King Breaker (72 page)

‘Back then you were a boy, not yet fifteen.’ Rusan released him. ‘Your oath wasn’t truly binding.’

Garzik was more than a little drunk and he felt his throat grow tight with emotion. ‘It was binding to me.’

‘Ah, Wynn... To be foresworn is a terrible thing.’

Garzik looked down. For all he knew, Orrade and Byren had already fallen.

‘You’re a man now and a man can’t serve two masters. You have to decide which oath to honour. Are you our brother or are you the king’s man?’

‘Would you cover for me, if I decided I was the king’s man?’

Rusan nodded. ‘I’d find some way to hide your desertion. Better they think you dead than disloyal.’

A weight lifted from Garzik. He could go back without dishonouring Rusan and Olbin.

Go back to what?

He’d earned an honoured place here.

‘There you are...’ Olbin stumbled around the wood heap and collided with them.

They all staggered and ended up sprawled on the grass staring up at the sky. Stretched out between them, Olbin clasped his hands behind his head with a happy sigh. ‘I swear those stars are so close I could touch them!’

Garzik looked up. From the position of the wanderer stars, he judged that it was the darkest time before dawn, but he did not feel despair. He felt part of something greater than himself. He’d brought the Affinity-touched to the settlement.

If he hadn’t found Inac and his grandson, they would have died, and he wouldn’t have survived the storm... Everything seemed to have led to this night, this moment and this decision that would shape the rest of his life.

Rusan was right. He’d been a boy when he’d sworn to serve Byren. Now...

People depended on him.

Olbin snored loud enough to wake the dead.

Garzik grinned and climbed to his feet. ‘Come on, Rus. We can’t leave our brother here.’

B
YREN WOKE NOT
sure what had disturbed him. The feast had ended late and there had been much drinking, but he had a capacity for wine. Now he swung his legs off the bed. A rooster crowed. It was the dark time before dawn.

Orrade stirred on the blanket by the empty hearth. Chandler snored, as did the other men of his honour guard.

‘What’s wrong?’ Orrade whispered.

Byren padded over to the balcony. The doors had been left open to let in the cool night air. Orrade joined him.

It had been cloudy earlier, but now the stars silvered the night, illuminating the men gathered below. A horse whinnied as Neiron and his captains rode into view.

‘I thought he’d capitulated too easily. He’s going to save Elenstir Estate,’ Orrade whispered. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I don’t want him at my side when I go into battle. From what I hear, he’s nothing but a parade ground leader, more used to brass and gold braid than battle and blood.’

They both watched as Neiron and his men moved out.

‘Let him ride off, and good riddance,’ Byren muttered. ‘If he isn’t the leader he thinks he is, I’ll be well rid of him.’

Orrade grinned. ‘Will you send a message to warn Fyn about him?’

‘Tell you what...’ Byren rubbed his face, feeling the bristles rasp across his jaw. ‘I had no idea what I was dropping Fyn into when I named him lord protector. It’s a wonder he’s survived.’

Orrade was silent for a moment. ‘The Fyn we knew wouldn’t have survived. Be prepared, he won’t be—’

‘You’re right.’ Byren had always loved Fyn, but he’d often worried that his gentle brother’s abbey upbringing had left him unprepared for the real world. ‘Hopefully, it’s made a man of him.’

Orrade looked as if he might say something, then shook his head.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

B
YREN HAD FREED
Lord Istyn’s Estate, but the old lord hadn’t survived the battle. Now he rode into Elenstir Estate to find no sign of spar warriors and the great house half burnt. It was midday and a muggy heat hung over everything, promising a storm. Exhausted from the forced march, his men spread across the lawns all the way down to the Landlocked Sea, finding whatever shade they could.

As Byren and Orrade approached what remained of the Elenstir great house, a middle-aged man-at-arms came striding out to meet them with several men at his back.

‘Byren Kingsheir and Lord Orrade.’ His greeting was polite, but his eyes were wary. ‘As you see, my lords Elcwyff and Neiron have routed the spar warriors. Her ladyship has returned and is restoring order.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Lady Rhoza took shelter on the yacht, along with his lordship’s two sons.’ The captain gestured to Byren’s army. ‘The spar barbarians cleaned out our stores. I’m sorry we can’t offer—’

‘That’s understandable. Water would be appreciated.’ Byren was already thinking of Rhodontir Estate. He expected to meet with Fyn there. ‘We’ll be marching after lunch.’

The captain-at-arms nodded.

‘One thing,’ Orrade said. ‘Where are Elcwyff and Neiron?’

‘Chasing the warlord over the pass,’ the captain said as he walked away.

Orrade sent Byren a look. ‘We’ve been hunting spar warriors since we were fifteen. We know what we’re doing.’

Byren shrugged. ‘After this, hopefully Neiron and Elcwyff will know what they’re doing.’

As they sat to make plans, servants came out with watered wine, distributing it amongst Byren’s men.

‘Will you send a message to Piro?’ Orrade asked.

Before Byren could reply, a woman arrived with a tray of fresh bread, cheese and cold meat. She was followed by a small boy of about six.

‘Eh, we weren’t expecting this,’ Byren said. ‘Give your mistress our thanks.’

‘I am the mistress,’ she said.

Byren and Orrade both came to their feet and bowed.

Lady Rhoza brushed this aside. She wore a grubby work apron over her gown and wisps of dark hair had come loose from her sensible plait.

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped closer and lowered her voice. ‘My husband has gone into the Divide with Neiron to hunt down the warlord. Elcwyff took our eldest son to give him some experience.’

Byren and Orrade exchanged a look.

‘I suggested to Elcwyff that he free the seven-year slaves to help retake our home. He refused, and our home burned.’ Tears of anger glittered in Rhoza’s eyes. ‘I suggested rather than hunting down the warlord, they let him go and rebuild the pass fort so he can’t come back. I’d almost convinced my husband when Neiron marched in and said they had to teach the warlord a lesson. I fear...’ She drew her youngest son close. ‘Elkrhon is only ten.’

Byren rubbed his jaw. ‘I can’t interfere with the way a lord raises his son.’

‘I’m not asking you to. I’m suggesting you free the Rolencian seven-year slaves. They work the quarry up in the Divide. I’m suggesting you take the freed slaves to make sure the pass fort is secure.’

‘That sounds fair enough.’ Byren grinned. ‘But I’ll need someone with local knowledge as a guide.’

‘My house-keep’s son has already packed.’

So Byren left Chandler in charge of his army and rode out with Orrade, two dozen trusted men and a twelve-year-old boy. That night he freed the seven-year slaves and went to secure the pass.

Midday the next day, they found Merofynian bodies by the side of the trail. The bodies had been left where they fell and plundered.

Byren examined the fire circle and the tracks in the tussocky grass. He rose and wiped his hands on his thighs. ‘The spar warriors picked off their sentries, then came down from above.’

Orrade nodded. ‘Neiron and Elcwyff are on the run, but they’re running the wrong way. Parade ground manoeuvres don’t prepare a man for fighting an enemy that comes in fast, strikes hard, and melts back into the mountains.’

Byren adjusted his pack. The path had become too steep to ride. ‘Come on.’

They found more bodies, abandoned where they had fallen. The following day, they heard the sounds of battle, echoing from the ravine walls.

‘The pass is just up ahead,’ the house-keep’s son said. Since finding the bodies, he’d kept close to Byren and Orrade.

‘Looks like Neiron and Elcwyff are making a stand in the old fort.’ Orrade met Byren’s eyes. ‘There can’t be many of them left.’

Byren nodded. If they wanted to save the lad, they had to move fast. ‘The spar warriors won’t be expecting us to attack them from the rear. Come on.’

The narrow defile was only about five body-lengths wide and a wall had once run from one side to the other. Not much of it was still standing and it had been overrun. About forty spar warriors swarmed the tradepost and stables.

Byren’s men swept into the yard. Their sheer numbers overcame the attackers, and drove them out the far side of the fort’s old walls. As the spar warriors turned and ran, freed slaves gave chase.

Byren cursed. He didn’t want his men being led up dead end ravines and picked off one by one. ‘Call them back, Orrie.’

He strode into the tradepost taproom to find Neiron with the last of his men. Of the fifty who had ridden out, less than twenty remained. And all of them were injured, and some could barely stand. Byren cursed again. None of this would have happened if Neiron had waited for him.

‘Byren Kingsheir.’ Neiron wiped his face with shaking hands. He was unshaven, weary and bloodied, but despite this, he was not happy to find himself saved by one of King Rolen’s sons.

Byren had no time for him. ‘Where’s Elcwyff and the boy?’

‘Elcwyff’s wounded. We put him in the best chamber.’

Byren ran up the stairs. He found Elcwyff lying bandaged and bloodied in bed. His son stood ready with a knife to defend him.

‘Eh, your mother would be proud of you, lad,’ Byren said, taking the knife from the boy.

‘R
ACE YOU
!’ P
IRO
let her horse have its head.

Before long, they clattered into the stable yard with Piro in the lead and Florin at her heels.

She jumped down laughing. ‘You nearly beat me. By the time we get to port, Byren won’t know you.’

Florin dismounted and bent to inspect her horse’s fetlocks.

Piro was pleased with herself. It had been twenty-five days since Byren left Florin behind. In that time, the mountain girl had learnt to play Duelling Kingdoms and become much more proficient in Merofynian. She’d read to Old Gwalt twice a day, so her reading had improved. She knew how to sit at a lord’s table and eat politely. She had a much better grasp of Merofynian history, and she’d picked up the running of the estate without any trouble.

But Florin had refused to cooperate unless Piro taught her to swim. So they’d been swimming every day. If they weren’t careful, they’d both end up brown as farm-workers.

Thanks to Piro, Florin was now much better prepared to marry Byren. Not that Piro thought Byren would ever go back on his word to Isolt, but just in case...

Looking rather flushed, Florin handed over the reins to the stable lad. ‘Think I’ll cool off with a swim. Come with me?’

Piro wanted to join her, but Old Gwalt was all alone.

‘I see you’ve been riding again.’ Isfynia sounded wistful as she joined them. ‘Mother keeps encouraging me to ride. She hopes I’ll have a fall and lose the baby.’

Your mother’s a fool.
Piro could almost hear Florin’s voice in her head. She glanced to the big mountain girl. Florin’s mouth was firmly closed, but her face said it all.

Smothering a laugh, Piro changed the subject. ‘How are your people?’

‘Homesick,’ Isfynia said. ‘Of course they appreciate Lord Dunstany’s generosity—we all do—but...’

She broke off as a boy announced that the yacht had returned with news from Byren.

Piro took to her heels, but Florin’s longer legs easily outstripped her.

They met the captain on the terrace, where he handed Piro a message. She broke the seal, reading quickly. ‘Oh...’

‘What?’ Florin and Isfynia asked at once.

Piro lifted her head, meeting Isfynia’s eyes. ‘Byren says Elenstir and Istyntir Estates are safe, but—’

‘Father’s dead.’ The young woman swallowed audibly.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Piro said.

Isfynia shook her head. ‘It was only a matter of t-time.’ She pushed on. ‘If we don’t want to be turned out of our home, we need to speak with Queen Isolt, so I can inherit and marry Rishardt. Is there news of Rhodontir Estate?’

Piro indicated the message. ‘Byren was marching there when he sent this.’

Isfynia nodded, obviously thinking of Lord Rhoderich’s third son and the coming battle. ‘I should tell Mother.’

‘And we should tell Lord Dunstany.’ Piro made sure the captain had food and drink, then went to see Old Gwalt.

As soon as they were alone she whispered, ‘We haven’t heard from Fyn. I hope he’s all right.’

‘W
E ARE NOT
going to die here,’ Fyn told his men.

The dozen survivors of the ill-fated Ulfr Spar campaign watched him with hope. They crouched in the ravine not far from Rhodontir Pass, where the fort had been captured by spar warriors, preventing their return to Rhodontir Estate.

They should never have come over the Divide. Fyn had advised against it, but Lord Rhoderich would not listen.

Twelve days ago, he’d arrived to find the lord secure in the great house, while his heir hunted down fleeing spar warriors. Fyn had been ready to set off for Elenstir Estate, until Rhoderich revealed that the warlord of Ulfr Spar had ambushed Rhoderich’s second son, killing him and all of his men. He’d claimed the estate’s goldmine, along with the seven-year slaves. Rhoderich had sent his third son to lay siege to the mine.

Putting aside the fact that every second spar warrior was calling himself
warlord
, Fyn was faced with another siege. And this time, the warlord had chosen a highly defensible position.

While riding up to inspect the mine’s fortifications, Fyn met Rhoderich’s youngest son, Rishardt, riding back with the wounded. Another contingent of spar warriors had come over the pass and attacked them. Seizing the opportunity, the warlord had opened the mine gates and struck from the other side. Rishardt and his men had been lucky to escape.