Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  They circled each other, throwing jabs, establishing their distance.

  Spairjack was an ancient English martial art. In Cornwall, they still practised it in the villages. Tristan had taken it up and made a national sport out of it. Politically, this was a neat play, helping Tristan to cast himself as a defender of English identity, offsetting the eternal accusations that he was too soft on the Irish. But how could a Coenobite take it seriously? Unarmed combat was, at best, a single technique in the toolkit of a soldier whose survival would much more often depend on a quick trigger finger.

  No matter. Spairjack had become an essential career move for anyone who wanted to rise at court.

  Oswald had let his own practice go stale, believing he no longer had to impress the king.

  Now he had to prove himself all over again.

  But not to Tristan.

  To these smirking morons who wanted to stop Oswald from doing what was necessary to save House Wessex.

  He attacked the king.

  You say Harry’s death upended the world for you.

  Tristan had used those very words, sitting in Oswald’s office with his head in his hands.

  The irony is, Sire, you have no fucking idea how much damage it’s done to your regime.

  Let me save you, my king.

  The king threw a sidekick at his gut.

  Oswald stepped into it, blocking with a chopping blow and riding his momentum into a straight punch.

  Tristan was no longer there. He grinned into Oswald’s eyes and aimed a cross punch at his throat. Oswald blocked that at the last instant and then he was warding off a flurry of blows, retreating, on the defensive, damn it, and he could sense the watchers sharing a chuckle of anticipation.

  They don’t love you, Sire. They wanted Harry! They were willing to wait for him; but now he’s gone, and they are not willing to wait for my Michael.

  You must, Sire, do something!

  Tristan bulled at him in a low tackle.

  Oswald straight-kicked at the center of the king’s chest. But again, Tristan was no longer there. He’d dropped to the floor, and now he swept one leg into the back of Oswald’s knee. Like a beginner, Oswald lost his balance. His hands smacked the floor. The watching knights bayed in delight. Tristan’s spairjack maester shoved to the forefront of the watchers, a toothless grin tucked into his beard. Oswald had never mastered the fancier spairjack moves, the handsprings and backflips, so all he could do was recover as best he could and retreat under a new onslaught from the royal fists. A punch slipped through his guard and struck his shoulder, rocking him back. The king had pulled it, in accordance with the rules, but just barely.

  Oswald’s heel brushed the wall. “Lady Vivienne—sent you—a message.”

  “Not sure I’m interested.” Tristan rained blows at Oswald’s head. Sweat glossed the old burns on the king’s cheeks.

  “‘Come—to me—if you want to talk. I will be at the—art gallery—until six.’” He soaked up the attack, shuffling sideways, his back to the wall.

  Tristan barked a breathless laugh. “Nancy boys and journalists from wall to wall, hideous modern daubs, I think not. Vivienne imagines she’s still twenty. How much backup had they sent to the hotel?”

  “Sir Guy. Francis Sauvage—”

  “The family magician. Go on.”

  “A squad of large men passing—themselves off as—lawyers. And several secretaries—with gun calluses.”

  “Bit excessive.” Tristan lashed out with Tears of the Dragon. “Probably a good thing I didn’t go.”

  Now or never.

  Oswald had to drop his guard to get his right hand down to his waist. Tristan’s fist slammed into his jaw. Black stars exploded before his eyes, but he grasped the hilt of the dagger in the folds of his cummerbund. He slashed out blindly, trusting Tristan to be faster. Tristan was, but his evasive move cost him his balance, and Oswald bore him down to the floor in a blundering rush. They rolled around, wrestling like pub brawlers. The watchers cheered.

  The king often joked that he and Oswald were the same age. But Oswald was eleven years younger, as well as two inches taller, and now that advantage stood him in good stead. He pinned the king flat on his face in a Half-Sozzled Grizzly Bear Mount, or something like that. All that really mattered now was the dagger in his hand. It was a throwing blade, balanced wrong for stabbing, but it would do.

  “Saw that coming,” Tristan coughed, cheek squashed to the floor. “Not too dusty. Been practising?”

  “Do you surrender?”

  “Not a fucking chance.” Tristan writhed in some way that seemed to twist his spine like a corkscrew, and his hand flashed to the top of his head. Oswald sprawled through the air and landed on his back, skull bouncing off the floor. His dagger spun away. The king pounced, knees and thighs iron-hard inside the loose trousers, and there was a blade in his hand. He’d had it in his hairknot, disguised as an ornamental pin. Oswald would have burst out laughing if he hadn’t been so breathless. We’re two of a kind, aren’t we, Sire? But Tristan wasn’t laughing. “Well? Surrender?”

  “No!” Darkness prickled at the edges of Oswald’s vision. He jerked a sweat-slick arm out from under Tristan’s knee, grabbed for the king’s wrist.

  Tristan struck downwards and buried his blade in Oswald’s neck.

  Oswald screamed. He was pinned to the floor. The steel moved in his flesh like a shocking revelation.

  “Surrender!”

  Oswald tasted blood. “Craven,” he choked out, the age-old word of surrender.

  Tristan rolled off him. “Grit your teeth,” he whispered, and jerked his blade free. Oswald saw a trickle of his own blood on the floor. Puncture wounds bled in, not out. But he had suffered enough knife wounds in the past to know this was a bad one.

  Tristan’s sycophants congratulated the king on his victory. Philip Lancashire said audibly: “My father was well shot of that bondsman.”

  Oswald struggled to sit up. All his calculations had fled, leaving only the monstrous, incalculable pain. He drooled blood onto the king’s hands as Tristan dragged him to his feet. Tristan’s hair had come down in a disheveled grey-and-brown streaked mass. “Come on.”

  Oswald was scarcely aware of being driven the half-mile back to the old castle through the lengthening shadows of the elms. By the time they reached the chapel, Tristan had to half-carry him. Servants and clergy scattered, robes flicking like rats’ tails among an unusual number of tall candles. They were making ready for Harry’s enshrinement Mass. The place reeked of incense.

  “Who’ll it be?” Tristan said.

  “Harold.”

  When you were dying, only the best would do. The sacristan of the chapel took his weight, helped him down to the penitent’s couch before the shrine of St. Harold. The war hero was now a puissant saint who had racked up numerous cures of advanced heart disease and cancer. £50,000 a pop on the open market.

  Oswald’s cheek rested on the scratchy, bleach-smelling sanitary sheet. The sacristan threaded his left arm through the rails and laid it on cool iron.

  “Begone, you God-bothering ninny! He’s no peon.” Tristan vaulted the rail, opened the feretory casket to remove its contents, and knelt over Oswald, pressing the linen-wrapped bundle of relics to his wound for maximum miraculous effect.

  Oswald prayed.

  St. Harold, I never knew you, but I know that you saved us from the Russians. Help me. Heal me. It’s your dynasty that needs saving now.

  House Wessex isn’t perfect, but it is the only safe guardian of chivalry. Look how tenderly my king nurses the hurt he gave me!

  Sweet torpor suffused him. Nothing ever felt as good as the absence of pain. But he fought it. He had to stay awake. It was cold in the chapel, which helped.

  He sat up, clammy with cooled sweat. Tristan had tied his cummerbund about his shoulder. Oswald unwound it and threw the blood-soaked bundle to a varlet. His neck was still stiff and tender but it had stopped bleeding and the pain was bearable. The rid
ge of fused tissue at the base of his neck would fade in time to a scar he would carry the rest of his life.

  “You can always count on Dad,” Tristan said, returning Harold’s relics to the feretory. “They’re trying to tidy up here; let’s get out of their way.”

  Oswald took a tunic from a waiting varlet and put it on over his bloodstained bare skin and spairjack trousers. They clumped out of the chapel, leaving the sacristans kicking out the last few penitents and rearranging pews.

  The sun had gone from all but the tops of the towers, leaving a chill bite in the air. Sparrows lined the parapets of the White Tower, twittering as they jostled for position. They reminded Oswald of Tristan’s courtiers. Had he won, or lost? Or only gained himself a few inches of roof? He rubbed his face with both hands, chasing away sleepiness.

  “Never underestimate your opponent,” Tristan said.

  “Indeed.” I won’t underestimate you again, my king.

  “That’s why I had to disappoint Vivienne today. Too risky, in the end.”

  Oswald nodded slowly. “Guy Sauvage screwed a ride out of me. He should be loitering around here somewhere. Will you see him?”

  “No, Oswald. My mind is decided: Piers stays where he is for the time being.” Tristan started to turn away and then swung on his heel. “That chap Ende.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Oswald said, finally making the connection between the prisoner taken on Slieve Gullion and Tristan’s apparently feckless behavior today. After the fiasco of September 14th, the ROCK had been startled and dismayed to find themselves holding a German knight. With the king’s permission, the decision had been made to put him to the question rather than repatriate him. The facts thus obtained were even more startling: Heinrich Ende had not been an IRA sympathizer, but a captive of Alyx MacConn’s. He had been sent by a certain Count Flambeault, a minor French nobleman, to offer MacConn an alliance. The arms dump uncovered on Slieve Gullion had been a courting gift from Flambeault.

  “Do you,” Tristan said, “believe for a moment that this Flambeault character was operating independently?”

  “No, Sire. That barn contained enough weapons for a small army.”

  Tristan pointed a long forefinger at him. “Then follow the money, Oswald. Follow the money.”

  Oswald’s conscience compelled him to say, “It doesn’t seem likely to me that Lady Sauvage is conspiring with some two-ha’penny French revolutionary.”

  “Nor does it to me. But she might be conspiring with my father-in-law.”

  “The Lord High Chancellor of Germany?”

  “Rainer Bismarck is a man of peace. But the financial markets are in a bloody mess, aren’t they? And Rainer takes that kind of thing seriously. So it’s not implausible that he’d scheme with Vivienne to destroy me. It’s out of character, which is a weightier objection. Unless … unless he believes I am in the wrong, and the MacConn girl is in the right.”

  The look in Tristan’s eyes was fear and it spoke more eloquently than any words. Oswald knew exactly what he was thinking: What if I am not the true king any longer? What if I never was?

  “An accounting is coming, Oswald. That’s what this sanctity crisis means. We shall have to pay for our sins, either in money or blood.”

  Oswald closed his eyes for a moment. He was so bored with this theme. A king had no business being a theologian. “And so Piers is to be our sacrifice?”

  “I hope not. I’ve always been fond of him. It depends on Vivienne.” The king’s facial muscles worked. He burst out, “I’ve paid and paid, for God’s sake! I’ve only got one child left!”

  “No harm shall befall Madelaine while I live,” Oswald said automatically.

  Inside the chapel, the choir started to warm up. Feeling grubbier and tireder than ever, Oswald was glad to see his wife hurrying across the bailey towards them.

  “I would have you understand my mind, Oswald,” Tristan said before Madelaine reached them. “The ethical and practical aspects of the sanctity crisis are inextricably bound up together. The risk we face in the long term is civilizational collapse. The only possible solution is to do the right thing.”

  “And the right thing is executing Piers Sauvage for a murder he did not commit?” Oswald said, unable to stop himself.

  Tristan might have lashed out at him for that, but not in the sight of his daughter. “I’m surrounded by enemies. All of them, Oswald, all those smiling lords and ladies who throng my halls, would tear me down in a heartbeat if they had the chance.”

  At least he was aware of that.

  “If the sanctity crisis leads to war, God forbid, Great Britain must prevail—but without the Worldcracker, Germany would crush us in five minutes. I have to get that damned sword back, no matter what the cost.”

  Oh God, not this again, Oswald thought. Then it came to him. “You believe Vivienne Sauvage has it.”

  Tristan nodded.

  Madelaine reached them, putting an end to the conversation. “Darling! I’ve just heard! What are you doing on your feet?” She aimed a mock scowl at the king. “It’s too horrid of you, Daddy, to stick holes in him.”

  “Just enough to let in the light,” Tristan said. He kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I ought to go and change for the ceremony. So ought the pair of you, actually.”

  Upstairs in their private apartments, Madelaine clucked over the nascent scar on Oswald’s neck. “As if you hadn’t enough of those already.” She presented her back to him. “Do me up?”

  Oswald fastened the tiny hooks up the back of her gown, his fingers so clumsy that she sighed impatiently. Done, he reached for the cup of coffee he’d had sent up. The porcelain felt fragile and hot in his fingers, like ducks’ eggs he had filched as a child when he was starving. “I should have asked for a whole pot,” he muttered.

  “What was Daddy upset about?”

  “The same old thing. It always comes back to the same thing.”

  “Granddad’s legendary magic sword?” Madelaine put a derisory spin on the words. To make her views even clearer, she added, “It’s a myth! A legend! People only bang on about it is to undermine Daddy’s public support.”

  Oswald looked up at the tapestry on the inner wall of their bedchamber. It depicted St. Harold at the head of his army, wielding the Worldcracker. The sword’s blade was shown as long as a crane, slicing into the ground. Tiny people went spinning from a steaming rift in the land.

  “Something made the Rifts in Russia,” he said. “Something killed sixty million people.”

  “Yes, some horrid magician’s spell. Granddad took credit for it, or was made to take the blame for it; pick one.”

  She sounded flippant, sure of herself. What she said was what most sensible people believed. They did not believe there existed a magic sword that had passed down the generations, legitimizing the kings of Great Britain, ensuring the rule of chivalry, protecting the reakm.

  But Tristan believed in it.

  “And by the way, I loathe that tapestry,” Madelaine said.

  The Worldcracker is not a myth, Oswald thought. It’s not a legend—or if it is, it is a true legend, like the other things we talk about so flippantly nowadays: honor, justice, love. A legend whose central truth is only to be found in the losing of it.

  “Your father believes the loss of the Worldcracker doomed this House,” he said. “He believes we’re just faking it. Holding on until we can hold on no more.”

  Madelaine whirled from the mirror and slapped him. “Don’t talk that way! We’re enshrining my brother’s relics in the chapel today! Isn’t that enough?” Her eyes glittered with suppressed tears.

  “Sorry,” Oswald said. He reached for her, but she pulled away and drove her hairpins into her hair.

  He finished his coffee. “I’m just going to check on something. I’ll meet you in the chapel.”

  He went to his office in the Waterloo Block. Using his secure telephone line, he called NatChiv. “I need a thorough—extremely thorough—search of the Isle of Dogs.” While
the person on the other end spluttered that this was impossible, Oswild reflected that if Vivienne Sauvage had the Worldcracker, it was most likely to be at Castle Dublin, not her London home. But he had to start somewhere, and it would take longer to activate his intelligence assets in Ireland. “I don’t care how you do it,” he broke in. “Yes, I know they have magical wards. We have magicians, too. They can make themselves useful for once.”

  Tristan would never have signed off on this. Crown-sponsored burglary didn’t comport with his belief in ‘doing the right thing.’ But that was why he needed Oswald.

  15

  Guy

  Five Minutes Later

  Oswald strode into Piers’s cell. “Sorry to interrupt,” he shouted over the music and static pouring from the wireless. “He won’t see you, Guy, I’m afraid. In fact you’d better make yourself scarce.”

  “Wait,” Piers said, confronting him. “Day, hear me.”

  “Stand back.” Oswald drew a .22 from his belt holster and shot the wireless. Piers stood like a statue. Guy automatically slapped his chest for the weapon that wasn’t there, then gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself for lacking Piers’s steely control. Oswald was just posturing. In comparison with the suicidal stunts you sometimes saw on the tourney circuit, this was starter stuff. Plastic shrapnel ricocheted off walls and ceiling. The light bulb swung on its cord, but did not break.

  “The transmitter was in the wireless, dolt,” Oswald said. “Now do you believe I’m on your side?”

  “Not really,” Piers said, coughing. He picked the shattered casing of the wireless off the carpet and tossed it on the table.

  Oswald holstered his weapon. He yawned. “There isn’t going to be a trial. Tristan knows that if he calls Parliament, it will be the end of him. The moment the peers are assembled in session, they will use their right of acclaim to depose him.”

  Guy said in surprise, “It’s that bad?”

  “It is that bad,” Piers said.

  “But who would they acclaim in his place?”