The High King: Book Two of the 'Riothamus' trilogy Read online

  “At the very end only I can do this deed,” Aran reminded the Archmage darkly, “The others may help me get to this place but because I am both King and Warriormage…” Aran smiled grimly, “I correct myself, although I am but a half-trained Warriormage I am then considered the only one who can destroy this woman who dares call herself Warleader.”

  Maran nodded resignedly, “Alas that is the truth of it. We have always been in your hands Arantur…I only hope that your magepower, as ill-trained as it is, is fit for the task ahead.”

  “Then pray to the Goddess, Archmage,” Aran replied shortly, “For in this we are all in her hands.”

  *

  With the weather holding clear and cool, the column made good time along the coast road with even the waggoners at the back keeping the brisk pace the leaders had set. Once or twice they had encountered minor washouts of the road, but with Darven riding ahead and picking out alternate routes around them, these washouts proved only to be welcome distractions in an otherwise uneventful day. With the road so straight and even, Alissa managed to beg time away from her watchful presence over Terea, to canter to the head of the column and ride at Aran’s shoulder for an hour or two. The trotting pace certainly did not encourage conversation, but Aran welcomed her quiet presence with a smile. At midday they stopped to eat, and also rest and water the horses which were beginning to tire. After a brief conversation with Kiaia, Captain Taran ordered that the pace should be slowed in the afternoon so as not to overtire their mounts.

  *

  It was getting on towards late afternoon when they passed the dirt road which indicated the turn-off to Eastling which lay far to the north. Looking about him, Aran noted the presence of churned soil and horse dung which was clear evidence that the Eastling fyrd was also ahead of the column from Andur’s Keep.

  “My lord Aran…there is an encampment ahead.”

  Aran looked up and saw Darven trotting down the road from where he had been scouting ahead of the column.

  “Who is it?” Aran called back.

  “Friends,” he answered enigmatically.

  Aran held his tongue until Darven drew nearer.

  “Which friends?” he asked a little impatiently as he waited for Darven to turn his horse around and take up the pace beside him.

  “The fyrd from Eastling and Dawnfast my lord,” he grinned. “They saw our dust and guessing our party, have prepared an encampment for us. There is pig already roasting.”

  Aran smiled tiredly, “Good, I’m famished.” He looked around, “Is there any place we can water the horses?”

  Darven shook his head, “Not here. The nearest fresh water is leagues away. We’ll need to open one or two of the water barrels tonight. The fyrd has their own water so they’ll not need to impose upon our supplies.”

  Aran shrugged, “I’m not worried about that…another day and a half will get us to Haulgard and we will be able to replenish everything there.”

  Darven nodded and then laughed, “I’ve already spoken to some of the men from Eastling. I’ve known a few of them since I was a little boy and they recognised me immediately, despite the passage of years.”

  Moving his stiff shoulders Aran looked across at the Wolf Leader, “Have they any word on the plainsmen?” he asked. “For of all the people in the province they are the ones who have the most frequent communication with the plainsmen.”

  Shrugging, Darven kicked his horse into a faster walk, “They didn’t say anything and I didn’t think to ask.” He glanced across at his king, “I guess that it will be a while before we hear of their plans…” He pulled a face, “that is if they have any plans at all.”

  “I hope they do,” Aran growled, “We are dependent on their assistance.”

  *

  Minutes later the column pulled off the road, and into the camp located in a wind sheltered hollow ringed by mature acacias. At their entrance, the men gathering in the camp paused in their tasks to gaze in fascination at the newcomers.

  “Arise men of Andur,” called out Captain Taran in a load voice whilst spurring his horse forward in order to ride to the front of the column. “For your King has come.”

  Aran saw the peasant soldiers exchange startled glances and hastily clamber to their feet. As his company approached, he noticed them scanning the riders, trying to identify their king from amongst the many unfamiliar faces. Aran pulled his horse up and held up a hand to stop the column. Throwing back his cloak and removing his shapeless old hat, he brushed the hair from his eyes and gazed at the clustering soldiers.

  “Men of Andur,” he said clearly, “I am Arantur, High King and last of the Andurian line. I greet you and thank you for heeding the call to arms and joining the raising of the fyrd.”

  There were a few rough cheers from the soldiers at that.

  Aran smiled grimly, “The enemies we face are the descendants of the Serat who once ravaged our land. We must overcome them for if we fail, we ourselves shall be overcome.” Aran waited for the burst of nervous muttering and conversation to die down then continued on, “We welcome you and ask that you join our company. We are all bound for one battle so we of the north should ride as one, as friends and companions all.”

  They all cheered at that, and Aran swung off his horse, almost immediately he was surrounded by a group of soldiers vying to attend him. Smiling he handed the reins of Spirit to one older man, knowing that this one time he ought to let others attend him and that any show of self-reliance or independence would be misunderstood.

  *

  Later, whilst sitting at his fire, Aran put down the remains of the spare ribs, and with the back of his hand, wiped the grease from his mouth. Immediately the empty dish was whisked away by a hovering soldier, and Alem handed him the washing bowl, and a drying cloth to clean up. This task performed, Aran sat back on his blankets and gazed about him.

  The group that had started out from Andur’s Keep day before had now swelled to over three hundred horsemen, and the hollow that comprised their camp, fair overflowed with men and their mounts. Everywhere was the pungent aroma of cooking meat, overlaid with the aromatic smell of the acacia wood being burnt. The wind had dropped, and in the still air the wood smoke hung over the hollow like a pall. There was a step at Aran’s right shoulder, and he turned to see Mage Trevan bending over with a goblet filled with warm mulled wine.

  “A drink my lord?” he asked.

  Aran smiled and nodded, taking the goblet, and sipping the fragrant liquid.

  “How have you been, old friend?” Aran asked, cradling the warm goblet in his hands.

  Trevan hunkered down and carefully arranged his robes about him. “Well enough Arantur,” he replied, “Although it seems to me that I have never stopped being on the road.”

  Aran studied the elderly mage, “Aye! That’s true enough…I guess you are overly weary of travelling.”

  Trevan shrugged, “Yes and no. Yet it seems that if I settle for too long I get the yen to up and travel again…” he paused and wryly shook his head, “The road has become part of my life, and I think that nothing could keep me away from it.”

  “Would you prefer to be settled Trevan?” he asked at last. “Archmage Maran has told me that you are to be my resident Healermage. Would you like that position at Andur’s Keep?

  Trevan looked up and met his king’s gaze, “I remember the Archmage speaking of that, of a small enclave of mages resident at the Keep. It is a good idea and I support it, although I must decline the position.”

  “Why not, have I said or done anything to make you wish to be otherwise?”Aran asked puzzled, and just a little miffed.

  The mage quickly shook his head, “No Sire, it’s just that the road will always beckon, and I will be unhappy settled anywhere for any length of time.” He smiled gently, “If you could perhaps keep a room for me. So if I am passing by I may have somewhere to stay.”

  “Of course, would you not reconsider? Priestess Delana will be there…” Aran added with a smile.
/>   Trevan shook his head, “Delana and I are sparring partners only. Once, a very long time ago we may have joined our lives, but that time is no longer, and we both know that our life paths must go in very different directions.”

  “So what will you do?”

  Trevan tiredly got to his feet, “Initially I’d like to return to Glaive for a month or more. It’s been a score of years since I have spent any time within those walls, and there is some research I’d had my mind on doing for a while now. After that I will return to Andur’s Keep, and see how you are progressing.” Trevan smiled, “I doubt that you will need much guidance. Blood will show Arantur and you are already becoming quite a capable king, besides I believe this war will further strengthen you. By the way…” and he looked down at the young man sitting opposite him. “I approve of your decision to choose Alissa for your queen. She is a fine young woman and will surely prove to be an admirable consort.”

  Aran stiffly clambered to his feet, “After the Keep, Trevan? Will you then keep travelling?”

  The mage nodded, “I will continue as always and travel the province employing my Ability in healing the sick. There are many Healermages who spend their time in contemplation and research, but I am not one of those. My first obligation is to the sick. So I go where they are.”

  “I will miss you,” Aran said simply, clasping the shoulder of his old friend. “I hope that Maran will find me someone as special to replace you.” Aran turned away, his shoulders hunching against the future loss, “I’d rather hoped you would hang up your boots and staff and retire to the Keep.” Turning around, Arans’ face was a study in conflicting emotions, “You must do as your heart dictates old friend, however I ask only one thing of you.”

  “You are my king and my friend, Arantur,” the mage replied. “I could deny you nothing.”

  “Only that I would have you beside me when Alissa has children, I could not bear to lose her to the final darkness the way her mother was lost.”

  Trevan smiled, “There is no fear of that. Alissa is as strong as Dela was weak. However put your mind at rest. I shall be there; in fact nothing could keep me away from such an event.”

  Aran nodded then sculling the last of the mulled wine, handed the mug back to Trevan who took it without a word.

  “Arantur”

  “Yes.”

  Trevan nervously spun the mug in his hands, “There is something you need to know, about your Abilities that is.”

  Aran gazed at the mage with questions in his eyes, “What is it?”

  Trevan frowned into the night, “Do you remember that night on the tower ramparts before I left for the north?”

  Aran nodded silently.

  “Do you remember me telling you that I had sensed that something had changed about you?”

  “I remember…”

  “I told you that nothing had changed, that there was nothing to concern yourself about…” Trevan’s voice trailed off then he looked across at his king. “Forgive Arantur, but I lied. Your Abilities have changed.”

  Aran frowned, “In what way?”

  Trevan took a deep breath, “They have melded, merged. Metalmageing and Warriormageing have become one powerful Ability.”

  Aran stared past his old friend and into the darkness of the night, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  Trevan’s mouth tightened, “Even though I felt certain of the change, I did not understand its ramifications.” Then he grimaced, “I still don’t really…”

  “Have you spoken to the Archmage about it?”

  Trevan shook his head, “There has not been time or opportunity, and since it has been a number of weeks since the Scanning. Sometimes I felt I may have been mistaken.”

  “And are you mistaken?” Aran asked shortly.

  Trevan shook his head, “There is a bond between us Arantur, one that seems to be missing between you and the Archmage. As soon as I returned I sensed a change in you. You have become stronger, harder, and implacable. I would not have credited so drastic a change in only a matter of weeks, but yet it has happened.” Trevan looked up, “Some of it has come from being King, and I mean how you could not change after such an elevation. However the seeds of the change were present in you the night of the Scanning. I do not fully understand, however what I do know is that even though you are now Metalmage and a Warriormage both, this melded Ability is new.” Trevan shook his head, “I have never seen nor heard anything like it.”

  “Will this be a problem?” Aran asked finally.

  Trevan shrugged, “I don’t know. In all my experience I have never known of Abilities merging.” He looked across at the young man, “Yet you have ancient, lost Abilities. Who’s to say that this isn’t normal for a Warriormage…we have no knowledge on how they exploited their talents.”

  Aran chewed his lower lip, “So what should I do?”

  Trevan sighed, “Nothing, just be aware that these Abilities are strange and unknown and best used with caution.” The mage gathered the folds of his robe closer about him as the creeping chill penetrated, “I can’t advise you any more than that Arantur. The rest is up to you.” Trevan shook his head, “I guess now that I’ve told you I ought to tell the Archmage too, perhaps he already knows but had decided not to say anything. I hope I have been right to tell you…” Trevan fretted.

  Aran placed a comforting hand on the old man’s arm, “Thank you for telling me. It is right that I should know…” Aran frowned, “Although the implications of such a change have quite escaped me. Don’t worry Trevan, I will think on these matters.”

  Trevan nodded, “Then I will bid you a good night my king.”

  Aran watched the old mage walk away into the bustling camp, then with a sigh that spoke volumes, turned back to his fire and his ever present thoughts about the war ahead.

  *

  A day and a half later the combined company reached Haulgard Port.

  Aran sat astride Spirit and stared at the distant yet towering walls of this the ancient capital of the province and tried, unsuccessfully to comprehend its vastness. Brought up in Leigh, Aran had always thought of his home town as large, but that provincial understanding had been broken when he had come to Sentinal. Now even Sentinal diminished to insignificance against the vast bulk of Haulgard and its walls.

  “So, what do you think of the city?” Alissa asked, riding to join him at the head of the column.

  Aran shook his head, “I was just wondering how it ever fell to Warleader Andur,” he said.

  “Large does not mean invulnerable,” she replied. “Even the stoutest walls can fall if the enemy is strong enough. Walls can fall even quicker if the people within are weak, or have a mind for rebellion.”

  “Aye, I remember now,” Aran mused. “The strength was weakened from within so Andur could successfully attack from outside.” He stole a glance at Alissa and saw that she too was staring at the city with considering eyes.

  “There is a lesson in this Aran,” she said at last, “And that is never to let the people become so discontented that they will rebel against you. The Serat learnt that to their loss and misfortune.”

  Aran grinned suddenly, “That won’t be a problem for us today. Listen beloved, they are blowing the horns to welcome their new king into the city.”

  *

  Upon sighting the city, it did not take long for the column to armour-up and organise itself into ranks of five abreast. After a hurried conference with Captain Taran earlier that morning, it had been decided that Aran should lead the company in, whilst being flanked by the highest ranked of the mages, Councillors and the Guard. Although the welcome of the city seemed assured, Captain Taran was adamant that all should ride in fully armed, not wanting to risk one man’s life to an assassins blow.

  “You most of all, my lord,” he commented, whilst helping to tighten the buckles on Aran’s leg greaves. “As much as this may prove unnecessary, it may just save your life. Besides it will impress the hell out the citizenry of the city.” />
  “True,” Aran agreed, then he mounted and the folds of his dark blue royal cloak were arranged across Spirit’s flanks.

  “This seems as good a time as any,” Darven said riding up, resplendent in shining mail. “The Guard have a gift for you my lord.”

  Aran swung around in the saddle, “A gift for me. Whatever do you mean?”

  “Look behind you lord…we had it made back at the Keep in the days before we rode out. We hope you like it?”

  Aran twisted fully about in the saddle and saw three Guardsmen cantering up. The middle horseman was holding aloft a tall thin wooden pole from which flew a large, long banner.

  “It is a copy of High King Andur’s war banner,” Darven explained. “The original is mostly fallen apart with age, but it was intact enough for us to copy it exactly.”

  Aran stared at the silken banner streaming in the wind. Dark blue it was and the Andurian Oak had been cleverly and carefully embroidered upon it in gold and green silk and thread. Aran felt himself responding to the banner in a deep and fundamental way. There was something about it that made his heart leap with pride, and he stared at it with a fierce and hungry joy the like of which he had never known before.

  “You have all done well,” Aran finally said turning to Darven with shining eyes. “This is a kingly gift indeed…I will not forget the Guard’s loyalty and kindness to me.”

  Darven grinned, “A king should have a banner…this is yours, Aran.”

  Aran turned back to the road, “Then will you bear it for me Darven” he asked, “And ride at my shoulder with it unfurled.”

  The Wolf Leader grinned, and took the banner from the Guardsman. Expertly he maneuvered his horse around until it stood at Spirit’s flank.

  “Are all in position?” Aran asked of Captain Taran.

  “Aye lord king,” the Captain of the Guard replied.

  Aran set heels to the dun mare, “Then let us ride,” he replied, calling out.

  *

  They rode swiftly and in silence, but upon the cobbled road their passage was heard like the distant roar of thunder, of a storm approaching quickly and with intent. Those who worked in the fields by the road looked up at the noise, and noted their passing with surprise. Those who knew of the king’s coming, immediately dropped tools and cheered, whilst their neighbours stared with open peasant faces and admired the bright pageantry passing by. Closer they came to the high stone walls of Haulgard, until with a sound like muffled thunder they cantered over the stout timbers of the bridge which spanned the Titan River, and to the foot of the city itself. In the very shadow of the walls they came to a shivering halt, and Darven, still firmly holding the brightly waving banner, stepped his horse forward to address the soldiers of the legions on duty at the gate.