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Corban watched the young highborn woman and her comrades close ranks as the leader of the four asked, “Did you think you’d escaped, one week out from Arimna?”
The burly man scoffed. “Escape? From what? We’re a family, journeying together, sir, and our concerns are none of yours, so back away.”
“Family?” The leader of the four laughed. “Ah, I believe in families remaining close in all situations. Don’t you agree, O prince?”
The diffident youth lifted his chin, turning coldly hostile. “You’re mistaken.”
Brandishing his coin, the leader snarled, “This says I’m not, sir, so don’t bother. Foreigner I might be, but I’ve been in Arimna long enough to recognize the face on this coin, and your eyes! I’ve seen the king. Now, what’ll we take back to Arimna? Captives or corpses?”
The youth glared at him, his pale eyes flashing, reflective even in the dim room. “Kill me and you’ll have nothing but a paltry sum as a reward and your companions might butcher you for that at the first chance!”
“No doubt they might. Unless we spend it first.” The troublemaker tucked away his coin, then unsheathed his sword, its metal hissing and flashing in the suddenly quiet room. The house-owner retreated, motioning his curious kitchen staff away. Near Corban, the hearth-boy had stopped tending the fire and faced the commotion, staring eagerly, even as he furtively reached back toward an iron poker.
A deferential-seeming man entered the public house, his shadow filling the doorway, drawing all attention. Not looking away from the sword-wielding renegades, he announced, “My lord, we’re a-waiting. All of us!”
A bluff from a loyal servant? Before Corban could decide, the respectful servant and the burly man both drew their swords. Corban stood, dagger drawn.
One of the four charged the servant, sword lifted. The servant roared, parried the initial blow, then tangled with the attacker even as his master slashed toward the hostile leader. As they fought, the soft-faced woman flung a table on its side as a makeshift defense—but a third aggressor snagged the young nobleman’s arm, hurling his knapsack to the floor.
The youth resisted briefly, but as Corban charged toward the fray, the young man leaned fiercely into the brute instead of running. His assailant yelled and dropped to his knees. The fourth man lunged for the nobleman, but Corban attacked, fury-strengthened as he spun the man away and pulled his blade along the miscreant’s throat. The fourth’s sword fell, ringing to the floor, followed by the bleeding corpse. A scuffling behind Corban made him turn, his bloodied dagger aimed toward the noise.
The hearth-boy blinked, dropped his iron fireplace poker, and grinned. Corban turned back to the lordling, even as his burly protector was reaching for him. The assailant lay at the young man’s feet, holding his belly, a pool of blood spreading, staining his boots. The brute’s gaze faded and his hands relaxed. Had this diffident young nobleman killed him?
Corban stepped toward the nobleman. “Sir...”
Through a slash in his blood-stained cloak, the lordling shifted a crimsoned dagger toward Corban. Prepared to attack him.
Corban stepped back and bowed slightly, hoping to ease his fears. “Are you well?”
The youth wiped his dagger on the dead man, then shook his head, his expression a terrible combination of grief and rage that Corban knew all too well. “No, sir. But thank you for your help and your concern.”
The soft-eyed woman hurried toward them. “Cousin, let’s leave before the local authorities arrive.” To Corban, she said, “Sir, thank you. Don’t risk yourself for us any further, lest the mercenaries attack you!”
Corban shrugged at the young woman’s warning. He’d been searching for the talked-of mercenaries in order to join their ranks, but perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps he’d found the side he ought to fight for. “Thank you, lady. I’m not inclined to sit still while renegades interrupt a decent meal.”
He looked across the bloodied scene at the burly man, who knelt in the doorway beside his fallen servant. Without quizzing his own impulsive decision, Corban hurried to help the nobleman carry his servant from the doorway before they were all found and questioned by the authorities. Behind them, the house-owner finally found his cowardly voice and huffed, “Who’ll clean up this mess? Who’ll answer when we’re questioned about these deaths?”
Corban flung his coin pouch at the man. “You will! Take the last of my silver and that of the dead, then hush. These villains got what they deserved for attacking peaceable citizens while you stood by and did nothing!” As the house-owner retreated, Corban crouched beside the brawny nobleman and his servant, who was feebly patting away their hands and muttering. Corban strained to hear his fading words.
Exhaling, the servant pleaded, “Master, I’m done. Save him ... go....” He sucked in a thin breath, his eyelids flickered, then he stilled.
The big man rested a hand on his servant’s forehead and whispered, “Depart in peace, to the One Who Sees. Beni, may your death be avenged.”
“Sir,” Corban muttered, “I’m a stranger, but let me help you. We must leave.”
Only a few days in Darzeq and he’d killed yet another man. Plagues! He’d be running for the rest of his life! Corban gritted his teeth, restrained his ire, and helped this stranger rush his servant’s body from the public house.
The man hissed, “To the stables, sir, and thanks. Have you a horse? You must escape!”
Yes, well, he’d proven himself quite adept at escape. Corban tightened his grip on the body and slid a glance toward the young noblewoman and the lordling who followed them down the sand-driven stone street. “Yes, I’ve a horse, sir, in that stable. Let’s hurry.”
As they entered the stables, scuffing through the straw, the young nobleman said, “I should stay here and give myself up. How many more will die?”
The burly man grunted. “Do you believe she will stop with your death, sir? I think not! For Darzeq’s sake, it’s best to fight on and claim justice!” He helped Corban swing the body atop an unsaddled horse, watched by a small crowd of stable hands and servants, who drew near, their mouths agape, eyes huge. The young lady waved off the stable hands and beckoned the servants, who were apparently part of her household. “We’ve been found—we had to defend ourselves. To your horses. Now!”
The servants shoved away hunks of bread and meat that they’d apparently been eating, and then rushed to re-saddle their horses. Corban followed their lead, but he told the nobleman, “If I need to escape, then I’ll follow those who know this realm. With your permission, lady, and yours, sirs.”
The big man nodded. “Permission granted. With a warning—they’re after our blood. You ought to escape from us as much as them.”
“Thank you. I’ll consider your warning later, if we’ve time.”
***
Guiding his wearied horse toward their next hoped-for refuge along River Tinem North, Matteo glanced ahead at Beni’s rider-less horse. Guilt swathed him yet again like the shroud he should be wearing—dead as his brothers and parents. Because of him, they’d buried Beni last night in furtive haste, as if he’d been a criminal. As if they were all criminals.
This was a nightmare that would not end. No, this nightmare had just begun. And as Ekiael had pointed out, his own death wouldn’t end the destruction.
Would civil war begin in Darzeq?
Wars had been fought over far smaller causes, and Cthar’s desires could destroy Darzeq. Unless Darzeq’s First Forum came together for once, settled upon its core ideals, and ousted their upstart foreign-born queen. Matteo could no longer think of Cthar as his grandmother. He only hoped he could persuade Lord Iydan, his next potential ally, to offer him aid.
Bringing her horse alongside Matteo’s, Anji flung him a wearied, gloomy look. “What do you think? Will Lord Iydan match his power to the queen’s?”
Recalling the ever-gracious Lord Iydan—named Magni Ormr—Matteo said, “Iydan’s ever been the king’s ally in the First Forum.”
Lord Iydan’s noble, ancient bloodlines and diplomatic ways would prove invaluable if he chose to ally himself with Matteo’s cause. He closed his eyes briefly, praying. Mighty One, let it be so!
They rode onward, crossing into Iydan’s lands, and finally halting before the first of Magni Ormr’s gates, sending a servant to request shelter for the night.
While they waited, Matteo surveyed the Ormr clan’s chief honor, the fortress he hoped to might be his refuge. Unlike Tragobre’s towering fortress, Lord Iydan’s main stronghold sloped gently upward from the Tinem North’s main road toward an elegant hilltop manor shielded by two extensive decoratively arcaded curtain walls—one low wall halfway up the hill, the other higher, nearer the manor. Impressive as Iydan was, it was only one of many retreats owned by the powerful Ormr clan, for Magni Ormr’s wealth was second only to Tragobre’s.
If Magni Ormr took in Ekiael’s household and Matteo, they’d be secure against any army of mercenaries. If.
The wait stretched on, shaming them all. Even Corban, the proud stranger who’d rushed to Matteo’s rescue in the public house at Port Agen, seemed discomfited and glanced about as if he’d rather be anywhere else.
At last, Thaddeus Ormr, one of Tarquin’s childhood friends, rode through the gate and over the dry moated bridge, followed by ten horsemen armed for a skirmish. At the bridge’s entrance, Thaddeus halted his horse, but didn’t dismount, his straight, lean form hinting at ominous formality. His guards urged their restive chestnut and bay horses in a half-circle off to his right.
He nodded to Ekiael, but he stared at Matteo as if doubting his existence. Of course, they hadn’t seen each other for more than a year and he looked like a ruffian—not the least bit royal, therefore Matteo couldn’t blame him for that disbelieving look and tone. “Matteo?”
“Thaddeus.” He urged his horse forward to meet Iydan’s heir and to halt alongside him to talk. “Is your lord-father not in residence?”
Thaddeus cleared his throat. “He is, sir. But we’ve received disturbing news today, and he’s chary of all visitors.”
Matteo’s throat constricted, and his heart threw in an extra beat, marking his fear of the unknown. “What news?”
Slowly, Thaddeus withdrew a parchment from his belt and leaned toward Matteo, explaining as he offered the document, “The First Forum’s been disbanded by order of the crown.”
Matteo stared at the parchment, stunned. Only one other person could remotely claim enough authority to disband the First Forum. Cthar. Rage welled within, heating Matteo’s face as he spoke. “By order of the crown, not the king!” Clearly, Cthar was rushing to consolidate her grip on Darzeq.
Thaddeus hesitated, “We’ve also heard rumors of rebellion, and ... Matteo, how is your lord-father, the king?”
He braced himself and tried to speak swiftly, without remembering. Still, his voice snagged mid-sentence. “He’s passed from this life ... as have my brothers and my lady-mother. Anji and I alone escaped the massacre.”
Thaddeus looked agitated enough to fall off his horse. He shook his head, and his carefully combed brown hair actually strayed forward onto his tawny face. “Massacre? They’re all dead? Tarquin? The king too? It’s ... impossible.”
“Yet it happened.” Matteo forged ahead, enunciating his words. “Anji and I took refuge in a gardeners’ shed, then inside my aunt’s abandoned rooms. My lord-father died first—we don’t know how. The Queen-Mother’s own guard led mercenaries throughout the palace in Arimna and slaughtered my family. We believe she intends to rule Darzeq.”
Thaddeus hissed in protest, “She’s foreign-born! She’ll bring her kindred to Darzeq!”
“That’s our fear. Thaddeus, beg your lord-father to hear me! To send word to Lord Tragobre and the others, urging them to form an army and act! She won’t be able to fight off all of you.”
“If she has the southern lords under her feet, she will,” Thaddeus argued. “My lord-father will do nothing until he’s sure—”
“Which means you’re sending me away!” Matteo allowed his bitterness to sharpen his words into singular darts. “I’d hoped for shelter from one who played armies and hunted with my brothers for all these years beneath my royal father’s care!”
A shamed look slid over Thaddeus’s gracious features. He pleaded, “Matteo, this isn’t my decision. My own lord and father has barred all visitors. Until we know which way the southern lords sway in this matter, we dare not commit lives to battle against Arimna. We won’t win against its garrisons and the southern lords combined—you know this!”
Ekiael rode forward, causing a stir among Thaddeus’s guards, and making the young nobleman straighten. Thaddeus nodded toward Darzeq’s high priest, equal to equal. “Sir, I’m not quarreling with the prince, only following my lord-father’s orders.”
Unappeased, Ekiael challenged, “This prince is now your king! He’s Jonatan’s only living son! What if your lord-father’s orders allow others time to find the king and kill him? What then? You’ll be foreign-ruled indeed! Trust me, sir, those foreigners won’t tolerate your political and spiritual leanings, and every lord of the First Forum will be cut down, one by one, and their properties parsed out as rewards to the new loyalists. Mark me, you’ll regret not sheltering your king! The One Who Sees sent a warning weeks ago, and it was ignored. As a result, the royal family’s all but destroyed!”
Thaddeus clenched his fists, angered enough to raise his voice at Darzeq’s high priest. “What warning? We’ve heard nothing!”
Ekiael bellowed in return, “A new prophet, Araine of Belaal, warned Prince Sheth to remain in Belaal and send messages to his family to scatter and hide! He refused to believe the young woman, and look what’s happened! Do you think your lord-father’s behavior is hidden? His cowardice is seen by The Mighty One! Remember that when your family is staring at ruin! And pray your king survives.”
As Ekiael turned his horse aside, huffing to match the beast, Matteo lifted a hand toward Thaddeus and spoke quietly, praying they could at least part on fair terms. “Sir, any of my brothers would have bowed to the wishes of their lord-father under similar circumstances. As would I. Believe me, I understand. But I pray you and the other lords of the First Forum will unite and resist this foreign-born queen. When you do, please seek me out. If I’m still alive, I’ll join the battle! Until then, please, demand justice for the murder of Darzeq’s royal family, I beg you! Speak for me where I cannot go!”
Thaddeus exhaled and bowed his head. When he dared to look at Matteo again, the full definition of remorse was written upon his expression. “Matteo, I’m sorry! If this decision were mine, you’d be inside our hall now, honored and defended, but I’ve nothing to say in the matter. Where will you go now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Has Dalia heard of the massacre?”
Had the whole realm heard of his love for Dalia? “By now, I hope she has—her parents know. But we must leave. Please, sir, speak for me wherever you dare.”
He turned his horse away and nodded to his brothers’ friend one last time. Thaddeus bowed. Ekiael groaned a noise of complaint heavenward. Anji sniffled. Matteo offered his cousin a reassuring nod and urged his horse onward.
Where to now?
Why ask what he couldn’t answer? Matteo willed himself to appear proud and undaunted as he rode away. Let Thaddeus tell his father and Darzeq’s other lords that he’d shown spirit. Courage to match any of The Dreaded Seven and their king.
***
Corban rode after Darzeq’s rejected king, his thoughts reeling—mind-numbed as he hadn’t been for months. And it wasn’t just the confirmation that young Matteo was truly Darzeq’s rightful king. Another name spun through his thoughts instead.
Araine. Prophet of Belaal.
She could not be his Araine.
He was mistaken to leap to such a wild conclusion simply because her name was also Araine. Yet, if only it could be true.
Much against his will, Corban’s soul sent an unspoken appeal toward The Unnamed One. The Infinite, whose presence seemed so ever near. If she could be yet alive....
No. He was wrong. He would never see Araine again.