The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Read online

  The King

  David Feintuch

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF DAVID FEINTUCH

  THE SEAFORT SAGA

  “A delightful book, intelligent and carefully written. Discerning SF readers will devour it and wait impatiently for its other volumes to appear. Feintuch’s book, depicting a stellar navy of exacting brutality and devotion to duty, possesses much the same flavor as C. S. Forester’s Hornblower novels. Hornblower fans will probably toast Feintuch in their wardrooms.”—The Washington Post Book World on Midshipman’s Hope

  “Science fiction fans who love exciting action and adventure shouldn’t miss [it].”—Lansing State Journal

  “An excellent entertainment.”—Analog Science Fiction and Fact

  “Wonderful reading and nonstop enjoyment.”—Raymond E. Feist, author of the Riftwar Cycle

  “An excellent job of transferring Hornblower to interstellar space. Plot, characters, and action make this a thoroughly enjoyable read.”—David Drake, author of the Hammer’s Slammers series

  THE RODRIGO OF CALEDON SERIES

  “This complex, unconventional fantasy is a strong recommendation for Feintuch’s skill as a novelist. Readers who may have let a distaste for military SF prevent them from checking out Feintuch’s work should reconsider; this is an interesting writer who isn’t afraid to take risks.”—Asimov’s Science Fiction

  “Popular SF author Feintuch (The Seafort Saga) makes his fantasy debut with this adept tale of sword and sorcery . . . Compelling and charged with plenty of action.”—Publishers Weekly

  Contents

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Part Two

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Part Three

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  PART ONE

  One

  AS AUTUMN GAVE WAY to winter, we swept down from the hills, a thousand strong, driving Danzik’s Norlanders from their barricades before dashing toward Stryx, royal seat of Caledon. Home, such as it was.

  Captain Tursel urged our weary men to the coast road that ended in Stryx at Llewelyn’s Keep, held in stubborn defiance of the Norlanders by my vassal Tantroth’s Eiberians. Above that strongpoint lay Castle Stryx, still in the hands of my ruthless Uncle Margenthar.

  In a shady grove at roadside, my mentor Rustin spoke with Earl Groenfil and my ward Anavar as the column trudged past. I spurred Ebon to their grazing, resting mounts. “Rust, the wagons are missing. They were supposed—”

  “They’re over the rise.” Though there were but two years between us, my friend spoke soothingly, as if to a child. He jerked Ebon’s reins from my chapped fingers, withstood my glare. “Take ease, Roddy. Trust in Captain Tursel.”

  I knew he was right; Tursel was an old campaigner loaned us by Uncle Raeth of Cumber for his experience. But Caledon was not a land of trust.

  At last I took deep breath, and wisps of my frenzy melted, as mist before the sun. “As you say.” I managed to make my tone civil. I owed him that.

  Rust added reassuringly, “We’ll be in Stryx by nightfall.”

  Groenfil’s tone was dour. “Unless Tantroth betrays us.”

  I massaged my left cheek, and the scar that ran from eye to chin. I well understood Groenfil’s unease. An hour past, Tantroth, Duke of Eiber, once my enemy, now my ally, had led his mounted guard along the coast road to Llewelyn’s Keep, where we must follow. If he failed to open the gates to us, we’d be trapped in the old city’s cobbled streets between the Keep and Danzik’s Norlanders, who, ousted from the crossroads, swarmed like maddened bees about their winter camp.

  I’d fretted over the possibility, but try as I might, I couldn’t see how Tantroth could gain by betraying us to the foe. Only with our help might he dislodge King Hriskil’s Norland regiments from Eiber, and regain his domain. Else, he was undone. And Hriskil surely would not reward Tantroth with Eiber merely for my capture; the duchy of Eiber abutted the Norlands. Through Eiber, Hriskil had access to the passes between our realms. Hriskil wanted its high valleys perhaps even more than he coveted Caledon itself.

  Earl Groenfil looked about. “We’re too slow; Danzik will regroup before our stragglers are past his camp.”

  I glanced at Rustin as if to say, “I told you so,” but I forbore. “Give Tursel a hand, my lord, but don’t quarrel with him.”

  “Aye, sire.” The winds stirred, a sign of Earl Groenfil’s displeasure. It was a Power of his House, as Caledon’s Power was the Still I wielded.

  “I could help too.” Anavar looked hopeful. “Have I leave, sir?” At fifteen, he thought himself a man, and chafed at being ward of one only two years his senior. A year past, young Anavar had been an Eiberian noble, taken our prisoner during Tantroth’s savage attack on Caledon. I’d made him my bondsman to save his life—Tursel would have cut his throat—but that was long past: now he enjoyed the rank of Baron of the Southern Reaches, an empty title admittedly, but he had grown to be my confidant and member of my inner circle.

  Reluctantly, I nodded. I couldn’t keep him in the warmth of my robe forever; to help him grow, I had to risk him.

  As Anavar rode off, Rustin patted my knee in quiet approval. Though barely my elder, he was infinitely older in good humor, grace and sense. I’d come most reluctantly to rely on his guidance, even appointing him guardian of my person. My mother’s early death had left me a very young king indeed, vulnerable to the maneuverings of my uncle Margenthar, who’d managed to be appointed regent. Time and again during my struggle for the crown, I’d proven, to my infinite dismay, that I wasn’t quite ready to assume a man’s station. Now Rustin bullied me unmercifully, and I was compelled by my oath to abide it.

  Tantroth opened the sturdy Keep he’d captured, and bid us welcome. Above us, accessed by the winding Castle Way, loomed Castle Stryx, behind whose ramparts Mother had ruled and I had grown toward manhood. Now the castle was held by Margenthar, Duke of Stryx, whom I loathed. Uncle Mar had strangled my eight-year-old brother Pytor; now only my brother Elryc and I remained of the House of Caledon.

  Together, castle and Keep presented a formidable defense. The road to the castle wended through the Keep: in one gate, out another. Over the years, detouring wagons had established the narrow Tradesman’s Cut alongside the outer walls of the Keep, that brewers’ wagons and tradesmen’s carts might bypass the gates. But no army could mount assault on the castle without coming within deadly and continuous bowshot of the Keep.

  Installed within this strongpoint, we immediately sent envoys up the steep hill to the castle.

  Waiting for answer I paced the battlements of the
Keep. I stalked to an arrow slit, peered through the slit to the coast road beyond. Still no sign of Danzik’s Norlanders. “What word from Mar?” I rubbed my cold nose. If Margenthar wouldn’t give up Castle Stryx, our position was precarious.

  “You’re king, Roddy. We’d tell you if he sent reply. Genard!” Rust snapped his fingers, and the stableboy leaped to his feet. “Find Rodrigo warm drink. No wine.”

  “I’m Lord Elryc’s man.” Genard was sullen. “Not yours.”

  Rust’s tone had an edge. “I pray thee, Lord Elryc’s man, find the king to drink!”

  When Genard had gone Rustin unclenched his fingers, and I saw the effort his calm had cost.

  “That lout maddens me,” I said. Genard’s irrepressible tongue could try the most patient of souls. Scarce thirteen, he deemed himself high enough to reproach his king. “He ought be thrashed.”

  Rustin’s hand fell on my shoulder, as if to brush off the sting of his words. “You’ve fallen back to harsh ways. Yesterday, along the trail—”

  “He wouldn’t take Ebon to be fed.”

  “He’s your brother’s vassal, for good or ill. You had no right to order it.” He regarded me until, shifting uncomfortably, I looked away. “Try to be kind, Roddy.”

  Hah. Easy for him to say; he wasn’t king. Rubbing my scar, I stared at the sullen winter clouds.

  The next morning, envoys descended the winding road from Castle Stryx, with tidings too good to fathom. My uncle had bowed to the inevitable. He would surrender the castle, in return for safe conduct to his own holding at Verein.

  For two weeks, while we set our defenses in order, I moodily paced the castle battlements.

  We hadn’t fought our way to Stryx, I argued, to hide behind its walls. Only by engaging the Norlanders might we dislodge them. If we didn’t act now, winter’s icy hand would stay us.

  Rustin reluctantly agreed to a raid on the Norlander supply wagons.

  We probed in strength, an elaborate way of saying we were too many to steal past Danzik’s scouts, too few to mount a serious challenge to the sturdy breastworks he’d mounted around his camp.

  As we crept through a grove of ash and beeches, an arrow whizzed past my head, buried itself in the bole of an aged beech tree. A few dead leaves drifted lazily to earth.

  “Will you get down?” With a mighty tug on my jerkin, Rustin hauled me off my feet. “Idiot!”

  Anavar favored him with a glance of reproach. After all, Rustin was berating his king.

  “Withdraw, sire?” Tursel. We were pinned in the leafy grove, with no way out save that from which we came.

  “Gather torches to light the arrows.” Sourly, I eyed the Norlanders’ wagons. At least we might burn their supplies, and leave Danzik’s troops hungry and discomfited, facing winter in a hostile land.

  It was a damp day; the pitch smoked and sputtered. A few of our arrows embedded themselves uselessly in the splintered rails of their wagons; none fell in the beds, where lay the sacks of grain, blankets, bundles of arrows and other implements of war.

  “Rodrigo! M’lor!” Genard windmilled through the bushes to the hollow in which we crouched. “They attack the hors—”

  Rustin clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth. “Fool! You bellow the king’s name? You’d tell the Norlanders he stands before them?”

  Genard thrust away Rustin’s palm. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “They’re sneaking behind the pickets to cut the horses loose. Twenty men at least.”

  “I’ll go. You three, and you.” Tursel chose his men. “Move!”

  “I’m sorry, Roddy. I mean, King. M’lor.” Genard peered at our efforts. “Why do they shoot so low? Tell our archers the wagons won’t burn unless they set the barrels afire, and the cloths. A few arrows in the side won’t—”

  I growled, “Silence him. Slit his throat. If that doesn’t work—”

  Mercifully, the boy subsided.

  Three of the Norlanders’ dozen wagons smoldered. One burst at last into a respectable blaze. Then another.

  A runner scuttled to our forward line. “Tursel says we’d best withdraw. Our thirty men clashed with forty of theirs, and—”

  “Fall back.” In a rage, heedless of the risk of arrows, I stalked through the grove. My stride increased as I thought of Ebon, my treasured stallion. If he’d been hurt, or taken ...

  Kadar, chief of my bodyguards, scampered to keep pace. Earnest young soldiers, all of them, handpicked by Rustin. “Sire, let us lead.”

  “Bah.” I thrust aside a low branch, was drenched by a torrent of droplets. “Imps take this weather! And Hriskil!” I wiped my brow with a damp sleeve.

  Stiff fingers tweaked my ribs. “Patience, my prince.”

  I slapped away the offending hand. “And Rustin of the Keep!” But, quickly, I muttered a rite of propitiation.

  Ahead, cries and shouts. I drew my sword. “To the horses!” My bodyguards drew steel, formed themselves around me. I would have none of it. I raced ahead, toward the thicket where we’d tied our mounts.

  Before us, ever more Norlanders poured across a defile. They brandished short swords and heavy leather shields embellished with the half moon that their kind revered. They made for our pickets.

  The handful of men we’d left to guard the horses were retreating, but so far in good order. I charged into the line. “For Caledon!” My bodyguards, caught unsuspecting, thundered after.

  “For Rodrigo!”

  The fury of our charge threw back Danzik’s attackers. I wheeled, sprinted to the horses, tore loose Ebon’s reins, threw myself in the saddle.

  A squad of Norlander foot soldiers evaded our troop, raced toward us. I spurred Ebon, leaned low and whirled my sword. They dived to the soggy turf, all but one who was too slow. My sword sliced through his breastbone and was wrenched from my grasp. I whipped out my dagger, reined Ebon, wheeled to pursue our attackers. I plunged my blade into a fleeing foeman’s shoulder.

  Rustin, cursing mightily, galloped alongside. He caught my bridle. “Ride, Roddy! To Stryx!” His stallion Orwal’s eyes were wild.

  “We can’t leave—”

  “The horses are saved.”

  I risked a glance backward. In great haste, Tursel’s men were cutting free our mounts. Anavar swarmed atop his mare, raced to the edge of the grove, beckoned me frantically.

  Slowly, my battle fever ebbed. I spurred Ebon, to wait with Anavar by the safety of the road.

  “Roddy, you’ll catch your death of cold.” Rustin offered the cloak he’d brought.

  A few miserable lights glimmered in the town far below the stony ramparts of the castle. Over the rushing sea beyond, the moon rode gallantly through mountains of cloud. I squinted, seeking the Norlanders’ dark sails. It wouldn’t be long before they loomed. Hriskil of the Norlands coveted both Caledon and Eiber, and his chieftain Danzik roamed both south and north of Stryx harbor. When the winter’s snows melted to mist and the muddy roads dried, his hordes would break winter camp and march anew. Our recent foray had been but a pinprick, easily ignored.

  I stared moodily over the dripping battlements. “I would be alone.” Within the walls of Stryx I was secure, even in time of war. The castle was not so large I didn’t know every soul within its ramparts.

  As always, Rustin paid no heed. “Cover yourself, my prince.” Gendy, he draped the cloak over my damp shoulders.

  “Thank you.” My voice was remote.

  “What troubles you?” He rested his lean form against an arrowguard.

  “Where’s Hriskil? Why doesn’t he resupply Danzik?”

  “Hriskil? In his palace, if he has the sense Lord of Nature gave a pup.” He drew his cloak tighter as if to make his point. “And Danzik will live off your peasants, if he must.”

  “Where, for that matter, is Uncle Mar?”

  “Still in Verein, I imagine.” Rustin hugged himself. “Come inside.”

  “After a while.”

  When winter drew nigh, Groenfil and Lady Soushire, two no
bles who’d committed their houses to my cause, had returned to their domains. I had little more than the household guard with which to hold Stryx.

  Rustin sighed, pulled his cloak tighter, prepared to wait the night.

  Vexed, I rounded on him. “I ride with you, dine with you, tent with you. Am I to have no solitude?”

  A light faded from Rustin’s eyes. “As you decree, sire.” He turned to go.

  Now I’d wounded him. Imps and demons! “Stay.” I curled my fingers around his shoulder. After a moment his ire faded, and he wrapped his arm around my waist.

  So long I’d dreamed of becoming king of Caledon and of the pleasure it would bring. The sullen obeisance I’d force from cousin Bayard, the fine raiment I’d order, the dazzling banquets I’d set. I’d be the envy of my people and all the kingdoms round. Even Rust would stand in awe.

  It hadn’t worked out quite so. I’d come to my crown in betrayal and hurt, and bore a frightful scar from eye to chin that none but Rust could disregard. Worse, Stryx and all of Caledon were under siege. Even my Power couldn’t overcome our peril.

  Every land had its peculiar Power, each Power its own properties. The White Fruit of Chorr made whoever ingested it forever a devoted servant; through its use the King of the Chorr secured the loyalty of his courtiers. In the land of Parrad, trees were made to speak of what they’d seen. The Norlanders had their Rood, which augmented their already fearsome strength in battle; thank Lord of Nature, Hriskil himself wasn’t outside our walls to wield it.

  Powers followed crown and land. Within every kingdom it was so. Even our vassal earls had some small Powers; Earl Groenfil’s rage summoned winds that felled great trees, and Uncle Raeth’s unruly sensual passion snuffed out candles, to our mutual embarrassment.

  Caledon’s Power was the Still.

  From time to time, I set my palms over a bowl of stillsilver, to consult my late mother, the queen, and my forebears, in their cold dusty gray cave. I paid a high price for my Power; the Still demanded that its wielder hold himself True, and virgin. The former requirement meant that to break any oath would cost my Power, and with it, the realm on which my grip was as yet frail. As to the latter, how could a young king who craved the station of manhood abide such restriction? In all the kingdom, only I was denied. Even my young ward Anavar was said to rut with camp women. Until recently my loneliness had led me, against my natural yearning for a woman’s touch, to Rustin’s embrace.