“I hate dwarves,” Royce muttered.
Chapter 9: Rescuers
The water pitcher and basin hit the floor and shattered. The crash jolted Arista, who sat on her bed, disoriented and confused. The room was shaking. All summer the tower had felt strange, but nothing like this. She held her breath—waiting. Nothing happened. The tower stopped moving.
Tentatively, she slipped off the bed, crept gingerly toward the windows and looked out. She saw nothing to explain the tremor. Outside the world was blanketed white by a fresh layer of snow that was still falling. Is that it? She looked up at the tower’s eaves. Is it the snow, sliding off the roof? It did not seem likely…it also did not matter. How much time do I have left?
She looked down. The crowd still circled the front gate of the castle. There must have been more than a hundred people there, all pressing for news of her trial. Around the perimeter of the castle, three times the usual number of guards patrolled in full armor. Her uncle was not taking any chances. Perhaps he thought the people of the city might rise up against him rather than see their princess burned? She knew better. No one cared if she lived or died. While she knew all the lords, earls and barons by name, and had sat down with them for dozen of meals, she knew they were not her friends. She did not have friends. Braga was right; she spent too much time in her tower. No one really knew her. She lived a solitary life, but this was the first time she ever really felt alone.
She had spent all night trying to determine exactly what words she would use when brought before the court. In the end, she concluded there was little she could do or say. She could accuse Braga of the murder of her father, but she had no proof. He was the one with all the evidence on his side. After all, she had released the two thieves, and she was responsible for Alric’s disappearance. And what good did that do?
What was I thinking?
She handed her brother over to two unknown thugs. Alric personally explained his intent to torture them to death, and she left him to their mercy! What were the odds of his survival? What was a promise to thieves? She felt sick whenever she imagined them laughing at her expense as they drowned poor Alric in the river. Now they were likely halfway to Calis or Delgos, taking turns wearing the royal signet ring of Melengar. When the scouts had returned with Alric’s robe, she was certain he was dead, and yet, why was there no body?
Is it possible Alric still lives?
No, she reasoned, it was far more likely Braga kept Alric’s corpse hidden. Revealing it before her trial would allow her to make a bid for the throne. Once the trial was over, once she was found guilty and burned, he would miraculously reveal its discovery. It was very possible Braga had Alric’s body locked away in one of the rooms below her, or somewhere in the vault.
It was all her fault. If she had not interfered, perhaps Alric might have taken charge and discovered Braga’s treachery. Perhaps he could have saved both of them. Perhaps she was nothing more than a foolish girl after all. At least her death would put an end to the questions and the guilt consuming her. She closed her eyes and once more felt the unsteadiness of the world around her.
The Galilin host was now a full five hundred strong as it marched through the wintry landscape. Sixty knights dressed in full armor carried lances adorned with long forked banners. They snapped like serpents’ tongues in the numbing wind. Myron had overheard Alric, when they were back at Drondil fields, arguing with the other nobles, about marching too soon. Apparently, they were still missing the strength of several lords, and leaving when they did was a risk. Pickering finally agreed to Alric’s demands and convinced the others once Barons Himbolt and Rendon arrived, bringing another score of knights. To Myron, the force was impressive at any size.
At the head of the line rode Prince Alric, Myron, Count Pickering and his two eldest sons, as well as the land-titled nobles. Following them were the knights who rode together in rows four abreast. An entourage of squires, pages, and footmen traveled behind them. Farther back were the ranks of the common men-at-arms: strong, stocky brutes dressed in chain and steel with bullet-shaped helms, plate metal shin guards, and metal shank boots. Each was equipped with a kite shield, a short, broad-blade sword, and a long spear. Next in line were the archers in leather jerkins and woolen cloaks that hid their quivers. They marched holding their un-strung bows as though they were mere walking sticks. At the rear came the artisans, smiths, surgeons, and cooks, pulling wagons that hauled the army’s supplies.
Myron felt foolish. After hours on the road, he was still having trouble keeping his horse from veering to the left into Fanen’s gelding. He was starting to get the hang of the stirrups, but he still had much to learn. The front toe guard, which prevented his feet from resting on the soles, frustrated him. The Pickering boys took him under their wing and explained how only the ball of the foot was to rest on the stirrup brace. This provided better control and prevented a foot from catching in the event of a fall. They also told him how tight stirrups helped to hold his knees to the horse’s sides. All of Pickering’s horses were leg trained and could be controlled by the feet, thighs, and knees. They were taught this way so that knights could fight with one hand on a lance or sword and the other on a shield. Myron was working on this technique now, squeezing his thighs, trying to persuade the horse to steer right, but it was no use. The more he used his left knee, the more his right knee also squeezed to compensate. The result was confusion on the part of the animal, and it wandered over and brushed against Fanen’s mount once again.
“You need to be more firm,” Fanen told him. “Show her who’s in charge.”
“She already knows—she is,” Myron replied pathetically. “I think I should just stick with the reins. It’s not like I will be wielding a sword and shield in the coming battle.”
“You never know,” Fanen said. “Monks of old used to fight a lot, and Alric said you helped save his life by killing one of those mercenaries who attacked you. So you’re one ahead of me there. I’ve never actually killed a man.”
Myron frowned and dropped his gaze. “I wish he hadn’t told anyone about that.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Slaying a villain in the service of your king is the stuff of legends and what heroes are made of.”
“It didn’t feel very heroic. It made me sick. I don’t even know why I…no, that’s a lie. I really have to stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Lying. The abbot told me once that lying was a betrayal to one’s self. It’s evidence of self-loathing. You see, when you are so ashamed of your actions, thoughts, or intentions, you lie to hide it rather than accept yourself for who you really are. The idea of how others see you becomes more important than the reality of you. It’s like when a man would rather die than be thought of as a coward. His life is not as important to him as his reputation. In the end, who is the braver? The man who dies rather than be thought of as a coward or the man who lives willing to face who he really is?”