Magician (Riftware Sage Book 1)

The day grew long. Every hour that passed was like a slowly unfolding day. They sat in Pug’s tent, wondering what was occurring to the west.

 

The army had marched forward, under the King’s banner, with drums and trumpets sounding. Over ten thousand horsemen and twenty thousand foot soldiers had advanced upon the Tsurani. There were only a few soldiers left in camp, the wounded and an orderly company. The quiet outside was unnerving after the almost constant camp noise of the previous day.

 

William had grown restless, and Katala had taken him outside to play. Fantus welcomed the opportunity to rest untroubled by his tireless playmate.

 

Kulgan sat quietly, puffing on his pipe. He and Pug passed the time by occasionally speaking of matters magical, but mostly were silent.

 

Laurie was the first to break the tension. He stood and said, “I can’t take this waiting anymore. I think we should go to Lord Lyam and help decide what is to be done once the King returns.”

 

Kulgan waved him back into his seat. “Lyam will do nothing, for he is his father’s son and would not start a civil war, not here.”

 

Pug sat absently toying with a dagger. “With the Armies of the East in camp, Lyam knows that an outbreak of fighting would hand the West to the Tsurani and crown to Bas-Tyra. He’ll walk to the gibbet and put the rope around his own neck rather than see that.”

 

“It’s the worst kind of foolishness,” countered Laurie.

 

“No,” answered Kulgan, “not foolishness, minstrel, but a matter of honor. Lyam, like his father before him, believes that the nobility have a responsibility to give their lives’ work, and their lives if need be, for the Kingdom. With Borric and Erland dead, Lyam is next in line for the throne. But the succession is unclear, for Rodric has not named an heir. Lyam could not bear to wear the crown if he would be thought a usurper Arutha is another matter, for he would simply do what was expedient, take the throne—though he would not wish to—and worry about what was said of him when it was said.”

 

Pug nodded. “I think that Kulgan has the right of things. I do not know the brothers as well as he, but I think it might have been a better thing had the order of their birthing been reversed. Lyam would make a good king, but Arutha would make a great one. Men would follow Lyam to their deaths, but the younger brother would use his shrewdness to keep them alive.”

 

“A fair assessment,” conceded Kulgan. “If there is anyone who could find a way out of this mess, it is Arutha. He has his father’s courage, but he also has a mind as quick as Bas-Tyra’s. He could weather the intrigues of court, though he hates them.” Kulgan smiled “When they were boys, we called Arutha the ‘little storm cloud,’ for when he got angry, he would turn to black looks and rumbles, while Lyam would be quick to anger, quick to fight, and quick to forget.”

 

Kulgan’s reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of shouting from outside. They jumped up and rushed out of the tent.

 

A blood-covered rider, in the tabard of LaMut, sped past them, and they ran to follow. They reached the command tent as Lord Brucal came out. The old Duke of Yabon said, “What news?”

 

“The Earl Vandros sends word. Victory!” Other riders could be heard approaching the camp. “We rode through them like the wind. The line on their east is breached, and the salient is rent. We broke them, isolating those in the salient, then wheeled to the west and rolled back those who sought to aid them. The infantry now holds fast, and the cavalry drives the Tsurani back into the North Pass. They flee in confusion! The day is ours!”

 

A wineskin was handed to the rider, who sounded as if his voice would fail. He tilted it over his face and let the wine pour into his mouth. It ran down his chin, joining the deeper red splattered over his tabard. He threw aside the wineskin. “There is more. Richard of Salador has fallen, as has the Earl of Silden. And the King has been wounded.”

 

Concern showed on Brucal’s face “How does he fare?”

 

“Badly, I fear,” said the rider, holding his nervous horse as it pranced around. “It is a grievous wound. His helm was cleaved by a broadsword after his horse was killed beneath him. A hundred died to protect him, for his royal tabard was a beacon to the Tsurani. He comes now.” The rider pointed back the way he had come.

 

Pug and the others turned to see a troop of riders approaching. In the van rode a royal guardsman with the King held before him. The monarch’s face was covered in blood, and he held to the saddle horn with his right hand, his other arm dangling limply at his side. They stopped before the tent, and soldiers helped the King from the horse. They started to carry him inside, but he said, in a weak and slurred voice, “No Do not take me from the sun. Bring a chair so I may sit.”

 

Nobles were riding up even as a chair was placed for the King. He was lowered into it and leaned back, his head lolling to the left. His face was covered with blood, and white bone could be seen showing through his scalp wound.