The Faerion (4 page)

"There cannot be too many more defenders," said Wynne. "I fear the king shall call on me soon."

"You are right," said Navir. "There are already thirty men here. I don't think the siege engines have attacked yet. It is the arrows and some foot soldiers with ladders that have caused the damage so far. Why are Men so warlike?"

"That's a peculiar question. The Daerlan have been in wars before Man walked this land."

"But with other races, not fellow Daerlan."

"Seems to be little difference to me."

"You are a woman," Navir said, biting his tongue almost immediately. She had told him of her difficulty being the king's sorceress. Few unattached women held such positions. Attacks came from every direction; chipping away at her resolve. Especially rumors that her old mentor had taught her magic because she shared his bed. That one she could never live down. Navir had believed her when she told him that the story was untrue. However, rumor among the nobility even coupled her and the widower king. Long ago she gave up fighting them. She found her strength in friends such as Navir. Now he slaps her as well.

Wynne said nothing, but her cheeks were red.

"I am sorry. I am frustrated with my lot in life. I had no cause to speak as I did, especially to you."

Wynne nodded, saying nothing.

Wynne wrapped a bandage around the man's leg and tucked the end under the edge of the cloth. A page stood quietly next to her. She knew why he was there: it was her summons to the king. She ignored him as long as she could until he had no other option other than to approach her, speaking directly and loud.

"Pardon me, sorceress. The king desires your presence."

She nodded silently, meeting Navir's eyes, rose and followed the soldier out of the infirmary. Navir hesitated, waiting to say something to her, in case they never met again. He even considered kissing her in the manner of humans, but his resolve failed him and he watched her back as it vanished from his sight. His heart ached for her mother, Aeli, dead many years, but still he saw the hawk flying in the bright blue sun; his brother's arrow piercing her; killing her on their father's command. The Wierlun is dead. Navir vowed never to return home to his father. The wound never heals. Aeli. Aeli.

The siege towers rolled up to the north wall together and the weakened defenders did not have enough forces to defend the wall in all areas. For every man on the wall five attackers reached it, cutting the defenders down rapidly. Rilar rallied his men, defending the main towers, leaving but a handful to fight the length of the walls. He knew it futile, but blood still flowed in his veins and his sword still had its edge. Treteste's men overran the north walls at noon, surprisingly sparing their prisoners, herding them into the bailey.

Wynne slowly made her way out to the courtyards, but it was already too late. The defenders laid down their swords. None of the north defenders stood unscathed; bloodied and outnumbered their captains gave their surrender. King Yeates screamed for Wynne at the top of his lungs. Kill Treteste; kill the traitors; kill them all. He swung his sword at anyone who came near; friend or foe. Treteste's men herded him toward the south gate; shields in a tight formation forcing the king to retreat. She bowed her head. Trumpets blared and Treteste rode through the north gate. The king's defenders died, fleeing or fighting. The leaders lost their weapons in the brutal onslaught.

The defenders at the south wall did not surrender and died bravely. Rilar fought until a blade sliced his arm. He shouted in pain throwing his shield up blocking the next blow. He fought in a frenzy, pouring his remaining strength into his attack. One man fell beneath his blade; another wounded. He lunged towards a gold-black shape. A sword flashed, stinging his shield arm. Another blow buckled his legs. He stumbled backward toward the bailey, spitting at the smiling knight. Then he realized the man did not smile.

"Kirkes!"

"I like this less than killing you, my friend," said Kirkes. Kirkes, a huge man, towered over Rilar. His gold and black armor glistened in the sun. The piercing blue eyes through the black visor jolted Rilar. No one could defeat Kirkes in battle. Running from Sir Kirkes displayed no dishonor. Rilar looked for escape.

"Is he that insane?"

"The Baron lost his grip," said Kirkes. "My road is a difficult one."

"Why do you stay in his service? Break your vow. The Baron has no honor left." A shadow passed over Kirkes' face. "Sorry, Kirkes. I forgot. May Cothos forgive you."

"Thank you, old friend," said the knight. He hit Rilar with the flat edge of his sword, knocking him off his feet. Rilar was disarmed and pulled to his feet.

Baron Treteste strolled through the open gates like a man on a holiday. Smiling, he watched his soldiers batter the prisoners. He wanted them submissive. The women and children still hid in the inner castle. They would come out after the fighting ended. Treteste gestured grandly to which defenders to execute, and stopped in front of Lord Rilar. The Baron, a short muscular man with a long iron grey mustache hanging below his chin, that barely concealed the long jagged scar under his chin, smiled at his captive.

"Well, Rilar. It looks like you backed the wrong side. I cannot have traitors in my kingdom." His voice growled low and rough, partially due to his old wound, earned in the king's service.

"I am no traitor! I backed the king. King Yeates is the rightful ruler of Calendia. I know where my loyalty lies. I gave my oath and I kept it."

"It will be your death," replied Treteste, nodding to someone behind Rilar.

"Oath breaker! Oathbr..." His head rolled at the feet of the Baron who smiled. He gestured to a soldier who wiped the blood off the Baron's boots.

"Very good, Sir Crestan." The knight wiped his blade on the dead man's trousers.

"Bring Yeates to me," smiled Treteste. "I have much to tell him."

Kirkes stood to one side as Yeates came forward.

"Ah, Yeates. So kind of you to give up your throne to me." Treteste smiled. "I have long looked forward to this day."

"So I understand. Do not believe this is your victory, but rather my defeat. If I had listened to my advisors you would be hanging from a gibbet. Alas, my faith in you proved stronger than wisdom."

"Which of your advisors warned you?"

"Tagera warned me for months before I banished him. Banished him because he spoke against my most trusted vassal. I was, am now, and shall die, a fool. But I am not a coward, a buffoon who knights drunken highwaymen, a back-stabbing dolt, craving power for its own sake that will destroy Calendia by his rule!"

"Enough!" cried Treteste. "Kill him!" Crestan rushed forward with his sword.

From a window Wynne watched the king brought before Treteste. They exchanged more words although she could not hear them. Yeates spit at Treteste. Even as the sword rose, Wynne sprinted back into the great hall.

"Run!" cried Wynne to anyone who could hear. "The king is dead! The Baron will kill you too." She yelled for Navir, but he had left the infirmary. She hesitated for a moment, and then ran deeper into the keep. The sounds of pursuit filled the castle.

She found herself trapped in the lower levels. Despite knowledge of what the soldiers might do to her, she discarded her emblems of office. Being a sorceress might save her from rape and worse, but Treteste would kill her. She would not kill with her magic. Her only hope to survive the rough handling the soldiers would give her was disguise. She already knew how to send her mind far away and she prayed she would withstand the assault. She had treated many women who had been raped and prayed it would not happen to her, but she knew better. She clutched the bundle of clothes tightly, the Faerion hidden in the rags.

Estes ran to her. "Come, save us!" His shoulder bled again; his sword notched his eyes wide and glassy.

"I will not use my power to kill. Never!"

"You must! You must!" He grabbed her but she twisted out of his reach. She gestured as if to begin a spell, stopping Estes in his tracks. The intensity fell from his face.

"Then we are dead." He stared into her face, unable to understand her. She envisioned his head rolling in the straw by the gate.

"Go to Navir," she said, suddenly. "Only he can get you out of the castle. You will have a chance to avenge your father. Treteste will not be king for long."

"No, I can help my father."

"Not here, not now. He's already dead, and so is everyone who remains. You will have no other chance. Find Navir. Tell him I want him to take you with him. I will find another way. Go." She put a little of her power behind her words, urging the prince to flee. He paused, and then ran. Wynne pressed the book closer to her skin under her cloak knowing only she could keep it out of Treteste's hands. She risked her life for it, but Navir hinted its importance was more than just the magic spells it described. Why she did not tell him she possessed it she could not say.

Later Navir picked through scraps in the kitchen when thought he heard Wynne's voice in his mind, asking him to promise to take Estes to safety, to keep Treteste from complete victory. He considered the thought when Estes ran into the room.

"Come! Wynne says you can take me to safety. Come Navir, we must be off, the castle has fallen!"

"I cannot leave the wounded."

"We are all dead men unless we escape. They will heal better when the fighting stops and Treteste sends his healers here too. Wynne said you agreed to do this."

"I did not."

"Come, she promised me you would."

Navir leapt to his feet in a blink, standing close to the prince.

"I shall do this for her, not for you." He did not know why she would say such a thing. "Where is Wynne?"

"With my father. They both commanded me to leave before Treteste found me. My father believes none of the Baron's promises of fairness."

"He is wise. There is no hope, then."

"Wynne said not. Let us not tarry."

Navir watched the face of Estes; the grim determination masking the twitches of his nerves. There was no cowardice in those eyes and Navir made his decision.

"Yes, I can help you. You must be silent and you must obey me. Do not be surprised at anything I do. We will be vulnerable for several minutes."

"I understand. You will be rewarded for my rescue."

"I want nothing. Do not treat me poorly like one of your subjects." His voice hissed. "I am a Daerlan. Do not place your values upon me. Come!"

The speechless Estes followed swiftly, straining to keep pace with Navir as they wound their way to the top of a tower. There were no guards; they reached the top alone. Navir stood facing the east, speaking rapidly. Estes drew near and Navir grasped his arm tightly. Suddenly, energy crackled around them. Estes looked to the strained expression on Navir's face; sweat forming on his brow. The entire scene shifted slightly. Estes felt they would fall off from the tilting tower. His stomach twisted, pulled through his navel. His extremities grew cold, his face flushed. His head started spinning, faster and faster; he blacked out even as the ground rushed up to meet him.

Navir shook him roughly to awaken him. Estes tried to vomit.

"Quiet. We are but two hundred yards past the Baron's lines. Move without noise; step where I step. We will follow the deer paths in the forest; the road is too dangerous. Make no sound for at least three miles. The sound carries too well. Come." Navir pulled him behind him alternately telling to hurry and be silent.

Estes looked back to the silhouette of the castle; smoke rising lazily from the walls.

"Good-bye, my father. There is so much unsaid. Guide my steps."

"Shh," said Navir. "He is beyond hearing now."

The sun shone brightly and the children played in the fields north of the bloodshed on the battlefield near the castle. Their shouts had not reached the ears of the knights and they played long in the sunshine under the watchful eye of the Border Guard. Seven Tuors, armed with swords and bows, concealed themselves in the shadows of the forest; their eyes alert for danger. They had not anticipated bringing their charges into an area filled with the sounds of war, and did not allow them further travel than the field before them. They expected to be reprimanded for allowing the children beyond the borders of Paglo but the journey had been planned for months and was an annual event for the young Tuors. The children complained when told they could advance no further until their play started and now were content. The lush meadow called to them; full of color and life and the children reveled in it. Tomen, the leader of the Border Guard, had journeyed closer to the battle site, the castle of Stormridge, to gather information to take back to his king. The smell came quickly, very strong to his keen senses.

It had been a bloody battle, bodies of men lay on the matted grass, and the crows busied themselves among the fallen. Baron Treteste had attacked King Yeates and laid siege to the castle at Stormridge. The children of the Tuors did not pay much attention to the din of the metal, swords upon shields, armor against armor. The sound was not part of their life. The Tuors were a race of Men of small statue, much as Pukei or hobbits of fairy tales, but their features were very fine and their limbs slender and lithe. Their home they called Paglo, and the land deeded to them generations before by King Yeates' great-great-grandfather. Here, they lived in peace; undisturbed by the activities of the larger humans who had little need of their land, gnarled with trees, caves and creeks, cris- crossing the countryside. Although the land was not of use to the Kingdoms of Men, it was perfect for the Tuors and they guarded it zealously.

The Border Guard escorted the children back to the trail that led over the mountain back to Paglo. The berries had been collected, not a great harvest, but Tomen did not want to wait any longer. The King had been very explicit in his instructions to the Border Guard.

The king of the Tuors was Ian, a stubborn but wise Tuor, more handsome than most. His hair was long and brown, tucked back behind his ears. He had been king for ten years and those years had been peaceful. The Tuors had few natural enemies besides the mountain trolls, but now the war of Men was too close, and King Yeates of Calendia had not prepared for the Baron's treachery. King Ian worried. Baron Treteste did not always behave rationally and the mountains were not a boundary against an army, not really. He had no army, only the Border Guard, but Tuors could not stand up to men in battle. He couldn't envision the strength necessary for him to make the decision to leave their homes behind to flee the violence. There was nothing in Paglo to interest Treteste, but rumors spoke of insanity. Tomen had seen Treteste once and told King Ian he feared the human's mood changes.