The Kings Man (2 page)

‘I wish –’

‘If we’d been here, we’d both be dead by now.’ That was Orrade for you, always one step ahead.

Garzik was brought back to the present as Winterfell led them into the night. The nearest honour guard nudged Garzik and he followed, keeping close to the guard’s heels. They ran in single file across the recently shovelled stable yard. Passing between mounds of knee-high snow, they reached the old keep where Garzik used to tag along after Lence, Byren and Orrade. In those days, he’d dreamed of being a great warrior and begged to be part of their king-of-the-castle games.

Now, he concentrated on not throwing up.

Inside the old stronghold’s gate tunnel, they paused. Ahead of them was the courtyard. Light spilled from the open doors of the great hall and lanterns glowed in the tower’s narrow windows. Garzik had heard singing from the tower earlier. He only hoped the cook had been generous enough with the wine.

Fierce whispering from behind made him turn. ‘Quiet, you two.’

Three heads turned towards him.
Three?

‘Kiri?’ Garzik blinked. What was he doing here? ‘Kiri, go back.’

The skinny ten year-old shook his head, rabitty face resolute. He brandished a wicked little blade from the stables. ‘They killed Regal. I’m going to cut their throats!’

‘They killed Regal? Why?’ Even as he asked, he knew why. The liver-coloured retriever, queen of his father’s hunting dogs, would have sprung to the Old Dove’s defence. Tears stung Garzik’s eyes and his throat grew so tight he could hardly speak.

Even so...

‘Kiri, you can’t –’ Garzik broke off as someone tugged on his arm. He turned to find the four honour guards darting across to the great hall. ‘Go back to the stables and keep your head down. This is no place for you.’

With that, he turned and ran after the others. There were more important things to worry about than one stubborn stable-lad.

Inside the entrance to the great hall, they passed the open doors to the hall itself. A quick glance showed Merofynian men-at-arms everywhere. Some slept, snoring, while others drank and sang of bawdy women. Garzik felt nothing but contempt. The invaders thought themselves safe because no one knew King Merofyn had betrayed his word. What kind of king arranged a marriage to unite their kingdoms as a cover for an invasion?

In the entrance to a narrow passage, Winterfell turned to Chandler. ‘Close the doors. Shut them in the hall.’

The other honour guard grinned and nodded to Wafin, youngest of Byren’s honour guard. Winterfell kept going. The last honour guard and the two serving lads took off after him.

Garzik caught Kiri by the arm as he went to pass. The boy tried to shrug free. ‘Go back. You’ll –’

An ominous creak made Garzik let go and he looked over his shoulder. Chandler and Wafin struggled to move the doors, but couldn’t budge them.

That’s right, those hinges hadn’t been used for a hundred years. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Orrade would have.

Should he go back and help? What if the noise alerted...

‘Here, what’re you up to?’ a man demanded in rough Merofynian.

Chandler ignored him and shoved his shoulder behind the door, wet boots slipping on the flagstones.

Garzik went to help, but little Kiri caught his arm. ‘Come quick. Winterfell needs you.’ Garzik hadn’t even seen the lad go to the passage door.

The warning beacon was top priority. Even so, Garzik hesitated. Kiri tugged on his arm.

Leaving Chandler and Wafin to their fate, he ran ahead of the lad around the corner and down the narrow passage, over uneven flags laid nearly three hundred years ago in front of the oldest part of the stronghold, the base of the original tower.

He found Winterfell and the others standing over a dead man. From the opposite direction came voices and the sound of running boots.

Winterfell grabbed Garzik. ‘You know the tower. Go light the beacon. We’ll hold them here. Bolt the door behind you.’

And before he could speak up, he’d been shoved onto the first steps. Somehow, little Kiri was with him.

Garzik bolted the door while the boy danced with impatience. Then they were both running up the tower steps. Four floors, chambers filled with Merofynians, then the beacon. It was always prepared; his father had never forgotten the last Merofynian invasion thirty years ago.

His father... Garzik could not believe the fierce Old Dove was dead.

They passed the first floor door without mishap. A glance into the chamber revealed Merofynians dicing, too intent on their game to notice them. The second floor door was closed. Garzik began to hope – only two more floors, and he’d reach the beacon itself. Their boots made sharp scuffing sounds on the worn stone steps.

Shouting from below. Garzik cursed.

Kiri ran on past him.

‘Wait,’ Garzik whispered.

Kiri ignored him, following the curving stair towards the next balcony.

He stopped.

Garzik paused two steps below him.

The boy turned. There was something wrong with his face. For a moment it made no sense, then Garzik understood what he was seeing. A dagger hilt protruded from Kiri’s eye.

The boy’s knees gave way and he toppled forward, dropping his knife and hitting the wall with one shoulder before sliding down into Garzik’s arms.

A Merofynian stepped into view above.

‘He’s only a boy,’ Garzik protested. ‘Just a boy.’

The man glanced beyond Garzik.

Who turned to find a fist coming towards his head. He tried to block but, encumbered by Kiri’s body, couldn’t raise his forearm in time. Knuckles struck his cheek, driving his head into the wall.

No. It couldn’t end like this...

‘W
ILL HE LIVE
?’ someone asked in a refined Merofynian accent.

Garzik tried to see who was speaking. One eye wouldn’t open and the other wouldn’t focus and, when he did get that eye open, light stabbed into his brain, making him wince.

Stabbed... Why did that word fill him with grief?

‘Lord Travany doesn’t want to go to the trouble of carting him halfway across Rolencia, and then ship him all the way back home, only to have him die before we get any work out of him.’

Garzik smelt smoke, charred wood smoke, like the winter three years ago when half of Doveton burned. How his father had cursed, blaming a clumsy baker.

Someone prodded his face, checked his mouth. ‘Teeth are fine. Don’t think he’ll lose his eye. The cheek’ll scar up. He’s for field-work?’ The gruff voice paused. ‘Then his looks don’t matter. He’s a house servant, judging by that tabard, but even Rolencian indoor servants are tough. This one should pull through.’

‘What about that lump on his head?’ Lord Travany’s servant countered. The tone of his voice told Garzik the servant wasn’t going to accept responsibility if anything went wrong. ‘An addle-pate’s no use to his lordship. Check his skull.’

Fingers felt Garzik’s head. How could he think with these hands prodding him? Why didn’t they leave him alone?

He tried to tell them, but his tongue wasn’t working properly and it felt like someone had wound a rag too rightly around his head. He lifted his hand to undo the binding, but his fingers encountered no cloth, only slippery, misshapen swollen flesh where his cheekbone and eye should have been.

‘Here, don’t touch.’ Speaking poor Rolencian, the gruff servant pulled Garzik’s hand away, then switched back to Merofynian. ‘Can’t say for sure if his brains are scrambled. Won’t know until he talks, Master Cialon.’

‘Should I throw ’im in the pit with the dead?’ a third voice asked.

Garzik waited to learn his fate. He knew he should have been worried, but nothing made sense and it was too hard to concentrate.

‘No, send him to port. If he dies at sea, we can throw him overboard and save on a burial. If he survives to reach Port Mero, he should live. Make a note. One field-hand, aged thirteen.’

That wasn’t right. He was fourteen, nearly fifteen.

‘What should I put down for a name?’ another voice asked, presumably the scribe.

‘How should I know?’ Master Cialon complained. ‘Call him Wyvern. That’ll do.’

Garzik wanted to protest, he was not some unwanted nobleman’s bastard, named for the Merofynian royal symbol. He had a name, a perfectly good name.

If only he could remember what it was.

Again he tried to open his eyes. The light of the lantern made him moan.

‘Slap some rosemary on that open wound and bind his head,’ Master Cialon ordered and moved along, to discuss the next wounded man.

A different pair of hands took Garzik. Their touch was firm but gentle, reminding him of Willowbark, the family’s healer. Why could he remember everyone else’s name but not his own?

Why did he feel that if he did remember he’d be sorry?

After his head was bound, he could not open either eye. A flask was pressed to his mouth.

‘Drink,’ the healer urged in Rolencian.

Willowbark would have given him dreamless-sleep, that was what she’d done the time he’d broken his arm and they’d had to set it. This smelled like spirits. He opened his mouth to say no and the person tossed the liquid down his throat. That set him coughing so much he thought his head would burst.

Then he lay panting, with a warm glow in his belly. Voices moved on.

The smell of charred wood worried him. It held some significance, but he couldn’t think what. He was still trying to figure it out when the spirits swamped his senses and he welcomed it.

Chapter Two

E
VERY TIME
G
ARZIK
surfaced, his head ached abominably. Along with the stench and the jolting, it made it easier to let the blackness take him.

There was a lot to be said for not waking up.

But eventually, his head cleared. He was shivering. Cold. His feet were cold. What happened to his boots? He opened his eyes. Someone must have removed the bandage – or had he imagined that part?

At any rate, he could open both eyes, but he couldn’t seem to focus, one eye was worse than the other. Not that there was much to see. He appeared to be in a dark place that stank of miserable people packed too tightly. He could hear moaning. Inevitably, someone would tell them to shut up. Then came the blows and the whimpering and...

He must have blacked out again, because he woke as someone tried to dribble water in his mouth.

‘Don’t know why you bother. The brat’s half dead. Save the water for yerself,’ a voice advised. Although their tone was not helpful, they spoke Rolencian, which he took to be a good sign.

‘We’re seven-year-slaves, but that doesn’t make us barbarians, like the Utlanders,’ his helper said. His voice reminded Garzik of a tutor he’d once had. ‘Not that I expect you to understand the distinction.’

‘We’re not in Rolenton now, Mitrovan. No one cares that you were a markiz’s scribe.’

The scribe ignored his tormentor and adjusted Garzik’s head so he could swallow more easily. ‘That’s it, drink up.’

‘Why...’ Garzik’s voice cracked. He swallowed and sat up with difficulty. There was a coarse wooden wall at his back. Splinters pricked his shoulders. ‘Where –’

‘We’re in a ship’s hold –’

‘A shit hole, you mean!’

‘Travelling to Port Marchand –’

‘More’s the pity. I had a sweet little widow lined up. I was about to marry her and spend the rest of my life bedding her and living off her pastry shop. Now I bet some Merofynian’s lying in her bed, ploughing her furrow!’

Garzik’s instinctive dislike hardened.

Mitrovan expelled his breath softly in disgust and ignored the interruption. ‘From Port Marchand, we’ll be shipped to Merofynia as part of Lord Travany’s war booty.’

Garzik’s stomach rumbled. ‘Hungry.’

‘You’re not the only one,’ the complainer muttered.

‘They’re not overly generous with our portions,’ Mitrovan admitted. ‘And I doubt they’ll be feeding us again before we disembark –’

‘Listen to him. Thinks himself a markiz.’

Garzik wished Byren was here. One good thump – that’d teach the lout to keep his mouth shut.

‘You’re not helping, Feo...’ Mitrovan protested, but there was no conviction in his voice.

It made the scribe look weak and made Garzik appear cowardly by association. The men Garzik had grown up with would’ve had no patience with someone like Feo. His father despised...

He had a flash of the Old Dove hanging off their front door, pinned by a lance. Bile rose in Garzik’s throat. His father was dead, cruelly murdered. He could not imagine life without the iron-willed old man.

But... he’d better get used to it.

If he was a Merofynian captive, that meant Byren had not retaken Dovecote.

Had Byren saved his sister? What of Orrie? One thing was certain – his brother would never let Byren be taken, not while he lived. Orrade was honourable to the bone.