The Warrior King: Book Three of the Seer King Trilogy (30 page)

I was lying on my side, looking after him, and saw Yonge and Svalbard staring, waiting for orders. I motioned. On toward the house.

Yonge bared his fangs at me, but obeyed, and we crawled on, muscles screaming, still waiting for the guards to begin shouting.

Then we reached the end of the badly harvested land. There were three artesian wells in front of us, and I heard the purl of the water, saw it bubble out of the brick pools, and felt the parch in my throat. I looked for the sentries, but there was no one. Either the guards were out with the harvesters, or the mansion’s garden was only posted at night.

I came to a crouch, went forward like a rockape, hands almost brushing the ground, and was down again behind the brickwork. Yonge and Svalbard were beside me, and for an instant our guard slipped, cupped hands splashing water into our mouths, and I can seldom remember a sweeter drink.

But that was only for an instant, and then we slid into the garden, its paths winding through the tall bushes, once carefully sculpted, now abandoned. I could still recognize some of the topiary, dragons, lions, elephants; others were overgrown or fantastic beasts I didn’t know. All were evergreens and gave good concealment.

We hid, and there was now nothing to do but wait, praying that boy wouldn’t change his mind.

An hour passed, then another, and I knew Bairan wasn’t coming and everything had been wasted, when guards began scurrying back and forth around the house, and officers shouted orders, and the men formed up and were marched back toward the estate’s entrance, leaving two, no four, guards at rigid attention, and three or four officers pacing anxiously.

We slipped through the garden closer to the mansion. Bairan’s carriage would come up the drive in front of us, and he would dismount and go up the steps into the building.

In that instant, we’d fire, and kill a king.

We readied bows, nocked arrows. As I’d been trained, I began breathing deeply, calming myself. I held out my hand, and it was rigid, still.

Horses’ hooves made a drumroll, and cavalry trotted around the bend, then past us. Three carriages came next, one very ornate, drawn by six matching, beautiful bays, the other two not much more than ambulances.

The carriage stopped, fifty feet away, and our bows came up.

The door opened, and a cloaked figure started out.

Our bows were drawn, aimed, as King Bairan stepped out.

In that instant, just before loosing, one of the king’s equerries jumped down from the carriage’s driver’s bench, between us and our target.

Svalbard growled, not realizing it, a lion cheated of his prey, and I looked for a chance to shoot, any chance, no matter how feeble, seeing once more that imposing figure, half a head taller than I, hawk face hard with power and arrogance, and gods be damned, there was no chance, no way, we’d lost our opportunity, and I dropped the bow and jumped out of my concealment, into plain view in front of the horses for an instant, then behind a bush at the mansion’s steps, up them, and through the open, unattended doors, all eyes on the king and his courtiers prancing before him.

The hall was large, leading straight through the house, and chambers led off it. I saw a curtain, jerked it open, saw hanging cloaks, and was inside, pulling the curtain across, mind seething, lungs gasping as if I’d run for leagues. My dagger was in one hand, smallsword in the other.

Voices grew closer, and I knew one of them, that confident rumble, then others, agreeing, some lilting in fear, some soothing, and they were close, very close.

I tore the curtain open, and a man shrieked in terror, screaming like a woman, and King Bairan was standing no more than three feet away. He’d unclasped his cloak, and an aide was lifting it off his shoulders.

He saw me, and his mouth opened. I’m not sure, but I think he remembered me, knew me, and I leapt across the distance like a tiger, and Yonge’s silver dagger buried itself to the hilt in his guts, and I drove it upward, turning the blade, feeling it tear and rip his heart open.

Bairan made a terrible noise, a gagging groan, and blood gouted from his mouth into my face, and I kneed him away, pulled the blade free. A fiercely bearded man wearing the emblems of a
rast
was pulling at his ornate sword, and he died, and I was running toward the door.

Standing beside it was Ligaba Khwaja Sala, once almost my friend, and I think he knew what I had to do, for he was the best Maisir had, their hope with their king dead, and my blade flickered through his throat under his moustaches, and he spun and fell, and I was out the door.

A sentry saw me, waved feebly with his pike, dropped it and fled.

“This way,” I shouted, and Yonge and Svalbard ran toward me. All behind was screams, shouts, frenzy, and I paid no mind but ran for the side of the house, running for its rear, hoping to break away in the confusion, my mind drumming over and over,
he’s dead, the king is dead, Karjan is revenged … I am revenged … the bastard is dead, the king is dead …

Bugles hammered to my left, and the king’s escort turned back, and, lances leveled, was in a ragged line, charging away from the drive after us. All of us knew better than to run from a horseman, and so we stopped, spread out, steel in hand, ready to take as many of them to the Wheel as we could.

This was the end, but it was a warrior’s end, and who could die more easily than a soldier who’d slain his country’s greatest enemy?

I felt the smile on my lips and felt a strange, singing joy I’ve known but seldom, as the first rider’s lance drove toward me.

I brushed it aside with my sword, stepped forward, and sliced his horse’s throat. The horse screamed, went to its knees, pitching the rider into a tree, and there was another rider beside me, and I drove my sword into his side, and he rolled out of the saddle, and now there was a whirl of horses and men, the cavalrymen taken aback at the temerity of three men attacking an entire squadron. But the surprise would last only a moment, and then we’d swiftly be returned to the Wheel. I had time to wonder how Saionji would judge me, would judge the killing of Bairan, but there were two men coming at me, swords flashing.

Then came the coughing roar of a lion. I flashed a glance to the side and saw the great beast as it leapt completely over me, onto the back of a horse, its claws ripping the rider away, but the beast was green, green as grass, and behind it an elephant, also green, trumpeted its challenge and rumbled forward, trunk coiled, then hammer-striking a cavalryman out of his saddle with it.

The horses, untrained around elephants, went momentarily mad, kicking, bucking, stampeding. There were soldiers afoot, but there were other beasts attacking them, tigers, strange winged snakes, claws, fangs, all of them green, and this was Cymea’s promised surprise, her magic had animated the topiary bushes, as great a spell as any I’d seen cast by the greatest of wizards, the Seer King Tenedos.

Other beasts were roaring out of the garden, boars, enraged gaurs, and I shouted to Svalbard and Yonge, and we were running. Blood was trickling down Yonge’s arm, and Svalbard was favoring a leg, but we ran hard, behind the mansion, cutting behind the stables and through the orchards. One farmworker saw us, thought about shouting alarm, dove into a pig wallow instead.

I heard distant shouting, which would be my raiders feinting again against the Maisirian positions, but only a feint, intended merely as a diversion to help our escape, and then the back wall was there.

We scrambled over it and ran for another mile, then slowed to a walk, sheathing our weapons, as we came on another camp, trying to look like no more than Maisirian soldiers heading for a post somewhere. We tried to look solemn, but were hard-pressed to not laugh, not caper like fools.

We’d done the impossible.

We’d killed the king of Maisir and his most trusted adviser. Now all we had to do was the impossible once more and escape with our lives.

Our intent was to loop south, then west and north, through their lines to the pickup point, where horses were to be waiting for us.

But this was impossible. The Maisirians were like wasps that have just had their hive banged on by a child’s stick. They swarmed here and there, sometimes in regimental formation, sometimes squads, sometimes single men. I couldn’t tell if they were looking for us or just stumbling around, confused and enraged by the loss of Bairan.

But they were everywhere, and one incoherent stumbler could be as fatal as an organized sweep.

We went south almost to the ends of the valley, then ran into a cavalry screen that stopped us cold. I decided to go to ground for a time. We refilled our canteens at a stream, waded up it to leave no sign to either tracker or magician. The stream wound past a knoll high enough for an overlook that would give warning of intruders, and its top was covered with brambles.

We forced ourselves into its midst, then waited. The elation drained away, and now there was nothing but fear. If we were discovered, we’d have to go down fighting, for the most creative torturers the Maisirians had would be turned loose on us.

The day ended, and a long, cold night crawled past. I hoped Cymea and Curti had better luck than we did and had gotten through to safety. I realized I was worrying more about her than if she were just another soldier. Very well, I thought, it’s because she’s a woman, and, yes, very beautiful, but that still wasn’t enough explanation.

I turned away from those thoughts and took out my map. Nothing much came, except to stay where we were until the heat died. The word heat brought shivers … it was getting colder, and I sensed a storm coming.

Then dawn came. Yonge dug a tunnel, a mole tunnel, to the outside of the thicket, not for entry or exit, but for observation. Sometime about dank midday he finished his slow, silent digging, and everything was quiet except for the rattle of raindrops and the occasional dejected chirp of a wet bird.

I admired Svalbard, for he had the ability to sleep or become a silent stone for hours.

As for myself, I tried to think beyond this dripping clump of thorny brush. The memory of warm fires came, honey-sweetened mugs of spice drink, and that led naturally to food. We hadn’t brought anything to eat, not wanting to burden ourselves, and no one had been vaguely hungry until now.

I remembered one meal in the greatest detail. It was years ago, and I’d been assigned by the Emperor Tenedos to a mission in Hailu, one that, strangely enough, didn’t involve applying the empire’s iron boot to someone. I’d been returning from consultations with a local official, on a dreary day like this one, without escort, without bodyguard, when night caught me on the road and I was sure I’d be stuck, trying to pretend a tree was a proper roof, when I came on a tiny country inn.

The innkeeper wasn’t the best-tempered sort, nor were his half-dozen children and slatternly wife. But the room was spotless, the linen was clean, and the meal, ah, that meal. It began with a clear soup, with two mushrooms, spices, and a few diced green onions. Then there was a country pâté; trout broiled and seasoned with a strange spice that was alternately bitter, then sweet; young lamb chops in a mustard sauce with the freshest of garden vegetables; a cool drink of various fruits, followed by —

Yonge hastily crawled backward out of the tunnel. He motioned us to him, whispered, “The whole fucking Maisirian army’s on the march! Straight toward us!”

I was halfway down the tunnel, forcing my bulk through places Yonge would’ve slid through like a serpent, peered out.

The Man of the Hills wasn’t exaggerating. On both sides of our knoll were long columns of infantry and cavalry, all moving steadily south. Back toward Maisir!

We’d won! Then I saw smoke clouds billowing across the horizon to the north.

The Maisirians
were
retreating, but taking vengeance as they did, burning everything, fields, houses, villages as they went. I knew there were sprawled bodies and screaming innocents below those distant flames.

Once again, Urey was being put to the sword, and I’d been the cause.

I’d been afraid this would happen if I was successful. But I’d seen no other choice — it was either Numantia or Urey.

This was the sort of high judgment kings make and possibly glory in their great vision and power, but it nauseated me. I didn’t want to see any more of my handiwork and crawled back.

“We broke them,” Yonge whispered fiercely, and Svalbard nodded, a broad smile on his face. I’m sure they thought there was something wrong with me, that I felt no second onrush of joy.

The Maisirians grew closer, and there were more of them. Svalbard put an ear to the ground, waved at me, and I did the same. The ground was rumbling faintly from the million marching men, their wagons and horses.

All we had to do was wait until they passed, then make our way into Kallio and reunite with my army.

I no longer dreamed of meals but relearned the stoicism of a soldier, to simply wait until something came, without fear, without hope, without, in fact, thought. We just sat, half-asleep, swords ready, boots touching so anyone hearing anything could alert the other two.

In midafternoon, Yonge kicked me. But I was already alert. I’d heard the sound a moment after he did. Someone was pushing his way slowly into our thicket, moving directly, like a pigeon in sight of its coop.

Svalbard moved to one side of the tiny clearing, Yonge to the other. The intruder would come out between them and be dead before he could sound the alarm.

The rustling came closer, then stopped. A voice came.

“This is Cymea. Don’t kill me.”

There’s an old vulgarism — I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind — and that perfectly describes the three of us.

I finally managed: “Come ahead,” and the bedraggled magician pushed her way through the last brambles and I had her in my arms. She looked startled, then gave me a one-handed hug. The other still held her ready sword.

Embarrassed, I let her go.

“They backtracked us after I cast that spell against the garden,” she said, without preamble. “The king’s magicians must’ve been very alert, if slow. We cut our way out the back of the tent we’d been hiding in, and there were five soldiers coming toward us.