The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (8 page)

Markal said, “Brave words for a young man with little training in the sword.”

“I’ve been trained,” Whelan said hotly. Indeed, he could beat his brothers soundly, and did well when sparring with the king’s guard. He tried to turn his attention back to the girl’s singing and masterful work with the harp.

“Training by the king’s guard has value, yes,” Markal agreed, stroking his beard as if a thought had just occurred to him, and not been calculated days in advance, as Whelan suspected. “But not all training is physical.”

“What do you suggest? The Brotherhood?”

“Your grandfather was captain of the Knight’s Temperate,” Markal said. “A great man. Your mother would be proud to see you follow in her father’s footprints.”

Ah, so that was it. The Order of the Wounded Hand worried about Daniel’s brothers and hoped to turn them away from the king’s side where they might work mischief. For Whelan and Roderick, the Brotherhood, perhaps the Order for Ethan. His younger brother had always had a certain bookish way about him and might prove adept with the magical arts.

The idea held no small appeal to Whelan and he wasn’t so proud to argue with the wizard for pointing him in one direction or another. Indeed, the strongest of the voices that whispered to him from Soultrup urged much the same thing. “Thank you, Talebearer. I will consider your advice.”

The wizard nodded and turned his attention back to the music.

King Daniel married Serena na Brach two days later. The following morning Daniel rode south with Roderick, Chantmer the Tall, and several knights to resolve a dispute between the tiny kingdom of Estmor and Rathlek, a powerful neighbor on its southern border.

The young queen remained behind.

The only claim to honor Whelan had over the following weeks is that he never
intended
to seduce the king’s wife.

#

“Whelan, may I speak with you for a moment?” Serena asked.

He’d spotted her approaching across the courtyard, but he’d known she would come. How did he know? Someone whispered to him as he polished Soultrup next to the well.

She is afraid and lonely,
the voice told him.
She hopes to make you her friend.
 

The voice was the second of the two voices that struggled for control over the souls trapped in his sword, the voice Whelan trusted the least. He didn’t trust it partly for the chancy nature of its advice, but also because of how often it lost its temper with the second, more reasonable voice. The second voice claimed to be Memnet the Great, a wizard from the Tothian Wars. He didn’t know if this was true, but had no reason to doubt.

Why do you think that?
Whelan thought as he watched Serena approach, leading a horse.

She walked across the courtyard, avoiding the two knights sparring in the shade cast by the Golden Tower. Glittering topaz beads braided her hair, and the mane of her horse alike, belying the simplicity of the rest of her clothes, a white tunic with simple brown pants and riding gloves. At the last minute, she glanced over to the well as if spotting Whelan for the first time and veered in his direction.

She is only lonely,
Memnet said.
All of that will change when Daniel returns.
 

Nonsense,
the first voice said.
Your brother hates the girl. She will always be neglected. If someone doesn’t save her from her loneliness, she is doomed to misery.
 

It wouldn’t hurt to be her friend,
Whelan said, expecting a rebuttal from Memnet, but he said nothing. And so it began. By the time the king returned three months later, the damage had been done.

#

Ah, memories. How they haunted him!

It was dusk when Whelan rode his horse into Eriscoba for the first time since King Daniel had banished him. Nearly sixteen hours had passed since he’d awakened from his sleep, but his dreams of the night before still troubled him. They were too real to be merely dreams, but fixed in his memory like the disturbing visions he’d seen in the Desolation.

Cruel fate had led Whelan to discover Serena’s body broken from the rocks, rather than Daniel, who rode wildly along the beach, calling out her name, or better still, one of the dozens of men who scoured the beaches for ten miles, looking for the queen’s body among the detritus left by the storm. Would the cursed memory never leave his dreams?

He’d passed Cragyn’s vanguard during the night, and just an hour earlier, a griffin rider had spotted him and brought him news that Daria had returned to the aerie and Darik was with Markal, thus removing a major worry from his mind.

The Teeth had proved harder for Cragyn to break than Montcrag. Lord Garydon had held the castle against the might of the dark wizard’s army for three days. Wizard fire had blackened the castle and torn a breach in one of the outer walls, but still the castle held. If it could withstand a few more days of fighting, the Free Kingdoms might yet send aid.

He passed nobody on the Tothian Way as he rode into Estmor. It was a small kingdom, and the swamp lands that marked the Way’s entry into Eriscoba were less populated than others, and, some said, haunted with ungathered souls.

Estmor had once been drier and forested and small shrines to the Forest Brother dotted the land, their ruins strangled by climbing vines or half submerged in water. The Forest Brother was long-dead, as was the strength of this land.

Night came and still Whelan rode. He stopped for a few hours to let his exhausted mount rest, but Whelan couldn’t sleep, so he walked through the darkness, listening to the bellow of frogs.

Lights bobbed up and down in the distance; at first Whelan thought them wights. As he approached, however, he saw lamps floating on a small lake. About two dozen men sat on boats in the darkness, lamps held on poles over the water.

Each man had a cormorant in his boat, with a metal ring about its neck. When a fish came to investigate the lamp light, the bird would dive into the water and grab the fish, returning a moment later with its catch, which it couldn’t swallow with a metal ring about its neck. The man would throw the fish into a bucket, feeding the cormorant scraps as reward, then return to his lamp.

They’d leave their fishing soon enough, Whelan guessed as he stood in the shadows and watched. Not even the deep moors would be safe from Cragyn’s army.

He returned to his horse and roused the poor beast, ready to ride again. He’d hoped to reach the western edge of Estmor by daybreak, but ten foot water reeds still choked the edges of the Way and the thick smell of water and rotting vegetation still filled the air. At last the road began to climb out of the lowlands and the fog cleared. He crested a hill.

Whelan’s first full view of the Free Kingdoms took his breath away. The bloom of summer swathed the land in green while the sky stretched blue and clear as far as he could see to the west. Farmhouses sprinkled the land, separated by stone fences, while sheep grazed on hillsides. He’d reached Meadow Down.

Several men rode hard from the west on war horses. They rode three abreast on the road with sharp, glittering armor and a white, unadorned banner. Each man had a shield painted with an outstretched hand that dripped blood.

Knights Temperate. Whelan rode to meet them, heart pounding. He didn’t recognize any of the men. They were young knights, some only a year or two older than Whelan had been when he joined the Brotherhood.

“You there!” the lead man shouted.

Whelan pulled his horse to a stop. Its tongue rolled from its mouth and it drooped its head. He rubbed its neck in gratitude. He had ridden the poor beast hard and it had borne up admirably.

“Yes, good knight?” Whelan asked.

“Who are you and what business have you in Eriscoba?”

Whelan lifted his hand, palm facing outward. “I am a brother and knight. I ride with news of the enemy’s forces in the mountains. Will you come with me?”

The man rode forward and took Whelan’s outstretched hand. “Welcome back, friend. I am Hob. These are my men.”

Whelan recognized the man now. Hob was a friend of Ethan’s, and had ridden with Whelan’s brother against brigands troubling the Old Road. It was no wonder Hob didn’t recognize him. The Balsalomian sun had darkened his skin and he had shaved his beard when the Brotherhood banished him from the Citadel.

“The Way isn’t safe to ride, Hob, not with the dark wizard marching. Where are you riding?” Whelan asked him.

“We ride to Estmor, but perhaps your news is more important. Come with us to Sleptstock where we can get you a fresh mount. What is your name, friend.”

Whelan hesitated.

Kill them,
Malik’s voice whispered.
You can take them all. They are young and foolish and have no idea of your strength or of your sword. You can kill their captain before he even draws his sword.
 

No,
Memnet said, pushing Malik’s voice back where it belonged.
You are not their enemy, Whelan. Prove your worth to them and they will follow you again.
 

Hah! The wizard’s advice made Whelan want to laugh. Prove his worth to them? What nonsense was that? And if he fought as Malik urged, what hope did he have against these men, heavily armored and riding fresh mounts? No, he would
not
follow the pasha’s advice either. Indeed, he made it a point to
never
follow the pasha’s advice.

“My name is Whelan. I’ve come to beg my brother’s forgiveness and pledge my sword in his defense.”

Hob let out a hiss of air. Two of the men shouted and drew their swords, while the others looked to each other in amazement. Whelan made no move to defend himself, although his hand itched to reach for Soultrup. He felt the whispers of souls waking in the depths of the sword.

“It
is
you,” Hob said at last. He shook his head. “But you swore never to return.”

“I have sworn also to defend the Citadel. And I am your captain. I plan to lead you into battle.”

“We have a new captain now,” one man growled. He drew his sword to join the other two. Hob and the others put their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them as well should Whelan move. But he had no intention of fighting.

“Where is this captain? I would expect Roderick to have an army to crush the enemy when he puts his first foot in Eriscoba. Indeed, to drive the dark wizard back to Veyre and protect the freedom of our allies in Balsalom.”

“Your brother rides in the north,” Hob said curtly.

“Yes, and the Knights Temperate fight amongst each other. Or so I’ve been told.”

Hob stayed quiet, then nodded slowly, removing his hand from the sword hilt. “It is true that the Brotherhood has been in turmoil since you left, but if you ride to the Citadel, things will turn ugly in a hurry. It would be best if you returned to the khalifates.”

“Then nothing will change,” Whelan protested. “And the Knights Temperate must come together to defeat the dark wizard. No, I will ride to the Citadel and beg the king to forgive me.”

“Then I have no choice but to take you to Arvada as a prisoner.”

“As you wish,” Whelan said. “But before I surrender, I must have your word that you won’t kill me until I have a chance to speak with the king and ask his pardon.”

“You have my pledge,” Hob said. Whelan made to hand over his sword, but Hob held out a hand and shook his head.

“In that case,” Whelan said. “Let’s ride.”

“First tell me, have you seen any lights in Estmor, captain?”

“Lights?” Whelan asked.

Hob explained as he turned his horse around, “Yesterday a man rode into Sleptstock and said the swamps of Estmor were alive with wights. He saw hundreds of lights. We rode to investigate.”

Whelan considered. “The wizards will know what to do about ghost lights. Our worry is gathering the Knights Temperate. And that means a pardon from the king.”

“And Roderick?” Hob asked. “Will you ask
his
pardon? He is the captain of the Knights Temperate until you unseat him.”

“He will obey the king.”

“No,” Hob said. “He will fight.”

Chapter Four

Darik heard a loud commotion as someone passed through Eastgate and into the Citadel. He looked out the window of his rooms, located in the barracks usually occupied by Knights Temperate but currently empty. Whelan rode into the courtyard between the two towers, surrounded by Knights Temperate. There were only eight other men, but they made a fearsome sight, heavily armored and banging sword hilts against their shields. Their horses snorted and stomped and one man pulled out a trumpet and sounded several short, sharp blasts.

Darik hurried from his room to the courtyard, anxious to see Whelan and wondering what the commotion was about. He met Markal on his way down, just emerging from the library. The wizard rubbed his beard thoughtfully and lagged behind Darik as he rushed outside.

The noise gathered others to the courtyard, many from Sanctuary Tower. Men, women, young knights in training, the old and the crippled. Lay brothers, Markal called them. Those who belonged to the Brotherhood but were not Knights Temperate, the lay brothers name was somewhat misleading as a large part of their duties included caring for the spiritual life of the followers of the crooked path and the teaching of the Martyr’s words. Together with these came a number of the king’s guard, regular soldiers of Arvada who manned the gates and walls, and any others in the Citadel at the time.

There were perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred in all. Markal appeared and stood next to Chantmer the Tall who watched the knights with distaste written clearly on his face.

The knights rode twice around the courtyard, still making noise, until at last they came to a stop directly between the two towers. They formed a circle around Whelan that looked both protective and constraining at the same time.

Scree soared from Markal’s room above the close, and landed on Whelan’s gloved wrist with a happy squawk. Whelan stroked her feathers but his attentions were on the knight who picked his way from the circle to stand in front of Chantmer.