The Misbegotten King

by Anne Kelleher Bush

  “Dead?” The word slipped from his lips as Roderic stared uncomprehending at the man who knelt before him. His uniform, or what was left of it, was tattered and torn. A wound had opened in his back and blood spread in a slow stain, darkening the already bloodstained fabric. The messenger raised tortured eyes to Roderic.

  “Yes, Lord Prince. I saw it with these eyes.” A tear slipped down his weathered cheek.

  Roderic turned away and raised his eyes as Tavia rushed into the hall. “Roderic! What word?”

  “He’s dead,” Roderic said, scarcely believing the words as he said them. “Brand. Brand is dead.”

  “Dead?” Tavia pressed her fist to her mouth. “How?”

  The soldier rose awkwardly to his feet. “In Dlas, lady. They were waiting for us. I have never seen their like before and I have served twenty years in this army. They fell upon us like locusts, Lord Prince. We had no chance at all.”

  “And you—only you—escaped?”

  “There were a few of us, Lord Prince. But the others died on the way back.”

  “Go—eat, rest. You’ve earned it, soldier.” Roderic met Tavia’s troubled eyes.

  “What will you do, Roderic?” Tavia asked.

  Roderic shook his head. “Talk to Phineas. What else can I do?”

  With a heavy heart and a slow step, Roderic walked down the corridor to Phineas’ chambers. The servant who opened the door raised his eyebrow as he saw Roderic’s expression, but knew better than to dare question him. “Lord Phineas is resting, Lord Prince.” With a quick gesture, he indicated the inner room.

  Without a word, Roderic walked into Phineas’ bedroom and paused. The old man lay on the bed, beneath a white sheet, his hands loosely clasped on his chest. His chest moved so faintly Roderic feared he might be dead. Then Phineas shifted. “Phineas,” Roderic said gently. “Phineas. We must talk.”

  The old man turned his head at once in the direction of Roderic’s voice. “What’s happened?”

  Momentarily Roderic marveled at the speed with which the old man awoke, and then he remembered that Phineas, too, was once a soldier. “It’s Brand. He’s dead. His whole force slaughtered with him. Only one survivor made it back.”

  The color drained from Phineas’ face. “Brand dead?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “By the One.”

  “What are we to do, Phineas?”

  “Come, Roderic.” Phineas spread his hands and indicated the chair beside his bed. “Come and sit.”

  “This—this— Phineas,” Roderic said as he moved to take the place the old man motioned to, “I can’t replace those troops. Shall I call the men in Atland to fall back? If Amanander launches another such attack on Atland, there is no hope. They are in danger of being completely cut off—I need the men here—”

  “Roderic.” Phineas spoke softly but sharply. “This is a great blow. We can summon troops from Arkan. The Harleyriders have not invaded as Gredahl feared. There are troops in reserve at all the outpost garrisons. If messengers go out today, we can field an army within—”

  “Within two months if we are lucky, Phineas. You know as well as I that to send word—”

  “Yes, it will take time, but what is the alternative? I warned Brand not to go rushing off into Dlas until we had a better idea of what we faced—” Phineas broke off and choked, swallowing hard. “Garrick used to say there always was too much of the puppy about Brand.”

  Roderic turned away in the face of the old man’s grief. Garrick. There was another name lost in the cause of Amanander. He thought of the words of the dying King. Have faith. Never give up hope. He got to his feet and paced to the window. “How many more must we lose, Phineas?”

  “Eh?” the old man asked.

  “Is this what the King envisioned, Phineas? Is this really what he had in mind? Oh, I know it’s wrong to speak ill of him, but answer me honestly—how many more must we lose? Brand and Jaboa, Barran, Garrick, Peregrine—look how many we’ve lost. Why in the name of the One, Phineas, did he have to be so single-minded? Is a united Meriga really worth the cost?”

  “You tell me, Roderic.”

  Roderic ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t answer that, Phineas. I used to think we fought for something greater than ourselves. I used to think that I could make a difference. And now—so many dead who shouldn’t have died. I wonder if in the end I’ll only question what it was all for.”

  “Listen to me, Roderic. I know things look bleak right now. I know you are imagining that nothing could possibly be much worse. But let’s assess the situation. Amanander seems to move his men in concert. They can’t make individual decisions. The leaders—if indeed they are leaders at all—can only do as Amanander directs. Well. What general can be everywhere on the field at once? Don’t you rely on your officers to make split decisions for you?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Roderic, think. What has Amanander truly accomplished? Other than to seriously demoralize you?”

  “Brand’s dead. Barran is dead. At least five thousand men are dead. Dlas is lost. My troops in Atland are in danger of being cut off.”

  “Roderic, we’ve been here at Ithan for nearly four months. In all that time, has Amanander attacked?”

  Roderic paused. “Other than Dlas? No… no, he hasn’t.”

  Phineas drew a deep breath. “Think about this. If we summon all the reserves held at the garrisons in Arkan, we can easily field as many men as Amanander. Now. If Kye and our men attack—not as one body, but as bits and pieces, gnawing away at the edges—there is a chance, I believe, a slight chance, to turn Amanander’s own strength to our advantage. We must use the element of surprise, the unexpected.”

  Roderic shook his head. “I understand, Phineas. But there are only so many men. Didn’t you hear the reports? The dead rise and fight for Amanander.”

  “Roderic.” Phineas’s voice was gentle. “Would you entrust a battle to dead men?”

  Roderic turned to stare at Phineas. The question was so ludicrous as to be unanswerable. As he drew a breath to try to answer, the door to the outer room was flung wide, and Phineas’ body servant burst into the room. “Lord Phineas, your pardon—but, Lord Prince, you must come at once.”

  “What’s wrong now?” Roderic was across the room in three strides.

  “An army, Lord Prince. Coming this way. The people are panicking. Please—”

  He didn’t wait to hear the rest. In the hall he found Miles giving orders to the captains of the regiments. “Get those civilians inside the walls as quickly as possible and then raise the drawbridge—” Miles broke off in midsentence as Roderic grasped his arm. “Roderic, it looks as though he’s made his final move.”

  Roderic nodded. “How many?”

  Miles shook his head. “The road is black with them— the line stretches on for miles. You can’t see the road for the foot soldiers and the horsemen.”

  “Damn.” Roderic turned away with a curse. “I’m going up to the top of the tower. I want to see this for myself.”

  Miles nodded. “As you say, Lord Prince—do you understand the orders, Captain?”

  The captain saluted, and together Miles and Roderic climbed the steps of the tower two and three at a time. They burst out onto the windy height, and Roderic glanced around, seeking his bearings. “Over here.” Miles gripped his arm and pointed west.

  Roderic leaned over the battlement. In the distance, still some miles away, an army was indeed advancing. The line of men stretched as far as he could see, toward the horizon, and ahead rode at least two hundred horsemen. They carried standards, and he could just make out the colors snapping in the breeze.

  He bit his lip. “Damn, Miles, what would you estimate?”

  Miles shook his head. “Ten—fifteen thousand, maybe? Look at that cloud of dust—there’re more horsemen behind the first ranks of foot.”

  Roderic swore, a coarse soldier’s oath he had often heard Brand use. Well, so be it, he thought. If t
his was to be the last stand, so be it. “How are we provisioned?” he asked.

  Miles shrugged. “Fairly well. Lots of mouths to feed, though—we’ll have to see what kind of an assault they plan and ration as we must.”

  “Yes…” Roderic let his voice trail off. He squinted down at the approaching horsemen. The standards dipped and swirled in the afternoon light, and as he watched, one of them put his spurs to his stallion and galloped on ahead of the rest. “Miles,” he began. “Those aren’t Harland’s colors—see there?”

  Miles followed Roderic’s gaze. “Hmmm. Not any I recognize, either—must be one of the lesser lords.”

  But Roderic stared over the battlements, not hearing the recitation of the possibilities. The rider who galloped on ahead wore plaid: brown and rusty red on a background so dirty it appeared gray. “By the One,” he muttered in disbelief. “By the One.”

  Miles turned to him. “What is it, Roderic?”

  “Look—down there. That’s Deirdre. The M’Callaster. And she’s brought an army with her.” He turned to Miles with blazing eyes. “Open the gates. Let her in. Do it, now.”

  Without protest, Miles took off down the steps. Roderic paused just another moment more. The horsemen behind her rode easily, weapons sheathed; the foot soldiers marched in orderly formation, pikes and long bows slung over their shoulders. As they crested the rise in the road, Roderic could see the heavy supply wagons lurching along behind.

  Deirdre’s braids fell free and her plaid swirled out behind her as the horse gained the tent city around Ithan. “By the One,” Roderic whispered once more. He took off down the steps and reached the courtyard in time to see the heavy gates swing open. The crowd looked at him expectantly. He ignored everyone but the woman who guided her black stallion through the gates, her cheeks pink, a ready grin on her face. Through the gates, he could see the standards of the army snap in the breeze, and a few horsemen trotted in behind Deirdre.

  She rode up to the steps of the keep and swung out of her saddle. He stared at her, almost unable to believe that after all these months she had returned. “Deirdre,” he said, so softly he doubted she could hear.

  She walked up the steps and went down on one knee. “Lord Prince,” she said, her eyes dancing in her solemn face. “The Senador of the Vada Valley sends his regrets that he cannot join you personally, and hopes these troops will aid his grandson’s cause.”

  Roderic suppressed an urge to let his jaw drop in shock. He looked up as Deirdre’s companions walked up behind her and knelt on one knee before him. “Lord Prince,” said the first, “we come to pledge allegiance.”

  “Will you not bid us welcome, Lord Prince?” Deirdre rose to her feet, her mouth curving in the grin she could no longer suppress.

  “Be welcome—” He turned to Miles. “Miles—”

  “Come, come, welcome to Ithan Ford.” Miles stepped forward on cue, beckoning to the captain of his guard as he did.

  Roderic looked at Deirdre. “And you, M’Callaster—”

  “Aye?”

  “You have some explaining to do, I think.”

  She winked and tossed her braids over her shoulder. “Say but the word, Lord Prince. I stand at your disposal and wait upon your grace.”

  It was then the crowd began to cheer.

  Chapter Twenty-Thirty

  On a gray and cheerless dawn, Roderic led the combined armies of the Estates of Meriga down the ancient highway leading out of Ithan. Deirdre and Miles, as well as Chiavett Khan, rode by his side, the standards of Arkan and Kora-lado, of Vada and Tennessy and the Settle Islands snapping proudly in the early morning breeze. The people who lined the roads were silent, grim, as though they knew that this, no matter the outcome, would be the final battle.

  If he had thought the country desolate on his first march to Atland, which seemed so long ago, it was because he had had nothing to compare it with then. Now, the land south of Ithan lay like a spent beast, gasping its last. The villages they passed were deserted, the people fled north into the Tennessy Fall and beyond. No sign of human occupation except those abandoned dwellings greeted them on the long march.

  Ten days out of Ithan, they made camp beside the Misspy Gorge where it opened out into the Missiluse lowlands. In the low-lying valleys, white bones lay in heaps, stripped clean of flesh by carrion animals. At least, thought Roderic, he hoped it was by carrion animals.

  He found Deirdre staring south on a rocky ledge overlooking the gorge. “Can’t you feel it, Roderic?” She spoke without looking at him. “There’s a sickness, a rot upon the land. It turns my stomach.” She spat, as though to clear a bad taste from her mouth. “Faugh.”

  “It seems the closer we come to Amanander the worse things look.”

  Deirdre turned and looked at him with faraway eyes. “He knows we’re coming.”

  “Good,” Roderic said grimly. “I hope he trembles.” Before Roderic could say more, a sergeant ran up from the ranks.

  “Lord Prince!” He paused to catch his breath. “From the West, there is a host approaching—at least a thousand horse, three thousand foot.”

  Roderic frowned. “Who—Harleyriders? Amanander’s men?”

  “No, Lord Prince, it cannot be. They carry a standard of a noble house—and the heralds say it is one of the Western lords.”

  Intrigued, Roderic hastened to the periphery of the camp, Deirdre at his heels. “Do you recognize those colors, Deirdre?”

  “Aye,” she murmured, her voice breathy with disbelief. “Tis Ragonn’s colors reversed.‘Tis his heir that comes.”

  As they watched, two figures detached from the main body of the oncoming cavalry and galloped towards them. One carried a long staff from which blew a bright green-and-yellow standard, and beneath it, a white flag of truce.

  About a hundred yards away, the rider lowered his standard, and both horses slowed to a walk.

  “We come in peace.” The rider without the standard held up one hand, to show he was unarmed. He reined his stallion twenty paces away. “I seek Roderic Ridenau, Prince of Meriga. Can you take me to him?”

  Roderic bowed briefly. “You’ve brought yourselves. I’m Roderic.”

  He spurred his horse closer. He was young, as young as Roderic, and his hair was black, his eyes dark brown in a sun-browned face. “Then I greet you, Roderic Ridenau. I am Evan Lewis, heir to the Senador of Ragonn.” He slid out of his saddle. “Old Owen sent word to my father of your need, and I have come to pledge my allegiance. I bring you a thousand horse, thirty-five hundred foot.”

  Roderic glanced at Deirdre, too stunned for speech. Deirdre looked at least as surprised. “Lewis of Ragonn?”

  He nodded, a grin creasing his face. “Will you accept my pledge?”

  Roderic hesitated. The other Senadors had sworn the pledge to the King and were bound to his heir only through him. If Roderic accepted Evan’s pledge, was it not tantamount to claiming the throne before he was confirmed? Should not the Congress decide who had the better right to rule after the war was ended? He remembered his last conversation with Phineas.

  Young Lewis frowned, not understanding Roderic’s reluctance. Roderic glanced once more at Deirdre, who shrugged and raised one eyebrow. Roderic felt like an impostor as he slowly extended his hand. “Will you witness, M’Callaster?”

  “Aye.” She nodded and adjusted her plaid.

  Lewis bowed in her direction, then fell to one knee before Roderic. Roderic placed his left hand on Lewis’ shoulder and took both of Lewis’ hands in his right. “Do you know the words?”

  He nodded eagerly. “I have practiced them across the length of Meriga.” He took a deep breath. “I pledge allegiance to the Prince of the United Estates of Meriga, and to the kingdom for which he stands, one nation, indivisible, and upon my honor, I forever swear to do whatever he might require, to uphold my Prince and his kingdom, even unto my death.”

  Roderic raised Lewis to his feet and, as Abelard had done, touched Lewis’ lips with his own. “In the presenc
e of these witnesses, Lord Lewis of Ragonn, I accept your pledge, and seal the bond between us with this kiss.” Roderic drew a deep breath. “Tell your men to camp here, next to ours. Come and meet Miles of the Tennessy Fall.”

  As they sat around the campfire in the evening, they heard shouts go up at the periphery of the camp, and even before Roderic could send a guard to find out what had happened, one of the sentries appeared, supporting an exhausted-looking man. “Lord Prince, forgive me—”

  “What is it?”

  “Messenger, sir. From Ithan.”

  “Yes? What news?” One look at the man’s face told Roderic what he was going to say before he spoke the words.

  * * *

  Tears ran down the messenger’s hardened face. “The King, Lord Prince. King Abelard is dead.”

  An immediate hush fell over the entire group as Roderic slowly rose to his feet. “When?”

  “Two days, ago. Your lady sister said to tell you he didn’t suffer at the end—just slipped away.”

  Roderic nodded automatically. “Thank you, soldier. Captain, see to this man’s needs.”

  He did not wait for the salute. There was a hollow feeling in his chest, as though there were only empty space where his heart had beat a moment ago. He was surprised his knees did not shake. With measured steps, Roderic walked like one blinded beyond the perimeter of the camp. He threw back his cloak, said his name, and the sentry let him pass.

  On a slight rise, he paused. The dark sky was silent, the stars stared back at him, and if they guarded some portent, they shared it not. Was Abelard among them, now? he wondered. The puny, flickering watch fires could not penetrate the darkness of that void. He stared south: blacker land under black sky. He raised his fist and the muscles of his arms and chest flexed, and he relished the weight of the King’s sword across his shoulders. “Amanander!” He bellowed the challenge into the desolation. “I’m coming!” The bloodrage burned hot and bright, and he shook his fist to the impassive heavens.

  “By what right?” The unbidden answer was a sibilant whisper in his mind. “By what right, Prince Roderic?” A mocking emphasis on the title made him stagger. The words faded away until it would have been easy to pretend he heard them not at all.