The Vitalis Chronicles: Tomb of the Relequim (37 page)

The cuts on his back and shoulders burned. They were still raw, and probably diseased. Woads were filthy creatures, the one that had attacked him had stunk like rotting meat. He shuddered to remember it. If it hadn't been for that so-called captain, Cid, he probably would have died. He recognized that now, as much as he hated to. He didn't trust the old man, but he was grateful. Perhaps Branston's opinion of him was even beginning to sway.

When they had picked themselves up and walked through the draw where Ardin had saved Rain, they saw the carnage for what it was. It was enough to make some of the men dizzy. Branston had been left in awe, and though he would never admit it, it made him afraid. Very afraid.
No one should be able to do this,
he had thought as they rode their horses past piles and piles of black, stinking corpses.
No one should be this powerful.

They wouldn't listen to him, though. No matter how hard he tried to tell them to leave the old man and his boy behind, they refused to listen. Shill respected the old man too much, and Rain... Rain was the worst. She felt like she owed the boy something now. And worse: she loved him. He could see it in her eyes. The way she would sit with him and tend to his wounds. The way she looked at him. Perhaps it wasn't romantic. Perhaps it was out of deep respect or her desperate hopes or simple feminine foolishness. But it was the way Branston had always dreamed she would look at him, not some little commoner from across the sea.

And what did she know? She was swept up in the moment, in being saved by someone in whom she already believed blindly. The boy represented her hopes, everything she had been told from childhood, every story of redemption, of salvation, of the end of the Relequim. All of it. Every last drop was embodied in the boy who lay dying under the same roof this very night. Even if he didn't fit the prophecies perfectly, the level of his power as unleashed on the Woads was enough to confirm her conviction.

Just thinking about it made him clench his fists as he lay on the cold stone floor of the temple. His shoulders ached in response, but he couldn't help himself. The whole situation was wracking his body in spasms of rage that were nearly impossible to hide. And now, because of this boy, he was forced to risk everything. Rain would never see things as they were, and after tonight she would probably hang him. He sighed, trying to restrain the sound of it but letting it loose nonetheless.

What he did, he did for love of her. He knew that much to be true. And though she might never see it, though she might never love him, he had to do this. It wasn't in his blood to be noble, not really. But he hoped that maybe, just maybe, she would see to the heart of things and forgive him. Even respect him in time.

The watch changed shifts as four men walked outside to relieve their brothers. Branston knew that once the first watch had fallen asleep, the best opportunity would present itself. It was then that he must act.

Waiting for those men to fall asleep was one of the more painstaking experiences of his life. If longsuffering held no meaning to Branston before that night, it earned definition as he waited. He could hear their breathing. Deep. Irregular. One shifted in the dark as he sought comfort in the rubble. Branston knew there was none to be found, the man would sleep soon anyways. Riding through the hills for a few days could make any surface comfortable. But it didn't help that what he assumed was supposed to be tile was shoddily put together and uneven at best.

And then silence, or as close to silence as you could get sleeping among thirty-some men and horses. A few were snoring, some talked fitfully in their dreams, but most slept soundly all around the temple. And at its center, lay Ardin Vitalis.

They had lain the boy at the northern end of the main hall, a long expanse that ran along the center of the temple. It was free of pillars save at either end, and housed the shrine to some strange animal-looking deity in in the southern alcove. The center held a pit, he assumed it had been used for fires before flames had claimed the rest. Two shoddy piles of stones remained on either side, meant to hold the poles to some spit or pot. Whatever they had been used for, they would never see use again.

It was time to go. He had to stop putting it off. Time was of more than the essence if he was right about what was going on. There would be no getting away with this, but he could at least accomplish the task at hand.

He got up lightly, his blanket sliding off of him and to the floor in silence as he crouched. No one stirred, though that meant little enough to him. There were only four men around him in the space that he had chosen; none of their breathing changed. He stood, though not completely, assuming a hunched stature as he worked his way through his comrades.

The weapons cache had been set up on the other side of a low wall, just north of where he had been sleeping. He swung over a broken section and crouched again, waiting. Silence.

He reached for a spear, one of the long ones with an oak handle. This one had a scarlet cloth tied at the base of the head. Shill's spear.
Fitting
, he thought with a sad determination.

Branston walked lightly through the rubble, picking his way with obsessive care as if the ground were made of rotten ice. The idea wasn't far from the truth, and if he was going to fall through, he didn't want to go alone.

One more room to the north. He drew himself in closer, weaving through low piles of stone. Hiding. He checked his belt. The knife was still there. It had never left, but it was better to check. Paranoia was a good friend before a fight. He ducked past the wall, through what must have been a door. In turning to his right he could see the boy. Lying. Sleeping.

Something shifted, there was movement. Someone was coming. He was trying to be silent, but was not as silent as Branston. Branston held his breath, drinking in the darkness as he drew down into its depths. No one would see him here.

And then Branston saw him. The figure appeared from the other side, walking low. Hunched. Picking his way as if great bear traps lay to either side of his winding path. He slowed as he entered the center of the room and stopped, kneeling next to the boy. It looked like there was hesitation in his posture, but Branston couldn't tell. The figure hopped, throwing one leg over and straddling the motionless body on the ground. Was the boy already dead? He couldn't be. As much as Branston hated to admit it, they needed him. They were lost without him. The boy must live.

Suddenly the boy shook. A hand shot out to cover his mouth. Branston could see steel glint in the pinprick light of the night sky, and then it was thrust downwards.

He sucked in one last breath. This was it, he had waited too long already. He hefted the spear and lunged for the figure.

The spear opened its target as easily as it cut the air. The figure reeled as he shouted, the force of the blow knocking him to the ground. Branston allowed himself a yell as his momentum carried him over his victim. He tripped, and as he came down the spear was wrenched from his grip.

The figure in the dark was on his feet almost as quickly as Branston. He could sense the frustration. He only hoped he wasn't too late for that frustration to be complete. Even more, he hoped he wouldn't have to pay too high a price for his intrusion.

The silhouette jerked the spear free of his side, sending a squirt of black to the ground as the weapon clattered on the stone. Branston could swear he saw red glimmer briefly in his hidden eyes.

“
Branston... you high-bred whoreson.”

“
Shill?” Branston could hardly believe it in spite of knowing it to be true. And he was certain of it now – the captain's eyes glimmered an energized red. The power of the Relequim was at work in him. “You old fool, what have you done?”

Branston drew his knife as the Master of the Royal Bodyguard yelled and leaped at him. The younger man braced with his right leg, lowering his stance as he caught the incoming knife-hand with his own. He lowered his head, letting the weight of the captain connect across his shoulders. They yelled in unison as Branston heaved, rotating the older man in the air and flipping him on his back. He spun around instantly. One knee dropped to pin Shill's armed hand to the ground, while the other pinned his chest.

“
Forgot whose side we're on, have we?” Branston moved his own knife to Shill's throat without another thought.

Before he could drag it across the old man's windpipe, the world erupted in stars and bright swirls. He grunted, the wind knocked out of him as he was taken to the floor. Three men shouted as they rushed to pin Branston down.

Torches were being lit as more men converged on the conflict. Rain appeared through the press of soldiers.

“
What's happening here?” she hissed as if afraid to wake the dead that surrounded them. “What are yo– Shill! You're bleeding!”

Shill made his way lamely towards his royal charge. Blood oozed between the fingers of his hand as he pressed on the wound in his side. He looked like he might faint, and almost fell before he was caught by two of his own men.

“
Snotty bastard opened me up, Highness...” He coughed blood into his free hand. It almost looked black in the flickering torchlight. “Caught him trying to gut our young friend here with my own spear.”

Branston raged at that. His arms were tied behind his back already as he was thrust to his knees. “Your Highness!” He plead with the only person who could save him now. “It is exactly the opposite! He lies!”

“
Lies?” Shill turned to yell, but coughed more blood. “Surely they must be, as I'm yet some base-born commoner to the likes of you. Isn't that right, Branston?”

“
Enough,” Rain cut into the bickering with venom. “Did anyone see what happened here?”

But she didn't wait for an answer. Somehow she had failed to check on Ardin. Somehow she had failed to see the gaping wound in his chest. Fresh. Oozing. Pooling under him.

“
Oh God in the higher realm...” She dropped to her knees by him.

“
Your Highness!” Branston yelled as she went limp next to Ardin. Cid stood behind her, sword drawn protectively. “It was Shill, your Highness! It was Shill!”

Amalgus and Cynder appeared at the edge of the onlookers. Hands on their blades. Branston shook his head.
No,
he tried to tell them with his eyes.
No, you fools.

“
Shut your face, traitor!” One of Shill's men stepped between his captain and his accuser. “Unless you want it opened permanently!”

All hell broke loose at the open accusation of treason. As little as he was loved, Branston was high-born and wealthy. His father was a counselor to the King. Threats were shouted across the hall, the pitch rising in tenor as fists shook and blades were loosed in their sheaths.

“
Look in his eyes!” Branston was yelling in the midst of the din. “Look and you'll see the truth for yourselves!”

Swords were drawn. The air rung with metal on leather-bound wood. Sides drew themselves up as Branston and Shill were pulled away from the center.

“
Leave the traitor in the open!” one yelled.

“
Let him prove his innocence with a blade in his hand!” yelled another.

Cynder and Amalgus stepped into what open space remained. Blades drawn. Teeth bared. The sight of Cynder's four foot-long scythe caused a moment's hesitation, but not hardly as much hesitation as when he spoke. Cynder never spoke.

“
Step forward if you would claim Cynder's friend.” His voice was low. Little more than a growl. “Set foot in Cynder's path. See if you measure up to Cynder. There is no other way.”

One of Shill's men did step forward. A giant of sorts, a head taller than any man save Amalgus and as broad as Cynder. “If it isn't Ishtel himself,” the soldier jested. “Come to test his blade before the harvest. Well then, if you'd like to play Brethren, let me play Oscilian and show you the true path.”

He reached behind himself, unclasping a sword from his back that was almost as tall has he was. The thing barely fit inside the tiny temple. Branston watched with horror as the madness unfolded before him.

“
No, Cynder!” He was yelling. But his cries were lost in the clamor of the mounting bloodlust. There was more at work here than sheer folly. “No! Damn it, you fool! Stand down!”

But Cynder didn't stand down. Rain's voice joined the noise, calling for peace, heeded as little as the rest. The two men took their breaths, and launched themselves at each other. With them came the men who stood behind. Soon the whole room was alive with the ringing of steel. And Branston could do little more than stare wide-eyed as his countrymen let each others' blood.

T
WENTY-
F
OUR

A
NDERS
K
EATON COULDN'T HAVE FELT ANY MORE MISERABLE THAN HE DID NOW
.
The harrowing truth of it all had been made manifest in the preceding two days. He now knew why Lucius had said he would rather be dead than walking the path he was currently on. They watched him closely in case he should try to take his own life.