Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands

by Dave Duncan

  woebegone Aylwin. "I could never say this

  earlier, but Wasp really isn't old enough to be a

  Blade. I should have warned him that I was going

  to refuse binding, but I didn't and he jumped

  right in the swamp beside me without thinking. He's a

  great kid, but he's still just a kid."

  Aylwin scrunched up his nose in thought. "So

  why did you bind him? Was that a good idea?"

  "No, a very bad one." Radgar looped the

  baldric over his shoulder and adjusted the hang of

  Yorick's sword at his thigh. "I had no

  choice. The alternative was probably chains in

  a dungeon. Wasp was ecstatic and I hadn't

  the heart to refuse." By the time he had realized his

  mistake there had been a dead man on the ground.

  "Wasp was my best friend in Chivial, the first friend

  I made there, my Aylwin substitute." The

  kid brother he had never had. "Now he's

  snapped like a wet bowstring. My fault, not

  yours." If Wasp had killed Wulfwer, why

  wasn't Radgar himself already in chains awaiting

  trial?

  Leofric threw open the door. He shot his

  son a glare of disgust as he entered. "He's

  gone," he told Radgar.

  "Gone where?"

  "Inland. He went to the stable and demanded a

  horse. The thralls started saddling up Cwealm

  for him, but then a ceorl asked to see his warrant

  and he drew his sword."

  Oh spirits! "He drew on one of the King's

  hengestmenn?"

  "Worse," the ship lord growled. "The man

  sent a thrall to fetch a house thegn, and the house

  thegn drew on Wasp."

  "No! Didn't Wasp warn him?" This was beyond

  belief! Probably the Bael hadn't listened,

  or didn't know what a Blade was. Just a

  bragging boy ... "What did Wasp do?"

  "He put that needle of his through the

  man's wrist, made him drop his sword. It

  wasn't really a fight."

  "I'm sure it wasn't."

  "He rode off inland. Don't know where. That's

  all."

  "He didn't harm Wulfwer?"

  "Didn't go near him, apparently."

  Leofric sighed. "The King's declared him to be in

  unfri`ed and Ro`edercraeft's sent a posse

  out after him. This won't do your cause any good,

  Atheling."

  Murder his name and murder his nature. At the

  stable, Wasp had demanded Cwealm because he had

  been Radgar's own horse and should not provoke

  any trumped-up charges of thievery. Good

  idea, but it had not worked--the idiot hand had

  talked back anyway. Cwealm wanted to argue,

  too. He disliked having a stranger on his

  back, and the brief sword fight in the stable yard

  had upset him. He set out to be difficult and

  was doubtless surprised to find himself working off his

  rage by heading up the hill at a full gallop.

  As a rider Wasp was not in the same class as,

  say, Dominic or Wolfbiter, but he had

  grown up around horses and this Baelish mule was

  going to do what he wanted, like it or not.

  "Don't be mad!" Wasp told him. "I'm

  mad enough for both of us. Don't you know that?"

  Cwealm flicked his ears and continued to pound

  hooves.

  Cwicnoll was hidden above a roof of pewter

  cloud, but the eruption was growing louder, more

  violent. The rumbling was almost constant, and teeming

  rain had become a deluge of white mud.

  Black horse Cwealm was a white horse

  already. The lines of bent thralls planting

  vegetables in the fields were lines of smoky

  ghosts in a snowy world.

  Cwicnoll was the threat now.

  No Blade in the history of the Order had ever

  deserted his ward like this, and the pain of it made him

  want to scream. Perhaps gallant young Sir

  Wasp truly had gone crazy. He could

  believe it himself. But even if he were certain of

  it, he still would not be able to resist the compulsion

  driving him up the mountain. Back at

  Ironhall he had been contemptuous of

  Sir Spender's distress when he was separated from

  his ward. Now he marveled that the man had not been

  screaming his throat out. He had even doubted

  Sir Janvier's proclaimed instinct for

  danger!

  Food and a few hours' rest in a chair

  outside Radgar's door had helped restore

  him. It had certainly cleared his thinking, which had

  been badly muddled by the fumes in

  Weargahlaew, as well as by sheer exhaustion.

  Long before that musclebound Bael came rolling

  along the corridor babbling about Wulfwer,

  Wasp knew exactly where the tanist had gone.

  He had worked it out by mulling over the ghost's

  testimony.

  Pension, Yorick had said. Ambrose held

  Cynewulf on a golden chain. Paying the King

  of Baelmark a personal pension must be cheaper,

  probably very much cheaper, than fighting a war or

  honoring all the onerous terms of the treaty.

  Cynewulf used the money to bribe the earls ...

  some of the earls ... enough of the earls ... to keep him

  in power. And when Radgar had turned up in

  Ironhall, Ambrose had seen him as a threat

  to a very convenient arrangement. Had Radgar gone

  on to Bondhill, all unsuspecting, he would have

  found the doors locked behind him. No one but

  Ambrose himself and a few of his Guard would have known

  that the missing atheling was missing no more.

  Radgar had escaped.

  Radgar had escaped because his Blade had an

  instinct for danger! Cling to that =! It had worked

  once, so this journey back to Weargahlaew

  might not be madness. ...

  Balked, Ambrose had sent his accomplice

  a warning that trouble was on the way home.

  Cynewulf had sent his son to consult the family

  conjurer, crazy Healfwer, who was to the King of

  Baelmark what Grand Wizard of the College was

  to Ambrose.

  Healfwer was the source of all the evil

  conjurements. Radgar would have guessed that without

  saying so. Wasp had been distracted by the brandy,

  the potion that Cynewulf had used to enslave

  Queen Charlotte. That one had come from Chivial,

  part of the traitor's payoff. Either Baelmark

  conjurers did not know how to make love potions or

  Healfwer granted such favors only to the

  reigning king, which had been Aeled then, of course.

  Which of the two sons had been his

  favorite? He probably did not properly

  understand how his evil conjurements were being used. This

  time Wulfwer would have explained that there was another

  uppity challenger coming on the scene, but he would not

  have revealed that the new threat was Aeled's son.

  So the old lunatic would have chanted up another

  booby trap for him.

  If Healfwer was still capable of any normal

  human emotion, he must have been horribly

  shocked when his next visitors appeared. In his

  confused, crazy, fashion h
e had tried to tell

  them about his earlier client, complaining about double

  duty, mumbling about wanting wonders wrought. There

  had been footprints in the ash around the

  octogram! Ward and Blade would have picked up

  those hints if the fumes in the crater had not

  stupefied them.

  By the time Aylwin arrived at Radgar's

  door, Wasp had worked it all out; he had known

  where the missing tanist had gone and knew he must have

  brought back something deadly from Outlaws' Cave.

  That was the message he had told Aylwin to pass

  on to Radgar: Accept nothing from Cynewulf or

  Wulfwer--drink no fancy brandy, pet no

  cuddly fox cubs.

  But by that time, Wasp had lost interest in the

  tanist. His instincts were howling that the real danger

  was somewhere else and much more urgent. He had no

  evidence or logic to support that belief, but it

  had been growing on him steadily until he was

  ready to scream. He knew that all common sense

  argued against it. Alas, just as Ambrose and

  Cynewulf in turn had registered as dangers,

  so now the threat was Cwicnoll. That was why, for

  perhaps the first time in more than three hundred years,

  a Blade had deserted his ward and gone riding off

  chasing ... chasing what? Wild goose or wild

  fire?

  Wind and a deluge of mud ... he was already

  almost into the clouds. The volcano was invisible, just

  a constant angry thunder.

  His ward was in danger. Somewhere up there he must

  do battle against someone.

  Or some thing?

  Leofric wanted to put on a show. He

  wanted Radgar to march up to the door of Cynehof

  with a werod or two at his back. He

  wanted to plant supporters inside to cheer his

  entry.

  Ceolmund disagreed vehemently, spraying

  spit at the floor. "Stay out, stay out!

  Attend the moot, certainly. Be seen taking an

  interest but do nothing more. They'll argue and quarrel

  and achieve nothing, and you mustn't be associated with

  failure."

  In this case Radgar had agreed with the old

  wita, but mostly to avoid exposing his friends to any

  more danger than he had to. The sinister Marshal

  Ro`edercraeft would be noting names, and if the

  Radgar movement collapsed--as seemed

  inevitable--then retribution would certainly

  follow.

  Not in living memory had the witenagemot been

  called into session to censure a reigning monarch.

  The dim hall was already full when Radgar and his

  supporters gave up their swords to the

  cnihtas and went in. They stood back against the

  right-hand wall to watch. The earls were there with their

  thegns--mingling, whispering, and plotting--and Big

  Edgar was a landmark all by himself. Rows of stools

  had been set up on the floor for the witan; the

  empty throne sat on the front of the platform.

  Radgar noted the seating arrangements with

  disapproval, for the earls would be facing the moot

  reeve like children before a teacher. They would not even be

  at the front, for the first two rows were already occupied

  by the witan of the king's council.

  "Who presides?" he asked Leofric.

  "Wulfwer?"

  The ship lord snorted in derision. There had

  been no overt demonstration of support, but

  Radgar had his own party now, led by a score or

  so of witan collected for him by Ceolmund,

  older men and women who wielded power in

  Baelmark--rich merchants and landowners, some of

  them specially summoned from outlying areas and other

  islands. They appraised him with shrewd green

  eyes, cautiously restricting their conversation

  to reminiscences of how they had served his father in the

  war or, rarely, his grandfather in the days of the

  shameful triumph over the Gevilian invasion.

  Around this cozy gathering stood a living palisade

  of Faro`edhengest muscle. The energetic

  youngsters among them were grinning as they discussed the

  possibility of some action later. It was not

  unknown for meetings of the witenagemot to break

  into riot.

  Radgar was about to comment on the number of house

  thegns present when war horns announced the

  approach of the King. Spectators moved back,

  clearing a center aisle. Earls broke off their

  intriguing and filtered forward to take their seats.

  One stool was left empty in mute tribute

  to the slain Ae`edelno`ed of Su`edecg, whose

  tanist was still foering in distant Skyrria and

  thus could not know of his accession.

  Another wail outside the doors brought an

  approximation of respectful silence. Those who

  had seats rose to their feet as the fat villain

  himself strolled in wearing his crown and a scarlet,

  fur-trimmed robe. Ro`edercraeft led a

  dozen mailed house thegns before him and a dozen more

  brought up the rear. They made a leisurely

  progress straight down the center, past the

  hearths, and at last to the dais. Cynewulf

  settled on his throne and the guards lined up on either

  side of him, extending almost the full width of the

  hall.

  "That's disgusting! My father never brought a

  bodyguard to a moot."

  Leofric said quietly, "Perhaps he should have

  done."

  "And he never retained that many house thegns!"

  "Yes, he did," Leofric said, even more

  quietly, "but he never let me parade them around

  in public like that."

  Oh? Greenhorn had much to learn! "Where's

  Wulfwer?"

  Nineteen earls had settled on their stools,

  but the king's tanist was always an honorary member

  of the witenagemot. In this case, his absence was

  especially noteworthy. Even a surly and

  none-too-bright thrall-born like Wulfwer ought

  to know that he should be there, supporting his father.

  "Well, ealdras?" Cynewulf did not

  bother to raise his voice. "You called this

  moot." He took a small scroll from inside

  his cloak and pretended to consult it. "Sixteen

  signatures, the minimum required under the law

  of Radgar the Great. Earl Aelfgeat is here with

  our safe-conduct to answer any questions you may wish

  to put to him. Who wants to start throwing the dung?"

  He tossed the scroll away and leaned back

  contemptuously on his throne, bored already.

  "Now!" Leofric whispered. "If they're

  going to!"

  This was the moment for challenge, which would

  take precedence over all other business. The

  hall held its breath, but the moment one earl

  began to rise, two others jumped up also and the

  chance was gone. It was a fair guess that these were the

  three with royal ambitions, but clearly none of

  them had been able to muster the necessary votes, so they were

  all just hoping to gain notoriety by proposing the

  motion of censure. Before Cynewulf co
uld even

  point a finger to recognize one, a war horn

  wailed again. That was definitely not a scheduled part

  of a witenagemot debate. Heads snapped

  around.

  Crowds stood taller in Baelmark than in

  Ironhall, and for a moment all Radgar could see

  coming in the door was a double line of shiny helmets.

  The spectators roiled back, once again

  clearing an aisle along the length of the hall, and

  then the intruders drew close enough for Radgar

  to make out Wulfwer in the lead. He had not

  changed a bit in five years, except

  to increase in bulk and sheer ugliness. Hulking

  would be flattery, lummox only reasonable. Like

  a two-legged ox, the tanist rolled forward bearing

  a naked sword. He halted when he reached the

  hearths and scowled brutishly at his father on the

  throne. The hall erupted in furious roars of

  protest.

  "This is madness!" Leofric whispered in

  Radgar's ear. The only challenge that could be

  delivered in the middle of a witenagemot was an

  earl's challenge to the King; not a tanist's

  challenge to his earl. Even Wulfwer must know

  that.

  "It's a trick," Radgar answered. "It

  has to be." But what trick?

  The protest roared on until Cynewulf

  rose to his feet and held up a hand for silence.

  He was frowning, but that meant nothing. He could have

  set this up with his son, planning to deflect any

  formal protest from the earls.

  Now Wulfwer was free to recite the formula.

  "Ni`eding!" he roared. "Ga recene to

  me, wer to gu`ede! Gea, unscamfoest

  earming `edu, ic @thoet gehate @thoet ic

  heonan nylle fleon--" * The rest of the

  ancient call to combat was lost in renewed howls

  from the onlookers.

  * Worthless one! Come quickly to me, man

  to battle. Yes, shameless wretch you, I

  this swear: that I from here refuse to

  flee--

  Cynewulf stood with raised hand, seemingly

  waiting for silence, but his little eyes were scanning the

  crowd. He located Radgar and no doubt noted

  who was with him. At last he was able to shout over the

  noise.

  "Drunken lout! Thrall-born oaf! Why

  did I ever think I could make anything of you? You

  can't even issue a proper challenge and you try

  to do it in the middle of a witenagemot. Well, the

  fyrd will make judgment between us, but it must wait

  until after the nation's business is completed.

  Let the thegn moot assemble on the day after the