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

by Dave Duncan

  as if people were going in and out, and every time it opened the

  sound of heavy surf surged briefly.

  "Have I passed the test?" he demanded sourly.

  "Am I making sense? No slobbering, gibbering,

  or detectable hallucinations?"

  The ship lord raised his golden eyebrows.

  "All right so far. I think we can turn up the

  heat a little."

  "Please! Can't you find a more tactful turn

  of phrase?"

  Leofric chuckled approvingly. "This is

  yours." It was a lump of metal. It had once

  been a sword but half the blade had melted

  away and the pearls were gone from the hilt.

  "My grandfather's," Radgar said.

  "Hang it in Cynehof if you want. When it's

  rebuilt. Yes, I'd like you to do that." Fyrlaf

  was another who must have died tonight in the eruption.

  Leofric laughed. "See to it yourself. I think

  this is yours, too."

  It was a badly misshapen tangle of metal,

  but before being half melted it had been the crown of

  Baelmark.

  "Where by the eight did you find that?" Was this why

  they were all grinning like idiots?

  "On your head, of course. You wore it when you

  chased the firedrake out of town."

  "Spirits! I did? Did I?" He could not

  remember.

  Aylwin guffawed. "That and nothing else. There

  are seventy-seven beautiful maidens lined up

  outside, all very eager to meet you."

  First in when doors were opened was the Catterstow

  fyrd. The leaders began chanting Rad-gar!

  Rad-gar! in time with their feet--and the beat was

  picked up by all the rest, a great snake of

  warriors, hundred after hundred. When the front

  ranks reached the circle of Leofric's werod

  standing guard around the hero, they divided and

  encircled it. The followers pressed in around.

  Rad-gar! Rad-gar!

  Radgar stood on a stool in the center and

  watched the cordon grow to fill the Haligdom--

  a multitude, all facing him, cheering him:

  Rad-gar! Rad-gar! It was an

  extraordinary sensation, far stranger than he would

  have guessed. He had never been worshiped before.

  His throat hurt. He could not speak. Few were

  armed, for the firedrake must have melted all the

  swords stacked in the porch. Behind them came

  wives and children, even ceorls.

  And finally came the earls and their werodu,

  anxious to see what the locals were up to. They

  clustered near the door, glowering suspiciously.

  Big Edgar of Hunigsuge was there, and

  Aelfgeat of Su`edmest, whose sneak attack on

  Su`edecg had caused the witenagemot to assem-

  #. With both the King and his tanist dead, there was no

  king in Baelmark. At least three of the earls had

  ambitions. All nineteen of them might be dreaming

  of glory now. So who was in charge? Probably

  Ordheah of Hyrnstan; he was senior.

  The chant of Rad-gar! was being drowned out by a

  rising chorus of Hlaford

  Fyrlandum! That made the earls scowl even

  more, for the song was a royal honor. But Radgar

  remembered the last time he had heard it, the night

  his father died. So he stood and wept while everyone

  else rejoiced.

  At last he raised his arms for silence; and the

  tumult subsided to a low rumble, merging with the

  volcano's grumbling. Before he could find his

  voice, Aylwin bellowed at the top of his big

  lungs, "Catterstow!"

  "Catterstow!" roared the fyrd in response,

  and there was frenzy again: "Catterstow!

  Catterstow! Catterstow!"

  Earl Radgar of Catterstow! Could this be real?

  --the sea of faces, the acclaim? Why could his mother

  not be here to see it? Or Dad? Or even

  Wasp. Realizing he was going to start weeping again

  if they didn't stop, he raised his arms again.

  "I am deeply honored! You want me as

  your earl?"

  Stupid question--it set them going all over again.

  Leofric gripped his arm. "Claim the throne,

  too, lad. You're the only royally-born one

  among them. It's yours."

  Ceolmund grabbed his other wrist and tugged for

  attention. His voice squeaked down near

  Radgar's knee. "No, no! Wait until

  they call a proper moot! You must not seem too

  eager."

  It so happened that both of them had managed

  to find bruises to squeeze. Radgar shook

  free of them.

  "What are you going to say?" Leofric demanded.

  He looked down to meet the stare of one eye and

  an emerald. "I haven't decided yet,

  thegn."

  Leofric managed a smile. "Forgive me,

  Aeleding. Very much Aeleding!"

  "I will try to be. Thegns! Ealdras!"

  His shouts brought an attentive, excited

  hush. Before he could open his mouth, Aylwin, that

  well-meaning sailor idiot, set the

  half-melted crown on Radgar's head and

  bellowed, "Haletta@th hlafordne

  Fyrlandum!" [Hail the Lord of the Fire

  Lands!]

  More tumult--wild cheering from the Catterstow

  fyrd, booing from the earls' werodu. The crown

  was heavy and painfully knobbly, but Radgar left

  it where it was. Yet again he gestured for

  silence, and the din sank to a low surf sound.

  He could see that the earls were not convinced.

  Fighting firedrakes did not necessarily

  qualify him for kingship.

  "Before I can even think of being your king ... before

  I even think of giving you my oath as earl, there

  is another oath I must swear. Hear this one and

  then decide if you want me. Listen!" He

  might not get the words exactly right, but he could

  certainly come close enough. He roared out the

  ancient and most terrible of curses:

  "Woe to Ambrose Ranulfing, King of

  Chivial! For the evil he has done me, I

  swear I will not rest from strife until his blood

  has soaked the land, balefire has eaten his

  flesh, and the winds have scattered his name. May I

  be counted ni`eding if I show fear or mercy

  to him or his."

  Shock! The silence was absolute. Even the

  rain seemed to have been frightened away. In real

  life blood feuds were either a grave breach of the

  king's fri`ed or mere romantic nonsense in

  scops' ballads.

  "Ambrose ordered the murder of my father. He

  broke the terms of the treaty he had signed. He

  perverted our ancient rights with wholesale

  bribery. If you take me as your king, then you

  get a war as well. The killing will come again--the

  looting, raping, burning. There will be booty and

  pillage aplenty, but you, ealdras," he

  yelled, pointing at the earls, "will have to win your

  riches honestly, by deed of arms. You heard what

  Cynewulf confessed. There are traitors among

  you, cowards who took the foreigner's gold."

  Big Edgar had the strongest lungs in the

  Haligdom. "Ar
e you calling me coward,

  Aeleding?"

  "Wear the skirt if it fits, ealdor.

  Coward or bribe taker. Or prove me wrong

  --come with me when I sail against Chivial, for

  I swear that I will harry it as it has never been

  harried, until it screams for mercy and

  Eurania is appalled. My sword will glut

  on blood until I have taken Ambrose's

  head, but no more will his carrion gold fatten

  cowards' bellies in secret. I do not know the

  traitors' names yet, but I expect my

  uncle kept a record somewhere. So, are you with

  me, Earls? And if you are not then yes, I

  call you cowards! And traitors. And

  ni`edingas!"

  Had the firedrake not destroyed the swords

  stacked in the porch at Cynehof so that almost no

  one was now armed, those words might have started a

  massacre. Or perhaps not, because the earls'

  werodu were looking deeply troubled by this talk of

  bribery. The first earl to speak up was not Edgar but

  another of Cynewulf's accomplices,

  Aelfgeat. Shouting, "Death to Chivial! I

  side with King Radgar!" he plowed into the crowd.

  His werod cheered.

  It was Big Edgar who made it through first, though,

  hurling men aside until he could grab

  Radgar's hand and swear to be his man, faithful and

  true, and death to Chivial. So Radgar swore

  to be his lord and worthy of trust. When he had done

  that ten times, he was King in Baelmark, lord of the

  Fire Lands.

  The last of the nineteen was the most junior,

  only a month in office and little older than

  Radgar himself. When he released the man's hands,

  Radgar was so shaky from sheer weakness that he

  descended from his stool by falling into Aylwin's

  arms. Held upright, he made appointments, good

  until further notice--Chancellor

  Ceolmund, Marshal Leofric, and Tanist

  Aylwin. That involved more oaths.

  "Now," he said, "start running the kingdom, because

  your sovereign lord is going to bed now and will sleep

  for a week."

  Twisted Ceolmund uttered a brief but

  ominous laugh. "As my lord commands. Ealdras,

  in the absence of our sovereign lord, the tanist will

  convene the war moot here at noon. King Radgar

  expects all of you to attend on pain of death."

  The earls chuckled, but even in his weariness

  Radgar sensed the undertow of danger in this

  raillery. Besides, the thought of Aylwin trying

  to run a moot was bloodcurdling.

  "It can't wait?"

  "You have just declared war, lord," his government told

  him blithely. "Is it your royal command that

  hostilities commence immediately and without notice?

  If so, you will be accused of treacherously breaking a

  treaty and the Chivians will undoubtedly take

  reprisals against every Bael they can catch. We

  must have two hundred ships in foreign waters at

  the moment. Your lordship might even consider issuing

  a royal decree right now ..." And so

  on.

  He did not quite say that some of the earls were

  planning to head straight home and send out the

  foxes while the chickens were still snoozing on their

  roosts. But he meant that. He implied that only

  Radgar could rein them in.

  Ironhall had not taught much of this.

  Rain still fell on Waro`edburh, but an honest

  man reigned in Baelmark. Catterstow had an

  earl it was not ashamed of, the guilty had died, and

  Cwicnoll was starting to sound sleepy. Things were

  looking up.

  On the other hand, when the new monarch hobbled out

  of the Haligdom, he encountered the beginnings of a

  civil war. Loyal subjects were trying

  to organize a torchlight procession to carry him

  home to his palace, and both earls and fyrd

  claimed the right to bear him on their shoulders.

  Only Radgar himself could settle that argument, so

  he demanded a horse instead, earls to follow in

  single file and order of seniority on the right,

  ship lords likewise on the left and everybody

  else shut up! Life was going to be full of

  tricky decisions like that from now on. Men ran

  to obey.

  The air reeked of ashes. Even over the

  muttering rumble of the crowd, he could hear faint

  chanting as casualties were treated in the smaller

  elementaries. Huge areas of Waro`edburh must

  lie in ruins, although he could see no fires still

  burning. His the task of rebuilding his capital.

  He also had a war to launch, a government

  to organize, family estates to run, a mother

  to mourn. As he drooped there in the drizzle,

  waiting for the horse to appear, he wondered why in

  the world he had been such a fool. For Dad? For a

  mother who would have been so proud to have a king for a son?

  His father would have reserved judgment, he thought, saying

  he had not won the crown honestly but this would not

  matter if he wore it wisely.

  Where, by the eight, was the accursed horse? He

  could have walked to the palace sooner. He was

  swaying on his feet, yet men kept chattering at

  him--bowing, fawning, even kneeling in the mud

  to kiss his hand, reminiscing about their adventures

  foering with his father, daring to comment how much my

  lord looked like my lord's honored

  father. He must be the first man in history to win a

  kingdom on the shape of his ears, but many of those

  bloodthirsty old monsters were weeping with joy, and

  every one of them must be answered courteously and

  hailed by name if possible.

  Then a disturbance, a man trying to break through the

  mob: "Radgar! Radgar! Radgar!" That was

  Aylwin's bullhorn voice. Perhaps he had

  brought the seventy-seven beautiful maidens?

  No. He heaved a few more earls aside and

  appeared, flushed in the flickering light of the

  torches, panting but maidenless. "Radgar--I

  mean my lord--he's asking for you! He's hurt but

  they think he'll live. Wants to see you.

  He's hurt quite bad, Radgar. This way--"

  "Belay! Now, from the beginning. Who's asking for

  me?"

  Aylwin had paused only to suck in one more

  enormous breath, and now he blew it all out in

  another torrent of words. "They found him floating

  facedown in the harbor but the healers were sure he

  was a thrall because he was a foreigner and he had

  nothing on and besides they were sure he was dying and they

  only just got around to treating the thralls and then he

  told them what he thought of them and they realized he

  wasn't a thrall at all and-- What? Oh, that

  Chivian hoeftniedling of yours. Yes,

  sir, er, lord, I do mean Waeps Thegn."

  It was one of those spring mornings when the whole

  world erupts with life--lambs bouncing, birds

  screeching insults at one another from every bush, and

  butterflies flying complex colored patterns in
/>
  the hedgerows. After a two-week tantrum,

  Cwicnoll had repented of his ill humor and

  gone back to sleep for another generation or so,

  trailing hardly a wisp of smoke from his fancy

  new cone. The woodlands of Hatburna had never

  seemed lovelier. King Radgar slid down from

  Isgicel's back and looped his reins around a

  sapling. Then he continued along the path on

  foot. It was possible that the patient was still

  asleep. ...

  He wasn't. Outside the royal cabin lay

  Wasp, stretched on a couch, staring at the boughs

  overhead and covered from toes to chin by a fleecy

  rug. He had not heard Radgar's approach

  over the noise of the waterfall. He

  looked up and scowled. Visitors not welcome.

  Kings could ignore such hints. Radgar

  dropped to his knees on the grass. "Came

  to ask if you want to go riding!" Royal grin.

  "No."

  Royal frown. "Bathing, then?"

  "I can't swim. I doubt if I could even

  get on a horse. Go away!"

  "What do you want?"

  "To be alone."

  That was all he ever wanted.

  Radgar sighed. "Anything except that. I

  need some fencing practice. I'm getting

  rusty."

  Wasp looked straight at him for the first time.

  His pallor was not so extreme as it had been. His

  physical injuries had pretty much healed, according

  to the doctors--other than the loss of his arm, of

  course, but even enchantment could not replace a

  missing limb. Mental ... That was more tricky,

  the healers agreed, and then they would mumble. They

  thought he would recover in time. They hoped he would.

  "A one-armed fencer?" the patient sneered.

  "My balance is hopeless. Just walking I stagger

  and trip over my feet. You have ten thousand

  pirates--go and practice on them."

  Radgar tried the grin again. "I don't dare.

  They might learn Ironhall technique from me

  and then challenge. Come on, Wasp! So you lost

  an arm? You'll learn a new balance soon

  enough. It wasn't your fencing arm. It wasn't the

  hand you write with. And you saved a king. Anything

  I can give you is yours. Just name it, friend. Land?

  Tell me you like Hatburna and I'll give it

  to you. Ships? Money? Slaves? Women?"

  "Women?" Wasp snapped, displaying some

  welcome emotion. He heaved himself more upright with his

  right arm--his only arm. "Explain to me why this

  patch of woodland is swarming with pretty girls

  all of a sudden. Redheads, brunettes,