Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “It doesn’t matter. But the prince asked me along as a chronicler of events, not as a warrior. I think he wants me to record what happens today in a book.”

  “Well, if you do, please leave out the way Denek threw a fit at not being allowed to come. It will reflect badly on our family.”

  Everything they passed was new to Myron. He had seen snow, of course, but only in the courtyard and cloister at the abbey. He never had seen how it settled on a forest or glittered on the edges of rivers and streams. They were traveling through populated country now, passing village after village; each one larger than the one before. Myron could only stare in fascination at the many different types of buildings, animals, and people he saw along the way. Each time they came into a town, the villagers came out to stare at them. They scurried out of their homes, aroused by the ominous thrump, thrump, thrump of the soldiers marching. Some summoned the courage to ask where they were going, but the men said nothing, under strict orders to maintain silence.

  Children ran to the edge of the road, where parents quickly pulled them back. Myron had never seen a child before—at least, not since he had been one. It was not uncommon for a boy to be sent to the abbey at ten or twelve, but rarely, if ever, was one sent before the age of eight. The smallest of the children fascinated Myron, and he watched them in amazement. They were like short drunk people, loud and usually dirty, but all were surprisingly cute and looked at him in much the same way that he looked at them. They would wave, and Myron could not help waving back, although he assumed it was not very soldierly to do so.

  The war host moved surprisingly fast. The foot soldiers, responding in unison to orders, alternated between periods of double-time marching and a more relaxed stride, which was only slightly slower. Each of them wore a grim face, without a smile among them.

  For hours, they marched. No one interfered; there were no advance formations lying in ambush, no challenges along the road. To Myron, the trip felt more like an exciting parade than the preparation for an ominous battle. Finally, he saw his first glimpse of Melengar in the distance. Fanen pointed out the great bell tower of Mares Cathedral and the tall spires of Essendon Castle, where no standard flew.

  A vanguard rode up and reported a strong force entrenched around the city. The nobles ordered their regiments to form ranks. Flags relayed messages, archers strung their bows, and the army transformed themselves into blocks of men. In long lines of three across, they moved as one. The archers were summoned forward and moved ahead just behind the foot soldiers.

  Ordered to the rear, Myron and Fanen rode with the cooks to watch and listen. From his new vantage point, Myron noticed part of the army had broken away from the main line and was moving to the right side of the city. When the ranks of men reached the rise, which left them visible to the castle walls, a great horn sounded in the distance.

  One of their own answered the castle horn, and the Galilin archers released a barrage of arrows upon the defenders. The shafts flew and appeared to hang briefly in the air like a dark cloud. As they fell, Myron could hear the distant cries of men. He watched with anticipation as the mounted knights broke into three groups. One stayed on the road, while the other two took up flanking positions on either side. The main line increased their pace to a brisk walk.

  When they heard the horn, Mason Grumon and Dixon Taft led their mob up Wayward Street, effectively emptying the Lower Quarter. It was the sign Royce and Hadrian had told them to wait for—the signal to attack.

  Ever since the two thieves had woken them in the middle of the night, they had spent their time organizing the resistance in the Lower Quarter of Medford. They spread news of Amrath’s assassination by the archduke, of the innocence of the princess, and of the return of the prince. Those not moved by loyalty or justice were enticed by the chance to strike back at their betters. It was not difficult to convince the poor and the destitute to take up arms against the soldiery who policed them. In addition, there were those hoping for a possibility to do a little looting, or perhaps receive some reward from the crown if they prevailed.

  They armed themselves with pitchforks, axes, and clubs. Makeshift armor was constructed by strapping whatever thin metal they could find under their clothing. In most cases, this meant commandeering a baking sheet from their wives. They had the numbers, but they looked like a pathetic lot. Gwen had roused the Artisan Quarter, which provided not only strong workers but a few swords, bows, and bits of armor. With the city guards ordered to the perimeter and most of the Gentry Quarter at the trial, there was no one to stop them from openly organizing.

  With Dixon at his side, Mason marched at the head of the commoner procession, his smithing hammer in one hand and a rough-hewn shield he had beaten together that morning in the other. Years of frustration and resentment steamed to the surface as the smith strode forward. Anger born from the life he had been denied overwhelmed him. When he could not pay the taxes on his late father’s shop, the city sheriff and his guards had come. When he refused to leave, they had beaten him unconscious and thrown him into the gutter of Wayward Street. Mason blamed the guards for most of his life’s misfortunes. The beating had weakened his shoulders, and for years afterward, wielding his hammer was so painful he could work only a few hours each day. This, and his gambling habit, kept him in poverty. Of course, he never really considered the gambling to be the real problem; it was the guards who were responsible. It did not matter to him that the soldiers and the sheriff who had beaten him were no longer with the guard. That day was his chance to fight back, to repay in kind for the pain he had endured.

  Neither he nor Dixon was a warrior or even athletic, but they were large men with broad chests and thick necks, and the crowd followed behind them as if the citizens of the Lower Quarter were plowing the city with a pair of yoked oxen. They turned onto Wayward Street and marched unchallenged into the Gentry Quarter. Compared to the Lower Quarter, it was like another world. The streets were paved with decorative tile work and lined with metal horse hitches. Along the avenue, enclosed streetlamps and covered sewers accentuated the care taken for the comfort of the privileged few. Marking the center of the Gentry Quarter was a large spacious square. The great Essendon Fountain, with its statue of Tolin on a rearing horse above the pluming water, was its main landmark. Across from it, Mares Cathedral rose. In its towers high above, bells chimed loudly. They passed the fine three-story stone-and-brick houses, with their iron fences and decorative gates. That the stables here looked better than the house Mason lived in was not lost on him. The trip through the square only added fuel to the fire that was sweeping across the city.

  When they reached Main Street, they saw the enemy.

  The sound of the horn brought Arista to the window once more. What she saw amazed her. In the distance, at the edge of her sight, she could see banners rising above the naked trees. Count Pickering was coming, and he was not alone. There was a score of flags, representing most of the western provinces. Pickering was marching on Medford with an army.

  Is it on my account?

  She pondered the question and concluded the answer was no. Of all the nobles, she knew the Pickerings the best, but she doubted the count marched for her. The more likely explanation was that news of Alric’s death had reached him, and he was challenging Braga for the crown. Arista doubted Pickering had given any thought to her. He merely saw his opportunity and he was reaching for it. The fact that she might still live was only a technicality. No one wanted a woman as their ruler. If Pickering won, he would force her abdication of the throne in favor of himself or perhaps Mauvin. She would be sent away, or locked up, but she would never be truly free. At least if Pickering won, Braga would never sit on the throne—but she did not like Pickering’s chances. She was no tactician and certainly not a general but even she could see that the forces marching up the road lacked the numbers for a castle siege. Braga had his forces well entrenched. Looking at the courtyard below, she realized the attack was distracting everyone.

  Per
haps this time it will be different.

  She rushed to her door and with a tap of her necklace unlocked it. She grabbed the latch and pushed. As usual, the door refused to budge. “Damn that dwarf,” she said aloud to herself. She pushed violently against the door, throwing her entire weight, such that it was, against it. The door did not give way.

  There was another rumble, and her room shook once more. Dust fell from the rafters. What is going on? She staggered as the tower swayed like a ship at sea. She did not know what else to do. Terrified and bewildered, she returned to the illusionary safety of her bed. She sat there, hugging her knees, hardly breathing, her eyes darting at the slightest sound. The end was coming. One way or another, she was certain the end was coming soon.

  The prince was new to combat and unsure what to expect. He had hoped that merely assembling a massive force would cause the city’s defenders to surrender. The reality was altogether different. When they reached Medford, they found trenches built outside the walls filled with spearmen. His archers had launched three flights of arrows but still the defenders remained steadfast. Using shields, they fended off much of the barrage and sustained little noticeable damage.

  Who are they? Alric wondered. Are my own soldiers standing between me and my home? What lies has Braga spread among the guards? Or are they all hired men? Did my gold pay for those lines of pointed steel?

  Alric sat on one of Pickering’s horses draped with a caparison hastily adorned with rough sewn images of the Melengar falcon. The animal was as restless as its rider, shuffling its hooves and snorting great clouds of frosty fog. Alric held the reins with his right hand, his left holding his woolen cloak tight about his neck. His eyes rose above the heads of the spearmen to look on the city of his birth. The walls and towers of Medford appeared faint and dreamlike through the falling snow. The vision slowly faded into white as an eerie silence muffled the world.

  “Your Majesty,” Count Pickering spoke, breaking the stillness.

  “Another flight?” Alric proposed.

  “Arrows will not conquer your city.”

  Alric nodded solemnly. “The knights, then—send them in.”

  “Marshal!” the count shouted. “Order the knights to break that line!”

  Gallant men in shining armor spurred their steeds and charged forward with banners dancing overhead. A whirlwind of snow launched into the sky at their passing and obscured them from view. They vanished from sight but Alric listened to the thunder of their hooves.

  The clash was dreadful. Alric felt it as much as heard it. Metal shrieked and men cried out, and until that moment, Alric had never known it was possible for horses to scream. When the cloud of snow settled, the prince could at last see the bloody spectacle. Spears braced in the dirt pierced the breasts of man and mount. Horses collapsed, throwing the knights to the ground where they lay, like turtles struggling to right themselves. Spearmen drew forth short swords and thrust downward, punching their sharp points into eye slits and the armor gaps at the armpit or groin.

  “This is not going as well as I hoped,” Alric complained.

  “Battle rarely ever does, Your Majesty,” Count Pickering assured him. “But this is a large part of what being king means. Your knights are dying. Are you going to leave them to their fate?”

  “Should I send in the foot soldiers?”

  “If I were you, I certainly would. You need to break a hole in that wall, and you’d better do so before your men decide you’re incompetent and vanish into the forests around them.”

  “Marshal!” Alric shouted. “Marshal Garret, order the foot soldiers to engage immediately!”

  “Yes, Sire!”

  A horn sounded and the men roared forward into battle. Alric watched as steel cut through flesh. The footmen fared better than the knights, but the defensive position of the city soldiers took a toll. Alric could hardly bear to watch. Never before had he seen such a sight—there was so much blood. The white snow was gone, stained pink and in some desperate places turned to a dark red. Littering the grounds were body parts—arms severed, heads split open, and legs chopped off. The wall of men blended in a whirling mass of flesh, dirt, blood, and an endless cacophony of screams.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Alric said, sounding and feeling sick. “This is my city. These are my people. My men!” He turned to Count Pickering. “I’m killing my own men!” He was shaking now, his face red, and tears filled his eyes. Hearing the shrieks and cries, he squeezed the pommel of his saddle until his hands hurt. He felt helpless.

  I am king now.

  He did not feel like a king. He felt like he had on the road near the Silver Pitcher when those men had held him facedown in the dirt. The tears were now streaming down his cheeks.

  “Alric! Stop it!” Pickering snapped at him. “You mustn’t let the men see you crying!”

  Fury flared in Alric, and he spun on the count. “No? No? Look at them! They are dying for me. They are dying on my order! I say they do have a right to see their king! They all have a right to see their king!”

  Alric wiped the tears from his cheeks and gathered his reins. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of having my face put in the dirt! I won’t stand it. I’m tired of being helpless. That’s my city, built by my ancestors! If my people choose to fight, then by Maribor, I want them to know it’s me they fight!”

  The prince put on his helm, drew his father’s large sword, and spurred his horse forward, not at the trench but at the castle gate itself.

  “Alric, no!” Pickering shouted after him.

  Mason rushed forward and drove his hammer through the helmet of the first guard he saw. Grinning with delight at his good fortune, he gathered the man’s sword and looked up.

  The mob had reached the main gate of the city. The great four-towered barbican of gray stone rose above them like a monstrous beast. It swarmed with soldiers shocked at the sight of the city rising against them. Surprise and the accompanying panic bought the mob time to clear the streets and reach the gatehouse. Mason heard Dixon shout, “For Prince Alric!” but the prince was the last thing on the smith’s mind.

  Mason picked out his next target—a tall guard absorbed in a swinging match with a street sweeper from Artisan Row. Mason stabbed the guard in the armpit and listened to him scream as he twisted the blade. The street sweeper grinned at the smith and Mason grinned back.

  He had killed only two men but already Mason was slick with blood. His tunic felt heavy as it stuck to the skin of his chest and he could not tell if sweat or tears of blood dripped down his face. The grin he had shown to the sweeper remained glued to his lips by the thrill and elation.

  This is freedom! This is living!

  His heart thundered and his head swam as if he were drunk. Mason swung his sword again, this time at a man already down on one knee. His swing was so strong the blade cut halfway through his victim’s neck. He kicked the dead man aside and cried aloud in his victory. He spoke no words; words were valueless at such a moment. He shouted the fury that pounded in his heart. He was a man again, a man of strength, a man to be feared!

  A horn sounded and Mason looked up once more. A captain of the castle guard was on the ramparts shouting orders, rallying his troops. They responded to the call and fell back into ranks, struggling to defend the gate even as the mob closed in.

  Mason stepped through the muddy, blood-soaked ground, now slick beneath his feet. He looked about and picked a new target. A castle guard with his back to the smith was in the process of retreating to the sound of his captain’s voice. The smith aimed at the guard’s neck, attempting to cleave off his head. His inexperience with a sword caused him to aim too high and the blade glanced off the man’s helmet, ringing it loudly. He raised the sword for another blow when the man unexpectedly turned around.

  Mason felt a sharp, burning pain in his stomach. In an instant, all the strength and fury drained from him. He let go his sword. He saw, rather than felt, himself drop to his knees. He looked down at the so
urce of the pain and watched the soldier withdraw a sword from his stomach. Mason could not believe what he was seeing.

  How could all that steel come out of me?

  The smith felt a warm wetness on his hands as he instinctively pressed them to the wound. He tried as best he could to contain his organs as the blood flowed through a gash at least a foot wide. He no longer felt his legs, and lay helpless when, to his horror, he saw the soldier swing again—this time at his head.

  Alric charged the castle barbican. Immediately, Count Pickering, Mauvin, and Marshal Garret led the reserve knights in behind him. Arrows rained down from the parapets above the great gates. One deflected off Alric’s visor, and another struck deep into the horn of his saddle. One hit Sir Sinclair’s horse in the flank, causing it to rear unexpectedly, but the knight remained mounted. Countless more struck the ground harmlessly. The enraged prince rode directly to the gate and, standing up in his stirrups, shouted, “I am Prince Alric Brendon Essendon! Open this gate in the name of your king!”

  Alric was not certain anyone had heard him as he stood there, his sword raised high over his head. Furthermore, if they had heard him, there was no reason to believe another arrow would not whistle down and end his life. Behind the prince, the remaining knights fanned out around him as the marshal attempted to build a wall around his monarch.

  Another arrow did not fly but neither did the gate open.

  “Alric,” Count Pickering shouted, “you must fall back!”

  “I am Prince Alric Essendon! Open the gate now!” he demanded again, and this time, he removed his helm and threw it aside, backing his horse into full view of the ramparts.

  Alric and the others waited. Count Pickering and Mauvin stared at the prince in terror and tried to persuade him to come away from the gate. Nothing happened for several tense moments as the prince and his bodyguards sat outside waiting, staring up at the parapets. From inside they heard the sounds of fighting.