In Service Of The King (Book 2) (21 page)

“Our brother needs aid,” Joseph told him, looking back toward the pub. Hezekiah did not seemed surprised by this statement; he nodded at his men. They threaded their way back towards the pub as the crowd cheered the bishop on behind them.

Small rodents scattered as the pub’s back door swung open. Dunner stepped through, two blades at his back. To stall for time, he began swaying and stumbling, cursing in slurred speech; yelling, he flailed his arms about so the two bandits could not fully get hold of him.

“Aw, he’s knackered...” one of the men spat. “Go get Hamaas before the geezer pisses on himself.” His fellow man opened the door and yelled for his boss. Around the corner of the pub, the group of seven Kings-men paused, listeing to the commotion to alley. Hamaas appeared at the door, a pint in his hand. Seeing Dunner sway and shout around the small alley, he glared at his men.

“Why do I pay you?!” he screamed, flinging the pint at one of them. “Must I do your killing now for you! I’ve half a mind to send you down to the caves. You can crawl in the muck with the slaves!” The men paled at this and made an attempt to grab Dunner as he lurched by.

“Unhand the man,” came a strong, clear voice.

The three brigands looked up to see seven cloaked men standing in the alley, their faces obscured by hoods. Hamaas peered at them narrowly.

“Who makes demands of me?” the brigand snarled, his black eyes flashing.

“This man serves the Bishop,” Joseph said from within his hood. “I bring you word from Sytel.” At this Hamaas’s face altered; he stepped back from Dunner, his brow drawn.

“The bishop never sends his men here...” he said, slowly. “I take orders only from the cathedral...” He took a step towards the group; suspicion filled his eyes. “The master sent you all the way from Moronai?”

A choking sound behind Hamaas made him turn, sharply. Both of his men lay on the ground; their throats were cut. Dunner stood between them, wiping his bloody dagger on a cloth.

“You are Kingsmen!” Hamaas snarled, pulling a long, glinting dagger from his belt. Hate glittered in the bandit’s cruel eyes. “You serve that oppressive tyrant!”

“Shut your mouth,” Dunner said, ominously; the aging sailor’s eyes looked hard with anger. “You are not worthy to speak of the King!” Hamaas’s mouth twisted into a malicious grin.

“I’ll burn each of you...” he said, gleefully. “I’ll find your families and take pleasure watching them burn in their homes. Your king will not save you! Soon, his rule will be overthrown!”

At this, Dunner drew out his curved sword, sweeping it up in a practiced, deadly blow. Hamaas’s head rolled from his shoulders and joined his dead men on the ground. Stepping over the bodies, Joseph dragged a heavy barrel in front of the back door.

“I believe we may safely abandon the idea of keeping a low appearance,” Hezekiah said, stepping away from a small stream of blood trickling down the alley. Dunner wiped off the curved blade of the scimitar, his face a picture of distaste; the aging sailor glanced down at the headless corpse of Hamaas.

“He’s much more the pleasant man with his head off,” Dunner remarked, more to himself than anyone.

“We must leave this place,” Joseph said, seriously. “This area of the city is about to be thrown into anarchy.”

“You are right, sir,” Baith stated. “Once Hamaas is discovered to be dead, all the bands will be fighting for power. Any citizens should flee this place at once.”

Hezekiah looked around, drawing a parcel from his tunic. A wooden crate stood nearby; kneeling down by it, he took out a piece of parchment and took out a small, corked inkwell. Tearing the parchment in two equal pieces, he wrote swiftly and spoke of what he wrote as he did so.

“These are orders to my second in command, to immediately dispatch 10,000 soldiers from my southern army to the easterly sector... to quell the uprising.”

“Uprising, sir?” one of the other soldiers queried, looking around. Hezekiah did not look up from his task.

“Riots will break out before dark,” the man said. “Of that I am certain. The second order is to dispatch another 5,000 soldiers to surround Fortress Moronai, specifically to let none in, or out.”

Standing, he corked the inkwell and folded the messages; Joseph lit a torch with his flint; Hezekiah softened a stick of wax over it and sealed both orders, pressing his Shamar signet ring into the wax. Turning to two of the soldiers, he fixed each of them with a stern glare.

“The four of you will run with haste to the city wall,” he told them. “Do not stop, not for anything. Deliver these to the fort and stress they be delivered at once, by order of Marshal Walters.” The men nodded, and slipped out of the alley, looking stealthily around before venturing out into the plaza.

Once they’d gone, Hezekiah let out a long breath.

“This sector will erupt within the hour,” he said, blinking.

Joseph looked at the bodies, then at the back door of the pub. So far none had tried to force it.

“We may use this to our advantage,” Joseph suggested, addressing Hezekiah. “Should we wait several minutes, then send Baith into the pub to cry the man’s death by a rival brigand, it will cause enough of a stir as to draw many of the guards away from the cathedral.” Hezekiah smiled back at Joseph.

“Excellent,” he said. “I saw a walled garden behind the cathedral; in it a tree grows right up to a second story window. We can access the cathedral from there.” Turning to Baith, Joseph looked at the young soldier.

Baith grinned and handed Joseph his gray cloak.

“I can do it, sir,” he said. Joseph nodded, pleased. Dunner sheathed his scimitar with a clang.

“Pre-starting a riot?” he said, his good humor restored. “Fine by me.” Hezekiah peered out around the corner of the pub.

“We make for the walled garden, on the far west wide of the cathedral,” he told Baith. “Make your announcement and leave quickly, as if you cry elsewhere. Meet us at the wall and we’ll let you in.” The young soldier nodded and walked from the alley, into the milling crowd. Slowly, the shamar worked their way across the plaza, moving as to not rouse suspicion.

Within a few minutes, a loud outcry rose from the direction of the pub, across the plaza. People who’d been gathered for the sermon turned and made their way towards the shouting. As predicted, a priest guard captain came out of the cathedral and signaled to many of his men in front to go disperse the disturbance.

Once the guards pushed their way into the crowd, the three Shamar slipped into the alley alongside the large cathedral. Gaining the wall, Dunner and Hezekiah helped Joseph up over the wall; once inside, the young lord let them in through the gate. Watching by the sides of the gate, they saw no one enter from the cathedral.

Soon, a familiar figure darted down the alleyway towards the walled garden. Dunner grinned.

“Good work, lad,” he said, letting the young soldier in. Baith slipped inside the gate, shutting it softly after him. Speaking in low voices, the Shamar discussed what they would do.

“Our goal, brothers, is to quietly capture the priest and get out,” Hezekiah said, emphasizing the word ‘quietly’ and glaring at Dunner. “This place will be impassible soon.” The men nodded and proceeded to climb the tree, one at a time, and climb into the second story window. The bushy, green leaves hid their accent well and they entered the room without incident. Taking out their swords, the men hovered by the door, listening. Hearing nothing, Joseph slowly opened the door and looked out. Seeing none about, he closed the door again. The room they stood in was a bedchamber, one richly furnished.

“I see a way out,” Hezekiah said, suddenly. Turning, Joseph saw the Marshal peering into a large, carved wardrobe. Throwing back the door, Hezekiah revealed rich priestly robes hanging along with guard uniforms. Dunner scowled.

“Give me a guard’s uniform,” he scoffed. “I prefer death to wearing a priest’s garb...”

TWELVE

Bishop Ostene looked up from his writing as four men entered his study. Hezekiah walked in front of the group with marked distinction in his stride, wearing the long, flowing crimson robes from the wardrobe. Dunner, Joseph and Baith followed him in formation, dressed as priest guards.

“Forgive the intrusion, my fellow humble Bishop...” the Marshal announced, smiling condescendingly. “I am Bishop Marcus Justinian Vandenberger, the third, just arrived from Fortress Morronai.”

At this rather loud introduction the aging bishop behind the desk stood up; he took off his spectacles.

“Honored and pleased I am to greet you...” the man said, a little awestruck. “Though, I must admit, sir I have not heard your name... ever before.” Hezekiah waved this idea away.

“As Bishop Sytel’s special counsel, he has oft told me my name is so blessed with grandeur it often slips his own recollection.”

Bishop Ostene nodded; he indicated a ornate chair on the other side of his desk.

“He has forgoteen my own as well, on occasion... ” he bishop said, moving behind his desk again. “Please give me a moment, if you will. I must finish these orders of internment.” He sat down and resumed writing, glancing up at his guest now and again.

Hezekiah strode about the office with his hands clasped behind his back, the crimson robe swishing imperially around his ankles.

“Interment?” he asked, with mild interest. “Ah, another poor soul lost to us forever...” The bishop nodded, sadly.

“My men apprehended him yesterday,” the be-speckled priest told them as he wrote. “A bandit by name of Jack Rhine. A real thief that one... sharp as a tack. He was attending services here then somehow stealing bread from our larder; making quite a tidy profit selling the loaves, until yesterday.”

“How taxing for you,” Hezekiah said, sagely. “I suppose he’ll work it off before he’s hanged.” The bishop smiled, a little.

“Indeed he will,” the man said. “It’s to the caves, for him.”

The door opened and a robed priestly assistant entered hurriedly, bowing to the Bishop.

“Your eminence...” the young assistant said, looking concerned. “The disturbance in the plaza worsens by the minute! The crowd grows and cannot be calmed.”

Bishop Ostene nodded, heaving a long sigh.

“Secure the doors and windows against looters,” he said. “Double the guard on all entrances. No one goes in, or out.” The assistant bowed again and hurried out.

Through open door, the sounds of moving guards and the clanking of weapons could be clearly heard echoing through the halls.

“At least a score of guards,” Dunner whispered to Joseph. “Maybe more.” Glancing towards the door, Hezekiah caught Dunner’s eye; the aging soldier shook his head, slightly.

Hezekiah cleared his throat.

“I intended to conduct some business today within the sector,” he said, addressing the Bishop. “It appears that may be delayed somewhat.” At this, Ostene chuckled.

“The dogs find the smallest things to squabble about,” he said, writing. “You will have to take the tunnels out.” Hezekiah smiled.

“How fitting,” he said, gravely. “The good bishop Sytel would be glad if I inspected the tunnels personally... just to give him peace of mind.” Nodding, Ostene wrote out a final line and put his quill into the inkwell.

“Certainly, my good sir,” the man said. “Anything Sytel wishes will be done. I will take you there myself,” he said, pouring fine, black powder on the parchment. A puff of breath dried the ink sufficiently; rolling it up, Ostene stood up, smiling. “Please follow me, my good sir.”

Hezekiah did, pausing now and then through the halls to bless a servant or priest’s assistant with flagrant motions of his hand.

“May the easterly wind drive you ever south to a western shore...” Hezekiah chanted gravely as they passed some servants. “Bless you... bless you...” With an effort Joseph managed to keep a straight face as he marched next to Dunner; the old sailor coughed to hide a grin each time Hezekiah ‘blessed’ someone. Baith marched behind them, glancing around often.

Ostene led them through a locked door; a staircase leading downward lay beyond, which the bishop began descending, his robes lifted carefully off the ground. The air was very dark here, save for a small lighted lamp every once in awhile. A basket of torches stood on the ground, by the head of the stairs; Joseph and Dunner each took a torch, lighting them by a lamp. In the stronger light, they could made out rich tapestries hanging along the walls, and gold-filigreed lamps. The stone steps they walked were carpeted in thick, woven cloth.

At the bottom of the steps the Bishop opened another door and ushered them through. Beyond was a small room, half of it fitted with the iron bars of a brig. Inside stood a single sleeping bench, where lay a man in ragged clothes, turned towards the wall in sleep. Nearby a man sat in priestly guard raiment, his hood up over his head. Ostene looked through the bars at the prisoner.

“Is he still unconscious?” the bishop asked of the guard. The man stood and nodded his head. Ostene shrugged, stepping away from the bars.

“They’ll have use for him down in the tunnels,” he said, to Hezekiah. “All the better, he’s almost escaped twice from here. My men had to knock him on the head.” Hezekiah nodded, looking inside the cage, himself.

Dunner did not look at priest, nor prisoner; his craggy face was turned to the guard, watching him with keen eyes. Joseph saw the aging sailor tense a little and looked over at the guard. The man was smaller than they as he stood, and his fingers nervously gripped his sword; the man’s uniform appeared to be a few sizes too big for him. Looking into the cage, Joseph saw the man laying unconscious on the bunk seemed a mite too large for his clothes. Dunner grinned at the guard and drew his large, curved sword out in a flash, pointing at the hooded guard.

“He be a wily one, alright,” the aging sailor said, admiringly. Ostene was staring at Dunner in shock.

“Put down your blade, guard!” he ordered, pointing to the ground. “Do not threaten my man...” Dunner did not put away his sword.

“He’s not your man, your holiness,” he said, quietly. The two bioshops looked at the hooded guard. “Unhand your blade, boy and I may spare your arm.” Dunner said, with narrowed eyes.