Legend of the Swords: War (38 page)

Armand attacked again, bringing his sword down towards Ryan’s head as hard as he could. Ryan raised his sword to block, and Armand’s sword bounced back hard, sending a jolt up his arm.

Ryan grinned fiercely, and pressed his advantage.

He attacked high, cutting deep into Armand’s shield. His blade didn’t stick, though, it pulled out as easily as it had gone in. Ryan attacked low, and Armand jumped out of the way before the sword could hit him.

Ryan marveled at how well balanced the sword was. Armand had been right; it was as if the blade were a living extension of his hand. He hardly had to think about swinging it before the blade had moved exactly as he imagined. He parried Armand’s attack, and easily steered his sword between the knight’s sword and shield. He decided at the last second not to pierce Armand’s heart, but rather to rake his opponent’s chain mail with the sword’s tip.

The chain mail parted as if it were made of cloth. Armand stepped back and looked down at the rent mail, his mouth falling open, a look of fear in his eyes.

In desperation, Armand tried to attack again, but Ryan caught the blow on his shield—and brought his sword down on top of Armand’s, snapping his master’s blade in two.

Armand fell to his knees. “Gods!” he whispered. Then he said, more loudly, “You have beaten me!” He looked at Ryan, eyes narrowing. “No mercy, boy!”

“Mercy is more valuable than you think, Armand," Ryan said coldly. “But, for you, there shall be none.” The blade glittered, as it arced through the air. Armand’s head was severed with a single swing of Ryan’s perfect sword.

Kevin cheered for a moment, but then his eyes widened and he quieted. “Uh-oh," he said, smile fading. “We killed a knight. What are we going to do?” He sank down to sit on the ground, shaking his head.

Ryan was still for a moment, staring at Armand’s lifeless body. It toppled over, slowly, and Ryan’s empty eyes were released from the horror that had just happened. His gaze wandered aimlessly, until they fell on the horses and the setting sun behind them.

He felt no remorse, no relief—but a tense anger surged inside his chest.

Tomorrow will begin a new day.
Ryan thought.
A day in which the Triols will know punishment for what they have wrought.

Punishment

The guard recognized James’s still-unconscious form, and held them at the edge of the camp while a runner went to the king’s tent. It didn’t surprise Renek when the return messenger said that the king wanted to see them immediately.

There was no wait when they got to the tent. They dismounted, and two soldiers untied the groaning prince off of the horse.

Good, he’s waking up.
Renek thought.

Renek was amazed at the splendor of the tent, even from the outside. It was made of the finest silks he had ever seen, all colored with the king’s purple.

“It must have taken years to get enough dye to make this thing purple like this,” Hesiod whispered as they were led through its antechamber.

All Renek could do was nod. Then they were inside the tent proper.

The first thing he noticed was that the king had brought a throne with him. It was delicately carved wood, with gold leaf layered on so thickly that it partially obscured the carvings beneath. There were lion’s heads carved into the top on either side of the king’s head.

King Aiden was fairly old, perhaps in his early forties. His black eyes sat above a large, crooked nose. The salt-and-pepper beard surrounding his mouth was closely trimmed. He was a powerfully built man, with a wide chest and a narrow waist.

Hesiod bowed low, letting his hand drag on the ground. Renek saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and quickly imitated it, leaving his left hand lying on the ground, palm up. He noticed that the right hand side of the tent had a heavy table, covered with maps.

“Rise,” the king said. He sounded tired. Renek looked closely at his face, and saw that his glittering black eyes had blue and purple bags underneath them.

“What has happened to my son.” It was not a question, but a demand for an explanation.

“Sire,” Hesiod began. “He is intact and well—”

“Do you think, if I thought otherwise, that I would sit calmly in my throne?” The king’s eyes narrowed, and Hesiod stammered for a moment.

“No, of course not, sire.”

“Then please, do continue,” Aiden said. “I am … eager … to hear how you allowed my son to come to harm, while still being intact yourselves.”

“It was I who harmed him, sire.” At Renek’s words, Hesiod closed his eyes, as if the words had caused him pain.

“Excuse me?” The king’s eyebrows rose. “Do I know you?”

“Sire, this is Renek,” Hesiod quickly interjected, before Renek could speak again. “I described him, and his actions, in some of my letters to you. He has been instrumental in several victories against the Triols.”

“And why should I not have him cut down where he stands?” the king said, coldly. “He stands in front of me, and admits—to my face!—that he harmed my son.”

There was a loud groan from the prince, who sat up. The king glanced over to James, but quickly looked back at Hesiod.

“Well?” Aiden demanded. “Do you have an explanation, or should I have the guards cut him down?”

Renek started to speak, but Hesiod laid his hand upon Renek’s shoulder, and spoke.

“Sire, I believe that would be … unwise,” Hesiod began. “Renek was only defending himself.” Hesiod’s expression was pained, worried. “He could have killed your son, but he chose not to.”

“Why would my son attack him?”

“He took my sword!” James yelled. He was gibbering wildly. “And … they—those deserters, they destroyed the other sword!” He pointed at the two men.

“That’s simply not true, your highness," Hesiod said placatingly. “Sire, we
did
decide to leave the main army, but we did not leave as deserters. We left only to search for the swords. Your army was in dire straights, and after Renek, here, defeated those giant rock golems…” he sighed. “Well, we agreed that there were too many of them and not enough of us, and that the only chance we had was if we could find the swords.”

The king nodded, thoughtfully. “Things have changed since you left the army, Hesiod.” He sighed. “You couldn’t have known, but I arrived the day after you left. I brought with me the entire last garrison stationed at the castle.

“The Triols, however, have also been reinforced. Yesterday, there arrived at least five Triols for every soldier that I brought.” He smiled in grim satisfaction. “Unfortunately for them, when the Triol Singers disappeared, they had done so because decided that
our
cause was the just one. They have no magicians left, they have chosen all to join our army.”

Hesiod’s mouth dropped open. “That’s … wonderful, sire.”

“It is.” King Aiden nodded. “However, that makes your actions more …” He paused to ponder. “Wasteful?” He nodded. “Wasteful. And more dangerous. And more disappointing, too—I had meant for those swords to be wielded by my son … and myself.”

Hesiod paled.

The king held his hand out toward Renek. “If I may see your blade, warrior?” He asked, his voice honeyed and smooth.

Renek paused for a moment, but then smoothly pulled his sword out, reversed it, and handed it hilt first to the king.

The prince, clapping, jumped up and down with the excitement of a small dog.

The king stood, and moved to the center of the tent; both Renek and Hesiod retreated towards the entrance. The king made a few swipes in the air with the sword and smiled.

“Guards, seize this
Renek
. You may put him in one of the cells in the keep we took yesterday. We will hang him on the morrow.”

He made a few more swipes in the air, smiling.

“Sire, no!” Hesiod cried, as the guards advanced. “This man has done nothing but serve you, serve the kingdom!”

Aiden walked up to Hesiod, holding the sword between them. “He deserted the army and damaged my son," he said quietly. “Is that what you call
serving
?”

Hesiod shrank back.

“Guards, perhaps you had better take Hesiod into custody, as well," he said, smiling grimly. “I am worried that he might not have our … best interests … at heart.”

*   *   *

“So what do we do now?” Renek said.

“I think we wait for you to die tomorrow," Hesiod said, glumly. “And probably me, too.”

They were leaning up against the wall that separated their cells, speaking loudly enough to be heard through the bar-riddled windows in the doors.

“You should’ve killed him, Renek,” Hesiod spat. “He is a bad man. Bad for the kingdom, bad for the army, and bad for us.” He snorted. “
Especially
bad for us. If you had killed him, we could have told the king a story, a story of deadly struggle with creatures in the mountainside … that story would have made us heroes.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Renek sighed. “I hope some good will come from this, though. The king has the sword, and the Singers have all joined him.” He paused for a moment, and then asked. “Perhaps we’ll win the war now?”

“If we do, neither of us will get to see it," Hesiod said, snorting.

“Does that make a difference, in the end?” Renek asked. “Won’t the gods still let us into their heavens, and celebrate our success?”

Hesiod snorted. “I would rather be sure of celebrating here on this world, first. We can’t know if the gods will find us worthy, no matter how well we do for our worldly king—
if
they even exist.”

Renek’s door rattled. “Who could that be?” he said. The door opened, revealing about fifteen guards standing outside. The old general, the one who had made the battering rams, stepped through the men. He held Renek’s sword out to him.

“Renek, the old king and his son are dead," he said, calmly, as Renek’s hand wrapped around the hilt of his gleaming sword. “We have come to swear fealty to you.”

“What?!” Hesiod yelled, whooping, from the other cell.

Renek stared at the man. “What happened, general?”

“The king’s son went crazy,” the man said, gravely. “He was mad with desire for the sword that you now hold in your hands.

“He snuck into his father’s chamber and killed him in cold blood, then seized the sword.” The general’s eyes were sad, his mouth drawn taut. “He then lay about him with the sword, killing every person that he saw.

“He was yelling about how everyone had betrayed him.” The general drew a deep breath. “How they had been conspiring against him, even his father.

“I was forced to kill him.” His eyes downcast, he knelt at Renek’s feet. “Please, sire, I would choose to fight under you rather than lead the forces myself.” He looked up at Renek. “You are more noble than I, for I have killed the prince.”

*   *   *

As they ran towards the king’s tent, Renek tried to take the old general’s mind off of what had happened.

“General…” Renek let his voice trail off.

“Petrin, sire.”

“Don’t call me sire.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

Renek rolled his eyes. “General Petrin, the king said that the Triols had reinforcements arrive. How do the forces stand?”

“I estimate that there are fifteen thousands of the Triols.” Petrin shrugged. “We have perhaps six thousands of your soldiers left.”

“That’s not good.” Renek shook his head.

“Well…we … have … the … Sorcerers” Hesiod managed to wheeze, though he was struggling to keep up with the running soldiers.

“It gets worse," Petrin said. “I think that there are more Triol reinforcements on the way.”

Renek rolled his eyes.

They arrived at the tent. It was clear that things had happened as the general had said.

Renek shrugged. “I don’t want to be king," he said, simply.

Hesiod pushed his finger into Renek’s shoulder. “You don’t have a choice, Renek.” He gestured at the crystal pommel at Renek’s side. “You have the most powerful weapon in the army, right here. You’re easily the best swordsman in a generation.
We are at war.

“It doesn’t matter if you want it or not. We need you.” Hesiod smiled grimly at Renek. “You know I’m right.” He positively grinned, and added, “Sire.”

Renek considered. “I will lead the army to victory, if I can. We can discuss the monarchy later.” He nodded, as if the issue were settled.

“What time is it?” He asked Petrin.

“Less than an hour to first light, your majesty.” Renek rolled his eyes, but Petrin pushed on. “The Triols have been attacking early, the last few days. I would expect we don’t have much time.”

Renek put his hand on the general’s arm. “Then let us prepare, general. We don’t want to get caught with our pants down.”

*   *   *

They stood, assembled with the army, at first light. Hesiod gasped as the light fell on their adversaries.

The Triol army was vast, at least twenty five thousand men stood at the ready.

Petrin cursed softly. “I was afraid of this,” he breathed. “Not one of my scouts returned from their mission as scheduled.”

“Perhaps they have emptied their castle’s defenses, as we have?” Renek asked.

Hesiod shook his head. “It doesn’t matter where the soldiers came from unless we can defeat them.” He brightened. “On the other hand, if we can defeat them, then we can simply walk to their capitol and claim their kingdom for our own.”

“We have to cut down twenty five thousand men, first,” General Petrin said. He turned to Renek. “Sire, what shall we do?”

“There are no hills? No cover of any sort?”

“No, sire.”

Renek sighed. “Then I think that what we will do is die, general Petrin.” He closed his eyes. “We will die.”

*   *   *

The battle that day was terrible. Thousands of men died, on both sides.

The Singers helped. They were able to send their lightning walls down to narrow the battlefield, or to kill Triol soldiers indiscriminately. However, they could not make up for the sheer mass of Triol soldiers that bore down upon the Kingdom army.