A sellswords resolve, p.38
A Sellsword's Resolve, page 38
part #3 of Seven Virtues Series
Nothing happened though and, in another moment, he was outside of the tent, turning and backing away from it, his hands still held up defensively in front of him.
“Majesty?” Someone asked, “are you okay?”
Belgarin spun at the voice, and the man must have seen something of the madness in his eyes, for he swallowed hard, taking an involuntary step back. Not just a man, Belgarin realized as he took in the man’s armor and sword. A soldier. He studied the man for several seconds, his fevered mind unable to understand the man’s presence. Soldiers, he thought wildly, soldiers mean death. Death like that of my queen. Of my son.
No more. The thought rang in his mind, pushing its way past the madness that wanted him to do nothing but lie down and scream until there were no screams left in him. Instead, he turned and started toward the observation point where General Fannen would be waiting, the soldier staring after him with fear dancing in his eyes.
Belgarin stumbled and fell several times as he struggled up the hill, a greater exhaustion upon him than any he’d ever known. The last time, he could not find his feet, yet urgency drove him on and so he crawled the last dozen steps to where Caldwell and General Fannen stood surrounded by several soldiers, the general peering through a looking glass at the battle raging below. They did not notice Belgarin’s approach until he was nearly on them, then both men turned.
“My King?” The general gasped, rushing to him and pulling him to his feet, “are you … alright?”
Belgarin did not answer, only stared out over that vast field as battle raged. Tears still streamed down his bloody face, but he did not know it, so focused was he on the still, dead forms that lay scattered about the field. He could not see their faces from here. To his fevered mind each form was his son, dead and him to thank for it, or his lover, Lyla, also slain at his own hand. The blood that stained the ground was her blood, hers and his, all of it proof of what he’d done, a testament to his mistake.
Why must you always break things?
“Their reinforcements made it to the city, Majesty,” General Fannen said, “but they are still outnumbered. In time—”
“Call them back.”
The general hesitated, turning to Belgarin, “My King? We will have the city ‘ere long—the extra troops will make it take longer, but we still have the numerical advantage. We will—”
“I said call them back!” Belgarin screamed, his voice raw and thready, wavering dangerously on his feet, and he would have fallen had the general not been holding him.
Caldwell moved close to him, his face displaying its usual passivity. “My King,” he said, “I am truly sorry for what happened, for what you were forced to do, but you must understand that Queen Lilliana—”
“She was with child, Caldwell,” Belgarin said, his voice sounding hollow and empty. A stranger’s voice. “My child.”
The advisor nodded slowly, leaning close so that none but the king might hear, “The Knower told you this, your grace?”
Belgarin stared at his hands, coated in dried blood. They were his, he knew that, but they seemed strange to him, the hands of some other man. A man who was cruel and cold and given to violence. A man who killed his own son. “The Knower is dead.”
Caldwell’s normally placid expression slipped at that, but he quickly regained his equanimity, “It is a loss, made worse by the fact that we know not where the Virtue will have gone, but we will find it again, Majesty, I assure you. As for the rest, I know that the price may seem high now, but you are so very close to achieving your aim. Soon, the city will be yours—all of Telrear will be yours.”
Belgarin stared at the man, “The price?” He rasped, “You speak to me of the price?” Before he knew it, his hands—those stranger’s hands—reached out and grasped the tunic of the bald man, jerked him closer. “I have lost everything,” Belgarin hissed, spittle flying from his mouth as he shook the man, “everything.” Why do you always break things? “I don’t care about Telrear anymore, Caldwell, don’t you understand? There has been enough blood now, enough killing.” He shoved the advisor back and the man stumbled and fell. Belgarin looked down at him, his face twisted and wretched in his grief. Some part of him knew that he was losing his sanity, that with each moment he inched closer toward a precipice, a fall from which would send him spiraling into the darkness. A part of him knew that. Knew it and welcomed it. “There has been enough bloodshed already. Enough for a man to drown in,” he said, “for the world to drown in.”
He turned to the general who watched him warily, as if he was some feral animal that might, at any moment, bare its fangs and attack. He was not wrong to do so. “Call them back, general,” Belgarin said again, “now. We march to Baresh tonight.”
The general hesitated then finally bowed, “Aye, Majesty. It will be done.”
Belgarin was no longer paying attention to either man though, as he turned back and stared out over the fields, at the corpses in their hundreds. Corpses put there by his hand even if he wasn’t the man who’d wielded the blade. His legs wavered again and suddenly gave out beneath him, and he found that he was falling into darkness. He did not know when it would stop, did not know if it ever would.
***
As the fool general ran off shouting for a healer, Caldwell pulled himself to his feet, staring down at the unconscious king lying on the ground. Fool, he thought. You cannot stop the killing, cannot halt what is coming. You fancy yourself the creator of it, but you are no more than a pawn just like all the rest, and you will learn the truth of it before your time comes.
CHAPTER FORTY
“Call me a fool, but it appears as if they are … leaving.”
Aaron glanced over at the Parnen. They were standing on the city walls, he, Leomin, Adina, May, Balen and, of course, Gryle. The chamberlain hadn’t gone more than five feet from the princess since their arrival as if he expected her to fall at any moment and wanted to make sure he was there to catch her when she did.
Aaron saw his own surprise mirrored on the faces of the others, and he turned to look back over the wall at the departing army. “Yes,” he said, “it seems so.”
“But why?” May asked, the club owner frowning as if she’d just eaten something she didn’t like, “even with Avarest’s forces and the prince’s combined, his army was still considerably larger. It’s like watching a bear run from a rabbit.”
“Oh, do give us some credit, ma’am,” Leomin said, “a small dog, at least. Still,” he gave his own frown, “I’m glad, of course, that they’re leaving but…”
“But it doesn’t make any sense,” Adina said, shaking her head. “He’s not likely to get a better chance than this. What could possibly have made Belgarin decide to abandon the battle?”
Aaron only shook his head, thinking. Whatever it was, he did not think that it boded well. The storm had been postponed for now but storms—as Aaron knew—grew worse the longer they had to build.
They watched until the last of Belgarin’s forces either disappeared into the forest or were cut down as they tried to flee—those they fought against were criminals, after all—then Adina let out a sigh. “The healers will be going out soon to see if there’s anyone that can be saved. I’m going to go with them.”
Aaron watched her go then turned back to the battlefield as his own troops returned through the gate. The blood-coated fields were empty save for the dead and dying numbering in their thousands. He glanced up at the sky. It was clear now, the sun low in the sky and not a cloud in sight as evening drew on and night approached, but he felt no comfort in that. The storm was coming—he could smell it in the air. And when it did, it would be all the worse for the wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“Majesty.”
Belgarin turned, looking on his advisor with dead eyes. “What is it, Caldwell?” He said, having trouble finding the energy even to speak. It seemed to him that nothing mattered anymore, that all of his hopes and dreams had been a house built on sand, destined to shift and crumble at the slightest sign of pressure. He had wanted to do something good, had believed that and still did, but intentions meant little in the face of reality. I killed my lover. I killed my son. He sat in his throne room in Baresh, miles and miles from where the battle had taken place, where his lover and unborn son were now buried, but he could see her face clearly just the same, could hear her voice whispering, “Your … son.” The voice followed him wherever he went, even into dreams that were troubled and dark.
“Please, My King,” Caldwell said, “you must order your troops back. The war might still be won, for yours is by far the greater army even now. If given time to prepare, to heal, then Isalla will be all the more difficult t—”
“Enough,” Belgarin said. “The war is over, Caldwell. As for healing,” he laughed at that, a high-pitched, terrible laugh that was far too close to a scream, and he thought he saw the four guards stationed two on each side of his throne cringe, “some wounds can never heal.”
“But Majesty, your dream, your goal—”
He finally turned to look at the advisor then, finding some anger in his emptiness, after all. “Dreams,” he hissed, “my dreams are turned to ash. Do you know, advisor, that my mouth tastes of it no matter what or how much I drink. Wine, water, the taste remains either way. We have done much, have united much of the country, and it will be enough. It has to be, for I am done with war. I have killed my own brothers, my own sisters, even my own son. I am finished.”
“Then you are a fool,” Caldwell spat.
Belgarin recoiled as if slapped, turning and rising, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, “What did you say to me?”
“Yes,” Caldwell hissed, “you are a murderer. You have slain your family, have seen the lives of your brothers and sisters snuffed out by your command, so why, then, do you balk at the murdering of a lover and an unborn child?”
Belgarin’s face heated with shame and rage, “It was different with them,” he said, staring at the bald man as if seeing him for the first time, “my brothers and sisters, Ophasia, Eladen, all the rest, they tried to kill me. But my son … he did nothing.”
Caldwell laughed, and the strange, cruel sound of it echoed in the nearly empty throne room. “You are such a fool,” he said, “have you ever really thought yourself king? You are nothing,” he hissed, “nothing but a puppet that jumps when his strings are pulled.” The bald man shook his head in wonder, “Your brothers and sisters never tried to kill you, Belgarin. It was all a lie. Many lies, in fact, and each one a pull on your strings to make you dance the way I wanted. The way my master wanted. You murdered nearly your entire family,” he said, “and you did it for nothing.”
Belgarin took an involuntary step back at the unexpected fury and disgust in the man’s voice, “You lie,” he said, his voice breaking, “that … that can’t be true.”
“Oh, but it is, king,” Caldwell said, “just as it is true that your lover, Lilliana, never betrayed you.”
The room seemed to spin around Belgarin now, and he put a hand to his head, closing his eyes, “You … you’re wrong. The note…”
“Was something that I wrote myself,” Caldwell said, “and what, king? Did you really think you’d be able to keep something as big as a sordid affair with your brother’s wife a secret from me?” He laughed again, stepping closer to Belgarin with something like hunger in his eyes, and Belgarin found himself retreating from the man, stumbling backward.
“N-no,” Belgarin stammered, “the commander—”
“Was manipulated easy enough,” Caldwell said, shrugging, “I needed only a few minutes of his time to convince him of his only true option. Yes, Belgarin, you are a murderer of innocents, of your own son, but this is not what I hate the most,” he said, his expression turning into a sneer, “you are also a coward. More than your brother ever was.”
Belgarin screamed then, a sharp, desperate outcry of grief and despair, and he collapsed to his knees. His heart hammered so hard in his chest that he thought surely it would burst free in another moment. “Guards,” he tried to say, but his voice came out in a dry croak, and he swallowed hard, trying again. “Guards, kill this man.”
The guards did not move, and Belgarin felt fear clutch at his racing heart. “You heard me, damnit!” He bellowed, “Take him!”
Still, they did not move, and the only sound was that of Caldwell’s building laughter, and he turned to see the advisor grinning at him, “Oh, king, but you are a pathetic, stupid man. Did you really believe that these men here were yours?” He shook his head, “They have been mine since the day I stepped into the castle. Before that.”
“You,” Belgarin said, his body shaking not just with sobs now but anger, “You’re responsible for this.” He rose to his feet, “Why?” he said, “Why would you do this to me?”
“Me?” Caldwell said, “Oh, no you’ve got it all wrong, Belgarin. It isn’t me who is behind your misfortune.” He grinned widely, glancing over Belgarin’s shoulder, “It’s you.”
Frowning, Belgarin turned and came face to face with something out of nightmare. The man’s face—if it was a face at all—was twisting and shifting like clay until finally, it settled on a face. His own. Belgarin stared at his own features, at the grin spreading across them, and he screamed until his voice broke and cracked, and he was left coughing.
“Relax,” the other version of him said in a soothing voice, “you will still rule. At least, in a way.”
“In … a way?”
The other version of him grinned and stepped forward, surprisingly quick. Belgarin tried to back away, but he was too slow, and he felt something strike his chest. He stumbled then and looked down to see a blade sticking out of him, blood seeping from the wound. He stared back at the thing, his eyes wide, as the strength left his body. “Mother …” he rasped, “I’m sorry.” Then he was falling into nothing and the nothing reached out and swallowed him up, and he knew no more.
Boyce Kevlane stared down at the dead king, a smile on his face, then walked to the throne and sat. “Check on the army,” he said, “I want us to attack Perennia as soon as possible. Aaron Envelar and his friends must die.”
“Of course, master,” Caldwell said, bowing low, and his face was not impassive now but smiling widely. “Still though,” he said, his expression growing serious, “we will need more troops.”
Boyce Kevlane grinned at that, and the face he wore, the face of a king, grinned with him, “Thousands of years ago, my friend, Aaron Caltriss, ordered me to stop my experiments and I did. For a while. But, then, it has been a long time, and I have needed something to occupy me.” He glanced at the bald man, “Do not worry, Caldwell. You will have your troops and I…” he paused, fingering the wound at his back that had still not fully healed from where the bastard Envelar had thrown a knife into him as he’d climbed the wall, “I will have my revenge.”
***
They sat around the table in Isabelle’s audience chamber, nine of them in all and for the first time since Aaron had seen her, Queen Isabelle was not sitting at the head of it—in the position of power—but was instead sitting near to Adina, the two women holding and comforting each other over the loss of their brother. Gryle sat a few feet away, wringing his hands nervously, his mouth opening repeatedly as if to offer some words of comfort but closing again a moment later. Aaron was sorry for Adina’s sadness, but he found himself glad that, for once at least, she seemed to have a real sister, one that she could share her grief with.
Darrell, Wendell, and Captain Brandon Gant all sat across the table from Aaron, sneaking looks at him when they thought he wouldn’t notice. They tried to be subtle about it, but Wendell in particular was about as subtle as a sword to the face. Aaron supposed he might not have noticed the man’s stolen glances if he’d been blind … or dead, maybe. He probably wouldn’t have noticed them if he was dead.
He sighed heavily, refilling his empty glass with wine from a silver pitcher on the table and draining it in one swallow. He wasn’t normally a fan of wine but ever since the battle at the gate, ever since they’d seen Aaron and his Ghosts charge Belgarin’s army, the three men—Wendell most of all—treated him as if he was some kind of god come down to earth. The soldiers of the army, of course, were even worse, and Aaron had heard more than one rumor about his having slain a thousand men by himself. Foolishness, of course, stupidity. The blade would have broken long before then and, even if it hadn’t, he would have. Still, soldiers were notorious for their penchant for tall tales and exaggeration, and anything he said to try to quash the rumors had only made them worse, so he had stopped saying anything at all. Instead, he drank.
Give it a week, he thought, and I will have sprouted wings and killed those men with nothing but a word or maybe a waving of my hands.
Wings would be nice, Co said.
You can already fly, lightning bug, he thought, what the shit do you need wings for?
Yes, I can fly, Aaron, but wings are majestic, she responded. She tried to force humor into her tone, but they both knew it for what it was—whistling in the darkness—for what the stories didn’t mention was the need that he’d felt, that they’d both felt. The need to kill, to bathe in a river of blood.
Still, there was nothing to be done about it—nothing but drink at any rate as the stories weren’t nearly as bad as the truth. He didn’t remember everything from when the power of the bond had taken him, and he and the Ghosts had charged Belgarin’s army—from what he’d heard, the Ghosts remembered little as well—but what he did remember was enough. Steel and blood and death. The truth was, he didn’t want to remember. He remembered the rage, the need to kill, and he could not be sure, even now, that his blade had not found an ally in that bloody chaos. Gods, he’d been only seconds away from attacking Ellemont who had come to save them, who had given his life in the doing of it. Luckily, the prince had mentioned his sister, had said her name, and something in it had acted almost as a talisman against the wrath, bringing Aaron back from the brink. Yet even that was little comfort.
