The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Osterhild gave a sharp nod and turned, barking out orders and setting men scrambling up the sides of the gorge.

  "You knew these men, my lord?" Tiron nodded at the dead assassin.

  "Yes, more's the pity." Ramswold stared at the corpse with something akin to horrified fascination. "Elba was one of my foresters. Did I say mine? No, clearly he belonged to Lord Warmund."

  "Warmund?"

  Ramswold grimaced. "My guardian. He has ruled my lands in my name since my father died."

  Tiron grunted. "How old are you, my lord?"

  Ramswold narrowed his eyes. "Precisely. I am twenty-six, and therein lies my problem. Warmund has exhausted both my gratitude and my patience. Now he has exhausted my good will as well. I had not thought he would stoop to such measures as this."

  Tiron crossed his arms. "Your father used to have a good fighting force under his command."

  Ramswold flushed. "Yes, that's true. They still exist, though they're more loyal to Warmund than to me. This mission of mine – supposedly clandestine – was an appointment with Lord Nyclosel. I was going to pay him to help me depose Lord Warmund. Clearly, I trusted the wrong men to bring me to my meeting."

  Tiron felt old and cynical and weary. He stepped back and sat on a protruding root. "Lord Nyclosel was probably only too glad to be of assistance."

  "Yes, he was." Ramswold paused. "Why? He understands the injustice that's taking place. He speaks the same language I do, of honor and birthright."

  Tiron snorted, and when Ramswold's jaw clenched, he held up his hand. "Forgive my amusement. Wygand Nyclosel knows as much about honor as I do about poetry. I've no doubt he was willing to help you depose Warmund. He probably promised you all his knights for the effort, did he not?"

  Ramswold nodded reluctantly.

  "Ask yourself. How would you have forced Nyclosel to leave once he'd conquered your land for you? That is, assuming he didn't wish to go?"

  "I, ah – assuming?" Ramswold flushed again, the color on his cheeks growing even brighter. "I would have ordered him out. They are my lands. He is a lord. He would never enact such gross villainy."

  "Right," said Tiron, nodding thoughtfully. "Lords are all chivalrous. Just like in the songs. Just like your Lord Warmund, I suppose."

  "My good man," said Ramswold, raising his chin. "You have done me a profound service, but do not think that gives you the right to judge your betters."

  Tiron raised an eyebrow, and Ramswold took a step back. "My apologies," said Tiron, levering himself up to his feet. "I'll leave you to it, then. Best of luck with Wygand and your guardian."

  He began to walk down the gorge toward the road. At the same moment, he heard exclamations of surprise from above. They'd found the surviving forester.

  He'd only taken ten steps when he heard Ramswold hurry after him. "Wait, Tiron, a moment."

  Tiron sighed and honestly considered ignoring the youth. Then he thought of himself at that age, and wheeled around. "Yes?"

  Ramswold faltered to a stop before him, seeming far younger than his twenty-six years. "My apologies." The words clearly didn't come easily. "I spoke like a bore. I'm finding it a challenge to navigate this world of ours. It is completely unlike the world I grew up in, the world of books and grand tales." He smiled, but there was in his eyes a glimmer of panic, of desperation. "Deciding to take my power back from Warmund has proven much easier than actually doing so. I don't lack for support and good friends, but my Order of the Star is, how shall I say, not experienced with arms and military contests."

  Tiron bit back the first comment that came to mind and simply nodded.

  Ramswold cast around for how to continue. Tiron could see what was coming. "And then you appeared. The Ascendant himself must have sent you to my aid. You saved my life. You are clearly extremely wise in the ways of war, and not only that, you've betrayed a familiarity with the local lords that tells me you're more than a wandering man at arms. Tiron – Ser Tiron, I would presume – do you have it in your heart to help me regain my lordship?"

  Tiron would have snorted had Ramswold not looked so earnest. Instead he sighed, ran his hand over his hair, and then scrunched up his face in annoyance. Two days of anonymity was all he'd managed to steal. And yet, hadn't he sworn to uphold justice?

  "I'm not promising anything," said Tiron. "But I'll at least give you some advice. Don't meet with Nyclosel. The man is a rat."

  Ramswold nodded eagerly. "I see how naive I was being. Yes, I'll send him a message immediately telling him his services are no longer needed."

  "Lord Ramswold, wait. You need to start thinking several steps further into this game you're playing. Imagine you were Lord Nyclosel and you were planning to steal this territory. And then, suddenly, you received a curt and dismissive letter. What would you do?"

  "I... I don't know. Fume?"

  "Undoubtedly. And perhaps seek revenge for the insult. I wouldn't put it past him to send a message in turn to Warmund, alerting him to your communication and offering to ally with your guardian against you."

  "Ah," said Ramswold, blushing furiously. "Of course. So – what do you suggest?"

  Tiron shrugged. "Tell him something innocuous. That you have to delay the meeting while you amass even more gold to pay him. Appeal to his greed and put him out to pasture. There is no need to tell him the truth. All we need is his ongoing silence."

  Ramswold considered that, then grinned. "Excellent. Yes! I see it now. We must be as cunning and sly as our enemies. But, how are we to recapture the Red Keep without Nyclosel's knights?"

  "That will take some thinking," said Tiron. "But, first, I have to retrieve my horse, cloak, and the mounts of your four foresters. Then we'll make camp somewhere secure and see what plans we can devise."

  Ramswold nodded tightly, his lips thinned with determination. "Yes. The Ascendant be praised. You are but one man, Ser Tiron, but I have the sense that the odds have shifted in my favor."

  Tiron snorted and clapped the young lord on the shoulder. "Don't be so sure, my lord. My life has brought nothing but death and ruin to those closest to me."

  Ramswold raised his chin. "Then perhaps this shall mark a turning point in your fortunes."

  Tiron stopped, wanting to laugh the young man down, wanting to wither him with scorn. Instead, he simply nodded. "Perhaps," he said as he walked away, more to himself than to Ramswold. "Perhaps."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Audsley was sitting on the edge of his bed in his old room in Castle Kyferin's Ferret Tower. He'd climbed up here by himself, waving aside questions and ignoring the fearful stares, resisting the urge to simply fly up the steps and instead forcing himself to take them one by one, hand latched on the handrail, hauling himself up as he had done countless times over the years.

  His old room had been ransacked. Where before the sight of his pillaged pigeonholes and missing books might have awakened within his breast a pang of horror, now he saw the theft as merely a dull confirmation of the nature of the world. In a way, obscure and cruel, he was relieved that his maps and tomes were gone, that his old carpet was torn and muddied, his bed had been stripped to its frame, and some of his favorite paintings had been torn and lay in tattered strips along the edge of the walls.

  Audsley closed his eyes and inhaled. There: a faint scent of spices, coal dust, and parchment. A hint of the past, but it was too easy now to recall nothing but the rich and tantalizing smell of flesh burning and roasting. Of fat crackling beneath burnt skin.

  He let out a choked sob and covered his face with his hands. Had he hoped to escape what had happened by retreating to the past? Aedelbert was still gone, and in his place were three contented demons, watching him silently from the recesses of his mind. Oh, if he could only scour them from his skull; if he could trepan himself and scoop them out, mewling and hideous!

  He was beyond exhausted, existing now in a state of enervation and stupefaction. Only the demons' vitality kept him from collapsing, but he was afraid to sleep, didn't dar
e to face his dreams. He deserved a lifetime of nightmares for what he'd done, and no doubt they awaited him, a personal oubliette where each form twisted and blackened in gouts of flame, forever engraved in his memory, dozens if not hundreds of the dancing dead.

  Audsley shivered and hugged himself, feeling pathetic and foul. Had he thought his demonic powers a boon? Had he thought himself heroic, destined for greatness? He recalled now his naïve exaltation and wanted to retch. But he'd had no choice, no choice at all. Could he have simply let Iskra and Tiron and all the others be slaughtered by the outraged troops? Of course not.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door. Audsley stared morosely at nothing, not answering, but the door creaked open anyway and Iskra stepped inside. He didn't look at her, looked down at his hands instead. Where was the blood that should be caking them, that should ring each nail, that should be engraved in every seam and knuckle?

  "Audsley."

  Her voice was little more than a whisper. Then there was silence, as if she didn't know how to go on. An old instinct made him want to turn and smile at her, perhaps pat the bedframe next to him, inviting her to sit, but he just couldn't be bothered.

  "Audsley, I'm so sorry." Her voice was raw with grief and pain and an exhaustion all her own. "I'm – what happened. The responsibility lies with me. All of it."

  He did look up then. Iskra had aged. Her eyes were red and her skin was chalky, the lines carved deep into her face. She looked frail and unsure.

  "I let my grief control me." She took a step forward, then took it back. " I thought that if I only took volunteers, I could salve my conscience of what might take place. But I was wrong. I was blind and a fool, and you have born the brunt of my folly."

  "Not I, Iskra." Audsley's voice was a croak. "The men and women I torched are the ones who have paid the price."

  Iskra flinched, but then steeled herself and nodded. "Yes, you're right. I never thought of them. The men and women who would be loyal to Ascension, who would be willing to die for their faith. For the Grace." She passed a hand over her face, fingertips brushing her brow. "I thought – I don't know what I thought. I just wanted revenge. And now that I have it –!" She laughed, her voice tinged with bitterness and perhaps even hysteria. "What good has it done me? Roddick still lies dead, and now so do countless others."

  "Mertyn is dead," Audsley said woodenly. "He's paid for his crimes."

  "Yes, but he never even understood them." Iskra lowered herself onto a stool. "How could he? What fantasy was I living where I thought I might wring contrition from his stony heart? Audsley, I've been a fool. More than a fool. I'm not suited for any of this."

  Old instincts arose, urging Audsley to comfort her, but he let them go. "No, perhaps you're not. But if it's any consolation, I don't think anybody is. We're all sinners. We're all murderers. None of us is any better than the others." He looked down at his pale hands, still trying to see the blood. "Just like Mertyn, we're all trying to do what we think is best."

  Iskra didn't respond. They sat in silence for a spell, then, finally, she roused herself. "I'm returning to Agerastos. I must marry the emperor. What will you do?"

  "Do?" Audsley stared flatly at her. "What I was doing before, though now the why of it has become opaque. Continue to root out evil in Aletheia, I suppose. Though to what end? After all, you mean to come and lay waste to everything in a matter of weeks, do you not? So why bother?"

  Iskra flinched. "You touch on a matter that I've been unable to stop thinking of. After we've torn down Ascension, what then? I remember asking the emperor the same question. I asked if he'd seek to install his medusa-worship, and he just laughed and said he didn't care. That all he wanted was vengeance." She looked down at her hands. "Well, I've seen what that brings, and I can't do that. I can't tear down the Ascendant and cast the empire into ruin. Civil war would follow. Madness. Massacres. A hundred Laur Castles."

  She swallowed and looked up, a new light entering her eyes. "I won't run from what happened yesterday. I will learn from it as best I can, and temper the emperor's goals with this newfound wisdom. We can't simply march into Aletheia and destroy. We must create. We must replace."

  Audsley found himself growing interested, despite himself. "And what will you replace Ascension with?"

  "I don't know. Maybe we can't destroy it. Maybe the cost in human suffering would be too high. My mistake has been to think of the Ascendant as a supreme ruler whose administration can be replaced. But the Grace showed us all last night that that is fatuous thinking. The Ascendant is a symbol, the heart of a religion. We cannot expect hundreds of thousands to turn apostate simply because we've removed him. Instead, we'd turn him into a martyr and face an entire empire hell-bent on avenging him. No, we can't do that. We have to do better. We have to be smarter. Wiser. More compassionate."

  She stood then and began to pace, and Audsley felt a grudging sense of respect return to him. Here he had sat, wallowing in his misery, but Iskra was rising above her own and forcing herself to think, to divine a solution.

  Her brow was furrowed with thought, her eyes darting from side to side. He waited, that tickle of curiosity growing into a small flame of wonder. What was she thinking?

  "We cannot kill the Ascendant," she said, stopping at last to face him. "We cannot even remove him. No, we must force him into dialog." She laughed at the absurdity of her words. "Force him at sword point if need be. There must be change, but it cannot be mere destruction. We will have to find a new path, a new way of living. A new way of ruling. But he has to be part of it. Only then will the people follow. Only then will we improve lives, and not cast the empire into chaos."

  Audsley sat back, his mind shuttling back and forth as he considered her words. "The Agerastian emperor will refuse."

  "Let him." Iskra raised her chin. "I shall insist. I will appeal to his mind, his pride, his hope for a fitting legacy. I'll find a way to convince him."

  "The Virtues will fight you. The Ministers. The entire leadership of Aletheia."

  "Then they will die." Iskra's voice turned hard. "Or be imprisoned."

  Audsley leaned forward. "Kethe is a Virtue."

  "I – yes." Iskra lost her poise for a moment, then took a deep breath. "I can no longer place my personal goals before what is best. I've seen the consequences. Kethe will have to agree. I'm sure she will. She will understand, and side with me. I am sure of it."

  Audsley nodded slowly. "Perhaps. And if the Ascendant simply refuses to change?"

  "Then we will depose him and elect a new Ascendant who is more amenable." Iskra smoothed down her rumpled, filthy dress. "It has to be this way. We have to change, not destroy. We have to improve, not simply cast down. Laur Castle has taught me that. We can still make things better, Audsley. We can still help. We don't have to be like Mertyn. We can find a better path."

  Did he believe her? He didn't doubt her intentions, but would events play out as they hoped? "Oh, Iskra." He felt weary, a soul-deep weariness that made him feel twice his age.

  "Will you help me, Audsley?" She crouched in front of him, taking his hands in her own. "Will you help me? I can't do this alone."

  Audsley closed his hands over hers. "Of course," he said, and this time a flicker of his old smile returned. "Events are in motion. We can't stop them now, weak and unworthy as we are. What choice do we have? I'll help you."

  "Thank you, Audsley." Her eyes filled with tears. She made no effort to wipe them away. "I feel so weak. So blind and foolish and sick with guilt. I think of Roddick, and Kethe, and I – " She hung her head, the tears now overflowing. "If there were anybody else, anybody I trusted, I'd give them the responsibility and hide away from the world. But I'm to be an empress. I have a role to play. So I'll do my best, and I swear to you –" She looked up, eyes blazing. "I will do everything within my power to avoid more mistakes. To avoid senseless deaths. I swear it."

  Audsley's throat tightened, and he could only nod.

  Iskra searched his face, then sighed,
shoulders drooping, and stood. "Very well. I'm done making promises. Will you return to Aletheia soon?"

  Audsley nodded and got up to stand with her. "Now, in fact. If we're to change the Empire, then perhaps my mission is of greater importance than ever. I must remove the demons who pollute the leadership to allow the greatest chance for change." Audsley pushed his shoulders back and realized to his surprise that he did feel better. No, not simply better – purposeful. "Yes, I have to return to my machinations. I must prepare the grounds for your arrival."

  "Thank you," Iskra said. She hesitated as if she was about to say more, then simply nodded. "Thank you, Audsley. Good luck."

  "And to you, Iskra."

  She nodded gravely and left.

  Audsley sighed as he looked again around his old chamber. The sight of Aedelbert's resting pad sent a shiver of pain through his heart. Thank the Ascendant for small mercies. He'd not be able to bear facing his old friend. Perhaps it was best that they had separated.

  There was nothing here for him now, nothing that he wanted or needed. He went to his old wardrobe and found hanging inside it a few of his old sets of clothing. He exchanged his smoke-laced robe for simple traveling garb, then left his old room, descending the steps quietly and stepping out into the bailey.

  The morning light was bright, and he blinked, raising a hand against the sun that had just cleared the castle wall. Iskra was leaving a skeleton force behind to hold the castle, with orders to retreat through the Raven's Gate the moment a besieging force appeared. As such, a strange lethargy and confusion had gripped the castle's inhabitants, robbing them of their usual vigor and purpose. Servants were standing in small groups whispering, while stable boys watched in bemusement as the recently arrived invaders assembled and prepared to march up into the keep.

  Audsley stepped up into the barbican, avoiding the smears of blood that still festooned the corridor, and made his way up to the roof of the keep, sidestepping busy groups, avoiding attention, averting his eyes from the private chambers on the fourth floor where Roddick had died. When he reached the keep roof, he inhaled deeply, savoring the clean air. The roof was packed with soldiers, all of them shuffling forward as an Agerastian Vothak, plainly on the verge of collapse, opened the Raven's Gate again and again to allow them through.