by J Glen Percy
“Easy lad,” Breccyn whispered in Anchor’s ear.
Animals cinched and bridled, Ryecard passed a copper to each of the stall boys. “I was beginning to think you had found your sheets instead of your brother here.” Ryecard’s steeled voice contrasted with the floating melody.
“The fault was not your son’s, my lord. I tarried at Aryella’s side,” Wyn said. Breccyn purposefully maintained his focus on the fine adjustments he was making to Anchor’s leathers.
“Never mind it,” Ryecard said dismissively. “Were I in either of your boots and known what was to be asked of me, I would have sought a bottle and a secluded alley. What I ask, I do not ask lightly. Your bond with the princess will likely end, son, as will the West’s with Cairanthem.”
Cecily.... That was one more blow Breccyn’s lord father had not yet felt. “Ceres’ blood is to pay for Mykel’s?” Breccyn asked.
“One last favor to a kingdom that wanted our lands but not our people,” Ryecard confirmed, spinning his leather bracer. Given the past few weeks, Breccyn was surprised his father hadn’t spun his wrist clean off. “Cairanthem will no longer welcome the West, not under the Starlings.” Ryecard pointed first at his son, then at his Fellsword liegeman. “Your loyalty lies through blood, and yours through duty; nothing can come between. We are one with each other. The kingdom, Unity, and all its promises be damned.”
The men mounted and walked their horses to the center aisle. Breccyn stared towards the fire at the opposite end for as long as possible before turning towards the opening and the blackness beyond. That merry lot would be saddling war horses and polishing armor if events went his father’s way tonight, sharpening poleaxes and fletching arrows in quantities the West had not seen since before the Grayskin’s Blight. It was better to die defending your honor than to live your entire life without. Or at least that’s what he believed before Wyn sullied the very notion of honor. When the time came, he hoped they felt the same. The way tonight was unfolding, he hoped he felt the same.
Exiting Shorefeld’s main gate was the last Breccyn saw of the other two that night. All three shot from the city like a bolt from a crossbow, but there was no keeping up. Not with the darkness. Not with Lore. Within miles, the shadowy bay and his father were miles ahead, the week’s journey between the two capitals a simple leg-loosening exercise for the unworldly mare.
The sliver moon limited vision to a horse’s length in any direction and not a hair more. Wyn could have been a few paces in front for all he knew. It was unnerving, racing through the black, yet it proved of little consequence. The animals knew this land, knew this road, and the riders knew their animals. Leagues passed swiftly and there were many of them. Breccyn begrudged the crescent moon its smile as it drifted across the endless starry sky. Moving but not moving. Isolation its only companion. Why was it grinning so? At the moment, Breccyn wasn’t sure he’d ever smile again. Cloak fastened to chin, not even the rushing night could cool his blood. Perhaps bloodying a prince and earning the title of Fellsword would.
* * *
“What threads could you possibly be spinning at this hour, spider?”
Upon the king’s dismissal, Tobiah Jago had made his way immediately from the small council chamber, through the castle’s arched stable access, behind the empty armory, across the inner courtyard, and up, up, up to the aviary. He had not taken the most direct route across the open rampart, even forgoing a lantern in the late-night hours, as he wanted his comings and goings here to go unmarked. The Fellsword’s voice behind him dashed all of that.
“Don’t you know?” Tobiah asked, turning to face Ozias Stellen. By what little light the moon yielded, Tobiah could make out the man’s silver hair yet none of the scars patterning his symmetrical face. “Webs are better spun in secret, lest pesky hands swat them away. And what brings you here this night, Lord Captain?”
Other than the occasional rustle of a resettling hawk, like the rest of the citadel, the midnight hour brought a certain deadness to the aviary. It was a suspicious time for anyone to be here. With no walls to distinguish the finite floor from the infinite fall, it was a dangerous time as well.
“The king’s decision will shock the capital,” Ozias answered plainly. “My captains throughout the city will need time to prepare if the king’s peace is to be kept. The citadel will need to be locked down, Lancers called home from the search.”
Tobiah nodded his acceptance but knew the man’s straightforward response for a straightforward lie. Ozias had followed him; a hound’s tail followed its shaggy body less conspicuously.
Aside from the king’s pardon of the monger Starling lad, tonight’s overlong and underproductive council meeting had been spent hearing the lord captain’s fruitless updates. Organized under the First King – with Tobiah’s help and guidance no less – the King’s Lance stood atop Rosemount’s military structure with the sole purpose of protecting the royal house and its interests. If there was one constant among rulers, a king’s interests were whatever the king declared they were on whatever day he declared them. These days, that meant Ozias’ men were roaming the countryside in search of Erick’s missing daughter. Or were they? With every report the king grew more and more grim. Tobiah himself had grown more and more doubtful.
“The king is a fool,” Tobiah said firmly. And he believed it. He believed his next statement too. “No amount of preparation will quell the fallout from Erick’s decision.”
“He is your king,” Ozias said loyally.
“The truthfulness of your claim does not ruin the merit of mine. He is a fool. Why give the Starlings their son, at the cost of Rosemount mind you, when the Starlings won’t return his daughter?”
The crimson inside Ozias’ cloak caught what little moonlight there was as the man took a sharp step forward. “They what? What did you say? Princess Cecily is in Shorefeld?”
“Of course she is,” Tobiah chortled mockingly. “A rash, youthful love, where else would she flee? Waking to the cry of gulls, breakfasting in the salted air, these past days have been nothing less than a pleasant retreat for our princess.”
The Fellsword searched the darkness. “How long have you known this old man? Why say nothing to the council?”
“A good question, Lord Captain. Perhaps a better is how an old man can find a grain of sand on the beach while the entirety of the King’s Lance has yet to locate the coastline. Your eyes search the darkness; I remain unconvinced they can see anything in the light.”
“Watch what you say. We have turned every bed, rifled every cellar south of the Spine.”
“You can open every jar from here to the Forgotten and find nothing but jam for it. She is in Shorefeld.” It was the search locations that had first tugged Tobiah’s ear, close on two weeks ago now. Shorefeld was the first location he had thought to send a bird and yet not one man in the King’s Lance – other than those said to be traveling with Prince Ceres – had been dispatched northwards. In the early days of the search, Erick had been too distracted to question. Now the king was simply too distraught. “Regardless, you can call off your fox hunt, bring your impotent red-cloaks home to defend the citadel. The princess is found.”
“Look you shriveled grape, when the princess left, she did so under the cover of darkness. Where she went, what she was doing, was any fool’s guess. She could have wandered the Forgotten. She could have climbed the peaks of World’s Wall and the Five would be no wiser.”
Echoing the eastern moon, Tobiah’s response came in the form of a triumphant grin. Lord Steward Starling had been wrong to lay blame at his feet for the kingdom’s many ills, but not by far. Ozias suddenly realized what he had said, but the spider’s trap was sprung.
“You knew she left, and by her own accord.” Confidence was something the Fellsword southerner had never lacked. It quivered precariously as Tobiah spoke. “If you don’t mind me parroting, why say nothing to the council? Unless, that is, her disappearance was no accident.”
“She is safe in Shoref
eld,” Ozias protested. “You said so yourself.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Tobiah replied, his proud, twisted smile growing. “Spiders can be very sneaky. Of course, so can lord captains. What are you planning with the girl? Where do you have her hidden? I should wonder....” Ozias appeared as a wagon driver who had lost control of his team and was now barreling towards a precipice. “If the king’s daughter went missing at the bidding of the king’s loyal hand, what else in Cairanthem is his hand misplacing? Troop movements? Grayskin assassins?” A thought struck Tobiah suddenly. “Oh my. Your estranged father... the Old Badger... he is no stranger to you at all. You’ve been playing us all along.”
Ozias Stellen recovered quickly, knocking several cages to the cool tile floor as he crossed the space. Iron fingers wrapped themselves around Tobiah’s neck and backwards the ancient man went. Silk slippers tapped at the aviary’s ledge as he struggled for breath and footing. Far below, torches and lanterns dotted the ground as if the sky had been turned on its head. The smile did not leave the advisor’s face.
“Can spiders fly?” Ozias growled. “Tell me what you know of Cecily, else we shall quickly learn.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Tobiah gasped and choked. “And now I know that you do not either, though your family would desperately like to for some cursed reason.”
Tobiah had lived a grand life in both length and spectacle, and feared very little as a result. He certainly did not fear death, no matter how gruesome. He had outlived more rulers than he could quickly recall and more wars than any single bounded volume could contain. Yet steering the realm, a world he had been shaping since well before Cairan Romerian had given up rolling hoops and stick-horses for the sword, would be difficult from the grave. Ryecard Starling had been the most recent to threaten his life. Unlike the present predicament, his wits had saved him from that one. He was relying on something much more basic to rescue him this time.
“You won’t kill me,” Tobiah managed.
“Confident for a man with nothing save several hundred feet of air to arrest his fall.”
“For all your plots and power, your family’s maneuvering and manipulation, you lack the mark on your wrist that I wear on mine. My death will be an equivalent sentence on you, regardless of the charges you lay at my headstone.”
Ozias’ face waxed thoughtful by the weak moonlight, the man undoubtedly playing different scenarios in his head. Any that included Tobiah plummeting to his death must have resolved unfavorably because the Fellsword pulled him back onto the platform. He did not release his grip though, and his lips curled higher than Tobiah’s. “We shall see how many webs you can weave from the belly of the dungeons,” he said.
“On what crimes?” Tobiah asked, regaining his wind somewhat. Ozias Stellen’s next statement took it all away again.
“Why, on all of mine of course.”
CHAPTER 31
The small camp was located just south of the Fork where caravans and traders often queued for entrance into the packed crossroads. Twenty or so octagonal tents matching the crimson underside of the Lancer’s capes were in various stages of teardown. Those that yet remained upright held the red and black Unity Banner of Cairanthem or the sinuous gold rose of the Romerian family aloft to the rising sun. Alongside his anger, notions of revenge and glory had kept Breccyn warm throughout the solitary night. Tallying close on fifty of the king’s elite guard amongst the tents, he shivered. This day, revenge and glory would only be had at dire cost.
“The Lord Steward of the West, his scofflaw seed, and their faithful lap hound, well-armed and bitter as bunting berries.” Ceres strolled from behind a partially filled wagon, his swagger reminiscent of a strutting tom amongst its hens. Most of the Lancers stopped pulling stakes and loading horses to join their leader. Trouble must have wafted from the three men like fresh cooked pan waffles because those without weapons already at their side – swords and polearms mostly - were certain to grab them. “I would be forgiven for believing this an act of aggression and not a greeting on the open road.”
Following Ryecard’s example, Breccyn and Wyn dismounted. Even were these men swineherds with pitchforks, there was safety in numbers. Three over fifty was impossible odds. Tense expressions backed the prince in a wide half-moon, most fingering the steel pommels on their uniform weapons. Highly trained and well-drilled, these were no swineherds. Almost humorously - if his life’s wick wasn’t being trimmed with every Lancer that joined the mob - Breccyn caught sight of the wildfire-topped grimling from the keep, her beady eyes peaking over the lip of another wagon bed. Now there was a swineherd.
Ryecard approached until his breath, made visible by the chill air and early morning light, mingled with that of the prince. Wyn and Breccyn flanked him to either side. Scanning the surrounding soldiers, Breccyn’s heart captured the memory of Anchor’s thudding hooves in his chest. Two of the Lancers already held crossbows to shoulder, hands on levers.
“I do not care to fight you, Starling,” the prince said.
“Then don’t. The result will be the same.” Ryecard’s speech was simple. Simple and cold as river ice. The long night had done nothing to temper his fury either.
“You intend to kill your prince?” Ceres asked plainly.
“Not before feeding him his teeth.”
Ceres’ face colored and his jaw tightened, but he made no move. It was something to be seen; Ryecard Starling donning the usual hostile air of Ceres Romerian, while it was the prince who maintained level and reason. There was a sincerity in Ceres’ words that almost had Breccyn believing the prince truthfully did not want a fight. Almost.
“Then you found young Gabryel?” Ceres asked. There was no fear in him. The fifty men at his back could have had something to do with that, though Breccyn did not think so.
“It was Mykel,” Ryecard corrected, his son’s name cracking like a whip. Confusion briefly furrowed the prince’s brow, but Ryecard continued on. “I suppose names do not matter when slaughtering children. When you beg for mercy at the gates of whichever hell will have you, names will matter. It was Mykel Starling, Lord of the Stallion, and youngest son of Lord Ryecard Starling that you killed. He was a good child, wise and fair. Of all my house, he was the most apt to mercy.”
Ceres’ temper had thus far been buried. “I saw no mercy for my sister,” he spat. It was Ryecard who showed puzzlement this time. “You told him nothing of Cecily, Scofflaw?” Ceres snorted disbelievingly at Breccyn, then turned back towards Ryecard. “My sister is as dead as your son, or near enough, and an explanation I have yet to receive. I killed your son, but I did not draw first blood.”
Pensively, Ryecard bowed his head to one side. Breccyn’s side. “Cecily has a warm heart and is well thought of, but you will find it difficult justifying murder to the corpse’s father, however your sister may be. No doubt the loss of Cecily would come heavy to your father, as it would to the kingdom. Perhaps heavy enough to stem the celebration and feasting over the loss of the heir prince. She will receive the best care Shorefeld can offer.”
Ceres’ calm, wherever it had come from, curdled on his face. Ryecard was not finished.
“You’ve bullied and threatened every corner of Cairanthem. You’ve brought ill on the undeserving and gain on the same. My son Mykel’s craven murder stands alone on your absent list of accomplishments. Ah, and I see you have found your dagger. Your plotting and manipulation would be held against you if it weren’t so peevish and impotent. The Thorn Throne will not bear your undirected cruelty and neither will I.”
And just like that, reasonable Ceres was a thing of the past. “I do not answer to you for that which I partake in. I certainly do not for that which I did not,” the prince seethed. “A war will be had over this.”
“No,” Ryecard replied, regaining the composure for which he was admired. “The war will be over far greater.”
Two mounting thunderheads crowding one another on a hot summer’s day; it wasn’t a matter of if a storm wou
ld erupt but when. Breccyn stiffened. His blood surged and his hackles stood on end. It was better to die defending your honor than to live your life without. His mind repeated the words over and over as if to convince himself. It was better to die....
“You won’t be around to see it one way or the other,” Ceres snarled. “And when my men finish dragging your mangled carcass through Shorefeld’s streets as warning, we will enter your home and ensure the remaining Starlings do not either. Your city will burn, the ashes of any and all that ever loved you as their leader forgotten on the wind. You cannot hope to win here.” Ceres drew Waxing Crescent, one of the fabled eight, and held it between them. “Remember what you are up against. This is no ordinary blade.”
“Ordinary or extraordinary, human flesh gives way the same,” Ryecard said. His cloak dropped to the grassy earth, a length of steel less striking than Ceres’ rising in both hands.
Looking from Ryecard, to Breccyn, then ultimately settling on Wyn, Ceres had the last word. “Come men, my sister-steel is for sale today. A new Fellsword will be made.” Then the storm erupted.
The first casualty was a crossbowman who took a slender throwing blade through the windpipe prior to loosing his bolt. Wyn’s doing. The second readied archer missed cleanly, the projectile whirring past Breccyn’s unprotected head. Clanging metal, thudding impacts, primal growls; Breccyn’s hearing was absorbed by the opening clamor of battle. He thought he heard a horse’s scream just beneath it all, and then he too was swept away in the onrushing tide.
Breccyn fought precisely how his father had taught him, precisely how Wyn had taught him, and the first three red-cloaks that advanced paid dearly for it. His blade deflected the first’s thrust, sticking the second in the gut before returning with a chest-high slash for the first. The third caught his flat across the forearm, shattering bone in a delightful crunch. He slowed their movement, anticipated the painting five brushstrokes in advance. His feet could not have found better positioning and purchase were he caroling across a ballroom floor. The Lancers were formidable, but to Breccyn’s practiced mind they fought as if the air had been turned to water.