The Arcanist (29 page)

And as he stood to head for the basement and the cannon he noticed that quite a few of the men made to join him. That, more than anything else, pleased him. A man did not want to face an enemy alone. Especially not when it might well be his death.

But he also didn't want them to die either and despite his words he didn't have a lot of faith in the handmaiden's ward.

Chapter Twenty Six

Thrones were uncomfortable. That was the one thing that Simon had discovered from sitting on one. But while the throne itself was hard and the cushions just wouldn't seem to adjust to the shape of his body, it was the news he kept receiving that was truly ruining his time on the throne. It was all bad.

First his father had arrived in Bitter Crest, despite the messages he'd sent to him in the guise of the former king demanding that he return as quickly as he could to Theria. Obviously his father had received word from Marcus and realised that he was being deceived.

After that he had been publicly disowned by his father which was an embarrassment and it meant that his faint hope of becoming the future Count Severin had ended. But it wasn't unexpected unfortunately. What had followed however was. The House of Barris had allied itself with the Temple of Tyrel.

That had shocked him. It had devastated Vesar who had spent days walking around in shock and trying to cover it up with his usual oily words. He hadn't wanted to be in direct opposition to a temple already.

And now he had learnt that his brother had escaped during the night. But worse than that, three more sparks had escaped with him. Simon had been counting on them. They were locked away, safe and secure. And if and when Vesar had turned on him he had hoped they would become his weapon against the black priest. No more.

“He escaped!” Simon was furious at being given the news by the sergeant. More than furious. And the sergeant was sweating profusely as he told him the sorry details. He surely knew what the likely punishment would be. What he didn't know was that it wasn't just likely: It was certain. The only matter yet to be decided was how painful his death would be.

As the sergeant gave him his report outlining just how his brother and all the other prisoners including three more sparks had escaped, Simon decided it had to be very painful indeed. The failure was breathtaking in its scope. Edouard had surely been tunnelling for days if not weeks and no one had guessed! Guards had been allowed to regularly drink to the point where they were falling down. The drugs to calm their magic hadn't been given. And worst of all the entire city would soon know of the escape. Of his own brother thwarting him. Things simply couldn't get any worse.

It was with that in mind that he ordered that the sergeant, all those who had been drunk on duty and every second man in his troop be hung, drawn and quartered. It wasn't the worst punishment he could think of. But as the sergeant was being dragged away screaming in terror and begging for his life, Simon actually considered he had got off quite lightly. Too lightly. If it wasn't for the fact that he had to capture his brother and the other sparks quickly, he might have spent some time thinking of a more terrible way to execute them.

Simon dutifully ignored the sergeant's fading screams as he turned to Vesar.

“Edouard needs to be caught fast. And made an example of.” And this time he would kill him. He didn't care that it was useful to have a spark around just in case he had to control Vesar. Edouard had humiliated him – twice.

“Of course Your Majesty.” Vesar nodded, agreeing with him completely. But that came as no surprise. The priest was as much opposed to the presence of those with magic or faith as Simon was. Though he suspected it was for different reasons. For Simon they represented a challenge to his rule. His little brother especially. For Vesar he suspected the challenge they posed was a little more personal. Maybe even a threat to his existence.

“Edouard will probably go to his home first. He has all his devices there. His strength. And then he will surely head for Bitter Crest where our informants tell us the rest of his family are staying.”

“Of course he'll go there!” Simon snapped at his advisor. Vesar had only told him what he had already worked out for himself. He seemed to like doing that. Simon wasn't so enamoured of his habit though and ordered him to send the soldiers without delay or expect to have his own neck placed in the block. Naturally Vesar acquiesced immediately – he liked his neck as it was – and so he bowed and hurried out to do as instructed, leaving Simon alone with his thoughts in the remains of the throne room. Finally.

He didn't like his advisor. The man was annoying and coldly logical, and he absolutely hated the way he could seem so polite and yet at the same time say things that suggested Simon was completely stupid. It was the sign of a true diplomat he guessed. When you could insult someone in such a way that everyone other than the victim might consider the words an insult but the recipient thought it a compliment – that spoke of a truly oily tongue. And none was more oily than Vesar's. Simon hated the priest's tongue. And he would have it ripped out one day. He was still fuming about Vesar’s little betrayal of some weeks before.

Then there was his insistence on the price for his services. The construction of the new temple. Simon had agreed easily enough at the start, thinking that another temple in the city wasn't such a huge thing to ask for. But that was before he'd seen the plans. Vesar's temple was huge, at least as large as a castle, and the priest was insisting that it be built as quickly as possible, diverting much of his workforce from the important work of repairing the rest of the city and especially the walls. And he wouldn't have even as many workers as he did had Simon not locked the city down. As it was the city now had at best ten thousand souls calling it home. Two in three at least had fled before they'd locked the city down.

Vesar also annoyed him with his constant insistence on removing those with magic or faith from the kingdom. Even those who were already locked away – though that was now a moot point. Who was he to make demands of him? And while Simon had originally planned to have all the sparks and flames executed right from the start, the fact that Vesar had demanded it had instantly changed Simon’s mind.  The fact that the sparks and flames scared Vesar was in Simon’s mind excellent justification for keeping them alive. Simon liked it when his advisor worried. It kept him off balance.

Besides, April was a spark and the only one of all his brothers and sisters that he quite liked. She was weak minded and didn't understand the value of gold. But she alone did not constantly look down upon him. She didn't lecture him about his mercenary ways. And she had a gift for music as well. He would not hand her over to the accursed black priest.

The thing that annoyed him most about Vesar though was that he kept secrets. Who was Vesar to keep secrets from him? That angered him. The man refused to tell him anything of himself. Anything of his master. He refused to show his face or any part of his skin. And even his name was a lie. Simon was certain of that. He knew nothing of his advisor save that he could do what he said he could and he guarded his privacy fiercely. Vesar had done so ever since that very first day when he had arrived at his door with his plan. That made Simon nervous.

But the man still had his uses. More importantly his master whoever he was had his uses. Without him the portal could never have been opened to bring the mammoths through. Nor the second one to bring the sprigs. Those were the things that had made his ascension possible. He also seemed well versed in the political intrigues of the court. He knew who was doing what to whom, and how to make use of that knowledge.

Simon needed him. He hated that, but at the moment he needed him. His rule was precarious. More so now than before as his father had returned, arrived in Bitter Crest and subsequently disowned him. He was no longer a member of the House of Barris. He would not be Count Severin one day. Everything now depended on him securing his throne. It was that or death. Just at the moment his life was completely in Vesar's hands. And it would remain that way until Vesar provided him with the unstoppable army he had promised.

But the time was coming when the black priest's usefulness would expire. When his reign would be secure. And when Vesar's head too would adorn a post.

Simon looked forward to that day. But unfortunately this wasn't it.

Chapter Twenty Seven

“The Seven be praised!”

The captain wasn't the only one to be shocked as the impossible happened. All of his men were the same. But it wasn't possible. He couldn't understand it as he suddenly found himself facing the town they'd just left. It was almost as though they'd all turned around. But they hadn't! They'd just left the town, cantering up the road toward the old fort at the crest of the small rise overlooking it, and riding in a straight line. They hadn't stopped. They hadn't turned around. The road didn't even have a corner they could turn. But then all of a sudden they were riding away from old fort, charging back down the hill towards the town. It made no sense.

Except that as he turned back to look at the fort not five hundred yards away from them and saw the wall filled with faces, heard the sound of people cheering, he knew it had something to do with them. But he could not let them continue cheering.

“Halt and wheel!” He screamed the order at the top of his lungs, suddenly frightened of whatever had happened to them. It had to be magic, he knew that. His men surely knew it too. But that didn't matter. Not when they had a job to do and his king would not tolerate failure. Since Simon had come to the throne the number of soldiers who'd died at his hands had been far greater than the number who'd died in battle. The moment they had turned back he gave the order for the next run.

“Charge!”

As a unit they galloped the last few hundred paces back up the hill towards the old fort. This time there would be no sedate canter along the road, no chance for whatever evil old spark the enemy might have with them to turn them around again. This time they would take the tinker before he could cast his glamour. And then they would kill him. It was him or them.

Fifty strides, a hundred, they covered at full stretch, the horses breathing heavily, the men screaming their war cries, and for a moment he thought it was going to work. He dared to hope. But then without warning the fort vanished, and they found themselves galloping at full stride back into the village, still screaming.

It couldn't be. The captain panicked a little, feeling the coarse rope of the noose already tightening around his neck. Hearing the sound of the escaped prisoners cheering even louder than before as they knew they were safe.

“Halt and wheel.” He gave the command once more, knowing that it was probably pointless. Whatever foul magic it was that was stopping them from reaching the top of the hill, it was too powerful for them. But he had no other choice. He had to take the fort.

This time when they charged, he prayed. He prayed to all of the Seven that they aid them, knowing that if they didn't all would be lost. Knowing that if he had to report back to King Simon with the news of their failure, he would die. His head would adorn the top of one of the hundreds of pikes in the royal garden, along with all the others who had failed the king. And knowing that if he didn't, it would be his family's heads on those pikes and that he would be hunted down and killed as a traitor. The king did not tolerate any form of disobedience.

Naturally they failed in their third charge just as they had twice before. But then he had never placed much faith in the Seven, and it seemed that they had placed no more in him. But they were still the only hope he had.

“Please!” He begged them under his breath, before he gave the command to halt and turn again, but he knew it was hopeless. Today he would die, and not at the hands of his enemies, but rather the executioners. That didn't stop him trying though. Nothing would stop that.

And so for hour after hour he gave the commands and they charged up the hill only to find themselves turned around again and galloping madly into the town each time. He gave the orders and they obeyed, all of them understanding the same fear of failure. Knowing the same dread of their new king.

But it didn't matter. No amount of pleading to the gods, no number of tries could change the simple fact. There was no way to reach the top of the hill.

They were doomed.