The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (6 page)

Markal hesitated at the door, looking back at King Daniel, still thrashing on his bed. “We’ll be outside the door, my king. Call if you need assistance.”

That night, the king drew Markal and Darik into his torment.

#

Darik woke to a scream. It was the third such scream, but the first two had simply incorporated themselves into his dream. In his dream, he searched desperately for his sister among the impaled bodies surrounding Balsalom. One man lifted his eyes imploringly and whispered, “Help me,” but Darik didn’t have time to help if he was going to find his sister. She screamed somewhere close, and then a second time.

And then came the third scream, the one that woke him. He sat up straight, back aching where it had pressed into the flagstones. The door to the king’s bed chamber sat open, Markal by Daniel’s side with a torch in hand. Shadows crawled across the wall, the king’s outstretched hands distorted into grotesque claws on the ceiling.

“She’s coming!” Daniel cried. “Ah, Serena, my wife.”

Sweat stood out on his face and his bare chest. His eyes bulged and he screamed again, then tore at his heaving chest and banged his head against the wall. Markal shoved the torch into a holder and struggled to restrain him. He saw Darik and called him to help. The king calmed down at last. His eyes cleared slightly.

“Markal,” he said. “You’ve returned from Balsalom.”

“We spoke yesterday, my king. Don’t you remember?”

Daniel coughed and shook his head. He looked at Darik, then back to the wizard. “Chantmer called a council of the kings. Have they met?”

“They met, my king, and have agreed to raise an army. I hope it’s not too late.” He didn’t add the fear that without a single leader, the army would flounder, that without Daniel to urge them to action, the army might not form in time, leaving each kingdom on its own.

“And have they elected a new high king?” Daniel asked.

“No, but many have demanded to speak to you.”

The king lay back on his bed. “Please, leave me. I’m so tired.”

Markal and Darik obeyed. When they reached the hall and shut the doors, Darik asked, “Why is he crying out for the queen? Doesn’t he know that she’s dead?”

Markal didn’t answer directly, but said, “Every man has a wound, a weak spot that if left untended will rot the entire soul. Only by overcoming this wound can a man follow the crooked path to enlightenment.” He shrugged. “Or so the Martyr taught. King Daniel’s wound was the loss of his wife Serena.”

“He must have loved her dearly,” Darik said, remembering Whelan’s breakdown in the Desolation. The king wasn’t the only one who had.

Markal nodded. “He married her for political reasons to heal old wounds opened by Daniel’s father, King Richard. He didn’t love her at first, but spent his time worrying about the affairs of the kingdom. Alas, Serena was a lonely child in those days, which led to many later troubles, as you know. Eventually, the king came to love his wife, as any man would have. Serena na Brach was a valiant woman, much like your khalifa. I don’t know if any man and woman loved each other as much as Queen Serena and King Daniel.”

“And she died in the sea somehow?”

“She fell overboard while she sailed with King Daniel to the Windward Islands to arrange trade. Daniel combed the islands, hoping that she had washed ashore somewhere. Whelan found her body.” Markal lay down on the flagstones and wrapped himself in his blankets. “Get some sleep. We’ll be up again soon, I’ll wager.”

Indeed, the screaming started again within the hour. Daniel struggled in his bed, crying out for his dead wife. He settled down a few minutes later, but Darik didn’t sleep again until shortly before dawn. But as the sun rose, a gutpiper stood atop Eastgate and called the Citadel to wake, and destroyed any further sleep.

Chapter Three

You are afraid,
the voice whispered in Whelan’s mind.

“Yes, my friend,” Whelan said. “I am afraid.”

Face your fear,
the voice of Memnet the Great urged.
Bring peace to your soul.
 

Yes, that illusive peace. Whelan had sought it in turns by fleeing to Balsalom, then returning for Sanctuary, and finally by confessing his sins to his brother. But nothing had worked.

Whelan rode his horse along the Tothian Way, amidst the jostle of a wagon train. An ox bellowed as he passed too close and strained against his yoke to swing his horns at the horse’s legs. The wagon driver cursed and lashed his whip to drive the ox back in line. Whelan’s horse danced away from the commotion and pushed aside three men on foot who carried pikes over their shoulders. Ahead, a small band of Kratians shouted at some Veyrian footmen in their way who refused to move.

Whelan did nothing to disguise himself, indeed, wore Soultrup openly over one shoulder. If pressed, he would claim himself a hired sword from the north, brought along to share in the pillage of Eriscoba. In Cragyn’s mad rush to move thousands of men, beasts, and supplies west, there was little coordination among the groups. But the sheer size of the dark wizard’s invasion force frightened him, lent urgency to his flight west. He had very little time.

You fool,
a second voice insisted. The voice of Pasha Malik.
Find your self-righteous brother and cut down the dog where he stands. Take the throne for yourself. Anything else is cowardice.
 

The sleeping souls woke to clamor for his attention. Behind Memnet and Malik’s voices, Whelan heard the whispers of a hundred others killed by the sword over the years, their souls bound to the blade upon death. Some never stirred even in the fiercest of battles, trapped somewhere between dreams and waking. But others, the strong-willed, knew him, and could speak to his mind. Of these, two were stronger than the others.

The first was Pasha Malik, a twisted monster of a soul, killed almost a hundred years before the Tothian Wars, who might have proven an inspiration for the mad king’s later atrocities. In his war against the sultans of the southern kingdoms, he’d once captured twelve of an enemy’s wives and over thirty of his children then used them as leverage to force his enemy to capitulate. But when the sultan surrendered, Pasha Malik tortured every one of his prisoners to death in front of the sultan.

Malik drank blood, it was said. He tortured young girls to death in his bed chambers. If an army surrendered to his men, the pasha would butcher half of them to lend force to his wizards, then maim every surviving soldier by amputating an arm or foot. There was nothing original about these stories spread by Malik’s enemies, meant to raise opposition to the pasha’s army.

But there was at least some truth in every tale, Whelan had discovered after years of living with the cold-hearted bastard.

One of Malik’s own captains had tired of the pasha’s excesses and crept into Malik’s tent while he slept and plunged Soultrup directly into the man’s black heart. The captain’s treachery still enraged Malik five hundred years later.

Fortunately for Whelan, a second, even more powerful soul suppressed the pasha’s rage and murderous advice. Memnet the Great, master wizard of the Crimson Path, enemy of Toth. Without the calm spread by his soul, Whelan feared that Malik would turn him to evil or madness.

A good man had killed Pasha Malik, but the pasha’s dark soul had turned Soultrup to evil for a hundred years. Then, when an evil man had murdered Memnet the Great during the Tothian Wars, the nature of the blade had turned yet again.

Soon, very soon, Soultrup would drink again. Long and deep. Who could tell what new souls would be gathered in Soultrup’s sheol?

Whelan had bought a horse in a town called Trowbridge, in the foothills north of the Tothian Way. He hoped to gather knights as he rode toward the Citadel in Arvada, prove his loyalty to his brother by gathering an army for its defense. But first he must reach Eriscoba.

At last, at long last, he would heal the wound in his soul that he had let fester for over thirteen years now. And if his brother should demand his death for defying his order of banishment, so be it. A tremble worked its way through his hand.

Peace, my friend,
Memnet urged again.
Remember your training. The lessons you learned in Sanctuary Tower.
 

Whelan’s training ran deep, it was true. But not as deep as the demands of his father, still worrying at his soul like a dog worried at a bone, almost fifteen years after the old king’s death.

#

“Surrender this castle and I’ll spare your life!” King Richard had bellowed to the men standing on the wall, his breath billowing into the cold northern air. Blood speckled the fringes of his cape, left behind by yesterday’s battle.

His four sons sat on horses by his side, together with several members of the king’s guard and Cragyn. Whelan’s father’s previous counselor, Chantmer the Tall, had burned with rage when he learned the king would take the young wizard on his campaign, and refused to come down from the Golden Tower at Father’s command.

The bulk of the army camped at the edge of the forest, where they busied themselves chopping trees to make scaling ladders and battering rams. Daniel had told Whelan that two hundred Knights Temperate rode west along the Old Road, at last respecting Father’s request to help put down the Eorl of Brach’s rebellion.

Whelan looked at his father with a mixture of fear and admiration. The king had cut his way north in less than a fortnight, cutting across freeholds and smashing the fort the eorl had hastily erected at a ford on the Norcroft. But he’d shown no mercy, burning any village that dared oppose his army and putting hundreds to the sword.

Perhaps the fighting and deaths didn’t bother Daniel and Roderick. Whelan, at seventeen, had never seen such destruction and it troubled him deeply, so different was it from the lessons Mother tried to teach him. He wasn’t the only one bothered. Last night, Ethan had wakened from a night terror, crying out that the Harvester was in the tent with them. It had taken all three of his older brothers to comfort the boy.

A voice shouted back from the castle walls. “You must think I’m a fool.”

The Eorl stood next to his men in the main tower, which bristled with archers. He wore a thick ermine cape and a horned helm. He rested a battle axe over his shoulder as if he intended to scramble down the tower and rush the King himself.

The Eorl said, “The winters are cold this far north, my king. You wait another month and you’ll lose half your army to frostbite before you can slink back to Arvada.”

“I won’t need two days to burn this pitiful excuse for a castle to its foundations,” Richard shouted back. “Three hundred fifty Knights Temperate ride the Old Road even as we speak. They’ll be here in the morning.”

Even from where he stood, Whelan could see the eorl tremble. He hadn’t yet heard the news. Of course, Father had exaggerated the number of men riding, and the eorl would know it.

Two hundred, a thousand, it wouldn’t matter. Such was the faith that both men had in the fighting ability of the Knights Temperate that they both believed such a force would destroy the eorl. Castle Brach was nothing like the Teeth or even Leftbridge. Its gates could be broken, its walls were low enough to be scaled.

“A parlay,” the eorl said. “Let us meet tonight and discuss our differences. Perhaps we can turn aside the battle and save many lives.”

King Richard hesitated and turned to Cragyn, a move which irritated Whelan. Could Father make no decision without first consulting the wizard?

Cragyn asked in a low voice, “Why parlay now, when victory is in your grasp? The knights ride and the eorl knows that he cannot win.”

“Father?” Daniel asked, urging his horse from Whelan’s side.

“Quiet, boy,” the king said, then turned back to Cragyn. “But an ally in the north is better than an enemy, don’t you think? Where would be the harm in a parlay? Find out what his demands are.”

“He is toying with you,” Cragyn said. “If you meet him on his terms, people will call you a coward.”

“Father,” Whelan said, riding to Daniel’s side. “Only a fool would listen to this man’s advice. There is nothing to be gained from—”

“Quiet boy,” the king growled.

“But Father,” Whelan protested. “Peace instead of war. You used those words yourself. And aren’t they supposed to be the Free Kingdoms? Why do you want to—”

Whelan didn’t see the sword, the blow came so fast. Father caught him on the side of the head with the flat of his blade. Lights flashed in Whelan’s head and he fell from his horse, landing on a ground hard with frost.

Father didn’t spare him a glance to see if he was injured. “Peace through strength, boy,” he said, as if that explained his blow. “Peace, discipline, and loyalty. That’s all I ask. My taxes are low and I make few demands. But I will be obeyed. Now, you will not contradict me again. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” But he raged beneath the surface.

Daniel and Roderick dropped from their horses and helped Whelan to his feet. Daniel put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, urging restraint. Slowly, head still ringing, Whelan remounted his horse. On the walls, the eorl must have seen everything, if not heard some of the exchange. But he said nothing.

King Richard shouted back to the castle, “No parlay, traitor. If you surrender, you live in exile. If you fight, you die.”

“In that case,” the eorl shouted back. “You’ll have my head on a pike before I drop my knee to you again.”

“Very well,” Richard said, turning his horse and galloping back toward his camp.

Banners snapping, the king’s guard rode behind their king, followed by Richard’s sons, Daniel first, with Whelan, Roderick, and Ethan riding two lengths behind. Whelan’s brothers wore grim expressions on their faces except Ethan, who looked simply terrified. A trumpet blared from the camp to herald their arrival.

Whelan still struggled to control his rage, but beside him Daniel looked stricken. Roderick must have seen the same look, for when they reached the tent where the four boys slept, he asked Daniel what bothered him.