In the eastern sky, stars began to fade. Cursing, I urged on my unfamiliar mount, leading Ebon by the reins tied to my pommel. Dutifully, Anavar followed. A muffled yelp marked where brambles caught his leg.
When I thought I could no longer bear it, the steep slopes gave way to rolling hills dotted with sleepy hamlets. Groenfil spurred to the head of the column, led us off the narrow trail. We climbed a hill, and another. Abruptly, we were on a wooded rise. Below lay the plain, and rising from it, Groenfil Castle. I caught my breath. Hriskil’s main force was to the north, though the keep was enveloped, and siege maintained. His camp was astir, though no attack was in progress. Within the castle, torches moved about.
“Spread a blanket.” My voice was a rasp. “Anavar, the Vessels.”
“Aye, sir.” He busied himself at the saddlebags.
I hugged myself. Truly, I dreaded the cave, and endless combat with the hooded viper. The Rood was wielded as it was fashioned to be, but the Still was a poor shield; its fit use was to consult my forebears, or, when occasion demanded, to worry a poor silversmith, or compel Genard to dance. As Anavar said, Hriskil had advantage. Always it would be so.
“Unless ... do I dare?” I’d never used the Still in such a manner. I didn’t even know if it was possible.
But I meant to find out.
“What, sir?” Anavar knelt, Receptor in hand.
“Pour.”
“Not yet, sir; save your strength. Their army does not march.”
I looked up. “Now.”
Thirty-seven
ANAVAR STRIPPED OFF HIS cloak, settled it over my shoulders.
Groenfil paced, muttering to himself.
Pardos had drawn his sword, though no foe was remotely near. His men wielded bows, pikes and swords; a gallant but trifling defense if we were discovered. He and his band blocked my view of the plain. It mattered not. I would see with other eyes.
I set my palms across the Receptor.
With the words of encant, the wooded rise faded, as did the plain. The mist began to clear. The mouth of the cave loomed.
No. I planted myself, resisting.
For a moment, I was disoriented, as if waking from a blow on the skull. Some force, barely understood, urged me strongly to the firepit.
I turned my back, strode into mist.
Time passed, while I worked to master my craft.
Abruptly, I saw the plain. I squeezed shut my eyes, to focus on my work. The Still required close presence of the object, except ... where was the Rood?
The plain grew clearer.
Like a lazy falcon, I rode a warm current of air over brush, campfires, pikemen, horses, tents. Norland troops waited, assembled in regiments; officers pointed to Groenfil’s battlement.
There, that tent, the one with regal accoutrements. No matter. Were I blind I’d know it was the one.
Hriskil?
A groomsman held the reins of a fine black charger, combed, saddled, bridled, snorting.
Where is the king?
I sweated from the effort, but now I was in the spacious tent. Royal emerald trappings hung from the poles. Plush curtains apportioned it into chambers; one held the king’s bed. The spare, soldierly furniture was in striking contrast to the effete luxury around it.
In the tall grass, officers led their troops to the field.
On the floor, exquisitely knit rugs dyed in emerald and black. How incongruous, for a savage who exulted in cruelty.
Hriskil sat in a rough-hewn chair, tying his sandal laces. A youth waited, holding breastplate and fur-lined cape.
Where is it? My eyes roved.
“They begin their march, sir.”
Be still, Anavar!
Behind the king’s patient attendant, a peculiarly shaped wooden chest: long, high, shallow. Burnished ash, dovetailed corners. Grunting with effort, I peered within.
Soft, luxurious cloth, binding something hard and harsh.
Hriskil glanced up, startled. After a moment, he finished his binding, slipped on the breastplate.
Take it, King, I panted. Take up the Rood.
Hriskil swung to the boy, grasped him, clubbed his temple with knotted fist. The boy reeled.
It wasn’t he, demon’s spawn!
Hriskil’s eyes darted this way and that. He tore open the tent flap. The groomsman proffered his steed.
Take the Rood, King!
On Groenfil’s wall, a shrill trumpet’s blast.
RODRIGO?
Aye.
Hriskil dived into the tent, shoved aside the stunned youth, pulled open the chest, tore off the cloth.
A bejeweled cross, twisted, marked with runes.
His fingers stretched toward it.
I braced myself. Oh, yes, King. Take it.
Hriskil grasped the Rood. His fingers recoiled as from a flame. He clutched his wrist. Again, he reached for it, this time with caution.
I gritted my teeth.
His head whipped back, his teeth snapped shut. A tremor. In an instant it ended. Almost, he fell.
Wield it, brave King. Touch it anew.
From within the tent, a bellow. Half a dozen guards rushed in to attend their king. Hriskil roared. They cringed. An officer, braver than most, reached to the Rood.
His fingers touched.
He stroked it, looked in puzzlement to his king.
Hriskil spat a curse. He strode forward, took the Rood with both hands.
I hunched over my bowl, lips moving, forehead clammy.
Hriskil took two steps. Abruptly his back arched. His eyes bulged. The Rood clattered to the emerald carpet, skittered under a table. Sweat beaded the king’s brow.
His guards converged, eased him to the bed. They laid the Rood near.
WHERE DO YOU HIDE, CALED REZ?
I paid no heed.
SON OF THE WHORE, BEARDLESS VIRGIN!
Take up the Rood, Norlander. Don’t cower in your tent. Go forth with your Power!
WHAT DEMONRY IS THIS?
The Still of Caledon. Behold, and be afraid!
He seized a guard’s throat: “Rodrigo is near; find and kill him!”
Outside, Hriskil’s confident legions marched across the field. Behind them, horsemen made themselves ready. Archers paused in midfield, knelt with bows stretched. Pikemen took their places before them, a bristling wall of spears.
My heart pounded. I couldn’t do this for long.
On Groenfil’s wall, a frantic scramble to set rocks in place, heat the oil. Yeomen raced up parapet stairs with quivers packed full, distributing arrows to grim-faced archers. Soldiers gripped grappling rods to fend off ladders.
FIGHT AS A MAN, ROOD VERSUS STILL! I’LL CRUSH YOU TO DUST!
Mouth dry, muscles aching, I focused on the Rood.
PRETTY TENTBOY! KING WITHOUT SHAME!
Evermore, Hriskil, when you wield your power—
He leaped from the bed, snatched up the Rood. Almost, he wrapped his mind around it. A burst of malignant hate corroded my attention, sent me reeling toward the cave. With the dregs of my strength, I locked in struggle for the hard iron cross.
My strength ebbed. I concentrated my whole being.
He howled, dropped the cross. DEMON! NEXT TIME, THINK YOU I’LL LET YOU NEAR? I’LL SCOUR THE COUNTRYSIDE TO UNEARTH YOU. YOUR CHURLS WILL DIE SCREAMING, YOUR LINE EXPUNGED! CALEDON WILL BE MINE!
Outside, Norlanders trudged into battle. From the wall, me first volleys loosed.
I settled in the emerald tent, while Hriskil ranted his impotence.
“Rodrigo? My liege?” Anavar’s voice.
Begone!
“Oh, don’t, that hurts!” On my shoulder, the gentlest touch. “Please, sir!”
I looked about. Of Hriskil, of the Rood, there was no sign. Around me, walls billowed as servants hastily struck the tent.
Wearily, I withdrew from that far place of the Still. I peered at Anavar. “What is come to pass?”
“The attack is ...” He sought a word. “... abated.” He
gestured to the field below.
In good order, at their own pace, Hriskil’s legions marched from the field.
My tone was unbelieving. “A whole day is passed?”
“No, sir. Barely two hours.”
A shadow. I looked up. Groenfil, a modicum of peace in his eyes. He murmured, “My liege, what ... how ... ?”
“I denied Hriskil the Rood.”
“But last time you contested with him, the battle waxed and waned. At times he had us so vexed ...”
Haltingly, I explained.
Groenfil knelt, peered into my eyes. “Can you do this again?”
“Perhaps.” Next time, Hriskil would be forewarned.
“Pray it is so.” Briefly, the earl closed his eyes. “I’ll see my sons.”
“The castle’s still under siege.”
“No, it’s lifting. The Norlanders depart.”
It was so. Swarms of attendants dismantled engines of siege and dragged them from the field. “But, why?”
“I know not.” He gave the hint of a smile. “Perhaps their king’s afrighted.”
A full day and a half, before the last of Hriskil’s hordes decamped, and we had entry to Groenfil Castle. Though I’d have liked to ride to Soushire, that was impossible; the enemy host lay between us and Larissa.
During the enforced wait Groenfil summoned his four hundred horsemen, Danzik among them. The Norland chief was astounded. Hriskil gone? How could it be? Hriskil had vast superiority of numbers and ought win every battle. The Rood was never bested. He and Hriskil knew all about the Still, it was a petty Power, good for annoying vassals, divulging forebears’ secrets. They’d long since discounted it.
I gazed upon the vacated field, letting a smile play upon my lips. Danzik muttered darkly, casting me perplexed glances.
A day’s march behind our horsemen labored the yeomen and churls from Stryx. As they toiled up Seacross Road I held my breath lest Sarazon turn and maul them, but that cautious warrior was too intent on merging his force with Hriskil’s. He met his master in the Southron hills, twixt Groenfil and Soushire. If the two Norland chiefs reproached each other for cities abandoned, I had no word of it.
Our entrance into Groenfil was a regal procession. The earl would have ceded me precedence as his liege, but I insisted he lead the triumphant march, with Anavar and me behind. After all, we were at his domain, delivered by his perseverance.
Once within the walls, Groenfil hurried to his son Horst’s bedside, emerged a half hour later with at least some relief of spirit. Next he closeted himself with Franca. Winds swirled between wall and stables, blowing eddies in the courtyard. Afterwards, father and son wore thunderclouds. I remarked only that Groenfil ought to acknowledge the Rood had part in the brothers’ estrangement, but the earl cut me short.
Two anxious, fretful days. While Groenfil rested his horses, he sent scouts to every hamlet of his dominion to assess what Hriskil had wrought. At last, our weary column from Stryx tramped in, having taken care to avoid the Norland force.
From the sparse chamber Groenfil assigned me, I wrote Rustin and Tresa, entrusting my scrolls to Groenfil’s couriers. If I made light of my achievement in my missive to Rust, leaving the impression that the dash to Groenfil Castle had been the earl’s idea, and that we’d been perfectly safe, and well hidden in a remote wood, my reticence could be attributed to natural modesty.
My scroll to Tresa proved more of a problem. Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to salute her as “My dear betrothed,” while “Lady Tresa of Cumber” seemed awkward and formal, though that was her title. By the time I’d discarded my third parchment Anavar was giggling openly—why I let him loll about my chamber, I didn’t know—and I was hard pressed to turn aside my rancor.
In my contest with Hriskil I’d used the proper and powerful Vessels. Perhaps they further augmented my tendency to cruelty; time and again I found myself aghast at what I proposed. On the other hand, within a day of wielding the Still, I felt confident I might use it anew, should it be required. All in all, I preferred my true Vessels, and it was Anavar who’d unearthed them. So, I gritted my teeth and endured his raillery.
Our recruits from Stryx weren’t used to a long march with heavy packs; we ought give them a day to recover. Larissa’s keep was well defended; it would take Hriskil a week or more to mount a proper siege, and months or years to starve her out. A day didn’t matter, yet I fretted and stewed as if Caledon were crumbling.
Upon reflection I found it remarkable how our fortunes had turned. I wished I could claim credit, but Sarazon had that honor, or perhaps Hriskil did, for appointing him. At Stryx harbor, Sarazon had squeezed his fleet as tight as feathers in a down cushion. That foolishness gave potency to our fireships.
I’d been fortunate, too, in countering the Rood. Almost, in our earlier encounter, the cobra had bested me. If I hadn’t thought of preventing the Rood’s use, rather than combatting it, Hriskil would still be encamped about Groenfil Castle.
Still, whatever the cause, my campaign was no longer quite hopeless. Yet—I cautioned myself, pacing my chamber—Hriskil commanded a force far larger, far better armed than mine, and was determined to grind Caledon under his heel. All we’d gained was a breathing space, and perhaps more will to fight on. The road still climbed uphill, our mount spent and struggling.
“To Rodrigo, king of Caledon, from Rustin of the Keep, regent of Caledon, his guardian and ever friend: greetings.
“I am overjoyed at your tidings that Lord Groenfil’s holding has been relieved and Hriskil is fled. You are entirely too modest depicting your part in Groenfil’s deliverance; we will have words on the matter directly.
“Yes, Hriskil will soon invest Soushire, but I remind you that your force is too small to counter his army. My scratch heals well, and I will set forth on the morrow, at a slow pace. Expect me second-day hence, or third-day if I find riding Orwal vexes my wound and must take to a wagon. On my arrival we will confer as to our best course.
“In the meanwhile, my liege, so as to protect you from your own courage, I admonish you: do not depart Groenfil Castle. I charge you with obedience to this my order. Hriskil cannot commence a siege against Soushire in less than a week, and may, in fact, turn west instead, to reclaim Stryx.
“Know, Rodrigo, that Rustin cherishes you, and his heart is gladdened at our impending reunion.”
“Pleased?” Tryon stirred the chill embers. “Elena, did you teach him nothing? For generations our line nurtured a mystery of the Still.” He cracked a dry stick, hurled it into the fire. “But your whelp trumpets its use. Silversmiths and stableboys know its potency. And for what? That a bondsman’s innocence be proved, or a slight at table be avenged!” I said meekly, “Neither wielding damaged us, grandsir.” Tryon said, “What of Hriskil, child? Pressure of the mind is the most potent attribute of our Power, and only surprise allow its use. That’s why we hoard it. You revealed it in a mere skirmish.”
“No.” Mother. “Groenfil’s his steadfast ally. If the earl left him, his cause would be lost.”
Tryon snapped, “What’s Groenfil or any earldom, to Caledon itself? Varon, Cayil, speak I not truth? The boy ought have waited until he’d maneuvered Hriskil and his entire force into a grand battle to decide all. Then, only then, he might reveal—”
“Father, he couldn’t know that. I never told him.”
“Why not? Recall you, Elena, when the Warthen had mind to break away, and you forced him to bind himself as vassal, by oaths most severe? Think you that he’d have fallen into your snare, knowing your resource? He’d have fortified himself behind Warthen’s Gate, and the Sands wouldn’t today be Rodrigo’s.”
I cleared my throat. “Urn, Grandsir? There’s something I ought tell you.”
Anavar and Tanner helped me to the bed. I flopped on the cushions. The punishing sun of autumn afternoon stabbed my eyes.
“Where were you, sir?”
“In the cave.” Gratefully, I gulped cool water from Anavar’s cup. My t
unic was soaked through; I’d need bathe before Rustin met me, and that would be soon. It was the third day since his letter.
“Rest, sir. You’ll feel well anon. Did you take advice?”
I groaned. Once I’d told them about surrendering the Sands, my forebears’ outrage was scathing. Varon’s blast of fury hurled me from the firepit to fetch up against the wall. Cayil danced about, beside himself with waspish ire. Others whom I’d not known—one dressed all in furs—added voice to the rising chorus.
“They were ... displeased that I freed the Warthen. That I confounded Hriskil and too soon denied him the Rood.”
“You cried out. Almost I woke you.”
“They say I’ll pay great price.”
“Don’t fret so, sir. My father says bad news knows its time, and will—”
I put finger to his lips. “Let your father rest. Tanner, have them send hot water.”
The bath was warm and soothing, and I emerged refreshed and in better spirit. After dinner, Anavar and I climbed a tower to peer into the dusk, in the hope we’d spot Rustin urging onward his faithful Orwal. We found no sign of him, or a column from Stryx, along the Southron Road. Well, he wouldn’t be long. There was no one in the world I’d rather have near, though Tresa followed closely. Still, I wasn’t fool enough to think Rust would overlook my disobedience in tackling Hriskil; he’d warned me so in his letter. “We’ll have words on the matter directly.” I felt a twinge of discomfort, and not a little resentment. I was near grown, and long crowned. Rust was regent, but in his absence, shouldn’t I rely on my judgment?
We watched until the twinkling fires at peasant huts were all we could see. Later, I’d barely settled myself in bed when sandals clattered in the anteroom. An urgent knock: Tanner, bleary and tousled. “He’s here, m’lord.”
Heart soaring, I leaped out of bed, threw on my clothes, raced down the stair. In the courtyard, grooms led away half a score of horses. “Rust!” I threw myself at him.
Deftly, he fended me from his injured flank, returned my embrace. “My prince ...”
“Our chamber’s upstairs, I’ll show you—how was your ride? Any bleeding? I worried so. Mother and Varon are furious about the Sands, I shouldn’t have—” Too late, I heard my own prattle, cut it short. “We welcome thee, Lord Regent.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 50