Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (59 page)

“Again correct.”

“But you never saw how they entered the tower?”

“No.”

Royce thought a moment, then asked, “Why were the stairs wet?”

Esrahaddon looked at him, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“You said earlier that when the knights were fighting off the Gilarabrywn, they died on the wet steps. Was it blood?”

“No, water, I think. I remember how the stairs were wet when we were climbing up, because it made the stone so slippery I nearly fell. Some of the knights did fall; that’s why I remember it.”

“And you said the elves had clothes drying in the sun?”

Esrahaddon shook his head. “I see where you are going with this, but not even an elf can swim to the tower.”

“That may be true, but then why were they wet? Was it a hot day? Could they have been swimming?”

Esrahaddon raised his eyebrows incredulously. “In that river? No, it was early spring and still cold.”

“Then how’d they get wet?”

Royce heard a faint sound behind him. He started to turn but stopped himself.

“We’re not alone,” he whispered.

“When you lunge, step in with the leg on your weapon side; it will give you more reach and better balance,” Hadrian told Theron.

The two were at the well again. They had gotten up early and Hadrian was putting Theron through some basic moves using two makeshift swords they had created out of rake handles. To his surprise, Theron was spryer than he looked, and despite his size, the old man moved well. Hadrian had gone over the basics of parries, ripostes, flèches, presses, and the lunge, and they were now working on a compound attack comprising a feint, a parry, and a riposte.

“Cuts and thrusts must follow one upon the other without pause. The emphasis is always on speed, aggression, and deception. And everything is kept as simple as possible,” Hadrian explained.

“I’d listen to him. If anyone knows stick fighting, it’s Hadrian.”

Hadrian and Theron turned to see two equestrians riding into the village clearing, each leading a pack pony laden with poles and bundles. They were young men not much older than Thrace, but dressed like young princes, in handsome doublets and hose complete with box-pleated frill and lace edging.

“Mauvin! Fanen?” Hadrian said, astonished.

“Don’t look so surprised.” Mauvin gave his horse rein to graze on the common’s grass.

“Well, that’s a little hard at this point. What in Maribor’s name are you two doing here?”

Just then a procession of musicians, heralds, knights, wagons, and carriages emerged from the dense forest. Long banners of red and gold streamed in the morning light as standard-bearers preceded the march, followed by the plumed imperial guards of the Nyphron Church.

Hadrian and Theron moved aside against the trees for safety as the grand parade of elegantly draped stallions and gold-etched white carriages rolled in. There were well-dressed clergy and chain-mailed soldiers, knights with their squires leading packhorses laden with fine sets of shining metal armor. There were nobility with standards from as far away as Calis and Trent, but also commoners, rough men with broad swords and scarred faces, monks in tattered robes, and woodsmen with long bows and green hoods. Such an assortment of diverse characters made Hadrian think of a circus he had once seen, although this column of men and horses was far too grim and serious to be a carnival. Bringing up the rear echelon was a group of six riders in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.

“So they’ve finally decided to do something about this,” Hadrian said. “I’m impressed the church would go to such an effort to save a little village so far out that even its own king doesn’t care. But that still doesn’t explain why you two are here.”

“I’m hurt.” Mauvin feigned a chest pain. “Granted, I’m only here to help Fanen, but I might try my hand as well. Although, if you’re going to be competing, it looks as if we shouldn’t have bothered with the trip.”

Theron whispered to Hadrian, “Who are these people? And what is he talking about?”

“Ah—sorry, this is Mauvin and Fanen Pickering, sons of Count Pickering of Galilin in Melengar, who are apparently very lost. Mauvin, Fanen, this is Theron Wood; he’s a farmer.”

“And he’s paying you for lessons? Smart idea, but how did you two get here ahead of the rest of us? I didn’t see you at any of the camps. Oh, what am I thinking? You and Royce probably had no trouble discovering the location of the contest.”

“Contest?”

“Royce was probably hiding under the archbishop’s desk as he set up the rules. So will it be swords? If it’s swords, Fanen has a real chance to win, but if it’s a joust, well …” He glanced at his brother, who scowled. “He’s really not that good. Do you know how the eliminations will work? I can’t imagine they will pit noble against commoner, which means Fanen won’t be competing with you, so—”

“You’re not here to slay the Gilarabrywn? Are you saying these people are here for that stupid contest?”

“Gilarabrywn? What’s a Gilarabrywn? Is that like Oswald the bear? Heard about him coming through Dunmore. Terrorized villages for years until the king killed him with just a dagger.”

The entourage traveled past them without pause up toward the manor house. One of the coaches separated from the group just after it cleared the well. It stopped, and a young well-dressed woman exited and ran to them, holding the edge of her skirt up to avoid the dirt.

“Hadrian!” she cried with a bright smile.

Hadrian bowed, and Theron joined him.

“Is this your father, Hadrian?” she asked.

“No, Your Highness. May I present Theron Wood of Dahlgren Village. Theron, this is Her Royal Highness Princess Arista of Melengar.”

Theron stared at Hadrian, shocked. “You really get around, don’t you?”

Hadrian smiled awkwardly and shrugged.

“Hey, Arista,” Fanen said. “Guess what. Hadrian says the contest is to kill a beast.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Which is just fine by me, because if Hadrian was going to be competing, I think I would have to withdraw. But now, a
hunt is a much different story. You know luck is often a deciding factor in these things.”

“‘These things’?” Arista laughed at him. “Attended several beast-slaying contests, have you, Fanen?”

“Bah!” Fanen scoffed. “You know what I mean. Sometimes you are just in the right place at the right time.”

Mauvin shrugged. “Doesn’t sound like much of a contest for noblemen, really. If it turns out to be true, I’ll be disappointed. Slaughtering a poor animal is no good use for a Pickering’s sword.”

“Say, did you also hear what the prize will be?” Fanen asked. “The way they’ve been selling this contest in every square, church, and tavern across Avryn, it has to be big. Will it just be a gold trophy, or is it land? I’m hoping to get an estate out of this. Mauvin will inherit our father’s title, but I have to fend for myself. What does this animal look like? Is it a bear? Is it big? Have you seen it?”

Hadrian and Theron exchanged stunned looks.

“What is it?” Fanen asked. “It’s not dead already?”

“No,” Hadrian said. “It’s not dead already.”

“Oh good.”

“Your Highness!” A woman’s voice came from the carriage still lingering up the trail. “We need to be going—the archbishop will be waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” she told them. “I have to go. It was good seeing you again.” She waved and ran back to her waiting carriage.

“We should probably be going too,” Mauvin said. “We want to get Fanen’s name as near to the top of the list as we can.”

“Wait,” Hadrian told them. “Don’t enter the contest.”

“What?” they both said.

“We rode days to get here for this,” Fanen complained.

“Take my advice. Turn around right now and head back home. Take Arista with you too and anyone else you can convince to go. If it is a competition to kill the Gilarabrywn, don’t sign up. You don’t want to fight this thing. I’m serious. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. If you try and fight this creature, it will kill you.”

“But you think you can kill it?”

“I’m not fighting it. Royce and I were just here doing a job for Theron’s daughter and we were about to leave.”

“Royce is here too?” Fanen asked, looking around.

“Do your father a favor and leave now.”

Mauvin frowned. “If you were anyone else, I would take your tone as insolent. I might even call you a coward and a liar, but I know you’re neither.” Mauvin sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Still, we did ride an awfully long way to just turn around. You say you were preparing to leave? When will that be?”

Hadrian looked at Theron.

“Another two days, I think,” the old farmer told Hadrian. “I don’t want to go until I know Thrace will be okay.”

“Then we will stay here for that long and see for ourselves what’s what. If it turns out to be as you say, we will leave with you. Is that fair, Fanen?”

“I don’t see why you can’t go and I stay. After all, I’m the one going to enter the contest.”

“No one is going to kill that thing, Fanen,” Hadrian told him. “Listen, I have been here for 3 nights. I have seen it and I know what it can do. It’s not a matter of skill or courage. Your sword won’t harm it; no one’s will. Fighting that creature is nothing more than suicide.”

“I’m not deciding yet,” Fanen declared. “We aren’t even certain what the contest is. I won’t sign up right away, but I’m not leaving either.”

“Do me a favor, then,” Hadrian told them. “At least stay indoors tonight.”

Something, or someone, was in the thickets.

Royce left Esrahaddon and moved away to the river’s edge, careful not to look in the direction of the sound. He descended from the rocks to the depression near the river and slipped into the trees, circling back. Something was there and it was working hard to be quiet.

At first, Royce caught a glimpse of orange and blue through the leaves and almost thought it was nothing more than a bluebird, but then it shifted. It was far too large to be a bird. Royce drew closer and saw a light brown braided beard, a broad flat nose, a blue leather vest, large black boots, and a bright orange shirt with puffed sleeves.

“Magnus!” Royce greeted the dwarf loudly, causing him to stumble and fall out of the bramble. He slipped backward off the little grassy ledge and fell on his back on the bare rock not far from where Esrahaddon sat. With the wind knocked out of him, the dwarf lay gasping for breath.

Royce leapt down and placed his dagger to the dwarf’s throat.

“A lot of people have been looking for you,” Royce told him menacingly. “I have to admit, I rather wanted to see you again myself to thank you for all the help you gave me in Essendon Castle.”

“Don’t tell me this is the dwarf that killed King Amrath of Melengar,” Esrahaddon said.

“His name is Magnus, or at least that’s what Percy Braga called him. He’s a master trap builder and stone carver, isn’t that right?”

“It’s my business!” the dwarf protested, still struggling for air. “I’m a craftsman. I take jobs the same as you. You can’t fault a guy for working.”

“I almost died due to your work,” Royce told him. “And you killed the king. Alric will be very pleased when I tell him I finally eliminated you. And as I recall, there’s a price on your head.”