The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (29 page)

The young man
smiled and inclined his head, “Lord you do me great honour with
your words.” Then he laughed merrily “However I know your
reputation as a bowman, Aran. It is good that you have ability with
that great hulking sword at your side for the Thakur will have
nothing to fear from your bow skills.”

“Be not so
certain that his sword skill is so great, Tomas,” a loud and angry
voice came from the back of the crowd. “As a bowman my brother
could not even hit the side of a tavern wall. How certain is it
that he can do better with that sword of his?”

Aran stiffened
and sensing trouble, the Wolves immediately put down their mugs,
and their hands went to their sword hilts.

“Oh that’s
done it now,” remarked a disgusted voice in the sudden,
uncomfortable silence. “Can’t you ever let it alone Sed?”

“Go home and
sleep it off,” advised another annoyed voice. “We’ve heard enough
of your drunken ravings. Lord Aran will be riding to war soon,
can’t we just…”

“Lord Aran?”
Sed’s voice came again, interrupting the speaker. “Huh?” he
scoffed. “What sort of king is he that forgets his family and
friends?”

Darven
immediately stood, his gentle face stern, “The sort of king who
just spent two hours with his foster parents, talking pleasantly
with them, and ensuring that they would never want for anything in
their old age.” There was immediate conversation in the tavern at
that, but Sed would not be silenced.

“How can you
prove that to me soldier? I know you not.”

Darven’s face
darkened, “I swear by my oath as Leader of the Wolf Company of the
Andurian Guard of Andur’s Keep.”

Aran put a
firm hand on his friend’s arm, pulling him down, “Be easy Darven…I
will speak to him. Whilst he is like this he will not listen to
another.”

“Then watch
yourself my lord,” Darven replied softly. “For I doubt he will even
listen to you.”

Aran nodded
and stood.

“If you want
to have words with me Sed, then come over here. I hold no grudge
towards you.”

There was an
immediate disturbance at the back of the crowd, and Sed pushed his
small, wiry frame through the clustering men. Aran stared in
amazement at his foster brother, and was deeply shocked at the
changes only a matter of weeks had wrought. Sed had never been a
handsome man, but the recent weeks had lent him an aspect of
unwashed corruption. Clad in a dirty, threadbare tunic and hosen,
it looked as though he had not washed or shaved in days, and his
high colour clearly indicated that he had spent all his money on
endless hours in the taverns.

“So what do
you think of your foster brother now?” sneered Sed, his dark eyes
filled with self-hate and anger.

“I have seen
you look better Sed,” Aran replied guardedly. “When did you last
wash, man?”

“I don’t
remember,” Sed answered shortly. “What’s it to you anyway?”

Aran took a
deep breath and tried to settle his anger which was again beginning
to rise.

“I asked
because I am your foster brother, and despite your words I know
that we have a kinship of sorts.”

“I own no
kinship to you, king,” Sed spat out bitterly. “If once we were
brothers it is no longer. Not since you put on that crown and sat
on that northern throne.”

“What is it
that you want from me Sed?” Aran growled in weary exasperation.

“Your damn
life instead of mine,” he answered quietly, hatefully.

Aran took a
step forward towards his dark haired foster-brother.

“My life Sed?”
he replied and his voice was as the sound of a sword quietly being
unsheathed.

“Do you really
want my life? Do you want to be Andur’s heir and everything that
goes with it?”

“You are a
better man than I,” interrupted Sed. “Of course I want it…I would
give anything to have it.”

“Really...”
Aran grated, immediately unsheathing the King’s Sword. Unearthly
cold radiance flared from the weapon, dripping down the blade over
Aran’s hand and to the tavern floor below. About him the crowd drew
back, muttering fearfully and casting their eyes away from the
magecrafted weapon.

Aran stepped
forward, “Think again Sed. The wearer of this sword may indeed sit
upon a throne with armies and the province to command, but he has a
heavy load to bear. Heavy it is…indeed I would not wish it upon any
other man alive.”

Sed looked up
and saw for the first time the new dark, angry bleakness in his
older brother’s eyes, and swallowed nervously, “I would not wish
the sword from you...”

“Then what
would you want from me…the throne goes with the sword.”

Sed quailed at
the bleakness in Aran’s face, “Your luck, and your high
fortune.”

Aran shook his
head and his grey eyes grew flinty, “Sed, I was born with the
Abilities that took me to Glaive, and then onto the Keep. You know
I cannot give you those as they are part of me, just I cannot gift
you my appearance or height. As to my character, you know full well
it has been crafted by you, my foster parents and Master Cody. What
I have become now has been from wearing this sword, and bearing the
heritage of my ancestors.”

Sed hunched
even further over as the heavy anger of his brother and king washed
over him, “I have no life,” he said miserably.

Aran sheathed
the flaring weapon in disgust and took the last few steps that
brought him to Sed.

“Look at me
brother,” he commanded in a low, insistent voice.

Sed had no
other choice. The power in Aran’s voice afforded no other
option.

Aran met his
foster brother’s eyes, “We all craft our own lifepaths Sed. We all
make choices about what we do and how we do it.” Aran’s eyes
hardened, “The truth is that I envy you the free will that you have
in your life. By Andur man, do you really think that I wanted to
have all this responsibility, all this power, this Andurian
heritage? Hell Sed, I have had almost no free choice since leaving
Leigh all those weeks ago. Do you really think I choose to ride to
war? I have no choice…I must go.”

Aran looked up
and met the nervous eyes of the men clustered about him, “I ride to
war because we face the greatest threat to our peace and freedom
since the occupation of the Serat. I ride to war because I am the
direct descendant of Warleader Andur, and the only one who can bear
the King’s Sword. In the name of the Goddess, I would choose not be
here now if I was any other man.” He sighed and the power seeped
from his voice and eyes, “Because of my birth and heritage, I
cannot be that man. I must instead be both a soldier and a
king.”

Aran placed a
hand upon his foster brother’s shoulder and placed a kinship kiss
upon the top of Sed’s dark head.

“Go to your
parent’s home when you have come to yourself again Sed—when you
have lost this anger and self-hate. They will look after you…” He
straightened, “After that and if I survive this war, come to me at
the Keep, you will find good friends there who will help you craft
a new lifepath for yourself.”

Sed nervously
looked up, and for the first time felt the hatred of his elder
brother ebbing away.

“Then keep
yourself safe Aran,” he admitted softly, “For I may have been in
error…”

Aran nodded,
his own anger dying. Wearily he turned to Darven, “Collect the
Guard, Wolf Leader. The day grows advanced, we must return to camp
immediately.”

*

Almost by
unspoken consent, Darven and the Guardsman did not speak during the
short ride back to camp, leaving Aran to mull over what had
happened at the tavern. He was shocked, but not surprised by the
changes wrought in his foster brother, and he hoped that his words
had been able to instill a degree of sense back into Sed. Aran had
not meant to speak so frankly, but like a wall breaking against a
summer flood, once the words had begun he could not cease them
until they were said. Emotionally drained, he put a tired hand upon
the warm neck of his horse to try and derive some comfort from the
touch. What he really wanted now was Alissa and her comforting
arms, but all through their ride through Leigh, the golden haired
girl and her female mage friends had not been seen.

Back at camp
the Guardsmen took away their horses to be tethered and fed, and
Aran wearily made his way to the militant luxury of his tent.
Thankfully at that hour the tent was empty, and Aran quickly
divested himself of cloak and mail and pulling off his boots, threw
himself down upon the bed to rest.

*

Although he
was bone tired and with a poor night’s sleep behind him, Aran again
could not find sleep and stared open eyed at the restless movement
of the canvas walls. Later it seemed he may have finally slept for
a few minutes, but he was again woken by the canvas being opened
and a step upon the wooden boards.

Aran turned
over, and opened a bleary eye to see Darven place a tray of food
upon his table.

“Dinner
already?”

The Wolf
Leader nodded and poured his friend a mug full of apple cider.

“Did you
sleep?”

Aran shrugged
and sat up, “A little I think…my mind seems constantly preoccupied
with the war.”

He looked up
at Darven, “And with what happened at the tavern.”

Darven handed
Aran the mug and pulled a stool over to sit beside his friend.

“I personally
would have killed Sed for what he said to you,” he replied dryly.
“Any other man daring to insult his king like that would have
forfeited his life in return.”

Aran nodded,
“I know, but Sed is my foster brother and I had to show mercy and
understanding. As someone once said to me, you are the king and
must set the example. People can dismiss the frailty of any
ordinary man; however they will be less forgiving of their king if
he shows flaws in his character.”

Darven nodded,
“I had not thought of it that way. Sometimes the handling of a
situation may not either be black or white but somewhere in
between…” He paused, “Perhaps on reflection you could not have
acted in any other way.”

Aran swung his
legs over the side of the bed, “So what’s the news? Have the last
of the southern Legions and fyrd ridden in yet?”

Darven shook
his head, “They are expected in the morning. It seems the cold
delayed them; however our wagons have been spotted on the far side
of Leigh. They should be arriving soon.”

Aran smiled at
that, “Good! I hope Alem is fully recovered. The mages were able to
remove the sickness but they said his recuperation may be long, and
he needed quiet travel.”

Darven took a
chicken leg from Aran’s tray and absently began to gnaw on it,
“What exactly was it that ailed him?”

Aran shrugged,
“The mages did not elaborate, but I understand there was something
in the water or food that disagreed with him.”

Darven pulled
the chicken bone away from his mouth and gave Aran a strange
look.

“Poison?”

Aran quickly
shook his head, “No, thank Andur! Just either badly prepared food
or stale water, nothing that rest couldn’t fix.”

Darven resumed
gnawing on his chicken leg.

*

Darkness had
fallen completely before the unmistakable sound of wagons and
horses were heard turning off the dirt road, and to the grassy
verge of the camp beyond. Immediately the Guard came to the
assistance of their friends and companions, eager hands quickly
helping to unhitch wagons, and offering hot dinners and blanket
rolls to the saddle weary Guardsmen and waggoners.

Aran pulled on
his boots, and strode from the tent, eager to see his bondsman
again and learn how he fared.

Outside the
stars shone brightly in the cold blowy night, and Aran could see a
great crowd of people gathered about the remainder of the Guard,
and the half dozen or so wagons from Andur’s Keep.

“How was the
trip?” Aran asked of a Guardsman who was tiredly unsaddling his
horse.

The man looked
up, a deep weariness etched on his face, belatedly Aran recognised
him as one of the Wolves who had elected to stay behind to ride
guard on the wagons.

“Ill news my
lord,” he replied. “I regret to report that we lost bondsman Alem
along the way.”

Aran frowned,
not understanding, “Lost, how?”

The Guardsman
straightened his arms full of gear, “He died lord. His sickness
took a turn for the worse. We could do nothing…”

Aran stepped
back, his arms falling heavily to his side, “How could this be? He
was Healed.”

The Guardsmen
shook his head and put the gear down, “My lord, we don’t know. The
first day he was fine…laughing, joking with us all, then by
nightfall he was quiet again, and complaining of renewed stomach
pains.” He looked across at the stricken face of his king, “My
lord, at camp we took it in turns to sit by him as he was in so
much pain. We even tried to treat him with the simple herbal
medications that any soldier knows and trusts, but nothing could be
done…he was dead by morning. I am sorry my lord.”

Aran shook his
head in shocked sorrow then when he looked up his eyes were hard,
“Did he say anything about what ailed him? Did he have any message
for me?”

The soldier
shrugged, “Guardsman Tenner was with him just before he died, my
lord. He may know of a message.”

Aran turned
away his back stiff with anger and sorrow, “As soon as you are
finished here send Guardsman Tenner to me…I would know if he had
any final words.”

The soldier
saluted and picked up his gear, “Aye lord.”

Aran walked
slowly back to the tent, his mind warring. Within himself he felt a
mixture of grief, guilt, hopelessness and underlying all a terrible
anger that the mages had yet again failed him. Standing with his
back to the tent flap and deep in his misery he only half heard the
canvas open and the light step upon the boards.