The Misbegotten King (35 page)

He wiped the back of his sleeve across his forehead. “What are you suggesting?”

She gestured with her sword. “We’ve got to get in there—into the garrison. Amanander is the key to this. We’re just food for
him out here.”

Roderic wrapped the reins of his horse more tightly
around his hand. “Think we can get through?”

Deirdre stood in her stirrups. “Darmot—Donner—to me!” She looked back at him with a grin. “Or die trying, Lord Prince.” She
pointed with her sword. “The walls aren’t guarded. He’s not balanced his offense. If we can just drive a wedge through, enough
to get us in the gates, we can let the ranks close behind us. I have a feeling all it’s going to take is one stroke of a broadsword
through Amanander’s neck.”

A spear, thrown across some great distance, landed in the chest of a soldier near Roderic. His stallion reared beneath him
and he brought the animal under control. “All right, Deirdre,” he said as her men formed a tight group around them both, “let’s
go.”

The tide of soldiers which swept across the plain was a like a river at spring thaw. Roderic dug his spurs into his horse’s
sides, and the animal leapt forward, into the thick of the melee. The enemy bore their weapons in rotting hands. He hacked
on either side, right and left, with an eerie, steady rhythm. The dead made no noise as they fell, and all the world seemed
to filter down into that one horrible time and place, where the dull thunk of his blade biting bone and the soft slump of
the dead falling to the ground, the weird whisper of their strides surging inexorably forward were the only sounds that came
to his ears. Beneath his horse’s hooves, the ground cracked in long fissures, and steam seeped in a low hiss.

The horse reared and screamed, and Roderic wrapped the reins around his hand again, desperate to maintain control. Clouds
roiled in the sky, blotting out the sun, and the sky grew green and purple with a weird, unnatural
light. Lightning forked beneath the clouds, arcing in jagged spikes. It struck the earth, lashing the ground with tongues
of blue-white flame.

Pressing on and on, Deirdre’s soldiers forced an ever widening wedge, which closed behind them as they moved forward. It was
then Roderic realized the advantage they had: the dead didn’t turn and follow. Amanander couldn’t think of every contingency
at once.

Finally they rode through the open gates of the garrison. Deirdre’s face and arms were slick with blood, and all the Islanders
were covered in gore. Roderic wiped his blade against his thigh. Their horses trotted into the wide inner courtyard. Nothing
moved.

The silence which greeted them was even eerier than that on the battlefield. Slowly Deirdre urged her horse to the very steps
of the keep. She tossed her reins to Donner and dismounted.

Roderic handed his horse over to another soldier. He gestured in the direction of the keep and she nodded. She looked back
and put her finger to her lips. Donner saluted.

With drawn swords, they crept inside. Silence hung thick as the dust on the furniture. How odd, thought Roderic. Amanander
had always been so fastidious. Long wooden benches were strewn haphazardly on the floor. Deirdre gestured to a flight of steps.
The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and halfway up they heard a gasping sob.

“No!”

Roderic froze. “That’s Annandale.”

He took the rest of the steps two at a time, Deirdre
hard at his heels. Down the long corridor, he followed the sound of Annandale’s sobs. He cursed beneath his breath, and without
warning, the earth shifted beneath their feet with a sound like lightning striking wood.

The floor lurched underneath him. Roderic staggered, fell against Deirdre, and recovered. Annandale screamed.

Together, they ran down the rest of the hallway and burst through the last door. On a narrow pile of blankets, Alexander lay
prone—claw-like hands gripping at his covers, staring with terror-wide eyes.

Annandale crouched by his side. She looked up in disbelief as Roderic and Deirdre burst into the room. “Roderic, stay back,”
she cried.

“Come here,” he shouted.

At the foot of the bed, Amanander stood, his hand on Vere’s throat.

“Let him go, Aman,” Roderic said, sidling toward Annandale. “Let him go. I’m the one you want. Let Vere go”

“In turn, Roderic.” His voice was like the purr a lycat made as its fangs found its prey.

“You can kill him,” put in Deirdre as she moved to the edge of the room, “but you won’t get away with it.”

Amanander turned his head. “Such a brave little girl.” With a swift motion, he threw Vere into her. He bent down, reached
for Alexander, and Roderic shouted, “Annandale, get away from him.”

But Annandale threw herself on Alexander’s chest and wrapped her arms around him.

Amanander’s face contorted, and any resemblance he had to a human being melted away like hot wax under a
flame. “You will not defy me!” His voice echoed like thunder in a summer night.

Alexander found the strength to cling to her like a drowning man to a rope.

Amanander grabbed Alexander’s legs. “Get away from them, Annandale,” Roderic cried.

Amanander threw him a triumphant smile. “Oh yes, little changeling Prince. Save your bride. Be a hero.” The air thickened,
as though the oppressive breath of some hideous beast was exhaled. The shadows flowed and swirled like black water, and the
floor gave a warning tremor.

Annandale looked up, over her shoulder. Her face was wet with tears. “Beloved, this is the only way.”

Where Annandale clutched Alexander, the healing light glimmered, a mere flicker at first, gradually intensifying, changing
from a soft shimmer of gossamer flame into a beacon of a light, radiant and clear. Roderic stared, unable to look away, as
it grew brighter, until he was forced to turn his head and cover his face with his hands or be blinded by its brilliance.
As though a thousand suns had come to earth, the light shone, encompassing them all, dispersing the darkness, chasing the
shadows from every corner, and though his eyes were shut against it, he felt its terrible, glowing blaze. The tower shook,
bucking like a beast in its death throes, and the land rocked on its foundations. He heard the roar and the rushing of a mighty
wind. Horses screamed, and the cries of the soldiers outside were like children lost in nightmares.

He fell to his knees, blindly groping for some steady anchor, and the floor collapsed beneath his hands. They
crashed in a heap of splintered wood to the ground below. The light faded, and the wind died. The land heaved once more and
was still. On knees that shook, he struggled through the debris to his feet. Annandale and Alexander lay entangled a few feet
away. He picked his way through the wreckage and gently lifted her. She opened her eyes. “Roderic.” Her skin was red and peeling,
blood oozed from her mouth. “My love.”

Roderic cradled her in his arms, rocking her as though she were a baby. “What have we done to you?” He smoothed the dark curls
back from her blistered face.

Alexander shook himself free from the ruins. His hair was like the new-fallen snow: white, with not one strand of gray. He
walked with firm steps to kneel by Roderic’s side. “She saved us all. If Amanander had taken me, all would have been lost.
She’s broken him, once and forever.”

“My love—” Her voice was labored, and in her throat Roderic heard a chilling rattle. “Bury me beneath the tree where the empaths
lie. Don’t put me in cold stone—give me warm wood in the living land.”

“Use me, beloved, use me, like when Rhodri was born. Take me, take my strength—”

“Too late. Tell the children—love them always. And Deirdre—tell her—”

“I’m here, lady.” Deirdre spoke over his shoulder, splinters in her hair.

Annandale gasped and writhed a little in his embrace. “Love is worth all costs. All costs—”

Roderic soothed her hair off her face. “All right, all right. My love—”

“Roderic.” Her palm found his cheek. “Tell—” In a long sigh she went limp against his chest. He made a little sound of protest
and tightened his hold.

Alexander touched his shoulder. Roderic looked up. From the ruins of the tower, a dark figure rose to its feet. Amanander
stepped across the wreckage, sword in hand. Deirdre’s men, who had crept closer, drew back as he advanced. His face was a
cratered ruin. Black, burnt flesh clung to his cheeks. One eye was gone, a jellied mass which oozed down his face. His skull
was red and blistered, covered in tufts of scorched hair.

Roderic placed Annandale gently in Alexander’s outstretched arms and fumbled in the ruins for the King’s broadsword. The hilt
was warm and smooth in the palm of his hand. They faced each other silently, and the only sound was the hollow clang of the
metal as their blades rang together.

They circled, wary. Amanander lunged with a fierce intensity, picking a moment when Roderic kicked a piece of wood out of
his way.

Roderic parried and riposted, faster than he ever had before. Amanander blocked the attack and lunged again. Roderic could
hear the other men breathing around him, Deirdre helping Vere out of the ruins, all eyes fixed. Roderic met Amanander’s blade
and, sliding the point along his own, flicked his arm.

Amanander did not react to the wound. With a sure, graceful move, the edge of his sword whipped over Roderic’s in a feint,
then under, and dealt Roderic a glancing blow to the chest. Roderic did not take his eyes off his opponent, despite the sound
burst of pain.
He fell back and felt the blood begin to seep through his tunic.

Amanander attacked again, sword swinging in a high wicked arc, and Roderic needed the strength of both arms to block the blow.
Without pausing, he swung again and again and again, and Roderic fell back, circling as the strokes fell like punishing rain.
“Now you have no woman’s skirts to hide behind,” His voice gurgled in his throat. “Put the sword down, Roderic. It never belonged
to your father—you have no right to wield it.”

Roderic faltered. Amanander’s attacks were insistent, methodical, and his arms and chest ached.

“Meriga is mine, Roderic. I am the heir. I am the blood son of Abelard Ridenau.”

Roderic stumbled backward, made a halfhearted lunge toward him, and Amanander turned his blade and wounded him across the
shoulder.

He laughed. “Surrender now and I’ll kill you quickly. I’ll give you a cleaner death than you deserve. You—the get of a stablehand’s
son. You’re no prince.”

Out of his peripheral vision, Roderic saw Annandale’s head loll lifelessly against Alexander’s shoulder, her eyes, so like
the King’s, shut forever. And in that moment he remembered Rhodri, whose were like both hers and Abelard’s, the child who
was his son.

Some rage, some fury born of anguish, ignited in him, and Roderic threw himself at Amanander like an animal defending its
lair and its young with its last strength. Sparks flew as he dealt Amanander a series of blows so quickly, Roderic saw his
shoulders shudder at the force. “You’re right, Amanander.” Roderic spat the words as his
blade connected with his neck. “I’m not a prince. I’m the King.” With one last, mighty stroke, Amanander’s head rolled off
his shoulders to lie in the dust.

Roderic looked up to see Deirdre standing over Alexander, Vere leaning against two of her men. The courtyard was full of soldiers,
all standing silent and still.

Roderic straightened, though his chest still heaved with his final effort and the sweat ran down his face like tears. Miles
and Evan were there, too, the officers and the soldiers all pressing close. Had they heard Amanander’s words? he wondered
wearily.

He stared them in the eyes, thinking that he might simply give the sword to Alexander and be done with this burden which had
been his for so long, rightfully or not. He drew a deep breath and took a single step forward.

And then, as one man, Miles and Evan and Deirdre and even Vere fell to their knees and, with Alexander, began to recite the
ancient words of the Pledge of Allegiance, swearing themselves into his service, until death. One by one, the other men’ followed
suit, captains, foot soldiers, archers, horseman, the sons of Senadors, until all that company knelt before him in the dust,
and he alone remained standing.

The undead horde fell with Amanander. Reginald and Harland were found among the enemy host, corpses which clung even in death
to the hilts of broken swords. But Roderic was mourning his lady; there was no victory for him.

T
hey placed Annandale in a rough-hewn coffin, scarcely worthy of her. The man who made it had tears in his eyes and on his
face, so Roderic smiled and thanked him for her sake. They wrapped her body in clean, white linen. The only ornament she had
worn had been the sapphire ring Roderic had placed on her finger such a short time ago. The women brought it to him. He placed
it in the coffin with her.

The messengers had been sent on ahead, with word to prepare the King’s body, and the people lined the roads. Some wept, some
threw evergreen branches in their path, some only stared.