The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy (35 page)

The Archmage’s
face tightened with leashed emotions. “She wanted to, but I
commanded her to stay. Aran is not fully in his right mind and
cannot be healed with salve, bandage or even a High Healermage’s
touch. She will come when the wounded are settled, and then she
will wait with us.”

Darven’s pain
went out to the forlorn figure of his friend kneeling amongst the
slaughtered enemy.

“Can we not
get closer Archmage, let him know he is watched and protected.”

Maran shook
his head, “I am certain he knows we are here. With his heightened
awareness he most likely knows where every man and woman is for the
next league about. No, we will wait for him to come to us. There is
no other way.”

*

For over two
hours Aran sat staring at the ground, his sword thrust into the
bloody slush before him. The snow which had started up again, fell
unheeded across his armoured body, his eyes staring sightlessly at
the reddened and broken ground. Over and over in his mind he
replayed that horrifying yet exultant time, in which he felt wholly
consumed by the frightening powers of the Warriormage Ability. He
felt sickened to his stomach and soul by the things he had done in
the name of war, and yet he knew that that he would have to do the
same things in the days to come. Nausea enveloped him, and leaning
over to one side he voided his stomach again and again, until at
the last he heaved only thin bitter, acid bile. Heavily again the
snow fell, as if the Goddess herself wished to cover the evidence
of his horror.

*

‘Brother,’ a
quiet, gentle voice whispered at his ear.

“Go away
Sarana. This is a very bad time” he groaned painfully.

The voice fell
silent but Aran, deep in his power could sense her presence nearby
as truly as he could sense the growing knot of people waiting for
him.

‘Arantur…brother, do not blame yourself for what has happened.’

Sarana’s voice
came again, more insistent as if knowing this time she could not
leave, or even be forced to go.

Aran stared
bitterly into the swirling snow, “How can I not blame myself
Sarana? I went mad, berserk. I could not control my rage…in Andur’s
name; I almost unknowingly killed two of my own men.”

‘It was your
power, not you brother. It took hold of you. Everyone names you
Warriormage and speaks of what you did in hushed and terrible
voices, but you are still my brother, my soul and what you did here
cannot overcome the goodness that is in you.’

Aran glanced
over at the small group waiting in the snow for him.

“Do you see
them sister? See how they stand back, they don’t even want to come
close for fear of what I will do. Even Alissa, how will I face
her?”

The voice
sighed, but said nothing.

Aran reached
for his blood splattered sword, and carefully cleaned it in the
snow, he then noticed his blood encrusted dagger still sheathed in
his belt.

‘The
dagger?’

Aran shook his
head, “No it shall remain so…as a reminder and warning to me of
what I can never do again.”

‘You will not
fight?’

Aran grimaced
in pain, ‘If the madness comes over me again, then I will be surely
lost. But you are right in what you say sister…it was the Ability
that drove the madness. I am only a half-trained Warriormage, and
until I know how to control this dark power of mine, I should never
again lift a sword in anger.”

‘What about
this Warleader Se-Taanata?’

“The Thakurian
Warleader? Is that her name?” Aran asked in weary puzzlement, “I
guess I must kill her, but after today the mere idea of lifting
this sword in anger is abhorrent to me.”

‘Then go to
your friends, brother,’ Sarana whispered gently, ‘For they fear for
you, and think that you are sickening. It is near nightfall. Go
quickly before you freeze to death out here.’

Aran eased
himself to his feet his body trembling with fatigue. With his
movement the snow which had piled upon him fell from his plate
armour and mail hauberk, onto the broken, sullied ground.

I am sick, he
thought bitterly, still tasting the acrid vomit in his mouth, and I
doubt if I will ever again be well.

*

The small
group that had waited with their king in the cold and the snow rose
stiffly to their feet when they saw that at long last he had
roused, and that the battle rage had finally left him. Most of Wolf
Company who were still standing had joined Maran, Bini and Darven
in their silent vigil. Alissa, still covered in the blood and grime
of the field hospital, took a step or two towards Aran, before
halting grief stricken, as she saw clearly the unmistakable lines
of horror and weariness now seemingly permanently etched on his
blood splattered face.

“Aran,” she
whispered, then her feet grew wings and she flew to him, stopping
as if she had hit a stone wall when he held up his hand in
protest.

“No Alissa…I
am not yet ready to speak of this.”

Alissa hung
her head in bewilderment, and salty tears leaked out from beneath
her tightly closed eyes.

With a supreme
effort of will Aran lifted his hand and gently touched her cheek,
“Give me time beloved,” he breathed, “This has been a difficult
day. I will need your strength more than ever now.”

Alissa looked
up and nodded, her tears drying.

He waited
until the others walked up. Silently, grimly he scanned their
faces, “We must return to the main camp at Mount Solstice,” he said
at last. “Are all fit to ride?”

Alissa nodded,
“The wounded have been treated, and if we set an easy pace we will
not lose any more along the way.”

“The Thakur
will soon search for their lost vanguard. I mean for them to come
upon this place and see what has happened here.” Aran growled as he
looked about him and saw the bodies of the Thakur—where they had
fallen, under his sword.

Darven stepped
forward, “We could not destroy the entire enemy, my liege. Several
escaped into the darkness before we could reach them.”

Aran nodded
curtly, “Then we have done enough here. Those who escape will carry
my message to their leaders. I want them to understand clearly who
they dare war against.”

“There is no
doubt about what happened here lord,” Maran added.

Aran spun, and
to the Archmage’s deepest horror, saw the sudden movement as the
King’s Sword was raised and fell, striking him from breast to hip.
Maran fell to his knees, his chest a wreckage of bone and
blood…

“I would hear
now why you refused to send the mages to the Guards’ aid,
Archmage,” Aran said, and his voice was as quiet as a sword being
drawn, and his eyes were deadly cold.

Maran knelt in
the snow and felt his chest…there was no wound! Fearfully he looked
up, and met the cold, hard and calculating eyes of his king. The
others looked curiously on, seeing nothing but the old man kneeling
in the snow.

‘I have
learned new skills today kinsman,’ Aran whispered, his voice
pitched so only the Archmage could hear.

Archmage Maran
met his king’s eye and quailed. Looking at the cold grey eyes of
his king, and seeing him as if for the first time he was forced to
reassess everything he had ever known about Aran. Had he so
misjudged this man’s character?

‘By Andur,
what have I loosed into this world?’ he whispered, horrified.

Finally he
took himself in hand, and unsteadily got to his feet, “My lord
King. If the mages had fought today in this minor skirmish then
they would have been unfit for use in the greater battles that lie
ahead.”

“Why?” Aran’s
voice grated as steel over stone.

“The power
needed to cast the weather, and the very earth against our enemies
would have drained the mages empty. I am sorry my lord king, but
the mages cannot be used again until the main battles when we are
facing the enemy’s true force.” Maran’s eyes tightened in grief at
what the day had brought. “Lord, you know that power has limits.
Surely you see now especially after what happened today, that the
magepower and Ability can only be used at its right and proper
time.”

Aran’s head
snapped up, and his eyes smouldered with barely contained rage, “Do
you dare imply that I acted improperly, mage? If I was not there
today not one of the Guard would be left standing!” Aran moved
closer to the mage and his face was a mask of anger. “I think you
saw clearly that the Guard were fighting for their lives, yet you
chose not to aid them.” he snarled.

Maran stepped
back from the force of his king’s anger. “You misunderstand me
liege. What you did today was necessary, and as a Warriormage you
could not have acted otherwise. Indeed you were the only hope the
Guard could ever have had.”

Darven stepped
forward, and stood beside his friend and king. “The Guard lives
still because what Aran has done. I would not gainsay anything that
he has done today,” he stated bluntly, daring the Archmage’s
anger.

Aran glanced
across at Darven, and smiled tightly, approving the Wolf Leader’s
implicit support. Then he turned again to the others, “And yet it
will not happen again,” he replied clearly and coldly, whilst
grimly taking in hand the white hot anger which burned deeply in
his chest. “The Guard will rest and recoup its strength, and when
ready, will be the vanguard in the final, major battles. Those who
have survived can teach the rest of the army the tactics and
methods used by the enemy here. In Andur’s name we will learn by
this day,” he growled.

Darven turned
to his friend and laid a hand upon his mailed arm. Aran at last was
comforted by the touch and did not shake it off.

“And you my
lord? Will you fight with us?”

Aran looked
down at the dagger stained black with dried blood and shook his
head.

“I cannot
control the power, and if I fight again, I cannot be responsible
for my actions or sanity afterwards,” he admitted in a low voice.
“No Darven, I will not fight in battle again…leastways not until I
understand this heavy Ability of mine and can control its dark
madness.”

*

If there were
any living Thakur still on the field to give witness to the closing
of the day, then the heavy, oppressive evening darkness effectively
hid the silent, watchful retreat of the Guard, and mounted Legions
back to the second mustering point just west of Mount Solstice.
Cloaked in snow, and the remains of the mage-called mist, the
company, for the most part still blood and gore splattered, turned
their weary horses heads to the beckoning east. All rode quietly,
but the most silent of all the company was their High King and
Warriormage Arantur.

Flanking the
silent, dark figure on the dun mare, were the three cloaked and
still armoured figures of Darven, Bini and Alissa. They rode as
close as they dared to Aran to show him their support, however with
the events of the day branded so deeply into their minds, they
instinctively knew that unnecessary speech or actions would be
ill-advised, and so kept their distance and counsel.

Within the
rest of the Legions and Guard however, stories of Aran’s exploits
had spread like wild-fire, and all regarded the distant mounted
figure with awe, and a great deal of alarm. All had now heard of
the mage-driven attack of the Thakur against the King and Wolf
Company, and how their young Warriormage had almost single-handedly
turned the tide of battle in favour of the Guard. The remainder of
Wolf Company, lessened in number by well over two dozen men, rode
slumped in their saddles and almost mindless with fatigue. Despite
their wounds and pain, they rode knowing in their hearts that they
owed their lives to the dangerous magepower of their young king.
Already the rumours were starting to spread that how King Arantur,
still in the depths of battle rage, had brought the Archmage to his
knees with a just a look and a word. Both Guardsmen and legio shook
their heads at that, knowing that there were few, if any who could
speak such words against the mages of Glaive, and still walk away
unscathed.

The mages
themselves rode silently and protectively around the huddled form
of Archmage Maran. They did not know the full details of the
meeting of the Archmage with their enraged king, but they had felt
the Warriormage’s use of the magepower like a sudden thunderclap in
an otherwise calm and clear day. All wondered about it, but there
were a few who had accurately guessed the meaning behind it.

*

“He will be
loath to trust us again,” commented Drayden to Trevan.

“You and I he
trusts. He counts us as his friends,” the Healermage replied
confidently.

The High
Earthmage looked across at the older man. “You perhaps he may see
as a friend…” his face wore an ironic smile, “I however am regarded
only as a useful tool.”

Trevan shook
his head “Aran, despite his rank, has the soul of a craftsman.
Believe me he will not soon put away a fine tool. Do not be
surprised if he asks for your future counsel.”

The
Earthmage’s eyes flickered up, “You think so? Is there no bridging
this rift between him and the Archmage?”

Trevan
shrugged, “Archmage Maran made a poor decision today in not aiding
the Guard.” He sighed heavily, “He will long rue it I think.”

“Would you
have done otherwise?”

Trevan’s eyes
clouded over, “Knowing Arantur as I do, yes I would have. Despite
the power drain from the mages I would have done everything to
assist him. Glaive needs to prove herself to her king. Everything
that has been done in the past has been in Glaive’s name, or to
better advance Glaive’s plans and calculations…”

He looked up
and his eyes were grim, “In the past Glaive erred badly in the
handling of Prince Greve, yet I believe Glaive errs worse in the
handling of his descendant”