Servant of the Crown

by Duncan M. Hamilton

  Could she do that? Solène shut her eyes and focussed. Rid me of this power. Of this curse. She repeated the thought over and over. She felt the Fount swirl around her, in her, through her. After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked around. She felt no different. She focussed her mind again—a random thought, the first to enter her mind—and a bolt of lightning shot from her fingertips into the sky. It hadn’t worked.

  She let out a sigh and wondered what to do next. She knew there was much good she could do, but that didn’t change what an enormous burden she now carried. All she could do was follow Pharadon’s advice—to believe in herself. To use her power in the best ways she could.

  Her friend—the only person in the world she could call that—was riding off to attempt to rid the world of a tyrant, a man who had become far too powerful for Gill to have much hope of defeating. Gill understood that, yet Solène knew he would do his best to succeed, without hesitation or complaint. Helping Gill meant facing every fear she had, and Solène didn’t know how she would remain true to herself. She turned back to face the direction she had come from. She would have to find a way. She knew where she needed to be. What she had to do.

  * * *

  As the river barge drifted downstream, needing only the gentlest of guidance from the ferryman, Ysabeau watched the spires, walls, and towers of Mirabay shrink into the distance. She knew in her heart this was the last she would ever see of the city, but to her surprise, the thought didn’t bother her in the least. During her year away, she had thought she missed the city, but she realised that she had missed the idea of it, not the reality.

  It had been a relief when she had returned to the dragon cage and found it empty. She had intended to release the magnificent creature, regardless of her father’s desires. Those great, blue, mournful eyes would be with her forever, would make her question much of what she thought she knew about the world. Her father had to know by now. She wondered how he’d reacted.

  Putting her back to the city, she looked downstream. The barge would take her to the Port of Mirabay, and from there?

  She had spent enough of her life living by the blade. Perhaps it was time for a change. She reckoned that, between her magic and the sharpness of her mind, she could turn her hand to whatever she chose. Not just what she thought might impress her father.

  Ah, her father. Ysabeau knew the people had long since abandoned him. She only regretted that it had taken something as terrible as the massacre for her to do the same. He’d manipulated her, just as he had everyone else. Just as he had her mother, taking what he wanted before abandoning her, never caring what the consequences might be.

  The Prince Bishop had always claimed he had not known of Ysabeau’s existence until after the Intelligenciers had arrested her. Her mother had called on him as a last resort. The thought left a bitter taste in Ysabeau’s mouth. He could have checked in on her mother at any time over the years, had he a shred of decency in him, but he hadn’t. She wondered if he’d have shown any interest in her if the City Watch had arrested her, if she’d been taken into custody for theft rather than on charges of witchcraft. Probably not.

  She’d been useful to him. A disposable tool. Nothing more.

  There would be no more backwards glances, Ysabeau determined. No more regrets. No more need for acceptance. Only what lay before her, whatever that was.

  CHAPTER

  47

  An army on the morning of a battle was a magnificent thing to behold. Armour and weapons were polished, banners and flags freshly cleaned. By the end of the day, they’d be covered in mud and blood, and half the men now laughing and joking, doing their best to show how unafraid they were, would be food for crows. Gill couldn’t help but think that if Amaury was one of those men, then it would all be worth it. Sometimes all that carnage, all that suffering, really was the only way to address a problem.

  The king’s new army was cobbled together from his traitorous cousins, nobles who had come out of the woodwork only when the king looked likely to win, young bannerets and aristocrats with nothing to lose but everything to gain, and now, it seemed, hundreds and hundreds of men who had deserted the city. It looked like well over half the Royal Guard had come over, and there were a couple of other regiments that were showing good strength. No one had a clue how many men Amaury would bring to the party, nor what type of magical malfeasance, but Gill reckoned things at that point could have looked quite a bit worse. By the end of the day, no doubt they would.

  They were arranged regiment by regiment, in as much order as the newly appointed and inexperienced commanders who led most of them were capable of imposing. A quick glance could tell which were the standing regiments with seasoned sergeants, and which were not, even without the guide of banners and tunic colours.

  The cavalry skulked in the background, ready, but useless unless Amaury chose to bring his army out onto the open field. It remained the great uncertainty, how the tyrant would respond to the army at his door. Gill didn’t know what he would do if their situations were reversed—remain behind the safety of his walls, or deal with his enemy head-on. As it was, the king had asked Gill to remain with his staff, on hand to offer whatever advice Boudain felt he needed.

  Gill still wasn’t comfortable with this—he found it hard to believe he was now one of the men influencing the big decisions. By comparison, standing on the front line with a sword in hand was almost an attractive proposition, facing all the danger that entailed. Of course, that was nonsense, but it was the role Gill knew and understood. With each day, he continued to struggle to make sense of the world. He’d always thought that was something that would get easier. It seemed that was another thing he was wrong about.

  The army advanced a little closer to the walls, but halted out of range of bowshot. So much of what was happening was second nature to Gill, the sound of the march, of the movement of men and horses and armour, drums and pipes and shouted orders, that for brief moments he lost sight of the fact that they were advancing on Mirabay—their own city. He wondered if everyone felt the same way, or if each man viewed the day through his own lens.

  As the moment they all waited for grew inexorably close, the tension in the air thickened. They had not been stopped for long when the gates opened, much as Gill had expected they would. No man who wants to hold on to a city will stand by while it is destroyed, and Amaury, for all his flaws, did seem to want the city to stand.

  Troops started to rush out of Mirabay, many wearing colours that Gill didn’t recognise—most likely some of the smaller mercenary companies that Amaury had collected over the previous weeks. After them came the cream and gold of the Order. No one was sure what they were capable of, but word of what had happened at Balcony Square had spread quickly, fuelling anger and bolstering the men’s resolve to fight. There would be little quarter given to any who fought for Amaury that day, and less for his mages.

  Gill could see some of the younger commanders glancing back toward the king’s banner, and all his gallopers, who remained stock-still with no orders to deliver. The eager young officers might wonder why Amaury was being allowed bring his army out and form them up, but to advance into the killing zone beneath the walls and into range of all of its artillery would spell disaster for the king’s army—they would be devastated by ballista bolt, catapult shot, and arrow.

  By the time the so-called Lord Protector’s forces had finished mustering below the walls, there were more men gathered there than Gill had hoped for. Far more. In fact, to the casual observer it looked like the Royal Guard was present in full strength. Gill supposed Amaury could have dressed mercenaries or conscripts in spare uniforms, but from a distance, it was hard to tell.

  A group of horsemen formed up at the front of the enemy army; squinting, Gill reckoned he could make out Amaury amongst them. A white flag was raised and the horsemen started forward.

  The king looked about, assessing his staff. “Savin, Coudray, with me. You too, Villerauvais.”

  The small grou
p started forward, and Gill felt a pang of regret that his banner was not flying. Suddenly it felt as though something had been left undone.

  Gill didn’t recognise any of the men with Amaury, when the two parties met. They were all hard-looking types who’d obviously seen a few fights in their time.

  “I was pleased to get news of your recovery, your Highness,” Amaury said.

  “I’m sure you were,” Boudain said. “I thank you for parading my army before the city walls. I presume you’ve done so to hand them back into my charge?”

  Amaury laughed and shook his head. “No, your Highness, I’m afraid not. It’s common knowledge that you’ve been bewitched by a powerful sorceress. It would be a disservice to all the right-thinking people of the kingdom to allow you back on the throne.”

  Boudain nodded slowly. “Bewitched? Is that the best you could come up with?”

  “The truth is rarely as fancy as we might like it to be, but truth it is, and it would be a crime to allow a bewitched man to rule a kingdom,” Amaury said.

  Gill shook his head in disgust. He wondered if Amaury had told so many untruths over the years that he was starting to believe them himself.

  “We both love this city,” the Prince Bishop continued, “and this kingdom. If there is any shred of your true self left in there, I beseech you: order your men to put down their arms and return home. Those of the standing regiments will be welcomed back to their barracks with no questions asked. A man who loves Mirabaya will not tear her apart to possess her.”

  “You’ve always been full of shit, Amaury,” Gill said, unable to hold his tongue any longer. “But you’re really surpassing yourself today.”

  “General Villerauvais, please,” Boudain said.

  Amaury turned his attention to Gill and raised an eyebrow. “General? My congratulations on your advancement. I’m glad to see you here today, Guillot. Very glad.”

  “Want to even out that limp?” Gill said, placing his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  “Gill!” Boudain said, then turned his attention back to Amaury. “I will allow you an hour to collect your belongings, Richeau, and depart the city, and the country. Never to return.”

  Gill noted the use of Amaury’s surname, rather than any of his titles, but was surprised at the amount of restraint the king was showing, in marked contrast to Gill’s own outburst. Despite his efforts to appear calm and in control, Gill knew Amaury too well to be deceived. The strain showed on his face.

  “I don’t think so, your Highness,” Amaury said. “Now that we’ve dealt with the formalities, perhaps we can get down to it?”

  “Gladly,” Boudain said sharply, the contempt with which he was being treated finally seeming to have overcome his reserve. “You will not live out this day.”

  Amaury turned his horse to leave, then cast a quick glance back. “We shall see!” With that, he galloped back toward his troops, his retinue in tow.

  Boudain watched him go a moment, then looked at Gill. “One way or the other, that bastard does not see the sunset.”

  “You have my word on that,” Gill said.

  * * *

  As he rode toward his own lines, Amaury decided he was satisfied with his illusion. Even he couldn’t tell who was real and who was not among his troops. The products of his imagination had passed muster so far, however, and it wasn’t as though they were going to be doing any actual fighting. He turned to face the king’s army once again. The king, and that smug bastard Gill, were at the centre, nicely contained and marked out with a number of fluttering banners.

  It was a beautiful sight, really. So many men and horses in glittering armour. Beautiful, colourful flags flapping lazily on the gentle morning breeze. In a moment, all would be carnage. A scene from the three hells made real in the world. The feeling of power was intoxicating. A king had brought a full army against him, and there was nothing they could do to stop him. In a few moments, most of them would be dead. Those who weren’t would be running away as fast as they could.

  When word of what he had done spread, no one would dare challenge him ever again. No one. Mirabaya would reign supreme, with Amaury benevolently guiding it in the right direction.

  He took a deep breath and reached out to the Fount. He held out his arms, ready to revel in the joyous sensation of its embrace. But it was not there. He opened his eyes and looked about in consternation. His men—the real ones—were giving him odd looks. He must have looked a fool, his arms outstretched, an expression of rapture on his face. The expression changed to one of confusion and dismay. Where was the Fount? Why was it not there for him to call on?

  He stilled his panic and tried again. Nothing. What had happened? With all of the people in Mirabay, it was usually so powerful. He could hardly have drained it creating his fake army, could he? No, that was nonsense. It must be nerves, the distraction of a stressful day. He ignored the eyes that were burrowing into the back of his head, and tried to rid it of any distraction. Another deep breath. He opened his mind to the Fount.

  “Where in hells is it!”

  “Lord Protector?”

  “Nothing, never mind,” Amaury said. He looked around, but his illusion remained. There was no reason for it not to; he had cast it with an enormous amount of energy. But what was going on now?

  This wasn’t supposed to be how it worked—he had drunk from the Cup. The power was his. The power of Amatus. Perhaps the problem was temporary. But with an army facing him from across the field, there wasn’t time to wait for circumstances to change. Time. He needed to buy more. But how? Then it hit him, and the idea was good enough to actually make him smile.

  * * *

  “They’ve raised the flag of truce again, your Highness.”

  “So they have,” Boudain said, shielding his eyes with a hand as he squinted toward Amaury’s position. “What in hells does he want now? Hasn’t he antagonised us enough?”

  “Amaury’s capacity for that is … substantial,” Gill said, focussing on the rider who was coming toward them. “It’s only a messenger. Not Amaury himself this time.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned if I’m riding out to meet him,” Boudain said. “He can come to us. Anyone got any booze? My armour feels like it was stored in an icehouse and I could use my knackers to chill a whisky. I could do with something to warm me up.”

  There was a chuckle of laughter from the others. Even Gill broke into a smile. A man who could kill the tension at a moment like that was a man whom others followed. The young king continued to impress Gill. It was a strange thing, how a man—a king—could give you hope. Even a young one, like Boudain.

  Someone passed the king a small silver flask. Boudain nodded his thanks and took a swig, then offered the flask to Gill. Guillot thought of refusing, but today was not the day to be seen doing that. He covered the opening with his finger as he tipped it up to his mouth. He caught a whiff of the contents, but no more—Ruripathian whisky by the smell of it. A good one, too, and happily not chilled by the king’s knackers. He handed the flask back to Boudain, who passed it on to Savin.

  The armoured messenger drew his horse up a short distance away.

  “His Grace, the Lord Protector of Mirabay, wishes you to hear his offer,” he said in a clear voice. “In consideration of the devastation a battle would wreak upon the people of Mirabay, he suggests an alternate solution: to settle this matter with a single combat, the result of which he will abide by, on his bond and word as Banneret of the White and as a loyal son of Mirabaya.”

  “Pah,” Boudain said. “He’s a treacherous maggot. But I’ll listen. Who does he suggest do the fighting?”

  “Banneret of the White, former champion to the king, Guillot dal Villerauvais.”

  Gill raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “And his champion?” Boudain said.

  “His Grace, the Lord Protector, intends to represent himself.”

  Now the king raised his eyebrows. “Well, that is … unexpected. A moment, if you would.”r />
  The messenger nodded and rode off a short way.

  “Villerauvais, what do you make of it?” Boudain said, turning and speaking quietly to Gill.

  “I honestly do not know,” Gill said. He couldn’t work out what Amaury was playing at—it looked as though he had superior numbers. Why would he take a risk like this? Surely his desire to get at Gill couldn’t be so great as to overwhelm his sense. And patience—if he won the battle, like as not, Gill would be dead by sundown.

  “He’ll use magic, won’t he?” the king said.

  “Of course he will,” Gill said. “He’s a cheating bastard. Always was.”

  “Still though, do you think you can beat him?”

  “I … I don’t know. Without magic, yes. With it? I don’t know.”

  “I suppose we can still fight it out if you lose. No offense intended.”

  “None taken, your Highness,” Gill said. If Amaury brought magic to bear in this fight, there was no way Gill could win, but how could he say no to a proposition like this? Every man standing around him would think he was a coward. “If he beats me, it will be because he’s used magic,” Gill said. “I’ll agree to fight on your word that if I lose, you charge across the field and kill every last one of those bastards.”

  “You have it,” Boudain said.

  “Then you have your champion, your Highness.”

  Boudain gave Gill a grim smile, then looked at the messenger and called out, “Our answer is yes!”

  CHAPTER

  48

  It simply wasn’t the done thing to wear armour to a duel, and one of this importance needed to be conducted entirely within the expectations society placed on them, so Gill set about stripping off his suit. The air felt cool without it on, but he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining that, a phantom of how exposed he felt being on a battlefield with no plate steel between him and his enemies.

  Gill had never thought he’d fight another duel again, nor that he’d ever again have use for the blade he’d been awarded for winning the Competition. The blade would have been Amaury’s, had Gill not beaten him that day. It seemed like the perfect choice for this fight. His two other swords had been brought along with the infantry’s baggage train, which was safe back at the siege fort. Gill sent a galloper to fetch the duelling blade, and did his best to appear nonchalant as he waited, feeling like every eye in two armies fixed on him.