A Sellsword's Resolve, page 37
part #3 of Seven Virtues Series
Aaron turned to look behind him and saw what appeared to be about fifteen of the Ghosts shuffling toward him. Several had lost their weapons and bore wounds—some serious, some not—but all were coated in blood and worse and clearly exhausted, barely able to stand under their own power. Bastion walked at their front, and he alone did not look as if he was moments away from collapsing.
“Go then,” Ellemont said, “back to the city. We will hold them as long as we can.”
Aaron stared up at the prince on his horse, “You will die, then.”
“Yes,” the prince said, “we will die. But the last week has taught me that there are worse things than death, General Envelar. I may be a coward and a fool, but this, at least, I will do.” He grinned, “the yellow prince must have some use, after all.”
The man seemed very different from when Aaron had first met him. Gone were the timidity and the anxiety, as if he felt that he’d be called out any moment for a fraud. He was regal there, sitting upon his horse, his bloody blade in his hand. He was a king. “You are no coward, Ellemont,” Aaron said, “whatever else you are. The yellow prince will be talked about for years to come. You are a hero.”
“That means much,” the prince said, “coming from a man such as yourself. Now, will you go?”
Aaron turned to look back at Bastion, “Take the men back to the city, coordinate with Captain Gant. I will remain here with the prince.”
“Gods man,” Ellemont said, “but why? Haven’t you done enough?”
Why? Aaron thought. Because she was wrong, prince. I am a monster, and the best thing a monster can do is die killing its own. “Never mind that,” Aaron said, “my reasons are my own. Thank you for coming prince,” he said, “it will be a pleasure to fight beside you.”
Ellemont shook his head, glancing over Aaron’s shoulder, “Can you carry him?”
“Yes sir.”
Aaron turned to look back at Bastion, frowning, “What in the—”
“Forgive me, Aaron,” Ellemont said, “it was a pleasure.” Aaron spun, suddenly sure of what was coming, but he was too slow. The hilt of the prince’s sword crashed into his head, and he knew nothing more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Aaron roused to wakefulness, his head pounding. The rage was gone now, and he felt empty, used up. He rubbed at the ache in his head gingerly, wincing at the tenderness of the flesh beneath his fingers. There was a sharp pain in his chest also, and his left arm didn’t seem to want to obey his commands. Then the memory came back in a flash, and he remembered Ellemont. Looking around, he found that he’d been propped against the city wall, and he jerked to his feet, stumbling and nearly falling until strong hands reached out and grabbed him.
“Easy, sir,” a voice said, and he turned to see Bastion standing beside him. The big youth was covered in blood, his arms sporting a dozen small cuts, but he stood well enough.
“Good gods, man,” Aaron said, “you’ve got blood all over you. What did you do, bathe in the stuff?”
The youth’s mouth stretched in a grin, “You’re not looking your best yourself sir, you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
Aaron grunted at that, “Soldier,” he said, remembering the question Ellemont had asked, ‘Can you carry him?’ “Am I to understand that the prince knocked me out and you—”
“Aaron!”
Aaron turned to see Adina running toward him, followed by Leomin and another figure, and his eyes went wide, a grin spreading on his face, as he recognized May, the club owner, her flaming red hair trailing behind her as she ran.
“Adina—” He started as she drew close, but cut off as she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.
“Thank the gods you’re okay.”
Aaron grunted in pain at the pressure on his broken ribs, and she took a step back, letting him go. “Aaron, you’re hurt.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, his expression sobering, “but Adina, Ellemont—”
“I know,” she said, her smile fading, “I saw.”
The club owner was on him then, and Aaron winced as he was pulled into another tight hug. “Easy, May,” he grunted, “you’re going to kill me.”
She laughed at that, but she let him go. “I’m beginning to think that nothing can kill you, Silent.”
“I feel half dead now, if you want to know the truth. But there’s no time for dying just now. Tell me, how many were you able to bring?”
She smiled wide, “All of them.”
Aaron frowned, “What? All of Hale’s men or Grinner’s?”
“All of them,” she said again, “and the council sent the army of Avarest as well.”
“Envelar!” Someone shouted.
Aaron turned to see Grinner and Hale walking toward him from further into the city, hundreds of men spread out behind them and following in their wake. “Ah shit,” Aaron muttered, “I’ve had nightmares that start this way.”
Leomin patted him on the shoulder, “From what May told us when we met her at the docks, I have a feeling this nightmare may have a different ending.”
Aaron, cognizant of all of the abuse his body had taken in the last few hours, only shrugged with his one good arm, “I’m not so sure, Leomin.”
The Parnen opened his mouth to say something more but then the two crime bosses—the most powerful men in the Downs—walked up, the captain, Festa, not far behind.
“Ah, Silent,” Hale said, booming a hearty laugh as he took in Aaron’s ragged, exhausted state, “I’ve hoped to see you this way many times before though, admittedly, under very different circumstances.”
“On that, at least, we can agree,” Grinner said, the older man nodding slowly. “Now, Envelar, where do you need us?”
Aaron grunted, hardly able to believe what he was hearing and seeing as more soldiers—these not criminals at all but well-armed and well-armored, clearly members of Avarest’s standing army, emerged from within the city. “We’ll need more men along the walls,” he said, “ask for Captain Brandon Gant—he’ll know where you’re needed most. You’ll find him on the eastern section of the wall, I’m sure.”
Grinner nodded, smoothing his gray eyebrows with one long, thin finger, “Very well.” He turned to his men and raised a hand in a beckoning gesture, “This way!” And with that, he and his men were off, marching toward the wall.
Hale shook his head, the big man folding his arms across his thick chest as he watched them go, “Bastard always has to be first. Well,” he said, turning back to Aaron, “no matter. From what I’ve seen, there’ll be plenty of killin’ for all of us.” He clapped Aaron on the back with a blow hard enough to stagger him then barked a laugh before leading his own men after Grinner’s. Aaron watched them go in disbelief, half-convinced that he’d died already and was experiencing a final dream brought on by his death.
“General Envelar, I presume?”
He turned to see a man that looked to be in his forties approach in armor that gleamed in the afternoon sun. “I’m Aaron.”
“My name is General Yallek, and I represent the council of the city of Avarest. My army is at your service.”
Aaron stared blankly at the man and for several seconds he couldn’t seem to speak. Then, finally, “I had not expected the council to send any men.”
“Not any men, General Envelar,” the older man said. “All of them.”
“All of them?” Aaron asked.
“Yes, well,” the older man said, smiling as he turned to May, “You have some very persuasive friends.”
Aaron looked at the club owner who beamed happily then grunted, “I guess I do.”
The general nodded, “Where would you like us?”
Aaron sent the general and his men to spread out along the wall, strengthening those gaps that had been created as the defenders had fallen in battle, and he stood watching them go, shaking his head in wonder. “It’s a damned miracle,” he muttered.
“A miracle,” boomed a familiar voice, and Aaron turned to see Festa walking up with Gryle beside him, a frown on the captain’s face that was belied by the amused sparkle in his eyes. “It’s a miracle that we made it here at all, and I can tell you with confidence that there’s not a single thing of any value left on my ship.” He shook his head, “I half expected the bastards to start ripping up the deck when they ran out of shit to steal.”
Aaron laughed and then Gryle was moving forward as if to embrace the princess.
“Eh!” May scolded as if she was speaking to a dog, and Gryle froze, embarrassed. “What did we talk about, chamberlain?”
Gryle sighed heavily, “No touching, I know, I know.” He bowed low to Adina, “It is a great pleasure to—” the chamberlain’s words cut off as Adina ran forward and pulled him into an embrace, his own arms held stiffly out to his sides.
Aaron glanced at May, raising an eyebrow, and she grinned. “It seems that you’re not the only person I know who’s got one of the Virtues. The chamberlain here happened upon the Virtue of Strength just sitting around waiting to be picked up.”
“Really?” Aaron said, “but … Aster Kalen had the strength Virtue. Melan wasn’t it?” He glanced at the chamberlain who stared at his feet, his face red with embarrassment.
Festa frowned at the chamberlain’s back, “Half of my ship broken—I don’t think there’s a door left in the place. It’s a wonder we made it here at all.”
“Yes, well,” May said, the amusement heavy in her tone, “Aster Kalen happened to get trampled by a horse.”
“Trampled by a horse,” Aaron said, his voice dry. “I think I’m going to need to hear this story.”
“Later,” May said, patting him on the shoulder, “Right now, we’ve a city to save.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Knower’s tent was on the edge of the camp, as far away from the campfires and tents of the other soldiers as possible, and Belgarin walked there with his dead love’s body cradled in his arms, her blood coating his tunic and chest. Several soldiers moved forward, most likely to ask if he needed help, but he looked at them, his grief and rage plain on his face, and they backed away.
Four guards stood stationed outside of the Knower’s tent, as still and unmoving as statues, and as Belgarin approached, they bowed low. He walked by them without seeing them, his mind in a haze of fear and shame. The stench inside the tent would have been unbearable normally but, just then, Belgarin found that it barely registered, so terrible was the pain roiling inside of him.
“Ah, my king,” the creature rasped from the bed, and Belgarin studied him in the light of a lantern sat on the ground. The loose white linen shirt the man wore was coated in blood and vomit, but he did not seem to notice or care if he did. “And who, I wonder, is this that you have brought me?”
“I think you know,” Belgarin said in a dead, emotionless voice, “you seem to know all other secrets.”
“Very well,” the Knower said, a disappointed expression on his ruined, hollowed-out face, “I had only thought that you might wish to introduce us—as much as you were able, anyway, with one of us a corpse and the other nearly so.”
Belgarin looked at the foot of the bed where the young girl—Sarah, he thought her name was—stood silently. He noted that there were deep cuts around her eyes and on her cheeks. By their look, it was clear they’d been done by fingernails and by the spacing he suspected they were self-inflicted. Normally, he would have wondered at that, would have been curious as to what terrible knowledge the Knower had shared with her to cause her to give herself such pain, but his love was dead in his arms, dead by his hands, and he found that he did not have the curiosity to ask. “Leave us.”
The girl looked at him with eyes empty and devoid of any life, as if she were no more than a puppet that obeyed the pull of its strings. He stared back at her, his own gaze lifeless and cold and after several seconds she turned and left the tent without a word.
“Ah,” the Knower said, staring at the tent flap after the girl had left, “but she is a special one, truly. She has lasted longer than any of the others but, then, I believe that the time grows close now. For both of us.”
Belgarin bent, gently laying Lyla’s body on the ground before looking back at the creature. “I … I have a question.”
The Knower grinned displaying his few remaining, rotten teeth, “Oh, it is knowledge you seek. And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“This woman,” Belgarin said, “is—”
“Queen Lilliana,” the creature said, “oh, yes, I know of her, My King. I know, too, that you have been meeting with her in secret. Your own brother’s wife, no less.” He made a tsking sound, “Such a sordid love affair for one who would be the king of all of Telrear.”
“She said … that is, I want to know…” Belgarin hesitated, scared of finishing the sentence, as if by doing so he would somehow make it true, would, in those words, make himself a killer not just of his lover but of his unborn son as well.
“If she was with child?” the Knower said, his grin wider than ever.
Belgarin swallowed hard, staring at the body of his love lying on the ground, and he felt tears pouring down his face. Do not ask the question, some part of him pleaded, do not. For so long as it remains unasked, it cannot be made true or untrue. It will only be a memory of something she said as she was dying and even that will fade in time.
But he knew that it would not, knew that he would remember the way the knife had slid into her so easily for the rest of his life, knew that he would remember the feel of her blood on him, the shocked eyes that stared at him as she breathed her last breath. And had there been love in those eyes, even then? Yes, he thought there had. Gods, Lyla, he thought, his chest hitching, why did you betray me? Why did you make me do this?
And on the tail end of that thought came another, not in his voice but in his mothers’. Why do you always break things?
Please, the voice tried once more, do not do this. Do not.
“Yes,” he said, “I want … I need to know, if she was pregnant. Is there some … examination you can do? Some … test?”
“There are such tests, of course,” the Knower said, “but there is no need for those. Just as well as I do not have the strength to perform them. Still,” he said, his smile wide and without mercy, “are you sure, Majesty, that you wish to know the truth of this? I told you once before, remember, that all knowledge comes with a price. For small things, the price is small. But for great things, things such as this, the cost might very well be more than even a man as rich as you can afford.”
Belgarin hesitated, suddenly uncertain. What good would such knowledge do? Either she was or she was not. Knowing would not change anything. Whatever life she carried within her would have vanished along with her own. “Yes,” he heard himself say, his voice empty and strange in his ears, “I would know.”
The Knower grinned that macabre grin as if pleased, “Very well. Yes, my king, the queen was pregnant with your child. A boy, too, it would have been, had it but lived.”
A sound somewhere between a sob and a moan escaped Belgarin at the man’s words, and he collapsed to his knees beside the body of his lover. “It … it cannot be.”
“Oh, but it is, My King,” the Knower hissed, “and in the answer you have your knowledge and your price too, I think, for you look much to me like a man who has paid more than he can spare. Your son, your heir, dead by your own hand.”
“Shut up,” Belgarin sobbed, his voice cracking, “please I beg you.”
“Would you like to know how far along she was?” The creature said, ignoring Belgarin’s desperate plea, “how long it would have been before you had seen your son? He would have been strong, this one, I think. Strong and healthy. A worthy heir. “
“Stop, damn you,” Belgarin said, his heart thundering in his chest, his hands shaking as he reached out and grasped the corpse desperately, as if somehow he could take the knife’s kiss back, take it all back.
“Oh, but I cannot, my king,” the Knower said, “for the question has been asked and the knowledge has been given. He would have been a fine son, and she a fine queen. She loved you, you know—truly.”
Belgarin let out a howl of rage and pain and before he knew it, his hands were clamped around the creature’s throat, his fingers digging into the wrinkled, sickly flesh.
The Knower only grinned at him as his face turned a deep red, “A … true … heir,” the man croaked, and with a cry of anguish, Belgarin tightened his grip even more, and then he was screaming, not words at all, only the wailing, wrenching cries of a man who has suffered a greater loss than he’d thought existed.
Still screaming, he began to shake the man so that his body flailed around like a broken rag doll. He screamed until his voice was nothing but a dry, hoarse croak, squeezed until the man beneath him was still.
He looked down and saw the man’s dead eyes staring up at him in what looked like amusement, his purple, mossy tongue flopping grotesquely out of his mouth. The worst, though, was the grin that still stretched the man’s face, even in death.
Suddenly repulsed, not just by the dead man, but by himself, Belgarin found himself whimpering. He stumbled back, and his foot caught on Lyla’s body. He tripped, collapsing to the ground and knocking over the lantern. The glass shattered, and the flame died leaving him—and the two corpses—in darkness. He heard a voice then, the same one he’d been hearing since he was a child, but it didn’t seem to come from his own memory, not this time. Instead, it was as if someone spoke from only a few feet away.
“Why, Belgarin, must you always break things?”
No, it can’t be. It can’t. Whimpering in terror and grief, he lurched to his feet, his hands held out in front of him. As he did, a cold certainty washed over him, a certainty that, at any moment, he would feel cold, clammy skin against his fingers, would hear that voice speak again. The voice scared him more than the rest, for he knew without question that if he heard it again he would go mad. Sobbing, he stumbled in the direction where he thought to find the tent’s opening. For several terrifying moments, his fingers found only the canvas of the tent then he let out a cry of relief as he felt the split in the fabric. Moaning, he staggered toward it, sure that he would feel a hand grasp his ankle before he made it out.
