Throne of Dragons

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lenore hoped for death as she sat on the horse, her hands bound before her and Ethir’s grasp around her waist holding her there firmly. Around them, the other Quiet Men rode, horses moving in a near silent line, those riding them doing so with their hands on the strange assortment of weapons they carried.

Before, she had hoped for escape, but the Quiet Men had shown her twice now that there was no way for her to escape them. They had caught her easily, back in the inn, and captured her again just as smoothly when she had tried to flee. She could not escape.

Then, she had hoped for rescue. Lenore had been certain that it would come, with the Knights of the Spur riding over the horizon, or Rodry, even Vars, coming with the men who should have been guarding her. Here, in the open, couldn’t they sweep down on these dozen and defeat them? Couldn’t they save her?

Yet with every passing league, those hopes were fading. They got closer to the bridges and further from any help with every stride of the horses. Already, Lenore could see the largest of the bridges in the distance, its span stretching out over the Slate in length after length of dark wood.

There were guards at the end of the bridge, perhaps half a dozen, but as Lenore and the Quiet Men rode forward, she knew they wouldn’t stop a force such as this. They were a big enough force to stop smugglers, or to collapse the bridge in the event of an invasion, protecting the kingdom with the fury of the river, not the strength of their numbers. They weren’t there to fight a force coming from this side. Most weren’t even facing the right way as the Quiet Men descended on them, looking out over the river instead, making sure that no threat was coming from the other side.

She saw some of them turn at the sound of the approaching horses, but they were too late. The first of the Quiet Men were already striking at them, cutting down with swords, striking out with knives. They fell on the guards, and it wasn’t even a fight, not really. Most of the men there didn’t even manage to draw their swords. Of those who did, more died without ever managing to use them. One managed a clumsy blow aimed at one of the Quiet Men, but the simple truth was that those who guarded the bridges were not the finest of the kingdom’s warriors, just those who were prepared to sit there longest, managing the trade between the two sides of the bridge. That guard died as quickly as the others, a spray of blood coming from his throat as one of the Quiet Men opened it with a sword.

Lenore’s captors paused there for a moment or two, cleaning their weapons before proceeding. It gave Lenore a chance to look out over the bridge, staring out to the far shore, and the trees there beyond a stretch of open ground. That was ground that did not belong to her father, ground from which she couldn’t imagine anyone bringing her back.

“Almost there,” Ethir murmured behind her. “King Ravin is going to enjoy breaking you.”

Lenore thought of all the things that had happened to her in the day before, and all the things that might still happen. King Ravin was not known for his kindness, and if he had her as his captive… Lenore found herself hoping again for death, because even death would be better than what might follow.

As the horses of the Quiet Men started out over the expanse of the bridge, Lenore found herself looking out over the side, down at the rushing rage of the Slate below. It was a river that no one could hope to swim in, and that could tear apart boats that tried to cross it. Anyone who fell in would be carried away in seconds, and drowned within a minute.

Wouldn’t a minute of even that horror be better than everything that was waiting on the other side?

Lenore couldn’t believe that she was thinking about this, couldn’t believe what she was contemplating. She found herself thinking about her family in that moment, about her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters. She found tears falling down her cheeks at the thought of them, the agony of all that she might lose flooding through her.

Erin would probably have fought her way free by now, while if Rodry were here, he would have cut down half of the Quiet Men to free her. Greave would have come up with some cunning plan out of a poem, and even Nerra might have found some plant along the way to help her, or poison her captors.

Lenore had none of that, only the feel of her captor’s arm around her waist, the certainty of the life that would follow if, when, she reached the far side of the bridge. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t let that happen, even though it meant…

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, picturing her family, and then she threw herself to one side.

Lenore tumbled from the horse, caught her footing, and then flung herself at the edge of the bridge. She clambered up its side, her bound hands making her progress slower than it should have been. Even so, she managed to make it up there onto the railing that normally kept horses and carts from going over into the water.

Lenore balanced there, looking down, terror filling her even as she knew that this was the only way, the only thing that would keep her from far, far worse. Taking a breath, she stepped off into air.

For a moment, Lenore hung there, tumbling down, plunging toward the water as if she might dive into it headfirst. She held her breath automatically, even though she knew there was no way to swim clear of the torrent, no way to survive what was to come…

Then a hand caught hold of her ankle, grip as unyielding as steel, arresting her fall.

“No you don’t, girl,” Eoris’s voice said. Lenore kicked at his grip, trying to break free, but there was no give to him, no chance even to escape into death. More hands caught hold of her, and Syrelle’s voice joined his.

“You think you get to leave us that easily? Let’s get you back up.”

Lenore struggled, but it didn’t make any difference. They dragged her up, pulling her back over the railing of the bridge, depositing her on its boards the way they might have a sack. They hauled Lenore to her feet, and Syrelle stood there a moment before bringing her hand round in a stinging slap.

“Every time you try to break free, we will bring you back,” she said. “You will not be allowed to die, and you will be hurt each time you try. Do you understand?”

Through her tears, Lenore managed to nod.

They threw her over another horse, this time flung across the saddle rather than allowed to sit. Lenore couldn’t even get down now, with no chance to try to throw herself into the water once more.

When she couldn’t even die, what was there left? Lenore lay there and sobbed, knowing that she had no more choices, no more chances. She stared at the far bank and wondered if King Ravin was somewhere nearby, or if he would be waiting further back, ready for her to be dragged before him.

Lenore looked back toward the northern bank, thinking of home, thinking of all that she was about to lose. That was why she saw the band of soldiers charging down on horseback, weapons and armor shining in the sunlight.

In that moment, she saw one thing she had never thought that she would see: she saw Vars there at the head of the wedge of men, looking like an avenging angel as he led the charge forward. There, like that, he was every inch the noble knight, riding to the rescue, ready to fight for the safety of his half-sister and bring her back safely to the waiting arms of her family. It was the kind of thing that Lenore associated more with Rodry than with him, but even Vars’s presence was enough to make hope well up inside her.

He would come, and he would save her, and…

…and he was stopping, slowing his charge, bringing his knights to a halt. No, he couldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t just be standing there while the Quiet Men carried her away to a fate worse than death. No brother would do that, would they, even Vars?

Yet he was doing it, stopping short in the face of the enemies across the river. He was doing what Vars always did, backing away in the face of danger, and that meant…

…that meant that he wouldn’t interfere. They would drag Lenore away to King Ravin, and Vars would do nothing about it.

“No,” she sobbed. “No!”

CHAPTER NINE

Vars burst out into the space before the bridge, feeling the ecstasy that came from a whole unit of men charging in his wake, ready to follow his commands. He knew that, at a single order from him, they would fall on any enemy he chose and kill them without hesitation. That was power; and in that moment he thought he understood why Rodry enjoyed his knightly games so much.

Then he saw the bridge ahead, and the party already crossing it. Vars thought he could see Lenore there, making out his half-sister’s presence on one of the horses there. For a moment, he thought that he saw her looking back at him in hope, maybe even expectation…

The problem was that, even as Vars watched, they reached the far side of the bridge.

“Hold!” Vars commanded, and the men around him did as he ordered, even though it was obvious that they didn’t understand why. They milled about, lined up ready to charge, clearly eager to do it.

“Your highness,” the sergeant said. “They’re getting away. We need to—”

“I decide what we need to do,” Vars snapped, hating himself even as he said it. The truth was that a part of him longed to charge down there as much as any of the soldiers did. He wanted to be the one to save his sister, wanted to see his father’s gratitude at his bravery.

The problem was that he couldn’t.

Vars couldn’t bring himself to heel his horse forward, couldn’t bring himself to force it over that bridge, couldn’t set foot in the south like that. Here… here he was safe, but there… there could be soldiers waiting in the trees beyond, could be a whole army hidden just south of the river. To charge to the south was to invite disaster, to expose himself to dangers that seemed to swirl, impossible to know, in the back of his mind.

In a realm that was under his family’s control, Vars felt as though he could do anything. Did do anything, safe in the knowledge that nobody could touch him. There, though, past the bridge, there was nothing to protect him beyond the strength of his arm and the loyalty of his men. Just the thought of that made Vars feel sick with worry.

“Your highness…” the sergeant began again, but Vars cut him off.

“Be silent! Do you want to start a war? If we cross that bridge, that’s what it means: a war! And I… I am the second in line to the throne. What if they’re crossing in full view of us to lure me across? What if this is some kind of trap?”

It was an excuse rather than a reason, and Vars knew even as he said it that he hadn’t convinced his men. He could see their looks of disapproval, so similar to those he faced back in Royalsport whenever he wouldn’t hunt or fight. Someone would pay for those looks, but not now, not now…

At least they could do nothing about it. None of the men dared to disobey Vars, which meant that none of them could show him up. None of them could show his fear for what it was. All of them had to sit there, watching while the small group of enemies passed over the bridge, into the Southern Kingdom and down along the road.

They were just on the edge of sight when the unthinkable happened: a second set of horsemen approached from the north. Even then, it might have been all right; Vars might still have remained in control of the situation, except for one stupid, hateful thing…

Rodry was at their head.

***

Rodry charged, pushing his horse as hard as he could, only holding back at all because if he killed it before he caught up to his sister, he would find himself walking after her to save her. Beside him, his friends pushed their own horses, looking every inch the knights they sought to be, hair streaming in the wind, weapons shining in the sun.

Ahead, he saw a bridge to the south, saw the dot of the group beyond it just disappearing into the landscape beyond. Rodry breathed a sigh of relief at that, because it meant that he’d guessed right about the route they would have to take. If they’d taken one of the smaller crossings, he might never have found his sister, but the sight of her there was enough to spur him on to greater efforts.

Then Rodry saw Vars, saw him standing there with a whole troop of men, simply watching their sister be carried away. Anger burned in him at that, and that anger was enough that he didn’t just ride past Vars in contempt. He rode to him instead, stopping and gesturing over the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Rodry demanded. “Why aren’t you riding after Lenore?”

“If we cross the bridge, it’s war,” Vars replied, but Rodry could hear the tremor in his voice, guess the real reason for his reticence.

“It’s already war!” Rodry roared back at him. “And where were you when our sister was being captured?”

“I was… we took a wrong turn on the road.”

Rodry stared at him, unable to believe it. He didn’t believe it; Vars was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He could read a map, find his way. If he hadn’t caught up with Lenore, it was because he hadn’t wanted to.

“What was it?” Rodry demanded. “Did you get distracted by all the inns on the way, or did you just not think that our sister was worth your time to protect? Or were you too scared to play the part of a guard? That was it, wasn’t it, Vars? Cowardice, the same as always.”

“I’m no coward,” Vars insisted.

“Then prove it!” Rodry shouted back at him. “Charge over that bridge and get our sister back.”

“I…” Vars hesitated, and that was all that Rodry needed to know.

“Coward,” Rodry said. “Sitting here, trying to save your own skin.”

“I’m second in line to the throne!” Vars insisted. “You think I should risk myself for a sister who will never be—”

Rodry hit him then, hard enough to knock Vars sprawling from his saddle. His brother came up, hand going to the hilt of his sword, but one look at Rodry’s expression had him stepping back, then scrambling away.

Rodry looked back across the bridge. His sister and her captors were out of sight now; even in this Vars had found a way to make things more difficult. He had no way of knowing which way they would have taken her, where they might be. Even so, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

“We need to ride,” he said to the others. “But I’ve no idea where.”

“King Ravin has a hunting lodge in a village a little way south of the border,” Kay said, surprising him. “What? My father used to trade with the south. King Ravin used to make a point of receiving visitors as grandly as possible with wine and…”

“And women,” Rodry finished for him.

Kay paled at that, then nodded.

It was a possibility, and there would be tracks. Years of hunting had given Rodry practice in that, at least. He looked around at his friends.

“I’ll not lie to you,” he said. “I hoped to catch up to Lenore before she crossed the border. Going after her now means going into the heart of the enemy’s lands. It means more danger for all of us. If any man wishes to turn back…”

None of his friends moved. Rodry had known that they wouldn’t, but he had to ask. He turned to the guards who had accompanied Vars, pointedly ignoring his brother.

“You men,” he said. “I think that you are not the cowards my brother is. I think you were misled.”

One of the men, a sergeant, nodded. “The prince told us we were marching the right way, your highness. Otherwise, we’d have been at the princess’s side, defending her.”

Rodry believed him. He wanted to believe that no true man would have shirked his duty, given the choice. It only made what Vars had done worse.

“Some of you will have to stay here to report the truth of all this to my father,” Rodry said. “I want to make sure that he hears all of this. But if any of you will ride with me, I’d be grateful for the help, and so will the kingdom.”

“I’ll ride with you,” the sergeant said.

“And me,” a soldier called out.

More calls came from around Rodry, in a chorus of raised voices and stamping feet that seemed to shake the ground around him. He charged for the bridge, and those men with horses charged with him, leaving Vars standing at the heart of a pitifully small group of foot soldiers, all looking at him with some of the contempt that Rodry felt for his brother in that moment.

He felt more than that though. The old, familiar anger was roaring through Rodry now, fueling his galloping race across the boards of the bridge, down into the Southern Kingdom. He would get his sister back. He would make those who had taken her pay. Anything that got in his way…

…anything that got in his way would burn.

CHAPTER TEN

King Godwin paced the castle’s main courtyard, while around him men rushed back and forth, preparing for war. His every footstep rang with metal as his armor sounded against the stone cobbles of the floor, but it still wasn’t enough to drown out the shouting as men issued commands or ran to be in place among the others there.

“Why have you not gone yet?” Aethe demanded by his side. “Why have you not recovered our daughter?”

His wife looked like a wild thing, as far from the woman Godwin had married all those years before as he could imagine. She had torn at her clothes, while there were gouges in her hands from her nails. Godwin could understand that. She was simply as distraught as any mother had a right to be, when all her daughters were missing. That Erin was safe among the Knights of the Spur meant nothing, when Nerra was banished, and Lenore had been taken.

“We will be going soon, my love,” Godwin promised.

“I’m not your love,” she snapped back. “Not when you’ve lost all my girls!”

“My men tell me that Rodry has gone after Lenore,” Godwin insisted. “They saw him racing off from the city. And Vars… well, there is no word from Vars, but he should be with her.”

“And meanwhile, you sit just gathering men,” Aethe said. She made that into an insult, turning on her heel and heading off toward the interior of the castle. On another day, Godwin would have gone after her, but not today. Today, he needed to finish gathering his men, and set off in pursuit of Lenore.

“Go with the queen,” he said to a pair of his guards. “Make sure that she is safe.”

On another day, he might have sent knights to her, but he needed his knights for this. He could do nothing to help Nerra, and by his own laws could not stop Erin from joining the knights, but he could help Lenore, would help Lenore.

“How much longer until all is ready?” he demanded, as servants and ostlers rand around the horses, readying them.

“A few minutes more, your majesty,” one of the grooms called out. A few minutes? How could he wait any more, when his daughter was in danger the whole time? It was at times like this that Godwin wished that he were like his son Rodry, able to charge off in pursuit of what he felt, unconstrained by the needs of the kingdom.

Instead… instead, Godwin had to do what was right. He understood what this capture of his daughter meant: an open declaration of war by King Ravin. That meant that he could not simply charge down with a few men the way Rodry had done, not when there might be a whole army coming the other way. He had to order preparations, even though every instinct he had screamed at him to simply ride in an attempt to reach Lenore in time.

“Send men to the bridges,” Godwin ordered Sir Lars of the Two Swords. “Tell the men there that I have commanded them destroyed.”

That would not be a hard task. Each of the bridges had the means to destroy it built in, whether it was oiled slats that would burn, or linchpins that could be pulled away to allow it to collapse. For so long, those had been the kingdom’s defense, and they would prove so again.

“All the bridges, your majesty?” the knight asked. “If your daughter has passed to the south, and we are to recover her…”

The king in Godwin knew that he should order all of the bridges destroyed. That this might be the point of Ravin’s plan, forcing him to leave at least one route an army could cross. Even so, the father in him could not even contemplate that. He could not abandon his daughter like that, or his son, because Godwin had no doubt about how far Rodry would go to recover Lenore.

“You are right, my friend,” he said. “Let one bridge stand, one of the minor ones, so that Ravin can’t march an army across unless it’s two by two, but all others are to fall. If this is the precursor to an invasion, we will force Ravin to come to us where he cannot use his whole army.”

That was one part of this that struck Godwin as strange: Ravin was reputed to be a ruthless and cunning king, who had to know how strong the defenses of the bridges were. The North had been safe from the South for generations thanks to the Slate’s roaring rapids, and how easy it was to just collapse a bridge beneath an invading force. What did he hope to achieve by doing this now?

“Perhaps he hopes to lure us to the attack,” Godwin mused. It was the only thing that made sense.

“What’s that, your majesty?” Sir Lars asked.

Godwin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, just go. Sir Twell!”

The knight was there, assisting with the preparations, ensuring that all was planned well. Godwin would have expected nothing less. Sir Ursus was beside him, lifting the heaviest of the supplies.

“You and Ursus ride to the Spur. Tell the knights there that there is to be war, and bring them south. We will show Ravin our true strength.”

“As you command, my king,” the knight said, sweeping a bow and then mounting a horse. How long would it take him and Sir Ursus to bring the other knights? Days, at least. If Ravin did come in force, could they hold until then if they could not collapse the bridge? Would they be able to get Lenore back before anything worse happened?

So many thoughts were swirling around in Godwin’s head then. He had forgotten what the build up to conflict felt like, forgotten all the ways that doubts could creep in. Still, at least he had one way to deal with that. Stalking off across the courtyard, he set off in the direction of his wizard’s tower.

Of course, he did not get there before Master Grey found him. He was waiting at the second turn of a corridor within the castle, standing there before a statue of one of Godwin’s ancestors as if studying it.

“Why are you not out there, helping me prepare for war?” Godwin demanded.

The magus continued to stare at the statue for a moment or two. “Do you know the story of King Lorus?”

“What?” Godwin demanded.

“Your great-great-great grandfather, I believe.”

“I know who the man was,” Godwin snapped. Why did Master Grey always bring up irrelevancies at times like this? “What about him?”

“He was a man who fought seven times against enemies to the south, allowing them across the bridges so that he could face them,” the sorcerer said. “He won each time, and yet, when hot summers brought droughts, he could do nothing.”

“What are you saying? That Ravin will find a way to affect the weather?” Godwin asked.

The sorcerer gave him one of those looks he seemed to do so well, which said that the king had misunderstood him, or would never manage to see all that he saw, or both.

“I am saying that, sometimes, the conflict we think is important is the smallest of things, compared to all the world might throw our way.”

“The South stealing my daughter is not unimportant,” Godwin snapped back. “Lenore is in danger, and Ravin… he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t plan to be waiting.”

“That is one possibility,” Master Grey agreed, or was it agreement? It was hard to tell with the man. If he hadn’t done so much to assist the kingdom over the years…

“Why didn’t you see this coming?” Godwin demanded. “You’re supposed to be the one who can unpick the future. Why didn’t you tell me that my daughter was in danger?”

The sorcerer raised his shoulders in a shrug. “My focus was… elsewhere.”

“Then bring it back to where it should be!” Godwin roared at him, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever shouted at his magus like that before. “Read your auguries, look at your stars. Do your job, while my daughter is in danger.”

If the sorcerer was perturbed by the outburst, he gave no sign of it, but then, he never gave any sign of what he was truly thinking. There were days when Godwin wondered if he was a charlatan, and others when it seemed as if the man might have more power than anyone else alive.

“Not anyone,” Master Grey murmured, and that made Godwin pause.

“What did you say?”

The sorcerer seemed to catch himself.

“You wish me to look at the future for you, my king? Very well.”

He crouched there, in the hallway, squatting the way a beggar might have in spite of his robes of pristine white and gold. He took a pouch from his belt, drawing out what seemed to be a scattering of knucklebones. To Godwin’s surprise, the sorcerer spat on them, quick and sharp. He threw them onto the floor, the rattle of it filling the space. He then took a knife, pricking at his thumb to let a single bead of blood form. Godwin hadn’t been entirely sure that Master Grey possessed blood at all. That bead fell onto the knucklebones.

The sorcerer seemed to stare at them for a long time.

“Tell me,” Godwin said. “Tell me how to find Lenore.”

“I see what I see,” Master Grey said. “And I see an ending. A king must fall, and not. He must die so that things might shift.”

“You mean me,” Godwin said. “You think I’m to die? Tell me who does it. I’ll cut him down before he gets close.”

The sorcerer smiled thinly. “The hand that wields the blade is not the hand to kill you, King Godwin. We do not always die by the hand that we think…”

Anger rose up in Godwin then. “Damn you, sorcerer,” he snapped. “You and your prophecies. I ask you for help finding my daughter, and you give me my death.”

He strode back in the direction of the courtyard, then turned to call out over his shoulder.

“Well, I’ll surprise you yet. I’ll get Lenore back. I’ll beat Ravin. And anyone who comes at me with a blade will eat my steel!”

Grey was gone, of course. Only his words remained, ringing in Godwin’s ears.

“Not by the hand you think.”