The Arcanist (16 page)

Had they won he wondered? Could they have possibly won? If so, how?

As he lay there listening he found no answers within him. Still, it was a good sound to hear before he finally died. And he knew he was near to the end as the stars were fading. Maybe now he could go to his eternal rest happy. Maybe that was what he'd been waiting for.

But he still didn't understand how they could have beaten back the sprigs. There had just been too many of them – unless it was the sprigs themselves that had been cheering? But then how they could do that without heads or mouths though he didn’t know. But somehow it still seemed more likely than the thought that they'd beaten them back.

Chapter Twelve

Lord Hamly sat in the remains of his great room, staring at the fire that Fiella had thoughtfully lit for him, thinking that he should thank her for the effort. She was a loyal servant who deserved some reward for her faithful duty these last weeks. After all, her family home had been destroyed as well as his, and he had no doubt her kin were just as upset by their loss as he was by his. But at least both of them had been lucky in that none of their loved ones had perished in the attack. Too many others hadn't been so fortunate and he feared that in the morning when the sun finally rose, it would be to the sight of cobbled streets once more covered in blood and bodies. To the sound of women wailing.

The people were shocked and grief struck. Devastated by their losses. They were probably frightened as well. He was frightened too, even if he couldn't admit to his fear.

It wouldn't have seemed proper to show his fear. Not to Fiella. Not to anyone. The city was in pieces, levelled by the mammoths and then the people had been slaughtered in their thousands by the stick men. The last thing anyone could use was a lord of the realm showing his fear. He had to be strong.

Especially now when the stick men had only just retreated according to what was being shouted in the streets. It had been a long night and a hard fought battle, but it seemed that they had somehow won through. Dawn wasn't that far off; he hoped.

“Lord Hamly?”

The man’s arrival caught the lord by surprise, and he spun as quickly as his seventy three year old body would let him to see who had come calling at such a late hour.

“Yes?”

He didn't recognise the man, though that probably wasn't that surprising. He didn't get out much these days. Age and a stiff back didn't allow it, and he was fortunate enough to have servants who could do a lot of the daily chores of life for him. But when he laid eyes on his visitor he immediately wished he hadn't. Even though he'd never seen the man before he instinctively didn't like him. There was something wrong with a man dressed from head to foot in black.

Something about him though made him think the man untrustworthy. He was dressed as a priest of some sort, though he'd gone further than most. His hood was up allowing most of his face to be covered by shadow, and what little of it he could see was wrapped up in some sort of cloth mask. His hands too were covered with expensive looking thin leather gloves. As for his robes they fell all the way to the ground, concealing even his feet.

From head to toe he was covered and the only part of his actual flesh he could see was the glint of the firelight reflected off his eyes. Black eyes.

“King Byron sent me with some documents for you to sign.”

The man pulled out a bunch of rolled up papers from a small satchel he was carrying and handed them to him, and despite it being less than noble the lord flinched. For some reason he'd almost imagined that the man was about to pull a weapon. Resolutely he steeled his nerves as he accepted the papers and undid the tie keeping them coiled up.

He wondered though why the king would be sending him papers at such a late hour, and after a difficult battle. Surely he had more important things to do? Every day in the court there was so much to do of late. And why would he use such a messenger as this black robed priest? The king surely didn't have the time to spare on sending messages. Not these days. Not since the mammoths had struck the city.

People had to be heard as they beseeched the king for help. And there were so many who needed help. With everything from burying loved ones, to getting food. Markets needed to be kept open and traders brought to the city in droves. Buildings, especially the food stores and granaries, had to be repaired. And most important of all the people had to be reassured that things would be all right. But after this night he doubted that that was going to be possible.

By the Seven he wished Count Severin were here. The Ram had a way with organising things that defied belief. He could turn a rabble into an army in a day. And it probably wouldn't have taken him that much longer to get the city back on its feet. It was just terrible luck that the mammoths had struck days after he'd left on a two month trade mission.

Then again it might not be luck. It might be timing. His boy Edouard had made a good fist of uncovering the evidence of an enemy in the city. He was a smart lad. Smarter than Hamly had given him credit for. Perhaps the time had come that he should be called on to serve in the court beside his father instead of playing with his toys.

Certainly the young man wouldn't have sent him papers to sign in the dark of night after a deadly attack. That was madness. Still, he had to read the papers.

“Who are you?”

He asked the obvious question as he unrolled the papers. It seemed odd that the king should send someone he didn't know to him in the middle of the night. Or that he should trust a messenger dressed as a priest and not one of the royal guards. 

“Vesar. Advisor to the throne.”

“Vesar?” Lord Hamly had never heard of him. But before he could think to ask him any questions the words written on the paper in front of him grabbed his attention.

“By the Seven! This is a writ of secession!”

He was shocked by that. By the very idea that the king could even think of giving up the throne. Not at a time like this. But worse than that was who he was giving it to. Next in line was neither of his sons and not even his daughter or grandchildren. Instead it was the first born son of his Left Hand, Simon Severin. That couldn't be!

The bastard child was a disgrace. An embarrassment to the Severin family, to House Barris and to the kingdom. He was the walking incarnation of greed, and likely a criminal. Why would the king even think of giving him the throne?

But of course he hadn't. The lord was a little slow some days, something he put down to his age and the lateness of the hour. But even he understood that the document was a fake. Well written, but not by the king. And not signed by him either.

“This is a forgery.” He looked up at the strange priest, only to discover that he was standing there with a dagger in his hand. A dagger with a blade covered in something dark that glistened like blood in the firelight.

“Perhaps. But what does it really matter?” The priest seemed unbothered by his words, but then he'd obviously expected them.

“I'll not sign it.” Lord Hamly was under no illusion that he could defeat the priest. He was old and weakened by years of ill health, and the dark robed priest wasn't. But a man still had to have his pride. He had to do what was right.

“So be it. Most of the others didn't either. So I'll sign it for you shall I?” He was mocking him, making the lord wonder why the man had even come. Save of course that if he didn't sign it he couldn't be allowed to live and then say that the signature was a fraud.

Lord Hamly spun round, realising that he had only one chance. Not to save his life – that chance had never existed – but to stop this travesty from happening. He tossed the documents into the blazing fire. But as quick as he was he still wasn't quick enough.

A dark robed arm reached out and grabbed them in mid-air before they found the flames, and then another with a dagger in it found his stomach. He buckled immediately, shocked by the pain and the weakness in his legs. Hamly fell to the floor, clutching at his middle unable to help himself.

An instant later he heard a scream, a girl's scream and he knew Fiella was there. She'd seen the attack and he knew she was in terrible danger.

“Run!” He yelled it as loudly as his frail body would let him, but what came out sounded more like a gasp. Still, she must have run. He heard the sound of footsteps in the street beyond and the curses of the priest as he saw his plans coming undone. But that was as much as he knew.

He only hoped that Fiella could get away. But her fate was in the hands of the Seven now. He couldn't help her.

His time had passed.

Chapter Thirteen

The king was in the remains of his study when Simon found him. He was trying to make sense of the night's doings. But it wasn't easy.

The sprigs had come from out of nowhere, like the mammoths before them. The only difference this time was that the mammoths had come from the troll wastes to the north, whereas the sprigs dwelt in the western forests of the distant continent of Byrain. They were from lands thousands of leagues apart. Which made no sense to him.

Other than that however, it was the same sorry tale of woe. They had come, they had slaughtered at will, and then they had left. Where they had gone to he didn't know. Why they'd stopped he didn't know. All he did know was that the guards had been unable to drive them back. Instead they'd been completely overrun. The sprigs had left of their own accord – after they'd slaughtered the guards. Perhaps if the walls had been intact and so many guards not dead from the first attack they would have stood a better chance of beating them. But that he suspected was the intent. There was a plan here.

The mammoths had been the first assault. The cannon. There simply to break the city's defences, just as the young Lord Severin had said. The sprigs were then the shock troops, following up once the cannon had fallen silent, there to kill the city's remaining defenders. Now they had gone and Theria had been left wide open for whoever or whatever was coming. And when the city fell, the rest of Therion would follow.

He didn't know who was behind this but he was sure he'd find out soon enough. Now that the city was defenceless their enemy would show his face. In the meantime he had the matters of the kingdom to deal with, most of which consisted once more of picking up the pieces after another attack. And Simon Severin he suspected, as he saw him standing in the doorway, was going to be one of those pieces.

He hoped he wasn't there to inform him that some of his family were dead. Least of all his brothers or sisters. And especially not his father the Count, though thankfully he was nowhere near the city. Then again, maybe it wasn't such a good thing for Theria. Now more than ever he needed his Left Hand, and the captain of his royal guards as well. Lord Julius, his Right Hand, was elderly and reaching that stage in his life where commanding troops in the field was becoming too much for him. Sooner rather than later Marcus would have to take his place as Right Hand. Especially now when they were at war.

“Your Majesty.” Simon bowed low as he normally did, though as always the king suspected it was fake. The greedy little bastard had no respect for anyone or anything save gold.

“Simon. Is your family all right?”

“Fine Your Majesty. I'm here on another matter.”

The king breathed a small sigh of relief. He didn't know how much more pain he could take. But he was also confused. If the family were well why was Simon there? Had some of his warehouses been damaged in the battle? And who was the dark robed priest beside him?

“Then what do you need?”

“For you to sign this.” Simon nodded to the priest and he swiftly pulled out a roll of papers and handed them to him. The king took them from him, wondering what could be so important that he needed to sign them in the wee hours of the morning, mere hours after another deadly attack, while half his city was in ruins. Of course when he did read the papers his confusion turned to shock.

“What by the Seven is this! I am not seceding!”

He looked up at Simon shocked that he could even bring him the document, and that was his mistake. Because in that moment he had taken his eyes off the priest. He understood that the instant he felt the rope slip over his head and touch his throat. A moment later the priest pulled it taught and he couldn't breathe.

He was caught completely by surprise by the attack. But the king wasn't without some combat experience, and he knew how to fight. Instantly he stood up as best he was able and threw himself backwards into the priest, trying to knock him over. An old ploy but it worked.

The priest fell backward and the king landed on top of him, driving some of the breath from his body and giving himself a little slack to play with. Enough so that he could twist around on top of him and smash him in the ribs with an elbow while at the same time grabbing the rope and pushing it away with his free hand.

“Guards!” They were his only chance he knew, and he yelled for them with every bit of strength he had. Then he elbowed the priest beneath him again and yelled some more.

“Bastard!” Simon scowled at him, anger distorting his normally pretty face, then drew his sword. “You'll pay for that!”

But he didn't have time to make good on his threats as the king heard the sound of running feet in the hall beyond and knew his guards had arrived. This coup was over. Still, he had to play his part, and the king elbowed the priest a third time, causing him to grunt with pain and loosen his grip a little. It was enough.

The King was old but not frail and he would be damned if he'd let a mere priest take him. With the priest's grip on the rope loosening he smashed his elbow into him one more time and then got both his hands under the rope around his neck. Then he pushed it away from himself with both hands, and felt the priest's grip give way. Desperation and fear were lending him the strength he needed.

Moments later the noose was gone and the king rolled to his feet, lifting himself off the priest's prone body. Then once he'd found his feet he gave the priest a solid kick to the head for good measure, before hunting for the sword he always kept beside his desk. It was time to finish this.

Soon he had it in his hand and was advancing on the priest who was still lying there, moaning. Outside in the hallway beyond he could hear the sounds of steel on steel and knew that Simon and his guards were fighting. The battle was over.

He strode the last couple of steps over to the priest, raised the sword high above his head and prepared to plunge it straight through the man's heart. The black priest would never try to strangle him again! But then a sudden pain in his back and chest made itself known and he unexpectedly ran out of strength.

Shocked the king looked down to see a blood covered wooden spear sticking at least two feet out of him. For what seemed like ages he simply couldn't make any sense of it. Then the spear vanished in an agonising movement and he knew it was being pulled out of him from behind by its tree like owner. It was then that he understood everything.

He'd found the power behind the attacks on Theria. And he'd found the enemy within the city who'd guided these terrible creatures to do such terrible damage.

But knowing that wasn't enough when his blood was pouring down his front in rivers. When his arms barely had the strength to hold the sword in them. And it was even less when he felt the wooden spear strike him in the back again and watched as a good foot of it emerged from his stomach.

The king’s sword clattered to the ground as he was no longer able to hold it. He was no longer able to even to stand up. And when the spear was ripped out of him for the second time he collapsed, landing ironically enough on the black priest. The master of the sprigs.

The priest wasn't happy with that and he'd regained enough strength to roll him off him, and then get to his own feet with a growl. Then he returned the favour he'd been given and kicked Byron in the head.

It should have hurt, and maybe it did. But not as much as it should have. Not enough to take the king's thoughts from him either. And so as the king lay there dying, he was still able to watch the door. Able to watch as Simon strode back into the room, his blade covered in blood. His guards it seemed had been defeated. He was annoyed by that. The traitor should have been killed. It would at least have allowed him to die knowing some sense of victory. He hadn't realised that Simon was so capable with a blade.

But it didn't really matter. Not when the light was slowly leaving his eyes and he knew it would not return. But even as things went dark he could still hear. He could listen as Simon grew angry and yelled at the priest for killing the King. Apparently he needed to be alive to sign the writ. That made Byron happy. Apparently he had achieved something after all. But then he heard the priest's final words.

If he couldn't sign the writ while he was alive he'd just have to sign it when he was dead.

The words that followed though, were more terrible still, and he was lucky not to hear them. Lucky not to know that as he lay there dying Simon and his dark priest were off to kill his family.