The Forsaken Throne, page 13
part #6 of Kingfountain Series
They encountered an abandoned cottage in late afternoon. The door was broken open and the insides had obviously been derelict for many months. While there was nothing to eat in the larder, there was a well from which they drew some fresh water to refill their flasks, and Trynne was lucky enough to find a small herb garden that had been left untended. They harvested some greens, which were sour tasting but fresh, and they took some onions to eat later in case there was a shortage of food.
“Look over there. Those are berry vines,” Fallon said eagerly. The sight of the overgrown trellises gave her a pang of homesickness—no place had berries quite so fine as Brythonica. After searching through the leaves, they spied some unclaimed fruit.
“What kind are these?” Fallon asked, carefully plucking one and plopping it into his mouth. He thought for a moment. “A bit tart, but edible. Here, try one.” He pulled another and handed it to her.
She examined the small pink fruit made of little sacs of juice. “Thimbleberries,” she said and then ate it. He was right about the flavor, but they harvested more to eat and some were sweet and delicious. Trynne noticed that for every berry Fallon picked for himself, he offered one to her as well.
After a league or so, there was evidence they were approaching a town. Smoke scented the air, rutted roads began to branch away, and ramshackle huts could be seen through the trees. Not wanting to risk trouble by venturing too close, they observed the town from a distance, hiding in a copse of trees. From their vantage point they spied a small wagon train heading down the road. It did not stop at the town, but instead bypassed it completely. It was heading east. The direction they needed to go to find Trynne’s father.
So they began to follow it as the sun went down.
I have persuaded my brother-king to wage war on Brythonica. The army of Kingfountain has been summoned. The ships are being gathered and arrayed and will blockade Ploemeur and deprive her of her allies. I’ve told the king that Trynne is a threat not only to us but to herself. She murdered the baby. He is mad with grief and despair. He cannot understand why Trynne would have forsaken him. I told him that he does not understand a woman’s capacity for revenge. When this war is over, I will seek my revenge against him next. Shame is a powerful emotion. I will fill him with it.
Morwenna Argentine
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Queen’s Revenge
The city of Comoros could be seen from a great distance. It had taken two more days of hard walking for them to finally reach it. All the roads leading to the city were choked with armed caravans bringing food and war supplies to the capital. Trynne and Fallon had managed to join the one they’d found earlier. The merchant, Nellic, had promised to pay them well for protection because they already wore swords and armor. Some of the nobles in the realm had defied the royal summons to fight Dahomey. But most, Trynne and Fallon discovered, were hot for revenge against the former nobleman who was now ruling the enemy.
Trynne had new appreciation for the splendor of Kingfountain as they approached Comoros, walking alongside the trudging oxen and gazing at the massive city before them. It was black with soot, and the defenses were crumbling where siege engines had battered them away. The city was split by a huge befouled river, but the other side had been put to the torch and never rebuilt. Nellic pointed to the mass of blackened stones and called it the Stews. His face twitched with antipathy.
“It burned down years ago,” the merchant said, shaking his head. “Nothing is ever repaired around here. I wouldn’t trust crossing a bridge unless I saw another cart, equally laden, go over safely first. Some have collapsed without warning. Buildings fall all the time. It’s a wreck.”
Fallon flinched as if physically repulsed. “Are there no craftsmen who can do the work?”
Nellic shrugged and scraped his dirty fingernails on his hairy throat. “The king has done nothing but tax us since the war with Dahomey started. All trade has halted. Everything is for the war. We’re going to hit Dahomey hard. So hard she’ll never rise again. I’ve heard rumors that there is a massive blight in that land already.”
Trynne could see the anger burning in the man’s beady eyes. “You think we will win?” she asked softly.
“Of course we will!” he spluttered. “We’re a stronger kingdom by far. After we’ve littered Dahomey with their corpses, we’ll rebuild our lands with the spoils we take. In the meantime”—he waggled his brows—“this cargo of wool will fetch five times its value in Comoros. Every man must do his work to meet his own ends.”
A haze hung over the city, and the road leading into it was full of ruts and holes big enough to rattle the wagons. The stink of the air made Trynne want to cover her face. Carrion birds flew in lazy circles in the sky. The land had a sick look to it. All the vegetation was stunted and the weeds were vast and filled with thorns and bristles.
The royal castle, perched on higher ground, could be seen from a great distance looming over the river, which was choked with vessels of all sizes preparing for a voyage across the sea. White gulls zipped above the harbor in huge flocks and dived for spoiled food that had been left to rot. The smell in the air was sickly sweet, the odor of all manner of things rotting.
“I had expected more grandeur,” Fallon murmured to Trynne.
“It’s quite a contrast to Gahalatine’s Forbidden Court,” she observed.
Fallon’s mouth turned down in a sour frown when she said her husband’s name. But he said nothing.
“We’ll part company after we pass through Ludgate,” Nellic said. He paused, looking back and forth between the two of them, and then gave them a wary look. “I had an eye on you day and night. I thought you’d try to rob me, but you never did. I’ll pay you when we reach the city gates.”
When they reached the huge stone buttress called the Ludgate, the entryway was clogged with people waiting to get in. Stern soldiers wearing blotted tunics stood on either side of the massive double doors, directing the traffic.
“There’s no one leaving the city from the gate,” Fallon observed to Nellic. Trynne hadn’t noticed it until then. Comoros sucked in everything but released nothing.
Nellic shook his head. He had a shifty look in his eye that Trynne distrusted. “Everyone is leaving on the ships. It’s easier to get work and higher wages in the city. Many have left their families to work here for coin. I brought all the wool I could with this shipment. They’ll take my cart and buy my oxen too. No sense going back to my Hundred with pockets full of coins, only to be robbed. No, I’ll stay here until the war ends and the king’s peace is reestablished. I’d offer to join the soldiers, but I’ve got a game leg.” He patted his and began to limp, although he’d been walking just fine for the whole journey.
The soldier who met them at the gatehouse scowled as he approached the wagon and began inspecting the bound bundles of wool. He climbed up onto the cart and prodded and poked the different bags. Then, looking down at Nellic, he said, “The quality is decent. Bring this load to Hawden Street. There are crowds of spinners there turning wool into tunics day and night.” He jumped down with a huff and waved them on. His eyes narrowed when he noticed Fallon and Trynne.
“What are these two?” he asked.
Nellic bobbed his head agreeably. “I brought them for the reward. Ten apiece, eh? They can serve in the king’s army.” He sneered at them, obviously pleased with his ploy. He would not only be freed from the burden of paying them, he’d also get reward money.
“We came to fight for the king’s army on our own,” Fallon answered, his voice tight with anger. Not strictly true, but they’d decided it might be their easiest way to Dahomey. To her father.
The soldier snorted. “You mean the queen’s army,” he said with a chuckle. He nodded to Fallon’s sword. “Can you use it? Can you prove it?”
Fallon shrugged, his cheek muscles hardening. “I’m all right with a sword.”
The soldier dumped some coins into Nellic’s greedy palm, and the tradesman left with a final mocking wave that reminded Trynne of Dragan. Then the soldier brought his fingers to his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. “Cap’n!” he shouted.
A graying middle-aged man approached with a frown. “Two more? What Hundred are they from?”
“Dunno. They volunteered.” He bared his rotting teeth in a grin.
The captain hocked and spat. He sized them both up, giving Trynne special attention. She was tempted to use the Tay al-Ard to escape. She reached behind her back, but Fallon gave her a subtle gesture and a warning look.
“We take lads as young as twelve. Your brother?” he asked Fallon, nodding at Trynne. She bristled inside but kept her expression carefully controlled.
“Cousin,” Fallon answered, a hint of humor in his voice. Trynne nearly elbowed him in the ribs for that.
The captain’s brow furrowed. “Get them some tunics, a pass to bear arms, and bring them to the castle for training. The queen’s ship departs soon, but they’ll have to train for two months before going to the cursed shores.”
“Thought so,” the soldier responded. “Thank you, Cap’n.” Two months? They certainly couldn’t wait that long. They’d have to figure out a way to get on the queen’s ship.
“Be back sharp, or I’ll flog you.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The soldier escorted them inside the gate to the barracks. It was crowded and noisy, and everywhere Trynne looked, older men—and very young ones—were being arrayed in armor and given weapons from barrels full of swords and pikes. There were a few who looked to be their own age, but it was conspicuous that the older youths and young men had already been taken.
The soldier brought them past the weapons to a series of trunks stuffed with tunics. The tunics all looked the same, dingy gray with the cross symbol she’d seen on the tunics of the men who’d attacked them on the road. The soldier handed a larger one to Fallon and a small one to Trynne. As she took the rough wool from him, she noticed the scrubbed-out bloodstains and the stitching that had closed the gashes made by weapons. How many other soldiers had worn this tunic? How many had died in it? There were so many trunks, such an excess of swords, pikes, shields, and helmets. This was a land perpetually at war. Such a desolate place . . .
Her insides gnawed at her as she drew the tunic over her head. She had to find her father and get him away.
It was midafternoon and the city was warm, the air heavy with smoke. There were fountains at the major crossroads. Trynne noticed that each had a sculpture with a stone face carved into it, like the ones she had seen elsewhere in this place—and in Gahalatine’s pavilion. She could barely sense the faint whisper of Fountain magic emanating from them. The fountains were not spewing water, and she watched as men carried buckets of water to refill the fonts. There were long, winding lines of women approaching the fountains with pots and smaller buckets waiting to receive. She sensed, intuitively, that the sculptures could summon water—but no one was left who could summon it.
As they reached a gatehouse to the castle, not the main drawbridge but a porter door, the soldier spoke a few words to the sentries, one of whom motioned for Fallon and Trynne to follow him. As they crossed beneath the arch of the hulking wall, it felt as if they’d entered a prison. She gave Fallon a worried look.
The impression quickly changed as they entered the inner grounds and found that the yard was better maintained than the city beyond it. The pathway crossed a splendid garden with smaller fountains, trimmed hedges, and brushed pathways. The soldier took them to a greenyard that was full of men going through a series of drills. The clang and battering of weapons could be heard, as well as the barked orders of the commanders assigning the drills. There were archery butts and lines of peasants standing with bows trying to hit the marks. Trynne observed the crowds. It appeared a culling was taking place—those inept with bows were sent to train next with staves.
“You’ve got blades, that says something, but we’ll see if you can use them,” the sentry said gruffly, leading them past the bowmen to where the swordsmen were practicing. “The pay is better if you can.” He sized up Fallon and ignored Trynne. “How did you escape the summons so long?”
“I wasn’t trying hard enough, it seems,” Fallon quipped.
They were thrust to the end of a line of would-be swordsmen, all waiting to face the sword master at the front of the line. He was a knight by the look of him, one trained with a weapon from a young age. The people in line were sent against him, one by one, and he disarmed them each in quick fashion. Then he’d bark a command and they’d be taken away, replaced with the next person. No one lasted longer than a few seconds and the line quickly shortened. Those who were sent away joined another group where instructors were holding drills on stance and technique. Captain Staeli would have felt right at home.
Trynne gave Fallon an arch look. “He’s decent,” she murmured, nodding to the knight.
Fallon shrugged. “He’s bored.” His eyes were focused on the knight. “The question, though, is how good should we be?”
Trynne was itching to swing her swords. She was still angry at Nellic’s deception. “No use pretending.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Fallon said with a wink. “The better we are, the faster they’ll send us to Dahomey. Either way, we need to get on the queen’s ship before it leaves.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“Do you want to go first?” he asked her.
“You can. I’d like to watch you humiliate him.”
“I don’t plan on losing,” he said.
When they reached the front of the line, Trynne watched as Fallon drew his sword, which was a much finer make than the blades the others had carried. He marched into the open space and the knight sized him up.
“You are tall,” the man said, flourishing his weapon.
“And you’ve a gift for stating the obvious,” Fallon quipped in return. “Shall we?”
Trynne felt a pulse of excitement and restrained a smile. The knight approached, holding his blade in an upper guard, crossing his legs in a battle stance as he moved. Fallon replied in kind, showing a similar technique and a complementary pose.
“You know your footwork,” the knight said as they slowly circled each other.
“I know the sharp end too.”
Then the knight came forward, dipping the sword down while swinging his armored elbow around at Fallon’s face in a surprise move that would have knocked another man to the ground. Fallon didn’t fall for the feint and stepped back as the knight’s elbow went wide. He could have taken advantage of the opening to strike at the knight’s back, but he deliberately paused, letting the man regain his defenses. Trynne suspected Fallon was purposefully prolonging the fight a little so as not to utterly humiliate the man.
“You’re quick,” the knight said approvingly. “Who trained you?”
Fallon answered with a flurry of blows that the knight struggled to answer. The group of men assembled began to whoop and cheer, and Trynne felt like joining them. After multiple attempts, Fallon eased back again, letting the knight recover his composure. His eyes were wide with surprise, his mouth quivering with delight and fear. He’d not been tested like that in some time, and Trynne could see that he was enjoying it, even though he was losing.
“You’re playing with me,” the knight said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth.
“Noticed that, did you?” Fallon answered smugly. He lunged in, the knight countered, and the two locked hilts. Then Fallon used his size to wrench the blades, and the knight’s weapon clattered onto the yard. A chorus of cheers began to rise from the mass of men and a big smile lit the knight’s face as he stared down at his fallen weapon.
“At last! You can have my job!” he said with a barking laugh.
Fallon bent down, fetched the knight’s sword, and handed it back to him. “I’d be wasted here. My cousin and I want to spill blood in Dahomey. Their king is quite a swordsman, I’ve heard. I’ve been practicing.”
The knight laughed. “To face him? Well, that remains to be seen. Well done. You go over there through that arch and see the captain of the guard.”
“My cousin comes with me,” Fallon said, motioning for Trynne to step forward.
“Every man must earn his place,” the knight said, shaking his head as he leveled a disrespectful look at Trynne. She stepped away from the crowd and drew both of her swords. The knight’s eyes bulged when he saw her do that.
“That’s fine,” Fallon said nonchalantly. “My cousin is even better than me.”
“Captain!” the knight shouted as those around them started to guffaw.
Trynne shifted her gaze to the gatehouse, where she saw a man already watching them. He had dark brooding eyes and a graying beard, and wore a chain hood pulled down around his tunic front. The look he gave them was fierce and intense as he stepped out of the shadows. “By Cheshu, what is the matter, Sir Peter?” He had a strange accent, one that was reminiscent of Fallon’s family in Atabyrion.
“You’ll want to see these two, Captain,” the knight said.
“I saw the tall one put you to shame already,” the gruff captain said. “You can’t handle the little one either?”
“He has two swords!” Sir Peter complained.
“Aye, and so do I.”
Trynne noticed that he had two short swords belted to his waist. He drew them, revealing two curved blades, reminiscent of tapered leaves. Sir Peter backed away quickly, as if grateful to leave this fight to the other man.
“Well, lad,” the captain said gruffly, facing Trynne with a catlike posture. He wasn’t tall, but she could sense the prowess in him. He reminded her of Captain Staeli, except this man had more hair. “My name is Martin Evnissyen, and I am captain of the queen’s guard.”
“Hello, Captain,” Trynne said. She crossed her blades in front of her.
Martin’s eyebrows knit together. “Where did you train to handle two blades, I wonder?”
Trynne summoned her magic, letting it prod the captain’s defenses. He was hale and strong for an older man. He had fought and trained for most of his life, and there were no glaring gaps or weaknesses in his defenses, except for his hands. She could tell his hands were scarred and pained him.
