Lyrec was in motion, bounding up and over a horse, his legs locked and parallel to the ground. One soldier was down, another—Abo—lunged at Lyrec but stabbed a horse instead. Then Lyrec reappeared on another horse.
It looked as if he might get away after all.
Movement to the left caught Borregad’s attention. The soldier nearest the coach, himself on a horse, had tugged the reins of his mount and was riding out to meet Lyrec’s desperate charge. The soldier drew a short pole from a pocket beside his saddle. The pole had a metal ball on the end of it. Lyrec seemed not to see the weapon. Borregad struggled free of the belt, at the same time shouting a mental warning to Lyrec, but saw the weapon swing up and around in a blur of motion. The sound of it striking made the cat flinch. Lyrec flopped forward against his horse’s neck, then back, his hat thrown free. He tipped off the rear of his mount and dropped hard. He did not move after that.
Borregad pressed back against the tree. Lyrec was dead, he was certain. That horrible metal ball had surely crushed his skull. If only he, Borregad, had stayed with Lyrec, he could have acted as his eyes, warned him, guided him through the various attacks. Now the
crex
was of no use at all. What could
he
possibly do with it? As a cat he could not wield it: even if he managed to pull it from the scabbard, he hadn’t the right kind of arms to lift and direct it. It was Lyrec’s, to be controlled by no one else, as much a part of him as his skin. Borregad had no idea what it might do if he tried to command it. The thing might kill
him
. It might even throw him beyond this world!
He peered around the tree again. The soldier with the short pole stood over Lyrec as if to strike him again. Borregad bounded out of cover, his claws ready, but drew up as the soldier turned away and shoved the pole back in its pocket on his horse. He had seen that the stranger was dead and therefore did not need to be struck again—Borregad was certain of it.
Two soldiers—one of them Abo—helped the captain to his feet. He shook off their hands and stumbled over to Lyrec, then kicked the body in the ribs. Lyrec rolled over and doubled up to protect himself from another blow.
He’s alive!
Borregad rejoiced.
“Get him up and tie him behind my horse,” bellowed the captain.
He spat on the body, then marched off. As he passed Lyrec’s hat, he paused to stomp on it. The shining feather snapped beneath his boot to hang broken from the band.
Standing beside the dead soldier, Abo watched as Lyrec was dragged past him. “He’s a fiend, some kind of sorcerer. You—we ought to kill him now.” He looked with frenzy at the captain. “Why not kill him right now?”
The captain shook his head. “No, not yet. Whatever he is, he lives until Fulpig has him. Then I’m going to sit back and eat and drink and let Fulpig do all the work. For now we’ll make him hurt.” Lyrec’s hands were bound together in front of him. The captain took the rope and carried it up onto his own horse. The soldier with the pole picked up Lyrec’s hat and crushed it on his head. He slapped Lyrec to full consciousness. “Get to your feet or the captain’ll drag you on your face. You were a fool to take us on when you don’t even know how to use a sword. You’re brave but stupid. When will you people learn? Now get up, his temper’s short.”
Lyrec swayed on his knees. His head lolled forward, dark with dirt and blood that ran from his scalp. He raised his head to see the captain holding the rope high in preparation to tying it on the saddle. Lyrec grabbed onto the slack length leading from his wrists and pulled back, falling onto his side with the effort. The captain cried out as his arm twisted behind him and he was hauled off the horse to crash down on his back. Lyrec spat blood and laughed.
Borregad saw what was about to happen and started running again. He shouted out, “No!” as the pole was raised against the dawn sky and came down across Lyrec’s forearms with a crack. Lyrec howled in misery and folded his arms against himself.
One of the soldiers, having heard the shout, looked back at the cat, then past him, scanning the area for the source of the shout. Finally, deciding it had come from the tavern and simply echoed oddly, the soldier started over to his captain.
The soldiers lifted their captain onto his horse and tied the rope onto the saddle for him. He lay against his horse’s mane, mumbling incoherently. The soldier with the pole swung up into his saddle and the other men climbed into theirs.
His face white with pain, Lyrec wobbled up onto his feet, his arms still held to his chest.
The Ladomantine gang went slowly out of the yard, riding into the rising sun. The rope went taut and Lyrec groaned as his arms were tugged forward. He tripped over the body of the man he had killed and barely managed to remain on his feet. The sunlight stung his eyes.
Borregad looked back at the
crex
. If he brought it along, he would lose the party of soldiers. But how could he leave it lying in the grass beside the tree? Everything had fallen apart, the simplest bunch of local bullies had ripped up their plans as easily as that.
Damn
Lyrec and his disgusting concern over these semi-sentient creatures. Look where it had gotten them.
He tried to make contact, but the only thing that came through was an incredible agony, and Borregad quickly severed the connection. They must have broken some part of him.
The pain was unbearable.
The sunlight suddenly blinded him. The horses had moved out of it.
Borregad gave the
crex
one final forlorn look, then hurried to catch up.
Chapter 7.
Seated at the one table in his quarters—a small round table coated in hard wax—Commander Cheybal scrawled his name on a curled sheet of vellum. Then he set down the long curved pen. Its carved tip was black from a thousand signings.
His signature was a temporary seal, potent until the true seal of a new king was stamped molten onto it or the hands which wore the signet ring tore the document down the middle.
As a rule he found the business of signing documents distasteful, but this particular one gave him pleasure. This paper requested rights to the best market stall locations—those just within the entrance to the castle. Their king lay in state, the funeral was tomorrow, and already the vultures vied for position. How effortlessly people lost their veneer of decency when a few coins jingled in a nearby purse.
So Cheybal had solved to his own satisfaction the problem of the market stalls: He had banned them from the yard. The ink of his sharp signature grew pale as it dried. He blotted it, then sprinkled sand over it before casting the sheet of vellum onto a stack of similar sheets and pushing himself to his feet. Perhaps he made too much of the request; why would the people beyond these walls be expected to mourn the week through for someone who had been no more than a figurehead, a name, to them? They grieved, the moment passed, and they went about their business. The cow still delivered its calf and the fence still needed mending, the lowlands would flood come spring and cold feet would still turn blue in the winter without fires, full bellies, and money.
He rose wearily and walked to a narrow window. Flexing his cramped fingers, he looked down on the low rampart below. Two of his men walked back and forth along the wall, their senses dulled to the dazzling sight of the city sprawling below along the river, the largest city on the continent. They saw it half a day every day. As the two guards came together, they paused to chat. One gestured wildly for a moment. The sound of their laughter reached Cheybal at his window.
What was the joke? He ached to know, to be down there, bored and unencumbered.
Behind him a door closed, curtailing his longing.
An old man stood just within the room. His grizzled beard was combed and trimmed, his hair flowed down around his stiff laced collar. His face had been much harder once. Age, and a burden heavier than age, had undermined the sharpness in the face of the man who had once been king.
“Ronnæm,” said Cheybal. “Come in, please.”
The old man remained where he stood. “I am interrupting your reverie?” he asked simply, with no detectable disparagement.
“No, my lord. I’m resting. A few moments. All of these requests to sign, judgments to weigh.”
Ronnæm looked at the stack of cream-colored sheets. A smile crossed his face. “Sit, sit,” he said. “This is informal. I am not king anymore, Cheybal.”
“Of course,” agreed Cheybal. Nevertheless, he remained standing. To sit was to give Ronnæm ascendancy. Dekür had warned him of this long ago. During any discussion the old man stood, regardless of how insignificant the matter might be, and always requested most graciously that everyone else sit. In this way if the discussion went against him, he towered above his opponents—the dominant voice, the dominant figure, and most likely the victor. Cheybal respected him for his subtlety but found nothing in it to unite them as friends. Even now, after so many years among the Kobachs, Ronnæm was a manipulator.
They might have conducted their meeting like that, facing off across Cheybal’s room, but a knock sounded at the door. Ronnæm moved into the center of the room and gestured that Cheybal should answer.
“Yes,” Cheybal said in a voice that implied “enter.”
The heavy wooden door opened and one of his captains, Faubus, stepped in. Faubus closed the door perfunctorily, caught sight of the old man as he did so, and immediately came to attention. Ronnæm nodded and extended his hand. He and the captain clasped forearms, then he glanced at Cheybal. “To be honest, commander, I confess that I heard of this meeting and would like to be party to it. Living where I do these wintry days, I thought I might be able to add to your discussion things which neither of you could know. Why don’t you have a seat, captain?”
The young captain moved stiffly to a chair and sat down. Cheybal stifled his anger.
“Now, captain,” he said, “forgive me for not speaking to you sooner, but the affairs of state have taken all my time the past days.”
How odd, thought Faubus, that the commander should be apologizing, almost appealing for his understanding. Then he recognized that the statement, although spoken at him, was not spoken for his benefit. He caught the whisper of contention, the echo but not the words.
“My main concern,” Cheybal continued, “is how you found things in Boreshum.”
“In what regard, sir?”
“In all regards. All of it.”
The commander’s gaze bored into Faubus; likewise, Faubus sensed Ronnæm watching him, inert. He cleared his throat.
“We arrived after dawn. Where the attack had taken place. Two separate camps were set up along the road. The first that we rode through was made up entirely of people from Dolgellum. The other camp” —he glanced nervously at Ronnæm— “was Kobach. It wasn’t far from their village, the location, so they had been the first to arrive by many hours.”
“That will add wood to the fire.”
“Sir?”
“You should know what I mean, captain, How many fights had broken out between the
two camps? How many wounded? And dead?”
“Why, none…none, sir. There was some name-calling from Dolgellum as you’d expect, and little of that. No fights. The Kobach leader was very…”
“—adamant,” interjected Ronnæm.
“—about it. Yes, sir.
Adamant,” Faubus repeated, as if the word had some magical properties for him.
“That leader being
you
, I take it?” Cheybal’s eyes and only his eyes moved to mark Ronnæm. “You were the first to find the body.”
The old king nodded.
“How could you do that? You’ve jeopardized your whole village by rushing in like that.”
Ronnæm took one step forward, but his anger took him no further. With controlled calmness he said, “We are discussing rationally something that happened in panic and chaos. Initial reports were that Dekür was under attack—not slain. And do you think that I cared—then or now—what people in other villages would think? This was my
son
, Cheybal. Let Mordus suck the marrow from those ‘other’ people.”
They faced one another over the desk, until Cheybal conceded. He pocked the wax tabletop with a fingernail. “Yes,
you’re right, of course. So would I say in your place. But, dear Voed, it’ll be a slaughter.”
“I think the Kobachs know what’s in for them, sir,” Faubus said. He meant it to ring sarcastically, but no bell of irony pealed.
Ronnæm snorted. “Goodness, do you think he has something there?” He moved in front of Faubus. Cheybal might have interfered then, but chose not to. It would instruct the captain’s character to be served a taste of Ronnæm. “And what is it, “ asked the old king, “that’s in for them? Hmm?”
The captain attempted eye contact with his commander, but Ronnæm blocked his view to salvation.
“Well,” Faubus said, “it was obvious to everyone that the death of the king and his party was…odd. His clothes were singed but his body wasn’t burned, and the sword, and—”
“Spare us the graphic re-creation if you would, Captain Faubus.”
“All I meant to say is that there’s talk.”
“Always.”
“The thrust of it is that the Kobachs were responsible for the king’s death.”
“Naturally,” agreed Ronnæm. “Do you not subscribe to such proposals?”
“No, m’lord, of course not!”
“Good, Then you are the perfect candidate to pick the armed force returning to Ukobachia.”
“What?” Faubus went pale.
“If you don’t mind,” said Cheybal, “at present such policy is my domain.” He glowered at the back of Ronnæm’s head.
“But you have to send someone.” His thin hand circled the air.
“Yes, that’s obvious.”
The old man allowed him a profile, just the right amount of hesitancy, the exact portion of determination. “I could lead them,” he said.
So that was it, finally and simply. Cheybal was surprised that he had not seen the motive sooner. “I think,” he said, then paused, “I think that your original notion was best. Captain Faubus is the man for the job. He can hand-pick men who are least superstitious, and least given to idle speculation.” He moved to where he could see Faubus. “You might also point out to your men that it doesn’t really make sense to accuse the Kobachs. With Ronnæm leading them it would mean he had chosen to kill his own son—who had embraced and even married into their scouted race. Do you see this father killing the son, captain?”