The Seer And The Sword (18 page)

If she showed herself to Ardesen, sick, weak and shorn, how was he to know her? He hadn’t seen her since she was a baby. Why would her cause ever be his? She’d either be thrown out as an imposter, or turned over to Vesputo. Even if Ardesen let her stay, word would travel. Vesputo had proved he could use poison.

How could I war against my old comrades, the soldiers of Archeld?

Had Eric told her mother about the escape? Did Dreea know the death was staged? Could a message be sent? No. Letters might be intercepted.

She wanted nothing more to do with kings and kingdoms. Their violent vyings for power were loathsome.
I must stop thinking of myself as a princess. I’ll make a life among the common people of Desante, and leave the entanglements of royalty behind, along with my name
.

She came back to the present, feeling as if she’d lived and died in the moments just passed.

‘Please, I need to rest again.’

Ardesen, King of Desante, sat stiffly in the tall chair of his council room, flanked by two guards. His grey head was erect, old eyes alert and fierce. Outside, winter held the land in her frosty grip. The king was grateful for the warm blaze at his hearth.

Hadnell, one of his army captains, bowed as he was ushered in. Ardesen invited him to sit.

‘Do you know why I called you?’ the king asked.

‘I believe it’s about a soldier in my charge, sir?’

‘Yes. Bellanes.’ The king frowned. ‘He’s been fighting in the Desan games, invoking the old rule.’

‘Yes, sir. He fights till he could easily kill, then spares the lives of the criminals.’

‘And goes away as poor as he arrived.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The people are flocking to the games, even in winter. My coffers are filled with a healthy amount of rashoes.’

‘They adore him, sir. Stand about outside his quarters for a glimpse of him, though they’re not allowed in our compound.’

‘Humph. Hero worship? How does he respond?’

‘Seems to have a distaste for it, sir. Goes about his duties as before.’

‘Tell me, how is he with his duties?’

‘Efficient.’

Ardesen stifled a grin at the fact that Hadnell had forgotten the ‘sir’. The man looked as if a simple earthen mug he drank from every day had transformed itself into a sacred chalice.

‘How many criminals has he defeated and spared?’

‘Fourteen, sir.’

Ardesen pursed his lips. ‘Fourteen men. This Bellanes could be rich by now. And the criminals are returned to prison with shortened sentences, as the rule dictates?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can this Bellanes be beaten?’

‘An excellent fighter, sir.’

Ardesen set the tips of his fingers together. ‘Why does he do it?’

‘He doesn’t say, sir.’

‘Do we know this young man’s origins?’ the king prodded.

‘Comes from Guelhan, sir.’

‘Ah. Parents?’

‘Dead, sir.’

‘Friends?’

‘The other men like him.’

‘Who taught him to fight?’

Hadnell smiled tightly. ‘He says a bully taught him, sir.’

Ardesen grinned. ‘What else does he say?’

‘Not much, sir. A quiet man.’

The king extended his feet towards the burning logs. ‘There’s a fight tomorrow, between Bellanes and Andris the Thief?’

‘Yes, sir. Andris is a famous criminal. Stole many horses before he was caught.’

‘And Andris is a fighter as well?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll be in the king’s box. Thank you, Captain.’ He waved a hand.

Ardesen enjoyed surprises; ran his kingdom with ingenuity. He looked for inventiveness in the people round him, and seldom found it. More often, he got infuriating flattery. Sometimes, he found men and women who gave him years of trustworthy service. He never failed to promote such work. Nevertheless, he often sighed over the lack of more unusual vision.

This Bellanes must be a different sort of man. To fight death battles and forgo the gold in favour of mercy was a bold act. Risking his life for nothing, though? That had a desperate stamp.

I wonder what he wants
.

King Ardesen was sure Bellanes wanted something.

In the round walled courtyard, Bellanes stood, wearing leather armour, naked sword in hand. Like sides of a great bowl, the viewing stands rose in tiers above him. A cold, grey sky looked down on cheering spectators in quilted coats. Ardesen, in the king’s box, sat at the rim of the courtyard in close view of the arena. His forehead
creased in concentration as he studied the fighter.

Bellanes had an exotic face. Thick, curly black hair. His tall, well-built body looked at ease, his grip on the sword almost relaxed. Yet, vigilance filled him. For an instant, Bellanes’ eyes found those of the king. Ardesen’s curiosity was piqued even more; surely, those eyes were too old and sorrowful for such an obviously young man.

Andris the Thief appeared, wearing the criminal’s loincloth. He was massively proportioned. Half a head taller and several years older than Bellanes by the looks of him. Angry eyes aimed at his opponent as he hurtled into the courtyard.

The criminal lifted his sword above his head and rushed. Bellanes ducked and jumped aside, dodging a blow that would have killed him. Andris whirled quickly and roared as he charged again. Bellanes leaped. A red line stood out on the thief’s naked skin. The crowd broke forth in frenzied shouts.

In that mode, the fight continued; the larger man using sheer force, Bellanes relying on agility and skill. The onlookers were wild with excitement, cheering each mad rush and daring dodge. The breath of the fighters came in frosty clouds, their bodies shining with sweat in the chilly air. King Ardesen leaned across the courtyard ledge. Every time Andris swung his weapon, the king felt its whistling power. And still, Bellanes avoided Andris’ blows with expert warrior-grace.

At last, Bellanes gave a twisting blow, as he escaped one more thrust. Andris’ sword flew from his hand, clanging against the stones twenty yards away. Bellanes
pressed his advantage. Soon, his opponent lay on the ground, neck beneath the point of a sword.

Andris closed his eyes. Bellanes spoke.

‘Look at the sky,’ he said, quiet words the king could barely hear.

The criminal’s eyes flew open, staring at his death.

‘Tell me your name,’ Bellanes commanded.

From his close seat, Ardesen saw the thief’s eyes watering. ‘Andris,’ the big man said.

‘Andris, you fought well. And because you looked at the sky, I won’t kill you. The fight is over.’

Bellanes’ voice rose to loud, ringing tones. ‘The fight is over! This man lives!’

He lifted his sword and backed away. Guards came in a rush, leading Andris off. The thief looked over his shoulder at Bellanes. The victor returned his gaze, strong face shot through with the force of mercy.

King Ardesen sat waiting, as Bellanes walked up the steps from the walled courtyard. The young fighter was dripping sweat.

‘So this is Bellanes.’ Ardesen looked him over.

‘Sir.’

Ardesen noticed that the soldier didn’t drop his eyes. This man was looking at him as an equal. Ardesen smiled inwardly, keeping his outward face stern.

‘Tell me, did you know before today that Andris the Thief was enormously strong?’ the king demanded.

‘Aye. I’m not a fool.’

‘Not a fool! Isn’t it foolish to risk your life for nothing but sport?’

‘He may be strong but he’s had no training, beyond hacking with a sword.’

‘You’re saying he was no match for you? I watched the fight, Bellanes. If even one of his strokes had landed, you’d be dead. And he wanted to kill you.’

‘True.’

‘You have great confidence in your skill.’

‘And many opportunities to test it.’

‘In battles to the death? You didn’t kill that criminal, Bellanes. Why?’

The fighter shifted his feet. ‘They’re men of your country. They wear no armour.’ The voice had a marked, ringing quality. Ardesen tried to place the accent, sure it wasn’t from Guelhan.

‘My country!’ Ardesen grunted. ‘And yours?’

‘Yes, my country. Though not so much mine as yours.’

Ardesen narrowed his eyes. ‘Indeed?’ he said dryly. ‘You know the reward for dispatching these men. With the number you’ve defeated, you could be rich. Yet, you spare their lives, returning them to prison labour. Why not kill, and take your reward?’

‘I want a different reward,’ Bellanes said.

Hah! Now we come to it
. ‘Speak.’ The king concealed his curiosity behind a forbidding scowl.

‘Give me the men I defeat to train as retainers.’ The audacious request was spoken quietly.

Ardesen snorted. ‘Impossible! These men are derelicts. Criminals! Thieves and murderers.’

‘All men can change.’

‘You ask for a command? Over criminals? Where do you come from, Bellanes?’

‘If you give me the command, sir, I and my band will be valuable to you.’

Ardesen surmised that Bellanes would not tell him where he really came from; not now; not if they fought side by side for twenty years. This man described himself as valuable. Ardesen believed him. The king, when given a jewel, was not one to look too closely into where it had been mined.

‘If you weren’t such a great fighter, I’d call you a dreamer.’

‘If you never took risks, you’d have no Desan Games.’

The king bowed his head to hide his thoughts. He sat still long enough for hope to go out of Bellanes. When he looked up, the fighter stood courteously waiting.

‘I’m intrigued, Bellanes. Come to me tomorrow morning and we’ll discuss your idea.’

‘At what hour?’ Bellanes’ eyes shone.

‘The best hour.’ Ardesen grinned, and swept away. If Bellanes could think for himself, let him show it. If he expected a command over thieves, the king would not make it easy for him.

In a secluded field, Landen stood, wearing standard armour and hefting a sword. A motley group of fifteen unarmed men, among them Andris, ranged in front of him. Blue sky arched over the gathering. Fresh leaves poked out on the branches of surrounding trees.

Landen yelled. ‘All of you are criminals, and the law says you don’t deserve to live!’

Some of the men looked furtively at the trees. No guards were visible.

‘Yet, you are fighters. I know this, because I’ve met each of you in combat.’

The assembled criminals glanced at each other.

‘King Ardesen has granted me a command over warriors of my choosing.’ Landen was riveted by fifteen stares. ‘I’ve chosen you.’

He watched understanding dawn. ‘I spared each of your lives once. If any one of you returns to your crimes, I won’t spare you again. Any man who does not wish to serve with me can return to prison, now.’

No one moved.

‘Come forward, one by one. Say your name, and tell your crime.’

Andris stepped up. He squared his great chest. ‘Andris. Horse thief.’

Landen nodded. ‘Andris. After today, steal only those horses I ask you to steal.’

Andris’ heavy features beamed. Another tall, muscled man, the left side of his face distorted by a livid scar, the right side showing almost angelic features, moved next to Andris.

‘Bangor,’ he said in a tenor tone. ‘I steal anything.’

There was scattered laughter. Landen stared at the disfigured face. ‘Who stole your good looks?’

More laughter. Soon fourteen men stood together in a ragged line. All had been convicted of stealing.

The last man’s hard eyes challenged the rest. ‘I am Sakor. Murder.’

‘Why did you kill?’

Sakor shrugged. ‘The man I worked for had me whipped. So I took his son and cut him up.’

‘The son’s age?’

‘Perhaps twelve.’

Landen handed his sword to Andris, the man nearest him.

‘Kill him,’ he ordered.

Andris leaped. Sakor tried to run, but not fast enough. Andris severed his head in one slice. It rolled to the ground, the body following. Andris shouted his triumph, raising the sword.

The new leader took back his sword and cleaned the blade, concealing sorrowful emotions without comment. Ardesen’s first condition was now fulfilled – the murderer’s life ended. Landen believed Sakor deserved death, but wished another justice could have delivered it. Saying a silent prayer to guide Sakor’s soul, he apologized for ending his life, thanking him for his part in the emancipation of the rest.
Blood buys respect too often in this world. Andris could have killed me with the sword I loaned. Instead he returned it, and now this group is a band
.

They gathered round him, ready to offer all the passionate loyalty of those who have been given another chance, when they believe their last is gone.

Torina leaned on a hoe in a patch of bare earth behind the Dirkson farmhouse. Close by, in a glade among the
trees, Tesh was building her a cabin. She could hear the song of his hammer.

When she gave the family a ruby, Anna’s taciturn husband never said where he sold it, only that he travelled a distance to do so. The winter passed in relative luxury for Anna, Lindsa and Tesh Dirkson, for they were able to buy supplies whenever need came. Torina lived in their spare room, helping weave and sew, learning to bake and cook.

Before long, her weaving earned top prices at the town market. Torina took satisfaction in earning her way.

She dressed only in sombre colours, always wearing a plain kerchief to cover her hair. Her smile was rare. The Dirksons passed her off to their acquaintances as a cousin who had waited on a fine lady.

‘Would need to be fine, for you don’t speak like a common girl,’ Anna said.

Torina sewed a quilted jacket for herself. When it was done, she took frequent walks alone. She craved solitude.

When spring thawed the ground, Tesh started building her cabin. He was a careful, methodical worker. Soon she would have her own house, with no one to disturb her unless she wished it.

Welcome spring sunshine warmed her as she rested from turning the earth. It was Avril, the month of her birth. She was sixteen. No lustrous gowns or pretty minstrels marked the day; no loving parents at her side, smiling in celebration. Instead, she was planning a vegetable garden.