Dolum was swimming toward the ship with floundering strokes. The whites of his fright-filled eyes flared as wave after churning wave broke over his head. The frail figure flashed in and out of sight. A pack of goblins were circling him like sharks.
A lumani was quick to arrive with a rope and hurled it to the hapless dwarf. Dolum gave everything he had and managed to grasp the line. He quickly wrapped the rope soundly around his wrists and held firm.
“He’s got it!” yelled Bently. “Get him out of there!”
Hand over hand they began to draw the dwarf through the water. But the struggle was not yet through. Dolum cried in fright, then was gone, pulled beneath the waves.
The rope was yanked clear of the lumani’s grasp. Bently made a desperate lunge for the line and grabbed it just before it flew over the edge. He hung on tight. There was strong resistance; Dolum was still holding on.
Bently regained his footing, and soon others came to his aid. Collectively, they heaved. Dolum’s hand cleared the water, but only for an instant. The resistance grew, forcing Bently to the railing. He ground his teeth and fought the pain. His shoulder felt as if it might wrench from its socket. More lumani jumped in alongside him, but defeat could not be avoided. The rope suddenly went slack and the sheared end whipped from the water. The line had snapped. The goblins had Dolum.
CHAPTER
III
THE WOLF
Disias awoke Evelyn just after dawn, insisting she could delay no longer. “They are your people, Your Grace,” began Disias, clasping his hands gleefully. “The heir must be seen, or they will doubt you exist.” He was dressed in leather leggings, a white doublet, and a high plumed helm. He looked like a man who was about to set off on a hunting expedition, and made for a comical sight given their true intentions.
He began to rummage through Evelyn’s armoire and pulled out several dresses, granting each one a critical eye. He emitted a low whistle to mark his approval and settled upon his choice. “This one, Your Grace. The people must see their future queen in this one.” He draped the dress across her bed and nodded in satisfaction.
Evelyn grumbled apprehensively, but complied with his directive. With a wave of her hand, she shooed Disias from her bedchamber and began to dress. As much as she would like, she could not put this off any longer.
The field before Luthuania had slowly filled with Capernicans in the month since Evelyn had taken up residence at High Tower. Thousands had somehow managed to slip by the dragoon blockades, slinking along the back trails and unguarded passes of the Eng Mountains. Evelyn spied on them often; sneaking up to the battlements, she would peek her head through an embrasure to take in the pitiful sight. The meager possessions of the refugees were splayed out across the field, forming a ramshackle squatter’s camp. Half a dozen times she had walked toward the gates of the city, certain that she would do her queenly duty; it was her job to give them hope even if she could give them nothing else. But each time she caught sight of the surging mass of people beyond the gates, she would turn aside and scamper back to the security of High Tower, shame turning her cheeks red. She simply could not find the courage to face the crowd. What could she offer such a miserable host? And worse still, there was an underlying fear, a lesson learned by fire. The people were desperate, and desperation made people dangerous.
She remembered the mob that had descended on Stone Keep after her father died. The plague was running like wildfire through the city, and the people demanded the head of the Witch, thinking her the cause of the malady. Boiling tar was the only thing that kept the mob from scaling the walls. She could still see Waymire’s face as he gave the command; cold and forlorn. That was the only time she had ever seen her uncle cry, standing there atop the battlements while his people died by his own hand. That was Waymire, always the man to do what was necessary. And here she was cowering in a tower, safe and secure while her people suffered. Evelyn did not savor the prospect of throwing herself at the mercy of this desperate host with no wall as a barrier, but that was beside the point. She had a duty, just as Waymire did.
She sighed with resignation and put on her dress. Disias had selected a blue dress with cloth-of-gold chevrons running down the back and train. Disias had commissioned a seamstress to make it for her shortly after they arrived. Lacking a servant to give her an extra pair of hands, she fumbled awkwardly with the laces of the bodice. All of her fingertips were numb and burned, and she had lost half her fingernails. Each burn was a stark reminder of her failure to channel the void. She put on silk gloves to hide her marred hands, but even silk felt like sandpaper against her raw flesh. Evelyn silently cursed herself for not being stronger, and pulled the second glove on in one swift motion, choking back the whimper that tried to slip past her lips. She left the jewelry Lordess Farsidian had granted her in her room, fearing the ostentatious show of wealth would only enliven the crowd. She set off to join her adviser.
Waymire was waiting outside her chamber holding a wet rag to his brow and reeking of booze. The poor general was working himself to the bone and seeing no reward for his effort. She couldn’t blame him for resorting to drink from time to time, but she had heard rumors he was hitting the bottle most every night. With each passing week he looked frailer. Evelyn couldn’t help but feel her inadequacies in magic were driving him to an early grave. Although scowling, the old general did her the courtesy of bowing when she exited her chamber.
“This is ill-advised, Your Grace,” said Waymire, clearly irked they were leaving the safety of the city.
“Thank you for your concern,” said Evelyn, fully agreeing with the general’s position on the matter. “But I am certain your men will keep me safe.”
Waymire was flanked by a dozen guards. Each wore the same severe mask as their commander. The guards were clad as if they were going off to war, wearing hard leather gorgets embossed with the white tower of Yasmire and chainmail hauberks.
To avoid drawing attention, they exited Luthuania through a postern gate. They immediately found themselves within the most indigent throng of humanity Evelyn had ever seen.
“These are your loyal subjects, Your Grace,” said Disias, sweeping his hand in a showy arch across the miserable lot.
“My loyal subjects,” she repeated dubiously. A real queen would not need an escort amongst her loyal subjects, thought Evelyn as she eyed the Elite Royal Guardsmen who shadowed her every move.
Even Waymire seemed wary of the masses. His hands were clasped like a vise about the haft of the longsword he always used as a walking stick. “Wiser to do what you came to do and be gone, Your Grace,” advised the general. “This is an unsavory lot. More likely to give you a pox than a knee in fealty.”
Evelyn said nothing in response. She found it was better to be silent than to fumble with words when she was expected to sound regal. She nodded gravely, furrowing her brow with what she deemed an appropriate amount of consternation. She resisted the urge to hold the cuff of her sleeve to her nose.
Waymire grunted, guiding aside a drunkard with the sheathed blade of his sword. The man gawked when he saw Evelyn clearly and bowed mockingly. He stumbled off in the opposite direction, shouting as he went. “The Witch of Stone Keep has come! The Witch of Stone Keep has come!”
Disias sent a guard to shut the disrespectful man up.
Evelyn looked away, not wanting to see what would come next. She inspected the camp.
The desperate host of refugees numbered in the thousands, their camp stretching a quarter league across the pale gray stone face of the city. The squalid camp was a nasty patchwork of freshly hewed lumber, stretched pelts, and covered wagons. Nothing was suitable for living, and the whole swath smelled like a latrine. The occupants were some of the most haggard and wretched people Evelyn had ever seen. Elderly crones sat stooped over fires warming their bone-thin frames. Men with eyes like wild things roamed amongst the bivouac camp with all fashion of weapons at hand. Women with babes held to their breasts chased after barefoot children w
ho seemed all too delighted by the situation. Beggars covered in fleas squatted beside makeshift walkways, reaching out to any who crossed their path. A midden heap piled in the center of camp was crawling with scavenger birds and dogs. Evelyn imagined it was as tall as the curtain wall that ran the perimeter of the city.
Disias muttered something about setting fire to the heap, all the while grinning happily. By the gods he can put on a cheery show when everything is drab and awful. This thought only made Evelyn more conscious of her own demeanor. How could she inspire anyone when all she did was sulk about, shoving her opulent attire in the faces of these destitute people? She suddenly felt ashamed, and looped her train about the crook of her arm in a vain effort to hide the golden thread. It was truly garish compared to the rough-spun rags and travel-stained cloaks worn by the masses.
“Don’t hide your wealth,” said Disias. “They expect their leaders to be so gaily attired. We are refined, we are well-fed, we have the leisure to sit and ponder how to fix the world. They need to see that all has not fallen to ruin.” Disias expertly played his paternal role, dropping a silver cap into the outstretched hand of a beggar who sat cross-legged on the side of the path.
The beggar was little more than bone and flesh. He smiled toothlessly, and doffed his soiled conical cap, which at a time clearly belonged to a Yanish brother. “Thank you, my lords and lady. May the Guardians watch over you.” Evelyn wondered if the man was truly a brother, or had simply found people more giving when he pretended to be one.
“In time these people will come to call you queen,” continued Disias.
Evelyn doubted this was true. No one bowed, no one parted way, no one reached out to her with fawning hands. In fact, most everyone looked at her as if she were a plaguer. It was evident many recognized who she was. Most chose to keep their distance and murmur quietly amongst themselves.
“This worthless lot wants nothing more than a handout,” said Waymire with contempt, clearly having no taste for the lower castes. “An able-bodied man with a blade in his hand, that’s all I ask for. But I’ll wager these craven bastards wouldn’t pick up a sword to save their lives.” He kicked at the beggar so that Evelyn could pass without touching the man.
Evelyn apologized to the poor wretch. She wished she had a gold cap to give the abased man, but she did not. In truth, she was just as destitute as these unfortunate souls. It was odd how fate granted her value while it gave these poor people none. Surely there was a magic amongst them with untapped potential, or a squire in the making, who needed only the guiding hands of a knight to mold him into a stout soldier. The truth was, Evelyn was inside the wall, while these people were not, because Waymire and Disias deemed her of value. At least she understood Waymire’s plan for her. But Disias? She was not so sure.
“Why have you brought me here?” pressed Evelyn.
“From the richest lord to the lowest flea-ridden vagabond, all are your people,” said Disias. Ever the dissembler, Disias smiled at the people with one half of his mouth while denigrating them with the other. “Rich or poor, meek or strong, all will grant you their heart if the price is right. Some bribes are simply larger than others. For the short term, these destitute folks need only a simple gesture of paternalism.”
He motioned to the guards, and they began to hand out loaves of bread from flaxen sacks. Almost immediately, the guards disappeared behind a wall of waving hands and pressing bodies. “Lady Evelyn Manherm bids you health,” repeated the soldiers as they were mobbed.
“Word will spread after the war,” continued Disias. “A kind deed can go a long way toward driving away a disquieting memory. Remember, not all loved your mother.”
How could Evelyn ever forget?
Disias patted a boy on the head who ran by tearing ravenous bites from a loaf of bread. Disias smirked. “But to win their hearts you will need to grant them sanctuary. You will have to press the Council to grant these people entry into Luthuania.”
Waymire grumbled something under his breath, but kept his opinion to himself.
Evelyn watched as a mother and child came upon the handout too late. They looked on despondently as the guards threw the empty sacks, sending them billowing into the air like jellyfish. Hungry eyes and emaciated bodies. Evelyn blinked away the wrenching sight.
Disias was right, if even for the wrong reason, Evelyn realized. Dwarven carrions were running amok in the southern ador, and she had heard rumors the necromancer was testing the bridgeheads along the Jasmine. If this was true, Luthuania would soon be set to siege. When that happened, these refugees would be the first to die. It was part of the Weaver’s plan for her to be the champion of these people who loved her not. She looked at Disias, certain of her role, and found her queenly voice. “See to it that I have an audience with the Luthuanian Council. I will champion my people’s cause.”
Disias bowed, grinning all too much like a serpent who had cornered his food. “Of course, Your Grace. How could they ever refuse your request?”
• • •
Tulea Farsidian did, in fact, grant Evelyn the chance to petition the High Council at the next meeting. Evelyn found herself tapping her foot nervously as she waited in the gallery for the assembly to call to order. A large audience had already gathered, drawn in hopes of hearing an update concerning the dwarven carrions. Nervous chatter filled the room, driven largely by apocryphal tales.
“I heard the rangers found a whole village slaughtered,” said one man somberly. “There were teeth marks all over the bodies.”
“My uncle says some Halgans are turning in their sleep,” prattled another. “We ought to kick the whole lot out of the city while we have the chance.”
A third man nodded gravely. “They say the Necromancer poisoned the last batch of grain to enter the city. Nothing is safe to eat.”
There was a chorus of “aye,” and “hear, hear,” amongst those gathered. Evelyn hoped desperately the rumors were false.
Lady Rena, Lord Melo, and Lord Hayne had already taken their seats. Steflan Vis was conspicuously absent. His chair was taken by his younger son who leaned forward, resting his weight on the rondel of his sword. The elder Vis had departed for the Teeth to receive the incoming Capernican legions marching in from the southlands.
Lordess Tulea Farsidian was the last of the councilors to enter, accompanied by her retinue of suitors. She took her seat upon the high dais, and was about to call the meeting into session when she noticed that Rancor’s throne was empty. She looked about the chamber, clearly displeased by the delay. “Where is the high lord?”
As if on cue, High Lord Rancor entered from the antechamber wearing a panoply of steel. For two days and two nights the carrions had run rampant through the dwarven warrens. Rancor had seen personally to wiping the scourge from the city, and his armor was mired in the filth of battle. Only the tri-rays of his household standard were polished clean of filth. General Bailrich walked wearily at his side. A noticeable murmur rose amongst the onlookers in the gallery.
“Appearance must meet expectations,” said Disias snidely. “War has come to Luthuania, so the high lord has gone to war. Rancor plays his part well. Still, appearances will only get one so far. Look how the Council perceives him.”
Evelyn saw it, too. The members of the High Council stood to welcome their high lord, but it was simply a gesture of decorum, nothing more. The councilors looked at Rancor with stiff faces. The junior Vis whispered something into the ear of Lord Hayne, and nodded at the high lord. The elderly councilor shook with laughter, clearly perceiving Rancor as the butt of some joke.
Waymire scowled at the Council bitterly. “High Lord Rancor bears on his shoulders the passions of the people, taking their love and their hate alike. He shields these ungrateful fools from the masses, leaving them to reap the benefits of leadership without any of the risk.”
Evelyn was left to wonder which side she would inherit from her people. The love or the hate.
Disias smiled from ear-to-ear, loving the
game of politics far too much for her liking.
Rancor took his seat upon the high-backed throne that rested opposite the councilor’s dais. General Bailrich stood at attention beside the throne. Rancor looked like some errant knight from a fable, having returned from war. He wearily divested his steel gauntlets and his plumed helm, passing them off to a court steward for safe keeping. In exchange, he took up a golden scepter, which he rested across his lap.
Lordess Farsidian thought nothing of his stoic facade, and began the coup with her opening remark. “Our empire lies in a state of emergency. The necromancer has gained a foothold in our land, threatening the lives of our people. Your inadequacies as high lord cannot be ignored, the very future of our state lies in the balance.”
Rancor showed no surprise at her aggressive demeanor. “The Jasmine River has never been considered a secure border, Lordess Farsidian,” replied Rancor coolly. “The faithful soldiers of our army have done everything they can...”
“Two dozen towns have reported carrion attacks,” interrupted Riggin Vis. The stout man leaned forward in his chair, displaying a degree of menace few would expect in the council chamber. “My father’s own caravan was attacked on their way to the Teeth. We know nothing of their fate!”
A disquieting murmur rang through the hall.
“And we have lost four bridgeheads on the Jasmine,” said Lord Melo Tener gravely.
Rancor stamped the base of his scepter into the arm of his throne, causing everyone to jump with a start. “I think you would learn that it is wise to let your high lord finish before you speak,” growled Rancor.
“On the contrary, High Lord Rancor,” said Tulea. “I think it would be wise for you to listen to the wisdom of your Council, for you now rule only at our pleasure. If we were to hold the vote today, it would be unanimous.”
“I doubt this, truly,” said Rancor. “Nor would this be in accordance with our covenant. I’m afraid you’re short one councilor. In the future, can we agree to keep children out of the chamber?” The junior Vis looked as if he might stand to confront Rancor. Melo Tener whacked his cane across the belligerent youth’s chest, bidding him to stay seated.
The Guardian Stone (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 3) Page 3