Within the Hollow Crown (33 page)

And so it didn’t matter that the King had actually abandoned the battlefield. The soldiers of Rone, though few remained, put up the kind of fight that legends are made of.

---

Michael and Vye arrived at the Lunapera, the precipice above the forest of the Turinheld. The Moon was full, covering the canopy of trees in a silky light. It was exactly one month since the day Argos had summoned his Turin-Sen to the mountaintop to begin this war. And it was the place where, one way or another, this war would end.

Argos leapt from behind the cover of trees, catching Michael off guard and smacking his Claymore against Michael’s chest plate.

Vye charged in, giving Michael a chance to recover his breath. The stroke hadn’t pierced his armor, but Argos’ swings packed quite a punch.

Argos flung his hand in the air, and a bright flicker of light ascended into the air. A signal flare. Vye realized he was calling in the cavalry. They were pretty isolated up here, but reinforcements couldn’t be that far off.

Argos focused his attacks on Michael, berating the newfound King with swing after brutal swing. Vye didn’t have the kind of ego that was hurt by being considered Argos’ second best enemy. Hell, she was used to being underestimated.  But there was something desperate about the way Argos attacked Michael. Like his life depended on it.

All the better for me, Vye thought. She waved her arm, forcing a loose tree branch to hurl at Argos’ face. Argos could deflect that easily enough. It was child’s play. But while he was parrying Michael and deflecting the branch, he just didn’t have enough arms to stop Vye from slipping to his other side and slashing him across the gut.

That got his attention. Vye could sense immediately that she had become the focus of his attacks. Sword and spell were hurled at her with such speed and recklessness that Vye could barely evade one before the other was in her face. She was operating on instinct. Reflex. She was being worn out.

But Argos was ignoring Michael altogether. Not that Michael was free to do whatever he wanted, but that Michael was in no immediate danger. Argos was doing the bare minimum to keep the King from hitting him. If Vye could get Argos to waste one move, to lose one second in his assault, Michael could finish him.

Argos hammered away at Vye, his Claymore whistling in the wind as it circled around him, assailing Vye’s position. She parried every strike, backing up, backing up...

She could feel the open air behind her. She was backing right up to the cliff. She didn’t have a lot of time...

Argos lifted a boulder, launching it at Vye. Vye had only a second to think, but if she could time it right, this would be it. She remembered her fight with Selikk, when she had accidentally sent a plank of wood meant for her head right back at her enemy. The best defense is a good offense. This time, it would be on purpose.

She repelled the boulder right back at Argos. Argos, caught in the middle of a swing, had only a fraction of a second to deflect the boulder. He returned the favor, repelling the boulder right back at Vye...

But while he was doing that, in that fraction of a second, he was completely vulnerable, and Michael strafed to his left and attacked Argos from the back. The Saintskeep plunged all the way through Argos’ body, entering from just under the left shoulder blade and emerging from just left of his sternum.

A jolt of energy ran down the blade and through Michael’s arms, knocking him off Argos’ back. Vye, caught off guard, took the boulder in the stomach.

Argos turned to Michael, the sword still skewered through him.

“Do you think you can kill me?” he said, laughing, “I am a God.”

Vye lifted herself to her feet. In terror, she watched as Argos raised his palm to Michael. Without the Saintskeep in hand, Vye wasn’t sure Michael would survive. Vye grabbed her sword off the ground and turned to distract Argos. She was almost there—

It was too late. Argos had fired the death hex from his palm, and it hit Michael square in the chest. Michael cried out in a horrible anguish as the sparks burned away his life energy. He collapsed and was silent.

For an instant, Vye remembered every time she had ever felt angry. When the boys used to taunt her. When her father and brothers had been killed. When Rutherford had acted like an idiot. But for that instant, Vye recognized that she was experiencing something on a completely different level now. This was purified Fury. This was exquisite Rage.

She was already poised to strike Argos, but she decided against it. She sheathed her sword and grabbed the handle of the Saintskeep, which still protruded from Argos’ back. She could now move Argos around like a puppet. She held the Saintskeep tight as she turned it, and twisted it, and pushed it, and pulled it. With each move, more muscles were torn, more flesh sundered, more blood released. Argos writhed in a kind of pain previously known only to his victims.

Vye lost track of time. She was being enveloped by something so primal, that her only concern was to make sure his pain lasted as long as it possibly could.

Finally, Vye pressed Argos into a tree, used her boot for leverage, and pulled the Saintskeep out of his chest cavity. She expected him to fall lifelessly to the floor. Instead, he turned to her. Blood oozed from every orifice, whether natural or formed by steel. He cried blood. He left pools of blood as his footprints. He spoke words of blood.

“Vengeance!” he cried. “You turned Halmir on me! You evil witch!”

It was the mention of Halmir’s name that pushed Vye over the edge. Argos lifted his palm to her, but when he tried to cast the death spell, it didn’t work. He was fully spent.

Vye realized she had won. She didn’t have to worry about getting the upper hand, or protecting anyone or anything. The two of them were alone on a mountaintop. She was tired, and hurt, and had a weariness in her soul that she had never felt before. But she still had some magic left to cast. And Argos had none. He stumbled forward, a monstrosity of what he once was. His green cloak and armor now crimson under the moonlight.

Vye held her left hand out and thought about the lifeforce of Argos, and how she wanted to extinguish that flame.

Her mind raced with thoughts of revenge, anger…

Murder…

And so a small burst of light fired from her palm, and it fired at Argos at the speed of an arrow. And it hit him. And it crackled over his body. Any of his nerve endings that could still register anything would feel only pain.

And finally he died.

Chapter 90: The Unity Treaty

The battle ended when Vye returned.

She carried the body of King Michael in her arms, appearing in the middle of the field. She was immediately surrounded by the Turin soldiers, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I want to speak to whoever is in charge,” she demanded. Ridiculous, right? One warrior, burdened by the body of a fallen comrade, standing in the middle of a battalion of enemies. Demanding anything.

But it must have been something in her tone of voice, because a Turin general stepped forward. In the absence of Argos and Sandora, he was now in charge. He even waited while Vye performed the Final Rites over Michael’s body. When Vye was done with the ritual, she took a sack from her belt and tossed it at the general’s feet.

“Argos is dead,” Vye said. The general realized what was in the bloody bag. He could see Argos’ eyes staring up at her from his disembodied head. “Your war is over. March your soldiers north. We will grant you safe passage back to the Turinheld.”

“We still outnumber you by--” the General began.

“You have fifteen minutes,” Vye said, “To begin your march. If you haven’t cleared the field within the hour, I will murder all of you.”

And she made her eyes glow blue, like Argos had when he invaded Halmir’s mind. It didn’t actually mean anything. Argos or any of the Turin-Sen would have known better. They would have realized that making your eyes glow was just a trick. But the General believed Vye. He believed that if this woman so chose, she could have singlehandedly defeated the entire army.

So the Turin marched away. And the Rone cheered. And the sun rose...

---

By the light of morning, the city of Hartstone was much worse to behold than Jareld could have imagined.

He had become accustomed to the stench. It was actually worse than the Caves of Drentar, though only marginally. But as bad as the odor was, the sight was worse. Who knew the human body could be mangled in so many ways? Who knew that there were so many people in the Kingdom that could die on one day? Even if you saw the number written on a piece of paper, your brain couldn’t comprehend the multitude of corpses.

Landos got together the largest unit of healthy soldiers he could afford and sent them out under the care of Lord Kelliwick. They followed the Turin army all the way north. They didn’t engage, they didn’t hinder. They just made sure the Turin took the most direct route north, and didn’t pause for anything more than the minimum amount of sleep.

For the next few days, Landos organized every survivor to handle the wounded, the fires, and the dead. There were too many corpses to deal with appropriately. They were thrown into a funeral pyre, Rone and Turin alike, and burned. The smokestack from this endeavor could be seen for miles in every direction. The retreating Turin saw it, as they looked over their shoulders.

Jareld tried desperately to keep track of the numbers, but it was overwhelming. In the end, he had an estimate, which brought the death toll to something around eleven thousand Rone and ten thousand Turin.

During these days, food was provided by every farmer, baker, and mill in the region. Jareld ate many meals with many people, listening to their stories, learning the names of their family members who had died in the fight. Some had died at Hartstone. Some had died before that.

There was a sense of community the likes of which Jareld had never experienced before. They were all in it, together. They were all victims of the same crime, sufferers of the same loss. From all parts of the country, from all walks of life. They were all the same. They were all citizens of the same wounded country.

Eventually, the people began to filter out. The territories to the north had been torched and razed, but the land would heal, just as the people would. Over the next few weeks, many of the ships that had fled the land returned, having heard of the Rone victory.

Jareld stayed in Hartstone for two weeks. While he had no particular obligation, he felt it necessary to help Landos, Sarah, and Vye put things back together, as best as they could. Finally, he found it time to return to the Towers of Seneca. Before he left, Landos informed him that he would be called upon, very soon, to help him with something.

“With what?” Jareld said.

“I can’t say yet,” Landos said, “But look for a message from me.”

While this did intrigue Jareld for a short while, he soon got to thinking about the Towers, and how it would be good to be home again.

He arrived home on his birthday, which he didn’t realize until Gallar said something.

“It’s my birthday?” Jareld responded.

“Yes,” Gallar said, “Don’t you know your own birthday. You’re eighteen today.”

“Oh,” Jareld said, “I guess I won’t be the youngest person to graduate from the Towers, huh?”

“No,” Gallar said, “But you accomplished your mission.”

“Thor didn’t,” Jareld said.

Jareld returned to his old quarters and tried to settle back into some sort of routine. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know why.

He came to Gallar early one morning, about a week after he had returned.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jareld said.

“I’ve been reading your journal,” Gallar said, “Very good stuff.”

“We discovered a new species of insect,” Jareld said. “I want to call it Insectus Thor.”

Jareld handed him the sketch, which Thor had actually done weeks ago, in the Caves. Gallar looked it over and nodded.

“Very good,” Gallar said, looking over the creature. “I’m sure he would have been thrilled.”

Jareld was officially graduated in a special ceremony the next day. Usually, the ceremonies would happen in the summer, but Gallar didn’t want Jareld to wait. He had done all the Towers could ask of someone.

Jareld was assigned to tutor Emily Brimford the following week. She had returned from the sea with many of the refugees, and had eagerly relinquished her crown and title. Since she learned that she was not descended from the line of Kings, she gave up the name Rone. She met with Duke Brimford, and formally requested to be adopted as a daughter to that family, since it was the closest she had to a family anymore. She was now looking at a life without Timothy, and had decided a more formal education was a good place to start. Jareld was given quarters in Cliffhaven, and moved there to begin his work.

Jareld taught there for a week before the love affair started. Court gossip chalked it up to two people getting over tremendous losses, but there was more to it than that. The two of them just clicked together, like pieces of a puzzle.

A month later, the steward announced there was a guest at the door, for Jareld.

“For me?” Jareld said, tilting his head to one side.

“Yes sir,” the steward said, “A rather flamboyantly dressed fellow, three-cornered hat, eye patch.”

Jareld met Corthos in the foyer.

“Master Jareld,” Corthos said, rolling the r’s as much as he could, “It be good to see ya’ about.”

“Corthos!” Jareld said, clasping arms with the fellow. “You’re looking well.”

“And you,” Corthos said. “You be back to your full health and strength.”

“And what’s this?” Jareld said, seeing an insignia on Corthos’ arm, “You’re a Captain in the Count’s Navy?”

“Aye,” Corthos said, “For now. The Countess Vye gave me the title, said I was free to move about the Kingdom under the Deliem flag while everything gets sorted out.”

“Countess Vye?” Jareld said.

“Aye,” Corthos said, “With Michael dead, the County went to her. Just sorta happened. Can’t imagine anyone objected.”

“What about Landos?”

“He be in Anuen, with Queen Sarah,” Corthos said, “Which is why I am here.”

Corthos produced a large envelope, which was closed with the Royal Seal. Jareld opened it, and found a note from Landos. It asked him to appear in Anuen in two weeks time for a very formal and official event.

“I also have something fer you,” Corthos said. At that point, another man emerged from the doorway. It was Flopson. “Meet me first mate.”

“He’s your first mate?”

“Aye,” Corthos said. “Not so good with me bootlaces, but real helpful in a pinch.”

Flopson was carrying a small wooden crate. It was the one Sir Dorn had used to store the papers in. Jareld had all but forgotten about it.

“Thank you Flopson.”

“No problem stinky.”

“Hey, I’ve been able to take regular baths here.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“Ya know, matey, we be going to Anuen from here. You could take a ride on the Leaking Tub.”

“I’d love to,” Jareld said, successfully hiding the surfacing memory of his time spent on that boat, “But I have responsibilities here.”

“I could go, too,” Emily said. “The Duke is taking a carriage down, but I have also been invited. I could come with you.”

“Emily,” Jareld said, then, remembering himself, “My Lady, perhaps the Leaking Tub won’t have the sort of…accommodations you’re used to.”

“I was a refugee on a cattle ship for two weeks,” Emily said. “I’m sure I can survive this.”

“Nay,” Corthos said, “The Leaking Tub, she be better than you remember, Mister Jareld.”

When Jareld saw the ship, he had to admit Corthos was right. Each night while traveling up the coast, Corthos had treated the ship to a new repair. It had been completely repainted, the masts and sails had been replaced, the deck had been refinished, and all of the warped wood had been taken out for fresh oak.

It also flew the flag of Deliem, the White Stag over Green. Jareld had not expected this.

“What about the Jolly Roger,” Jareld said.

“All in good time, matey.”

The interior of the boat had also been fixed. During some time in dry dock, all the pests had been removed, the bottom completely cleaned out, and each cabin was refinished with as much comfort as could fit in that size boat.

Well, almost all the pests had been cleaned out. When Jareld returned to his quarters, he found Herbert, now in a little cage with all the amenities a rat could ask for.

It was a comfortable ride down the coast, and Jareld was happy during that time. The Towers had become an uncomfortable place for him, though at the time he hadn’t been able to figure out why. He realized now that it was because nobody there knew what it was like, fighting in the dark, watching people die, struggling against a complete lack of hope.

Now, in the company of Corthos, Flopson, and Emily, he felt more at home. They didn’t talk about anything that had happened, for the most part, but Jareld felt it was easier to not talk about it with them than with anyone else.

And so it was that they arrived on the shores of Anuen. There they were greeted by servants of the King. These servants, who would otherwise have been unemployed, said they were there on instructions from Landos.

As it turned out, Jareld and Emily weren’t the only ones invited. Other boats and carriages were arriving at the West Gate of the Castle Anuen. Each ship and carriage bore a flag from a different County of the Kingdom.

Countess Vye was there, representing Deliem. She had a new staff, since Michael, Calvin, and Gabriel were dead, and Landos and Flopson had moved on to other locations.

Duke Brimford and Emily Brimford were there to represent the Duchy of Brimford. Christopher Avonshire, the youngest and only surviving son of Duke Avonshire, represented the Duchy of Avonshire. Count Arwall and Lord Kelliwick came from Arwall. Count Ralsean, Sarah’s father, was there for Ralsean.

Of the other seven Counties, only five were represented. Jareld saw delegations from Trentford, Glastonshire, Eastmore, Morrhampton, and Oldbourne. Maethran and Cornwile, the first regions to be attacked, were already being colonized by the Turin when the war ended. Currently, negotiations were taking place, but it was possible that some of the land would be lost to the Turin after all.

The delegates were all brought to the Terrace for a banquet. The Terrace was a grand open space on the southwest corner of the castle, which jutted out from the main walls and gave one the sensation of being on a stone deck of a ship, hovering five stories above the sea. On this particular summer day, it was adorned with a buffet table, sitting tables with sun umbrellas, and banners for each of the ten present Duchies and Counties.

The feast lasted all afternoon, while the delegates met one another and spoke of their hardships and small triumphs over the last few months. Each had some part in the war, whether it was fighting on the field or fleeing with their families to the shores. Jareld caught up with Vye, who seemed quieter than he remembered her being. It was strange, Jareld thought, to see her in a dress and without a sword.

The two people Jareld did not see that day were Landos and Sarah. He inquired with the servants a couple of times, to which he was told they would be joining the party shortly.

The sun was setting when Jareld noticed Landos enter from the Castle and stand on a small podium that had been set at the corner of the Terrace.

“Please, please,” Landos bellowed across the crowd, “May I please have your attention.”