“We’re safe here for a while, your highness. You can rest.” He did not know what else to say. had no words of comfort, for he too believed Wyl and Valor would perish.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A gong boy. I work the royal apartments at Stoneheart.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you’ve never made Celimus climb down his drophole.”
“No, but then I wouldn’t offer to save his life, highness,” the boy replied gravely.
Valentyna considered him more intently now. “Wyl was just as surprised to see you as we were,” she said and let it hang.
Fynch nodded. “I’d overheard the conversation between the Prince and Koreldy, who accompanied Wyl. The plan had been to use Wyl’s name to win the audience with your father.”
“And then kill both of them,” she finished, angrily.
“No, highness. I knew only of one planned assassination—of Wyl. I followed with Knave and managed to get word to him of the plot.”
“And still he came here,” she said, slightly in awe of Wyl now.
Fynch shrugged. “Not sure he had much choice, your highness. He was trapped, really. He had to win the audience to save his sister.”
“Yes, but what you don’t know, Fynch, is that he told us the truth. And in so doing doomed his sister.”
“Oh.” he replied. “That would have been a horrible decision to make. Wyl worships Ylena.”
“She’s lucky to have him,” Valentyna said softly. “I think I am too.”
“Yes, you are, highness,” he answered, confused as to Wyl’s intentions but unable to be anything but direct and honest.
“There’s a stream nearby here. It will be freezing but I’ll chance it if you will,” she offered.
“I’m so used to the smell, highness, but yes, let’s clean ourselves. We’ll have to rely on Knave to keep us warm.”
The three lonely figures headed toward the stream Valentyna spoke of and in the cover of darkness, stripped their clothes and washed them and their bodies. Later, shivering, damp, and naked, Valentyna—who knew these lands better than any—guided them toward a tiny copse.
“It might still be standing,” she said.
“What might be?” Fynch queried.
“One of my camps. I built it years ago. Come.”
It was still there and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“It’s stood the test of time, highness,” Fynch said, his approval obvious.
“I was taught how to build it by a master.” she said, finding a smile for her private thoughts.
“Who was that, highness?”
“My father,” she replied sadly. “Follow me. It’s cramped but it’s dry and sheltered. We can rest safely here for a while.”
Fynch felt numb from the cold and allowed Knave to push himself in between them. His large body gave comfort as much as warmth. Even Valentyna finally laid her aching head against the dog.
“He’s enormous, isn’t he?” Valentyna said.
Fynch smiled, enjoying the earthy smell of the hide. “He terrifies everyone at Stoneheart except a few who are true to Wyl.”
“Tell me about Wyl,” she said, unable to think of what else the two of them had in common. She needed idle chatter to stop her from feeling as if she might just fall apart.
Fynch shrugged and, bringing together the items from his vast storage of information, he began to impart some of that knowledge on General Wyl Thirsk from his earliest days to the present. In spite of her gloom Valentyna found herself fascinated by the story of Wyl and amazed by Fynch’s recollection of the General’s life. She was especially interested to hear that Wyl’s dislike for Celimus went so far back.
“So he’s never liked the new King?”
“No, Princess. He has always despised him.”
“How can he serve a man like this?”
“He has not had a chance, to tell the truth. King Magnus died the same day Wyl was dispatched on this mission.”
“Well, that means Celimus has been plotting it for a while; his intention always to rid Morgravia of its influential General. You say Wyl controls the Legion?”
“Completely. If he chose, he could overthrow Celimus in a blink.”
“And this business with the witch. You actually saw his eyes change color?”
“One gray, one greenish. It was very alarming but it disappeared so quickly, I hardly dared believe what I saw.”
“And Knave belonged to her?” Valentyna asked, deliberately double-checking the more curious facts of Fynch’s tale.
“He was a pup apparently. She gave him to Wyl just moments before her death. I hope you won’t consider me loose-headed, your highness, but it is my belief that Knave is somehow enchanted.”
“How so?” she asked, her interest irresistibly piqued now as she stroked the big dog’s head, though completely disbelieving of Fynch’s claim.
Fynch told her everything he could about the curiosities of Knave.
“Well. well, you certainly have my attention now.” she said, nodding while Knave groaned with pleasure as she scratched his ears. “How strange it all is,” she admitted.
“Do you believe in magic, your highness?”
“I don’t. I’ve never been exposed to anything magical,” she admitted. “I believe only what I see.”
“I’m the opposite, your highness. I do believe.” The boy shrugged. “I’m used to his oddities now. Knave really hates other people unless they are somehow linked favorably to Wyl. That’s why he likes you.” She smiled at the serious little boy. “You are very loyal to him, Fynch. He’s fortunate to have you in his life.”
“I am compelled, your highness. Knave chose me.”
She frowned in some bemusement at this, then grinned sadly. “Fynch, I’ve been thinking—I must return to the palace. I can’t believe I ran away in the first place. I have to go back and see my father.”
“No. your highness! I promised to take you away, to keep you safe.” her small friend implored.
“I can’t stay in hiding. It’s cowardly, Fynch. surely you appreciate this?” Her voice had a pleading tone as she beseeched the grave-faced child to understand.
“I don’t, your highness. It is
not
cowardly to protect yourself—the heir to the throne—against killers.”
“Then I shall fight them—alongside my father!”
“And you’ll die.” he said quietly. “You’ll be useless to Briavel.”
“How dare you!” she raged, jumping to her feet. “Who are you to order me about?” Fynch shook his head and she saw his despair. “Forgive me. your highness. I am a nobody. A gong boy who clears the sewers and not fit to so much as be in your presence. But I am charged to protect you and I would sooner die than let anyone harm you.”
It was his sincerity that broke her anger and she was on her knees in a moment, hugging him and apologizing for her haughty behavior. “Fynch. I didn’t mean it. You and Wyl have been true. Say you’ve forgiven me. I beg it.”
She was so distraught that Fynch could tell she was drowning in a sea of emotions, from grief to guilt.
Perhaps there was a way he could alleviate her despair. “Your highness, what would you say if I asked you to remain here a little longer? Knave will stay with you.”
“And where will you go?” she asked.
“I’ll go back to the palace and see what I can find out. It is not dangerous for me.”
“I would thank you. Fynch. and ask you to leave immediately.”
“You must give me your word, your highness, that you will not leave this place,” he cautioned.
“Not until I hear back from you.”
Fynch looked at Knave and realized the dog already understood what was required of him. He bowed to the Princess. “Knave will keep you safe, your highness.”
Valentyna had no doubt of it as she watched the little boy run off into the night.
The fighting was ferocious in the confined space of the chamber. Man after man had burst through the door only to be slain by the superbly balanced and supremely skilled pair of Wyl and Romen, fighting back-to-back. Valor could only watch for the time being, for Wyl had cleverly blocked the entrance with his attacker so that the men coming from behind would have to wait for the outcome. So far he counted four corpses.
Romen called over his shoulder: “Six more.” Then he grunted as he leapt over a fallen chair and spun on his heel to strike low and viciously with a two-handed slash. The fifth fell, one leg almost chopped through at the thigh. Romen kicked his sword away, knowing a major artery was severed. The fellow would be dead within a minute or so.
The King could not help but marvel at these two beautiful fighters. Both had contrasting styles. Wyl was dogged, a real thinker. To Valor it seemed that Wyl had interminable patience; he was content to parry and block, feint and twist. But now two of his opponents were dead, testimony to his skill.
Romen was far more flamboyant, preferring to be the aggressor and taking the fight to his enemy. Romen would never give ground, Valor observed. He continued to push his opponent with a barrage of scintillating cuts and thrusts where the man found himself with no option but to defend constantly. And Romen was fast: lightning speed in his strokes, which was probably the reason why his third attacker had just taken a mortal wound. Valor watched Romen kick the dying man’s sword away. The groaning man already forgotten, Romen stepped over him to engage his next opponent, leaping through the door.
Except this time two came through. Valor knew his time had come. It had been too many years since he had lifted a sword in battle but he did not hesitate. With a roar he lifted his trademark sword with its intricate and beautiful carvings on its hilt. He raised it over his head and brought it down with a second roar, a battle cry this time. Sparks flew off the two swords as they met and Valor once again fought for his life. He was a match for his opponent—where the mercenary had brute strength, Valor had height—but the man who grimaced back at him was far younger.
Valor knew immediately he would have to dispatch him fast if he was to survive or, more likely if the fight continued, he reasoned as he went through a series of hard blocks and parries, that he would need one of his younger companions to finish it for him.
He did not mean to lose concentration but his thoughts helplessly fled to Valentyna. She was still so young and yet with the right people around her there would be no better sovereign for Briavel. She possessed his courage and genuinely loved her people and this land of theirs with a fierce passion. But she was headstrong, like her mother. That would need to be controlled or at least channeled in the right way. He felt sure Valentyna would be willing to lead the charge onto a battlefield if she could—if it meant one more Briavellian might be protected. But war must be avoided. He wished now—as he recalled her look of despair as she climbed into that drophole earlier—that he had counseled her about Celimus. He should have said that no matter what, the marriage should still be considered if peace was to be achieved.
And yet Wyl’s advice was so alarming. He hoped he had gathered the right people around him these past few years who would advise her well, should he fail today. She would need strong counsel—shrewd counsel in the decisions ahead.
Valor felt a dazzling blaze of pain at the top of his sword arm. He yelled and winced but did not have time to look at the damage. He knew that cut would not have made it through his defense had he not lost concentration. Angry with himself and spurred on by the throbbing pain, he now used his height to beat the man back. Already, though, he knew he was in real danger. Apart from fatigue, so shockingly swift in its claim over his body, his muscles in that all-important arm felt weak and a numbing tingle was edging its way toward the fingers that gripped that famous hilt. He intensified his effort. He would not be able to fight for much longer; the man must fall soon.
Wyl realized as he killed another mercenary that the more cunning amongst them had held back. With each new opponent greater skills seemed to present themselves and this had been a clever ploy. Using the less skilled “hackers,” they had worn himself and Romen down, making them perhaps easier prey for the more talented fighters coming through. He hated that one had managed to engage the King and as he grimaced at this thought, it seemed Romen read his mind.
“Valor has taken a serious cut. He’ll tire quickly” was all he had time to say.
“Two left.” Wyl said in reply, chancing a look towards the King.
There was no doubt the King was exhausting his last reserves of stamina. Blood flowed freely and fast from a particularly nasty slash at the top of his arm. Wyl understood immediately that muscle had been severed, which would mean Valor would be rapidly losing all strength in that fighting arm. He wondered if the old campaigner had trained himself to use either arm. He thought not. Many had scoffed at the suggestion but the new breed of Morgravian soldiers—such as Gueryn—had insisted upon the level of skill being upped in the non-natural hand. Wyl knew no different. Although his right arm was strongest, he was certainly adept with his left.
He glanced toward Romen. “Can you hold them off?”
Romen grunted his reply and slashed his man across the throat. “Help Valor!” he roared, kicking his opponent over and out of the way so he could see what was rushing toward them.
Just as Wyl turned to deal with the man intent on killing a King he heard the monarch cry out.
Valor staggered backward, another, deeper sword wound evident at the top of his shoulder, slicing diagonally through major vessels, blood flowing in a torrent from it.
“Protect our Queen, Wyl,” was all he had time to say before he hit the floor.
Arkol, who had struck the blow, laughed and spat at the prone body of the King of Briavel. Romen had dispatched his own opponent with a high slash that nearly decapitated the man. He turned around to see the wrath on Wyl’s face and the familiar figure bleeding on the fine carpet.
“Wait. Wyl! He’s mine.” he said. “There’s one more outside, probably hiding.” As Wyl dropped back. Romen even found time to thank him and with a grim smile on his face went about pitting his skills against his would-be killer. Wyl had already been amazed at Romen’s swordplay.
His own abilities aside, if he thought he had seen the best fighter in Celimus then he was wrong. Romen was indeed superior and he felt sure it would not be long before Arkol’s smile was wiped once and for all from his ugly mouth.