Return of the Guardian-King (65 page)
It undoubtedly helped that from Katahn’s collection of sailing banners, Abramm had pulled out his old flag with the dragon and shield used during the action in the Gull Islands. With that on the jury-rigged mast and Abramm standing on the quarterdeck with big, blond Rolland at his side, they had at least avoided being sunk or driven off out of hand.
As they dropped anchor in the harbor’s midst and let down their ship’s boat, Abramm eyed the men awaiting them on the docks and watching on the vessels that surrounded them. He’d thought originally to make some kind of grand arrival as Abramm, King of Kiriath, complete with all the regalia. Or at least scepter and crown. Now, thanks to his own mule-headedness, that wouldn’t happen. Still, he hoped to win at least some supporters here.
Once ashore, they strode down the dock and stopped at the end of it, facing the city’s leaders, who didn’t seem to be welcoming him so much as confronting him. For a moment no one said anything as overhead the gulls circled and squawked. He was about to draw breath to open negotiations when the crowd shifted and a familiar dark-haired figure stepped between them, one eye covered with a leather patch.
“So you’ve come back,” Borlain said, approaching to meet them, the others following him raggedly. He looked Abramm up and down. “I didn’t recognize you from the walls up there. Only Rolland.” He gave the blacksmith a nod, then returned his attention to Abramm. “You’re looking much better than when I saw you last, sir.”
Abramm released a long sigh as he realized what was probably behind the coolness of this reception. “I am better.”
“The spore is gone, then?”
“As much as any spore is gone. Yes.”
Borlain nodded, then glanced at the big-bellied, auburn-bearded man beside him, clad in a gray military sort of tunic. “This is the one I told you about, Aender. You can see he does bear strong resemblance to Abramm.”
Aender, whose blond brows were as bushy as his beard and wild hair, scowled at Abramm. “D’ ye know how many like ye have come through here these past months? Commoners claiming to be Abramm reborn, wantin’ t’ lead us out of our fortress on some woolbrained scheme of defeatin’ the Shadow lovers. It’ll take more than idle claims and a couple scars t’ convince us.”
Abramm nodded. “I understand that, and I’m not claiming Abramm’s crown—that is Eidon’s to bestow. You can call me Alaric, though no matter what you call me, I mean to head for Fannath Rill. Along with these men who’ve accompanied me, and as many of you as have the courage to go.”
Aender scowled at him, then glanced again at Borlain. “We have enough task just protecting our own place. We can’t go ridin’ off to look after others. Let them fight their own battles.” Behind him the other men muttered and nodded, scowling at Abramm as if he had insulted them with his suggestion.
“And when all of Chesedh falls,” Abramm asked, pitching his voice louder so that more of those who watched might hear him, “then what will you do? They will not let you sit up here in your hideaway. Once they’ve taken the rest, then they’ll turn their attention to rooting out pockets of rebels like you.”
“Let ’em try!” shouted a man from the back of the crowd. “They’ll not succeed.”
Abramm regarded them calmly, trying to gauge their mettle. Was it worth the attempt to persuade, or should he abandon them now?
Shouts echoed in the growing dusk, and a sudden stirring in the crowd to his right drew all eyes to where an old man in a shabby tunic struggled to get through the line of soldiers and spectators. Some of them were, in fact, holding him back. “He’s King Abramm, fer sure,” the man said. “I have t’ see him.”
“He’s jest another slave imposter, ye crazy ol’ man,” a woman shrilled at him.
“I have t’ give ’im his things back.”
The onlookers laughed. “A brass rod and some miscellaneous flotsam? Even if he was King Abramm, he wouldn’t want yer old junk. Now, get back to yer boat and stop trying to shame us all with yer craziness.”
Abramm glanced at Aender and Borlain. “Who is that?”
“Just an old, addled fisherman,” Aender explained. “He’s been goin’ on about that stuff for weeks.”
“How does he know who I am?”
Borlain, Abramm noted, had gone rigid, his eyes upon the old man as the others shoved him back behind them.
“Your Majesty, please!” The old fisherman’s voice rang off water and rock in the twilight.
“Wait!” Abramm cried. “I want to see what he has.”
Shortly the old man was before him—weathered face, gnarled hands, white hair tied in a queue. He limped forward as if his hips pained him and, after a moment of seeing that he really had been granted audience, settled awkwardly to his knees. “Yer Majesty.”
Men snickered around them. Abramm ignored them and focused on the old man. “You know me?”
“Ye are King Abramm, returned at last.” By his accent the man was Kiriathan, which probably accounted for both his poor reputation and his obvious poverty. “And Eidon has given me something for ye, sir.” He began to untie the thong about his bag. “I caught them in my nets last month. Right after that big storm. I knew the moment I saw them what they were.”
The old man reached into his bag, pulled out the Coronation Ring, and set it on the dock’s wooden planking. The translucent Orb of Tersius followed, then a very tarnished Scepter of Rule, and finally the plaited metal wreath of Avramm’s Crown—the latter’s appearance eliciting a hiss of astonishment from Rolland and the other men of Abramm’s party.
The fisherman looked around at them and, realizing that he was finally being taken seriously, rocked back on his heels with a smile.
“Light’s grace, sir!” Rolland choked at Abramm’s side. “You said they’d come to you, way back in Aggosim. And so they have.”
Abramm was overwhelmed, his chest so full of emotion he felt it might burst apart. But instead of taking the offered regalia, he bade the old man to stand, and then dropped to his own knee before him. “I cannot crown myself. That is for you to do.”
A susurrus of astonished and indignant muttering arose from the men of Elpis, who looked on without comprehension.
The fisherman blanched before him. “But, sir, I am only a common fisherman.”
“Do not think yourself unworthy because of that. Eidon himself has chosen you for this.”
And so the old man, with trembling hands, held out the scepter and laid it in Abramm’s arms. And when the orblight at its head flickered with a faint light, it provoked yet another rush of exclamation. Then the fisherman picked up the crown from where he’d laid it atop the bag on the ground and straightened, holding it with both hands. Abramm dropped his chin a little, listening to the grit of the man’s sandals on the wood and the rustle of his clothing. The fishy odor grew abruptly stronger, almost choking, but then he forgot about that as he sensed the tingle of the crown’s proximity. A moment later, the plaited circlet settled into place as if it were alive. The Light rolled through him with a warm, familiar sense of rightness.
The old man gasped and jerked back, and from the way his eyes widened as he looked upon it, Abramm guessed the crown was glowing. Already it was warming and softening against his brow, no longer a heavy, hard weight but almost unnoticeable.
And now their audience gasped likewise, swearing and shouting in their agitation. Some even drew swords, and it took several moments for the ruckus to die down.
Abramm stood then and looked at them calmly, though inside he wanted to shout for joy, more astonished than any of them. Borlain stood wide-eyed, mouth agape, and Rolland was actually weeping.
“As I said,” he told them, pitching his voice loudly enough for all to hear, “I am going to Fannath Rill. To meet the armies of the Black Moon and destroy them once and for all. Anyone who wishes to come with me is welcome.” He thought of Trinley and added, “So long as he obeys my command.” He glanced again at the fisherman. “That includes you, Master Fisherman. Ever thought you might want to be a king’s aide?”
It was after midnight. Queen Madeleine stood alone on the railed roof deck of the royal apartments overlooking the city of her youth and wept, hating what this night must bring, knowing she had no other choice. The hulks of burned and half-sunken galleys lay out in the river, just south of the palace island—remnants of the first battle ever fought within the city’s walls. As had been the case for over five months now, a ceiling of mist obscured the stars and, in the east, reflected back the emerald glow of the etherworld corridor that had been erected there. The dark flapping forms of veren, as well as smaller dragons, showed briefly in the green-lit overcast, out where an army that numbered in the hundreds of thousands still gathered.
She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, for though it was still late summer, the air was chilly. At least it was free of the stench of sewage and sickness and death. Only the faint scent of smoke wafted up here, drifting in from the plain where the Esurhites were busy burning the land to charcoal.
When the invasion had begun last spring, her countrymen had fled to the city of Fannath Rill, whose massive outer walls marked the first line of defense against attackers. Hundreds of people with their animals and belongings had crowded into its streets and parks and squares and halls—and it was worse now. Even the palace grounds and halls thronged with refugees. The waterpark had become a great encampment from which the thin threads of campfires arose every morning. Had Maddie not ordered siege preparations begun months before, they’d never have been able to support them all for as long as they had.
By now, though, most of the livestock had been slaughtered and eaten, and other food supplies were dwindling rapidly. Worse, the Esurhites had begun throwing their own dead soldiers into the river upstream of the city, fouling Fannath Rill’s only water source. Even after boiling their water, people got sick by the thousands. The existing graveyards were now filled to capacity, and being unable to access the land outside the walls, they were forced to burn the accumulating dead. Fannath Rill was hanging by a thread and couldn’t last much longer.
Their only hope lay in the fact that the Esurhites were struggling, as well. Men had to have a reason to stay away from their families and livelihoods for long periods of time, to put up with field conditions, boredom, tension, poor food, lack of good water. And the recent outbreak of disease in the camp, as evidenced by the bodies fouling the river, would only put more pressure on them. Every day that the Chesedhans held out in Fannath Rill was one more day the Esurhites had to hold their own resolve together.
For a while it had looked as if the Chesedhans might win. But then the Shadow lovers had erected one of their despicable corridors in the remains of a ruin east of the city, and now each night its green fires glared off the eastern cloud cover as new soldiers streamed to the battlefield—Esurhites, Andolens, Draesians, Sorites, and most recently, Kiriathans.
Many of her councilmen believed the corridor’s advent betrayed Belthre’gar’s desperation as much as it did his impatience and frustration. He’d promised his men victory and plunder, and every day that passed left less plunder and an increasingly meager victory. The more men he had, her counselors suggested, the quicker he could overwhelm the walls and bring it all to a close. And indeed the number of scaling ladders, battering rams, catapults, and wall-tapping crews had grown alarmingly in the last month, along with the number of troops, augmented by veren, Broho, and hundreds of crows, which harassed the city dwellers constantly.
Her military advisors believed he meant to launch a full-scale attack soon. And rather than simply wait, they had devised a plan. Their spies said, Belthre’gar considered Maddie to be his property and was furious she’d been snatched from him by the great sea wave. Even more enraging was her continued refusal to surrender to him. He’d become obsessed with her, they said, maniacally intent on capturing her and her children, so as to slay them in as hideous and public a manner as he could devise. Recent rumors claimed he’d even agreed to ally with Tiris ul Sadek, a startling concession for a man who never allied with anyone, least of all a “dog from the eastern deserts.”
Her advisors suggested that if she and her children could be delivered safely to Deveren Dol, those left behind might open the gates in surrender just as Belthre’gar’s assault began. Finding she had fled, he might well abandon the city entirely in his frustration at losing her and chase north in pursuit. Yes, many would die, but not all. And if she succeeded in drawing him up to Deveren Dol, she could be absolutely certain of outlasting him in a second siege. One of the oldest fortresses in all of Chesedh, Deveren Dol’s foundations and some of its towers dated back to Ophiran times. It was virtually impregnable, built upon a permanent water source that outsiders couldn’t foul. And it had been preparing for siege for months.
They were counting on the fact that Belthre’gar’s men would rebel and desert should she escape to Deveren Dol. To ensure that, and also to provide distraction while the queen and her party escaped, a group of men would simultaneously venture out to destroy the corridor. Success would not only stop the continued arrival of new soldiers and supplies, it would demoralize those already in Chesedh when they saw the access to their homelands cut off.
