The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2)

by David Feintuch

  “What are you—”

  I was across the saddle of a huge bay. It pounded down the road.

  “Where’s Groenfil? Who—”

  A fist clubbed the small of my back, driving the wind from my lungs.

  My skull throbbed. I fought to gather my wits. A galvanic twist, and I might be free and slide to the earth. Better that than—

  The rider reined in sharply. I wiped desperately at my eyes. Two men jumped down on either side and pinned me. My right hand went behind my back to join my left, and learner lashed my wrists tight. Again I was thrown over the saddle. Before blood oozed again, I caught a glance of my surroundings.

  Dozens of horsemen. Hundreds. Bearded Norsemen, in the garb of their country. I swallowed.

  I was taken.

  My skull was splitting. I wished I were dead, and knew I soon would be. My body was sore from relentless pounding against the stiff saddle.

  Our column dashed down the road. Where were we flying? Soushire? Verein? I knew not and had no vantage from which to peruse the terrain.

  What of Groenfil, Anavar, Kadar? Were my liege men perished? Who would remember my demise? Bruised and aching, I twisted my bound wrists. Ah, Mother. Someday you’ll greet Hriskil, in the gray cave. As will I.

  The horsemen rode for hours, until the sky began to darken. My captors halted in a glade. Wagons waited, and a few dozen horses. Would we camp the night? A Norlander hauled me down, flung me on the turf. Hands bound, I could only glare and mutter curses.

  Quickly, fresh horses were made ready. This time they set me upright on the saddle, but passed a rope under the horse’s middle to bind my ankles. In bare moments, we again took to the road.

  My escort was much reduced: hundreds of their riders had no fresh mounts and must perforce wait ’til morn. It mattered not, trussed as I was.

  After a while, I recognized fords, farms, inns, and knew our road.

  We were bound for Soushire.

  The castle courtyard was bright lit by the flames of hundreds of torches. I tried to keep my face stolid. I knew what awaited me: torture, sport and death. I would try to give good account of myself.

  Soldiers pointed to a high window, jostling each other. “Mor Rez!” The king watches. I raised my eyes. From the window of a tower room, a bushy beard. Smoldering eyes met mine.

  Now, it would start.

  But, no. They led me to a first-floor chamber that was entirely bare—four walls, an ironclad window and a stone floor—and barred the door.

  By some act of kindness or negligence, my ropes were just loose enough not to numb my hands and destroy them. Not so loose I might escape, however. Certainly, I tried. At length, I crouched in the corner: it gave most respite to my aching shoulders.

  Gradually, the clatter and murmur of the castle settled for the night. The glow outside my window faded, as torches were moved or extinguished.

  A whisper. “Rust, be with me.” I started, unaware I’d spoken. A swelling fear bit my heart and gnawed away. As the chamber grew darker, I licked dry lips, tried not to think of the morrow. One’s worst thoughts have free rein in dark. It is a time for imps and demons.

  A shadow flitted. Almost, I screamed. Did a demon seek me, or only a rat? Anavar once said his father claimed imps and their like were but phantasms, men’s fears given construct. Let him meet one, bound in a dark chamber.

  When morn came, and with it, my fate, I was almost glad. My relief enabled me to walk between my captors with firm step, arms still tied behind.

  They took me to the courtyard. My eyes darted about, in search of the waiting axe. I saw none: it was to be something more grim. Despite my resolve, I shivered.

  A saddled horse awaited. Two huge guardsmen hoisted me up. Their beards made them look much like Danzik. Almost, I wished for the solace his company. Hoa, Giat, vestre coa tern. Today, Teacher, you’ll see how it ends.

  Adjusting myself as best I could in the saddle, I turned to a guard. “Voe Hriskil?” Where’s Hriskil?

  He hawked, as if to spit.

  I said quietly, “Kara vos morta.” It will buy your death. He flinched, and swallowed. Inwardly, I exulted. To such petty victories was the king reduced.

  The rider ahead hauled on my reins. We cantered through the open gate, along an unfamiliar trail that soon turned away from the fields surrounding the castle to meander through thick woods.

  All too soon we emerged at a deep gully, at the bottom of which ran a swift stream. Halfway down, amidst the scraggly growth of brush, a clutch of some fifty Norlanders waited.

  Was I to be stoned?

  My captor slipped down from his mount, wound my reins about his hand, led my mount down the steep, rock-strewn path. Perhaps, if I jabbed the mare’s flanks sharply enough, the Norlander’s wrist would snap. I’d take some satisfaction in that.

  I struggled to keep my balance. Who comprised my executioners?

  One among them stood out. I blinked.

  Hriskil.

  Why ought I be astonished? He’d want to see my end, as I would his. Perhaps, in the cold of winter, he and Danzik would joke of it around the crackling fire.

  As we neared, a dark shadow gaped through the brush. A cave.

  They led me to its mouth. Hriskil gestured, and they hauled me down. I fought life into numbed legs.

  Burly guards held my arms, as if I were still a danger, wrists trussed behind. Hriskil approached, his bushy eyes dark and serious. My stomach clenched. Would it be dagger, or stone?

  “So, Caled,” he said in his own tongue. He studied me, and perhaps learned what he sought. After a time, “I ought kill you at once, but you’ve earned worse. And you’ll have it.” A gesture, and they hauled me toward the cave.

  “What are you—” My feet dragged. I forced my speech into Norl. “Qa iv dez vos?” What do you to me?

  “Grot saj vos morta.” The cave will be your death.

  “But—” I had no time for more; they shoved and jostled me through the mouth. Inside, a rock-strewn floor, rough, uneven walls. Room to stand, beneath stalactites and a stony ceiling. Behind, a passage disappeared into dark.

  I swallowed. With an effort, I faced the Norland throng and took deep breath. “Mark this day, Hriskil. Never will you rule Caledon. Rodrigo King speaks.”

  The Norlander chuckled. “Is it the Still that tells you so? I give you a cave, boy.” He gestured, and men rushed up, bearing buckets, mortar and trowels. “I do rule, arrogant Caled whelp. Think of me, each day you starve. Think of me when you shrivel of thirst. Think of me as you slowly die.”

  “Thank your mother for spreading her legs. I forgot to.” Not noble of me, but I was vexed.

  “You’ve not been with my mother, nor any woman. And you never will.” Hriskil turned. Over his shoulder, to a spearman, “Stab him if he tries to flee. In the gut.” He stalked up the hill, mounted a splendid stallion. In a few moments, only his dust remained.

  Wrists bound behind me, I sat slumped on a rounded boulder, while eager Norland churls walled me into the cave.

  The wall they raised was no mere adornment, easily kicked through. It was thick and sturdy, and the building took them much of the day. As they finished, the light through the last, vanishing chinks was dim and forlorn. I stared intently until it was gone.

  So, Roddy, they’d have you starve and thirst. How to defeat them? Charge the side of the cave and bash your head on the rocks? A better end, at least, than they’d arranged. But in the stupid lethargy of your terror, you failed to make note of where rocks were strewn on the floor. You’d more likely stumble and bash out your teeth on a stone, than make a decisive end.

  What was that? I whirled. Was it my hair that brushed my ear, or something worse? But what animal could share my uninhabited cave? None.

  What ... being? What imp, what demon of the night? I blinked furiously, in utter dark. My fingers scrabbled helplessly at my bonds. If I could but see. Did a wickedly clawed, wart-encrusted finger reach out slowly, cruelly, to flay my cheek
? I mewled, and shrank back on my rock throne. Feverishly, I muttered incants that had protected me as a child, racing through a dark courtyard to the beckoning safety of a torch.

  Men’s fears given construct, Father says. If imps are real, where go the bones of their dead?

  Oh, shush, Anavar. You’re not here. If only you were ...

  No, I don’t mean that. If you live, may you have sanctuary and health. Remember that I tried to be valiant.

  Damp paths trickled down my dust-caked cheeks. “If you must, demons, then take me quickly.”

  No response. Expecting sharp summons, I shivered.

  Courage, my prince.

  Courage. Oh, Rustin. Without demons, all I need fear is grim, inevitable death. Perhaps, if the cave is dry enough, some distant day they’ll find my mummified semblance. But I’ll be dead and unknowing.

  No, I won’t. I couldn’t help a grim chuckle. My death will trade one cave for another. What would Mother think of that? Soon, perhaps, she’ll tell me, before the cold fire where she sits with Grandsir and Varon.

  Flexing my wrists, I settled back on my chill seat to await my end. It was hard not to fidget. Idiot, no need to sit straight. Who watches?

  I slumped, and scratched an annoying itch at my rump. My fingers brushed the rocky stool. It was cold, hard, uneven. Soon, its outlines would be imprinted in my flesh. There, for example, that sharp spot, and that concavity.

  I blinked again, seeing only the spots and jangles with which eyes deceive one, in dark.

  Mother, how ought I prepare?

  I’d ask her, if I could. But that required a bowl, and water. And my hands freed, to spread over the medium of encant.

  Well, not a bowl, necessarily. Once, pacing a battlement—was it at Cumber?—I’d used a puddle of rainwater.

  I sat a long while.

  Then, feeling a fool, I stood, carefully turned, pressed my face to the rock that had a moment past been my seat. With lips and nose, I felt about.

  Yes, there.

  Piss wouldn’t work; my breeches would deflect it, and I had no way to undo them.

  So I spat.

  And again. When my mouth was dry, I waited a while, summoned more saliva.

  Cautiously, I eased my way back onto the seat, hunched backward as far as I could, opened my hands against the squeeze of the thong.

  I whispered familiar words.

  Must I shut my eyes, Mother? There seems no point, in absolute dark. Are you there? Hello? Why can’t I see—

  “Don’t shout, Roddy.” She sounded testy.

  I blinked. “Where’s your fire?” I might have seen faint shadows, but I had doubt.

  Grandsire Tryon rumbled, “Use stillsilver, boy. The sight’s clearer.”

  “I can’t, sir.”

  With a sigh, he bestirred himself, threw fagots on the glowing embers. When the fire blazed high I looked about. It was their cave, not mine. Gray with dust, and a floor worn flat.

  Mother scowled. “What’s befallen you now? With what are you bound?”

  “Thongs.” Stammering as if ashamed, I blurted out my woes.

  “So, then.” Mother looked bleakly at her sire. “Our line is done.”

  Tryon stirred. “Not necessarily.”

  “He’s lost Caledon.”

  “But has the Still.”

  She said, “What good that, when—”

  “You, of all, should know.”

  They regarded each other. Mother’s tone was doubtful. “He’s still walled into a hill.”

  “But not yet dead. With life, there’s—”

  I snarled, “Look at me! Speak to ME!”

  Tryon’s tone grew hard. “Who dares—”

  “Rodrigo, king of Caledon!” Almost, I clenched my fists, but remembered in time: I was in another cave, with palms spread over ooze. I made my tone peaceable. “You’ll have plenty of time to berate me after.”

  From the corner, a familiar rumble. “What would you of us?”

  “Oh, Father Varon, help me.” My voice caught. “Now death is nigh, I fear it so.”

  “Yes ...”

  “The spirit that will sit among you ... will it be me? Truly the me I know? My memories, my sense ...” I knew not the words. “My sense of self?”

  The great old king said simply, “It was so for me.” As I struggled for relief, he added, “Why, though, look to death? Life is yet.”

  My laugh was near scornful. “For how long?”

  “Long as may be. Free yourself. Find water.”

  “To what end?”

  “What if they sent rescue, and you’d let yourself die? Life is hope, boy!”

  “My hands are bound behind, sir. Free myself with what?”

  “Surely there’s an edged—”

  “I’m in dark!” My voice was, perhaps, too shrill. I wasn’t truly sure a clutch of waiting imps didn’t share my prison.

  “That, at least,” said Tryon, “you can remedy.”

  A sudden, cruel stab of hope. “How?”

  “Sit forward. Elena, make a place.” Mother inched to the side. “Look about, Rodrigo.”

  I did. “Walls, a dark corner, the pile of sticks you—”

  His voice was sharp. “Know you nothing, boy? Shut your eyes!”

  In my walled cave, I did.

  “Shut them here, dunce!”

  Sitting beside Mother, I shut my eyes, looked about.

  There, behind me, a stalactite loomed. I’d crack my skull if I took no care. Rounded rocks made my floor. In that alcove, split stones. A jagged edge.

  Tryon snapped, “Look about, boy! Be quick. Memorize all you see. When you move from your cupped spit you’ll be blind.”

  “I think under that slope, there’s a sharp edge I might rub—”

  “Is it the best you see?”

  I cast my eyes from wall to wall. “I think so, Grandsir.”

  “When you’re ready.” His tone softened. “Look about. Be sure you can find your way back.”

  I shivered. Lord of Nature help me, if I wandered the cave, unable to find my puddle of spit before it dried. My mouth was so parched I doubted I could conjure more.

  “Mind you don’t fall.” Mother, as if speaking to a child.

  “Aye, madam.” I traced a path to the jagged rock. I’d have to avoid that large round stone, and that rock pile there. Girding my courage I rose from my rocky seat.

  All was black. There was no sound except for a crunch of pebbles under my feet. Step by cautious step I made my way across the cavern. The jagged rock should be a few steps ahead, under the slope.

  Thunk!

  I winced, crouching too late. Crouching, I duck-walked under the narrowing slope. I turned, to blunder rump-first toward the jagged rock. Where in the demons’ lake—behind me, my hands scrabbled at cold stone. Not that one, too low.

  That’s too uneven, it couldn’t ...

  No, too round.

  Smaller man I remembered.

  Not—THERE! I cried out for the joy of it. A rough, jagged edge. Well, not all that jagged. Not as sharp as it had looked across the—but something of an edge. And I had time. If I got so, on my knees ... in utter dark, I worked my way into position.

  Rub the thong, Roddy, not your flesh, else you’ll be a bloody mess and still bound.

  Grimacing, I set to work.

  Hours had passed. “Ah, Rustin, you berated my stubbornness. It’s all I have. All that keeps me sawing away. Say something, Rust.”

  Anything, Rust.

  My joints, beyond ache, were in some exquisite torment. My knees were raw and scratched. My wrists ... on the whole, I’d avoided abrading my skin; each error had taught me more caution. But what magic bound the thrice-cursed thong? I’d rubbed steadily, ’til I thought I’d lose my mind. And the leather held.

  I knew now just how to position my hands, clear of the stone. Half sobbing under my breath, I worked away at the endless, hopeless task.

  “Will you remember me, Rust? Do you live still, or has
the demon of the north taken your Keep? I doubt you’d surrender it, your mem—OUCH! Straighten your arm, Roddy. Memories of your father, I was saying.” I panted for breath. “... too strong. You won’t surrender, lest his treason be recalled.”

  Rub. Hriskil, I hate you. Not you alone, every Norland churl who walks the earth. Rasp. Your mother, your line, your servants ... Scrape. Your horse, your Rood ... Grind.

  I stopped for breath, as I must every few moments.

  Rage swelling, I sawed on. Grandsire, what do we accomplish? So I’ll die hot and sweat-soaked, instead of cool and composed on my rough-hewn throne. What of it? Why do I—

  My arm.

  I stared stupidly, in pitch dark, as if I could see the wrist that had fallen to my side.

  A sound, akin to a whimper.

  Take no ease, Roddy. You’re still doomed to slow death.

  Feverishly, I gnawed at the remains of the thong, until my teeth ached, but each wrist was free. I licked at the ooze of blood; the lacerations couldn’t be helped.

  “Rustin, I did it!” Carefully, I worked my way clear of the sloped roof, stumbled across the floor, felt for my stone seat.

  I knelt. Of course, the hole in the rock was bone dry. I tried to hawk a gob of spit. Nothing; my mouth was too dry. I doubted I could piss, or, in the dark, find the hole I’d filled. I felt for it, leaned over, resolutely stuck a finger in my throat, and gagged, bringing up weak bile. I spat it onto the rock, threw my palms over the sudden warmth. My lips moved.

  “Ah, you’re back.” Mother. The cave wavered.

  “Find water!” Tryon. “Be quick.”

  I asked weakly, “How?” The cave had looked dry when they’d sealed me in it.

  “Show him.” Father Varon’s distant rumble.

  “Sit here, lad.” Unexpectedly, Tryon made space. I crouched. His rough hand flitted to my shoulder, gently guided me to my place. “Close your eyes, see the cave. Listen for a drip. Hold out your palms, so. Feel the water’s call.”

  “How know you it’s there?”

  “I don’t.”

  “And if not?”

  “The sooner you’ll die.”

  I threw my whole being into the search, hampered by ignorance, inexperience. What would water feel like, from afar? I licked dry lips. Already, thirst tormented me, and it was but the first day.