Морган Райс
Throne of Dragons
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
From the moment Odd arrived on the shores of the kingdom, his small boat bumping against a rocky shore, he knew that he needed to head south, to Royalsport. He needed to warn the king of the impending invasion via Leveros, needed to save the kingdom from what was to come.
Maybe that would even make up for some of the things he had done in his life.
No, nothing would do that. Penitence as a monk he had not, even though he still wore their robes, still had the shaved head of their order. No amount of prayer or meditation had brought him peace, and when the attack on the island had come… the man he had been was there waiting inside him.
He shook his head and started walking, up off the shoreline, scrambling up a slope of sandy rocks until he reached the top of a cliff. There were trees in the distance, thick and green and tangled, with only the faintest of paths leading into them. From the position of the sun, it seemed that they were to the south. The right way then.
The small wounds he’d suffered on the island ached now, but he kept walking, because if there was one thing the monastery had taught him, it was patient endurance. With every step, he could feel the movement of his sheathed sword at his back, long and slender, enclosed in a covering of black leather for now. It was an unfamiliar feeling after so long in the monastery, but at the same time the most familiar feeling of all. There had been a time when he hadn’t felt alive without a sword in his hand, the thrill of battle running through his veins.
The abbot would not approve of that, if he was still alive. Odd suspected that he was not, when his whole plan had been to offer himself up to the soldiers as a kind of sacrifice. He suspected that any monk who had remained on the Isle of Leveros would be slaughtered now; King Ravin’s men were almost as bloodthirsty as…
…as he had been.
Images came to him, of villages sacked, people slaughtered. Many had been the armored forms of worthy foes, bandits and rebels, but many more had not been. The faces of women and children mingled with those of others he had killed, and the worst part was that Odd couldn’t even make out specific ones. He hadn’t been watching closely enough for that when he’d been Sir Oderick the Mad, consumed by battle rage, consumed by the love of the fight.
“I am not him,” Odd told himself aloud, as if the certainty of that would make the words true. There had been a reason why he hadn’t brought his noble’s clothes, or his armor.
Yet who was he? Not a monk, not a knight, not… anything. At best, a messenger, whose sole purpose was to warn the kingdom of what was coming on the flank they didn’t know about. That was a purpose, though, and Odd would fulfill it, whatever it took.
He kept walking.
How long he kept walking, Odd didn’t know. At one point, he came to a crofter’s hut, pieced together from aged planks and turf squares for a roof. The crofter’s wife came to the door, offering him a bowl of soup, clearly seized from an already bubbling bowl.
“You could stay for the night,” she said. “A monk in the house is said to be lucky.”
“I am anything but lucky,” Odd assured her, and pressed a coin into her hand before he kept walking. Somewhere in his walking, day might have turned to night and back again, but it was hard to tell under the canopy of the trees. He lit a candle and kept going, until tiredness forced him to stop.
In the morning, he knelt in meditation, the way he had for so many mornings now. His mind would not still itself though, and if he had prayers within him, he could not bring himself to say them. Odd rose instead and continued on his trek. In the midmorning, he came upon another hut of forest folk, and along with a little bread and cheese, these sold him a mule they had grazing behind the house.
Compared to all the mounts he’d had in his time, it was easily the humblest. Sir Oderick the Mad had ridden stallions and war-trained chargers, not dappled mules that seemed to snort with every step as if in contempt of the world. His saddles had been finely wrought, not blankets laid simply across a beast’s back. Still, it meant that he could move south quicker, and that was all that mattered.
He sat upon his mule and tried to use the jolting of it as a different kind of meditation, but somehow the beast managed to move without even a consistent rhythm, jarring Odd from his thoughts every few steps as it seemed that the mule found bones in its back Odd had not suspected a steed could have. He knew he must look ludicrous like this, a far cry from the noble he had been, and Odd laughed at the foolishness of it all, long and loud.
“What’s so funny, priest?” The first man to step from the forest was a bear of a man, huge and broad shouldered, dark-bearded and dressed in rough clothes suitable for a day of felling trees. Scraps of leathers serving as armor said that his days held more violence than that though, and the axe he held was a thing of war, not just work.
The second man was smaller, hard faced and armed with a long, single-edged knife, a nail hammered into the hilt to serve as a cross guard. Together, they looked like the kind of men who were farmers or foresters some days, bandits others, drifting back and forth across the line to lawlessness. Odd had seen many men like them before.
“I’m not a priest,” Odd said, stepping down from his mule. “I was a monk, but my abbot told me that I was no longer welcome. As for what’s funny, I suppose that’s just how far I’ve fallen.”
“Things can always get worse,” the big one said, fingering his axe.
“True,” Odd said. He didn’t reach for his sword, not yet.
“How about you give us what you have, and they won’t?” the smaller one said.
Odd laughed again, and if these men had known him, they would have known the strange, mad edge in that laugh. “Really, boys, is that the best you can do? I mean, yes, good, menacing approach, but if you’re robbing someone, you should make more of an effort.”
“How about I make the effort to split your head open?” the axe man suggested.
Odd’s laugh wouldn’t stop now, not even when the big one swung the axe at his head. He was still laughing when he sidestepped, still laughing when he kicked the thug in the knee, sending him sprawling. He didn’t draw his sword yet, but took it from his back, sheath and all, using it like a club to smash the long knife from the other one’s hands. Odd spun and kicked him square in the stomach, sending him to the ground alongside his friend.
Idly, Odd noticed that his mule was at the side of the path, chewing grass as if nothing were happening. The madness in him found that as funny as all the rest of it, so that he laughed even while he drew his sword.
There was no blood on it yet, but his mind’s eye supplied all the ways that blood could run through the etchings on the steel, all the ways that redness could fill in the dips and furrows of it, picking out the knots and the whorls on the surface. He stood there, holding back the urge to kill only with difficulty, smiling at the two would-be robbers like the demented thing he was.
“Best run, boys,” he said. “I’m a little out of practice, but two on one is hardly even worth the effort.”
“What about eight?” another voice said behind him.
Half a dozen other men stepped from the trees, and a part of Odd cursed himself for not seeing that coming. They were dressed in similar ways to the others, in scraps of leathers, mostly armed with hatchets or knives. They had obviously hung back just in case Odd had friends hidden out of sight, in case this was a trap laid to catch those who might rob travelers.
Odd smiled at them. “I take it that you still want my money pouch?”
“And your sword, and your mule,” the large one said.
“Ah now,” Odd replied. “I have become quite attached to that mule. Besides, I need it to head south.”
“You’ll give us all of it, or we’ll gut you,” the short one with the knife said.
Of course, the sensible, even sane thing to do would be to give them all that they wanted. It was what the abbot would have done, no doubt. Even most warriors had the sense to know when they were outnumbered too badly. To charge in would be madness.
“But then,” Odd said aloud, ignoring the men’s looks of confusion, “I am, famously, mad.”
“What are you—” the one with the beard began, but by that point, Odd was already charging, sword held high.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Erin rode back and forth along the column of knights heading south, frustrated that she could, frustrated that they weren’t charging along at a full gallop. Around her, the Knights of the Spur shone atop their horses, their armor and barding glinting in the sun, but that only seemed to make it worse; it made it seem like a parade, rather than a charge to save her sister.
They were crossing the farmland south of the Spur, the column of knights shining against the green and gold of the fields, but they weren’t far off the forests that covered so much of the ground between them and Royalsport now. It still didn’t seem like they’d gone far enough; not even close.
Erin reached the front, where Commander Harr sat atop a horse so large it barely seemed like a horse at all beneath its armor, more like some steel-clad monster. A pennant flew from his lance, with the image of the spur outlined against a blue background.
“You seem to be riding three leagues for every one the rest of us manage,” Commander Harr said, his tone far too calm for Erin’s taste, given that they were riding to war. Shouldn’t he have sounded more urgent, more worried for Lenore’s safety?
“We’re going too slowly!” Erin said. “We could be riding twice as fast as this.”
“For a day, perhaps,” Commander Harr said. “But then we would have to stop. Even if we did make it to the river in a hurry, we would be exhausted when it came to any fighting.”
“But we’re the Knights of the Spur!” Erin insisted. “Aren’t you supposed to be warriors out of legend, able to fight all day, against any enemy?”
“And because of that, the king expects us to be able to fight his enemies when we arrive,” Commander Harr said. “Resume your place in the ranks. There is much marching still to go.”
“I know how far there is to go,” Erin said. “That’s the problem.”
Commander Harr raised one closed fist, and behind him, the entire column drew to a halt, stopping with the kind of discipline that only the Knights of the Spur could manage.
“I gave you an order, recruit,” he said.
“You think that’s the most important thing right now?” Erin shot back. “When my sister’s out there somewhere, in the hands of King Ravin, you think that’s the thing that matters?”
“I think it matters whether I can trust you to do what you’re commanded, no matter what you’re feeling,” Commander Harr said. “I think the lives of your companions might depend on how well you can do that.”
“I won’t endanger the others,” Erin said, but even as she said it, she itched to keep riding. Every second they wasted here was another in which her sister was growing further away.
“Won’t you?” Commander Harr demanded. “Til, Fenir, get up here!”
The two knights rode forward, coming to a halt before Erin and the commander.
“You said that Erin here was a little too eager,” Commander Harr said. “What does that mean? What did she do at the village?”
To Erin’s surprise, the two knights hesitated a moment, obviously caught between loyalty to their leader and to her.
“The truth!” Commander Harr bellowed.
“She charged into the village,” Til said. “I told her to hold off, but she went in anyway.”
“Fought well though,” Fenir said.
“It doesn’t matter how she fought!” Commander Harr said. “Not if we can’t trust her to hold back when she needs to.” He turned to Erin. “Even now, I can see you twitching, like you want to ride for the horizon to save your sister.”
“Lenore’s in danger,” Erin shot back. How could he expect her to stand there when they were wasting time?
“And if she’s in danger when we reach the bridges, you’ll abandon your companions and do what you feel you must to save her?” Commander Harr asked.
Erin didn’t even understand why it was a question.
“No,” Commander Harr said. “I can see that I made a mistake, bringing you. You will return to the fortress, for your own safety, and for ours.”
“You… you can’t ask me to do that!” Erin said, unable to believe that Commander Harr would even contemplate it.
“I am not asking,” the commander said. “Remember that you are under my command.”
Erin bit back her counterargument, knowing that there was no way that she would be able to convince the commander, not in time. Instead, she offered a bow, leaning low over the back of her horse.
“Very well…” she said, then heeled her horse into a run.
Commander Harr bellowed behind her for her to stop, but Erin didn’t even slow. She glanced back, half expecting to see knights charging after her, but they were stock-still in their positions, obeying their leader’s command to halt in a way that she never could. Commander Harr called something else then, and Fenir and Til set off after her, but Erin was already well ahead, already galloping clear of them.
She galloped for the forest, knowing that in the shelter of the trees they wouldn’t find her. She plunged under the shelter of the branches, following the path, not slowing down. Her horse leapt over a fallen log, its hooves thundering against the dirt of the track. Erin ducked under a branch, kept her head low, kept riding.
The sounds of pursuit faded behind her, but Erin kept going. She didn’t want to risk being dragged back to the fort when she could help her sister. She had to keep going, couldn’t slow down now.
So she rode, and kept riding, until her horse slowed of its own volition, unwilling to gallop any further. Erin walked it then, leaping down from the saddle because she didn’t want to risk pushing it to exhaustion. She walked along the forest track, certain now that the knights would be long behind her, probably still moving at a snail’s pace. She would reach the bridges before them, would find her sister…
A sound drew Erin from those thoughts, though: the sound of steel on steel, coming together in violence. Erin looked around, not certain where it was coming from in the close confines of the forest, but quickly realized that it lay ahead, along the track.
Perhaps Commander Harr would have counseled caution, ordered her to hold back. Erin couldn’t do so, though, not when someone might be in danger. Tying her horse’s reins to a tree, she took her spear and hurried forward, ready to help.
***
The only advantage to fighting eight men at once, as Odd saw it, was that at least anyone he struck out at was likely to be an enemy. He slashed and cut, keeping his foes at bay with the sheer fury of his sword work, so that coming forward at him would have been like wandering into a hailstorm made of steel.
Even so, some of the bandits tried it. The one with the beard hacked at him with that axe of his, and Odd wove away from it, catching the head on his cross guard and knocking the man back. He parried another blow from a knife, ducked in behind a tree, and popped out of the other side in time to thrust his point in between a man’s ribs. The bandit gasped and stumbled, but still aimed a clumsy blow at Odd’s head.
Odd was already moving, the battle madness flowing through him now as he laughed in his fury. The world seemed such a strange place in moments like these, joyous and terrifying and anger filled all at once, the sharp edges of no more moment than the trees around him. One scraped at Odd’s arm, and he must have felt the pain, but his main concern was hacking back with a diagonal stroke that all but cut the other man in two.
He danced between the trees, and between the blades, knowing that to stay still against so many men was to die. Not that Odd usually cared about dying, but to do so before he had delivered his message would be… unfortunate. He saw the big man with the axe again, ran forward for him, but the smaller knifeman was there instead. Odd saw that long knife flashing for his skull and swayed back, cutting up from underneath to slam his blade into his foe’s hands, taking them off at the wrist while he screamed.
That was two, maybe three if the one he’d stabbed died soon. Given that there were still six left, that was a bad thing. One against six was not a situation a man could survive, especially unarmored. That was why Odd gave ground, dodging between the trees, forcing them to come at him singly, where he could fight them.
It wasn’t like he was going to run.
He grinned as another came at him, ducked under the sweep of a blade, drove his shoulder into the man’s gut. As he fell back, Odd aimed a swipe at his throat, but there was a branch in the way. Besides, there was another man coming in from the side: the big one. Odd had been wondering where he’d gone. He parried another blow of the axe, but the big man slammed into him, knocking him sprawling.
He should have died then, because hitting and moving against so many was one thing, but knocked to the ground against them was dead, no matter how audacious you were. The big man loomed over Odd, axe raised, and it seemed to Odd that he should have been truly terrified in that moment, should have cared that his life was about to come to an end in the middle of a forest for no real reason.
He’d never been much good at meditating back at the monastery, but there was a kind of meditation in this, in watching the rise of the axe, sinking into the flow of the battle, seeing the trees overhead, seeing the head of a spear sprouting from the axe man’s chest…
Wait, that wasn’t right, was it?
A figure stepped from behind his opponent as the axe man fell, the light shining behind them so that it took Odd a moment to realize that this was a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen. She wore nearly full armor, plate over chain, in the fashion of the Knights of the Spur, and there was something set, almost hard, about her features. In that moment, she was already turning, parrying the blow of a long knife with her buckler, bringing her spear around to slash at another man.
Odd was on his feet then, rushing to her side, cutting left and right at the foes who came at him. One tried an overhead stroke and Odd didn’t even parry, just rushed inside it as he cut across the man’s stomach to bring him down. He beat aside another blow from the side, and saw the girl lance her spear into another man’s heart. Odd bounded close to one of the bandits, turned his wrists, hacked through his throat. He spun…
The forest was empty now except for him and the girl, who stood over the last of their foes, her spear wet with blood. Odd stood there, sword raised, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to work past the battle madness that insisted he should keep fighting just for the sheer joy of it. It seemed to take forever before he could lower his blade, clean it, sheathe it.
“I’m Odd,” he said, because none of the other names he had fit him anymore.
“I…” The girl frowned. “That’s a name?”
Odd nodded. “Might be someone’s idea of a description too, I suppose. This is usually the part where you tell me your name, knight.”
“What makes you think I’m a knight?” she asked.
Odd raised an eyebrow. “Well, the armor is a clue. Also, I’ve… seen them fight.” He didn’t want to tell her all of it, or they really would be fighting. “You’re a Knight of the Spur, aren’t you?”
“I…” She hesitated before she nodded, suggesting that things were more complicated, but Odd was used to complicated. “My name’s Erin.”
“Lady Erin,” Odd said. He assumed that even the Knights of the Spur wouldn’t just call a girl knight sir. “Just that, or have they given you a nickname yet?”
“Not yet,” she said. “And it’s… just Erin.”
“Give them time,” he assured her. They’d been the first ones to call him the Mad, after all. “What brings you out into the forest, just Erin? Aside from saving the likes of me?”
Maybe that was the point, though. They said that the world was kind to fools and madmen. Maybe this kind of savior was what kindness looked like.
“I’m traveling to save my sister,” the girl said.
“Save her from what?” Odd asked.
“King Ravin’s forces have taken her south, over the Slate. They say he plans to invade.”
Odd froze at those words. Could it be a coincidence that here, in the middle of nowhere, he would run into a knight who knew about the threat from King Ravin? Surely it had to be fate, or a sign? The abbot had always said that the world fit together in more complex ways than a human mind could hold. Maybe this was one.
“What are you doing out here?” Erin asked. “There can’t be many monks wandering the forest. Still fewer monks carrying swords.”
Odd thought about explaining who he was, but that would cause too many problems. Instead, he gestured to the way he’d come.
“I came here from Leveros to warn of a threat from King Ravin,” Odd said. “His men have taken the island, and I fear they plan to use it as a staging point to invade without crossing the bridges. I seek those with the power to help: the knights, or the king.”
“I could… help get your message to both,” Erin said.
“And I could help you to recover your sister,” Odd replied. It seemed strange to be promising this, when he already had a task, but there had to be a reason that he had met this girl here, like this.
She looked around, and Odd knew that she was looking over the bodies, seeing the violence he had done. Ordinarily, people looked at him with horror when they saw that, but now, Odd saw hope. This was one case when a man of violence was more use than one of prayer.
“You swear you’ll help me find her?” Erin asked.
Odd nodded. “On my oath as a…” What was he now? What had he ever been? “On my oath.”
“And I swear I’ll help you spread the word about the invasion,” Erin said.
Odd took her hand. Her grip was strangely strong for her size, but then, she was a knight. It had been a long time since Odd had ridden beside one, let alone on a mission to save a lost young woman. For a moment, just a moment, he felt like a hero.
Still, he was sure that the feeling would pass once the killing began.
