Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (29 page)

OURS PASSED AND THE BATTLE RAGED ON
. T
HE AIR
was filled with the sound of the rocks striking the castle walls, the battering rams, the roars of soldiers, their cries of pain. Smoke wafted across the battlefield, carrying the smell of death, and sweat, and blood.

As the sun rose to its afternoon height, Oland realised that Villius Ren had not reappeared. Oland rode across the castle grounds to find Jerome Rynish. He recognised a familiar shape up ahead. It was Wickham. As he waved at Oland, Oland could see there was blood streaming down his arm. Wickham quickly clutched his side, but not fast enough so that Oland could not see the gaping wound. He cried out to Wickham, charging towards him. He jumped from his horse as Wickham collapsed to the ground.

Oland knelt at his side. “I can see now your Pyreboy origins,” he said, “All that practice telling stories on the shore.”

“You've been to Curfew Peak…” said Wickham. “Did you meet my brother, Mark?”

“Yes,” said Oland. “He's here. He brought Prince Roxleigh and me back. He helped save Decresian.”

Wickham looked down at his wound. For a moment, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were shining with tears.

Oland began to rip the tunic that Jerome had given him. He took Wickham's hand away from his side and pressed the bundled fabric against it. “Just a few minutes,” said Oland. “Then I'll go and get him. I'll find him for you.”

Wickham nodded, and his eyes started to close again.

“Don't sleep,” said Oland, knowing that he had to keep Wickham conscious to give him every chance to survive. “Look at me. Tell me what happened when you left Curfew Peak.” He glanced down at the makeshift bandage, already soaked with Wickham's blood.

Wickham, his breath shaking, began, faltering between his words: “The night I delivered Prince Roxleigh's message to King Micah was several nights before Villius Ren staged his attack. The night of the attack, I had already left the castle for the inn in Derrington. The young archivist was in the stables helping his father pack up a cart with their records. Villius believed that, after The Craven Lodge attacked, King Micah was dead and he had thrown him there to be taken away in a cart and burned. But, despite the arrows that Villius had twisted in his wounds, King Micah was still alive and as he lay there he discovered, under a pile of straw, a newborn baby, discarded just like him. That baby was you.”

A terrible pain ripped through Oland's heart. “My parents abandoned me…” he said.

Wickham took a surprisingly fierce grip on Oland's arm.

“No, Oland,” he said. “You were taken from them… they did not leave you there…”

“Who were they?” said Oland.

“I don't know,” said Wickham. “I'm… sorry.”

Oland wanted to scream at the dead ends he kept reaching when it came to discovering who his parents were. He felt selfish and cruel to even think of it as he crouched over the failing Wickham.

“King Micah dictated your letter to the young archivist, Tristan Ault, who tracked me down in Derrington and gave me the letter to give to you.”

“By joining The Craven Lodge, you did even more than you were asked to,” said Oland.

“For a good cause, Oland.” His breath faltered.

Oland gripped his hand tighter. “No,” he said. “No. Don't… don't. I'll go and find a doctor. I'll find Mark. You will—”

“No,” said Wickham, struggling to shake his head. His lips were almost white. “Wait. I wanted to say… sorry… that for so long I could do nothing. I had my brother to think of on Curfew Peak. Prince Roxleigh, the entire kingdom, the futures of so many…” He drew in a shallow breath. “You have no idea how many times I wished I could have taken you away.” His breathing grew weaker. “I don't know how, but King Micah knew that one day in the arena, as a young man, you would save another and show strength and bravery that were beyond human. On that day I was told to deliver that letter.” His voice was barely a whisper. “What was confusing…” he said, his eyes closing, “was that to me… every day of your life… you showed strength and bravery that were beyond human.” He managed to smile. “
The Banon Servant
… I wrote. Is inspired by you. Oland Born-Lord Banon.” Wickham's eyes closed for the last time.

“No,” said Oland. “No, Wickham, no. Not yet. No. I wanted time to become your friend.” He started to weep. “I wanted to thank you for teaching me. I wanted to say sorry for thinking you were the same as them. I wanted… to hear more stories.” He wept harder.

After a time, he placed Wickham's hands on his chest and held his own there, willing for him a safer passage than the other souls who had fallen at the hands of evil men.

TILL WEEPING, BUT MORE ANGERED THAN HE HAD EVER
been, Oland left Wickham's side and jumped on his horse. He rode towards Jerome Rynish.

“Where is Villius Ren?” said Oland.

“Villius has barricaded himself in the great hall and has surrounded it with soldiers,” said Jerome. “Luckily for us, his towers are coming down with curious ease.”

“That's because it's Rigg Island stone,” said Oland. “It's fragile and porous, but Villius requested it specially, for whatever reason. He will be regretting it now.”

As they turned to survey the damage, a huge plume of smoke rose from inside the castle. Through the gaping hole in the castle walls, Oland could see where it came from. He stopped dead.

“You said you wouldn't touch the northeast tower!” he shouted.

“We didn't,” said Jerome.

They watched as smoke billowed out from the tower's base.

“It's on fire!” shouted Oland. “The tower is on fire! My room!”

“We didn't do it,” said Jerome, “I swear to you. It's King Micah's castle; it's Decresian's. We would never…”

Oland and Jerome turned to each other as they both came to the same realisation: Villius Ren had already undermined King Micah and his rule, already undermined the people of Decresian, so it could only follow that he would have no concern about undermining the castle that they all held so dear.

Oland roared and kicked his horse, sending him galloping away. Jerome Rynish rode up alongside him.

“No, Oland, no!” he shouted. “It's not safe. There's nothing we can do about that. A fire has been burning under that for quite some time now. We can't save it. We have destroyed the outer wall, we can easily—”

“We can put out the fire now,” shouted Oland. “The water from the moat, we can—”

“No!” said Jerome. “Remember what we're here for, Oland. To overthrow The Craven Lodge.”

“But not destroying the castle—” shouted Oland.

“There will always be casualties,” said Jerome. “And, a tower is the least of them.”

Oland drove his heel into his horse, and he sped ahead of Jerome. In his desperation to reach the tower, he failed to see the shape riding towards him, until a sword crashed against his chest plate, and he was thrown to the ground. The wind was knocked out of him, and his head was spinning. He staggered upright, and there, in front of him once more, was the Bastion, Villius Ren's newest recruit. He smiled a dullard smile.

“You,” he said. “Dead.”

Oland glanced down at the Bastion's hand and saw a sword. He hadn't expected a weapon other than the Bastion's bulk. But the Bastion moved the blade at breathtaking speed, laughing and swiping the air inches from Oland's face.

Oland pulled his sword from his scabbard. At first, he fought competently, but, with each strike that followed, he began to feel more panicked, as he feared the loss of The Holdings. A burst of rage drove him forward and he battered the Bastion's sword aside. Just as he was poised to pierce the Bastion's chest, his eyes were drawn to the flames that suddenly plumed from the northeast tower. The Bastion struck and Oland's sword flew from his grip, on to the muddy earth. As the Bastion bore down on Oland, a dark shape plunged from the sky towards them.

LAND STARED UP AT THE WINGED FORM OF
B
LAISE,
descending in front of them. The Bastion looked like he had seen a ghost. Panicked, he struck out with his sword, slicing down Blaise's wing. Blaise cried out, but he rose into the air, plucking the Bastion from his standing, flinging him across the ground. Despite his pain, Blaise managed to dive for more victims, hauling them into the air and releasing them in a broken pile below. He had cleared a path through the battlefield for Oland and his horse.

“Thank you,” said Oland.

Blaise landed. “A pleasure.”

Suddenly, Blaise looked down at his wing. Blood was streaming from it. “I'm sorry,” he said to Oland. “I won't be able to take you anywhere.”

“You have done more then enough,” said Oland. “It is with great sadness that I must tell you of your brother's passing.” He led Blaise back to Wickham's side, leaving him to grieve for everything his future would not hold.

 

With his sights set on the castle, Oland rode towards Jerome Rynish, who was in a fierce battle with Hazenby, their swords now locked, steam rising from their bodies. Jerome's strength was holding, while Hazenby looked close to defeat. Jerome pulled his sword free, and with a swift downward movement sliced Hazenby's hamstrings and he collapsed, screaming, to the ground. Jerome staggered upright, looking up in time to see Oland pass, unscathed, through a downpour of arrows from the battlements and disappear through the breached walls of the castle. He roared out his name and quickly drew the attention of Malachy Graham's sons, who charged like a wall towards the soldiers before them, toppling them to the ground, not breaking their stride as they too ran for the castle.

Oland made his way through the eerily quiet outer ward. Villius Ren's discordant army had clearly been no match for the unity of the Decresians. Oland ran past their scattered bodies to the northwest tower. The Decresian soldiers who had felled Villius' men were moving back and forth between the kitchens and the stables, filling every vessel they could find with water. They had laid wooden planks across the moat, and between them they carried water in a line to the burning tower. When the flames died down, Oland ran up the steps into the library. The walls were black, the air heavy with the smell of burning wood and paper and leather. He splashed through the water and the burnt-edged pages of the books that floated there. His room was still locked. The flames had not reached it. He was flooded with relief. He slumped to the floor. He was drenched, and black with soot.

Footsteps echoed up from below and a huge man appeared in front of him, bearing down on Oland, pulling him up from the ground.

“Are you Oland Born?” he shouted.

“Yes,” said Oland. “Yes.”

“What have you done with my daughter?” he said.

“Me?” said Oland. “Delphi? Are you… Chancey the Gold?”

Chancey the Gold's eyes were wild. “Yes,” he said. “Where is she?”

“She's safe!” said Oland. “She's with Prince Roxleigh!”

Chancey the Gold glared at him. “How dare you…” he roared. “You cheeky little—”

“No, no, please, listen!” said Oland. “Prince Roxleigh is alive! He's not mad! He's looking after Delphi.”

But Chancey the Gold was shaking Oland so hard, he could barely speak.

The door to The Holdings suddenly opened, and Prince Roxleigh walked out. “If I could paint a portrait of every face I see when I appear.” He smiled.

Chancey stepped away from Oland when he saw Delphi behind Roxleigh.

“Father!” she cried, running into his arms.

“My beautiful Delphi,” he said, embracing her, kissing her head. “Tell me you didn't swim,” he said quietly. “Tell me you didn't swim.”

“She did!” said Oland. “And she was—”

“Shh!” said Delphi, her head spinning towards Oland.

Chancey the Gold released Delphi and turned to Oland. “I don't know what you've done to her,” he said, grabbing Oland by the arm. “But she has clearly become reckless! I've heard word of Delphi on these travels you took her on. She has done everything that she has been told not to do. Everything! She has drawn attention to herself in the worst ways imaginable—”

“And why shouldn't she draw attention to herself?” said Oland. “She's brave and she's kind and she's—”

“I know!” said Chancey. “I know! She's my daughter! Of course I know that. But she's not safe!”

“Chancey the Gold!” shouted Delphi, her cheeks burning. “Leave him alone! Please… say no more!”

Chancey let Oland go. “I'm sorry, sir,” said Oland. “I'm the one who will leave you alone. If you are worried about Delphi, she can stay here. No one knows this room exists apart from us. I will be gone.” He bowed his head.