The Broken Blade (36 page)

The fire was gone. The King stood untouched before the gates.

All was silence.

Hughan drew a deep breath. “I will pass,” he called.

In that moment Eamon's legs carried him to the King's side, though he scarcely knew how he could dare to stand there. None opposed him, and none spoke until he, reaching Hughan, called to them:

“King's men!”

They came to the King in silence, forming up behind him. The gaping Gauntlet were paralysed with awe and terror.

“Receive the King's mercy!” Eamon called.

“Never!” screeched Brettal. He stood by one of the great artillery machines; the Hand's contorted face was malice. His hands seared with red light that grew until it nigh engulfed him. Another Hand went up to him, adding more powder to the artillery and light to the gathering orb.

“
Never!
”

The Hands' motion freed the Gauntlet. They threw down their weapons and bolted forth from the gates, spreading in all directions. All the while, the light over the machine darkened. Some Gauntlet ran to the King's lines, their hands thrown up in surrender. Others disappeared into the city streets as the red light consumed the artillery.

“Stand, King's men!” Eamon cried. As if by premonition, he knew that their lives depended on it. “Stand for the King!”

As he cried, an arrow hissed by his ear as the King's men loosed arrows. The arrows flew with terrific accuracy through the air into the plaza. Brettal gave a choking screech and spun backwards, an arrow in his throat. As he fell, the light in his hands turned towards the great pile of ammunition behind him.

There was not even the time to scream; the light careered into the machine's food. Then a blast filled the air and a resounding crack shook the world. When next Eamon could see, it was through a veil of blue light which surrounded him and all the men who stood with the King. Gazing about himself in surprise, Eamon saw that the protective light emanated from Hughan. He looked back to the gates.

The machine and Hands were gone, replaced by a blackened husk of metal and charred flesh. Great swathes of the plaza's walls tumbled into cascades of broken, smoking stone. The stones of the great yard cracked. Debris hurtled in every direction and waves of fire went with it as the whole front of the palace collapsed, its gaudy innards revealed to every watching eye in spews of red, like the ribs and blood of a living man torn open. The towering arches crashed
and tumbled, the great balcony was cast down, the stone turned black, and the halls filled with wolfish flames.

Eamon stared as Edelred's gates and walls fell, crushing the scores of screaming Hands beneath them. Destruction rained down in smoke and a hail of scathing stone. Yet apart from its entrance, the palace still stood. Though veiled by the falling rock, the West Wing was unscathed.

Still the stone and fire fell, but the King's men were untouched.

The fall of debris lessened into clouds of dust and the blue light fell away. Waves of heat engulfed Eamon. He choked on the air, which reeked of burnt and burning bodies and timbers. The remains of Hands and some Gauntlet men lay among the shattered gates and walls.

Hughan surveyed the destruction before him. Pity touched his face. “Lord Feltumadas.”

The Easter came to him at once. “Star,” he answered softly, his eyes wide.

“Take charge of those men surrendering here. Detail others to search the rubble for survivors. First Knight.”

“Sire,” Eamon breathed.

“We must enter the palace.”

Eamon looked at the rubble of the broken gates, walls, and palace entrance, then back to Hughan.

“I will lead you,” he answered.

Hughan gathered a group of King's men. When they had prepared themselves, they turned to Eamon.

“We are ready, First Knight.”

 

Eamon clambered forward over the rubble of the gates. The ground was hot beneath him and his armour conducted that heat into his weary limbs. He picked his way through the Royal Plaza, followed by the King.

The palace's entrance hall and the corridors leading to the throne room had been destroyed when the balcony crashed down. As
Eamon threaded his way through the hot stones towards the East Wing, he prayed that the damage was not more extensive.

He hastened to the wall and to a broken arch. The palace's windows had shattered, spewing forth hundreds of grim shards which littered the ground like daggers. Carefully, Eamon crossed the glassy debris of talons and peered through the arch. There were shafts of light beyond it. His instinct told him that the hall was passable.

He pressed himself in through the narrow opening. The room beyond was dark and breathing was difficult; clods of dust and stone fell from the ceiling, but the doorway beyond was whole.

“This way!” he called.

The King and his men came one by one after him.

The great banners and emblems were scattered on the ground, torn down and crushed beneath fallen stones. Pillars and beams had boomed forward under the weight of what lay above them, and Eamon had to pick his way carefully to the end of the corridor.

They passed by several rooms in the gloomy darkness. In one, Eamon caught sight of the remains of an owl and ash painted on the wall. His heart stilled as he realized that it was the Hands' waiting hall – he remembered its splendour. But his vision of it faded away as he looked at it, for now it had been reduced to splintered stones. Of all the emblems in the room, only the Right Hand's black eagle survived, its face staring grimly down from the cracked ceiling.

They came to the throne room. The great doors stood intact. In the gloom of the dusty corridor a figure lay on the ground, crushed beneath a fallen beam. Edelred's doorkeeper. The man held a sword in his hand. His back was horribly arched, snapped in two where the beam had struck.

Eamon stepped back. The sight was loathsome to him.

Steps approached from behind. Hughan emerged through the darkness. He looked at the fallen man and sighed.

“This is the throne room,” Eamon said, gesturing to the door. “There is a way into his quarters from within.”

“Very well.”

Eamon hesitated, remembering the many times he had knelt in the hall beyond before a false master. As he thought on it, he saw again with horrid clarity the paintings that hung on the walls.

His hand faltered at the door. He looked earnestly to the King. “I cannot go in there,” he whispered. “Not with you.”

Hughan laid his hand on Eamon's where it held the door. Eamon swallowed. He searched the King's eyes. “Hughan, the shame and guilt of Dunthruik is seen no more clearly than beyond these doors.”

“I do not fear to see it.”

The King set force against the door, and Eamon joined him in it. The great wooden panels opened, swinging back on damaged hinges to reveal the long, red floor of the throne room.

A rush of hot air struck them. Eamon keenly felt the sting of the Master's mark on his hand as he looked down the long hall. Though the floor was cracked and bent, large areas of it struck by falling debris from the ceiling and collapsing north balcony, the paintings of the flame-haired throned and the vile serpents still showed in dusty horror on the walls. Their forms grinned luridly at Eamon and mocked him. It turned his stomach.

Swallowing down his sorrowed anger, he stepped down from the doorway and crossed the hall. Hughan walked with him.

They crossed the shattered stones to the dais. As they approached, there was a shuddering lurch in the stones and a beam upon the platform struck downwards. As it went it caught the broad painting on the back wall. Stones, frame, and canvas were broken. The work crashed down in a flood of dust and stone. They fell heavily down upon the throne, which splintered into hundreds of glistening pieces. As the dust settled, all that remained of the painting was the flicker of a star.

“Which way?” the King quietly asked.

“There,” Eamon answered, gesturing to the back wall and its torn curtains. He hesitated, watching in awe as Hughan ascended the dais and passed the broken throne.

They went to the back door, which led into the throned's own quarters. It too was sound. The red stone above it glinted threateningly in the light. Eamon wondered how they would pass it, but as the King approached, the crimson rock cracked and shattered.

Eamon stared. “Even the stones know you,” he breathed.

The wall opened before them into a corridor and then a small hall. Eamon knew that from the hall they could climb the stairs up to the throned's chambers. He felt the Master's presence above him like a louring tempest.

They passed into the hall and Eamon stopped in alarm. The grand staircase was cracked and looked distinctly unstable. It might bear the weight of a man but it would not bear many, and perhaps not even just one dressed in armour.

The King and the King's men halted around him; there was no need of speech.

Hughan turned to him. “Is there another way?”

Eamon shook his head in disbelief. They might have used the south balcony but it was as likely to be unstable as the stairs before them. “I do not know.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Hughan turned to the men. “Search this area. Go carefully.”

Eamon felt the barb of failure in his breast. It brought a flush of horror to his stomach. “Hughan, I'm sorry. I…”

The King's gentle eyes fell on him. “Eamon,” he laughed kindly, “that the stairway is impassable is not your doing.”

Eamon glanced up again at the tall stairwell, remembering the time that he had climbed it and the crippling light that had awaited him in the Master's chamber. Would the King face that rending pain?

Would it break him?

He looked fearfully to Hughan. “You will fight him?”

“If he will not yield,” Hughan answered, “yes.”

“He is a terrible foe,” Eamon breathed. How could the King stand against Edelred?

“Yet I will face him.” As their gazes met, Eamon wondered how long Hughan had known that this day would come, and how much he had prepared for it.

“Are you afraid, Eamon?” Hughan asked.

“Yes.” He would rather fight in a hundred battles than face the man who awaited the King. That same waiting man had known him and mocked him, had so often claimed his blood, kissing him one moment and striking him the next…

Driving back a shudder, Eamon silently searched the King's face.

“Are
you
afraid?” he whispered.

“I do not fear Edelred, nor what the outcome of this day may be.” Hughan smiled gently at Eamon, a smile full of grace and courage. “And yet, I cannot say that I am not afraid.”

Eamon nodded. Somehow the King's words strengthened him.

A group of the King's men returned through one of the hall's crumpled doorways. As they approached, they escorted a man between them. Eamon recognized him at once. He stared as Iulus Cartwright was brought before the King.

“Sire,” said one of the men, “this man claimed to serve Lord Goodman.”

“He does,” Eamon confirmed. “Are you well, Mr Cartwright?” he asked, laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

“Yes, my lord,” Cartwright answered. He was pale and covered with soot and dust. “I did as you ordered.”

Eamon felt a wave of relief. He turned to Hughan. “This man has been a faithful servant to me. His name is Iulus Cartwright. Before he served in my house he served Lady Alessia.”

“She speaks well of you, Mr Cartwright,” Hughan said.

Cartwright's eyes widened. “You have seen Lady Turnholt?”

“Yes,” Hughan answered with a smile. “She is safe and well.”

“You bring me good news,” Cartwright laughed, and then suddenly he took in the colours that Hughan wore. His face paled and he looked at Eamon in alarm. “My lord –”

“This man is the King.” Eamon met the servant's gaze. “I serve him, Cartwright.”

Cartwright stared at him for a moment then looked back to Hughan in astonishment.

“Cartwright,” Eamon said gently, “you and the servants will be free to go, and you will be under no obligation to aid us.” Cartwright nodded. “Do you know another way to the throned's chambers?”

Cartwright looked at the impassable stairs. “I know of one.” He nodded slowly. “I will help you.”

 

They called back the other King's men, and Cartwright led them from the hall into some of the narrower corridors. From there they went down into servants' corridors. The passageway was tight. Eamon had trouble passing in his armour; he had to edge along sideways in some places, and duck down in others. The passages were dark and claustrophobic, often set below the ground level of the palace. Eamon wondered how often the servants had passed through their like to move unseen according to the will of their masters.

The network of servants' tunnels opened into another small hall. There were dozens of doors leading from it. Eamon gazed at them. Small rooms lay beyond, filled with beds. Before Eamon had time to gather his bearings, Cartwright moved again into another corridor. Like the first, this passageway emerged in another tiny hall. It was dark, but a tall, narrow staircase led up at one side. It was whole and undamaged.

“It is one of the servants' stairways,” Cartwright said quietly. He seemed reluctant to raise his voice. “It… it leads up to his chambers.”

Hughan turned to him. “Your lady spoke truly of you, Mr Cartwright,” he said. “I will send some of my men back with you. Please take yourself and the rest of the house safely from the palace.”

Cartwright nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I will.”

Some of the King's men went to the servant's side.

“Lord Goodman,” Cartwright called as they prepared to leave.

“Mr Cartwright?”

The servant faltered for a moment. “Be careful, my lord.”

“I will, Cartwright.”

Hughan, Eamon, and the remaining dozen King's men slowly climbed the staircase. It was narrow, forcing them up one at a time. It led to a covered opening. Eamon pressed aside the heavy tapestry and stepped out into a broad corridor. They were not far from the throned's vault of treasures. The air was cool and dense. Eamon felt in his heart that the throned was near.