by John Donlan
Needra wasn’t sure they would be safe anywhere in the city. Her instinct was to escape, to get out past the walls and to keep on running. But she also had a strong urge to try and protect Torelle if she could. The woman had helped her and treated her well, just like Darius had, and she owed them something.
She took Torelle by the hand and pulled, tugging her in the direction of the guard station.
Torelle hesitated and took one look back towards the castle doors. Her eyes bulged as the barriers burst open. A dozen figures streamed out, each of them wielding a wicked looking weapon. The blades were all dripping blood, and in the shadows behind them, there were bodies lying strewn on the ground, all twisted into strange shapes. Those remains looked incomplete, as though pieces of them had been cut away. Needra tugged again, silently urging her friend not to look.
But it was not the weapons or the corpses that shook both women to the core. It was the creatures that were dashing out into the rain. The things looked like men at first glance, but a closer look revealed the truth. They had no faces. Stitched flesh covered the skulls, making them look like some kind of horrifying scarecrows. Torelle screamed, and Needra would have joined her if she had not seen those same, terrifying visages before. Her nightmares were made real again, and they looked no less horrifying here, among new friends, than they had out in the swamps.
The sergeant paused, too, as though the sight of the creatures were enough to make him reconsider his vows. But as the men he had led here joined the horrors in fierce battle, he grit his teeth and rushed to enter the fray.
Needra tugged on Torelle’s hand again. She had no idea if the things had noticed her yet – was not sure how they even sensed anything with those featureless heads of theirs – but she was determined not to wait and find out. Torelle, thankfully, began to move at last.
People had noticed what was happening in the castle now, and they were screaming in panic and rushing towards the city walls. Needra had to dodge and swerve to avoid being trampled. Up ahead, she could see the guard post, but people were streaming past it in a wave. She pulled Torelle to the side and ducked into a doorway, letting the tide of humanity thunder past.
Torelle was still shaking, but she seemed to have regained some of her composure. She turned to Needra and licked her lips. “Those things… they were the same things you saw in the marsh...” It was a statement, not a question, but Needra still nodded her head grimly. They were the same. She had carried that vile image in her mind ever since, and they still visited her nightmares each night. She feared she would see them still when she was old and grey.
Torelle’s face softened. “I cannot imagine the horror you have lived with. But you are not alone now. The soldiers will defeat them, and you will be safe.”
The people had passed now, and beyond, the street was mostly empty. A few men and women had been knocked over in the mad dash to escape, but none seemed to have been killed. Even now, those who had been toppled were groaning and getting to their feet, turning towards the outer walls of the city in a blank-eyed daze.
Needra hurried out of the doorway, sword still clutched in her hand. She did not know how to use it, but it made her feel better.
As they drew close to the door of the guard post, it swung open and a man stepped out. When he saw Torelle, his eyes widened. “My lady! What is happening?”
“I do not know,” Torelle told him, squeezing through into the cool darkness of the room beyond. “But it is not going well. I do not think we can stay here.”
The guardsman frowned. “I do not understand...”
Needra had already worked out what Torelle meant. People were trying to flee the city. The garrison soldiers were attempting to reach the castle. When the two met, it would be chaos, and there was a chance the soldiers would not break through in time. The creatures in the castle grounds would cut down the guards already there, and begin the hunt in the streets of the city. Needra understood that if they remained here and waited, they would be found and killed.
“We have to leave,” Torelle said. “And we have to leave now, before it is too late.”
Twenty-Five
Gadmar had never been fond of waiting; he was a man of action, and patience – though a virtue – was not one of his strongest assets. Now he found himself waiting not just for his audience with the king, but for news of the whereabouts of his men. He was pacing back and forth in the large and opulent quarters he had been assigned, grinding his teeth, and feeling his frustrations grow. Worse, Luscard was nowhere to be found. His son had professed an interest in exploring the palace, and perhaps the city itself, and had left before Gadmar could manage more than a few words with him. Now he was alone, and taking his frustrations out on the cold stone floor with his feet.
Most of his thoughts were focused on what the king’s judgement would be. It would be nothing good, he was sure – Duke Harrow would make certain of that. It galled him more than he liked to admit just how much influence Harrow had on the king’s rule, and he wished he had paid more attention to the affairs of the court. But he’d had his own lands to govern, and political manoeuvrings had never been of much interest to him. Subtlety, subterfuge and intrigue were a mystery to him, a strange and twisted game that had no rules and no clear goal. Now it may very well be too late. The king was in a precarious position, a position made even worse by the fact that he would soon have to punish one of his closest allies so as not to seem weak.
When he was not focused on the coming penalty for his failure, he was thinking about Darius and Torelle. He wondered how close they were to discovering the truth about the massacre in the marsh. Even if they had an answer, the news would not reach the capital in time to avoid the coming judgement. He had accepted that, but he was still intensely curious to discover who was responsible.
A thought that had been swirling through his mind for sometime now, suddenly came back to him. Was Harrow to blame? It made a certain sort of sense. If the duke had discovered the truth of the peace talks, he may very well have made plans to thwart them. What better place to do it than in the lands of one of the king’s staunchest supporters? He would, in essence, have killed two birds with one stone, and advanced his own position while weakening the king’s.
The more he thought about it, the more sense it made, but he had no proof. Still, if Darius made good on his promise to discover the truth behind what had happened in the marsh, then it was possible that the king’s judgement could be rescinded and Harrow finally revealed for the traitor Gadmar was sure he was. It gave him a moment of brief satisfaction to imagine Harrow facing judgement instead of him, but he knew it was a faint hope. Even if he was responsible, Duke Harrow was far too clever and shrewd to leave behind a trail that could lead back to him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. It opened a moment later and Captain Stairn entered.
“Did you find them?” Gadmar asked, skipping the pleasantries in favour of attempting to satisfy at least some of his growing frustrations. Stairn was an old friend and would not consider it rude.
“I did, my lord,” Stairn said, but the expression on his face told Gadmar that the news was not good. “Harrow has arranged for them to be garrisoned as far from the castle as he could. In an inn, no less, and not one of the better ones in the city. The men are far from happy. They are holed up five men to a room.”
“An inn?” Gadmar was disgusted. It was an insult, and a barely veiled one at that. His men should have been housed with the palace guards. There was always room for visiting soldiers. Even if Gadmar was about to be humbled by the king, he was currently still Duke of the Southmarsh, and tradition had an important role to play in the royal court.
“It is a slap in the face,” Gadmar went on, his lips twisting up distastefully. “I doubt the king knows of this, and even if he did, Harrow is confident that Tomar will not act on it. He will not risk a confrontation over a slight, and I am certainly in no position to air my grievances; it would make me look pet
ty and small. Damn that man!”
“I took the liberty of arranging rooms for some of them closer to the castle,” Stairn said suddenly. “I thought it prudent to have some protection close by, my lord. I am sure that the inkeep robbed me blind; the gold I paid could have bought me a new horse.”
Gadmar looked up at him in surprise. “If Harrow finds out...”
“What will he do?” Stairn smiled slightly. “Complain to the king that his lack of respect for tradition was ignored? You are the duke, my lord, you have every right to house your men where you choose. If I can manage it, I will have the rest of them moved, quietly and slowly, so as not to draw attention.”
Gadmar chuckled. “That will certainly stick in his throat, my friend. Thank you. But it is a small victory, and it will only serve to anger Duke Harrow further when he finds out. Still, he can do no worse to me, thank the Gods. How many men were you able to move?”
“Less than half,” Stairn admitted. “But they are the best of my men, lord. If needed, they will serve well enough.”
“I do not think they will be,” Gadmar said dryly. “Harrow has everything he wanted, though I worry about the king’s decision to send fresh delegates to the empire. Harrow did not foresee that, and it may force him to change whatever plans he already has in motion. He is a dangerous man, and more so when his actions are obscured.”
Gadmar moved to the door and Captain Stairn followed close on his heels.
“My lord?”
“I need to speak to the king,” Gadmar said. “I have accepted that I will pay for my failings, but the king must be made to realise that he cannot stand idly by any more. If Duke Harrow is allowed to continue down this path, the kingdom will suffer for it. I know he yearns for war with the empire. It will benefit him greatly, and he cares not for the problems it cause. Worse, I have heard whisperings that he is pushing for an invasion of Arrenissia. Fool!”
He opened the door, only to find the king’s chamberlain standing outside, hand raised as though about to knock. The man lowered it almost sheepishly, then cleared his throat to speak.
He was a short, balding man with an almost perfectly round shape. He was dressed in his robes of office; long, flowing, crimson robes, with embroidered golden fabric trimming the ends and along the collar.
“Duke Crow, my apologies for disturbing you, but the king requires your presence. Alone”
Gadmar frowned at that, and cast Stairn a look before nodding his head resignedly. “He has at last decided what he is going to do with me, I suppose? Then let us have it. Captain, I would speak with you after I am finished. Wait for my return.”
Stairn nodded and held back as Gadmar left the room, following after the waddling shape of the chamberlain.
Gadmar expected to be led through to the throne room once more, but instead, the chamberlain took a twisting route through the halls and cavernous rooms of the palace to the eastern edge of the complex, right up to the doors of the chapel. Here he paused and pushed open the door. “The king is waiting for you in the crypts,” he said, nodding through the opening.
Gadmar, puzzled as to why the king was here, went through the door and crossed to the stairs on the far side of the chapel. Arrayed along the walls on either side of the room were small, compact shrines to the Gods. All of the many Gods in the Losarn pantheon were represented here, in equal measure, even Naedorn, who was mostly forgotten in the kingdom these days. Long ago, one deity or another would have taken precedence over the others, depending on the beliefs of the kingdom’s ruler, but times had changed. King Tomar did not want to upset the divine, and though he did not put much faith in the Gods, he was eager for help from any source, no matter how indifferent.
The crypt below the chapel was a large, hollow stone chamber that was the resting place of past kings and queens. It was also where honoured dukes had been housed after death, those who had given their lives in service to the kingdom. Those men who had died in the last war with the Tho’reen were interred here, and Gadmar found the king standing beside the tomb of one such man.
Tomar looked up as Gadmar drew close. His face was drawn with worry, a stark contrast to the expression he had worn in the throne room. There, he had to appear strong and capable. But that was just a mask. This was his true face. He looked every day of his age now, lines and creases marring his features like cracks in a pane of glass.
“Your majesty,” Gadmar said, bowing to his liege.
The king waved his hand. “None of that, Gadmar. We are old friends here, not king and duke. There is nobody to put on a performance for.”
Gadmar straightened and nodded. He glanced at the tomb the king had been standing beside. It belonged to Tomar’s uncle, Raelon. Raelon had been one of the generals in the war and had fallen at a crucial battle in the south, when the Tho’reen had broken through the lines briefly. They had been pushed back again eventually, but too late to save the duke, who had died after slaying three of the invaders that attacked him. That glorious death had earned him a place here, in the royal crypt.
“My uncle was a brave man,” Tomar said when he saw Gadmar looking at the tomb. “He died fighting for the safety of the kingdom. I was still a relatively young man, then, you remember? I had no idea about the horrors and brutality of war. I wanted to be like him. I wanted to be a symbol for the people.”
“You were a just and noble king. All of the people respected you and the strength you showed on the battlefield.”
“Were?” Tomar laughed bitterly. “Aye, I was. But I have not been so for a long time. Duke Harrow has seen to that, my friend. Him, and those who stand with him.”
“No.” Gadmar shook his head, frowning. He knew he was risking much in speaking so plainly to the king, but it needed to be done. “It was not because of Harrow. You chose not to stand up to him, Tomar. You chose to let his influence grow. You chose to stand by while the kingdom suffered.”
Tomar’s face darkened, and Gadmar suddenly wondered if he had gone too far. He had forgotten that it was his king he was speaking to.”
Then Tomar sighed. “You are right. I knew there was a reason I valued our friendship so. It is because you truly are not afraid. You speak plainly, and speak truthfully. Alas, there are few in my court who I could claim do the same. They fawn and they tell me what they think I want to hear. Every foolish decision I have made, they were quick to applaud. Every mistake earned their congratulations. I may even have grown to like it. I did not see it for what it was.”
“Why did you listen?” Gadmar asked. “How did it come to this?”
Tomar spread his hands. “I wish I knew for sure. There was no grand epiphany, old friend, no moment of sudden understanding. Harrow’s influence grew like a disease, spreading slowly. He was careful, subtle, insidious. I was too busy to notice at first, but when I did, it was almost too late. It may still be too late. His people have spread rumours, lies, dissent. And it was not hard to do. The kingdom hates the empire, and stirring that hatred is a simple thing. All it took was a few choice words here, a few whispered comments there, and the people began to take note.”
“Perhaps so, but there must be some who realises that another war will do us no good? We barely drove back the Tho’reen last time, and they are stronger now. They know our tactics, our strategies.” He paused, frowning. “Do you have no allies?”
“Some, yes. But they are silent allies, too frightened to speak out against Harrow. One of those who did, Baron Dulcin, lies in the cells rotting after Tho’reen coins were found in his home by a patrol sent by Harrow. Now, those who might have stood with me choose not to. And the allies who remain true grow fewer in number every day. They see Harrow as the future, and I am the past.”
“You are still king,” Gadmar told him.
He studied Tomar carefully for a moment, trying to remember the man he had once known. The king had been strong, once, when he had first attained the throne. He had been at the head of the army as it fought the Tho’reen invaders. The king had been
one very real reason for the kingdom’s victory, and the people had loved him for it. But times had changed and people had forgotten. They saw the disintegration of the kingdom, and they looked to the king for blame. And with Duke Harrow fanning the fire, the fall was almost inevitable.
“Aye, but for how long? I know Harrow moves against me, plotting and scheming. And there is nothing I can do. Well, not much.”
Gadmar raised his brow, then turned to follow the king as he moved deeper into the crypt. At the far end of the large chamber were the earliest heroes, those men who had died to found the kingdom. Jendril the Just, Caramin, Thandul… names Gadmar had learned at childhood and had often dreamed about. Caramin had led a thousand men against the northern barbarian hordes - an army of nearly ten thousand savages - and had won. Thandul had been the leader of the first king’s army and he had stood against the rag-tag armies from the Bitter Isles, the last region to stand against the unification. Jendril had been the second king to rule Losarn, and he had died when an assassin had managed to infiltrate the castle and his bed-chambers. But before that, he had expanded the kingdom through long, bloody battles as far as the borders of Arrenissia.
All of them had been strong men, the strongest in the long history of the kingdom, perhaps. Gadmar wondered if the king had not come here to try and draw his own strength from these long gone heroes.
“You have a plan, my king?”
“Not much of a plan,” Tomar said. “You know that I must make an example of you, if only to show that I do not have favourites, even amongst my oldest friends; Harrow would use that against me in a heartbeat. There is only one way I could think to do it that would not bring you to your knees, old friend. I must strip you of your title. No longer will you be Duke of the Southmarsh.”