hair on the back of Everin’s neck rose. “I was right, wasn’t I? This is a travesty. Like lambs to a slaughter—are we even meant to reach the surface?”

  “Erastos!” Nicanor called, too loud. His voice bounced along the tunnel and came back mixed with sibilant, inhuman laughter. Drem flinched. The ponies, valiant animals, dripped foam and pinned their ears.

  “Quiet!” Drem warned the sand lords. The Desma disguise wavered, showing Everin fangs and dark eyes beneath. That sorcery, he thought, would not last much longer.

  “I carry the key,” Drem said to Everin. “And while I cannot guess Crom Dubh’s game to the end, I intend to reach the surface. Of late I’ve grown weary of living forever in the dark.”

  More mutters along the tunnel, a susurrus of rising dismay through the soil, making clots of mud fall. Nicanor cursed. Myron, turned frail without Pelagius’s comfort, nearly came off his horse. Hypatia drew her bow though Everin did not think she could use it effectively in such a tight space.

  “Drem,” he said. “Give me my sword.”

  “Not yet.”

  “He isn’t here to know. Give me my sword!”

  “Not,” repeated Drem, “yet.”

  Somewhere behind them in the tunnel a man screamed.

  Everin stood in his stirrups and reached for his weapon. Drem snarled, threatening. And a host of barrowmen came out of the walls, teeth and claws shining, sharp bone and bronze knives and pointed sticks in hand. Nicanor and Myron, screaming, were overrun at once. Hypatia abandoned her bow and drew her curved sword instead. A barrowman dropped from the tunnel roof onto her back and bit into her shoulder, spraying blood. Hypatia shrieked. The barrowman pulled her from her horse. The pony plunged between Drem and Everin, dividing them, before galloping away down the tunnel. Everin came away with his blade in hand and Drem’s toothmarks on his arm. Drem, gasping, raised a hand to block Everin’s strike.

  “Stad!” it cried, to Everin and the barrowman together. Drem ripped Faolan’s spelled thread from around its wrist, at last abandoning the Desma illusion. “Tá ceart pasáiste againn! We have right of way!”

  “By whose authority?” whispered the tunnel walls in a language older than time. Behind Everin he heard the noise of barrowman feeding and the muffled moans of terrified tribesmen. Grief rose like bile in the back of his throat.

  “By Faolan’s right!” shouted Drem and then, sharply, to Everin. “Show them your face!” It stood tall in its stirrups and addressed the barrows. “We are returning the exiled king to his cell in the ground, renewing Faolan’s bargain! Let us pass!”

  “Do you suppose us fools?” A barrowman with a scar instead of a nose appeared suddenly in front of Everin, clinging to the tunnel ceiling, and thrust its face in his own. “I know you, Drem,” it said. “And I know Faolan’s pet. But Faolan is dead and you’ve brought sweet meat and poisonous iron both into our home. What manner of disport is this? We have not been so diverted since before the Unseelie elders lay down to sleep.”

  “It is as it is,” Drem insisted. “For Faolan’s sake, let
us through. We will not tarry long.”

  The noseless barrowman smiled at Everin, dark eyes canny. “It is true that Faolan’s pet, escaped, brought woe upon our heads.” The creature’s breath was foul. There was red human blood on its tongue. “If not for his meddling above we might have continued as we were, forgotten. Now the mortals have increased their defenses against us, the elders stir in their dreaming, and we suffer dearly for both. Why should I not have his head as recompense?”

  “There is geis upon my head yet,” Everin answered. Gripping the reins of his twitching mount with one hand, he used the other to press the flat of his sword against the barrowman’s torso, shoving. “Will you contest it?” The iron made the sidhe flinch but it did not retreat, bolder than Everin liked to see. Pale face screwed in concentration, it sniffed at Everin before growling dismay.

  “Crom Dubh,” it hissed. “Dullahan. The dark serpent, roused. Accursed human, you have brought disaster upon us indeed.”

  “Cast him out!” The tunnel walls seethed and shuddered, inhuman voices lifted in rage. Behind Everin the sand snakes gasped and wept but stood their ground. “Crom Dubh! Cast him out!”

  “He’s coming,” said Drem. “This is the dullahan’s game we play. Faolan died for it. Will you stand in his way?”

  “Would that we could.” The Aug’s sword against the barrowman’s chest was leaving a welt but still it would not back away. Clinging to the ceiling with fingers and toes, it peered along the tunnel.

  “For Faolan’s sake I will give you and yours free passage, Drem,” it said at last. “For fear of Crom Dubh’s ire, we will not block your way. But by our laws for the offense of iron you must pay a price. We are hungry. Those that we can catch, we keep. Crom Dubh will not begrudge us a meal.”

  “Drem!” protested Everin, knocking the noseless sidhe aside with his blade. “That is no bargain!” But he knew it for what it was: sidhe justice.

  “Cast him out!” The ground quaked. “He is coming!”

  Drem would not look Everin’s way. “Forward,” it shouted, hollow as a tomb. “Forward, children of the desert, or die!” And then it suited words to action, spurring its pony ahead down the tunnel. The desert surged after, pushing Everin ahead in its path.

  They burst out of the earth into sea-salt air. A blast of chill wind made Everin choke. He had an impression of moonlight on clapboard and brick as he fought to stop a mount gone wild with terror. He hauled on one rein, turning the poor animal’s nose into his stirrup. The pony stumbled but didn’t fall. It stopped at last, flanks heaving, nostrils flaring pink.

  Everin swiveled in the saddle and looked back at the flatland gate.

  They poured out of a gaping hole in the ground, a terrified river of survivors, more on foot than on horseback, many bleeding, some dying as they fled. He thought they would slow to a trickle and then cease, and his cheeks were wet with expected sorrow at the loss, but they kept coming: young and old, dignified, determined, desperate. They’d faced the demons in the depths and come out the other side.

  “You discounted the iron they carry,” Drem said. “And their resolve. The situation was not so grave as you assumed.”

  “You told a lie,” marveled Everin, watching in disbelief as the desert emerged, mostly whole, onto flatland dunes. “To win us passage.”

  “I did not.” Drem showed its teeth. “I intend to keep you again beneath the earth, as per Faolan’s bargain. Carn was not wrong; we have suffered for your absence.” Drem licked its lips. It shrugged. “Only, I did not say to Carn when I would deliver you.” It inhaled deeply of chill sea air, nostrils flaring much like Everin’s winded pony, then dismounted gracefully, landing on its toes in the sand, a pale figure with too-long limbs and dark, discerning eyes in a thin face. “What is this place? Are we west?”

  Everin glanced around. “Whitcomb. Aye, west. Where are you going?” he demanded when Drem smiled and turned away.

  “Back below,” Drem replied. “I have a barrow key. I will use it.” It slunk forward then paused and glanced back. “What will you do, little king?”

  Everin showed his own teeth in a feral smile. “I have a fine iron sword,” he said. “And I intend to use it on that black winged, cold-hearted, meddling sidhe bastard. Just as soon as he shows his ugly face.”

  “You will not have long to wait,” Drem predicted. “He is coming.” It scuttled away, vanishing between one blink and the next.

  Wind drying the sweat and tears on his face, Everin dismounted. He pulled the saddle from the pony’s back and dropped the bit. Then he slapped the poor beast on the rear and sent it away into the night before taking a second look around. Whitcomb was quiet, picket fences and peaked roofs a haven against gusty wind. The torches burning alongside every door guttered in the weather but did not go out. North beyond the village white dunes reflected moonlight and past the dunes Wilhaiim’s favorite vineyards slept.

  “Erastos! Erastos! Are we safe? What is that stink?”

  He had no special fondness for Whitcomb. He’d stopped there many times in the year he had worked for Renault as a runner, carrying messages between village and keep and the city while learning for himself what sort of king his grandson made. He’d not allowed sentiment to enter into it for fear that if he became too attached to his flatland people he would someday believe he could do better on their throne than the current king. He was not a man who dreamed beyond his station. He was not a man who dreamed at all.

  He had no special fondness for Whitcomb, but he would grieve its destruction.

  “That is the sea you smell,” he said, spinning to confront gathering desert tribes. They surrounded him in growing numbers, shaken and frightened, but as Drem had pointed out, resolved. Red starburst on a white background flew over their heads, banners twisting in the gale. The sidhe gate spat forth more survivors, though the exodus was slowing. He shivered to think of those who, like Nicanor, had not made it through the barrows, and then sighed for those who had eluded fang and claw but would fall to flatland soldiers.

  “And the green, growing things,” he continued hoarsely. “Fresh water. Rain on the wind. Hearth smoke and meat roasting. This is your future, if you take it.”

  “And what of you, Erastos?” The sand lord’s name was Lino. He’d shared camel meat with Everin and Nicanor in the dullahan’s lodge. He was not blessed with Nicanor’s wisdom but neither was he rash. He’d seen Everin send his mount away. Mayhap he’d seen him also exchanging words with Drem, mayhap he knew enough to question Everin’s purpose. His bow was in his hand and an arrow set loosely to the string.

  “I have business of my own,” Everin replied evenly. “I have led you safely through the tunnels, as I promised Crom Dubh I would. The rest is up to you, my lord.”

  “Safely?” Lino laughed without mirth, but he did not nock his arrow. “Half of my tribe is murdered, dragged by demons away into the earth. Nicanor is dead.”

  “May he find the god’s cradle quickly. Victory does not come without a price, prosperity without sacrifice.” Sheathing his blade, Everin pushed his way through the watching crowd. If Lino loosed an arrow he would be dead before he knew it. The geis that protected him from the sidhe’s wrath would not save him from Lino’s.

  “My lord, look! Light in the village! My lord, leave Erastos to his business, we have our own to begin!”

  Everin did not dare glance over his shoulder. He didn’t need to. The wind brought with it the sound of voices raised in inquiry. Whitcomb was waking to alarm. He walked faster, moving blindly past horse and man in the direction of the barrow gate. No one moved to stop him. The desert kindled their arrows and drew their swords, preparing for war. Everin broke into a run. If anyone paid him notice, they pretended not to see his cowardice. He hastened over dunes, tripping on soft Whitcomb sand, the sea in his nostrils. He ran until he was within a stone’s throw of the barrow hole, then fumbled about in the moonlight until he found a clump of late-blooming gorse behind which he could hide. The desert staggered from
the tunnels to either side of him, most now on foot, struck wide-eyed and mute, the old and the infirm climbing over each other in a bid for escape. He saw on their faces that he would not have to wait much longer.

  It was not barrowmen that pursued them. It was Crom Dubh driving them so cruelly through the earth, lashing at their feet and shoulders with a coiled chitinous whip, snapping again at their heads with the tip of his serpent tail. He erupted out of the earth in a storm of ebony feathers and mud and wheeled straight up into the night sky. As he swooped past Everin, the weight of the geis upon him cracked, a promise kept, and he was free.

  He waited a breath and then rose from concealment, head tilted to the sky, tracking the monster as it flitted between cloud and moon, riding the wind. He did not suppose a shout would draw its attention. He needed something more.

  While he pondered, a crack split the air and Whitcomb went up in flame.

  The dullahan was not easy prey. Everin tracked him, undaunted, while the world around them burned. Desert arrows, dipped in myrrh, set fires wherever they touched down. The flatland, coming to the end of a hot, dry summer, was tinder waiting to go up. The wind only made things worse. The conflagration in Whitcomb spread, sparks leaping from roof to roof, then into the vineyards where the grape vines sizzled and spat. The dunes might have kept the burn contained but for the tornado of sparks chased this way and that in the squall. Clumps of gorse exploded into flame, sending a pungent smoke up into the night sky, joining the black plume from the enkindled village. Soon a dank haze obscured the moon and made it difficult to see more than an arm’s length to either side.

  Crom Dubh kept close to Whitcomb, darting in and out of the smoke, alighting to snatch a victim at random before returning to the sky. He did not distinguish between flatlander or tribesman. He plucked away villagers as they fled from burning buildings, tearing off their heads before throwing their flailing bodies back into the fire. He seized warriors from their ponies, ripping free their spines before dropping them again from great heights. Whitcomb’s white sands turned red beneath him. The smoke in the air reeked of immolation.