“We must secure the city,” Murlet replied, “and then drive Gatison and his armies from our lands. That is why we must go.”
Kalvin’s eyes widened at this audacious remark and then his gaze darkened with doubt and uncertainty as he looked once more over at the encampment of a few dozen men. Moving back a step, he studied Murlet with rank skepticism, and even suspicion.
He shook his head. “Unless those few men are the advance elements of a very large army, you are speaking foolishness, young man, utter foolishness.”
Murlet smiled coldly. “I am Johan, son of Jasiel,” he replied, causing Kalvin’s gaze to widen in shocked astonishment, “and true heir to the throne at Veir – and this I promise you – Gatison will not sit that throne, nor occupy the city of my fathers.”
Kalvin stared. “You are Jasiel’s son?”
“I am.”
Kalvin continued to stare, unblinking. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Murlet answered. “Jasiel was my father and Marta my mother, and I have come to claim that which is mine.”
Abruptly, a light came into Kalvin’s eyes and his demeanor underwent a dramatic alteration. Holding his hand to his heart, he inclined his head to Murlet. “Then you are our prince,” he stated, and he nodded gladly, as if in recognition. “I thought I knew you – I saw you once or twice, my lord, when you were younger. We long thought you had perished when Shammed betrayed and slew your father.”
Murlet shook his head. “I yet live, as you see, and I come to claim my birthright.”
Kalvin swallowed and glanced at the small encampment of armed men. “But how, my prince? – with so few –? True, Shammed the betrayer is weakened, perhaps even fled, but Gatison and his legions approach the gates even now.”
Murlet nodded at this but kept his smile. “Go to Fralun, my friend, to the home of your son and remain safe, but keep your ear turned toward the east and you may yet hear a rumor that will astonish you.”
Kalvin hesitated, his brow yet furrowed in doubt. “My lord – how? – how will you do this great thing?”
Murlet smiled and turned away. “Listen,” he said, “and you will hear.”
The old man, with a tiny flicker of hope struggling to replace the darkness of doubt in his eyes, watched his prince walk away.
The next day the traffic upon the road grew until the crush of people fleeing the capitol clogged the road, barring the eastward progress of the column of mounted men. The flood of refugees had slowed to a crawl, fights broke out as oxen became entangled, and wagons collided. The terror engendered by the approach of enemy armies served to eliminate common sense and courtesy.
Finding the roadway blocked by the mass of refugees trying frantically to flee to the west, Murlet and the band abandoned the pavement and drove across farmers’ fields and through barnyards, making their way eastward by backroads and dirt tracks as they hastened toward Veir, in a desperate hope to reach the city before the hosts of the enemy.
The day waned while they sought out every means of going eastward but even some of these secondary byways were clogged with frightened and fleeing citizens. In the end, the band gave up any thought of finding access upon the roads and hurried eastward through farmers’ fields and splashing through streams and rivers.
The sun set with the spires of the city in view. There was no smoke evident in the sky above those spires that would indicate that the enemy had arrived before them, so, with night coming on, Murlet decided to encamp and enter Veir at first light.
As the day dawned, they cautiously entered the gates and found the city deserted, except for a few looters that skulked along the side streets and alleyways, avoiding the troop of mounted men.
Though word was that Shammed had abandoned his palace, Murlet, riding with Brenyn at the head of the column, ordered the band to keep their lances at the ready, watching for any sign of the prince and his troop of guards. But as they moved toward the city center, between buildings that climbed to two and three stories on either side, nearly absolute silence reigned.
Veir, it appeared, was utterly deserted.
They eventually came out into a broad square paved with stone that fronted the palace at the center of the city. The palace, a proud structure built of expertly worked, pale white limestone, and with a carven façade, was topped with twin spires, the very heights of which were clad with metal that gleamed in the morning sun. No living soul was in view anywhere upon or near the square. In the middle of that wide space, however, before the palace doors, stood a makeshift gibbet, constructed of wooden beams.
Three bodies dangled from ropes hung from its crossbeam.
Murlet dismounted and went close and peered up into the distorted and blackened faces, examining each one, and studying the face of the man in the middle with particular care.
Then he turned and looked at the band.
“Shammed the betrayer’s false reign,” he said, “has come to its end.”
42.
Leaving Shammed’s body to remain where it was along with those of his unfortunate companions, Murlet, Riana, Brenyn, Glora, Aron, and Kristo went into the palace, passing through the great doors that stood ajar, through the arched hallway beyond, and then into the great hall itself. The interior of that grand structure was in disarray, apparently having been looted in the last hours before the city was abandoned, likely by the same men – deserting soldiers, probably, or perhaps the palace guards themselves – that had also created the gruesome scene out front.
Murlet halted and looked about him with a curious mixture of dismay and nostalgia evident upon his features.
“My home, once,” he said. “What a heap it is now.”
Kristo went over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We will repair all this, Johan,” he said. “Never fear.”
Murlet shook his head. “Not today, my friend. The enemy even now approaches this city.” He looked over at Brenyn. “Unless they can be halted, the city will be sacked, and this palace will suffer further.”
At this, Brenyn nodded and turned to leave. “We must go now, and halt their march, else what you fear will occur indeed.”
Murlet did not move at once but instead watched Brenyn for a long moment. “Are you certain that you want to go forth to meet them? – one man, against many thousands? I will stand with you, my friend, but, without you and your power, all is lost. It will fall upon you and your magic to stop them.”
“I mean to go and confront them,” Brenyn answered in firm tones. “And I mean to go at once.”
Murlet glanced around upon the wreckage of his boyhood home one last time and then turned toward the front of the hall.
“Then let us go,” he said.
Mounting up, the column crossed the square and turned eastward along the main thoroughfare. This part of the city was much the same as that upon its western environs – shops looted, doors hanging ajar, every home and place of business abandoned.
They found the eastern gates of the city closed and were forced to wait while Sergeant Kristo took several men and went up into the towers to turn the great wheels that swung them wide.
Then they continued eastward, following the main road that went nearly straight across the broad plains of eastern Magnus, past countless farms and passing through villages and towns. All were abandoned in the face of the approaching enemy hordes.
An hour after leaving Veir, they spied three mounted men coming toward them, riding abreast upon the roadway. The riders upon either side of their companion that rode in the middle leaned in toward him, obviously supporting him. As they drew nearer, it became obvious that the man in the middle, an officer wearing the colors of Magnus, was quite seriously wounded.
The men to either side of the officer hesitated as Murlet and his column drew near. The soldier on the left reached down and drew his sword with his free hand, but Murlet waved this away.
“I am Johan Murlet,” he said, though this greeting elicited no expressions of recognition from any of the men, all three of th
em relatively young. “We mean you no harm. What news of the army of Magnus? Does it yet resist the invaders?”
At that, the man on the left sheathed his sword and scowled in sorrow that was mingled with disgust. “There is no army of Magnus,” he replied. “It has scattered to the winds, every man of it. Gatison and his horde come westward along this very pavement, not three hours behind us.”
“The army is routed?” Murlet asked.
“The army is gone,” the man replied bitterly. “As I say, the army has scattered and is no more.”
Murlet peered closely at the man in the middle whose head hung low upon his chest. “How badly is your captain hurt?”
“This is our brother, Ruman,” the man on the right replied. “We are taking him home in hope that he may recover from his injuries.” A look of hope crossed his face. “Is there a surgeon that rides with your company?”
“Alas, no,” Murlet answered. He looked around and spied a deserted farmhouse standing a short distance from the road. He raised his hand and indicated the house. “Take your brother there and let him rest and bathe his wounds,” he suggested.
Immediately, both the wounded man’s brothers shook their heads. The brother on the left answered. “Did you not understand my words? The army of Magnus is no more and Gatison of Durovia is less than a half-day behind us.”
“I heard,” Murlet answered. “But we go even now to halt his progress into Magnus.”
A look of incredulous disbelief found the faces of both men as they looked back along the column that stretched to the west. The man on the left sneered as he looked back at Murlet. “Unless your army is composed of many thousands of invisible men,” he told Murlet, “you are worse than a fool.”
Murlet shook his head.
“There is no army,” he answered. “We are what you see – a few dozen loyal sons of Magnus – but there is something here that you cannot see.” He did not look at Brenyn as he continued. “There is a wizard that rides with us – and if Gatison can get past him, then Gatison is powerful indeed.”
The men frowned and then glanced along the column again with widened eyes. “A wizard rides with you?”
“Yes – and he will stop Gatison.”
The two men hesitated. “But – and if he does not?”
Murlet moved aside and motioned to the column to shift to the verge in order to let the men pass. “Remove your brother from that horse and take him to a bed at once and attend him lest he die,” he told the men. “We go now to stop Gatison.”
The column went to the right and then moved past the three men, leaving them staring after them as they drove eastward with Brenyn and Murlet leading the way.
The sun climbed the sky. They passed a few more displaced soldiers hastening westward, though most moved far off the road when they saw the column approach. Few of those stragglers were armed, having apparently discarded their pikes and swords as they fled from the battlefield in fear-driven haste.
Just before mid-day, they spied the advance elements of a large body of mounted men moving toward them in a column.
Murlet reined in his mount and stared eastward along the pavement. After a few moments, he nodded his head and looked over at Brenyn.
“That is the enemy,” he stated. “Those mounted troops are the forward elements and they fly the standard of Durovia.” He watched Brenyn for a moment. “What do we do?”
Brenyn gazed eastward for a time, and then he dismounted and handed Noris’ reins up to Murlet. “You and the others,” he told Murlet, “retreat a mile or so to the west. I will await them here.”
Murlet met his gaze for a moment and then handed the reins on, to Sergeant Kristo, and dismounted as well, moving up beside Brenyn.
He drew his sword. “I will wait with you,” he told Brenyn.
Brenyn turned to face him and shook his head. “No, Johan. I can’t be certain that the magic will protect you. And should I fail, you will need to lead these men back to their old life.”
“Nay – I’ve come home,” Murlet disagreed. “I am staying – and I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone to face the enemies of my country.”
“It will be the magic that will defeat them, Johan – not your sword or mine,” Brenyn reminded him.
Murlet gazed eastward at the approaching column of the enemy. When he looked back, his expression was grave. “I can see no darking among their company to arouse your powers,” he told Brenyn. “What if the magic does not arise?”
“There is more than one sort of power that was bequeathed to me,” Brenyn answered. “When I am in danger, one or the other will arise.”
Murlet studied him. “You speak of that which occurred on the day of our meeting in the tavern? – when you… disappeared for a moment?”
Brenyn nodded. “Just so.”
Murlet’s worried expression stayed. “Are you certain that it will come to your aid?”
Brenyn shook his head grimly. “No,” he admitted. “But this must be done, and I mean to do it.”
He went silent for a long moment, looking eastward, and then he handed Murlet his shield, leaving him with only his sword. “With no darkings about, I will not be needing this,” he said.
He looked eastward once more and then turned back. “Go,” he told Johan, “and gain some distance. I will await them here.”
Murlet yet hesitated, also gazing eastward before looking at Brenyn. “Do not die, Brenyn, my friend,” he pleaded.
“The magic will come,” Brenyn answered. “I will not die.” In his heart, he hoped desperately that the next hour would prove him right. He indicated the road behind him. “Go now, Johan, please,” he told Murlet. “You and the others must gain some distance.”
At last Murlet complied, mounting up, glancing eastward, and then meeting Brenyn’s gaze before turning and silently leading the column back along the road toward Veir.
When they had gone, Brenyn positioned his sword at the ready, faced eastward, and watched the enemy approach.
The broad roadway went nearly straight away into the east, so he could not see the great column of soldiers that he was certain marched toward him behind those mounted men that led that approaching army. Four abreast, they came steadily onward.
When they drew closer, he was surprised to realize that the man leading the column was very likely Prince Gatison himself.
With his horse walking several yards in front of those that rode behind him, one of whom bore aloft a large standard of gold and purple, the colors of Durovia, the lead rider wore a circlet of gold on his brow and bright armor that gleamed in the mid-day sun.
Brenyn’s breath came faster as the column bore down upon him and his heart began to quicken its beat and pound so that he heard the reverberation inside his head. After thinking about it, he sheathed his sword and waited for Prince Gatison and his army to approach with his arms hanging loose at his sides. If the power that his mother bequeathed to him in his blood did not come to his aid, it would not matter whether he was armed or no.
The leading rider came to within perhaps thirty paces of where Brenyn waited in the center of the ancient pavement and then halted, studying the young man who had so obviously awaited the arrival of him and his army. Another man, also clad in shining armor, moved up beside the lead rider, positioning himself on the leader’s right. “Shall I order him slain, my lord?” He asked.
The first man, who Brenyn was now certain was Gatison, Prince of Durovia, examined Brenyn silently with narrowed gaze and then shook his head. “Not yet.”
Folding his hands over the horn of his saddle, he leaned forward with his gaze fixed upon Brenyn. “I am Gatison,” he said, “prince of Durovia and conqueror of Magnus. Who are you?”
In that moment, gazing up into the steely eyes of the man whose legions had destroyed the armies of Shammed, false prince of Magnus, and had laid waste to the eastern regions of the land of his friend, something happened to Brenyn.
A cold hardness arose within him. It was not magi
c; it was simple determination and resolve, and the words that came to him in that moment felt right and proper.
Brenyn kept his gaze fixed upon Gatison as he returned his answer.
“I am death,” he said.
No visible expression crossed Prince Gatison’s features at this astonishing statement, rendered in quiet and solemn tones by the young, slim, gray-eyed man who stood in the middle of the road as if he could bar an entire army simply by being there.
Prince Gatison of Durovia was a man possessed of a calm and pragmatic intellect. He feared little other than the race of those creatures named darkings – and he despised them even as he often was forced to submit to their will. And the man in the road was no darking. Nor did he wear the trappings of a wizard.
He studied Brenyn in silence for a time and then, without flourish or fanfare, made his decision. Leaning back, he lifted the reins of his mount.
“Ride him down,” he said.
The man to Gatison’s right nodded shortly and then gave the command in a loud, clear voice.
“The column will move forward at the double-quick.”
The mounted men, and the long column that stretched out behind them, led by their prince, moved forward, lances lowered, the hooves of their heavily armored horses rapidly gaining speed, pounding upon the ancient stonework.
Brenyn, his heart pounding quicker and louder now, held fast, even though every one of his jangling nerves told him to leap aside and avoid the certain, hideous death that drove down upon him.
Closer and closer, the heavy horses came, their large hooves resounding like thunder upon the road.
The sharp, shining tips of the horsemen’s lances glinted in the bright light of the sun, high in the sky overhead.
Brenyn resisted the urge to draw his sword, knowing it was futile.
His heart raced; his breath came fast.
The horses rode down upon him, now just paces away.
The thunder of their hooves seemed to shake the earth.
They were nearly upon him.
A Plague of Ruin: Book One: Son of Two Bloods Page 39