The Hand of Chaos

41

“Halt!” Cried the King’s Own, bringing their spears up, holding them in front of two muffled and heavily cloaked strangers—one tall and one short—who had approached too near the ring of steel that surrounded Their Majesties. “Turn aside. You have no business here.”

“Yes, I do,” a shrill voice cried. Bane dragged off the hood that covered his head, stepped into the light of the sentry fires. “Captain Miklovich! It’s me! The prince. I’ve come back! Don’t you recognize me?”

The child poked his head beneath the crossed spears. The captain, at the sound of the voice, turned in frowning astonishment. Both he and the sergeant peered into the night. The firelight reflected off steel swords, spear points, and polished armor, cast strange shadows that made it difficult to see. Two guards started to lay their hands on the squirming child, but—at Bane’s words—they hesitated, looked at each other, then glanced back over their shoulders at their captain.

Miklovich came forward, his expression hard and disbelieving. “I don’t know what your game is, urchin, but you...” The rest of the words vanished in a whistling breath of astonishment.

“I’ll be damned,” the captain said, studying the child intently. “Could it—? Come closer, boy. Let me get a look at you in the light. Guards, let him pass.”

Bane caught hold of Hugh’s hand, started to drag the man along with him. The guards brought their spears up, blocking the way. No one was watching the dog, who slipped between the soldiers’ legs, stood watching everyone with tongue-lolling interest.

“This man saved my life!” Bane cried. “He found me. I was lost, near starving to death. He took care of me, even though he didn’t believe I was really the prince.”

“Is it true, Your Worship?” asked Hugh, with the groveling manner and the thick accent of some uneducated peasant. “Forgive me if I did not believe him. I thought he was mad. The village wisewoman said the only way to cure the madness was to bring him here and make him see—”

“But I’m not mad! I am the prince!” Bane glittered with excitement, with beauty and charm. The golden curls glistened, the blue eyes sparkled. The lost child had returned home. “Tell him, Captain Miklovich. Tell him who I am. I promised I’d reward him. He’s been very kind to me.”

“By the ancestors!” the captain breathed, staring at Bane. “It is His Highness!”

“It is?” Hugh gaped in befuddled wonder. Snatching off his cap, he began to twist it in his hands, all the while edging his way inside the steel ring. “I didn’t know, Your Worship. Forgive me. I truly thought the boy was mad.”

“Forgive you!” the captain repeated, grinning. “You’ve just made your fortune. You’ll be the richest peasant in Volkaran.”

“What is going on out there?” King Stephen’s voice sounded from inside the tent. “An alarm?”

“A joyous one, Your Majesty!” the captain called. “Come and see!” The King’s Own turned to watch the reunion. They were relaxed, grinning, hands slack on their weapons. Bane had followed Hugh’s instructions perfectly, pulled the assassin in with him. Now the child let go of Hugh’s sword arm, skipped nimbly to one side, out of the assassin’s way. No one was watching the “peasant.” All eyes were on the golden-haired prince and on the tent flap. They could hear Stephen and Anne inside, moving hastily toward the entrance. Parents and child would soon be reunited.

The captain walked a little ahead of Hugh—to the assassin’s right—a step or two behind Bane, who was dancing toward the tent. The dog trotted along after, unnoticed in the excitement.

The sergeant opened the tent flap wide, began tying it back. He was on Hugh’s left.

Excellent, Hugh thought. His hand, beneath the cover of his cloak and loose-fitting peddler’s rags, was stealing to his belt, fingers closing around the hilt of a short sword—a poor choice of weapon for an assassin. The wide flat blade would catch the light.

Stephen appeared in the entrance, his eyes blinking, trying to adjust to the glow of the sentry fires. Behind him, clutching her robes around her, Anne stared out over his shoulder.

“What is it—?”

Bane dashed forward, flung out his arms. “Mother! Father!” he cried with a joyous yell.

Stephen paled, a look of horror crossed his face. He staggered backward. Bane behaved flawlessly. At this point, he was to turn, reach out for Hugh, draw the assassin forward. Then the child was to fling himself out of the way of the Hand’s killing stroke. This was how they had rehearsed it. But Hugh muffed his part.

He was going to die. His life was measured in two, maybe three breaths. At least death would come swiftly this time. A sword through his throat or chest. The guards would not take chances with a man about to murder their king.

“This is the man who saved my life, Father,” Bane shrilled. He turned, reached out for the assassin.

Hugh drew his blade, slowly, clumsily. He lifted it high, let the firelight catch it, gave out an attention-getting roar. Then he launched himself at Stephen.

The King’s Own reacted swiftly, instinctively. Seeing the flashing blade, hearing the assassin’s shout, they dropped their spears and leapt to throttle him from behind. The captain knocked Hugh’s sword from his hand, drew his own sword, and was about to grant Hugh the swift death he sought when a huge, furry shape struck him.

Ears up, eyes bright, the dog had been watching the proceedings with interest, enjoying the excitement. Sudden movement, shouting, and confusion startled the animal. Men smelled of fear and tension and danger. The dog was jostled, stepped on. And then it saw the captain lunge at Hugh, about to harm a man the dog knew as a friend.

Jaws closed on the captain’s sword arm. The animal dragged the man to the ground. The two tumbled over each other; the dog growling and snarling, the captain trying to fend off the animal’s vicious attack.

The King’s Own had firm grasp of Hugh. The sergeant, sword in hand, dashed over to deal with the assassin.

“Hold!” Stephen bellowed. He’d recovered from his first shock, recognized Hugh.

The sergeant halted, looked back at his king. The captain rolled on the ground, the dog worrying him like a rat. Stephen, perplexed, arrested by the expression on the assassin’s face, came forward.

“What—?”

No one, except Hugh, was paying any attention to Bane.

The child had picked up Hugh’s sword from the ground, was advancing on the king, coming up on him from behind.

“Your Majesty—” Hugh cried, struggled to free himself. The sergeant struck him a blow to the head, with the flat of his sword. Dazed, Hugh slumped in his captor’s arms. But he’d drawn Anne’s attention. She saw the danger, but was too far away to act.

“Stephen!” she screamed.

Bane gripped the hilt of the sword in both small hands.

“I will be king!” he shouted in fury, and plunged the sword with all his strength into Stephen’s back.

The king cried out in pain, staggered forward. He reached his hand around in disbelief, felt his own blood run over his fingers. Bane wrenched the blade free. Stumbling, Stephen fell to the ground. Anne ran from the tent. The sergeant, stupefied, unable to believe what he’d seen, stared at the child, whose small hands were wet with blood. Bane aimed another stroke, a killing stroke. Anne flung her own body over that of her wounded husband. Sword raised, Bane rushed at her.

The child’s body jerked, his eyes widened. He dropped the sword, clutched at his throat with his hands. He seemed unable to breathe, was gasping for air. Slowly, fearfully, he turned around.

“Mother?” He was strangling, lacked the voice to speak, his lips formed the word.

Iridal stepped out of the darkness. Her face was pale, fixed, and resolute. She moved with a terrible calm, a terrible purpose. A strange whispering sound, as if the night was sucking in its breath, hissed through the night.

“Mother!” Bane choked, sank to his knees, extended a pleading hand. “Mother, don’t...”

“I’m sorry, my son,” she said. “Forgive me. I cannot save you. You have doomed yourself. I do what I have to do.”

She raised her hand.

Bane glared at her in impotent fury, then his eyes rolled, he slumped to the ground. The small body shuddered and then lay still.

No one spoke, no one moved. Minds tried to assimilate what had happened, what even now seemed impossible to believe. The dog, sensing the danger had ended, left off its attack. Padding over to Iridal, the dog nudged her cold hand.

“I shut my eyes to what his father was,” said Iridal in a quiet voice, terrible to hear. “I shut my eyes to what Bane had become. I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Is he... is he... dead?”

A soldier, standing near, knelt down beside the child, laid a hand upon Bane’s chest. Looking up at Iridal, the soldier nodded wordlessly.

“It is fitting. That was how your own child died, Your Majesty,” said Iridal, sighing, her gaze on Bane, her words for Anne. “The baby could not breathe the rarefied air of the High Realm. I did what I could, but the poor thing choked to death.”

Anne gave a gasping sob, averted her head, covered her face with her hands. Stephen, struggling to his knees, put his arms around her. He stared in horror and shock at the small body lying on the ground.

“Release this man,” said Iridal, her empty-eyed gaze going to Hugh. “He had no intention of killing the king.”

The King’s Own appeared dubious, glowered at Hugh darkly. The assassin’s head was lowered. He did not look up. He had no care for his fate, one way or the other.

“Hugh made a deliberately clumsy attempt at murder,” Iridal told them. “An attempt that was meant to reveal my son’s treachery to you... and to me. He succeeded,” she added softly.

The captain, on his feet, dirty and disheveled but otherwise unharmed, cast a questioning glance at the king.

“Do as she says, Captain,” Stephen ordered, rising painfully, gasping in agony. His breath came short. His wife had her arms around him, assisting him.

“Release this man. The moment he raised his sword, I knew...” The king tried to walk, almost fell.

“Help me!” Queen Anne cried, supporting him. “Send for Trian! Where is Trian? The king is grievously hurt!”

“Nothing so terrible as all that, my dear,” said Stephen, making an attempt to smile. “I’ve... taken worse than this...” His head lolled, he sagged in his wife’s arms.

The captain ran to support his fainting king, but halted and turned in alarm when he heard the sentry’s voice ring out. A shadow moved against the firelight. Steel clashed. The nervous King’s Own snapped to action. Captain and sergeant raised their swords, stepped in front of Their Majesties. Stephen had fallen to the ground, Anne crouched protectively over him.

“Be at peace, it is I, Trian,” said the young wizard, materializing out of the darkness.

A glance at Hugh, at the dead child, and at the dead child’s mother was sufficient to apprise the wizard of the situation. He did not waste time in questions, but nodded once, took charge.

“Make haste. Carry His Majesty into his tent, shut the flap. Quickly, before anyone else sees!”

The captain, looking vastly relieved, barked orders. Guards carried the king inside. The sergeant lowered the tent flap, stood guard himself outside it. The young wizard took a few moments to speak a few brief words of reassurance to Anne, then sent her into the tent to prepare hot water and bandages.

“You men,” Trian said, turning to the King’s Own. “Not a word of this to anyone, on your lives.”

The soldiers nodded, saluted.

“Should we double the guard, Magicka?” asked the ashen-faced sergeant.

“Absolutely not,” Trian snapped. “All must seem as normal, do you understand? The wolf attacks when it smells blood.” He glanced at Iridal, standing motionless over the body of her son. “You men, douse that fire. Cover the corpse. No one is to leave this area until I return. Gently, men,” he advised, glancing again at Iridal.

Anne appeared at the tent flap, searching anxiously for him. “Trian...” she began.

“I’m coming, Your Majesty. Hush, go back inside. All will be well.” The wizard hastened into the royal tent.

“One of you, come with me.” The sergeant and a guard moved to obey Trian’s commands, cover the small corpse. “Bring a cloak.” Hugh raised his head.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said.

The sergeant looked at the man’s haggard face, gray, caked and streaked with blood, oozing from a deep slash that had nearly laid bare his cheekbone. His eyes were almost invisible beneath the jutting, furrowed brow; two tiny points of flame, reflecting from the watch fires, flickered deep within the darkness. He moved to block the sergeant’s way.

“Stand aside,” the sergeant ordered angrily.

“I said I’ll go.”

The sergeant looked at the wizardess—pale and unmoving. He looked at the small body lying at her feet, then at the assassin, dark and grim.

“Go ahead then,” said the sergeant, perhaps relieved. The less he had to do with any of these fey people, the better. “Is there... anything you need?” Hugh shook his head. Turning, he walked over to Iridal. The dog sat quietly by her side. Its tail wagged gently at Hugh’s approach.

Behind him, the soldiers tossed water onto the campfire. There came a hissing sound, a shower of sparks flew into the air. Darkness shrouded them. The sergeant and his men moved nearer the royal tent.

The faint pearl glow of the coralite illuminated Bane’s face. His eyes closed—the light of unnatural ambition and hatred doused—he looked like any small boy, fast asleep, dreaming of a day of ordinary mischief. Only the bloodstained hands belied the illusion.

Hugh drew off his own tattered cloak, spread it over Bane. He did not speak. Iridal did not move. The soldiers took up their positions, closed the ring of steel as if nothing had happened. Beyond, they could hear snatches of song; the celebrating continued.

Trian emerged from the tent. Hands folded together, he walked swiftly to where Hugh and Iridal stood, alone, with the dead.

“His Majesty will live,” said the wizard.

Hugh grunted, pressed the back of his hand to his bleeding cheek. Iridal shivered all over, lifted her eyes to the wizard.

“The wound is not serious,” Trian continued. “The blade missed the vital organs, glanced along the ribs. The king has lost considerable blood, but he is conscious and resting comfortably. He will attend the signing ceremony tomorrow. A night of revelry and elven wine will excuse his pallor and slowness of movement. I need not tell you that this must be kept secret.” The wizard looked from one to the other, moistened his lips. He glanced once, then avoided looking at, the cloak-covered form on the ground.

“Their Majesties ask me to express their gratitude... and their sympathy. Words cannot express—”

“Then shut up,” Hugh said.

Trian flushed, but he kept quiet.

“May I take my son away with me?” Iridal asked, pale and cold.

“Yes, Lady Iridal,” Trian replied gently. “That would be best. If I might ask where—”

“To the High Realms. I will build his funeral pyre there. No one will know.”

“And you, Hugh the Hand?” Trian turned his eyes upon the assassin, studied him intently. “Will you go with her?”

Hugh seemed undecided whether to answer or not He put his hand again to his cheek, brought it back wet with blood. He stared at the blood a moment, unseeing, then slowly wiped the hand across his shirt.

“No,” he said at last. “I have another contract to fulfill.” Iridal stirred, looked at him. He did not look at her. She sighed softly. Trian smiled, thin-lipped. “Of course, another contract. Which reminds me, you were not paid for this one. I think His Majesty will agree that you earned it. Where shall I send the money?”

Hugh bent down, lifted Bane’s body, covered with the cloak, in his arms. One small hand, stained with blood, fell limply from beneath the crude shroud. Iridal caught hold of the hand, kissed it, laid it gently back to rest on the child’s breast.

“Tell Stephen,” Hugh said, “to give the money to his daughter. My gift, for her dowry.”