The Sword and the Sorcerer (5 page)

It was here that Richard plotted war strategies with his staff of royal generals and where, surrounded by symbols of triumph, he liked to come whenever he felt insecure, deriving some renewal of self-confidence from these glorious reminders of former conquests.

And it was here that Richard came directly from the celebration several hours ago, hoping to clear his head of the effects of too much mead and to slay the fear that the rest of his nightmares would also come to pass.

Richard stood by the light of the tall cathedral window, through which he could see out into the courtyard and observe the two guards posted there, as he affectionately polished his awesome tri-bladed sword; each blade was spring-loaded and the weapon served the dual purpose of three swords in one and flying missiles when desired. He had personally designed the weapon and the most famous swordmaster in Eh-Dan had forged it for him. Because of the myriad of enemies the tri-bladed sword had vanquished it was his most cherished possession.

An unholy chill went through Richard at the sound of a galloping steed in the cobblestoned courtyard, followed by the harsh cries of his guards. “Who goes there? Halt if you value your life!”

“My God!” Richard said aloud to himself. Was not this also a piece from his nightmare!

“Sheath your swords!” Richard heard the rider shout in a failing, pain-racked voice. “I have a message for the king from General Mogullen! I must . . .”

“Catch him—he falls!” one of the guards yelled.

“Bring him in,” Richard shouted through the stained-glass window, his voice resounding in the vast war room.

Richard bolted to the outer chamber as Phelan and one of the guards half-dragged and half-carried the young rider to the king. Richard knelt and looked aghast at the lesions and pus-oozing sores on the messenger’s face. He did not need to be a physician to perceive that the soldier would soon die.

“Get him a leech!” Richard instructed the guard and then gazed at Phelan for answers.

“He will speak to no one but you,” Phelan explained, also kneeling beside the dying messenger.

Richard snaked an arm under the messenger’s back and tilted him forward, compassion and anger mingling in the gesture.

“What is your report, son?”

Fever and creeping death made the rider’s eyeballs swivel, trying to find the king’s face.

“Sire . . . the eastern army has been . . . been destroyed!”

An invisible spear went through Richard’s heart. He now knew that if he didn’t act promptly all of the nightmare would soon become a reality. “Destroyed?”

“Aye, my dear king, destroyed . . . Stranger than strange things have happened . . . a mysterious plague eats our flesh . . . General Mogullen begged me to tell you . . . just before he died in my arms . . . he begged me to tell you that it is black . . . black sor—”

The terribly lesioned soldier’s head fell to one side like a rag doll’s, his swiveling eyeballs now fixed for eternity. Richard gently rested the young soldier’s head on the marble floor and shot to his feet, sad but aware of a rising tide of fury too.

Phelan also rose as General Karak, helmet respectfully tucked in the crook of his left arm, came charging into the war room, his stolid features glistening with sweat.

At the sight of Karak, the king exclaimed, “Good God—what next!”

“Sire! Another of Cromwell’s armies is upon us! This time a full battalion of his troops have landed on the beach to the south and march toward the city fast!”

Phelan glared at Karak with unmasked disdain. “Why is it you are always the bearer of bad tidings?”

Karak responded in the language he knew best; he gripped the hilt of his sword.

“This is not the time for dissension among ourselves, Phelan,” Richard chided his friend. Then to Karak he ordered, “Roust every man we have! Cromwell has to march through the Valley of Cybelle to reach the city—and we’ll joust with the devil there!”

Karak bowed his head and scurried off. When Richard saw Phelan linger, obviously preparing to speak more about Karak, he motioned Phelan to follow the retreating general. “Go with him, Phelan, and see that he carries out my orders to the letter. Along the way summon the queen for me!”

Frustrated to not be able to share his feelings about Karak but aware that to force the issue would only anger Richard now, Phelan nodded and resignedly left.

“My armor!” Richard bellowed toward an archway in the war room, all the while ripping his royal robes away, boiling with revenge. Cromwell! He was the nightmare in the flesh! And if the tyrant was using sorcery—and sorcery was more than the mystical rigamarole of unthinking men—then he would test its power with his own sword!

A pretty teenage boy in black livery, with curled bangs, breezed into the war room, his rouged lips and long lashes trembling at the unusual sight of an enraged King Richard. “Yes, my lord?”

“Squire, fetch my weapons and armor! Quickly!”

The boy ran out of the room and nearly knocked into the queen, who immediately went to her husband, sorely concerned. She rested her palms on his shoulders and gazed into his grim face. “What is it, my dear heart?”

“A birthday present from the tyrant Cromwell!”

“Be more specific, Richard.”

“Cromwell encroaches upon us with troops and wizardry. At this very moment his dastardly men march on the city!”

Malia pulled away and bit the back of her hand in fear. “God spare us!”

Richard took her into his arms and tried to comfort her with kisses. But she was inconsolable, knowing her husband was preparing to go into the pending fray.

“Go roust Duncan, Malia. He will ride with us. The others I leave in your charge.”

“Must Duncan go too?” It was more of a plea than a question.

“Yes, my love. If he is to be king one day it is time he shows he deserves to be one.”

The queen nodded, already turning to do as he bade. But she stopped just this side of the archway leading to other parts of the castle.

“You will take care of yourself and our boy!”

“You have my word on it.”

She blew him a kiss and hastened away.

The king reached for the belt specially made for his tri-bladed sword, hanging on a peg on the wall, when he heard the rattle of metal behind him. He spung around and saw Talon standing before him, dressed for battle.

“The castle buzzes with news of Cromwell’s army. I am ready, Father.” The lust for battle glowed on Talon’s face.

Richard smiled. Oh, that the boy were only a few years older and that he was not needed here at the castle more than at the imminent siege! He could use more men of Talon’s courage and indomitable will.

“I’d love to have you at my side. Father and son in battle together. I’ve dreamed of it.”

“And so I w
ill
be,” he asserted.

“Sorry, no. You must stay behind and act as king in my absence.”

Talon was beside himself with frustration. “Let Duncan be king! I want to fight, Father! Fight—beside you!”

Richard now assumed a more authoritative mien. The trick was to bridle the boy’s fiery spirit without killing it.

“We each have our duties, and yours will be to stay behind and protect your mother, sister, and younger brother. The subject is closed.”

For the first time in many years he saw Talon’s eyes flood with tears.

“My arm is strong, Father!”

“I know it is, son, and I am proud of your prowess.”

The boy’s manly, comely face turned ugly with resentment. “Do you leave me behind because . . . because I am a bastard child and Duncan is not!” It was an accusation, not a question.

Guilt and remorse clutched at Richard’s heart. So the boy had heard court gossip. He should have told Talon himself rather than risk his finding out the cruel way he had.

“No! And I’ll hang the sow or hog who told you such a thing!” One day, if he survived Cromwell’s campaign, he would confess the truth. But the few moments they had left together was not the time.

He held outstretched arms to his confused and frustrated son, and Talon came rushing into them. Father and son ardently embraced, Richard covering the boy’s face with kisses.

“My God, Talon, but I do love you more than life!”

“And I love you, Father!”

“Wait.”

He detached himself from Talon and picked up his tri-bladed sword off the table, handing it to his son.

Talon’s face was a sunburst of joy as he examined every inch of the formidable weapon. He knew how much the tri-bladed sword meant to his father, and now apparently he was giving it to him! Talon felt an outpouring of love for his father such as he had never experienced before.

“But, Father—”

“Hush. It is yours. Should I die, it will fall to you to avenge me.”

For the first time Talon realized that this could very well be the last time he would see his father. And Talon wanted the king to remember him as having the courage and dignity that his father had.

“Do you understand?” Richard asked, softly.

Talon nodded and refused to shed another tear. “Yes. I understand.”

Talon laid aside the tri-bladed sword and grabbed hold of Richard’s forearm in the salute of the gladiators. Father and son smiled and beamed love to one another.

FIVE

awn oozed over the black horizon like a bleeding wound. Oh how cruelly fitting an image! Richard mused, looking away from the reddish glow to the carnage all around him.

Heavy with grief and woe, Richard trudged through the Valley of Cybelle like a drunken man, stumbling and shuffling in futile search of some drop of comfort for his aching despair. A handful of his knights in full battle dress walked wearily behind him, the same hopelessness and abysmal despair on their faces.

Richard’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy from unrestrained sobbing. For over a quarter of an hour he wandered through the gory chaos, gazing dumbstruck at the mangled bodies, the ulcerated faces, shorn and torn limbs, the steaming guts of dead horses, the flowing blood, columns of smoke and the broken swords and lances. He cursed Fate for not allowing him to arrive in time to die a noble death with these brave men and gallant loved ones. Death would have been infinitely sweeter than the bitter cup of reality he now had to drink.

Over there lay Phelan, his beloved friend, his face frozen forever in the agony of a plunged sword. Goodbye, sweet sage!

Dangling by the neck on a rope from a tree was Knight Edward, his dear cousin, his tongue protruding from his mouth and his gouged eyes now slits of red jelly.

And lying in a puddle of his own blood was Richard’s beloved son, Duncan, his face twisted in pain from the ugly sword sticking out of his youthful chest. Oh, the heart-rending sobs that would tear from the tender bosom of the queen when she learned of this tragedy!

And in the midst of Cromwell’s barbarous spoils vultures began their hideous vigil of waiting for rotting flesh to become their food.

As if a bucket of icy water had been thrown in Richard’s face, he suddenly shuddered and in an instant threw off the paralysis of grief, riding an upsurge of scalding hate. He jerked his flashing sword into view and began brandishing it wildly over his head. The knights watched, transfixed to the spot, mesmerized by the king’s sudden burst of fury and strength.

“I want Cromwell’s head! Bring me Cromwell so I can drink his blood!”

Like a man far younger than his sixty years, Richard began to run furiously, his knights following, in the direction of the campfires on a cliff overlooking the Valley of Cybelle, where he knew Cromwell’s troops were entrenched—and no doubt swinishly celebrating their victory.

“Give me Cromwell’s blood, I say!” he kept yelling. “I want Cromwell’s blood!”

Cromwell kept massaging his right biceps under the iron mesh shirt. His sword arm was sore. He must have lopped off a dozen heads and twice as many limbs in the lightning-quick annihilation of Richard’s army. His battle dress looked like a butcher’s apron, splashed with gore as well as sweat and dirt.

Cromwell was standing on the cliff’s edge beside Malcolm and General Quade, the three of them victoriously surveying the havoc his forces and Xusia’s sorcery had wreaked upon the Valley of Cybelle. The devastated camp below was bathed in hot morning light and there wasn’t a stir among the tens of thousands of ravaged soldiers strewn there.