Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) (5 page)

“King Malcolm couldn’t put Viktor on trial. If he had, the whole story would inevitably have come out, and the royal family would have been brought into disrepute. Malcolm was always very conscious of the family honor. But if he couldn’t try Viktor, he couldn’t let him go unpunished either. And he certainly couldn’t have Dominic and Viktor living under the same roof any longer. Indefinite internal exile was the compromise he came up with, and it worked well enough.”

“I was right the first time,” said Jordan. “I am playing the villain.”

“Viktor was betrayed by a woman who said she loved him,” said Sir Gawaine. “And save your sympathy for Dominic until you’ve met him. There were demons in the Darkwood that had more humanity in them than Prince Dominic.”

Jordan shook his head tiredly. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of the characters of his new role, they kept changing.

“All right,” he said slowly. “That’s his family, and his ex-love. Anyone else I need to know about?”

“The Lady Heather Tawney,” said Gawaine. “Viktor’s present love.”

“What’s she like?”

“A very forceful lady,” said Roderik, quickly.

“Forceful,” said Gawaine. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“Viktor met her in Kahalimar,” said Roderik. “She comes from an old, though fairly minor, noble family, and she’s linked her star very firmly to Viktor’s. She was one of the very few people who followed Viktor back to Court. The two of them are practically inseparable, and there’s no doubt Viktor sees her as his main support in these troubled times.”

“In other words,” said Gawaine, “don’t upset her. If she were to turn against us, Viktor would throw us to the wolves without a second thought. Heather’s agreed to the impersonation; we couldn’t do it without her cooperation. But watch your arse, Jordan. Her loyalties are strictly to Viktor himself.”

“Great,” said Jordan. “Just great. Isn’t there anybody in this conspiracy I can trust?”

Sir Gawaine chuckled loudly. “Not a damned one, Jordan. Now you’re starting to think like a prince.”

Jordan decided not to ask any more questions for a while. The answers were getting too depressing. The four men rode in silence in the gathering darkness, each lost in his own thoughts. The stars came out, and the bent moon cast its light over the open moors. Jordan huddled inside his cloak, and looked gloomily about him. The moors were starting to get on his nerves. The hoofbeats of the four horses seemed eerily loud, echoing on and on in the quiet. Jordan scowled uneasily, and wondered what the hell he’d ever seen in the moors. They were a desolate place when all was said and done. Only the desperate and the outlawed lived there, and never for long. There were hidden bogs and marshes, and no place to shelter from the bitter cold nights. More than anywhere else in Redhart, the moors were untouched by man and his civilization. They looked just as they had before man came to Redhart, and would still be there after man had gone. The moors had no need of man, nor any love for him.

“Don’t look around,” said Sir Gawaine quietly, “but we’re no longer alone.”

Jordan sat stiffly in his saddle, jolted out of his melancholy. The other three glanced casually about them, barely moving their heads.

“Bandits?” said Argent.

“Unlikely,” said Roderik. “I had my people check this whole area out before we came in. There are a few footpads and liers in wait, but no armed gangs. There aren’t enough steady pickings here to support them.”

“They could be agents working for the other princes,” said Argent.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Roderik. “But what would they be doing in a backwater place like this? No one but us knew about Jordan. How many are there out there, Gawaine?”

“Five, maybe six,” said the knight calmly. “They’re laying low in the heather up ahead. They’re pretty good. I almost missed them.”

“What are we going to do?” said Jordan hoarsely.

Gawaine chuckled quietly, and let his hand fall to the ax at his side.

“No one knew we were coming here,” said Roderik. “I’d stake my life on it.”

“You did,” said Gawaine. “Now it looks like someone’s planning on calling in the bet. One of our people must be a traitor.”

“That’s not possible,” said Argent. “Everyone was carefully chosen …”

“Don’t be naive,” said Gawaine. “There’s always someone who can be bought, or broken. We’d better look into it when we get back to Castle Midnight.”

“Assuming we ever get there,” said Jordan. “Whoever those people are out there in the heather, they outnumber us six to four, remember?”

“They may have the numbers,” said Roderik, “but we have Sir Gawaine.”

Gawaine smiled nastily. Jordan tried hard to feel reassured.

They rode on down the beaten path. The heather stirred ominously as the wind moaned briefly. Jordan searched the surrounding shadows as best he could without being too obvious about it, but couldn’t see anything. He wondered if he could take advantage of an ambush to turn his horse around and race back to town. If by some chance Roderik’s people survived, he could always emerge later when all the fighting was over, and swear blind his horse had run away with him. It only took him a moment’s thought to see the plan wouldn’t work. Firstly, the others would never believe it, and secondly, Smokey was too damned lazy to run anywhere. Jordan swallowed hard, and loosened his sword in its scabbard. When it came to violence, Jordan always believed in seeing the other person’s point of view. If that failed, he tended to favor kicking the other guy in the nuts and running away quickly. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of violence, though he was, it was just that Jordan had too good an imagination. He found it far too easy to visualize all the terrible things that could go wrong, and just what it would feel like to have your head ripped clean off your shoulders. He swallowed hard and wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. He eased his boots out of his stirrups so that he could jump free of his horse if he had to, and flexed his arms surreptitiously to check that the flare pellets and smoke bombs in his sleeves were within easy reach if he needed them.

A dark figure suddenly leapt out of the heather before Gawaine’s horse, and grabbed for his bridle. The horse reared up on its hind legs, and Gawaine tumbled backward out of the saddle. He landed on the packed earth of the trail with a heavy thud, and rolled away into the heather. The dark figure went rushing after him. Moonlight shone brightly on his upraised sword. Jordan and the others reined their horses to a sudden halt as more dark figures rose up out of the heather on either side of the trail.

Jordan glared wildly about him. He counted six figures, including the one that had gone after Gawaine, and they all looked to be armed. In the dark, they looked more like demons than men. Jordan reached into the hidden pocket in his left sleeve, and pulled out one of the small wax pellets. He nicked the wax coating with his thumbnail, and threw the pellet onto the ground between him and the nearest of the advancing figures. The pellet split open on impact, and the liquid within burst into flames as it was exposed to the air. Flames roared up in the middle of the trail, lighting the scene in vivid shades of crimson and gold. For a moment, the ambushers stopped dead in their tracks, stunned by the unexpected heat and light. The dancing flames reflected brightly from their chain mail and blank shields.
Mercenaries
, thought Jordan sickly.
We’re up against professional bloody killers
. He groped frantically for another flare pellet.

There was a horrid scream from out in the heather, and then Sir Gawaine stood up, his ax dripping blood. There was no sign of his attacker. “Well-done, Prince Viktor,” he called loudly. “But we won’t need any more of your fire magic. My friends and I will take care of this trash.”

He laughed unpleasantly, and Jordan shivered. There was something harsh and awful in that laugh: an open delight in murder and human butchery. Sir Gawaine hefted his great ax once, and started forward. The mercenaries snapped out of their daze, and two of them went to meet him. The others moved cautiously forward, giving the flames in the middle of the path plenty of room as they passed. Roderik drew his sword and dismounted, all in a single supple movement, and Argent swung quickly down to join him. They moved confidently forward to meet the mercenaries. The fighting had already begun by the time Jordan got down from his horse.

Gawaine stood his ground, grinning nastily, as the two mercenaries closed in on him. They had to wade through the tall heather to reach him, and he didn’t miss the way it slowed them down. He chose his moment carefully, and then launched himself forward, his ax a silver blur in the moonlight as it swept out to punch deep into the first mercenary’s ribs. The heavy steel blade buried itself in his side with a harsh, chunking sound, and the impact threw the mercenary to the ground. Sir Gawaine yanked the ax free, and blood and splintered bone flew on the air. The second mercenary’s sword swept out in a long arc, reaching for Gawaine’s throat. The knight ducked under the blow at the last moment, and his ax whistled through the air toward his attacker’s legs. The mercenary jumped backward, and the ax just missed. Gawaine recovered his balance and moved forward, swinging his ax lazily before him. The mercenary backed away, peering warily at him over his shield. Gawaine feinted to the left and then threw himself forward as the mercenary hesitated, undecided. The ax rose and fell, sweeping past the shield to smash through the mercenary’s collarbone and bury itself in his chest. The two men fell to the ground in a heap, but only Gawaine got to his feet again. Blood soaked his chain mail, none of it his.

There was a weak thrashing sound behind him, and Gawaine spun around as the first mercenary lurched to his feet, favoring his smashed ribs but still clinging to his sword. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, and he showed his teeth in a bloody grin. Gawaine watched him warily. When a man knows he’s dying, he becomes a much more dangerous opponent. He’ll try anything, take any risk. He knows he’s got nothing to lose. The mercenary rushed forward, and his sword cut viciously at Gawaine’s belly. The knight met the blow with the flat of his ax, and the shock ripped the sword from the mercenary’s weakened grasp. He watched his sword fly through the air, and Gawaine’s ax leapt up to sink into his throat. He fell limply to the ground, and lay still. Gawaine pulled his ax free with a sickening tearing sound.

Count Roderik cut down the first mercenary to reach him with practiced ease, his sword a shining blur in the uneven light. He turned quickly to meet the second mercenary, his face a cold and calculating mask. He moved confidently forward, and steel clashed on steel as the mercenary parried his attack without flinching. He took most of the blows on his blank shield, content to let Roderik tire himself, and then launched his own attack. The two men stamped back and forth on the narrow trail, sparks flying in the gloom when their swords met.

Roderik gritted his teeth against a growing ache in his sword arm. It had been too many years since he’d used a sword for anything but sport or exercise. That was the trouble with a good reputation as a swordsman: after a while it became practically impossible to find anyone foolish enough to duel with you, even just to first blood. Roderik pressed his opponent hard, and the mercenary backed cautiously away, leaving no opening. Roderik scowled. It was taking too long. Old instincts and skills were slowly returning to him, but already his breath was coming fast and hurried, while the mercenary wasn’t even breathing hard. Roderik felt an almost forgotten chill run through him as he realized the man before him might just be a better swordsman than he.

The fifth and last mercenary slipped past the struggling figures and made for his main target, the prince. The merchant could wait; he wasn’t going to be a problem. Prince Viktor, on the other hand, was looking more dangerous by the minute. He had to be taken care of quickly, before he could call up any more magical fire. Besides, there was a bonus for the man who killed the prince. The mercenary grinned. For a hundred ducat bonus, he’d wipe out a whole royal family. And then he pulled up short, startled, as Robert Argent blocked his way with a drawn sword. The mercenary looked at him, and his grin widened. One short, tubby merchant with a brand-new sword shouldn’t be much of a problem. The mercenary glanced briefly at Prince Viktor, just in case he was about to launch any more magic, but he was apparently busy fumbling with his sleeves and muttering to himself. Argent lashed out clumsily with his sword, and the mercenary parried it easily. He quickly took over the attack, and forced Argent back step by step, the merchant defending himself more by strength and determination than skill. In a matter of seconds, the mercenary knocked Argent’s sword out of his hand, and drew back his blade for the killing thrust.

“Hold, assassin!” roared Jordan, in his most commanding voice. He gestured mystically, and blue-white flames flared up about his hands. The mercenary took one look, and started backing quickly away. Jordan adopted his most impressive High Warlock stance. The trick was to keep the audience looking at you, rather than the hands. That way they wouldn’t notice how quickly the flames started to die down. He ran his hands through a quick series of mystical gestures, using the movements to hide his palming of another flare pellet from his sleeve, and threw the pellet at the mercenary. It cracked open as it hit his chest, and the liquid in the pellet burst into flames. The fire took a savage hold on the mercenary’s clothes, and leapt up around his face. He screamed shrilly, and dropped his sword to beat at the flames with his hands. Jordan stepped forward, and ran the man through with his sword. The mercenary fell to the ground, and lay still. The flames burned fiercely on the unmoving body.

Jordan looked quickly about him. The flames licking around his hands were already beginning to gutter. Argent gave him a quick nod to show he was all right. Gawaine was just finishing off his last opponent, but Roderik was being beaten slowly back by his. Jordan blew out the flames on his hands, and moved stealthily in behind the mercenary. It only took a moment to remove his cloak and sweep it over the mercenary’s head, blinding him. He grabbed frantically at the heavy material, and Roderik ran him through. Jordan pulled his cloak away as the mercenary collapsed, and put it on again. Roderik looked at the dead man, and then at Jordan, and raised an eyebrow.