Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “You’re one of the thieves Alric told us about, aren’t you?” Mauvin swiped his sword deftly through the air in a skillful manner that he had not used in his mock battles with his brother. “Despite this great adventure you all have been on, I don’t recall Alric mentioning your great prowess with a blade.”

  “Well, he probably just forgot,” Hadrian joked.

  “Are you aware of the legend of the Pickerings?”

  “Your family is known to be skillful with swords.”

  “So you have heard? My father is the second-best swordsman in Avryn.”

  “He’s the best,” Denek snapped. “He would have beaten the archduke if he had his sword, but he had to use a substitute, which was too heavy and awkward.”

  “Denek, how many times do I have to tell you, when speaking of one’s reputation, it does not boost your position to make excuses when you lose a contest. The archduke won the match. You need to face that fact,” Mauvin admonished. Turning his attention back to Hadrian, he said, “Speaking of contests, why don’t you pick up that blade, and I’ll demonstrate the Tek’chin for you.”

  Hadrian picked up the sword and stepped into the dirt ring where the boys had been fighting. He made a feint, followed by a stab, which Mauvin easily deflected.

  “Try again,” Mauvin said.

  Hadrian tried a slightly more sophisticated move. This time he swung right and then pivoted left and cut upward toward Mauvin’s thigh. Mauvin moved with keen precision. He anticipated the feint and knocked the blade away once more.

  “You fight like a street thug,” Mauvin commented.

  “Because that’s what he is,” Royce assured them as he approached from the direction of the keep, “a big, dumb street thug. I once saw an old woman batter him senseless with a butter churn.” He shifted his attention to Hadrian. “Now what have you gotten yourself into? Looks like this kid will hand you a beating.”

  Mauvin stiffened and glared at Royce. “I would remind you that I’m a count’s son, and as such, you will refer to me as lord, or at least master, but not kid.”

  “Better watch out, Royce, or he’ll be after you next,” Hadrian said, moving around the circle, looking for an opening. He tried another attack but that, too, was blocked.

  Mauvin moved in now with a rapid step. He caught Hadrian’s sword hilt-to-hilt, placed a leg behind him, and threw Hadrian to the ground.

  “You’re too good for me,” Hadrian conceded as Mauvin held out a hand to help him to his feet.

  “Try him again,” Royce shouted.

  Hadrian gave him an irritated look and then noticed a young woman entering the courtyard. It was Lenare. She wore a long gown of soft gold, which nearly matched her hair. She was as lovely as her mother and walked over to join the group.

  “Who is this?” she asked, motioning at Hadrian.

  “Hadrian Blackwater,” he said with a bow.

  “Well, Mr. Blackwater, it appears my brother has beaten you.”

  “It would appear so,” Hadrian acknowledged, still dusting himself off.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My brother is a very accomplished swordsman—too accomplished, in fact. He has a nasty tendency to chase away any would-be suitors.”

  “They are not worthy of you, Lenare,” Mauvin said.

  “Try him again,” Royce repeated. There was a perceptible note of mischief in his voice.

  “Shall we?” Mauvin asked politely with a bow.

  “Oh, please do,” Lenare bade him, clapping her hands in delight. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t kill you. Father doesn’t like them to actually hurt anyone.”

  With an evil smirk directed toward Royce, Hadrian turned to face Mauvin. This time he made no attempt to defend himself. He stood perfectly still, holding his blade low. His gaze was cool and he stared directly into Mauvin’s eyes.

  “Put up a guard, you fool,” Mauvin told him. “At least try to defend yourself.”

  Hadrian raised his sword slowly, more in response to Mauvin’s request than as a move to defend. Mauvin stepped in with a quick flick of his blade designed to set Hadrian off his footing. He then pivoted around behind the larger man and sought to trip him up once more. Hadrian, however, also pivoted and, swinging a leg, caught Mauvin behind the knees, dropping him to the dirt.

  Mauvin looked curiously at Hadrian as he helped him to his feet. “Our street thug has some surprises, I see,” Mauvin muttered with a smile.

  This time, Mauvin struck at Hadrian in a fast set of sweeping attacks, most of which never caught anything but air as Hadrian avoided the strokes. Mauvin moved in a flurry, his blade traveling faster than the eye could follow. The steel rang now as Hadrian caught the strokes with his blade, parrying them aside.

  “Mauvin, be careful!” Lenare shouted.

  The battle rapidly escalated from friendly sparring to serious combat. The strokes moved faster, harder, and closer. The shrill ring of the blades began to echo off the courtyard walls. The grunts and curses became grimmer. The match went on for some time, the two fighting toe to toe. Suddenly Mauvin executed a brilliant maneuver. Feinting left, he swung right, following through the stroke and spinning fully around, exposing his back to Hadrian. Seeing his opponent vulnerable, Hadrian made the obvious riposte, but Mauvin miraculously caught his blade instinctively without seeing it. Pivoting again, Mauvin brought his own sword to Hadrian’s undefended side. Before he could finish the blow, however, Hadrian closed the distance between them and Mauvin’s swing ran behind the larger man’s back. Hadrian trapped the boy’s sword arm under his own and raised his sword to the boy’s throat. There was a gasp from Mauvin’s siblings. Royce simply chuckled with sinister relish. Releasing his grip, Hadrian set Mauvin free.

  “How did you do that?” Mauvin asked. “I performed a flawless Vi’shin Flurry against you. It’s one of the most advanced maneuvers of the Tek’chin. No one has ever countered it before.”

  Hadrian shrugged. “First time for everything.” He threw the sword back toward Fanen. It pierced the earth between the boy’s feet. Unlike the previous time, it dove in edge first, so the hilt did not swing.

  With his eyes on Hadrian and an expression of awe on his face, Denek turned to Royce and said, “That must have been an awfully wicked old lady and a big butter churn.”

  “Alric?”

  The prince had wandered into one of the castle storerooms and was sitting on the thick sill of a barrel-vaulted window, looking out at the western hills. The sound of his friend’s voice roused him from deep thoughts, and it was not until then that he realized he was crying.

  “Sorry,” Mauvin said, “but Father’s been looking for you. The local nobles have started to arrive, and I think he wants you to talk to them.”

  “It’s okay,” Alric said, wiping his cheeks and glancing longingly once more out the window at the setting sun. “I’ve been here longer than I thought. I guess I lost track of the time.”

  “It’s easy to do in here.” Mauvin walked around the room and took a bottle of wine out of a crate. “Remember the night we snuck down here and drank three of these?”

  Alric nodded. “I was really sick.”

  “So was I, and yet we still managed to make the stag hunt the next day.”

  “We couldn’t let anyone know we were drinking.”

  “I thought I was going to die, and when we got back, it turned out Arista, Lenare, and Fanen had already turned us in the night before.”

  “I remember.”

  Mauvin studied his friend carefully. “You’ll make a good king, Alric. And I’m sure your father would be proud.”

  Alric did not say anything for a moment. He picked up a bottle from the crate and felt its weight in his hand. “I’d better get back. I have responsibilities now. I can’t hide down here drinking wine like the old days.”

  “I suppose we could if you really wanted to.” Mauvin grinned devilishly.

  Alric smiled and threw his arms around him. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry we’ll ne
ver get to Percepliquis now.”

  “It’s all right; besides, you never know. We might get there someday.”

  As they left the storeroom, Alric dusted off his hands dirt that he had picked up from Mauvin’s back during their embrace. “Is Fanen getting so good now that he was able to put you in the dirt?”

  “No, it was the thief you brought with you, the big one. Where did you find him? His skill at sword fighting is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s actually rather remarkable.”

  “Really? Coming from a Pickering, that’s high praise indeed.”

  “I’m afraid the Pickering legend won’t last long at this rate: Father loses to Percy Braga, and now I get thrown in the dirt by a common ruffian. How long will it be before we are being challenged for our land and title by the other nobles without fear?”

  “If your father had his sword that day …” Alric paused. “Why didn’t your father have his sword?”

  “Misplaced it,” Mauvin said. “He was certain it was in his room, but the next morning, it was gone. A steward found it later the same day laying somewhere strange.”

  “Well, sword or no, I can tell you, Mauvin, I think your father is still the best swordsman in the kingdom.”

  Royce, Hadrian, and Myron continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Pickerings with a hearty lunch as well as supper served to them in the warm comfort of Ella’s kitchen. They spent most of the day napping, recovering lost sleep from the previous days. By nightfall, they were beginning to feel like themselves again.

  Hadrian had a newfound shadow as Denek followed him wherever he went. After supper, Denek asked Hadrian, Royce, and Myron to come watch the marshaling of the troops from one of his favorite spots. The boy led them to the parapet above the main gate. From there, they could see both the grounds outside the castle and inside the courtyard without being underfoot.

  Around early evening people began to arrive. Small groups of knights, barons, squires, soldiers, and village officials trickled in and formed camps outside the castle. Tall poles bearing the banners of various noble houses stood in the courtyard, signaling their presence in accordance with their sworn duty. By moonrise, eight standards and about three hundred men gathered in camps around bonfires. Their tents littered the hillside and extended throughout the orchards.

  Vern, along with five other blacksmiths from various villages, worked late, sharing his forge and anvil. They were hammering out last-minute requests. The rest of the courtyard was equally active, with every lamp lit and each shop busy. Leatherworkers adjusted saddle stirrups and helms. Fletchers fashioned bundles of arrows, which they stacked like cord-wood against the stable wall. Woodcutters created large rectangular archer shields. Even the butchers and bakers worked hard, preparing sack meals from smoked meats, breads, onions, and turnips.

  “The green one with the hammer on it is Lord Jerl’s banner,” Denek told them. The weather had turned sharply cold again, and his breath created a frosty fog. “I spent a summer at their estate two years ago. It’s right on the edge of the Longwood Forest, and they love to hunt. They must have two dozen of the realm’s best hounds. It’s where I learned to shoot a bow. I bet you know how to shoot a bow real well, don’t you, Hadrian?”

  “I’ve been known to hit the forest from the field on occasion.”

  “I bet you could outshoot any of Jerl’s sons. He’s got six, and they all think they are the best marksmen in the province. My father never taught us archery. He said it didn’t make sense because we would never be fighting in ranks. He taught us to concentrate on the sword. Although I don’t know what good it will do me if I’m sent to a monastery. I’ll be stuck doing nothing but reading all day.”

  “Actually, there is a great deal more than that to do in an abbey,” Myron explained, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “In spring, most of your time will be spent gardening, and in autumn, there is the harvest, preserving, and brewing. Even in winter, there is the mending and cleaning. Of course the bulk of your time is spent in prayer, either communal in the chapel or silently in the cloister. Then there is—”

  “I think I’d rather be a foot soldier,” Denek sighed with a grimace. “Or maybe I could join you two and become a thief! It must be a wonderfully exciting life running all over the world, accomplishing dangerous missions for king and country.”

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Hadrian muttered softly.

  Below them, a single rider quickly approached the front gate.

  “Isn’t that the banner of Essendon?” Royce asked, pointing to the falcon flag the rider carried.

  “Yeah,” Denek said, surprised. “It’s the king’s standard. He’s a messenger from Medford.”

  They looked at each other, puzzled, as the messenger entered the castle and did not reemerge. They went on talking with Myron, who was trying in vain to convince Denek life in the monastery was not bad at all, when Fanen came running up the parapet.

  “There you are!” he shouted at them. “Father has half the castle turned out looking for you.”

  “Us?” Hadrian asked.

  “Yes.” Fanen nodded. “He wants to see the two thieves in his chambers right away.”

  “You didn’t steal the silver or anything, did you, Royce?” Hadrian asked.

  “I would bet it has more to do with your flirting with Lenare this afternoon and threatening Mauvin just to show off,” Royce retorted.

  “That was your fault,” Hadrian said, jabbing his finger at him.

  “It’s nothing like that,” Fanen said, interrupting them. “The princess Arista is going to be executed for treason tomorrow morning!”

  Once, long ago, the great hall of Drondil Fields had been the site of the first court of Melengar. It was there that King Tolin had drafted and signed the Drondil Charter, officially bringing the kingdom into existence. Now, old and faded, the parchment was mounted on one wall in a place of honor. Around it, massive burgundy drapes hung, tied back by gold cords with silken tassels. Today the hall served as the council chambers of Count Pickering; Royce and Hadrian hesitantly entered the hall.

  At a long table in the center of the room sat a dozen men dressed in the finery of nobles. Hadrian recognized most of the men and could make some good guesses at the identities of those he did not know. There were earls, barons, sheriffs, and marshals; the leadership of eastern Melengar sat assembled before them. At the head of the table was Alric, and at his right was Count Pickering. Standing behind the count was Mauvin, and as Hadrian and Royce entered, Fanen took up position next to his brother. Alric was dressed in fine clothes, no doubt borrowed from one of the Pickerings. Less than a day had passed since Hadrian had last seen the prince, but Alric looked much older than he remembered.

  “Have you told them why they were summoned?” Count Pickering asked his son.

  “I told them the princess was to be executed,” Fanen replied. “Nothing more.”

  “I’ve been summoned by Archduke Percy Braga,” Count Pickering explained, holding up the dispatch, “to report to Essendon Castle as witness for the immediate trial of Princess Arista on the grounds of witchcraft, high treason, and murder. He has accused her of killing not only Amrath but also Alric.” He dropped the dispatch on the table and slammed his hand down on it in disgust. “The blackguard means to have the kingdom for his own!”

  “It’s worse than I feared.” Alric summarized for the thieves: “My uncle planned to kill me and my father and then blame both murders on Arista. He will execute her and take the kingdom for himself. No one will be the wiser. He’ll fool everyone into thinking he is the great defender of the realm. I’m sure his plan will work. Even I was suspecting her only a few days ago.”

  “It’s true. It has long been rumored that Arista has dabbled in the arcane arts,” Pickering confirmed. “Braga will have no trouble finding her guilty. People are afraid of what they don’t understand. The thought of a woman with magical powers is terrifying to old men in comfortable positions. Even without the
fear of witchery, most nobles are uncomfortable with the thought of a woman monarch. The verdict will be assured. Her sentence will be handed down quickly.”

  “But if the prince was to arrive,” Baron Enild said, “and show he’s alive, then—”

  “That’s exactly what Braga wants,” Sir Ecton declared. “He can’t find Alric. He’s searched for days and couldn’t locate him. He wants to draw him out before Alric has a chance to gather an army against him. He’s counting on the prince’s youth and lack of experience. He wants to manipulate the prince to react with emotion instead of reason. If he can’t find Alric, he will lure the prince to him.”

  “Less than half our forces have mustered so far,” Pickering grumbled despairingly. He walked to the great map of Melengar, which hung opposite the ancient charter, and slapped the western half of the map. “Our most powerful knights are the farthest from here, and because they have the most men to rally, it will take them longer to report. I don’t expect them for another eight hours, maybe as long as sixteen.

  “Even if we resign ourselves to employing only Galilin’s forces, the earliest we could be ready to attack wouldn’t be until tomorrow evening. By then Arista will be dead. I could march with what troops I have, leaving orders for the others to follow, but doing so would risk the whole army by dividing our forces. We cannot jeopardize the realm for the sake of one woman, even though she is the princess.”

  “Judging from the mercenaries we encountered at the inn,” Alric told them, “I suspect the archduke anticipates an assault and has strengthened his forces with purchased arms loyal only to him.”

  “He will likely have scouts and ambushes prepared,” Ecton said. “At first sight of our march, he will tell the other nobles assembled for the trial that we are working for Arista and that they need to defend Essendon against us. There is simply no way for us to march until we have more forces.”

  “Waiting,” Alric said sadly, “will surely see Arista burned at the stake. Now, more than ever, I feel guilty for not trusting her. She saved my life. Now hers is in jeopardy, and there is little I can do about it.” He looked at Hadrian and Royce. “I can’t simply sit idly by and let her die. But to act prematurely would be folly.”