Springwar

by Tom Deitz

  That was what he wanted—for his enemies.

  He squeezed harder.

  Wished harder.

  A blister he’d barely noticed broke in the palm of his hand. He felt the pain almost like pleasure. A wash of fluid followed.

  The gem awoke in truth at that.

  Which told him something.

  He wanted—

  No, the gem wanted: A pulse of raw hatred flowed into his hand from that shard of what should be inert stone. Up his arm, into his shoulder, into his throat. And there that force split, and one half went to his brain, while the other half went to his heart.

  And clamped down.

  It fought as the gem had fought, but this time the small trapped animal was the organ that drove his blood. It fought like a cornered geen, like a birkit queen defending her cubs.

  It lost.

  His mind outlived his heart by a dozen breaths. And then, like stars winking out, it, too, started dying. The last thing he knew as a conscious entity was what sounded like a million souls—or a million grains of sand—every one laughing.

  Lord Lynnz, Warlord of Ixti and chief of torturers, was getting very impatient. The king should’ve summoned him by now, to assess the day’s victory, to toast it afterward, and then to join the soldiers in the celebration they would be expecting.

  Not that such things were Barrax’s style; he was a known recluse. Still, he’d made no mention of wanting to be alone tonight, though it didn’t surprise Lynnz, as angry as Barrax had been when he’d left the battlefield. Left Lynnz in charge of it, in fact, responsible for securing lines and seeing that the fronts were manned and guarded. After the day’s events, there was no certainty the cursed Eronese wouldn’t call the sun back to the sky to smite them in the dark.

  Which was probably why Barrax had ridden half the night to return here, and was now in his tent, sulking.

  Which, Lynnz reckoned, he’d indulged long enough.

  A pause to finish the wine he’d been drinking while studying the revised charts they’d acquired that day from an abandoned villa in the near end of the gorge, and he started out of his tent. This would be an informal meeting and shouldn’t take long—not as long as the one he’d have afterward, at any rate, during which he’d have to brief his subcommanders, review charts and supply lists, and generally do those things it really took to win a war. The things one did when one didn’t have the dubious added distraction of being king. Probably the men—whoever was left in camp—would be wanting to see flash, glitter, and royal panoply, and so he paused in the outer room to don his cloak, helm, and sword. Thus attired, he stalked into the night.

  “Is the king within?” he asked the closest soldier, as he reached the outer entrance.

  The man nodded solemnly. “He is.”

  “For how long?”

  “He’s been there—” the man paused uneasily “—for some time. He went to see the prisoner Eddyn, and returned very angry.”

  “No surprise,” Lynnz muttered. Nor was it. The man was a thorn in Barrax’s side. Someone who lived because he knew too much to be killed. But perhaps it was time Barrax reconsidered.

  Which probably meant the king was sulking. Lynnz started past the guard. The man hesitated, then thrust his spear ahead of the commander to block his way. Lynnz smiled warning, and pushed the shaft gently aside. “The king has these moods; you should know that. But I think he’ll see me.”

  The man exchanged glances with his companion, who looked younger. “It’s you who’ll suffer if you interrupt,” he dared.

  Lynnz thought of killing him right there. Instead, he marched straight down the short entry passage, through the common room, and into Barrax’s private quarters, where the light was strongest.

  “Your Majesty,” he began, even as he dipped his head in the obligatory courtesy bow upon entering. He’d glimpsed the king but briefly, a dark shape behind his table. Lynnz’s eyes scanned the rich carpet.

  Your Majesty,” he began again, eyes not moving. “I apologize for this intrusion.”

  Silence.

  He looked up, angry. Tired of indulging monarchs who ought to know what was expected of a king who would also be a soldier.

  The king looked back at him, unmoving. Staring.

  Gape-mouthed.

  Not moving.

  Not breathing.

  Dead.

  “Dead,” Lynnz whispered, not believing.

  And then he was acting. A quick inspection told the tale. It was that infernal gem. He should’ve known. Should’ve read the signs of the king’s growing obsession with what Lynnz mostly considered a conjurer’s trinket, its reported powers a dream conjured by Kraxxi and Merryn during a night of lust.

  Yet he was still wary enough not to touch the thing directly. Drawing on his thick war gloves, he removed the stone from Barrax’s clenched fist and replaced it in its pouch, which he then, on impulse, stored inside his tunic.

  And then it struck him like a blow. The king was dead! On the night of his first victory, the king was dead. The armies were half a world from home, and the king was dead. Which meant …

  Well, it meant that Kraxxi was king—legally. Sentence of death or no, he was still Barrax’s heir. But that was an impossible situation, and frankly not one he was equipped to reckon with at the moment. Not on the eve of a crucial battle. That was the important thing. Never again would they have so good a chance to subdue Eron. And he would certainly not be the man who threw that chance away.

  But what, then, was his best option? The king had no brothers, so his heirs were his sister’s sons. And though Lynnz was married to one of those sisters, he had no sons himself, nor would. The others … they were boys. Younger than Kraxxi. Back in Ixtianos being schooled. One of them toddling about in baby robes.

  So who was the strongest man in Ixti now?

  Himself.

  And if he wanted to secure that power, he’d have to act quickly. He’d have to act tonight.

  It took but an instant to formulate the plan, for like many brilliant men, Lynnz acted best when he acted out of instinct. And so, with that in mind, he returned to the outer room, where Barrax had left his cloak and helm. It required but a breath to swap his cloak for Barrax’s cloak of state, and his own helm for Barrax’s scarcely more ornate one. Fortunately they were of a size, and not unlike in age, visage, or carriage. And so the soldiers saw what they wanted to see when he passed. “Lynnz is checking some charts for me,” he murmured, slurring his words as though he’d been drinking, which Barrax was wont to do when angry. “He should be finished anon. Meanwhile, I require your escort to my meeting with my commanders.”

  Accustomed to royal caprice, the guards nodded mutely, and marched off smartly in Lynnz’s vanguard.

  Fortunately, the war council met in one of the cloister halls, neither Lynnz nor Barrax having a tent large enough to accommodate them comfortably. Fortunately, too, Lynnz’s tent was right next door. “I need a chart from here,” he told the men, who waited dutifully while he ducked inside. And though he did indeed retrieve a chart from those piled in his sleeping quarters, what he brought with it was far more important. A certain bottle of wine he’d been saving for an appropriate occasion, just in case it was needed.

  A moment later, they were off through the night once more.

  The war council was awaiting him when he entered, leaving the guards outside. And since there was a short corridor between their station and the chamber, Lynnz had ample opportunity to store his royal finery. So it was that it was once more as himself that he entered the room—a long, low, comfortable chamber where whitewash was fading off sturdy stone beneath groined vaulting. He moved with ease to his accustomed place midway along the table. The other commanders—eight of them—rose as he found his seat, but he nodded at them to sit again. Most did not look happy. Nor did he blame them. Riding half the night to indulge a royal whim was enough to sour anyone’s disposition.

  “I apologize for my tardiness,” he yawned carefully. “Es
pecially at so late an hour, after such a tiring day. Unfortunately, I had … business with the king. And we have business tonight as well—some of it unexpected. But before we get down to the serious talk that must come before we can engage in the celebration I know we all desire, let me propose a toast, with the king’s own wine he has sent here. He will attend later, he hopes. For now … he is indisposed.”

  And truly the wine did bear the royal seal. And so Lynnz filled his own cup and passed the bottle down, watching with absent but keen interest as each goblet, mug, or other vessel was filled in turn. There was nothing left but dregs when the bottle returned, which was perfect.

  “Gentlemen!” Lynnz intoned, rising. “I give you … victory.”

  “Victory,” they echoed in various cadences. And once again he watched as they drank. All of them. Good soldiers. Good at taking orders. At doing what they were told.

  “Now then,” he continued pleasantly, settling himself into his seat. “I have several things to tell you, and none of them will please you.”

  Lord Eezz, who sat nearest, stared at his cup, and then at Lynnz. “Ah, Lord Lynnz, has it come to this, that you think for us now?”

  “I think of you,” Lynnz corrected. “More important, I think of Ixti, which stands on the threshold of a greatness and prosperity we had not heretofore anticipated.”

  “And this news?”

  “The king is dead—of his own recklessness.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, and then the room exploded into noise.

  Lynnz silenced them with a shout. “I found him not a finger ago. He tried something he should not have, and … failed.”

  “Then … Kraxxi is king.”

  “Kraxxi is a traitor. Do you want him in charge, here on the eve of battle?”

  “So who, then? The heirs—”

  “Are in Ixtianos. Mere boys.”

  Eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You are kin to the king, by marriage.”

  “Have I ever led you wrong?” Lynnz inquired neutrally.

  “Never,” a younger man conceded.

  “So is it this?” asked old Lord Arl. “Are you saying you are taking the throne?”

  “I say that I take charge of this campaign. The throne is as safe as it was a day ago. The throne is in Ixtianos. We are here. We stare victory in the face.”

  “But you are not the heir.”

  “I am still your commander.”

  “Until you have Kraxxi killed …” someone dared.

  Lynnz glared at him. “There is something else I need to tell you, something you will like even less than what I have just conveyed.”

  “And that is?”

  “Most of you have served with me a long time. Most I know since childhood, as teachers, friends, or students. But a man in my position must trust no one entirely. Therefore, I feel it my duty to … ensure your loyalty. For that reason, I regret to inform you that you have all been poisoned.

  “You won’t die,” he continued, shouting over the ensuing din. “It was I who administered the drug; it is I who control the antidote. Indeed, this poison is an odd sort. It doesn’t kill you, only … its absence. Serve me as you have been, and you will have your ration of life. Kill me, and the secret dies with me.”

  A stunned silence filled the room.

  “Nothing has changed,” Lynnz said at last. “Not really. What Barrax promised you upon completion of this invasion, I promise you as well. Ixti will be ruled as well by me, as … regent, as by Barrax—and with more attention to men such as you. We cannot bring him back, but the war must continue.”

  Another pause. Then: “And I tell you true, this makes no difference in your lives. None at all. But it might make a difference with the soldiers. Therefore, I require your absolute trust. Word must not get out that the king is dead. Ill, yes: and indisposed, but not dead. The men who came with me here will leave with me—cloaked and helmed as the king. I leave it to you to see that they do not find their beds alive.

  “I hope I have made myself clear.”

  Silence again, then, from the far end of the table: “The king is dead, but we have the king’s work to do. Gentlemen, I suggest we be at it.”

  “Good,” said Lynnz brightly, unrolling the chart he’d brought. “Now, does anyone have an accurate count of our losses?”

  Kraxxi was dreaming of blue skies and hot sun on dusty streets. Of yellow and orange and red, and a white so bright those colors reflected there. He was dreaming of the ocean and smooth golden sands, of the susurration of waves, and the sough of wind drifting out of green-clad mountains.

  And then all that shattered with the sound of a squeaking door. He was on guard in an instant—not that it availed him much, given that his cell was as empty as his hope right now. He’d roused from his slumbers some vague time back, to the sound of someone cheering Barrax’s victory out in the cloister square. But there’d been no bonfire—probably because the bulk of the army was gone: up to South Gorge in pursuit of battle. Which pretty well dissolved his hope of rescue.

  And now—

  He tensed, preparing to fight if need be, for if Barrax had won, there was less reason than ever to keep him alive.

  Another squeak, and the door opened fully. Kraxxi’s heart sank, to see it occupied by four hooded soldiers, who more than blocked the entrance. And there was no way he could fight his way past them into the darkness beyond.

  And then he had no more time for speculation, for they surged forward in a rush of cloaks and mail, and before he could so much as cry out, he’d been gagged and a hood had been drawn over his head as far down as his upper arms, which were bound, none too gently, behind his back. They left his legs free long enough to walk him to some sort of wagon, before loading him inside and tying his ankles.

  Silence for a moment, broken only by the sound of his own breathing, amplified by the hood.

  Almost he dozed again. It was safest, when the only things to think were things it frightened one to think, when one was an exiled prince kept alive on sufferance. But then he heard the sound of more boots approaching, and a muffled exchange of conversation. By straining his hearing, Kraxxi could make out part of what was being said. Maybe the crucial part, to judge by the phrase “… follow half a day’s ride back? This makes no sense.”

  And the chuckled reply: “Lynnz’s orders rarely do.”

  “Better we should kill him outright and be done.”

  “I think they want him alive to witness the final battle.”

  “If you can call that in there alive.”

  “I call it torture, if you ask me. But you didn’t hear me say that. In any case, we leave at dawn. Be ready.”

  Ready for what? Kraxxi wondered.

  Eventually the wagon began moving—unaccompanied, it appeared. But that was no true answer.

  CHAPTER XXXI:

  DARKENING DAYS

  (ERON: TIR-ERON-HIGH SPRING: DAY V-EARLY AFTERNOON)

  Bingg was drowsing on a long padded bench tucked in an arched alcove beside Eellon’s door when a very tired and dirty Avall found him. Not that Bingg looked much better, as far as the tired part went. Lads his age ought not to have dark smudges under their eyes, nor rumpled hair, nor clothes that looked like they’d been slept in for five days running. Still, his smile was as bright as Lykkon’s best when a cough from Avall roused him.

  Avall was not expecting a hug, however—nor for tears to replace joy in Bingg’s eyes. “You’re back!” he managed through a flustered fumbling with clothes and hair.

  “Just this moment,” Avall replied, “and as tired as you are, I suspect. But much as I’m truly glad to see you, I have urgent news for Lord Eellon.” He nodded toward the door for emphasis.

  Bingg looked troubled, though he tried to stand straighter, like a proper page. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” Yet still he lingered. “Avall … I’m sorry. But I have to ask: what about Lyk …?”

  “He’s at the front but safe, as is Rann, who’s keeping an eye on him
.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Bingg sighed. “What about the rest of you?”

  “I’m here, with Strynn, Merryn, and Div, all of whom are intact and on various quests to execute royal orders. As for my report … you’re free to listen, for all I care.”

  Bingg stared as if dumbfounded. “Merryn …?”

  A nod. “Surprised us, too. Now—”

  Bingg eyed the door as though he were afraid to open it. “I’ll tell the Chief at once.”

  Avall suppressed an urge to simply bypass Lykkon’s younger brother and barge in, as was more or less his custom. But Eellon had far more in the way of responsibilities now than heretofore, and far less strength with which to conduct them. Avall was worried about the old man, too—more than worried, in fact. Still, protocol was protocol, and he was at present merely a messenger. And so he waited while Bingg ducked through the door.

  He didn’t stand, however; he was too tired for that. Six days’ travel in four did that even to a healthy man, and Avall was not at all certain he was healthy. Not after what had happened when he’d tried to call down the fires of the Overworld on Ixti. But he didn’t want to think about that now. He’d have to relate the whole tale to Eellon, anyway. In the meantime—well, the mere thought of it made him shiver.

  He was rubbing his hands briskly up and down his arms when Bingg returned. His handsome young face looked troubled. “He’ll see you …,” he began. “But he’s very tired. I just wanted to warn you. Maybe you’ll give him what he needs, but I’m not certain. He’s”—he shifted his weight nervously—“not been the same since you left. Nor really since the night you linked with Merryn.”

  Avall grimaced at that, though it wasn’t Bingg’s fault. Facts were facts, and guilt wasn’t something he needed to entertain right now. Merryn had her guilt; this was his.