Daughter of Fate - Chapter 7
The mood was sombre amongst the rescuers as they returned to the inn...
The Knights of Alana is an original fantasy novel, packed with gods, dragons and magic. When Knights attack the temple of Skystead, seventeen-year-old Pela is the only one to escape. Her mother and the other villagers are taken, accused of worshiping the False Gods. They will pay the ultimate price – unless Pela can rescue them. Pela has never left the safety of her town, let alone touched a sword. What chance does she have against the ruthless Knights of Alana? She’s not a hero. But she knows one…
But she knows one.
Her uncle Devon was a mighty warrior once, in times when magic filled the world. Age has withered his strength and he retired long ago, but maybe he will answer the call of family. Can Pela convince him to stand against the darkness one last time?
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The mood was sombre amongst the rescuers as they returned to the inn. They had succeeded beyond anything Caledan had expected, but the sense of loss Devon and Pela carried about themselves was palpable. Not only had the kindly Aldyn been butchered where he stood, but they had failed to achieve the one thing they’d set out to do: rescue the girl’s mother.
Only Tobias seemed to have thrown off the melancholy. He had walked the whole way back arm-in-arm with a young woman that could only be his wife. Caledan had to admit, the farmer had surprised him back in the pantheon. He might have been jovial during training, but when it had come to the battle, Tobias had been all business. The man might never have Caledan’s skill, but he’d shown his worth.
His thoughts turned then to the huntress. Genevieve too had shown her worth. He searched the crowded inn and found her seated alone in the corner with a jug of ale. Taking his mug, he strolled across to join her.
“Not in the mood to celebrate?” he asked as he sat down.
“Not really.” Her eyes flickered but she did not look up. Reaching for the jug, she gulped down a mouthful of the amber liquid.
Caledan raised an eyebrow. “Wha—”
“Not in the mood for conversation either,” she snapped, and this time she did look at him. Tears spilt down her cheeks. “If you don’t mind.”
A strained silence stretched out between them, before Caledan nodded.
“Fine,” he said, raising the glass. “Mind if I keep you company?”
“You’re not my type.”
Caledan snorted, drink still extended. He was surprised at her sudden show of emotion—after seeing little of the sort during their voyage from Skystead. But she was still better company than Devon. The hammerman had hardly spoken on the way back, and now sat alone in the middle of the inn, quietly nursing his drink. Caledan’s attempts at conversation had been met with a cold stare, and he had quickly stopped trying.
Genevieve eyed him for a long moment, before taking up her jug and clinking it against his glass. They drank deeply and then sat there in silence, watching as the other villagers exchanged stories.
“What will you do now?” Caledan asked finally.
Nose in her jug, Genevieve glanced at him. “I will go wherever Devon does,” she answered, as though that explained everything. “What about you?”
Caledan’s stomach contracted at the thought and a grin crossed his cheeks. She was right: the rescue mission was over, whether they had lost the woman or not. He had hardly given a thought to his request. To finally come before the king…though now that the time was finally here, he wondered if the hammerman would honour his word.
He considered approaching Devon for reassurance, but one look at the man banished the idea. Stoney-eyed and rigid, now was not the time to pick a fight with the giant warrior.
Cursing into his mug, Caledan waved for another jug. “Tomorrow I’ll ask Devon to honour our agreement,” he replied finally.
“If there is a tomorrow,” Genevieve muttered.
“What’s that?” Caledan asked, his head coming up.
Genevieve raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think this is going to get back to the Order?” She gestured at the general revelry taking place in the dining hall. “How long before those Knights come looking for revenge?”
A curse burst from Caledan. Why hadn’t he thought of that? There’d been a dozen Knights left alive in the Castle, and plenty more of their followers. He started to rise when a tap came on his shoulder. Caledan spun and was reaching for his sword, when he realised it was only Tobias.
“May we sit?” the farmer asked.
His wife was with him, and they pulled up chairs before either could respond. Cursing, Caledan sank back into his seat. His heartbeat eased. Outside, rain still lashed at the windows and the occasional boom of thunder shook the walls. Few would dare venture out in such weather. Word was unlikely to reach the Knights until morning. By then the villagers would be long gone on the Seadragon.
“Marce,” Tobias said, introducing his wife.
Despite her recent travails, the woman had a cheerful look, though the smile lines on her cheeks suggested this was her usual state of mind. Idly, Caledan found himself wondering why. How much joy could exist in the life of a farmer? To toil day in and day out on the land with never an ounce of excitement—just the thought of it made him shudder.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Marce was saying. “I know you suffered greatly to save us. He must have been a brave man, Aldyn. Did you know him long?”
Caledan snorted. “A few hours.”
Her smile faltered and she exchanged a glance with Tobias. The farmer gave the slightest shake of his head. Caledan almost rolled his eyes. Was he meant to grieve every ally who fell in battle? What he’d said was true—he’d barely known Aldyn long enough to learn his name, let alone know him. Why should he grieve a stranger, when there was so much to celebrate?
Like his coming meeting with King Braidon…
“I’m just so sorry about Kryssa and Ariane,” Marce was saying, her eyes traveling across the table to Devon. “I knew Selina quite well. We often had coffee together, though the hammerman—I mean Devon—never joined us. He must be devastated to have lost his daughter.”
Caledan grunted, but Genevieve came to her feet so suddenly her chair toppled to the ground. Marce’s mouth fell open and Tobias rose, but before anything could be said, a crash came from the entrance to the inn. The doors swung open and the winds carried the swirling rain inside, drawing curses from the nearest patrons. They fell silent as an armoured Knight stepped into the room.
The silence spread as others noticed the newcomer. Cursing, Caledan leapt to his feet and reached for his sword.
“Where is the hammerman?” the Knight bellowed.
“Here,” Devon growled, striding past Caledan with hammer in hand.
There was a dangerous look in the man’s eyes, and Caledan realised with a start he’d been waiting for this. The floorboards creaked as Devon came to a stop several feet from the Knight.
Two more Knights shouldered their way inside. Caledan wondered how many more were waiting without, but three were more than enough of a concern for the moment. Loosening his blade in its scabbard, Caledan edged forward. Genevieve and Tobias followed just a step behind him. The rest of the villagers from Skystead watched on, fear written across their faces.
“Can I help you lads?” the innkeeper asked in a hard voice. He stepped out from behind the bar, a club gripped tightly in one hand. But the weapon was for dealing with unruly drunks, not armoured men, and the Knights took no notice.
“No,” Devon growled, hefting his hammer, “but I can—”
“Easy!” Caledan interrupted, darting forward before the hammerman dragged them all into a fight they could not win. Stepping in front of Devon, he flashed the man a glance before facing the Knights. “I think you’d best be going, lads.”
The first of the Knights stepped forward. “He desecrated our sacred pantheon!” he snapped, his voice echoing strangely from the helmet. “He killed our Elder! We won’t be going anywhere without the old man’s head on a pike.”
Under different circumstances, Caledan might have been offended the Knights had not recognised him back in the Castle. Just now though, he would take every advantage he could to defuse the situation.
“But how can that be?” He spread his hands. “The man has been in this tavern all night, with myself and these good folk from Skystead.”
“Lies!” the Knight screamed, though he did not draw his sword. “He was seen with the traitor from the King’s Guard. Him and all these others—”
“—came from Skystead,” Caledan interrupted. His voice took on a hard edge. “Now, let us be reasonable. We’ve all lost people this night. No doubt we could keep fighting until there’s no one left standing.” A yelp came from the innkeeper at his words. “But we all know the truth about what happened in Skystead, and here. Should that truth get out…”
“We are the authority in Townirwin,” the Knight hissed. Then his eyes flickered around the room, taking in Devon, Genevieve and Tobias. Several of the former prisoners had also armed themselves. The sight seemed to give him pause.
“The others can stay,” he growled at last. “We already took what we needed for the Great Sacrifice.”
“You’re monsters!” Pela shrieked.
Caledan cursed inwardly as the girl came marching forward, sword in hand.
“You murdered my mother in your foul pantheon. How can you believe your Great Sacrifice is anything but evil?”
The Knight seemed taken aback. “Because it is necessary,” he said, then smiled. “But…that was only a cleansing! Fear not child, for your mother died free of her evil.” He laughed. “The Great Sacrifice is to burn away the tendrils of the False Gods, to keep them from this world. It does not take place until the solstice. The Saviour has blessed the woman Kryssa as one of the three.”
Silence answered the Knight’s words as every eye in the tavern turned on him. Caledan felt as though he’d been struck a great blow. Was the man speaking the truth? Could Pela’s mother truly be alive?
“What did you say?” Devon whispered.
“Do you know her, hammerman?” the Knight sneered.
“If you lay a hand on her—” Devon bellowed, starting forward, but Caledan leapt between them.
“Easy, Devon!” Caledan hissed. The hammerman’s eyes were wild, but he stopped when Caledan placed a hand on his chest. Letting out a sigh, Caledan looked at the Knight. “What do you mean, she was ‘blessed’?”
“That is none of your concern,” the Knight snapped. “She is beyond your reach now. Now hand over the old man, it is time he paid for his crimes this night.”
“No.” Caledan released Devon and stepped towards the Knights. “Believe me, lads, I’m the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
The Knights laughed. “You think we’re afraid of a greybeard?”
“Do you know his name?” Caledan asked mildly.
“What do we care for the bastard’s name?” the leader snapped.
Caledan smiled. “It might interest you,” he murmured, “to know that this is Devon. I believe he has a place in your legends.”
A stillness came over the Knights. They stood staring at Devon, and while the helmets hid their faces, Caledan knew he’d struck a nerve. It was said that Devon had known Alana, had been there at the end even, when she had sacrificed herself to banish the Gods. And he was not known as the Consort of Alana for nothing…
“It’s not possible,” the leader replied.
“I’d be more than happy to resolve any doubts you have, sonny,” Devon growled.
Caledan raised a hand. “It’s true,” he replied. “Look at him. How else could an old man have carved through your Knights?” He adapted a reverent tone. “You should be honoured, that the Consort of Alana deigned visit your Castle.” He might have laughed, if not for the seriousness of the situation.
“Then where is kanker?” the Knight argued, gesturing at the construction hammer in Devon’s hand. “You can’t expect us to believe that is the hammer of heroes?”
“It was destroyed,” Devon rumbled. “Or do you not know your own history?”
“What are you playing at, swordsman?” the Knight asked. “What part do you play in this?”
Caledan smiled. “My ambitions are my own,” he said, “but if you think to go against us, you should know my name as well: Caledan.” Armour rattled as the three retreated a step. Caledan followed them, his eyes hard now, glad that his reputation still preceded him. “I take it you have heard of me?”
“What is a man of your standing doing with such rogues!” the leader gasped.
“I think we’re done here,” Caledan said.
The Knights were standing in the doorway by now. It was obvious they were young men, despite their armour and greatswords—their inexperience betrayed them. They believed in the legends, though the tales of his exploits had grown greatly with time. Caledan sneered as they shrank before him.
“Go back to your Elders—what’s left of them—and tell them what happened here. Tell them Skystead is under the protection of Devon and Caledan. If they seek retribution for what happened tonight, there will be a reckoning, whether they come alone or with an army.”
He stood staring at the three of them. Still, they hesitated. Caledan dropped a hand to his sword hilt. With a rattle of metal, they turned tail and fled into the darkness. Shouts came from outside, made nearly inaudible by the swirling rain, but after a long moment they heard the tramping of departing boots.
Shaking his head, Caledan walked back to his table and took a seat. Silence hung over the room as he reached for his drink. The mug was almost empty, and he poured himself another drink before taking a swig. He shivered as a cold breeze blew through the open doors, damp with rain, and cursed.
“For the Gods’ sake,” he snapped, “someone close the door!”
Sitting in the saddle with the rain pouring down around him, Ikar had rarely been so miserable. They had ridden through the afternoon and late into the night, and the storm had not relented in all that time. Eventually it had forced them to make camp in a grove of trees, but the sparse shelter hardly spared them from the wet, and as the rains continued Ikar had found himself cursing Merak for choosing him.
Even when the morning broke, the rain had continued unabated. Ikar had saddled their horses in silence and they’d set off once more.
His only consolation was that he did not suffer alone. On the packhorse, Kryssa sat with her hands bound to the saddle. Despite the miserable conditions, the woman had not complained, had not said a word so far in fact. He wondered if she knew what they had chosen her for, where they were headed.
The light grew around them as they continued down the Gods Road, and finally it seemed the rain might ease. The thunder faded away and the fog clinging to the damp ground dissipated, revealing the way ahead. Ikar breathed a sigh of relief. The road to Lane was well-travelled, but it could still be treacherous in such conditions.
As the last of the fog lifted, he glanced at his companion. He was surprised that the Elders had agreed with his suggestion, even more so that they’d granted him the honour of escorting her to Lane. Though looking at her now, Ikar couldn’t help but wonder if his assessment of her had been wrong. Her head bobbed with each trod of her horse and her eyes were closed, as though asleep in the saddle.
Ikar’s frown deepened as he noticed her blue lips, and the pallid colour of her skin. Edging his horse closer, he called out to her: “Kryssa, are you okay?”
The woman gave no answer. His heart began to race, and he leapt from his saddle and rushed across the road to the packhorse. Tugging at the knots of her bindings, he shivered at the icy touch of her skin.
“Damnit, witch” he muttered beneath his breath, cursing his stupidity. He had given her an oilskin jacket to fend off the rain, but she was freezing without anything thicker to protect her. “Don’t you dare die!”
“Okay.”
The last knot had just come free when Kryssa sat up straight in the saddle and kicked out with her boot. The blow caught Ikar square in the chest and sent him staggering back. In the heavy armour, he almost lost his balance, but some quick footwork kept him from falling. The thunder of hooves sounded in his ears as he swung around.
Swearing loudly, he leapt for his horse and hauled himself up. He was barely in the saddle before the horse set off at a gallop. The beast had been bred for war, a monster to a man of lesser size than Ikar, and they quickly ate up the distance.
Weighed down by their supplies and not built for speed, Kryssa’s mount could not outrun him. He almost smiled, before anger at her defiance burned away his mirth. Crouching lower in the saddle, he watched as Kryssa glanced back at him, expecting to see fear in the woman’s eyes. She smiled.
“Witch,” he muttered.
A moment later he pulled alongside her. He snatched at the reins, dragging the horse to the side of the road. Unable to continue its headlong flight, the packhorse slowed. When they were almost at a stop, Ikar reached for Kryssa, but the woman was faster still. She leapt between the horses with a snarl and smashed into his chest. Entangled, the two of them toppled from the saddle and struck the ground with a crash.
Kryssa was up in an instant, but she hesitated for half a second, her eyes darting from Ikar’s sword to the open fields. Before she could flee, he caught her by the ankle and hauled. Screaming, she slammed to the ground. Her fist smashed at his visor and she cried out again, but unarmed, there was nothing she could do to hurt him in his armour. Within a few minutes, Ikar had her hands bound behind her back once more.
Stumbling to his feet, he looked around for their horses, and discovered they’d vanished.
“Damnit!” He drew back an iron boot and slammed it into Kryssa’s side.
She cried out as the blow sent her rolling through the mud. Enraged, he readied himself for another blow, then noticed her silver eyes watching him. There was no fear there—only unbridled rage. In a rush, he recalled his mission, and let out a long breath.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know,” he growled.
Sitting up in the mud, she blew a strand of hair from her face and cackled. “My mother used to say the same.” Her eyes shone. “So why don’t you free me, and save yourself the trouble?”
Ignoring her words, Ikar pulled the woman to her feet. “That way,” he said, pointing down the Gods Road. No doubt the horses had continued the way they’d been heading.
“I’ve been wondering,” Kryssa said conversationally as they started off. “Did my…friend catch up with your Knights in Skystead?”
“Your friend?” Ikar asked. He searched the trees alongside the road for signs of their mounts while they walked. “What are you talking about?”
“Devon; he was a friend of my mother’s. He would have been…irritated when he discovered you took me. I thought he might have caught up with that Elder and his Knights when they went into town.”
Ikar blinked. “You can’t mean the Devon, the Consort of Alana?”
Kryssa chuckled. “The way my mother told it, they barely exchanged more than a few steamy looks,” she replied. “But yes, that Devon.”
“I…” Ikar struggled to find the words to reply.
Devon was also a descendant of Alan the Great, though of a different line from Ikar—a line of warriors. While Ikar’s parents and grandparents had been tarnished by magic, Devon’s family had wielded kanker, the hammer of heroes. That is, until it had been destroyed in the final battle against the Tsar.
Ikar could hardly believe his distant cousin still lived. As a child, Devon had been a legend, but by the time Ikar had grown to manhood, the man had vanished from the world.
“I thought so,” Kryssa surmised, Ikar unable to keep the truth from his face. “You should really let me go.”
For a moment, Ikar felt fear. Then excitement touched him as he realised what this meant. Devon’s line had always carried the glory of their shared ancestor, but now it was Devon who stood on the wrong side of history. If he fought the Knights now, his legend would forever be stained. He would become the Traitor.
And if Ikar was the one to slay him…
“Finally, I know what the Saviour intends for me,” he said, a grim smile touching his cheeks. “I too am descended from Alan the Great. I look forward to meeting my long-lost cousin. But if he stands against the Order, I shall meet him with weapon in hand.”
As though summoned by his words, the pounding of hooves came from the road behind them. Spinning around, Ikar grabbed Kryssa by the arm and pulled her close as a horseman came into view. But after a second he relaxed, recognising the amour of the Order, though the rider wore no helmet.
A few minutes later Putar rode up, pale-faced and sweating. His horse gasped and coughed, its eyes rolling in its skull, as though it had galloped all the way from Townirwin. Ikar frowned as the Elder practically tumbled from the saddle.
“Thank the Saviour!” he gasped, grasping at Ikar’s chest. “We feared they might have already caught you.”
“Who?” Ikar frowned, struggling to hold Putar upright. The man’s blubbering was unbecoming of an Elder at any time, let alone in front of a non-believer.
Putar seemed to realise this as well, and straightened. A frown touched his brow as he looked around. “Where are your horses.”
“Lost,” Ikar said. “The woman…is devious.”
“Yes, and her family is hateful. Merak is dead, the Castle in chaos. The Consort wants his daughter back.”
Kryssa threw back her head and laughed. “Told you,” she smirked, before continuing in a wistful tone, “Though…I am not his daughter.”
“And what is the will of the Elders?” Ikar growled, flashing a scowl at the woman.
“This news changes everything.” Ikar shuddered, but after a moment, he drew himself up. “The Great Sacrifice cannot be disrupted, there is too much at stake. The power is needed. The woman has been chosen, and must be brought with all haste before her destiny.”
“And where in the Three Nations would that be?” Kryssa asked, her voice like acid.
Devon sat at the bar, fist clenched around the iron tankard, and stared into the amber ale. His vision swirled, made fuzzy by the strong drink the bartender had served him through the night. The others had retired long ago, but Devon remained, sitting through the night in silent vigil. Now, finally, sunlight had begun to seep through the shutters, burning at his swollen eyes.
All of him ached, his bones, his joints, his every muscle. Death had been a constant presence for most of his life, always close—but now he felt as though he had one foot in the grave. The prodigious strength he’d once relied on was failing, now, when he needed it the most.
He closed his eyes and his head swam. Devon cursed himself for a fool. If not for Caledan’s quick thinking, he and everyone else in the tavern would have been killed. Drowned by loss and caught in the grips of an awesome rage, he hadn’t cared, but now he saw the futility.
She’s still alive.
A groan rattled up from his chest and he slammed a fist into the bar top.
“Enough of that, my friend,” the bartender remarked, appearing from the kitchen. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw the lot of you out last night after that hubbub with the Knights.”
“Fortunate my gold speaks louder than your conscience,” Devon snapped.
The man had wanted them gone, though the storm had been raging outside and many of the former prisoners were in poor conditions. Another gold libra from Devon’s purse had bought them peace for the night, though it was an exorbitant price for such accommodations.
“True that,” the innkeeper replied easily. He obviously had no qualms about the deal. “Speaking of which, you want to break your fast?”
Devon’s stomach swirled, but he knew the food would do him good. “One minute.”
Rising from the stool, he staggered outside to the water trough where the horses drank. He fell to his knees beside it and plunged his head into the icy water. Gasping and spluttering, he stood and returned to his seat. The icy wakeup cleared his head somewhat, but it did nothing for the despair.
“I’ll take some sausage and eggs,” he rumbled, still dripping water.
The innkeeper nodded and vanished into the kitchen. Devon laid his hands on the bar top and rested his head in his arms. There was a pounding in his forehead and he still wasn’t sure he’d be able to stomach food, but at least it might help with the hangover.
“Devon?”
Devon lifted his head as a tentative voice came from behind him. He was surprised to find Tobias and his wife Marce standing across from him with sheepish looks on their faces.
“What is it, Tobias?” Devon asked.
Tobias cleared his throat, glancing at Marce as though for reassurance, before the words tumbled from him in a rush. “I’m going back to Skystead,” he said quickly. “We…ah, I’m sorry about Kryssa, Devon. I’ll never forget what you did for us, but…I’m only a farmer. I can’t go on with you. I’m taking Marce back to the Seadragon. She’s setting sail in an hour for Skystead. I’m sorry.”
An awful weariness rose within Devon as he stared at the farmer. Finally he nodded. Without saying a word he turned away and reached for his mug. Realising it was empty, he cursed and bellowed for the innkeeper.
“Sorry, Devon.” Tobias repeated, sadness in his voice. Footsteps followed as the couple departed.
Scrunching his eyes closed, Devon fought back the urge to scream at the man, to name him a coward. Tobias was right; he was out of his depth here. Devon could not expect him, or anyone else from Skystead, to continue. After suffering so much loss, they deserved to hold their loved ones tight, to return to their homes in peace.
How he longed to do the same, to return to Skystead and live out the last of his days in the quiet of the fiords. But how could he give up now, when Kryssa was still out there? How could he rest, so long as the Knights had her?
Yet he did not know where they had taken her. There was just one main road out of Townirwin, but the Knights could have taken any of a dozen smaller trails, or even set sail again on the southern seas. There was no telling where they would go now. It would take precious time to discover their path, and every moment Devon wasted, Kryssa drew further away.
And the solstice drew closer.
One by one, he watched as the villagers filed out of the inn. They all stopped to thank him, for risking his life to see them safely home, but not one offered to continue. In the end, when the last had disappeared through the double doors, Devon slumped in his stool and fought to keep himself from crumbling.
“Good morning,” Pela announced cheerfully, appearing from the corridor leading to the rooms upstairs. Wandering across the tavern, she frowned. “You look awful.”
Devon scowled, but before he could reply, the innkeeper reappeared with his plate of sausages and eggs. He replaced Devon’s empty mug of ale with coffee, then took Pela’s order and returned to the kitchen. Contemplating the plate, Devon breathed in the scent of fresh herbs in the sausages and pepper on the eggs, and fought the urge to throw up. Instead, he picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
“So what’s the plan?” Pela asked, drumming her fingers on the wooden bench.
Her eyes were alight. Devon could understand her excitement—last night they’d thought her mother was dead. Discovering she was still alive had restored Pela’s hope. If only Devon could find the same strength of spirit.
“I don’t know,” he grunted, not wanting to have the conversation but knowing Pela would persist until he answered. “They could have taken Kryssa anywhere.”
“Caledan already left for the marketplace, to ask around,” Pela replied easily. “He says we should be gone by noon, before the Order changes its mind.”
There was an expectation in her eyes as she watched him. Devon knew that look. She believed he could do anything, defeat anyone that stood in their way. His aches redoubled as he closed his eyes.
“What does it matter, girl?” he snapped. “Look around! The others are all gone. They’ve abandoned us. We’re all alone now. How do you hope to get your mother away from the Knights, with just the three of us?”
“Four,” Genevieve said quietly, emerging from the corridor and joining them at the bar. “And we don’t need the others.”
“Yes!” Pela added. “We just need courage! Like Enala and Eric when they stood against Archon.”
Devon snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear, girl,” he roared. “I met them both; they had far more than just courage on their side. They were the most powerful Magickers of a generation.”
“It doesn’t matter!” Pela insisted. “You saw what those people were doing in the Castle. They’re monsters, someone has to stop them!”
Ay, Devon thought wearily, but why does it have to be me?
Out loud, he only grunted: “Maybe.”
“Please, Devon,” Pela whispered, and for a second he saw a flash of terror behind her eyes. “I can’t do this without you. You’re a hero.”
Devon smiled despite himself. “I’ve never been a hero, little one,” he murmured. “And last night, you were the hero. You saved us all.”
His niece looked away. “I…I froze though—I could barely move. I don’t even know how I…killed him.” She swallowed at the final words.
“You did more than anyone could have expected,” Devon said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Please, Devon,” Pela murmured, “We need you.”
He sighed. “I know,” he said. “I just hope…that I don’t let you down.”
Pela grinned. “You could never let me down, Uncle.”
At that moment the innkeeper emerged with a plate of beans in sauce and eggs, along with several pieces of toasted bread. Pela dug into the food without another word. Devon made a half-hearted effort to finish his own plate. In his mind, he sent up a silent prayer to the long-dead Gods that she was right.
Braidon groaned as sunlight filtered in through the windows of the cabin, dragging him from the depths of sleep. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut he rolled over and reached for Marianne, only to discover the sheets empty. He groaned again; it must be later than he thought if his wife had already risen.
The ship rocked gently back and forth as he sat up. The cabin was empty but he could hear the sounds of the crew overhead as they moved about the deck, readying the oars to continue their passage upriver. Idly, Braidon wondered if it wouldn’t be better to turn back—after all, there was a reason ships rarely sailed through the lower reaches of the Lane.
But a storm had come over them in the night, and the river delta had been the only safe birth they could reach before it broke. With the summer upon them, rain was scarce but for the great storms that came rolling in from the southern ocean, and it hadn’t been long before Braidon had been thanking the dead Gods for the safety of the Lane.
Of course, he hadn’t been so foolish as to thank them out loud. In their eight years of marriage, he had rarely had cause to argue with his wife, but the Three Gods and the Order of Alana had often been points of dispute. It was a strange thing, to be arguing about his sister and her relationship with the Gods, thirty years after her death.
In the end, Braidon had granted the Knights some influence in far-flung settlements of Plorsea on Marianne’s urging. It had been a canny solution to the nation’s struggles. The Knights had brought peace and order to many towns, without costing the crown a copper austral. Though he was loathe to admit it to his wife.
Chuckling, he threw off the duvet and dressed himself. What would his sister think if she could see him now? As a youth, he could never have imagined the title of king would entail so much tedious administration. Anything that broke the monotony was a welcome distraction.
He was not excited about returning to Ardath, and if the captain successfully negotiated the delta, they would arrive several days ahead of schedule. The thought filled Braidon with a longing to abandon his crown and flee. In his worst moments, he found himself dreaming of the old days, when he had travelled with Devon and Alana and Kellian—though they had been dangerous times, with his father hunting them.
Perhaps his life would seem less monotonous, if anything he did actually made a difference. Yet no matter how long he spent in negotiations or how hard he worked, Plorsea continued its slow slide into poverty.
Braidon shielded his eyes as he opened the door of their cabin and stepped out into the sunlight. Sailors raced to and fro across the deck of the galley, trimming sails and slotting oars into place in preparation to set off. With the shallow sandbars dotting the delta, the going would be slow the first few leagues, and a watch would need to be kept, ensuring they did not run aground.
The King’s Guards standing outside the cabin saluted as Braidon emerged, but he gestured them to stand down. They grinned. Rylle and Salver were old hands and had served with him in the civil war; they were practically family, and knew well such formalities annoyed him.
“Where is my wife?” he asked a little sharply.
His head ached and he wondered what time he’d gotten to sleep the night before. The storm had raged long through the night, and while the river had sheltered them from much of its wrath, it had not stopped the ship from rocking wildly with each gust.
“At the stern, sir,” Rylle replied.
They followed him as he crossed to the stairs and climbed to the upper deck. There the captain stood at the tiller, his eyes on the bow where a man stood with rope and anchor. As they drifted, the man tossed the anchor overboard, letting the rope run between his fingers, before quickly dragging it back up. Beside him, a second man waved a red flag, and the captain adjusted their heading, presumably to avoid a shallow patch.
Braidon found his wife at the stern staring back the way they’d come. She had a distant look about her, but as he approached she turned and smiled.
“My husband,” she said, stepping forward and embracing him. “Finally awake, I see.”
She lifted her face and he bent to kiss her. “You should have woken me,” he replied as they broke apart. A grin touched his lips as he held her close. “I would have enjoyed your company.”
Marianne smiled but did not reply. Turning, she leaned against the railings again. “The storm has broken,” she said. “The captain says we’ll reach Lane by nightfall.”
“That’s…excellent,” Braidon replied with a sigh.
His wife laughed. “You almost sound sincere.”
“I tried.” A smile broke across Braidon’s face. “Though it will be good to see Calybe again.”
Calybe was their son. He was only five, too young for such a journey. Marianne had wanted to bring him, to show him the city she’d grown up in, but with the uneasy tensions with Lonia and the growing presence of Baronians, Braidon had refused.
A distant look came over his wife’s face again. Frowning, he stepped up and placed an arm around her waist. “Are you okay?”
Marianne nodded. “I’m okay, only…I will miss him.” Her voice cracked, and Braidon was surprised to see tears in her eyes. “I would have liked to have been there, at the end.”
“I know,” Braidon murmured, squeezing her shoulder. “And I’m sorry we didn’t bring Calybe. Things will be better soon. Next year, we’ll take him down the Jurrien. The last of the dark forest should have been burnt from Sitton by then. It’ll be safe.”
“Will it?” There was an edge to his wife’s voice now. “Or will a new threat conspire to keep us at home?”
Braidon raised his eyebrows, but a shout from the helm drew his attention back to the captain. The man was gesturing wildly at them—no, behind them. Spinning, Braidon looked out over the waters of the Lane. They were a murky brown here, impenetrable but for the strange pink dolphins that were sometimes seen in the deeper channels. Islands of mud and mangroves split the river into a multitude of channels; a ship could get lost under the command of a lesser skipper.
But it was not their course that upset the captain. He was pointing behind them, directly off the stern, and Braidon felt a tingle of fear as he saw the sails of a ship emerge from a nearby channel. Trumpets sounded from the lower deck as it turned to follow them. A black flag flew from its mast.
Baronians.
Braidon cursed. What was a pirate ship doing in these waters? They must have taken refuge during the storm as well, and thought they’d stumbled upon easy pickings. His hand dropped to the sword on his belt, but after a second he released it again. There were civilians onboard, accountants and negotiators who had joined him to speak with the Lonian council. Not to mention Marianne.
No, best they outrun the Baronian scum. The barbarians had no oars, not even a sail out; they couldn’t hope to catch the king’s galley. He would send a squadron to hunt them down once they reached Lane.
“Outrun them, Captain!” he shouted, joining the man at the tiller.
“At the oars!” the man bellowed. “Count of three!”
“Marianne, get below.” Braidon said urgently, then: “Where are your guards?”
“I’ll find them.” She darted down the stairs to the main deck.
Braidon was relieved to see several of the Queen’s Guard waiting for her at the bottom. He followed them as they made a beeline through the chaos below and disappeared into their quarters. Only then did he turn his attention back to the Baronian ship. A frown touched his forehead.
“Captain, they’re gaining. What are you doing?”
The captain glanced back at the chasing ship, a panicked look on his face. “I’ve no idea, Your Highness,” he gasped. He bellowed down to the oarsmen below. “Double count!”
Striding to the stern railing, Braidon watched the oncoming vessel. Now he noticed the smoke hanging about the vessel, heard the distant clanging of steel. It surged upstream—despite the currents—as though propelled by some unseen source. He shivered. What magic was this?
“Sir?”
The King’s Guard were forming up behind him. He had twenty of his own men aboard, plus ten of the queen’s, but he trusted them not to leave her side. Against them, a horde of men and woman stood atop the decks of the enemy ship. They were armed with axes and short swords for the most part, though many were spotted with rust.
Braidon’s heart quickened as he realised it would come to a fight. They were badly outnumbered, but he had seen Baronians fight before—they were brave warriors, yet undisciplined and poorly trained. He was confident the King’s Guard would see them off.
“Captain, bring us around!” he shouted. There was no point risking running aground when they could not hope to escape. “Let’s show these scum some Plorsean steel!”
Braidon was touched by a sense of deja vu as the ship swung out into the current. Decades had passed since he’d fought alongside Devon. Yet as they raced down the river, Braidon found himself recalling the day a Baronian tribe had hailed the hammerman their leader. That had been before the Gods had died with his…sister, when magic still flowed through Braidon’s veins. He’d used that power to create an illusion, to make Devon seem some giant sent by the Gods themselves.
It was strange, how illusion became truth in the eyes of men. The hammerman was spoken of with reverence now, Devon himself almost a myth to those who had come later. Standing at the rails, Braidon’s mind wandered to the old warrior. He hoped Devon had finally found peace in Skystead. The man had never been the same after Alana’s death. Braidon guessed they had that much in common.
The shouts and taunting of the Baronians carried to Braidon’s ears as the gap between the vessels narrowed. Then a sharp crack came from the other ship, and a line arched across the waters and slammed down into the galley. Another followed before the first could be cut loose. The ship lurched beneath Braidon’s feet as the lines snapped tight.
Then the ships were side by side and the Baronians were leaping to the railings of the galley. Bellowing a war cry, Braidon met them with steel in hand. The King’s Guard raced after him, and the screams of the dying engulfed the royal ship. Braidon’s sword rose and fell, striking down the poorly-armed warriors left and right, but there were more than enough to replace them, and the black tide continued unabated.
A giant of a man leapt forward, his axe sweeping down. Braidon spun to the side and the axe buried itself in the wooden railing. Driving his sword up, Braidon sought to impale the Baronian, but the black-garbed warrior released his axe and threw himself back, and the king’s blow went wide. Before Braidon could swing again, his foe snatched up the axe and dragged it free.
Across the ship, the Baronians attacked with a berserker rage that surprised even Braidon. His men met them with tightly controlled fury, enraged that these savages dared challenge their strength. The red and gold of the King’s Guard was an honour reserved for only the bravest soldiers, and not one of them gave an inch. But the black-garbed warriors were taking their toll, and bit by bit the Guard was forced back by the greater weight of numbers.
Braidon cursed as the axeman came at him again. This time his foe slipped in the blood that ran thick beneath their feet, and the king dispatched him with a thrust to the groin. The axeman staggered back, his eyes showing fear, and collapsed against the railing. A great crack came from the wood as it gave way beneath his weight and the damage dealt by the axe. He disappeared over the side, followed by a great splash as he struck the water.
Steel rang out behind Braidon, and he spun in time to see a massive Baronian almost decapitate one of his guards with a swing of a broadsword. Ice spread through Braidon’s veins as the man turned and saw him standing there. The Baronian had cut a path of blood through Braidon’s men and now he stood alone, the rest of his Guard pushed back by the tide of black-garbed warriors.
He glanced to the right, where his men still held strong. Beyond, the Queen’s Guard stood in a ring around their cabin, and he breathed a sigh of relief that at least his wife was safe. Spinning to face the giant, he retreated slowly towards his Guard, aware that to turn his back on such a man would mean certain death.
Roaring, the giant swung his blade in an arc that would have cut Braidon in two—had he not thrown himself to the floor. A great thud rang out as the blade struck the railing, sending another piece tumbling into the river. Braidon staggered to his feet and stabbed out clumsily with his blade, but the Baronian swatted the blow aside.
Off-balance, Braidon drove his shoulder into the giant’s midriff. A groan came from the giant and they toppled backwards. Braidon threw out an arm to catch the railing…
…but the railing was not there. He cried out as he found himself falling. His arms windmilled, searching for anything that might break his fall, but there was only empty air. He twisted in time to see the river come racing up to meet him, and with a great splash, he vanished beneath the swirling currents of the Lane.
On the banks, alerted by the screams of the dying and the scent of blood on the air, the crocodiles went sliding into the water…
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