The Faerion (3 page)

"Everything is going so evilly, suddenly. Why did I not believe Tagera?"

Yeates briefly thought about his wife, four years in the grave and their three stillborn children. Only Estes had been strong enough to survive, but he did not appear to have the gifts necessary to rule. Perhaps that is why Treteste is making a bid for the throne. He shook his head. Treteste wanted the power for himself that had to the reason behind his move. It was an awkward time for Estes. He will soon mature and make a fine king. Yeates repeated that over and over to himself and almost walked into an arrow screaming over the wall. One of his archers boldly pulled him down to the walkway. Yeates nearly demanded the man's head for touching him, but common sense took over, letting the offense pass. He had so few men to send against Treteste.

"Surely someone should have seen the archer creep to within range of the king," said Rilar to his captain. "Make sure everyone is alert, our very lives depend on it." Lord Rilar of Stormridge was a large man, heavy of muscle; his intelligence offset by his close-set eyes and red nose.

"Look!" said a soldier.

Approaching on the forest road, rolling out from the area where Wynne had seen activity the previous day were wooden towers mounted on wheels. Soldiers labored behind the towers pushing them over the terrain.

"Siege engines!" cried Yeates. "He pushes for a short siege. Look at the positive side Rilar, Treteste would not let us starve; he has not the patience."

"He will find a bloody battle coming." Rilar hurried off to prepare his defenses.

Yeates flexed his old muscles searching for the strength to wield his sword.

He climbed the parapet, walking behind the archers, encouraging them, and shouting curses at Treteste. He kept moving, not risking an arrow in his direction, until he had completed the circuit of the outer wall. A page came and told him they could not find his sorceress.

"Where have you looked?"

"Everywhere, Sire. I even checked with Navir and he had not seen her."

"Have you searched the upper battlements or the tower?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Search them again! I need her found and now! Go! Go!" Yeates watched the page run. He felt the pressure in his chest again.

Crossing the bailey to the inner tower, he found Rilar.

"We are vastly overmatched," said Rilar. "I can see the siege towers beyond the trees, waiting to be called. Four or five. They planned for weeks. They had to-those towers would've taken days to build. My scouts have betrayed me; they could not have missed the construction of the towers. Treteste has his filthy fingers everywhere. Their front lines are three men deep and more arrive each hour. I have tried to send messengers to Nantitet, but I have seen them cut down before they could reach the forest. Treteste has prepared too well. An arrow took a pigeon a quarter hour ago. I am saving my last one."

"Your escape route?" asked King Yeates. "Is it clear?"

"Treteste's men wait outside the tunnel exit. I do not know how he found out all he did, but he is not planning on your escape. We will have to fight to live and fight to die."

The king was silent, trembling with rage. Treteste had foreseen everything! The only option was to make the Baron pay dearly for his betrayal.

"Why did he do this?" asked the king, his knuckles white from his grip on his sword.

"I do not know," said Rilar. "But I heard rumors that he has a new counselor this past winter, a man named Mortic. I do not know where he is from, but it is said the man is foreign to Calendia. Tagera may have found more out before you banished him."

Yeates' head jerked at that remark, but he said nothing.

"Tagera thought Mortic a Mordyn man," said Yeates.

"That makes no sense. Mordyn is quiet and it is far away. I fear the closer threat from Wierland."

"Wierland? There are rumblings from there. Their situation is so bad they might risk invading us to feed and clothe their people. I do not know who is in charge, now. After the old king died and his nephew disappeared, Armas and council took over the government of Wierland. Armas must be eighty by now. He is still too smart to deal with Treteste."

"I cannot say," said Rilar. "However, most Wierlandians look like us. I believe this Mortic to be from Mordyn. He is said to have orange skin."

"Mordyn? What would the desert people want so far from their home?"

"The world is changing. There is little food in the desert, and perhaps it grows less. Perhaps Wierland and Mordyn have much in common."

"I see. How did Treteste pull this off? He has no interest for details or brilliant planning. I am very interested in this Mortic."

"You think then, that Treteste is under the man's influence rather than Treteste acting on his own?" asked Rilar.

"What else could it be? He was such a loyal vassal."

"Personal gain," said Rilar. "Power."

"As common as that?" murmured the king. "Tagera was right about Treteste. And I called Tagera a fool." He looked out over the bailey. "Are we supplied for a siege?"

"Yes. However, there is only food enough for the population of Stormridge for a sustained siege. Your thirty robust knights may be a strain for our stores. With the additional men I figure about two months at the most with severe water rationing."

"You will have to make it last. Treteste will not allow us to escape. You will be counted among his enemies I'm afraid. Supporting me may cost your life. Look, more riders join the Baron."

"Another forty at least," said Rilar. "Lord Bayton, I think."

The red helmets rose into view beyond the lines of Baron Treteste's army. The Baron swung his horse to meet the newcomers. Lord Bayton dismounted and kneeled before Treteste.

eates clenched his teeth, afraid of the bile that would come out. Betrayed! Betrayed! They will pay; they will all pay! I will have revenge!

"We need a plan, Rilar. How can we hold out with limited stores?"

"We cannot last more than two months. After a month we shall feel the effect of rationing."

"Therefore we attack before we are weakened."

"Attack, sire? We are undermanned."

"Undermanned, but each man still has his strength. Determine the weakest point in his siege and attack it with every man. Some will break through to freedom."

"The rest will die."

"Better some than all!" snapped Yeates, his eyes flashing.

"Yes, sire." Rilar did not look at his king. His eyes scanned the lines of Treteste looking for such a weak place. He sighed. Yeates walked away muttering to himself.

Wynne watched the developments below her. A siege! The warnings from the hawks are now clear. Once Baron Treteste tried to buy her from King Yeates, but the king told him no before Wynne could explain in great depth that she was owned by no one. She often found it difficult to reign in her temper.

She protested to the king to leave her in Nantitet. He would not relent. He said he felt safer when she was present. Most importantly the book needed to be protected and could not be left in Nantitet. Like a fool, she believed him. She saw a hawk fly overhead, its cry snapping her head upward. She felt a bitter tug on her heart as she watched the graceful creature soar on the air currents. She yearned to fly. She always cherished that feeling since her childhood but did not know why.

She touched her power, keeping it close. She had never used it to take a life and vowed she never would. Yeates had asked her to consider it. She refused to become a weapon, but now her power may be the only way to stay alive. She might not have time to consider it. She needed to speak to Navir.

Navir proved a steady friend; always ready to listen to her. She felt close to him and attracted by his alien countenance. Navir was a Daerlan. His ageless features filled with cunning at every question she asked of him. He had an unlimited capacity for listening and sympathy. She thought of him often.

She found him in the great hall tending the wounded. She started to enter but saw a familiar figure walking toward Navir. Wynne stepped back into the shadows.

Estes walked into the great hall, where the other wounded waited for treatment. Navir, the Daerlan, attended to many soldiers. He turned toward the prince, grey eyes widening.

"Prince Estes! Are you injured badly?"

"No, Navir. But I need it tightly wrapped to stop the bleeding. It goes evilly for us."

The Daerlan nodded his head, thinking about his errand that the king had denied. The return of a book to the Daerlan, a small thing, yet King Yeates would not part with the Faerion, although it was useless to him. Navir's father had told him the book's power had many uses. Its return could help heal many wounds, not the least his own.

Navir was as tall as any man although of a slighter build. His eyes were grey, hair light brown framing a narrow face. The legend of 'merry Daerlan' could be seen at times in the twinkle in his eyes. More often his eyes held darkness, memories of elder days, or just a strangeness, the likes of which never portrayed in children's tales. Navir moved about in the world of Men much as he pleased, ignoring commands from King Yeates and especially Estes, whose ego could fill any keep by itself.

Navir turned his attention back to the wounded: the prince would wait like the others. So many wounded; some were children. All Men were children to Navir but these were truly young, fifteen summers, perhaps.

"You will be fine, young man," said Navir. "You need rest. The wound will heal."

"I must fight for my king!" protested the boy.

"Relax. You cannot fight now. You have completed your task in this battle. Rest so you may fight for your king again. Rest, rest." Navir's hands glowed slightly as the young man's breathing deepened. He moved on to another patient. The prince watched him closely. Estes moved around making enough noise for Navir to glare at him.

"I know you are there. These men are hurt far worse than you. I will attend you when I have seen to them."

Estes stomped to a corner and sat against the wall.

Later, Navir finished bandaging the prince.

"I need to get back to the fighting," said Estes, impatient and angry at having to wait while Navir attended the others. "I cannot delay any longer."

"You must rest," said Navir. "Your injury will be painful."

"I am a prince," snapped Estes. "I can endure it."

Navir knew that for Estes to convince everyone else that he was a leader; he must convince himself too. If his father were to die, Estes would be king. He had to fight Treteste and defeat him. He had to be strong and his will must be iron. Navir watched him closely.

"Do not endanger your comrades by returning to battle too soon. They must be able to rely on you to do your part."

"Did you not hear me? I am a prince. I do what I must. I may not be worthy in your eyes but above all else I am a skillful fighter. The defenders need my sword. And Navir: I have no comrades, only subjects." He turned sharply and left the infirmary.

"Is it no wonder the Daerlan seldom live amongst Men?" Navir muttered to himself. "Insufferable fool." He unrolled more bandages.

He looked up to see Wynne, the sorceress, watching him, a sad smile on her face.

"That is our next king," said Wynne. She appeared a woman, slender as a reed, with the vitality of an outdoorsman, unusual for a sorceress. She moved silently. Even Navir's ears could not discern her movement. He felt pleasure at her presence.

"Your next king," corrected Navir. "I plan to be far, far away by then."

"Home?"

He sighed. "I do not know. I do not deny that I wish to go home, but the situation..."

"I know. Do not speak of it if it troubles you. May I assist you?" She removed the dressing from one soldier, cleaning the wound and wrapping it with clean bandages. She looked around; the bandages would not last the day.

"Of course," said Navir. "This is far from my favorite activity. Thank you for helping. Won't the king miss you?"

"Probably. I thought I would be more useful here until then."

"He did send a page for you."

"I know. I hid from him once already."

"Has Yeates asked you to kill?"

"Not yet, but it's coming. If it gets desperate, he will command me to bring lightening or some such thing down on the Baron's head."

"Can you call down lightening?" asked Navir, impressed.

Wynne smiled shyly, nodding. "Once I did it in a fit of anger. I don't recall the situation; I can't even tell you what my anger was directed at. Do not tell Yeates. I have not used my magic to kill anything, ever. I do not know what it will do to me. All my life I've tried to learn and teach and heal. I have never harmed another with my power. Navir, you know much more of magic and killing than I, what will happen? Will it change me?"

Navir took his time answering. He finished another wound, smiling as he noticed the ones in lesser pain following the conversation with interest. Why should that surprise him, he thought. How many people converse with a Daerlan let alone a sorceress? Both together would be a story to tell children and grandchildren for years, bringing the tale out like an old treasure. Navir knew he tended the wounds with all his skill and his patients received the best care possible. Still, he worried. It was a human trait and he couldn't shake it. He found it hard to spend much time in their company but he learned much from them. Perhaps the taint was worth the gain. He did have the opportunity to spend time with Wynne. He didn't know how to deal with Wynne.

"I cannot say. It varies from individual to individual. If you fear using your power to kill, then I say that is good. Whether it has any long term affect, I do not know."

"Can you get through the siege?" asked Wynne.

"Yes, and I can take perhaps one or two people with me, I can shield no more. But as you say, don't tell the king. I will take you with me, no one else. Yeates has the gall to try to command me to his will."

They both laughed.

The moaning of the wounded brought them out of their mirth and they gave such comfort as they could as more wounded were brought to them.