Rythe Falls (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

'Sturma!' Renir did not yell, but with Garner's aid, his words boomed across the city.

             
A small cheer, which was more than Renir expected. Cheering a single word? Maybe people needed something a little more rousing for a larger cheer. Early days. He'd settle for no one stoning him.

             
'We fought a brave battle and won victory. A hard victory that cost us dear, but our enemies now know we will not fade, nor shirk when it comes to the ugly duties of war.'               Best get that bit in early, he thought. Better forewarned where unpleasant tasks were concerned. Hit them with something pleasing before asking them to do anything they might not want to. A man's more likely to set to a tough task if he's got a bit of cheer about him. Set him grumbling first, and the nice stuff pales to meaningless.

             
Renir had done his share of make-work in his life...kinging, he figured, was just about having a little sense when it came to people.

             
He figured...
he hoped
, was more like it.

             
After all, people thought differently, didn't they? They weren't all the same. Otherwise, Kinging would be so easy any fool could do it.

             
Gods
, he thought...
I hope that's true.

             
Renir lowered his head a moment, to be sure he really meant what he was about to say. Then, he looked up, straight to those close enough to see his eyes, his face.

             
'War's a hard business. We lost friends, family. Lost lovers and children. Some, most, no doubt, are without their homes and their possessions.'

             
A few not so friendly 'ayes' chorused through the people. Renir held up a hand. 'We will rebuilt. But we can't build on the dead. Nor will we bury the Draymen.'

             
A few gasps. Burial was the Sturman way. Some believed a man couldn't pass Madal's Gates through the air, but only through the dirt.

             
'We will built a great pyre, beyond the city limits. The city will grow, yes, but the pyre will stand as a monument. The flames from their dead will light the sky for days. The Draymen will know never to return. When the fires burn down, in days, or weeks, we will cover their bones with a mountain of dirt. The mound will serve to remind all of the folly of choosing Sturma for an enemy!'

             
At this last, Renir put some volume and passion into his voice. A larger cheer, this time. And the crowd had grown, too. People came to listen from the outskirts, even from the nearer farms to the east, untouched by the battle.

             
'Atop the mound we will plant the tree of mourning, as is right, for all should remember that war bears bitter fruit.' A few nods, here and there. 'Always, a tree of mourning shall stand atop the mound.'

             
'Friends, we will honour and remember. Our Sturman dead, and our allies, will be interred within the city, in the Tomb of Heroes.' Sounded suitable, thought Renir, as names went. 'The Sturman dead will be remembered. It will be a shrine, and each year a feast day will mark and thank them for their sacrifice.'

             
Another cheer.

             
Damn, I should stop talking and just make up heroic names for things. Be quicker and a sight easier...

             
'Don't get cocky,' whispered Wen, at his shoulder.

             
Good advice
, he knew. And advice he planned to heed, wherever he could.

             
'For now, all able bodied men and women should begin to move the Draymen dead to the site of the pyre. There is much work to be done, but your homes will be rebuilt. The treasury will bear the cost. We will help each other. Sturma, Naeth...we are one. We will be stronger than ever, and Naeth will once again be the greatest city in the land...and greater still. This city was the first city of the Sturmen, when our forefathers came from across the seas. It will be great again...and...'

             
Renir faltered, and his makeshift council of friends faltered, too. As they did, the majority of people in the crowd around the walls to the castle turned to see why...and a panicked cry went up.

             
Some began to reach for arms, but from the courtyard below, the man Sutter cried out.               'Banner of the Spar, my Liege, and more. They are friends...reinforcements...' he laughed.

             
Renir frowned. Thousands of men-at-arms...maybe as many as three thousand. Armour glinting now the suns were out again. Banners flapping in the chill autumn breeze, a hint of the winter's cold to come. Long supply trains dawdling behind, auxiliaries, too. Might have been an impressive sight if they hadn't only just stood down the might of the Draymar plains with naught but a handful of men.

             
'Best see what they want,' said Quintal.

             
Renir nodded. 'With me, Tirielle, Bear, Wen, Quintal, Garner...and Sutter, too.'

             
He took the stairs down, walked with his back straight and his crown seated firm on his head, through the crowd who parted willingly. Refrains of, 'My Liege,' or, 'My Lord,' followed him.

             
Finally he stood at the edge of the city and met the envoys of the army before him, with his own council, his trusted friends, around him.

             
He did not have his axe at hand.

             
The Lord and Thanes of all the southern lands, come to aid...or steal away?

             
Aid,
Renir thought, but show no chink now...show strength, determination. He wasn't a fool. Men might want this shiny crown for themselves. That was easy enough to read. Some men loathed power. Some would die to have it.

             
'You'd be the king then, aye?' A gnarly old warrior spoke for the men before him.

             
'And you are?'

             
'Frederik. King Esyn, is it?'

             
'It is. Frederik...well met, I trust? You and your...army...are a little late.'

             
'Takes time to ride the length of the country. Some buggers didn't want to fight, didn't want to answer the call. Forget their duty. Took a time to remind them.'

             
Frederik stepped down from his charger, a big and heavy horse that looked right tired after riding all that way.

             
'Glad to find there's still a man knows how to swing a blade in the north,' said Frederik. 'If you'll have what aid we can give, then the Spar and it's men are at your...service.'

             
Frederik dropped to his knee.

             
'You're the Thane of Spar?'

             
'My Liege, I am.'

             
Renir was at a mild loss. For some reason, when he'd taken the crown, he'd overlooked the fact that he'd be wanting the Thanes to take the knee to him. Better them kneeling than plotting to kill him.

             
'Get up, man,' said Renir, and took the old warrior's gauntleted hand. 'Friends are hard to come by these days.'

             
'The Spar remembers the days of Kings, my lord. We will do our duty.'

             
'And nothing onerous, I hope,' said Renir. 'Well met, Thane Frederik. And thank you.'

             
The man nodded, and turned to his men, his retainers. He gave the other, lesser Thanes in his company a bold stare, and they too dismounted and took the knee to pledge their allegiance. All but one.

             
'Really, Frederik? We bow to this man because he wears a crown alone?'

             
'This man led the defeat of the entire Draymar nation and the blood of kings flows through his veins!' Bourninund looked just about ready to take the man's head off.

             
'You are?' asked Renir, calmly. His heart beat, yes, but he was calm. No reason not to be.

             
The man preened. An older man, with a long beard and heavy gut. 'Thane Yerrod, of the Fresh Woods, the Lare lands and the Marching Lord of...'

             
Renir cut him short. 'The Crown of Kings sits upon my head, Thane Yerrod. Yes, by right, I rule Naeth, because I and my men won it hard and saw rivers of blood. But Sturma? My land calls my blood, the people call me king. What right? Right of blood. The blood of Kings. Want to try it on, Sir?' Renir took the crown and held it easy out for the man to try to take, should he wish. 'None but those of the King's line may wear this crown, or bear it's weight. But feel free, Sir. Take it. Go ahead.'

             
Yerrod's hand snaked out, then, back to his wide lap.

             
'So much talk of blood,' sniffed the fat man. 'Rather distasteful...'

             
'Distasteful, eh, my Lord?' said Renir, holding out a hand to stall any interference from the men who bristled at his back. 'Distasteful? Today, we build a pyre from a mountain of dead Draymen. Tomorrow, we build a shrine in the heart of our ruined city to the brave brothers and sisters of Sturma. We mourn our friends, and give thanks for our victory. And you sit atop your horse and snivel at the mention of blood?'

             
'I...my Lord...' said Yerrod, sensing, at last, the change in the wind. 'I did not mean to give offence.'

             
'And I have taken none,' said Renir. 'Now kneel to your
Liege
. By the right of my blood...or...yours.'

             
The fat man quivered, but he got down. He looked to the other Thanes for their support, but there was none. A grin or two, perhaps, though subtle, if at all. Yerrod knelt.

             
Good enough...for now.

             
Then, louder than Renir could even bellow, the Thane of the Spar yelled out above the sound of his men's clanking steel and the whinnying of the horses.

             
'Hail the King of Sturma! Rejoice in a new day dawning! For the King! For Sturma! For Sturma!'

             
The men knew their duty. They roared, the crowd of townsfolk roared.

             
Renir did his best not to soil himself.

             
'Buggers made me jump,' he whispered in Bear's ear, and the old bastard had the nerve to laugh. 'I wasn't joking,' said Renir, sternly.

             
'Oh, I know,' said Bear. 'That's why it's funny. Got a good holler on him, hasn't he?'

             
That he had, conceded Renir, trying not to look sheepish while thousands all around roared their approval for the new King.

             
Me,
he thought, and for the first time since donning the crown he found he felt very queasy indeed.

*

Chapter Fifty-Six

It was a week of mourning, of funerals and of cleaning up the dead.

             
By the second night, the pyre burned steady. The noxious smoke, thick and oily, poured high into the sky and thankfully the hard autumn winds pushed the stink north, clear of the city. The mound of Draymen dead was a sight to behold. A mountain, squat, perhaps, but there was no mistaking it for a simple pyre. Renir wanted it piled high, so that the bones themselves would form the skeleton of a new, man-made mountain. It was high enough.

             
It was surprising what the city folk could bear. Sturmen and women were not, by nature, squeamish. They were accustomed to hard work, to death, even. They did not shirk their duty, awful or not. The new men, under their Thanes (even Yerrod) set to work, too. Piling the dead higher and higher, dragging corpses with horses, or with strength of back, or on carts and wagons. Wood and oil and anything that would burn was used.

             
The fire burned until the evening of the fourth day.

             
Funerals, too. The Sturman dead were buried, not in mass graves, but surrounding the site of a new shrine, to be built by the finest stonemasons in the land. Word was sent far and wide for quarry stone and masons to come. They would, in time. Stone was heavy, stone work took time.

             
But soldiers, guards, women, men, even some of the older children, all took a hand shovelling out damp dirt for the dead to sleep in.

             
Every man whose name was known was marked, every citizen.

             
'Quintal...' began Renir, as the first day of funerals began.

             
But Quintal forestalled him. 'Renir, the Sard would be honoured, I think, to be interred here, among so many brave souls. A simple marker, same as the others. No more.'

             
Renir nodded, and so it was.

             
He searched, same as his friends, for sign that Shorn had died, or returned...any sign. Hopelessly, not expecting to find anything, but nonetheless relieved that Shorn was not dead in the mud, somewhere, having died alone.

             
It felt strange, to lose a friend without even saying goodbye.

             
'He'll be back,' he told himself, and watched the first day of funerals with his back straight and his face, at least, clean. Drun, the only priest he knew, presided. He looked deathly sick, to Renir. He tried to speak to him, but Drun always left as soon as he could, and in some ways, Renir was glad. To speak to Drun, now, would feel like saying goodbye, too...and he did not know what to say.

             
It was a week of mourning, both for the dead and friends lost to who knew where.

             
But also, it was a week of dreams.

*