King Breaker (23 page)

Naked, bruised and bleeding, she lay there like a broken doll.

‘Garyth, when the Lady Sefarra wakes, help clean her up.’

No answer.

‘Garyth?’

The boy couldn’t take his eyes off the mutilated body of Warlord Cortigern.

From the front end of the house Fyn heard a great roaring. Surely, if the spar warriors had been drunk, the fighting would be over by now. ‘Garyth. I have to go.’

The lad blinked and focused on Fyn.

‘Watch over Sefarra. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

This time the boy nodded. They both glanced to the girl, who’d come round and was watching them from behind ragged black hair.

Fyn shook his head. What was Isolt going to say when he brought back this half-crazed creature?

As he ran out of the chamber and down the hall, the tone of battle struck him as wrong.

He came to an abrupt stop on the balcony. Broad stairs stretched down to the great hall, where fires had broken out amidst overturned tables and broken crockery. Cortigern’s warriors had surrendered and been herded into small groups, but the slaughter had not stopped there.

He watched, appalled, as the Merofynians put the spar warriors to the sword, one by one.

Knowing their fate, the raiders fought like wild beasts, roaring and cursing as they died.

Each time one of them died, the Merofynians howled in triumph. Their raw bestiality made Fyn’s stomach turn. He’d never seen anything like it. ‘
Stop!
’

They ignored him. They probably didn’t hear him.

The methodical slaughter went on. A man did terrible things in battle, but this...

Fyn ran down the grand staircase, across to a cluster of Lord Wytharon’s men. ‘I want prisoners. Leave them alive.’

Only one man turned to him, and there was no humanity in his face.

Fyn took a step back. ‘Where’s Lord Wytharon?’

‘Dead.’ The man gestured. ‘Killed by these bastards.’

This just got worse and worse.

Another victorious howl greeted another spar warrior’s death.

In desperation, Fyn glanced around and spotted the captain of the city-watch. Leaping across a body, he dodged an overturned chair and grabbed Aeran from behind. ‘Captain, control your men.’

The grizzled veteran turned, weapon raised. Fyn diverted the blade with a practised sweep.

Aeran blinked. And the blood lust faded from his eyes.

‘Get the men under control. This is murder.’

Aeran shrugged. ‘That’s easier said than done. Wytharon’s dead, and his men want revenge. Lord Travany and that pup Elrhodoc won’t take orders from me. As for the men... They’ve seen spar barbarians come over the divide for the first time in two hundred years, and they’re out for blood.’

Fyn glanced around in time to see one of the queen’s guards pull a lad from under a table where he’d been hiding. For a heartbeat, Fyn thought it was Lynos, but then he saw the lad’s leather vest was embossed with the horned head of a centicore.

The lad twisted and writhed as his captor handed him to Elrhodoc, who held him off the floor.

The commoners and lords’ men alike watched unmoved while Elrhodoc raised his knife.

‘Stop right there!’ Fyn marched towards them. ‘He’s only a boy, for pity’s sake.’

‘Spar brats grow into spar barbarians.’ Elrhodoc’s voice was thick with contempt.

‘Is that any reason for Merofynians to behave like barbarians? Is that what the queen’s guard has come to?’

Elrhodoc’s gaze faltered. A few of his men looked down, but others glared and muttered.

Fyn drew breath with no idea what he would say next. The abbey weapons-master had once told him that some men only obeyed if the order was backed up by violence. Did he have to kill someone to make his point?

A high, eerie laugh echoed through the hall.

Everyone turned to look up at the grand staircase.

Naked, covered in blood, Sefarra stood with one arm raised, holding something bloody. In her other hand she swung Cortigern’s head by his hair.

The men in the hall below went absolutely still.

She gave a shriek of triumph and threw both objects down the stairs. The head rolled over and over, bouncing in time to her laughter.

‘Mulcibar’s Fiery Breath!’ Elrhodoc’s voice shook.

Taking advantage of their shock, Fyn grabbed the spar lad and crossed the hall. He thrust the lad into Captain Aeran’s arms, then ran halfway up the steps and turned to face the hall.

‘Captain Elrhodoc, have your men put out the fires. Captain Aeran, restrain the prisoners. Lord Travany, see that Lord Wytharon’s body is carried back to his yacht. See to the wounded and bury the dead. Have your men clean this hall. Lady Gennalla doesn’t want to return to a charnel house!’

He did not wait to see if he would be obeyed, but pivoted on his heel and bounded up the steps. Sefarra had fallen to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Young Garyth crouched behind her, trying ineffectually to console her.

Fyn crouched so that he was level with the girl. ‘Your mother sent me to get you.’

She blinked, but did not quite focus on him.

Fyn swept off his cloak, wrapped it around her shoulders and helped her to her feet. She stumbled a little as he led her down the passage.

Garyth trotted along beside them. ‘I tried to stop her. I really did.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Fyn told him, speaking for Sefarra’s benefit. ‘Everything’s going to be all right now.’

As he passed the bedchamber, the hog-tied warrior lifted his head and glared at them. Fyn shielded the captive from Sefarra. He wasn’t sure if she would weep or try to cut his throat.

‘Bring a candle, Garyth.’ Fyn entered the opposite bedroom and passed into the bathing chamber. ‘Run a bath.’

The lad lit the burner, then ran water in the sunken tub.

‘You’ll feel better after a bath,’ Fyn told Sefarra. It was what his old nurse used to say. But the girl just stood there.

‘Garyth, go find a woman to help her.’

Alone with Sefarra, Fyn had no idea what to say. Everything he thought of seemed woefully inadequate.

After a moment, she drew a shaky breath. ‘I’m all right.’

He didn’t believe her.

‘I promised myself I’d kill him, and I did. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.’ She met Fyn’s eyes, her expression calm and contained. ‘You can go now.’

Fyn shook his head and waited until Garyth returned with three women, all older than the girl. One carried a change of clothes. They clucked over Sefarra and shooed him out.

It was time to deal with the surviving spar warriors.

In the other bedchamber he pulled the hog-tied warrior onto his knees and stood over him. ‘Who are you?’

The man spat.

‘Threaten to cut him,’ Garyth suggested.

Fyn hadn’t realised the lad had followed him. ‘You can leave now.’

‘But—’

‘
Go
.’

The boy muttered as he went.

Fyn saw the warrior look past him to the bed where Cortigern’s mutilated corpse lay. From this angle only his foot was visible, but they both knew what had happened to him.

‘Your warlord’s dead, and your fellow warriors are now captives,’ Fyn told him. ‘Cortigern broke two hundred years of peace—’

‘...in here with you.’ Captain Aeran’s voice carried as he thrust the spar lad Fyn had saved into the chamber ahead of him.

The captive warrior stiffened and Fyn noted their similar features.

The boy’s horrified eyes went straight to the mutilated body on the blood-soaked bed. Fyn cursed. Crossing the chamber, he drew the bed curtains, hiding the grisly scene.

By chance, Fyn happened to glance at the boy the moment the lad noticed the captive. The boy’s mouth opened in dismay, then closed firmly. Clearly, the lad expected the worst, which was not surprising after what he’d seen.

Captain Aeran made his report. The estate was secure, the fires were out and the prisoners all safely locked in the ice-lined cold cellar. ‘That should take the fire out of their bellies!’

‘Well done.’ Fyn wanted to ask what Travany and Elrhodoc were up to, but did not want to reveal his distrust of the Merofynian nobility before their common enemy.

Aeran gestured to the captive warrior. ‘Who’s that?’

‘The boy’s father,’ Fyn said, guessing. Both boy and man gave a tiny jump of surprise. ‘And Cortigern’s second in command.’

Fyn drew his knife and walked towards the captive. The man stiffened, giving the lad the smallest shake of his head.

Be brave, be strong. Don’t shame me by crying out when I die.
Fyn didn’t need to hear words to know what passed between them.

Without a word, Fyn went around behind Cortigern’s second in command and cut the rope that bound his hands and ankles. The captive fell forward.

‘Get up.’

The man struggled to stand on numb limbs. Fyn glanced around the chamber and spotted a pair of breeches. He tossed the pants to the boy. ‘Help your father.’

The man looked up, surprised by this courtesy.

Fyn moved so he could watch the warrior and his son, while speaking with Aeran. ‘Have your men remove Cortigern’s body. Then meet me in the next room.’

Aeran eyed the man and boy. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’ll leave a couple of men with you.’

So Fyn and two city-watchmen escorted the captives to the next chamber. Fyn gestured to a chest at the end of the bed. ‘Sit, both of you.’

The two watchmen waited at the door, while Fyn built up a fire. It was the cold time of night before dawn.

He turned to face his captives. ‘I’m King Byren’s brother, Lord Protector Merofyn. It is within my rights to have you and all your men taken to Port Mero and executed.’

‘Why don’t you?’ the man asked.

Because it went against everything Fyn believed in. He glanced to the fire. ‘The deaths of the warlord and his best warriors will leave a power vacuum on Centicore Spar. You don’t want another spar’s warlord marching in and capturing your women and land. Am I right?’

The man gave one short nod.

Fyn studied the man. ‘Your name?’

‘Cortovar, half-brother to Cortigern.’

‘And the lad?’

‘My son, Cortomir.’

‘If you give your word there will be no more attacks from Centicore Spar, you can return home with your men.’

Cortovar nodded once. ‘You have it.’

‘You will need to swear your spar’s oath of allegiance to Isolt Wyvern Queen. She—’

‘They say she keeps a wyvern that eats out of her hand,’ the boy said, interrupting. ‘Is it true?’

‘It’s true.’

‘A saltwater wyvern?’

Fyn nodded.

‘What’s wrong with your hair?’ the boy asked. ‘Did you have a fever and get it all cut off?’

‘No. I was raised to be a warrior monk.’

‘Can I see the wyvern?’

‘Tomorrow, when your father gives his oath.’ As Fyn answered, he noticed Cortovar’s mouth twitch. The man thought him weak. He had to remember that these were spar warriors, used to a harsh life.

‘Heed me, Cortovar. Your warriors have already paid for Cortigern’s folly. Every second man has been executed.’ He made it sound as if it had been on his orders. ‘Let this be a lesson to you.’

The man cloaked his expression. Once Cortovar was over the Divide he had no reason to honour the agreement.

‘You will keep your word,’ Fyn told him, ‘because I’m taking Cortomir back to Port Mero with me.’

The boy glanced to his father, who had gone very still.

‘Do you understand?’ Fyn asked.

Cortovar’s eyes burned with fury. He understood.

Chapter Nineteen

P
IRO WAS UP
and dressed at first light, surprising the kitchen staff, who insisted she sit out in the conservatory while they made up a breakfast tray for her. By the time the food had arrived so had Feratore, with a nick on his chin from shaving in a hurry. He did not look happy.

‘You might as well eat some breakfast.’ Piro told him. He didn’t answer. ‘If you don’t, you’ll be grumpy. I have brothers. I know these things.’

He grimaced.

‘Go on. I’ll wait.’

‘You’ll wait?’

She nodded.

He headed down the hall to the kitchen.

Piro took the opportunity to inspect the plants in the conservatory. They’d been chosen for their beauty and scent, and each was a work of art. When she discovered the aviary, she was reminded of Dovecote and the Old Dove’s prize birds. Orrade was Lord Dovecote now, which made her feel like laughing. Skinny, sharp-eyed Orrie... maybe it was not so ludicrous. Not much would get past him.

Feratore returned, with pastry flakes on his jerkin.

Piro tilted her head. ‘Happy now?’

He didn’t answer.

Hiding her smile, she went into the passage. House Cinnamome’s palace stretched over one entire city block, with many courtyards, buildings and towers. None of the towers were as high as Mage Tower, but because the palace was built on the crest of the island, the tops of the towers were level with it. The buildings were two storeys or three storeys high, and everything was made of white stone, with red tiled roofs.

Sunlight reflected off the white stone and Piro squinted as she entered a courtyard.

Balconies, arched verandas and glass-paned doors opened directly onto courtyard. Byren would not have been impressed. Once you breached the outer wall, the palace was impossible to defend.

Just as she thought this, she spotted an anomaly, a tall wall with no doors and only one row of narrow windows on the second floor. Intrigued, she ducked into the nearest building and made her way down a passage to a solid wooden door. From the size of the hinges, the door was very heavy.

‘What lies behind this, Feratore?’

He shrugged. ‘Some dusty old hall.’

She lifted the latch and pushed the door open. It was as though she had stepped back over two hundred years, to the days when Ostron Isle had been racked by civil war. Shafts of light lit the hall, descending from the high, narrow windows. Now this was defensible; Byren would approve. She laughed with delight, startling Feratore.

‘Don’t you see?’ Piro spun on her toes, stirring up dust. ‘This is where House Cinnamome came from. It’s their very first hall.’ And she ran across the flagstones to the far corner, where cloths covered what turned out to be nothing more than a pile of sturdy old furniture.