The Red King

by Rosemary O'Malley

  They found the doors closed and the guards at their stations. Their smirks were the only confirmation necessary.

  The servant knocked. “My lord?”

  It took several moments for there to be any sound from the other side of the door. Andrew took the time to collect himself, straightening his robe and running shaking fingers through his unruly hair. He schooled his face into an expression of apology, readied the words to soothe Maarten’s fury or beg for forgiveness. The longer they waited the worse his anxiety. He clenched his hands in his robe and cursed their trembling.

  Laurent rapped on the door again. “My lord, Andrew has brought you wine.” He glanced at Andrew and passed the jug back to him.

  Finally, there was the sound of a bolt being thrown. One of the doors swung open. “Send him in.”

  Andrew looked to Laurent and saw the emotion in his eyes shuttered away. The guard was sneering as Andrew passed him. Andrew crossed the threshold slowly and made his way to the inner room to set down the jug. His fingers were shaking when they reached for the vial.

  He heard Maarten’s voice. “Throw the bolt. I will call when I am ready to come out.”

  Clearing his throat, Andrew forced his tone to be gentle and warm. “Please forgive me, my lord. I only wished to see to your comfort.” He reached for the empty goblet from where Maarten had left it, on its side, on the floor. When he picked it up, the open vial tipped bottom up into its bowl.

  Maarten moved into the room and closed the door behind him.

  Smiling, Andrew poured the wine, watching as the white powder began to dissolve. He wished he could stir it but that would give the game away. “Let me give you a drink.”

  “Come here.”

  Andrew set the jug down too fast, jostling the table and causing the deep red liquid to slosh over the side of the goblet. He put his hands flat on the wooden surface, willing it to stop spilling.

  “Now.”

  “My lord?” Andrew moved towards him, slowly, pasting the smile on his face.

  Maarten reached for him and took his throat in one hand. Pulling him close, the man stared down into his eyes. “This lesson will be taught only once.” Maarten squeezed.

  No air could get past Andrew’s throat.

  “You will never leave these chambers without me.”

  Andrew nodded, his own hands coming up to clutch at Maarten’s wrist.

  “You will clothe yourself only in what I see fit to give you.”

  Lights were dancing in front of Andrew’s eyes.

  “You will not speak to Laurent, my guards, or anyone else in this keep.”

  Ink had spilled again, clouding his vision. He dug at Maarten’s fingers, frantically trying to pry them open.

  “Do you hear me?” Maarten shook him and Andrew felt something twinge in his throat.

  No...Not…ready, Andrew thought, jolted by the pain blossoming beneath Maarten’s hand, but not enough to keep the shadows from his vision.

  “Do you!” the man roared, striking Andrew across the face.

  Maarten let him fall. Andrew’s first breath was choked by fluid and he coughed. His mouth flooded with the sour taste of blood and bile as he retched onto the stone floor. Maarten’s foot caught him in the stomach, twice, and then came down on his back. Andrew felt his bladder give way and the hot, stinking piss soaked into the banyan.

  “You will answer me!”

  Andrew only vaguely heard the man walk away. Drink. Please, drink it, he thought as he struggled against the darkness threatening.

  When he felt hands tearing the clothing from his back, he tried to crawl from them, to escape. He was stripped bare and shoved face first back to the floor. There was a weight on his neck, heavy, painful pressure pushing him into the stones. Maarten’s foot.

  “You will,” he heard the man seethe, “answer me.”

  The crack reached his ears just before the whip met his flesh.

  PART FOUR: RORY

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was quiet. The Rovfugl maintained the silence that had fallen since it had docked. No one spoke in the small room, though the rustle of fabric as one of them shifted in their chair did distract from the one sound that reverberated off of the close wooden walls.

  Shink.

  Two of the men looked at each other, not daring to speak, or ask the third to refrain from his steady application of stone to sword.

  Shink.

  The largest of them, so tall and broad he did not fit in a chair, moved slowly, silently as possible, to stand at the sharpener’s side. “Enough. Please. It will do the deed.”

  Shink.

  The two exchanged glances once more, conversing without words, until the third raised his eyes to glare at them. They stilled, cowed by the darkly enraged expression on the man’s face. Their discomfort was palpable, yet they did not speak again.

  Shink.

  Footsteps clattered above them, rushing across the deck to hurry down into the hold. There was a clamor of snarls and barked insults, drawing closer to where they waited. The door flung open, allowing entrance to a man in black robes. He pulled the kufiya from his head, revealing his startlingly silver hair and shouted, “He lives!”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes, Malik, I saw him. He didn’t recognize me,” Etienne answered, glancing to the man who honed his blade as he lifted his head to stare, still silent.

  Malik dropped to his knees beside him, saying softly, “Do you hear? He lives, Ruaidhri. We are not too late.” He put his hand out to take the stone from his captain, gently prying it from bruised fingers.

  “Oh, yes, he bloody lives,” Ortega swore, throwing his cloak into a corner. “He lives, he breathes; he wears the finest robes to fetch jugs of wine. He walks through the hall like he is the god damned Prince of Denmark. He was perfectly fine, healthy and happy.”

  “He wasn’t…” Etienne began, shaking his head, but stopped when Rory’s eyes met his. Rory tipped his head to the side, as if waiting, so Etienne took a deep breath to continue. “He seemed dazed. He limped. And he had trouble carrying the jug, though it did not look like it weighed much.”

  “Was Maarten with him?” Rory asked, his voice rough, low.

  “His first words in three days and he asks about Maarten,” Ortega sneered. “I’d wager your master would approve, Ruaidhri.” In a flash of movement none of them could have predicted, he was shoved, tripped, and brought to the floor. The edge of the cutlass pressed to his throat did not stop his curses. “Get off me, you filthy...”

  “Was Maarten with him?” Rory seethed, staring down at him from his perch atop Ortega’s chest.

  “Rory, no, he wasn’t,” Etienne said, pulling at Rory’s shoulders. “This is not the time.”

  “No, there is no time,” Rory said, shoving his hands away as he stood. He swayed and Etienne caught him again. “I have to go.”

  “Rory, you’re not ready!” Etienne cried. “You’re still so—”

  “Weak?” Rory spat. “I’ve strength for this. By God, I have plenty of strength.” He swung his sword and brought it down on the chair he had just abandoned, splintering the wooden slats and the solid seat into shards and pieces. He stared at each man in turn, then, challenging them, daring them to stop him. None did.

  “Maarten’s first rule for his…his pets; never leave the rooms. If Andrew,” Rory paused, swallowed, remembering his own lessons. “If Andrew was there without him, he’ll be punished.”

  The last word was whispered. He could barely speak past the tightness in his throat. No one spoke to counter.

  “I’m going. Malik, Yousef, you know what to do. Etienne,” he said, looking over his shoulder at the horrified face of his friend, “take care.”

  He left the cabin, ignoring Etienne’s pleas as the man followed him. He brushed past Ortega’s silent crewman, not turning to see if his own men were behind him. He knew they would complete their tasks. Just as he knew he would finish his.

  “You agreed to my p
lan!” Ortega growled, hurrying to place himself in front of Rory. When the man made to push past him, Ortega shoved him against the galley wall and grinned at the pained grunt it brought forth. His smile was wiped away in a flare of agony when Rory twisted and slammed his knee into Ortega’s groin.

  “Then gather your men and do it,” Rory said from behind clenched teeth. “But my part begins now.” He threw Ortega from him and continued to the stairs, with Malik and Yousef close behind.

  Rory emerged from below decks into the cold night air. The icy wind set his wounded body to aching but cleared his mind. His only goal was to enter the keep and bring Andrew out of it. Anyone who stood in his way would see his face and feel his sword as they died. He led his shortened crew across the plank, nodded first to Yousef, who saluted his captain with a murderous gleam in his eyes and set off for the fallen walls to the south, then to Malik, who grinned and stepped forward.

  Malik took the lead. His size allowed for Rory to stay hidden as he kept close while they approached the keep. In his cloak, with the voluminous hood pulled to cover his face, the man surely resembled Chernobog, the accursed Black God of the old Vendere stories Maarten once told him. When he pounded on the great doors on the north side, facing the dock where the ship was moored, Rory could have sworn he felt the wood beneath his feet tremble.

  “Open to me! I have come for you, Maarten Jan de Worrt!”

  Rory smiled, now fighting chills as the wind off of the sea blew harder even as he huddled close to Malik’s back. He slipped around the man and flattened against the stones beside the doors. Malik pounded again, raising his voice to an even more powerful volume.

  “I seek only he that offends the Old Ones! All others will come to no harm unless you stand between my wrath and whom it seeks!”

  Malik raised his head a little higher to look to his captain. He was grinning, enjoying his performance.

  There was a commotion, voices and clattering and the sounds of locks turning. Rory felt his smile change, more to a wolf’s snarl, and his heart thudded in his chest. Yes, he thought. Now.

  The heavy doors did not open easily. He could hear the grunts of men as they pulled and the laughter of others. “Come in, Old One! We have a surprise for you!” a man cried, his voice filled with the promise of blood.

  “You would dare?” Malik boomed.

  Rory whirled into the entry ahead of Malik, sword raised and teeth bared. He brought down two men before the others recovered from their shock, two more as they clumsily defended his attack. There were more; Malik’s sham was the perfect distraction on a long, Northern night and many had looked forward to sticking him with knives and swords and bleeding him of his impertinence. Now the fight was real, a danger, and it was not only the mammoth warrior who roared as he twisted heads and broke arms. It was a man in all white, head wrapped in a cloth reminiscent of a gypsy’s scarf, with a wolf’s grin and a demon’s eyes. Those that did not fall, ran, and Rory gave chase.

  He brought them low in the hall, ending their retreat with sublime satisfaction. The sounds of battle brought all; men poured from the kitchen, the long hallway leading to the north end of the keep, even some from basement and battlement, to do battle with Chernobog and his minion. Rory sent his sword into one man’s throat and plucked the weapon from the dying hand to finish the next. Blood flowed onto his arms, sprayed onto his face and chest, and still he swung and stabbed, eager for their end as much as Maarten’s.

  Malik called to him. “The rest are unarmed, Captain! Go!”

  Rory scanned the few that remained standing. “We work in the kitchens!” One man was saying, his hands splayed before him. “If we did not, he would take our families!”

  “Then return home. Leave now, else this keep will be your tomb,” Malik told them all, his voice echoing off of the bare stone walls.

  Turning to the hallway, Rory hesitated. So long…it had been so long since he had trod this path.

  “Rory! Go!” Malik cried.

  And so he ran. He saw stationed guards, too afraid of Maarten to leave their posts and quaking with fear at the sight Rory, bloodied and enraged. “If you value your lives you will flee this place,” he snarled as he approached.

  Two fled; two more came at him with weapons raised. These guards were better fighters, trained and well-paid mercenaries unwilling to give up their purses and their pleasures. One man caught Rory across the shoulder and Rory kicked him in the chest. When the other swung for Rory’s head, he ducked and cut across the man’s stomach. The stench of blood and shit filled the hall as the man’s entrails spilled forth. Rory laughed, a high braying sound, not unlike the call of Fenrir.

  Rory bore down on the other guard, still laughing as he sliced through the man’s s throat. He continued down the hall, eyes trained on the end. Two more doors, barred, guarded by four men that Rory….knew.

  “You’re alive,” one of them said, stepping forward with sword and lance. He was tall and powerfully built, and cruel. Rory remembered.

  “No, I am dead. My spirit was called to exact justice. To avenge those who have fallen into this pit of vipers,” Rory said, neither slowing nor stopping.

  “Then come, myling,” the man laughed, steeling himself for Rory’s attack. “Let us taste your vengeance. We’ve already tasted the rest of you.”

  Filled with rage and hatred, Rory flung himself at the man. His companions came forward, circling the two as they laughed with their sword mate. When Rory ran the first through he screamed. When the second fell at his feet, clutching his guts, the others ceased their laughing and set upon Rory, together. He allowed their thrusts, their parries, but when one caught his thigh and the blood flowed down his leg, Rory’s vision swam with crimson of its own.

  The first he cut across the chest, then at the elbow, neatly severing the arm. The second howled and lunged and Rory, nearly taking him down with his spear. Rory beheaded him, swinging both swords towards each other to slice in two directions upon his neck. He heard moaning and sought those that still lived. With his bare hands he tore out their throats, relishing the heat of their blood as it soaked into his clothes.

  He stood over them, huffing with fury and exertion, triumphant. He spat on the face of one, kicked another, and moved to the door. Listening close with his ear to the wood, Rory heard muffled movement, as if someone was listening on the other side. He slid the bolt and waited. Taking a step back, he ordered sharply, “Open the door.”

  “So you can kill me?”

  Rory gasped. He knew that voice. “Laurent?”

  The doors opened slowly and the man stood in the portal.

  “You’re alive,” Rory breathed, staring.

  Laurent stood calmly, unaffected by the gruesome sight of the slaughtered guards. He was leaner than Rory recalled, yet softer, more yielding. His voice had never truly deepened, only become less child-like. “Yes. Fate, it would seem, has a cruel sense of humor.”

  Rory still stared. That last night, the night he had been sent to the dungeon, Laurent had been a heap of blood and mangled flesh; a broken child that Rory had thought dead. “But Maarten…he…”

  “He emasculated me. Yet, I lived.”

  “Oh, God, Laurent! I…I tried,” Rory told him, feeling his own helplessness, his own rage at not being able to save him.

  Laurent put up a hand. “I know, Rorik. I know you did. I heard your screams as you heard mine. I don’t blame you.”

  “But how…” Rory paused, swallowed his pain. “How are you still here?”

  “Where else could I go? What use would I be, only half a man?” Laurent said. He lowered his hand. “Maarten tended my wounds, brought me back to health. He gave me duties, purpose, and after a while, I couldn’t even be angry anymore.”

  Rory lifted his weapons. “I’m going to kill him, Laurent. For what he did to us, all of us.”

  “I will not stop you.”

  They stood, barely an arm’s length apart, looking at each other for a long silent moment. Rory felt hi
s eyes burning, his heart twisting as if strong fingers clenched it tight. “I wish I had…”

  Laurent shook his head. “If you intend to kill Maarten, he is in his inner chamber. He will likely be…distracted.”

  Trembling, staring into what had been his home, his prison, for half of his life, Rory hesitated.

  “Don’t dwell on it, Rorik,” Laurent said softly. He moved closer on silent feet. “He has your Andrew. He is meeting out punishment as we speak. Dwell on that. End it now.”

  Rory closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. Andrew. “Announce me.”

  “What?”

  “Play his game, it will please him, make him,” Rory glanced at Laurent, “happy. Foolish.”

  Laurent nodded and turned to lead him into the room.

  Rory paid no heed to the treasures throughout. Perhaps there were higher piles, perhaps they were more opulent than he remembered, but they were of little consequence. He followed Laurent to another door and waited as the man knocked.

  “My lord,” Laurent called.

  There was a grunt, a slap, and Maarten’s strained voice came to them. “I told you to wait until I called.”

  Rory shuddered, felt dizzy. “God,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “God, please. Let him open the door. Let Andrew still be…” He could not finish.

  “My lord,” Laurent said, in his most formal tone. “Rorik is here.”

  There was silence. Then another slap and words that Rory could not hear. Then the sound of the bar scraping as it was lifted, and the door opened.

  This is what Rory had dreaded, the reason he’d dared not confront Maarten in his keep. The walls were too close, the memories still lurid and vibrant despite the passing of years. The time between his last sight of Maarten and now could have been a mere space of days, so visceral was Rory’s reaction. A tempest of emotions threatened to overwhelm him; hate, fear, anger….and longing. Maarten had been his tormentor, his jailor, but also his provider. At other times he had been father, comfort, pleasure…his only constant companion. His trembling increased and his thoughts rolled like flotsam upon wave after wave of conflict.