Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (24 page)

“Yes, you did say that, didn’t you? But somehow I find that hard to believe. You are the only person who might have a purpose for that blade—a dark purpose. A very evil purpose.”

Arista whirled on him, but before she could speak, Braga
went on. “You betrayed your father. You betrayed your brother. Now you would betray me as well and with the same dagger! Did you really think me such a fool?”

Arista looked toward the window and could see, even through the heavy curtain, the moonlight had finally reached it. Braga followed her glance and a puzzled expression washed over his face. “Why does only one window have its curtains drawn?”

He turned, grabbed the drape, and threw it back, revealing the dagger bathed in moonlight. He staggered at the sight of it, and Arista knew the spell had worked its magic.

They had not gone far, only a handful of miles. The traveling was slow and the lack of sleep combined with his full stomach made Alric so drowsy he feared he might fall from the saddle. Myron did not look much better, riding along behind a guard, his head drooping. They traveled down a lonely dirt lane past a few farms and over footbridges. To the left lay a harvested cornfield, where empty brown stalks were left to wither. To the right stood a dark woodland of oak and hemlock, their leaves long since scattered to the wind; their naked branches reached out over the road.

It was another cold night, and Alric swore to himself he would never take another night ride as long as he lived. He was dreaming of curling up in his own bed with a roaring fire and perhaps a warmed glass of mulled wine when the baron ordered an unexpected halt.

Trumbul and five soldiers rode up beside Alric. Two of the men dismounted and took hold of the bridles of the prince’s and Myron’s horses. Four additional men rode ahead, beyond
Alric’s sight, while three others turned and rode back the way they had come.

“Why have we stopped?” Alric asked, yawning. “Why have the men split up?”

“It’s a treacherous road, Your Majesty,” Trumbul explained. “We need to take precautions. Vanguards and rear guards are necessary when escorting one such as you, during times such as these. Any number of dangers might exist out here on dark nights. Highwaymen, goblins, wolves—there’s no way to know what you might come across. There’s even the legend of a headless ghost that haunts this road, did you know that?”

“No I didn’t,” the prince said. He did not care for the casual tone the baron was suddenly taking with him.

“Oh yes, they say it’s the ghost of a king who died at this very spot. Of course, he wasn’t really a king, just a crown prince who might have worn the crown one day. You see, as the tale goes, the prince was returning home one night in the company of his brave soldiers when one of them took it upon himself to chop the poor bastard’s head off and put it in a sack.” Trumbul paused as he pulled a burlap bag off his horse and held it up to the prince. “Just like this one here.”

“What are you playing at, Trumbul?” Alric inquired.

“I’m not playing at all, Your Royal High-and-Mightiness. I just realized I don’t need to return you to the castle to be paid; I only need to return part of you. Your head will do fine. It saves the horse the effort of carrying you the entire way, and I have always had a fondness for horses. So whatever I can do to help them, I try to do.”

Alric spurred his mount, but the man with the reins held it firmly, and the horse only pivoted sharply. Trumbul took advantage of the animal’s sudden lurch and pulled the prince to the ground. Alric attempted to draw his sword, but
Trumbul kicked him in the stomach. With the wind knocked out of him, Alric doubled over in the dirt, laboring to breathe.

Trumbul then turned his attention to Myron, who sat in his saddle with a look of shock as the baron approached him.

“You look familiar,” Trumbul said as he pulled Myron roughly off the horse. He held the monk’s head toward the moonlight. “Oh yes, I remember. You were the not-so-helpful monk at the abbey we burned. You probably don’t remember me, do you? I was wearing a helm with a visor that night. We all were. Our employer insisted that we hide our faces.” He stared at the monk, who had tears welling in his eyes. “I don’t know if I should kill you or not. I was originally told to spare your life so you could deliver a message to your father, but you don’t seem to be heading that way. Besides, keeping you alive was related to that job, and unfortunately for you, we have already been paid for its completion. So it seems what I do is completely at my discretion.”

Without warning, Myron kicked the baron in the knee with such force that it broke the baron’s grip on the monk, who leapt over a fallen log and bolted into the darkness of the trees, snapping twigs and branches as he ran into the night. Screaming in pain, the baron collapsed to the ground. “Get him!” he yelled, and two soldiers chased after Myron.

A commotion erupted in the trees. Alric heard Myron’s cry for help, followed by the sound of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Another scream ended as quickly as it began, cut abruptly short. The silence returned. Still holding his leg, Trumbul cursed the monk. “That will teach the little wretch!”

“You all right, Trumbul?” asked the guard holding Alric’s horse.

“I’m fine, just give me a second. Damn, that little monk kicked hard.”

“He won’t be kicking anyone anymore,” another soldier added.

The baron slowly climbed to his feet and tested his leg. He walked over to where Alric lay and drew his sword. “Grab him by the arms and hold him tight. Make sure he doesn’t cause me any trouble, boys.”

The guard Myron had been riding behind dismounted and took Alric’s left arm while another secured his right. “Just make sure you don’t hit us by accident,” he said.

Trumbul grinned in the moonlight. “I never do anything by accident. If I hit you, you’ve done something to deserve it.”

“If you kill me, my uncle will hunt you down no matter where you try to hide!”

Trumbul chuckled at the young prince. “Your uncle is the one who will pay us for your head. He wants you dead.”

“What? You lie!”

“Believe what you will.” The baron laughed. “Turn him over so I get a clear stroke at the back of his neck. I want a pretty trophy. I hate it when I end up having to hack and hack.”

Alric struggled but the two soldiers were stronger than he was. They twisted the prince’s arms behind his back, forced him to his knees, and shoved his head to the ground.

There was the sound of snapping twigs from the thick brush by the side of the road. “It took you two a long time to kill that little monk,” Trumbul said. “But you got back just in time for the night’s finale.”

The two soldiers holding Alric twisted his arms harder to keep him from moving. The prince struggled with all his strength, screaming into the dirt. “No! Stop! You can’t! Stop!” His efforts were useless. The soldiers each had a firm grip, and years of wielding swords and shields in battle had turned their arms to steel. The prince was no match for them.

Alric waited for the blow. Instead of hearing Trumbul’s blade whistling through the night air, he heard an odd gurgle, then a thud. The guards loosened their hold on him. One let go entirely, and Alric heard his rapid footfalls as he sprinted away. The other hauled the prince up, holding him tightly from behind. The baron lay dead on the ground. Two men stood on either side of the body. In the darkness, Alric saw only silhouettes, but they did not match the men who had chased Myron into the trees. The one nearest the baron held a knife, which seemed to glow with an eerie radiance in the moonlight. Next to him stood a taller, broader man, who held a sword in each hand.

Again the sound of twigs snapping came from the woods nearby.

“Everyone, over here!” shouted the soldier who still shielded himself with Alric.

The two guards holding the horses dropped the reins and drew their swords. Their faces, however, betrayed their fear.

Myron climbed out of the woods and stood in the moonlight, his rapid breath forming little clouds in the cold night air.

Alric heard Royce’s voice: “Your friends aren’t coming. They’re already dead.”

The two guards wielding swords looked at each other, then raced down the road in the direction of the Silver Pitcher Inn. The last remaining soldier, holding Alric, looked around wildly. As Royce and Hadrian took a stride toward him, he cursed abruptly, let go of the prince, and bolted.

Alric could not stop shaking as he wiped the tears and dirt from his face. Hadrian and Royce helped him to his feet. He stood on wobbly legs and looked at those around him.

“They were going to kill me,” he said. “They were going to
kill me
!” he screamed.

He abruptly pushed Royce and Hadrian away and, drawing his father’s sword, drove it deep into the torso of the dead
Trumbul. He staggered and stood there gasping, staring at the dead body before him, his father’s sword swaying back and forth, the tip buried in the baron’s back.

Soon men approached from both directions of the road. Many were from the Silver Pitcher Inn and carried crude weapons. Some of them were wet with blood but none appeared injured. Two of them led the horses that Royce, Hadrian, and Alric had been using since the Wicend Ford. There was also a thin figure in tattered rags wearing a shapeless hat. He bore only a heavy stick.

“Not a single one got past us,” Hall declared as he approached the small group. “One tried to duck us, but the half-breed found him. I can see now why you asked him to come. Bastard can see better than an owl in the dark.”

“As promised, you can keep the horses and everything on them,” Hadrian said. “But make sure you bury these bodies tonight or you might find trouble in the morning.”

“Is that really the prince?” one of the men asked, staring at Alric.

“Actually,” Hadrian said, “I think you are looking at the new King of Melengar.”

There was a quiet murmur of interest, and a few went through the bother of bowing, although Alric did not notice. He had retrieved his sword and was now searching Trumbul’s body.

The men gathered in the road to look over the captured animals, weapons, and gear. Hall took charge and began to divvy up the loot as best he could.

“Give the elf one of the horses,” Royce told him.

“What?” the innkeeper asked, stunned. “You want us to give
him
a horse? Are you sure? I mean, most of these men don’t have a good horse.”

Drake quickly cut in. “Listen, we all fought equally tonight.
He can have a share like everyone, but that miserable filth ain’t walking off with no horse.”

“Don’t kill him, Royce,” Hadrian said hurriedly.

The prince looked up to see Drake backing up as Royce took a step toward him. The thief’s face was eerily calm but his eyes smoldered.

“What does the king say?” Drake asked quickly. “I mean—he is the king and all, right? Technically, them is his horses, right? His soldiers was a ridin’ ’em. We should ask him to decide—okay?”

There was a pause while Alric stood up and faced the crowd. The prince felt sick. His legs were weak, his arms hurt, and he was bleeding from scrapes on his forehead, chin, and cheek. He was covered in dirt. He had come within seconds of death and the fear from it was still with him. He noticed Hadrian move away to where Myron was. The monk was crying off to his right, and Alric knew he was a hair away from joining him, but he was the king. He clenched his teeth and looked at them. A score of dirty, blood-splattered faces looked back. He stood there unable to think clearly. His mind was still on Trumbul. He was still furious and humiliated. Alric glanced at Royce and Hadrian and then looked back at the crowd.

“Do whatever these two men tell you to do,” he said slowly, clearly, coldly. “They are my royal protectors. Any man who willfully disobeys them will be executed.” There was silence in the wake of his voice. In the stillness, Alric pulled himself onto his horse. “Let’s go.”

Hadrian and Royce exchanged looks of surprise and then mounted. The monk was quiet now and walked in a daze. Hadrian pulled Myron up behind him.

As they started down the road, Royce stopped his horse near Hall and Drake and quietly told them both, “See to it the half-breed gets a horse and keeps it, or when I return, I’ll hold
everyone in this hamlet accountable—and for once, it will be legal.”

The four rode along in silence for some time. Finally, Alric hissed, “It was my own uncle.” Despite his efforts, his eyes began to water.