Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (34 page)

The mob had reached the main gate of the city. The great four-towered barbican of gray stone rose above them like a monstrous beast. It swarmed with soldiers shocked at the sight of the city rising against them. Surprise and the accompanying panic bought the mob time to clear the streets and reach the
gatehouse. Mason heard Dixon shout, “For Prince Alric!” but the prince was the last thing on the smith’s mind.

Mason picked out his next target—a tall guard absorbed in a swinging match with a street sweeper from Artisan Row. Mason stabbed the guard in the armpit and listened to him scream as he twisted the blade. The street sweeper grinned at the smith and Mason grinned back.

He had killed only two men but already Mason was slick with blood. His tunic felt heavy as it stuck to the skin of his chest and he could not tell if sweat or tears of blood dripped down his face. The grin he had shown to the sweeper remained glued to his lips by the thrill and elation.

This is freedom! This is living!

His heart thundered and his head swam as if he were drunk. Mason swung his sword again, this time at a man already down on one knee. His swing was so strong the blade cut halfway through his victim’s neck. He kicked the dead man aside and cried aloud in his victory. He spoke no words; words were valueless at such a moment. He shouted the fury that pounded in his heart. He was a man again, a man of strength, a man to be feared!

A horn sounded and Mason looked up once more. A captain of the castle guard was on the ramparts shouting orders, rallying his troops. They responded to the call and fell back into ranks, struggling to defend the gate even as the mob closed in.

Mason stepped through the muddy, blood-soaked ground, now slick beneath his feet. He looked about and picked a new target. A castle guard with his back to the smith was in the process of retreating to the sound of his captain’s voice. The smith aimed at the guard’s neck, attempting to cleave off his head. His inexperience with a sword caused him to aim too high and the blade glanced off the man’s helmet, ringing it loudly. He raised the sword for another blow when the man unexpectedly turned around.

Mason felt a sharp, burning pain in his stomach. In an instant, all the strength and fury drained from him. He let go his sword. He saw, rather than felt, himself drop to his knees. He looked down at the source of the pain and watched the soldier withdraw a sword from his stomach. Mason could not believe what he was seeing.

How could all that steel come out of me?

The smith felt a warm wetness on his hands as he instinctively pressed them to the wound. He tried as best he could to contain his organs as the blood flowed through a gash at least a foot wide. He no longer felt his legs, and lay helpless when, to his horror, he saw the soldier swing again—this time at his head.

Alric charged the castle barbican. Immediately, Count Pickering, Mauvin, and Marshal Garret led the reserve knights in behind him. Arrows rained down from the parapets above the great gates. One deflected off Alric’s visor, and another struck deep into the horn of his saddle. One hit Sir Sinclair’s horse in the flank, causing it to rear unexpectedly, but the knight remained mounted. Countless more struck the ground harmlessly. The enraged prince rode directly to the gate and, standing up in his stirrups, shouted, “I am Prince Alric Brendon Essendon! Open this gate in the name of your king!”

Alric was not certain anyone had heard him as he stood there, his sword raised high over his head. Furthermore, if they had heard him, there was no reason to believe another arrow would not whistle down and end his life. Behind the prince, the remaining knights fanned out around him as the marshal attempted to build a wall around his monarch.

Another arrow did not fly but neither did the gate open.

“Alric,” Count Pickering shouted, “you must fall back!”

“I am Prince Alric Essendon! Open the gate
now
!” he demanded again, and this time, he removed his helm and threw it aside, backing his horse into full view of the ramparts.

Alric and the others waited. Count Pickering and Mauvin stared at the prince in terror and tried to persuade him to come away from the gate. Nothing happened for several tense moments as the prince and his bodyguards sat outside waiting, staring up at the parapets. From inside they heard the sounds of fighting.

A shout came from atop the walls of the city. “The prince! Open the gate! Let him in! It’s the prince!” More shouts, a scream, and then suddenly the massive gate split open, and the great doors pulled back. Inside was a mass of confusion as uniformed guards fought a horde of citizens dressed up like tinkers, wearing makeshift armor or stolen helms.

Alric did not pause. He spurred his mount and drove into the crowd. Mauvin, Count Pickering, Sir Ecton, and Marshal Garret struggled to form a personal defense for their king, but there was little need. At the sight of him, the defenders laid down their weapons. Word that the prince was alive spread, and those who saw him charging toward the castle, brandishing his father’s sword, roared with cheers.

Royce heard the horn wail as he stood trapped on the steps of the tower. “Sounds like a fight outside,” Magnus mentioned. “I wonder who will win.” The dwarf scratched his beard. “For that matter, I wonder who is fighting.”

“You don’t take much interest in your employer’s business, do you?” Royce said, studying the walls. When he tried to tap a spike into a seam, the stone broke like an eggshell. The dwarf was telling the truth about that.

“Only if it’s necessary for the job. By the way, I wouldn’t do that again. You were lucky you didn’t hit a binding thread.”

Royce cursed under his breath. “If you want to be helpful, why not just tell me how to get up and back?”

“Who said I was trying to be helpful?” The dwarf grinned at him wickedly. “I just spent half a year on this project. I don’t want you to topple the whole thing in the first few minutes. I want to savor the moment.”

“Are all dwarves this morbid?”

“Think of it as having built a sandcastle and wanting the pleasure of seeing it fall to a wave. I’m on the edge of my toes waiting to see exactly how and when it will finally collapse. Will it be a misstep, a loss of balance, or something amazing and unexpected?”

Royce drew his dagger and held it by the blade for the dwarf to see. “Are you aware I could put this through your throat where you stand?”

It was a false threat, as he would not dare throw away such a vital tool at this moment. Still, he expected a reaction of fear, or at least a mocking laugh. Instead, the dwarf did neither. He glared at the dagger, his eyes wide.

“Where did you get that blade?”

Royce rolled his eyes in disbelief. “I’m a little busy here. If you don’t mind.” He resumed his study of the steps. He observed the way they curved up and around the central trunk of the tower, how the steps above formed the ceiling to the ones below. He looked up ahead and then behind him.

“The step I am on doesn’t collapse if I’m on it,” Royce said to himself, but loud enough for the dwarf to hear. “It only falls if I step on the next one.”

“Yes, quite ingenious, isn’t it? As you might imagine, I’m quite proud of my work. I originally designed it to be an instrument of Arista’s death. Braga hired me to set it up to look like an
accident. A decrepit old tower in the royal residence collapses, and the poor princess is crushed in the process. Unfortunately, after Alric escaped, he changed his mind and decided to have her executed instead. I thought I would never get to see the fruits of all my hard work, but then you came along. How nice of you.”

“All traps have weaknesses,” Royce said. He looked ahead at the steps and smiled suddenly. Crouching, he leapt forward not one but two steps. The step in the middle slipped from its position and fell, but the step he had started from remained. “With no following step,” Royce observed, “that step is now secure from breaking, isn’t it?”

“Very clever,” the dwarf replied, clearly disappointed.

Royce continued to leap two steps at a time until he moved around the circle out of sight of the dwarf. As he did, Magnus shouted, “It’ll do you no good. The gap at the bottom is much too far for you to jump. You are still trapped!”

Arista was crouched on her bed when she heard someone outside her door. It was probably that dreadful little dwarf or Braga himself coming to take her to the trial. She could hear a scraping and an occasional thud. She remembered too late that she had not resealed the door with her gemlock. As she moved toward the door, it swung open. To her surprise, it was neither Braga nor the dwarf. Instead, there in the doorway was one of the thieves from the dungeon.

“Princess,” was all Royce said, entering with a respectful though brief nod in her direction. He quickly moved past her and seemed to be looking for something; his eyes roamed over the walls and ceiling of her bedroom.

“You? What are
you
doing here? Is Alric alive?”

“Alric’s fine,” Royce said as he moved about the room. He
looked out the windows and examined the material of the drapes. “Well, that’s not going to work.”

“Why are you here? How did you get here? Did you see Esrahaddon? What did he say to Alric?”

“I’m a bit busy just now, Your Highness.”

“Busy? Doing what?”

“Saving you but I’ll admit I’m not doing very well at the moment.” Without asking permission, Royce opened her wardrobe and began sifting through her clothes. Then he rifled through her dresser drawers.

“What do you want with my
clothes
?”

“I’m trying to figure a way out of here. I suspect this tower is going to collapse in a few minutes, and if we don’t get out soon, we’ll die.”

“I see,” she said simply. “Why can’t we just go down the stairs?” She got up and crept to the doorway. “Sweet Maribor!” she cried as she saw every other step missing.

“We can leap those but the last six or seven steps at the bottom are totally gone. It’s too far to jump to the corridor. I was hoping maybe we could jump out the window to the moat, but that looks like instant death.”

“Oh,” was all she could utter. A scream was growing in her and she covered her mouth with her hand, holding it back. “You’re right. You’re not doing very well.”

Royce looked under her bed and then stood up. “Wait a minute, you’re a sorceress, aren’t you? Esrahaddon taught you magic. Can you get us down? Levitate us, or turn us into birds or something?”

Arista smiled awkwardly. “I was never able to learn much from Esrahaddon and certainly not self-levitation.”