The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  His eyes glinted with humor. “I thank thee. Has Groenfil meat and bread for a starving traveler?”

  “Come, I’ll order you a banquet. Tanner, see his baggage is put in our room.”

  After dinner, we closed the door behind us. With care, Rust stripped off his jerkin, massaged his scab. “Ahh, that’s better. So, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “About what?” I managed to sound innocent.

  “About your wild jaunt to Groenfil. Did you not promise me you wouldn’t risk your life?”

  “In foolish daring.”

  “How many of you rode through the night to Groenfil?” He sat on the bed, grappled with a boot.

  “I don’t know, it was he who chose—twenty, Rust.”

  “It was Groenfil’s idea?”

  “He was anxious to go.” That much was true, was it not? And so, ultimately, our ride had been Groenfil’s idea. Under Rustin’s cool inspection, I scratched an itch, looked casually out at the night, rubbed my hands. “Ask him, sir. He’d have thrown his horsemen into the battle, had I not dissuaded him.”

  “No doubt.” Rust’s tone was chilly. “If you loved me as I do you, you’d tell truth.”

  “I don’t lie, it’s—” I swallowed. Then, all in a rush, “It was my idea. Groenfil would have fought and lost; I knew not else how to preserve him.”

  “The rest of it, Roddy.” He tossed aside his boot, tugged at the other.

  “We were on a rise; with sharp eyes the Norlanders would see us. But we had view of the field; none could approach without our knowing. We were safe.”

  “And from behind?”

  “We posted an outguard as best we could. We were only twenty, Rust.”

  “And my orders?”

  I took bit between my teeth. “I disobeyed them.”

  “Not for the first time.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why, I wonder, did you make me guardian and regent? Ahh.” Contentedly, he tossed aside his boot, wriggled his toes.

  “To restrain me.”

  “Which you resist.”

  “Not in personal matters. Look, I’ve fresh clothes, Anavar says they match. I washed my hair—”

  “You’re saying you’re clean but disobedient?”

  I couldn’t restrain a smile. “I’m sorry, truly I am. But it was statecraft. Didn’t you say I had an instinct?”

  His voice had an edge. “What good statecraft if you’re killed?”

  “What good life if I’m dethroned?”

  We glared. Finally he said, subdued, “Get ready for bed. There’s no use in more speech.”

  We lay awake half the night.

  The next morn we met in conclave. I demanded that we take our army to Soushire. At best, we’d retrieve Elryc from danger. Even if we couldn’t break through Hriskil’s lines, our presence would make the Norland king cautious. If attacked we could fall back on Groenfil’s land, and, should need arise, we could make our way to the safety of Stryx.

  When all pros and cons were debated, Rust tented his fingertips, thought a moment or two. “Soushire.”

  Thirty-eight

  DANZIK DISMOUNTED, STRETCHED HIS legs. “Do you tire of him?”

  “Eh?” Cautiously, I held a tent peg while Bollert pounded it.

  “Rustin.” A sly smile. “Sa toda farang vos?”

  I hissed.

  From a recess of my mind, Genard’s distant voice. “M’lor’, don’t let him goad you. Why allow him the pleasure?”

  “Not for many months.” I managed a grin. “We’re too busy with your mother.” I hesitated, but he mustn’t cow me, or our lessons were done. “Why do you ask?”

  “The look in his eyes.” Danzik was serious now. “He thinks you’ll send him away.”

  “Never. Bollert! You nearly took off my hand!”

  “Sorry, m’lor’.”

  Danzik said stubbornly, “He thinks so.”

  “Impossible.”

  But that night, Rust was distant. As dusk fell, he sat by the fire nursing a wineskin, making clear I wasn’t welcome. I retreated to my bed.

  Presently, a knock at the tent pole. Anavar looked uneasy. “Sir, he wants—Lord Rustin demands you instruct me to speak of ... private matters.”

  I roused myself on the cushion. “What nonsense this?”

  “He wants me to tell him about you, in the time he was dead. And last week in Groenfil’s Castle, before Rustin joined us. He ought ask you, I told him, but he says that as regent, he commands it on your behalf.”

  “Why?” I fell back, staring at a drop of wax oozing down the hour candle.

  Anavar said hotly, “I won’t say a word. He goes behind the king’s back to—”

  “Tell him what he would know.”

  “It’s not meet!”

  “Everything, youngsire! Whatever he asks.”

  Anavar looked stubborn, but said only, “Aye, my lord.”

  Hours later Rustin stumbled to bed, reeking of an alehouse.

  In the morn, he rode with Groenfil, not me.

  At midday we gave men and horses rest. Rustin sought me, led me out of hearing, sat me under a beech’s shade. He shared with me a loaf. “Tell me of Pezar.” He grimaced. “When I was dead.”

  “That night, when I worked my Power, you knew all I—”

  “Not all. You held back, I felt it. I would hear it all.”

  “It’s nothing we ought—as you say, sir! I beg pardon!”

  His fist unknotted. “Pray continue.”

  Unwilling, I dragged my thoughts to Hriskil, my challenge, my ride to his camp, the Norland death wagon that near unhinged us all. I knew not how long I spoke. Groenfil approached, but Rust waved him away. My words grated on.

  At the end, my voice was dry and cracked. Rust got to his feet, patted me absently, wandered off as if he knew not the path.

  I found Ebon, mounted him. Anavar eyed me; sharply I shook my head. I’d have no conversation about what had just passed.

  Soon, we were on our way.

  I resolved, on the weary trail, to ease Rustin’s mind. I mapped my campaign; I’d begin with fowl. He particularly liked the legs and thighs, slow roasted. Tanner would help; I’d show him how to turn them slowly on a spit. Send him away? Outlandish nonsense. Whatever imp troubled my guardian, I’d oust. He deserved that from me, and more.

  Our march was deliberate, unhurried; outriders probed ceaselessly for Hriskil’s force.

  Eons passed before we made camp for the night. Under a star-strewn sky I hurried to the cooktents, commandeered two fat chickens, plucked, dressed and ready. I sent Tanner to a nearby elm for deadwood, busied myself making a spit of two forked sticks dug carefully into the earth. A slim green bough of just the right size made a splendid spit; wet wood didn’t burn, and wouldn’t drop our succulent birds into the coals.

  By moonlight Bollert helped erect our tent, and Rust sat before it, a reluctant smile twitching his lips. It wasn’t so long ago that I tended to protest bitterly at a share of the camp’s work; here was the king, cheerfully cooking dinner for his regent.

  While I nursed the fowl, riders trotted to Groenfil’s tent and left anon, dispatched on new errands. For the moment I ignored our scouts; the earl had matters well in hand. After a time, I left the birds, ferreted out a pair of wineskins, carefully watered the wine to half strength with chill water from the brook, presented the first to Rust.

  His tone was suspicious. “What will you ask of me before night’s end?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Hah. You’ve a scheme in mind. I’ve known you too long.”

  A rider cantered past, dismounted, ran into Groenfil’s tent. To Rust, I pretended hurt I didn’t feel. “May a ward not honor his guardian?”

  “Too long, I say.”

  The browning chicken dripped fat into the coals, and the aroma near drove me mad. I swallowed drool. Anavar hurried by, knotting his cloak, despite the day’s warmth. “You’d best hurry, sir.” He pointed to the sky. Grim
clouds scudded across the moon. Branches swayed in a rising wind.

  I glanced at the fire. The bird needed half an hour, no more. But even as I calculated, the first drops fell. Curse this night! I’d had it planned down to the last—

  Dust swirled. Hastily I put myself between the birds and the wind. “Rust, we’ll need eat under canvas. Are both stools within?”

  “Yes, but—” The tent flaps billowed.

  I looked past him, the hair on my neck rising. The old elm’s branches whipped back and forth. Clothing, leaves and blankets sailed across the camp. Horses neighed their fright. Men shouted to make themselves heard. A blast of light. A tremendous crack. Rain pelted us.

  Rust was on his feet. “It’s a freak storm! Inside!”

  Dazed, I stared about. The camp was in havoc. The sky was ugly black. The wind was a gale that lashed men, beasts, brush and stone.

  “Roddy!”

  “What good’s a tent in—” As if to underscore my words, the canvas strained as if a sail in Stryx harbor. For a moment, it strove with the ropes. The pegs gave way; with a crack they came loose, lashing at Rust. He flinched, but they were past, no damage done. The tent was a jumble. The top billowed, swayed and fell, a wounded beast. A keening filled the air as if Lord of Nature cried. Our precious hens fell into wet ash. I took a step to Rust, buffeted by strong winds. He clawed his way, got an arm around me. Together, we struggled through a torrent to the canopy of the elm. The lee offered shelter from the worst of the downpour. We huddled. A stallion thundered past, eyes wild.

  Rustin shouted in my ear. “It’s a seacoast storm. In summer, the winds gather ...”

  “Too strong! It came too fast!”

  “Hriskil’s revenge? Might the Rood—”

  “Look, Rust!” Groenfil’s tent flap whipped in the wind, but the tent itself stood unharmed, as if under a cunning bubble of glass.

  A huge branch, abundant with leaves, careened across the camp. Its split and sharpened end embedded itself in canvas. I winced, hoping no poor soul had taken refuge within.

  I risked a peek around the bole of the elm. Our camp was wreckage and chaos. The wind howled. I gathered my sodden cloak, took deep breath. I launched myself. A hand closed around my arm, hauled me back.

  Rust shouted. “Are you mad?”

  “Let me go, before his Power destroys us!”

  Limbs, leaves, slats from a wagon flew past. A saddle, missing us by a hand’s breadth, slammed into me trunk. The elm shuddered.

  Desperately, I tore loose, galloped across the soggy field. I slipped on damp grass, fell into mud. A ragged sheet of canvas whipped past, just over my head, trailing ropes and pegs. I scrambled to my feet. Two steps. Five. A dozen. I slogged toward Groenfil’s tent. I tore aside the flap, dived within.

  In his tent, Groenfil sat at a plank table. His eyes flamed. The wind shrieked.

  I shouted, “Control thy wrath!” I strode to the table, grasped his tunic, shook him. “Cease! I command you!”

  Slowly, his eyes focused. Outside, the howl eased a trifle.

  “Now, my lord! I will not say again!”

  Groenfil shivered. In a moment the flap bucked and heaved no more. Slowly, the tent grew still. Outside, in the silent air, cries and moans. Rain drummed on the canvas top.

  Sloshing steps. Rustin, disheveled and dripping, peered in.

  With strength I knew not, I hauled Groenfil from his seat. “What is wrong, my lord?”

  With force, the earl removed my fingers from his tunic. His hand flitted to his sword; instantly Rust drew his dagger, but Groenfil laid his blade across the table, hilt extended.

  “What is it?” My tone was hot.

  Groenfil looked about, until his gaze fell. He stooped to pick up a scroll. I snatched it, tried to read, but my hands trembled, whether from fear or fury I could not say.

  Gently, Rustin pried it from my grasp.

  He sucked breath.

  I snarled, “Demons take the lot of you! WHAT HAPPENED?”

  Groenfil’s tone was dull. “Larissa opened her gates to Hriskil.”

  A sharp blade churned my gut. “Elryc’s at Soushire!” So would Tresa have been, had she not defied me.

  “Aye. Lord Elryc is taken.”

  “That cannot be!” I hurled Groenfil’s sword to the floor. “Hriskil had no time for siege. Larissa’s walls are high and well defended—”

  “He mounted no siege. Larissa surrendered, and made obeisance.” Wearily, he unbuckled his dagger, let sheath and all drop. He bowed his head. “I submit.”

  “To?”

  The earl’s voice was chalk on slate. “I am surety.” Almost, I’d forgotten. He’d pledged his life as surety against treachery by Larissa.

  He said, “An hour after Hriskil rode in, Elryc was hustled out, tied on a mare. His boy behind.”

  I shot to my feet. “Where are they sent?”

  “I know not.”

  “You, who know so much? You, with spies in all our camps? You, who so trusted Larissa that—”

  “Roddy ...”

  “No, Rust, I’ll have my say! Your life is forfeit, my lord earl, and gladly I’ll take it! Guards!”

  None answered. I stalked to the flap, threw it open.

  The camp was utter shambles. Men wandered about, dazed and woebegone. “Pardos! Kadar!”

  In his tent, Groenfil sat slumped, head in hands.

  Rustin came up behind me, put hands on my shoulders.

  I threw them off. “Not now. It is a time for rage!”

  He waved at the demolished camp. “Look what Groenfil’s ire accomplished.”

  I whirled, my eyes dangerous. “Lord Regent, we pray thee, bind us not. We are beyond fetter! Our brother, whom we love, is gone to his doom.”

  “Roddy, let’s not be rash.”

  I wanted no restraint. “It’s time for battle.”

  “Of course, you’re furious. But the camp’s in chaos, the men are exhausted. Tomorrow, we’ll take counsel.”

  “Rust, they have Elryc. Now’s when we must strike.”

  “How? We’ll need send out scouts, determine where the Norlanders ride, find land that advantages us. Roddy, have patience.”

  “No!”

  He took deep breath. “As regent, I insist.”

  “Do you? Then, I surrender the throne. But know you, I’ll ride, even if alone!”

  Rustin’s face twisted. “Oh, Roddy.”

  “Sir, I must have my way in this.”

  After a reluctant moment, he nodded.

  I stalked out of the tent. “You there! Have you your trumpet? Blow assembly! You! Take ten men, round up what horses you may. PARDOS! Groenfil is condemned; see he is held. Danzik! Help right that overturned wagon. Nos ayut with—with—LIFT THE IMP-CURSED WHEEL!”

  Tanner, bedraggled, crawled out from a pile of brush. I snapped my fingers. “Find Bollert, help him reset tents. You! I’ll have a list of wounded in the hour, or your head!” I strode through the devastated camp, barking orders. When I risked a glance behind, Rustin was hard at work, supervising the reloading of our battered wagons.

  In an hour I had stock. By a miracle, none dead. Forty-one injured, two seriously; it might have been worse. Seventy horses missing; a catastrophe.

  Two hours, and we were under way. Our pace was agonizingly slow. With heroic fortitude, I made no complaint. The men were groggy, hurt, bewildered. It was exploit enough that we were in motion.

  If Hriskil gave siege to Stryx and took the castle, he’d never be dislodged; his force was too great.

  The Norlands were beyond our grasp, the land too distant, our force too puny.

  So Elryc would be conveyed to Stryx, or the Norlands.

  I imagined Ghanz, the Norland capital, would be Hriskil’s choice. It was his; he need mount no siege to reach it. For his journey he’d use the best road, the one we straddled. He would send escort, no doubt a substantial force.

  We walked and rode, arms at the ready. In hours, perhaps less, we’d do
battle.

  To my right, Rustin rode in silence, his eyes averted. Before we left camp, he’d urged me not to squander my force in hopeless combat, much as I’d urged Groenfil a few days past. I gave no answer, my face stone. For the briefest moment, he bowed his head to my shoulder.

  To my left, Groenfil, bereft of sword and dagger. My contempt was such I bothered not to bind him, nor ask parole.

  Behind us, in the second row, Anavar, Danzik and Pardos. A strange alliance. Pardos would not be dissuaded that Danzik meant my death, at whatever moment he found opportune. Neither Pardos nor Anavar spoke a word of the Norland tongue; Danzik seemed not to mind, and communicated with expressions and gestures.

  Anavar disregarded them both; my pain was his. I pretended I’d not seen his tears, at the news of Elryc. He deserved dignity, and more.

  Groenfil stirred. “My liege, may I ask when?”

  “At my pleasure.” My voice was ice.

  A nod.

  I curled my lip. What right had the earl to mercy? He’d urged me to trust that foul, fat, twisted hag whose only thoughts were of Soushire and her belly. Thanks to Groenfil’s perfidy, Elryc was lost.

  Well, not his. Larissa’s. He’d only warranted her loyalty. Yet, he knew her better man all; if he so misjudged her nature, no pity from me.

  We rode half a league.

  “Why, Groenfil?” My tone was a snarl.

  “Sire?”

  “Why’d she betray us?”

  He said, “I know not.” We labored up a hill. “From fear more than gain, I think.”

  “Fear of ... ?”

  “She, too, saw the slaughter on the Norland wagons at Pezar.”

  I cried, “You make excuses for her and ask compassion?”

  “I asked nothing!”

  “It’s in your face!” I sounded a child.

  Groenfil said quietly, “You, of all, ought not judge a man by his face.”

  My palm shot to my scar. Demons chew his soul!

  I glanced at Rustin. He rode with head down, as if not to hear.

  To Groenfil, I spat, “You were a fool. Your trust cost your life.”

  “Would you that I live without trust?”

  We rode on.

  Mother, I know what I do: I throw my force into hopeless battle, but one I wouldn’t avoid for Caledon itself. I love Elryc, as I do Tresa and Rust. I’m sure hereafter I’ll wear no crown; even if I retrieve my brother, in the work, Hriskil’s multitude will cut us to pieces. But if there’s a chance, one in a thousand, that I might sail with Elryc to exile, I am content. A few moments past I sent courier to Tresa and Willem, to flee Stryx at the first sign of incursion. Their lives signify more than the stone and mortar of my castle.