Warcry (20 page)

CHAPTER 28

THE SILENCE SEEMED ENDLESS AS KEIR TURNED ON his heel to face Durst. The Warlord crossed his arms over his chest. “You do not hold my token, Durst of Xy.”

Heath tensed, ready, and started watching the crowd for movement.

Durst snarled at Keir and limped toward the dais. “I spit on your token, Firelander. I will not consent to this abomination. I will not permit that whore—” Durst pointed at Lara. “You and your whore to raise the heir to the throne of Xy.”

The reaction of the crowd was what Heath expected. Some were looking around confused; others—the ones with armor and weapons—had determined looks. The Plains warriors all just looked angry. Those warriors had their hands on their hilts, looking about, waiting to see who would be friend or foe.

The Herald was still standing in the open doorway, his staff at the ready, with a faint hint of outrage in his eyes.

“You do not hold my token.” Keir spoke clearly, his voice calm and level. “I will take offense, Lord Durst.”

“And silence my voice with violence, I suppose, as you did before.” Durst was shaking with anger.

“I silenced your insult to my Warprize.” Keir’s voice didn’t change, but Heath heard the regret. “I acted as I would with one of the Plains, without thought. I have learned of your ways now. Apparently you have not learned ours.”

There was a stir through the crowd, and Heath smiled grimly. They’d thought to goad Keir into rash action, most likely, and Keir was not cooperating. He just stood, his arms crossed, and waited.

“Your consent to our marriage is not necessary, Lord Durst.” Lara’s expression was pleasant enough, but her voice had an edge to it. “If you do not wish to witness this ceremony, you are free to leave.”

“I am not alone, woman. There are those who stand with me.” Lord Durst gestured, and some of the Xyian men started to move toward the aisle.

Heath watched with narrowed eyes. It was about what he expected, in terms of numbers.

Of course, Lanfer was in front, armored and armed, with a smug look on his face.

Durst glanced back in satisfaction. “Renounce your Firelander paramour, Xylara, and send him back to the Plains. You are of the Blood, and—”

“You are a traitor, Durst,” Lara cried out, trying to step forward as if to confront the man. But Atira placed her foot firmly on the train, and that pulled Lara up short. “You are a traitor to your sworn and consecrated Queen, as are any who join with you.”

“Durst,” the Archbishop started, but Durst cut him off.

“You fat, pompous bastard, you’re the cause of this. You would go forward with the heathen, knowing—”

Browdus leaned forward, but the Archbishop shifted away from him. “For the best interest of Xy,” he said. “New trade routes mean—”

“Greed,” Durst spat. “You forsake the interests of Xy for the sake of your purse. Our purity demands we reject these people and their ways. Our war dead—their mounds still fresh outside these walls—cry out for vengeance. Who will heal those wounds?”

“I will,” Lara said.

She caught the attention of the entire room. “With this wedding.” She placed her hand on her belly. “With this child. We will go forth from our past, learn from our mistakes, and weave our peoples together. A peace, Durst. A true peace for Xyian and Plains folk alike.” Lara looked at Keir and reached out for him.

Keir stepped toward her and took her hand in his, looking down at her with a smile.

“Devoted One,” Lara said. “If you would . . .”

“No. Never. Not while I breathe,” Durst announced.

“Durst, see reason.” Lord Korvis spoke up, his lady at his side. “You are not the only one to have lost loved ones in the war. The Queen has the right of it. We must put aside—”

“Fool!” Durst didn’t bother to turn. “I can see there is only one way. If my words will not convince you, then blades must suffice.” He drew his dagger with a flourish. “Guards! To my side!”

Heads turned, staring, but the castle guards remained in their places.

Heath stepped forward. “We aren’t idiots, Durst.”

Durst gaped at him.

“Detros spotted the men you bribed having a bit too much coin, and offering to trade for this duty. You must think us stupid to ignore those signs.” Heath put his hand on his hilt. “Your bribed supporters are elsewhere, under guard. I will deal with their betrayal later.”

Heath watched as Durst seemed to shrink, lowering his blade slowly. The man leaned heavily on his cane and looked back at Lanfer.

Lanfer still stood in the same position, but some of the smugness was gone. He was eyeing the guards lining the walls now, with the knowledge that they were no longer allies.

Heath remained wary. So far, the only blade out was Durst’s dagger, but that could change in an instant.

“Durst, see reason, man,” Lord Korvis repeated himself. “The Queen will be merciful. I’ve seen her justice and know it to be fair.”

“You’ll get no support from me, Durst,” Lord Sarrensan joined in. “Put your dagger away, and let us see this done.”

Heath stood, waiting for the man to choose.

OTHUR SIGHED AND STARTED TOWARD DURST.

Anna tried to pull him back, her face filled with fear, but he shook his head and pulled away. “Someone has to try, love.”

He moved up next to the Warlord, who gave him a worried glance. Othur focused on Durst, standing there, looking forlorn. “Lord Durst,” he started, keeping his voice low. “Please. We do not agree, but there is no reason for blood to be shed this day.” Othur stepped off the dais, spreading his empty hands as he approached the man. “The Queen would permit you to withdraw to your lands, to live in peace. No one wants you to suffer any more than you already have. Any more than we all have.”

Durst’s eyes were a blank, his lips moving but no sound issuing forth. He seemed a man defeated.

“Peace comes at a cost,” Othur said. “But we fail our dead if we do not try to end the fighting.”

“We could still fight,” Durst mumbled. “We could drive them from our lands.”

Othur moved closer. “Let there be no more talk of death. Let us focus on the future, on the work that needs doing to ensure our prosperity.” He took another step closer.

“Father,” Heath warned.

“Heath, its fin—”

Durst threw his head up at the sound. Othur saw the madness raging in his eyes.

“You have a living son!” Durst screamed, spit flying from his lips. With one fierce move, he thrust his dagger in Othur, piercing his chest.

Pain flared through Othur’s chest as he staggered back.

DURST STARED IN ASTONISHMENT AT THE BLADE he had buried in Othur’s chest.

The stunned silence around him was pierced by Anna’s scream.

The dagger hilt slipped from Durst’s hand as Othur lurched back. Terrified, desperate for a weapon, Durst grabbed for the sword on Othur’s belt. The Sword of Xy, pulled free of its sheath, gleamed in the light.

The room exploded behind him in hoarse cries and the ring of blade on blade. Heath lunged to catch his father, struggling to ease his fall. Othur’s hand fumbled for the dagger handle, surrounded by blood.

Xylara had disappeared from the dais, the mantle abandoned on the floor. The damned Firelanders were pulling their weapons. In a moment, they would attack, and he’d die at their hands.

But he had that moment and a breath left. The boy was on his knees in front of Durst, cradling his father, crying out his name.

Durst swung the great crystal sword up over his head and put every ounce of his strength into the downward blow at Heath’s neck.

A sword flickered out in a block that Durst could not evade. In horror, he watched the crystal strike the steel.

With a loud ringing sound, the crystal sword shattered.

Keir of the Cat stood there, snarling.

Durst backed away, dropping the hilt of the sword.

AT DURST’S CRY, ATIRA DREW HER HIDDEN DAGGERS and stepped in front of Lara. Amyu and Yveni ripped the mantle from Lara’s shoulders, ignored her struggles, and with Rafe’s aid, shoved her between the throne and the wall. Prest and Rafe took their positions again, drawing blades and keeping Lara confined.

The rest of the room was filled with screaming women and battling warriors. Atira had a brief glimpse of Liam being attacked by two Xyians, one threatening him from behind. Then a cloaked figure leaped at the Xyian and bore him down, daggers flashing.

Then Durst heaved the crystal sword over his head, threatening Heath.

Atira’s heart stopped. She was too far, too far—

Keir moved, drawing his own blade, and blocked the attack. The crystal sword shattered with a ringing sound.

“Stop, stop!” the Archbishop was crying out, but no one heeded. The two acolytes were scrambling to get out of the way.

Eln was kneeling at Othur’s side. “I’ll see to him,” the tall healer snapped.

Heath stood, his face contorted with rage, his hands covered in his father’s blood. He pulled his sword and dagger.

Durst turned and fled into the melee.

Heath followed.

Atira looked at Keir, who stood before the throne, both swords drawn. He gave her a nod; he and Prest and Rafe would guard the Warprize.

Atira launched herself after Heath.

THE FIGHTING RAGED THROUGHOUT THE THRONE room. Heath watched Durst weave his way through the mass of warriors, headed for the main doors. Fear made the man faster than Heath had expected, but Heath’s rage fueled his own legs.

Bodies sprawled on the white marble floor, forcing Heath to watch his footing as he ran. He caught a glimpse of Lanfer but was past the man before he could do more than lift a sword. Lanfer was not his target.

The Herald stepped into the door, his face twisted in anger as Durst approached. The frail man swung his staff at Durst. Durst ducked and the staff cracked against the doorway.

Durst paused long enough to push Kendrick into Heath’s path, and then he was off, running toward the main doors.

Heath caught the Herald and twisted around him, leaving him clinging to the doorjamb. He paused just long enough to make sure the old man was steady on his feet before continuing on. He ran down the corridor, past the startled faces of the guards, and burst out into the courtyard.

The area was awash with people frantically trying to mount and flee. Ladies in their finery were running for the gates. Heath stopped, sucking in deep breaths, looking—

Durst was off to the left, trying to mount a panicked horse. He had one foot in the stirrup, hopping around, trying to draw himself up.

Heath sheathed his sword, keeping his dagger out. He strode over, grabbed Durst by the collar and yanked him back.

Durst fell, sprawling on the cobblestones, staring up at Heath. “Do it,” he panted, his breath harsh. “Kill me.”

Heath gestured for two of the guards, who came running at his command. He heaved Durst up to his knees. “Bind him,” Heath commanded. He looked off to the gate in the castle wall. The gates remained closed. “Let no one through,” he called out over the milling crowd.

One of the guards in the tower lifted a hand in acknowledgment.

Durst looked up, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. “Kill me, damn you.”

“You’ll die at the Queen’s command, and no other,” Heath said as Durst was dragged to his feet and bound. “But I pray . . .” Heath leaned in to stare at Durst, “I pray it is by my hand.” He gestured to the guards. “Bring him.”

They hauled him back through the hall, Heath leading the way. The panic was starting to subside; even here, bodies were sprawled out, with the guards seeing to the wounded.

Detros came up, his face grim. “The fight didn’t last long, but there’s damage enough done. The Archbishop is down.”

“That priest we sequestered,” Heath said. “Send for him. I need to—”

“You need to see to your father, lad,” Detros said sorrowfully. “I’ll see to this for now.”

Heath grabbed Durst’s tunic and dragged the man through the double doors.

The throne room was filled with the moans of the injured, and some of the castle guards had a group of lords on their knees in the center of the room. Heath threw Durst in with them before he let himself look at the dais.

His father lay there, propped up in Keir’s arms, Lara and his mother kneeling at his side. A part of Heath noted that Eln was tending to the downed Archbishop. Crystal shards cracked underfoot, but Heath paid them no mind. All he cared for was his father.

Prest, Rafe, Amyu, and Yveni stood guard over them all, their swords still drawn.

Lara lifted her tearstained face to Heath as he knelt next to her. She’d wadded up a corner of the mantle and was pressing it to his father’s chest.

Heath met her gaze as his mother sobbed. Lara shook her head slightly.

“My son,” Othur rasped.

Heath reached for his father’s shaking hand.

Othur smiled. “So proud of you, my son. I love you.”

“I love you, father.” Heath choked out the words.

“Lara, daughter of my heart.” Othur smiled up at her. “Proud of you as well. You’ll be a good Queen.”

Lara reached out to stroke his cheek. “I will try, Father.”