Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What makes you think I’m upset you killed Amrath? I’m not even mad that you trapped the tower. Closing the door on me was the mistake you made.”

  Magnus inched away.

  “Killing you would be as easy as—no, easier than—slaughtering a fatted pig. The challenge would lie in causing the maximum amount of pain before inflicting the death.”

  Magnus’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

  “But you are a very lucky dwarf, because there’s a man still alive in that tent who wouldn’t like it—a man you covered in a blanket and put a lean-to over.”

  Down below he spotted Arista as she entered the camp. She talked to a guard, who pointed toward the white tent. She rushed to it.

  Royce looked back at the dwarf and spoke clearly and evenly. “If you ever touch Alverstone again without my permission, I’ll kill you.”

  Magnus looked at him bitterly; then his expression changed and he raised an eyebrow. “Without your permission? So there’s a chance you’ll let me study it?”

  Royce rolled his eyes. “I’m going to get Hadrian out of there. You are going to steal two of the archbishop’s horses and walk them over to the white tent without being spotted.”

  “And then we can talk about the permission thing?”

  Royce sighed, “Did I mention I hate dwarves?”

  “But, Your Grace—” Deacon Tomas protested as he stood in the large striped tent before Bishop Saldur and Luis Guy. The pudgy cleric made a poor showing of himself in his frock caked with dirt and ash, his face smudged, his fingers black.

  “Look at you, Tomas,” Bishop Saldur said. “You’re so exhausted you look as if you’ll fall down any minute. You’ve had a long two days, and you’ve been under tremendous stress for months now. It is only natural that you might see things in the dark. No one is blaming you. And we don’t think you are lying. We know that right now you believe you saw this village girl destroy the Gilarabrywn, but I think if you just take a nap and rest, when you get up, you’ll find that you were mistaken about a great many things.”

  “I don’t need a nap!” Tomas shouted.

  “Calm down, Deacon,” Saldur snapped, rising abruptly to his feet. “Remember whose presence you are standing in.”

  The deacon cowed and Saldur sighed. His face softened to his grandfatherly visage and he put an arm around the man’s shoulders, patting him gently. “Go to a tent and rest.”

  Tomas hesitated, turned, and left Saldur and Luis Guy alone.

  The bishop threw himself down in the little cushioned chair beside a bowl of red berries some industrious servant had managed to gather for him. He popped two in his mouth and chewed. They were bitter and he grimaced. Despite the early hour, Saldur was desperate for a glass of brandy, but none had survived the flight from the castle. Only the grace of Maribor could account for the survival of the camping gear and provisions, all of which they had lazily left in the wagons when they had first arrived at the manor. In the turmoil of their exodus, they had given little thought to provisions.

  That he lived at all was a miracle. He could not recall how he had crossed the courtyard, or how he had reached the gate. He must have run down the hill, but had no recollection of it. His memory was like a dream, vague and fading. He did remember ordering the coachman to whip the horses. The fool wanted to wait for the archbishop. The old man could barely walk, and the moment the flames hit, his servants deserted him. He had had as much chance of survival as Rufus.

  With Archbishop Galien’s death, the command of the church’s interest in Dahlgren fell to Saldur and Guy. The two inherited a disaster of mythic proportions. They were alone in the wilderness, faced with crucial decisions. How they handled them would decide the fate of future generations. Who actually held authority remained vague. Saldur was a bishop, an appointed leader, while Guy was only a constabulary officer whose jurisdiction extended mostly to apostate members of the church. Still, the sentinel actually spoke with the Patriarch. Saldur liked Guy, but appreciation for his effectiveness would not prevent him from sacrificing the sentinel if necessary. Saldur was certain that if Guy still had had his knights about him, the sentinel would have taken command and he would have had no choice but to accept it, but the seret were dead and Guy himself wounded. With Galien also dead, a door had opened, and Saldur planned to be the first one through.

  Saldur looked at Guy. “How could you let this happen?”

  The sentinel, who sat with his arm in a sling and his shoulder wrapped in bandages, stiffened. “I lost seven good men, and barely escaped with my life. I wouldn’t call that allowing it to happen.”

  “And how exactly did a bunch of farmers defeat the infamous seret?”

  “They weren’t farmers. Two were Pickerings and there was Hadrian Blackwater.”

  “The Pickerings I can understand, but Blackwater? He’s nothing but a rogue.”

  “No, there’s more to him—him and his partner.”

  “Royce and Hadrian are excellent thieves. They proved that in Melengar and again in Chadwick. Poor Archibald still has fits over them.”

  “No,” Guy said, “I think they’re more than that. Blackwater knows Teshlor combat, and his friend Royce Melborn is an elf.”

  Saldur blinked. “An elf? Are you sure?”

  “He passes as human, but I’m certain of it.”

  “And this is the second time we’ve found them with Esrahaddon,” Saldur muttered in concern. “Is this Hadrian still here?”

  “He is in the infirmary tent.”

  “Put a guard on him at once.”

  “I’ve had him under guard since he was dragged to the tent. What we need to concern ourselves with is the girl. She’s going to prove herself to be an embarrassment if we don’t do something,” Guy said, and slipped his sword partway out of its sheath. “She is in grief over the loss of her father. It wouldn’t be surprising if she threw herself over the falls in a fit of despair.”

  “And Tomas?” Saldur asked, reaching for another handful of berries. “It is clear he won’t be quiet. Will you kill him too? What excuse will you give for that? And what about all the others in this camp that heard him going on all morning about her being the heir? Do we kill everyone? If we did, who would carry our bags back to Ervanon?” he added with a smile.

  “I don’t see the humor in this,” Guy snapped, letting his sword slide back down in its sheath.

  “Perhaps that’s because you are not looking at it the right way,” Saldur told him. Guy was a well-trained and vicious guard dog, but the man lacked imagination. “What if we didn’t kill her? What if we actually made her the empress?”

  “A peasant girl? Empress?” Guy scoffed. “Are you mad?”

  “Despite his political clout, I don’t think any of us, including the Patriarch, were particularly happy with the choice of Rufus. He was a fool, to be sure, but he was also a stubborn, powerful fool. We all suspected that he might have had to be killed within a year, which would have thrown the infant empire into turmoil. How much better would it be to have an empress that would do whatever she was told right from the very start?”

  “But how could we possibly sell her to the nobles?”

  “We don’t,” Saldur said, and a smile appeared on his wrinkled face. “We sell her to the people instead.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Degan Gaunt’s Nationalist movement proved that the people themselves have strength. Earls, barons, even kings are afraid of the power which that commoner can gather. A word from him could launch a peasant uprising. Lords would have to kill their own people, their own source of revenue, just to keep order. This presents them with the undesirable choice of accepting either poverty or death. The landholders will do almost anything to avoid such an event. What if we tapped that? The peasants already revere the church. They follow its teachings as divine truth. How much more inspiring would it be to offer them a leader plucked from their own stock? A ruler who is one of them and able to truly understand the plight of the poor, the
unwashed, the destitute. Not only is she a peasant queen, but she is also the Heir of Novron, and all the wonderful expectations that go with that. Indeed, in our greatest hour of need, Maribor has once again delivered unto his people a divine leader to show us the way out of darkness.

  “We could send bards across the land repeating the epic tale of the pure, chaste girl who slew the elven demon that even Lord Rufus was powerless against. We’ll call it Rufus’s Bane. Yes, I like it—so much better than the unpronounceable Gilarabrywn.”

  “But can she be made to play her part?” Guy asked.

  “You saw her. She’s nearly comatose. Not only does she have no place to go, no friends or relatives, no money or possessions, she is also emotionally shattered. She’d slit her own wrists, I suspect, if she gets a knife. Still, the best part is that once we establish her as empress, once we have the support of the people so fervently on our side, no noble landholder would dare challenge us. We can do what we planned to do with Rufus. Only instead of a messy murder that would certainly invite suspicion and accusations, with the girl, we can simply marry her. The new husband will rule as emperor and we can lock her in a dark room somewhere, pulling her out for Wintertide showings.”

  Guy smiled at that.

  “Do you think the Patriarch will agree?” Saldur asked him. “Perhaps we should send a rider back today.”

  “No, this is too important. I’ll go myself. I’ll leave as soon as I can saddle a horse. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, we will announce that we are considering the possibility that this girl is the heir, but will not accept her unconditionally until a full investigation is conducted. That should buy us a month. If the Patriarch agrees, then we can send out rabble-rousers to incite the people with rumors that the church is being forced by the nobles and the monarchs to not reveal the girl as the true heir. The people will be denouncing our enemies and demanding that she take the throne before we even announce her.”

  “She will make the perfect figurehead,” Guy said.

  Saldur looked up, picturing the future. “An innocent girl linked with a mythic legend. Her beautiful name will be everywhere and she will be loved.” The bishop paused and thought. “What is her name, anyway?”

  “I think Tomas called her … Thrace.”

  “Seriously?” Saldur grimaced. “Well, no matter, we’ll change it. After all, she’s ours now.”

  Royce looked around. There was not a single sentry left outside. Several still moved about on the hilltop, but they were far enough away to ignore. Satisfied, he ducked through the flap of the white tent. Inside, he found Tobis, Hadrian, Mauvin, and Hilfred on cots. Hadrian was naked to his waist, his head and chest wrapped in white bandages, but he was awake and sitting up. Mauvin, though still pale, was alert, his bandages bright white. Hilfred lay wrapped like a mummy and Royce could not be sure if he was awake or sleeping. Arista stood bent over his cot, checking on him.

  “I was wondering when you would get here,” Hadrian said.

  Arista turned. “Yes, I thought you would have arrived much sooner.”

  “Sorry, you know how it is when you’re having fun. You lose all track of time, but I did locate your weapons, again. You know how upset you get when you don’t have your swords. Can you ride?”

  “If I can walk, why not?” He raised an arm and Royce offered his shoulder, helping him to stand.

  “What about me?” Mauvin asked, holding his side and sitting up on his cot. “You’re not going to leave me, are you?”

  “You have to take him,” Arista declared. “He killed two of Guy’s men.”

  “Can you ride?” Royce asked.

  “If I had a horse under me, I could at least hang on.”

  “What about Thrace?” Hadrian asked.

  “I don’t think you need worry about her,” Royce told him. “I was just by the bishop’s tent. Tomas is demanding that they declare her empress.”

  “Empress?” Hadrian said, stunned.

  “She killed the Gilarabrywn right in front of the deacon. I guess it made an impression.”

  “But what if they don’t? We can’t leave her.”

  “Don’t worry about Thrace,” Arista said. “I’ll see she’s taken care of. Now you all need to get out of here.”

  “Theron wanted at least one of his children to be successful,” Hadrian muttered, “but empress?”

  “You need to hurry,” Arista said, helping Royce pull Mauvin to his feet. She gave all three of them a kiss and a gentle hug and then pushed them out like a mother sending her children to school.

  Outside the tent, Magnus arrived with three saddled horses. The dwarf looked around nervously and whispered, “I could have sworn I saw guards watching this tent earlier.”

  “You did,” Royce replied. “Three horses—you read my mind.”

  “I figured I needed one for myself,” the dwarf replied, pointing at the shortened stirrups. He looked at Mauvin with a scowl. “Now it looks like I’ll need to get another.”

  “Forget it,” Royce whispered. “Ride with Mauvin. Take it slow and make sure he stays in the saddle.”

  Royce helped Hadrian up onto a gray mare, then started to chuckle to himself.

  “What is it?” Hadrian asked.

  “Mouse.”

  “What’s that?”

  Royce pointed to the horse Hadrian sat on. “Of all the animals he had to choose from, the dwarf stole Mouse.”

  Royce led them away from the camp, walking the horses across the scorched land, where the ash muffled their movement. He kept a close eye on the distant sentries. No outcry, no shouts, no one appeared to notice, and soon they slipped into the leafy forest. Once there, he turned back toward the river in order to throw off anyone who might look for their tracks. Once he had them safe in a shallow glen near the Nidwalden, Royce ordered them to stay put while he went back.

  He crept up to the edge of the burned area. The camp was as it had been before. Satisfied they had made a clean escape, he walked back toward the river. He found himself on the trail that led to the Woods’ farm and the shell of the old building. Inexplicably, the fire had never reached this far and it remained untouched. There was one change, however; in the center of the yard, where they had first seen the old farmer sharpening his scythe, there was a mound of earth. A stack of stones borrowed from the walls of the farmhouse circled the oblong mound. At its head, driven into the ground, was a broad plank, and burned into it were the words:

  THERON WOOD

  FARMER

  Royce could just make out the additional words scratched into the plank below that:

  Father of the Empress

  As Royce stood reading the words, he noticed it—a chill making the hair on his skin stand up. Someone was watching him. On the edge of his sight, a figure stood in the trees. Another stood to his left. He sensed more behind him. He turned his head, focused his eyes to see who they were—nothing. All he saw were trees. He glanced to his left and again nothing. He stood still, listening. Not a twig snapped, nor a leaf crinkled, but he could still feel it.

  He moved away from the clearing into the brush and circled around. He moved as quietly as he could, but when he stopped, he was alone.

  Royce stood, puzzled. He looked for tracks where he had seen the figures, but none existed, not even a bent blade of grass. At last, he gave up and returned to where he had left the others.

  “All’s well?” Hadrian asked, sitting atop Mouse with the sun on his bare shoulders and his chest wrapped in broad strips of white cloth.

  “I suppose,” he said, mounting up.

  He led them southwest along the highlands near the falls, following a deer trail that cut through the deep forest. It was the same trail he had found in his hours searching for a tunnel to the tower. Hadrian and Mauvin appeared to be doing better than expected, though each of them winced in pain whenever his horse took a misstep.

  Royce continued to look back over his shoulder but nothing was ever there.

&nbs
p; By midafternoon they had cleared the trees and found the main road heading south to Alburn. Here they paused to check Mauvin’s and Hadrian’s bandages. Mauvin started to bleed again, but it was not bad and Magnus turned out to be almost as good a nurse as he was a sword smith, fashioning a new pad for his side. Royce searched through the saddlebags and found Hadrian a suitable shirt.

  “We should be fine,” Royce told them, going through their inventory. “With a little luck we should reach Medford in a week.”

  “In a hurry, are you?” Hadrian asked.

  “You might say that.”

  “Thinking about Gwen?”

  “I’m thinking it’s time I told her a few things about myself.”

  Hadrian smiled and nodded.

  “You think Thrace will be all right?”

  “Tomas seems to be watching out for her pretty well.”

  “Do you think they’ll really make her empress?”

  “Not a chance.” Royce shook his head and handed the shirt to him. “What do you plan on doing now?” Royce asked Magnus.

  The dwarf shrugged. “You mean assuming you don’t kill me?”

  “I’m not going to kill you, but your old employer, the church, might now that you’ve turned on them. They will be coming after you just the same as they’ll be after Mauvin and Hadrian. And without the church’s support, you won’t last long on your own. Towns in Avryn aren’t too friendly to your kind.”

  “Nowhere is.”

  “That’s what I meant.” Royce sighed. “I know of a very out-of-the-way place you might be able to hold up at. A place the church isn’t likely to visit. They need a lot of stonework done and could use an experienced craftsman like you.”