Percepliquis Page 38

“Well, let’s see what a dwarf can do, then,” Magnus said, and taking out his hammer, began examining the walls, tapping here and there, placing his ear to them, even licking the stone. He circled Novron’s tomb and then moved out into the larger crypt of kings. The rest of them wandered around, looking at the contents of the tomb, while Hadrian looked through the packs.

  “There’s probably thousands of pounds of gold here,” Gaunt said, picking up a vase and staring at it miserably, as if it were mocking him by its mere existence. “What good is it?”

  “I’d trade it all for a nice plate of Ella’s apple pie right now,” Mauvin said. “I wouldn’t even mind her stew—and I never really liked her stew.”

  “I never had her stew, but I remember her pie,” Myron said. He was crouched against the wall, still studying the horn. “It was very nice.”

  They all listened quietly for a time to the tapping of the dwarf’s hammer in the other room. Its faint tink! jarred Arista’s nerves.

  “I pretended to be Ella when I worked at the palace,” Arista said. “But I just scrubbed floors. I didn’t cook. She did make great apple pie. Did she—”

  Mauvin shook his head. “She was killed during the flight.”

  “Oh.” Arista nodded.

  “What do you think this is?” Gaunt asked, holding up a statuette that looked to be a cross between a bull and a raven.

  Arista shrugged. “Pretty, though.”

  “How much?” Mauvin asked as Hadrian sat down on the wheel of the chariot.

  “Three days,” he said, “if we conserve.”

  The sound of the dwarf’s hammer stopped and Magnus returned. His long face said everything. He entered and sat on a pile of gold coins, which jingled gaily. “There are worse places to be buried, I suppose.”

  “Alric,” Arista said suddenly. “I suppose we should put him to rest properly, then.”

  “He’ll be well buried,” Myron told her. “And in a king’s tomb.”

  She nodded, trying to appear comforted.

  “Royce and I will get him,” Hadrian said.

  “I think I should be one of his pallbearers as well,” Mauvin said, and followed them out.

  They returned with his body and gently laid it on a golden table. Arista draped a blanket over him, and they gathered around it in a circle.

  “Dear Maribor, our eternal father,” Myron began, “we are gathered here to say farewell to our brother Alric Essendon. We ask that you remember him and see him across the river to the land of the dawn.” He looked to Arista, whose eyes were already tearing again.

  “Alric was my broth—” She stopped short as tears overtook her. Hadrian put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Alric was my best friend,” Mauvin continued. “My third brother, I always said. He was my rival for women, my fellow conspirator in plans of adventure, my prince, and my king. He was crowned before his time, but we did not know then how little time he had left. He ruled in an era of terror and he ruled well. He showed valor and courage befitting a king right to the end.” He paused and looked down at the blanketed form and laid a hand on Alric’s chest. “The crown is off now, Alric. You are free of it at last.” Mauvin wiped the tears from his face.

  “Does anyone else—” Myron began when Gaunt stepped forward, and all eyes turned cautiously toward him.

  “I just wanted to say”—he paused a moment—“I was wrong about you.” He hesitated for several seconds, as if he might say more, and then glanced awkwardly at the others before stepping back. “That’s all.”

  Myron looked to Arista again.

  “He’s fine,” she said simply while nodding. “At least I know that.”

  “And so, Lord,” Myron continued with a bowed head, “we say farewell to our king, our brother, and our good friend. May the light of a new dawn rise upon his soul.”

  Myron then began the song of final blessing, and all of them, even Magnus, joined in.

  Unto Maribor, I beseech thee

  Into the hands of god, I send thee

  Grant him peace, I beg thee

  Give him rest, I ask thee

  May the god of men watch over your journey.

  Mauvin stepped out of the tomb into the crypt and returned with a dusty crown, which he lay upon Alric’s chest. “Sometimes the price of dreams is achieving them.”

  Arista could not stay any longer. She felt like she was suffocating and walked out into the crypt. Entering one of the alcoves, she crouched down and hid behind one of the sarcophagi. She sat with her back in the crux of the corner. Her knees were up, and once settled, she let herself cry. She shook so hard that her back bounced against the wall. Tears ran down her face. She let them run unabated, dripping onto the robe, which dimmed until it went out.

  She wanted to believe that when Gaunt blew the horn it had stopped the elves, that perhaps they had heard and were coming to dig them out, but it felt like a lie. She was deluding herself because there was nothing else to hope for, nothing to expect beyond despair. In the darkness, she laid her head down on her arms and cried until she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE SKY SWIRLS

  The booming thunder continued shaking the walls and the floors beneath their feet as the metalsmith hammered the last rivet into the helm. The old man’s face was etched with deep lines partially hidden behind a mass of gray bristles, a beard he had no time to shave away. “There you are, lad. As fine a helm as you’ll find. It will take care of you. Protect that noggin of yours right well. War is upon us, my boy, but don’t worry—that’s only thunder yer hearing.”

  “It’s their thunder,” Renwick replied.

  The metalsmith looked at him curiously for a moment; then Renwick saw fear cross the man’s face as he put the pieces together.

  “Yer the boy, aren’t you? The one who warned us? The one who rode up ahead of the elven army. You’ve seen ’em, haven’t you?”

  Renwick shook his head. “Not me, but yes, my friend did.”

  “Did he tell you what the devils look like? Rumor has it anyone seeing an elf turns to stone.”

  “No, but I wouldn’t turn an ear to their music.”

  “You’re Breckton’s squire now, eh? Aide-de-camp to the marshal-at-arms?”

  Renwick shrugged. “I don’t even know what an aide-de-camp is.”

  The old smith chuckled, wiping the sweat from his face with a filthy cloth as overhead an especially loud roll of thunder boomed. Renwick felt it in his chest.

  “An adjutant,” the smith told him. Renwick shrugged again. “You’re like his butler, messenger, and squire all rolled into one, except you’re more like an assistant than a servant, which means you’ll get some respect.”

  “But what am I supposed to do?”

  “Whatever he says, lad—whatever he says.”

  Renwick placed the helm on his head. It fit snug around the forehead and the thick batten felt soft and cushioning. He banged his head with the heel of his fist. The helm absorbed the blow. He felt almost nothing.

  “It’s good.”

  “You’ll be all right. Now get back to Breckton. I have more work to do, as I suspect you do too.”

  Outside, the streets were wet; warmer air had melted some of the snow. Icicles dripped, sounding like rain, as overhead the sky swirled and thunder crashed.

  He jumped a large puddle but did not account for the added weight of the armor. He had never worn any before. It was only a breastplate and helm, but with the shield and sword added, it was enough to throw off his balance. He came up short and splashed in the middle, soaking his foot with ice-cold water. He felt foolish holding the shield as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The other soldiers wore shields slung on their backs. He paused in the street, examining the straps and trying to determine how to do that, when a flash of lightning arced across the sky and he heard a terrible crack. People on the street ducked into doorways, their eyes skyward. This got him moving again and he jogged the rest of the way to Imperial Square.

>   Men filled the open area. Soldiers and knights sat on the dry sections of cobblestone or stood in puddles. He worked his way in, trying not to hit anyone with either his shield or his sword. Renwick felt conspicuous. Men with missing teeth and scarred faces glared at him as he picked his way through the crowd. He felt a heat building on his skin, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized how ridiculous he must look. Renwick knew he did not belong there and so did they.

  “Renwick! Over here, lad!” He heard a familiar voice and saw Sir Elgar waving from the center of the square. Never before had he been happy to see him.

  “Make room!” Elgar bellowed, and kicked Sir Gilbert and Sir Murthas until they shifted over. Renwick quickly sat down, trying to become invisible.

  “Here, lad.” Elgar took the shield from him. “Carry it like this.” He pulled his arm out roughly and slipped the long strap over his shoulder. “A lot easier that way.”

  “Thanks,” he said, making sure his sword lay flat behind him and was not in anyone’s way. Suddenly he felt a jolt as Elgar struck him hard in the chest with his fist like a hammer. Renwick rocked back and looked up, stunned.

  “Good armor!” The knight grinned at him and nodded.

  A moment later Murthas drew his dagger and hit him hard with the pommel. The sound rang and again Renwick rocked back, shocked, but unharmed. “Excellent.”

  “Stop!” Renwick shouted, looking at them fearfully.

  The two laughed.

  “Tradition, boy,” Elgar told him. “It is good luck to have new armor tested by friends before enemies. Just praise Novron we’re sitting down!”

  “Aye!” Sir Gilbert said. “When I got my first helm, Sir Biffard rang it so hard I passed out, but I woke up in the care of Lady Bethany, so I can attest to the good luck of a sound beating on new armor!”

  The knights all laughed again.

  “Who is this pup?” the man seated across from Renwick asked. His blond hair came nearly to his shoulders, his blue eyes as bright as sapphires. He wore ornate armor inlaid with gold designs of ivy and roses. Over his shoulders he wore a purple velvet cape, held by a solid-gold broach.

  “This is Renwick, Your Highness,” Murthas replied. “I don’t know if he has any other name. He was a page in the palace until recently. Now he is aide-de-camp to Sir Breckton.”

  “Ah!” the man said. “The fearless rider!”

  “Indeed, Your Highness—the same.”

  “You’ve done a great service for us, Renwick. I shall be pleased to fight beside you.”

  “Ah—thank you—ah—”

  “You have no idea who I am, do you?” he chuckled, and the rest followed him.

  “This is Prince Rudolf of Alburn, son of King Armand,” Murthas told him.

  “Oh!” Renwick said. “I am honored, Your Highness.”

  “And well you should be,” Murthas said. “There are precious few princes willing to fight beside their knights these days, much less sit with us before the battle.”

  “Ha!” Rudolf laughed. “Don’t flatter me, Murthas. I’m here only to get away from the smothering chatter of women and children. There’s a stuffiness to the castle these days. She has them filling the corridors, packed like sausage. You can’t piss without a child or woman passing by. And they don’t appreciate fine liquor!”

  The prince drew forth a crystal decanter of amber liquid, which he sloshed about merrily. He took the first swallow, smacked his lips loudly, then passed it to Sir Elgar on his right. “From the empress’s private stash,” the prince told them in an exaggerated whisper. “But I hear she doesn’t drink and I’m certain she will not begrudge her knights a bit of warmth on this day.”

  Elgar took a mouthful and handed Renwick the bottle, which he held but did not drink from.

  “Ha-ha!” Elgar said, looking at him. “The lad is afraid of getting drunk before his first fight! Drink up, lad, I guarantee that won’t be a problem. You could down two such bottles and the fire in your belly would burn up that liquor before it ever reached your head.”

  Renwick tipped the bottle, swallowed, and felt the liquor burn its way down his throat.

  “That-a-boy!” Elgar cheered. “We’ll make a man of you today, that’s for sure!”

  He passed the bottle on to Murthas as overhead huge black clouds swirled and the sky grew dark until it appeared as if dusk had fallen at midday. What light remained cast an eerie green radiance. Lightning continued to flash and thunder cracked. Yet sitting shoulder to shoulder among the stable of men, smelling their sweat, listening to their carefree laughter and the sounds of their belches, curses, and dirty jokes, Renwick felt safe. The liquor warmed him, relaxed him. He placed his hand on the grip of his new sword and squeezed. He thought they could win this battle. He felt that they would win, and he would stand among the victors.

  “Hide the bottle!” the prince shouted, and Sir Gilbert guiltily stowed it under his shield with a comical look on his face just as Sir Breckton arrived and walked into the center of the circle.

  “So there you are!” he said, spotting Renwick. “Got your armor and sword, I see. Good.” He raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Men! I have called you together here on behalf of the empress. Everyone take a knee!”

  The soldiers made a loud shuffling of feet and swords. Renwick saw the small, slender figure of the empress Modina dressed all in white enter the mass of men like a flake of snow amidst a mound of mud and ash. She stepped up on a box placed at the center and looked around her, smiling. Several of the men bowed their heads, but Renwick could not; it was impossible to take his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld and he still felt the kiss she had left on his cheeks. Before that day, he had seen her only once, when she had addressed the city from the balcony. That day he had stood in awe like the rest, marveling at her—so impressive, so powerful. Now, like in the fourth-floor office, what he saw before him was a woman. The picture of innocence wrapped in a pristine white dress that hung from her as if she were bathed in light. Modina wore no coat or cloak. Her unbound hair, glimmering like gold, fell to her shoulders. She appeared so young, not much older than him, and yet in her eyes was the aging from years of pain and hard-won wisdom.

  “The elves are coming,” she began, her voice soft and faint against the wind. “Reports tell of a host moving up the road from the south. No one has yet provided an accurate number or assessment of troops.” She looked to the sky and took a breath. “We are the last stronghold of mankind. You are the last army, the last warriors, the last defenders of our race. If they should take this city…” She hesitated and a few bowed heads looked up.

  She looked back as if taking in each face.

  “None of you know me,” she said, her voice changing, losing its formal tone. “Some have seen me on a balcony or in a corridor. Some have heard stories about me, of me being a goddess and the daughter of Novron—your savior. But you don’t know me.” She raised her arms out at her sides and slowly turned around. “I am Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village, daughter of Theron and Addie. I was but a poor peasant from a family of farmers. My brother Thaddeus—Thad—was going to be a cooper until one night I left the door to my home open when I went to find my father. The light…” She hesitated and the pause gripped Renwick’s heart. “The light through the open door attracted an elven monster. It ripped my home apart and killed my family. It killed the boy I hoped that I might one day marry. It killed my best friends, their parents, even the livestock. Then it killed my father—the last reason I had to live. But it did not kill me. I survived. I did not want to. My family—my life—was gone.”

  She looked out at them and he watched as her soft chin hardened as she gritted her teeth.

  “But then I found a new family—a new life.” She held her hands out to them and tears glistened in her eyes even as her voice grew stronger, louder. “You are my family now, my fathers, my brothers, my sons, and I will never leave the door open again. I will not let the beast in. I will never le
t it win again! It has taken too much from me, from you, from all of us! It has destroyed Dunmore, Ghent, Melengar, Trent, and Alburn. Many of you have lost your homes, your land, your families and now it comes here, but it shall go no farther! Here we stop it! Here we fight! Here we face our enemy without running, without flinching, without bending. Here we stand our ground and here we kill it!”

  The knights cheered; the soldiers rose to their feet and beat their swords on their shields.

  “The enemy comes, Sir Breckton,” she shouted over the clamor. “Sound the alarm.”

  Breckton waved a hand and men on the roofs of shops stood up and blared fanfares of long brass horns. The sound was repeated throughout the city as other horns echoed the call. Soon Renwick could hear the bells of the churches ringing. People in the streets quickly heeded the signal and headed for the shelters.

  “To the walls, men!” Breckton ordered, and they all rose.

  Lightning cracked again; this time Renwick saw the crooked finger of light strike the grain silo on Coswall Avenue. There were a flash and then flame as the roof exploded in fire.

  “Everyone into the dungeon!” Amilia shouted, standing on top of the wagon in the center of the courtyard as, overhead, lightning flashed and tower roofs exploded.

  Only minutes before, a strike had hit something not too far behind her in the city. She felt a strange tingle on her skin and her hair rose as if lifted by dozens of invisible fingers. There was the taste of metal in her mouth; then a blinding light was followed instantly by a deafening crack. Something exploded and nearly threw her from the cart. Shaking, like a bird on a rock in the middle of a surging river, she remained on the wagon, shouting to the throng of people exiting the castle. She pointed them toward the north tower and the entrance to the old dungeon. They all had the same expression, terror imprinted over bewilderment. Poor and rich, peasant and noble, they filed out pushing and crowding, heads tilted toward the sky, cringing with each flash, screaming with each boom of thunder.

  “Inside the tower! Move to your left! Don’t push!” She swept her arms to the side in frustration, as if this would somehow move the crowd where she wanted them to go.