Authors: J. V. Jones
"It is
certainly a great responsibility, Your Eminence." Gamil's eyes narrowed.
"Will you gain anything personally by it?"
"Nothing for
myself, Gamil." Tavalisk shrugged. "But if the Church felt the need
to repay me in some small way by offering me the title of He Who Is Most Holy,
then I could hardly refuse, could I?"
"Of course
not, your Eminence."
Tavalisk clapped
his hands together. "You may go now, Gamil. Send Master Bunyon back in.
Oh, and be sure to keep an ear out for news of Kylock's peace meeting. It
happens this night, does it not?"
"Yes, Your
Eminence. The north will rest easier in its bed after tonight." Gamil
bowed and left.
Tavalisk felt a
moment of misgiving as he watched his aide walk away. Should he have confided
in the man? The archbishop shrugged. He could always have Gamil silenced or
certified if he started spreading rumors. Feeling immediately cheered by that
thought, Tavalisk turned his mind to food. He watched as his cook scooped the
one surviving crab from the tank. Perhaps the peace would outlive the crab
after all. He certainly hoped it would, for Master Bunyon was about to put the
resilient little creature over a very hot flame.
Strange that a
night in midspring should be so cold. Kylock's breath whitened in the air,
quickly dispersing before it reached the shadow's end. His hands were gloved,
not against the chill, but against the all-pervasive filth. In the silk beneath
the leather, he could feel his fingers sweating. The sensation sickened him.
Kylock stood
within the folds of his tent and watched the arrival of the Halcus warlords. On
massive horses they came, decked out in their ceremonial armor, torches in
their free hands, swords buckled at their waists. Men of bearing and experience
they were. Noble fighting men with gray in their hair; their necks and arms thick
with muscle. Real muscle, formed in real battles, not the cultivated artifice
of the tourney field. These men were veterans of many campaigns; they knew of
blood and pain and victory. They were the power behind the Halcus throne.
And tonight they
had come to talk of peace.
Their faces were
grim as they approached the camp. They came alone, their escort-a full company
of guardspositioned at a fitting distance from the camp. They were proud men,
riding to meet their enemy with conscious dignity. Proud, but not foolish,
thought Kylock. The camp was undoubtedly ringed with their troops: swordsmen
lying belly-flat in the mud, and archers training their bows in the darkness
behind bush and tree. Kylock ran a gloved finger along the roughness of the
tent. He was not worried. He had rings around the rings.
Twelve men, he
counted. Some of their faces were familiar, some not. Lord Herven and Lord
Kilstaff dismounted their horses. They had fought against him at the border and
so were the first to witness his success. Lord Angus, Helch's chief protector,
was deep in conversation with Gerheart of Asketh; both men looked tense. They
stood close and spoke in whispers. As Kylock looked on, the great Lord Tymouth
himself rode up. Responsible for the defense of the realm, Tymouth answered
only to the king.
Kylock slipped
through the shadows and entered his tent. Lord Vernal stood waiting. Kylock
nodded once. "They have arrived," he said.
Vernal looked
nervous. Kylock would have preferred him not to be here, not tonight. But the
one-time military leader of the kingdoms was a respected man in Halcus, and his
name and reputation was what brought the warlords together this night. They
trusted Vernal. He was a man of his word.
"If all is
ready, I will go to them," said Vernal. His expression was unreadable, his
tone guarded. He drank the last of his brandy. "I will expect you to
follow after me. I know these men, it is not wise to keep them waiting."
"Lord Vernal,
I don't believe I asked for your advice." Kylock's voice was deceptively
light. "Go now. Greet my guests. Soften them up with brandy and tales of
the good old days of stalemate."
"I warn you
now, Kylock. Do not treat these men with contempt. You may have beaten them,
but they deserve respect. They were fighting in campaigns before you were
born."
Anger flared
within Kylock. No one but Vernal dared to treat him like this. The leather of
his glove crackled as he curled his fingers into a fist. With one sudden sharp
movement, he brought his fist down upon the desk. The sound was violent,
satisfying. "I think you'd better go, Lord Vernal," said Kylock very
softly. "Those in the negotiating tent await you."
He had the
satisfaction of seeing fear in Vernal's eyes. Fear and something else.
Comprehension, perhaps? Kylock waved an arm in dismissal, then turned his back
on the man. It was too late now. There was nothing Vernal could do.
As soon as the man
left, Kylock picked up the cup he had drunk from. He held it by the base,
careful not to touch the rim, and carried it out of the tent. Slipping around
the back, he tossed it onto the fire. He would drink from nobody's cup but his
own.
Quickly, he
returned to his position in the folds of the tent. His lip twisted into a sneer
as he watched Vernal greet the Halcus warlords. There was much arm grasping and
back patting, and even a little good-natured banter. Kylock clearly heard
Vernal inviting the men into the tent. Lord Tymouth shook his head and said
something that silenced all present immediately. Kylock felt a measure of
foreboding. His eyes slanted across to the far side of the camp, where another
waited in the shadows. Kedrac, son of Lord Maybor, and Kylock's most trusted
companion, raised his arm in acknowledgment of the glance. It was a small
gesture loaded with meaning. Wait, it said, let us see what this latest
development brings. Kylock was well pleased: Maybor's son was keeping his
nerve.
Three horsemen
approached the camp. Two carried torches, the third, the figure in the middle,
was misshapen, one shoulder clearly higher than the other. Kylock sucked in his
breath. It was the king.
Hirayus, King of
Halcus. Hunchback and tyrant. Feared by his enemies, worshipped by his people.
Forty of his fifty years had been spent on the throne. At the age of ten the
physicians pronounced him too weak to survive his eleventh year. The only
reason he lived today was to spite them. Hirayus was a legend in the north. His
determination, his willpower, and his single-minded devotion to his country had
made a giant from a cripple.
The warlords
turned to meet him, swords drawn in respect, blades pointing to the earth in
subjugation. Vernal came forward. Words were exchanged. Hirayus dismounted his
horse.
On the far side of
the camp, Kedrac's hand was up. Kylock returned the motion, arm wavering with
apprehension.
The king was not supposed to be here.
Tymouth had been
chosen to handle the peace negotiations. Tymouth and the warlords. Kylock drew
deeper into folds. His heart was racing. The silk around his fingers was as
warm and wet as the womb. He couldn't bear it. Pulling the gloves off, he threw
them onto the ground. As the cool night air dried the sweat from his fingers,
Kylock grew calm. So the king was here. Did it really make any difference?
He turned his
attention back to the negotiating party. Vernal was escorting Hirayus into the
tent. Any minute now they would be expecting him to follow.
Wood smoke stole
into his nostrils and Kylock was glad of it. The smell was almost cleansing.
The king had come to parley; that meant at least another company on the lee of
the hill and double that amount concealed around the camp. Nothing that
couldn't be dealt with. Hirayus probably thought he had done a clever thing by
turning up here unannounced. Kylock lifted his fingers to his nose: his
mother's stench was still upon them. Hirayus had not been clever at all. In
fact, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Out came Kylock's
hand from the shadows. The pale skin reflected the moonlight like glass. His
long elegant fingers were stretched full out, his palm faced outward toward
Kedrac. Slowly, very slowly, he tilted his palm downward to face the ground.
Even as shadow
took the place of moonlight upon his flesh, Kylock heard the archers stringing
their longbows. He heard swords being drawn from leather and the movement of
men leaving Kedrac's tent. The cry went up and the carnage began.
One hundred barbed
arrows were loosed upon the tent. They ripped through the fabric as if it were
linen. The instant the arrows met their target, the swordsmen went in. Their
orders were simple: kill all who remained alive. Kylock heard the screams of
men and horses, he heard blade clashing against blade. In the distance the
noise of battle began as the two Halcus companies tried to gain the camp. None
would reach here alive. In the distance, on the hillsides and in the woods, his
men were closing in, taking out Hirayus' archers one by one.
Kylock stepped out
into the moonlight. The action in the negotiating tent was drawing to a close.
The fabric flapped no more. Kylock took a torch from its metal stand and walked
forward. The last of the swordsmen emerged . from the tent. He met the eyes of
his king. "All are dead, sire."
Kylock nodded.
Drawing close, he set the torch against the tent. The fabric was ready for the
flame, catching light on first contact. It crackled and blazed, spreading
upward in sheets. He backed away, better to admire the fire. "Burn
brightly, this night, King Hirayus," he murmured. "May the flames of
your corpse be a warning to the north. Kylock has not done with you yet."