The Uncrowned King (8 page)

After rounding a promontory which jutted out into the lake he spotted the dwellings, their roofs so heavy with snow they were almost invisible. A sturdy defensive wall protected the farm buildings and animals from ravening winter beasts, but Byren spotted a girl of about seven wandering along the shore with nothing but a wolf hound for company, so the family can't have heard about the ulfr pack.

Behind the farmhouse, in the middle distance, Mount Halcyon rose high in the morning light. With renewed energy Byren set off, hoping the farmwife would give him breakfast. The dog barked once, a deep authoritative warning, then fell silent. The girl watched Byren approach, curious and only slightly wary.

He wanted to shake her, warn her. 'Watch out for Merofynians, take shelter in the mountains!' But that would only frighten her. He'd tell her elders.

As he glided up to the rough jetty, he smelt garlic sausages and fresh bread, and his stomach rumbled.

The dog growled softly.

'Quiet, Rusty,' the girl ordered.

'Sounds like he's a good watch dog,' Byren said, hunger cramps tying his stomach in knots. He bent to unlace his skates, his fingers trembling with haste. Shouldn't have given Dinni all his food.

He stood up, slinging the skates over his shoulder. 'How about some breakfast for a weary traveller?'

'This way.' The girl led him up the shore and through the farm yard where another wolf hound barked a warning. An old man and a boy came out of the barn to look at him. Byren realised how vulnerable his people were, going about their everyday tasks in the belief they were at peace with Merofynia.

In the kitchen, the mother and grandmother were cleaning up after breakfast. The old woman looked up from scrubbing the kitchen table, the wood almost white from cleaning. The mother wiped her hands on her apron, cheeks flushed from hovering over the hearth. No one was wary of him. This was what thirty years of peace in Rolencia's rich valley had done to his people. They were unready for war.

'What's this I hear? We have a traveller?' The father strode in with the boy and grandfather, a grin on his weathered face.

Byren pulled the royal emblem from under his vest. 'Byren Kingson. I need food and I bring bad news. The Merofynians have invaded.'

The elders sent each other worried looks, while the children watched their faces.

'We've seen no warning beacons,' the old man muttered. 'Last time the beacons were lit.'

'I'm on my way to Halcyon Abbey, to alert the abbot. I need his warrior monks,' Byren said, and his stomach rumbled loudly.

The women laughed.

'You need some food. Sit yourself down,' the mother said and the grandmother hastened to get their best plates from the shelf.

The father looked Byren up and down. 'Eh, you're a big one, too big for our cart horse, but I could loan you the draught horse.'

Byren leant back as the women ladled a spoonful of chopped sausages and beans onto his plate. 'Thanks. But I'll skate if it's all the same to you.'

They nodded, understanding his choice. Travel by frozen canal and lake was faster than going overland this time of year.

'How far are the Merofynians?' the grandfather asked.

'I saw the main army over near Dovecote two nights ago,' Byren said, talking between mouthfuls. 'And last night I ran into scouts on the lake shore, over there.' He pointed. 'They had a filthy Utland Power-worker with them. I'd get your family to the nearest town as soon as possible.'

While he gulped his meal, the elders debated the relative merits of Port Marchand's defences over Port Cobalt's. When he had done eating they walked Byren out onto the lake and saw him off, wishing him luck, insisting he take the family's prize ulfr-fur cloak.

He set off with a half-loaf of hot bread in his travel bag and a meal in his stomach, heading towards Mount Halcyon. He'd be there by midday. Once he had the warrior monks at his back, he could return to Rolenhold.

Actions spoke louder than words. When he returned to help defend the castle, his father would have to believe his loyalty.

Beneath Fyn's feet the flagstones gave way to unworked stone. They must have left the man-made tunnels and entered a natural cave system. Here, he slowed his pace, wondering what he would do if he came to a fork and the sylion was not carved into the floor, but he saw no more side passages.

Exhausted, the youngest boys faltered. Some sat on the ground and wept quietly, while others pleaded for food and water.

'They're only little,' Lenny told Fyn and went to help the nearest who was no bigger than him.

'Hold this.' Fyn handed Lenny his second candle, which had burnt down to a stub, and knelt next to a boy. 'Climb onto my back.'

Thin arms clasped around Fyn's neck, half-choking him. He adjusted the boy's arms then stood, his leg muscles protesting.

Feldspar pushed past the boys, joining them. 'How much longer, Fyn?'

He drew breath to confess that he did not know then stopped. Surely the air tasted fresher?

Hurrying on around the bend, he found the ground and walls illuminated by natural light. Another turn and a sliver of silver daylight greeted him. It was so bright he had to shield his eyes. He let the boy slide to the ground. Relief made him try to shout the news but his voice cracked, even so they came running.

'Stay here. I'll see if it's safe,' Fyn told the others as they rushed to join him.

He stepped cautiously out of the tunnel, blinking fiercely in the silver glow of a winter's dawn. The sun had just broken free of the Snow Bridge's highest peaks and delicate light made the snow glisten.

With the sun on his right, he faced north, into the cold. Back in Rolenhold, south would mean going into the cold. According to the monks, Halcyon Abbey sat on the equator of their world, which made sense since it was the site of the goddess Halcyon's greatest seep.

The Lesser Bay opened on his right and the Greater Bay to his left. Though he was west of Port Cobalt, where the monks took the boats across to Sylion Abbey for the autumn cusp festival, Fyn recognised the distant sheer wall and spotted the silhouette of Sylion Abbey, safe on its cliff-top eyrie.

Beyond the abbey lay Sylion Strait. Like two great arms, the cliffs formed a passage to the Stormy Sea. Fyn had never been that far. The trip across to Sylion Abbey was bad enough for him.

From where he now stood, the land fell away until it met the bay. Fyn could just make out the snow-covered roofs of a small fishing village behind its defensive palisade. Right now the village's wharves would be well above the water line. When the snow and ice melted the water levels would rise and it would become safe for the fisher folk to venture out, past the Utland Isles to the ocean fields where the great shoals of fish would be found. A fisherman's life was not an easy one, but then it was the harshness of winter that made summer all the sweeter.

Fyn knew it would take until early afternoon to reach the village, but the promise of hot food would spur the little boys on. Relief filled him. They had walked under Mount Halcyon to the mountain's far northern slope. He had done what the abbot asked of him. Soon he would be free to help his family.

'It's safe. You can come out,' Fyn called.

Byren shouldered his skates and strode up the rise towards the abbey. The familiar path between the pines was covered in deep snow. From this angle the pines themselves blocked out the abbey. Worry gnawed at him. Other than the royal symbol, what did he have to convince the abbot to hand over command of his warriors?

Only the conviction that he must save Rolencia.

Intent on his plan, Byren strode through the gates which traditionally stood ajar during the day to symbolise that the goddess's loving heart was always open to her children. He waved to the shadowed niche where the monks' gateman stood and strode across the fan-shaped courtyard.

Although it was midday, the acolytes hadn't swept the light carpeting of snow from the paving stones around the central fountain and its pool. Beyond the pool's stone lip, hot water steamed invitingly in the cool air.

Byren glanced to the left where the animals were housed. No sign of life. He glanced to his right. In early spring those chambers were where the monks handed out the hothouse seedlings so that the farmers could get two crops in during the intense, but brief, summer.

He skirted the fountain and headed for the central archway, directly opposite the gate. Rich, formal waiting rooms opened off this part of the courtyard. The greater part of the abbey was dug into the mountain itself, and was rumoured to extend to hidden chambers containing wealth dating from before his family ruled Rolencia, from the lost civilisation that had left those statues on Ruin Isle.

Byren grinned - treasure hunts for children. What concerned him now was convincing the abbot to hand over command of his warrior monks. And directly ahead, three levels up, were the abbot's chambers. Byren shaded his eyes and counted floors. The abbot would be behind that row of arched windows, if his memory served him right.

He heard no singing from the chantry so he must have just missed the midday prayers. A horse neighed and wandered out from the archway on his left. From inside the animal's enclosure a cow lowed with discomfort and several of the long-haired mountain goats gave voice in complaint. Byren recognised their tone. They hadn't been milked this morning.

That was odd. Was everyone down with a terrible winter fever? That might explain the silence and the neglect of the animals.

Byren went over to the horse. He let it nuzzle his hand, threaded his fingers through its mane and walked it back towards the archway that led to the animals' pens.

As he entered the arch's shadow he spotted several monks crouched in a circle as though inspecting a sick animal. Perhaps that was the problem.

Byren pulled the royal emblem from under his shirt. 'I need to see the abbot on king's business.'

The men stared at him.

Words of jest died on Byren's lips as his eyes adjusted and he realised these were not pious monks, but hard-faced warriors. They wore no surcoats to identify who they served so they were swords-for-hire.

They looked pale and bleary-eyed. None carried weapons other than their knives. As one tucked something in his pocket Byren recognised the wyvern symbol, tattooed on the man's forearm.

Merofynians. They must be escorting a wealthy merchant who had sought traveller's ease at the abbey. This made things difficult for, even though they were now the enemy, he could not confront them while they were under the protection of the abbey.

As he grappled with the ramifications, Byren caught the leader's signal to surround him. The men fanned out to cut him off. Escorts did not launch unprovoked attacks.

With a cry, Byren shouldered the closest warrior aside. The horse reared, making the two on the other side back off. A man lunged for Byren, caught the foenix symbol and tugged. With a jerk, the chain broke. Byren pulled away even as something thudded into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

One man grabbed him from behind. Clenching his fist, Byren drove the point of his elbow into the man's midriff and heard a satisfying grunt of pain as he broke a rib or two. A warrior lunged forwards, slashing with a hunting knife. Byren sidestepped, caught the man's knife arm, twisted, snapped his wrist and took the knife as it fell from his fingers.

With no time to draw his own weapons and no chance of defeating so many armed attackers, Byren thrust the injured man on top of his companions and ran a few steps. He threw his arm over the horse's neck and leaped across its back.

It danced sideways, frightened by the violence and smell of blood. Byren urged the horse out into the sunshine of the courtyard, crossing the stone paving. The Merofynians followed him, shouting a warning.

Byren turned the horse towards the abbey proper. He'd ride straight up the main steps and tell the abbot the men he had given sanctuary to had raised arms at a kingson!

Merofynian warriors charged out of the abbey's central archway.

'Cut him off. It's the kingson!' a warrior from the stables cried.

Blinking in the bright winter sun, the second lot of Merofynians fumbled for absent weapons. Byren knew the signs. They'd been up all night drinking, celebrating. The only explanation was that the abbey had fallen, impossible as it seemed.

He'd been lucky. In another day, they would have set guards and organised defences.

Even as this flashed through his mind, he was turning his horse and racing for the gate, where the gate keepers finally stepped out to block him. More Merofynian warriors.

Urging his horse to a gallop, Byren kicked one man, slashed at another and charged a third, who leaped aside at the last minute.

The terrified horse galloped down the steep slope, missed the first bend and ploughed through a knee-high snow bank, venturing into the pine forest. Byren would have urged it back onto the path, but he heard shouts behind him as the invaders organised pursuit.

His head buzzed. It hurt when he breathed. Why was his side sticky and hot? He felt his ribs and his hand came away bright with blood.

Byren cursed. He could not afford an injury, not with the Merofynians after him.