Traitor for Hire: Mage Code Page 6

  Atreus strode forward, the prince over his shoulder. "Soren Dubois, I know you are no coward. Speak with me." No one moved. The soldiers' helmed faces stared back, devoid of emotion. "Will you not barter for the sake of your son?"

  Movement among the ranks of men. A lone figure emerged from behind them, clad from head to toe in solid, rounded plate armor. A gold circlet fit into the helm flickered in Atreus's firelight, and a red cape snapped in the storm. "You are surrounded, Atreus Luccio. My grip has finally closed around you." The king's voice boomed through the storm.

  "If you wanted me this badly, you should have struck long ago," Atreus said. "Or can you not bear the strength of a mage? Does your will only hold sway over women and children?"

  Soren brandished his weapon, a great broadsword with a two-handed grip. "Give me the boy. This quarrel is between us. He has no part of it."

  Atreus laughed. "A little more than a quarrel, I think. Did you raise your son, Soren? Have you taught him what it is to be a good man?"

  The king stepped closer. "Release him."

  Atreus extended his burned hand. "I wanted to teach a son these things. I wanted to show him the ways of manhood, of the just and the honorable, but I will never do that. Do you know why?"

  Galeron frowned. "This doesn't sound good."

  Iven's back muscles twitched. "Not a bit."

  "I don't care why," Soren barked. "Put my son down, you half-cooked goat."

  "Of course you don't know," Atreus said. "You killed my wife. She will never bear me a son." He walked slowly to the edge of the cliff. "What you have taken from me, now I take from you. One family for another. Had the queen lived through birthing, I would have killed her and your mongrel pup."

  Soren rushed forward. "I'll kill you."

  Atreus slung Prince Lattimer from his shoulder and tossed him over the edge of the cliff.

  "No!" King Soren stopped mid-stride and sank to his knees. For a moment, all but the pouring rain fell silent.

  Galeron stared at Atreus. He'd just murdered Prince Lattimer, an unarmed and unconscious boy, in cold blood. Galeron's stomach plummeted, and his heart jumped to his throat. They were doomed. Atreus had just sealed it for them.

  "You will wish you'd died on that mountain," said Soren.

  "I already do," Atreus said. "Tondra, Hektor, we're leaving."

  "You're going nowhere but to death's embrace," snarled the king.

  "The sell-swords?" asked Hektor.

  Atreus looked at him, and then his gaze met Galeron's. "They're disposable. Leave them."

  "What?" asked Iven.

  Galeron froze. Boiling bones, he'd double crossed them. Atreus hired them just for the extra hands, and once he didn't need them, he disposed of them. Should have seen that. What's wrong with me?

  "Kill them," said Soren.

  The Iron Riders advanced. Hektor, Tondra, and Atreus all dove as one over the edge and vanished from sight. Everyone paused.

  "Are they dead, sire?" asked one of the Riders.

  "No," Soren said. "It's another mage trick. They live, for now." His helmed face turned to Galeron and Iven. He stood and readied his blade. "Grab the archer. Since I can't kill a mage, I'll make do with a sell-sword."

  The pressure against Galeron's back vanished, and he turned around. Soldiers dragged a struggling Iven forward. He thrashed and jerked, trying to break free, but four men held him fast, two on each arm.

  "Boiling bones, you let me go, or I'll put arrows in your eyeballs," he roared.

  Soren's blade swept for Iven's head, but Galeron wrenched free of his captors' grasps and caught the king's blow on the flat of his sword. The strike drove his block back, and he gripped the hilt in both hands, holding steady. Soren stepped back, resetting and bringing his own sword to the ready.

  "You dare to raise a blade against your king?" he boomed.

  Galeron frowned. That was a moot point, anyway. They'd just helped Atreus murder the prince. He dodged another strike. There was no good way out of this mess. Kill the king, and the Iron Riders would slaughter him. Lose, and the king would kill him.

  "Is this what he promised you?" asked Soren. "Did he swear you could live through this?"

  Galeron parried and sidestepped another attack, edging around in a circle and always keeping Soren in front of him.

  Running was useless. Soldiers barred his way, and leaving Iven was out of the question. The only option, then, was to die?

  "Fight me, you coward." The king spat at his feet. "Or do you only glory in the death of children?"

  Galeron spun away from another strike. He hadn't known Atreus was planning to kill Lattimer, and it certainly hadn't been his idea go along with the kidnapping anyway, but if he was going to die, it would be on his terms. Regicide, then, was the order of the day. So be it. He rushed the king, taking the brunt of the next strike on his shield. Galeron drove through the blow and forced Soren to take a step back. He brought his own blade in a side strike, bouncing off the king's armor.

  Galeron stepped back. New style. The approach had to be different. The armor had very few weak points. He could exploit them with the ax. No. This was open combat. He never used the ax head on. Galeron deflected another attack and kept circling. His boots slid on the rain-lashed stone. Lightning raked the sky, and thunder snarled in response.

  "Whatever he paid you, it was coin poorly spent," said Soren.

  "Careful, Galeron," said Iven.

  Galeron parried the next attack and stepped into the strike, drawing close to his opponent and angling his blade low toward the groin. Soren lunged and slammed him into the ground, the armor's weight squarely on his ribs. His sword skittered away, and a sickening crack came from his chest, followed by a tongue of fire that scurried up his sternum when he coughed.

  Soren stood and raised his blade. "A sell-sword or a mage, you both bleed the same."

  Galeron grabbed the ax from his belt. The sword descended, but he twisted away and spun to a crouch. As the king turned, Galeron swung the ax in a backhanded strike, the crescent moon blade biting a deep dent into the side of Soren's helmet. No blood came from the wound, but the king sank to the floor without a sound. The Iron Riders exploded in a wave of steel. Eight or nine grabbed the king and bore him away from the necropolis.

  A fist slammed into Galeron's jaw, and he tumbled to the ground, red splotches coating his vision. He pulled himself onto hands and knees, paving stones spinning in his vision. Hands grabbed, pulled him upright, and stretched his arms away from his body. The scene spun and blurred. Someone screamed above the commotion.

  "Throw him off! Let him die with the prince."

  "No!"

  A figure moved through the ranks and towered over him. Galeron squinted, but his vision wouldn't focus. He drew a shallow breath, inhaling through the pain. Who was this man? Was he the king? No, he'd killed the king. Had he?

  "What should we do with them, captain?"

  "Put him and his friend in the dungeon," the captain said. "They may know where we can find the mages. We will question them, and the king will decide their fate."

  "But the king and prince are dead."

  "We do not know his majesty's condition," said the captain. "Regardless, someone will sit on the throne, and he will decide their fate."

  Another blow struck Galeron's face, and darkness dragged him under.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rats. Their unmistakable squeaking filled his ears. The throbbing in his skull came next, just above his right ear and pounding in time with his heartbeat. He groaned and opened his eyes. A rat, black and scrawny enough for Galeron to count its ribs, stared at him from its hind legs. He scowled, and the rat scampered off. Galeron sat up. He was in a darkened stone cell, barely big enough to stand and move five paces in any direction. A bucket sat in the corner. Three guesses as to what that was for. Sunlight filtered through a slit that qualified as a window in the back, and a solid wooden door, devoid of any openings or grips, barred the entryway.

  "G
reat, you sent him in here."

  Galeron looked around. Iven's muffled voice had come from somewhere, but where was he?

  "If you're facing the door, I'm in the cell to the right," Iven said. "Walls make this echo that gets on my nerves after a while."

  Galeron stood next to the appropriate wall, ear pressed to the molding stone. "Who'd I send?"

  "That stupid rat," Iven said. "Took me the better part of a day to get him through the hole in the wall. He kept trying to eat my bread, and I wasn't having that."

  "Where are we?" Galeron asked.

  "Harracourt's dungeons," Iven replied. "After Atreus and the others took off, the Riders threw us down here. We're dead, aren't we?"

  "Iven, calm--"

  "Be honest. All my good looks are about to go to waste." Iven sighed. "And to think I haven't even found the right woman yet."

  Galeron banged his head against the wall, grunting as it aggravated his already aching temples. "If they were going to kill us, why would they put us down here?"

  "Torture. That's the play. They want to know what we know about the Drakes."

  "That's a really short list."

  "They don't know that."

  Galeron opened his mouth, and then shut it again. Fair point. The Riders had no idea who he and Iven were, nor did they have any reason to trust their word. The excuse that they had just started working for the Drakes under duress was a weak one, but it was the truth.

  "The things we do for a full belly," he said.

  "Why are we sell-swords again?" asked Iven.

  Galeron gave a half-smile at the worn question. "Because land is expensive..."

  "And weapons are cheap, I know." A dull thud came from the other side of the wall.

  "Was that your head?" asked Galeron.

  "Fist. My head's not nearly as hard as yours."

  "How long have we been down here?"

  "Maybe a day." Iven grunted "It's hard to keep track, and they only bring food once."

  "What rations are we on?"

  "Bread and water."

  "Lovely."

  "There's at least some taste to the bread. It's better than the rice balls we ate with the Han."

  Galeron scowled. "Rice patties. If I ever see another one, it'll be too soon."

  "My boots still aren't dry from that." Iven moaned. "Wish we were there."

  Someone pounded on Galeron's door. "Stay back against the wall."

  Galeron moved back a step, muscles tensing and gaze sweeping the room. Only a bucket for a weapon. Not exactly a feared and lethal tool.

  "What's happening?" asked Iven.

  The door's bolt slid open. "I think I'm going somewhere."

  "It's been nice to know you. I'm keeping the money."

  Galeron shook his head. Even a dungeon never dulled Iven's wit. A soldier dressed in a blue arming doublet with trousers and carrying a short spear walked through the doorway. His beady eyes bore down on him. "Hands out, sell-sword."

  Galeron extended his hands, and the soldier fastened iron manacles around both wrists, locking them shut and jerking him forward. Galeron stumbled to his knees, and the soldier pulled him across the floor. He jerked against the chain. The soldier stopped.

  "I've still got legs," Galeron said.

  "For now," he growled. "Get up."

  Galeron stood and followed the soldier into a winding corridor filled with solid, windowless doors. Torches in brackets lit the way, and they ascended a set of stairs after a few minutes, the trip filled only with clinking metal links. Up they went, three full flights, until the soldier reached another corridor. Galeron counted steps. Fifty-five paces from the stairs to the next door. Left turn, thirteen paces to the next set of stairs, and then emerging into a golden, sunlit hall.

  He squinted at the sudden blaze of light. Stained-glass windows ascended on either side of the room, unleashing a menagerie of colors on the white marble floor. A ribbed and vaulted stone ceiling floated high above their heads, vast support columns keeping it suspended and channeling the focus of the hall to the thrones seated on a dais at the opposite end.

  The soldier pulled him down the hall and kicked him in the back of the knees when they drew close to the dais. Galeron's kneecaps hit the marble floor, and he stifled a grunt of pain. King Soren sat on his simple iron throne, stiff-backed and grim, with a poultice and bandages wrapped around the right side of his head. So, he'd survived. That was good, maybe. Two men stood to either side of the dais, one clad in glistening, ceremonial plate armor and the rest in a variety of doublets and leggings with the royal insignia, denoting them as members of the king's advisers. A woman sat in a smaller chair next to the throne, and his heart caught in his throat.

  The raven-haired lady, maybe ten years younger than the king, sat on the edge and stared at him. Her cinched green linen dress, while covering everything, clung to her curvy frame and served more to draw attention rather than conceal her form. Her dark eyes strained to draw Galeron's to them, but he avoided her gaze and focused on the king. What was she doing here?

  Soren's green eyes centered on Galeron, and he stared back, unwavering. Now was not the time to show fear, regardless of who sat before him. The king wore a simple gold circlet, devoid of any jewels or symbols. Soren's face was a mask of cold fury, restrained only by a great force of will. Galeron's stomach churned.

  "Sire, the prisoner, as ordered," the soldier said, voice stiff and tight.

  "You may go," said the king.

  "Sire?"

  Galeron frowned. Something wasn't right.

  "Soldier, should one sell-sword become trouble, Commander Tomkin can handle him," Soren said.

  "Yes, sire. I meant no disrespect, sire." Boots tromped away, and once a door closed, the king spoke again.

  "You are Galeron Triste?"

  Galeron narrowed his eyes. "I've used the name before."

  "Oh, I'd say he has," the woman said in a rolling and sultry voice.

  If the king noticed Galeron's omission of "sire," he didn't show it. "You are here as a courtesy only, Arlana. Do not forget it."

  "Mmm, I can't forget with you reminding me every few minutes, brother dear," Arlana said.

  Galeron fought to keep his face as stony as possible. What was Princess Arlana doing at Harracourt? Rumor had it she was still in Soterios mired under trade negotiations.

  "You served in the Delktian Wars, did you not?" asked Soren.

  "Most men my age did," Galeron said. Basic facts. They didn't warrant a king's attention.

  "Then you know the title 'Deathstalker'?"

  Galeron hardened his face further. So much for ignoring that one. "I'm familiar with it."

  "You are the Deathstalker."

  "I hate that name," he said.

  "Galeron, don't be so modest," Arlana said. "It doesn't sit well with you."

  His brows creased. "It's a bunch of fuss over nothing."

  Soren leaned forward on the throne. "But it is you. You killed the Delktian necromancer."

  Galeron scowled. That had been a long time ago, and the story had been inflated by bards and poets. "In his sleep."

  "That's not how I heard it, sire." The minister next to Commander Tomkin spoke up. "At least three Delktian captains say the Deathstalker slew him in single combat, man against magic."

  "It's a lie." Galeron sighed and narrowed his eyes. "They would say that. Delktians are obsessed with their own egos. There's no glory in having a mage killed in the dead of night."

  "I remember," Arlana said. "Didn't you have to promise a Delktian captain that you were a mage?"

  "What?" asked Soren, turning to glare at her.

  Galeron's heart dove into his stomach. There really wasn't a need to dig up his informer days. They were better left undisturbed.

  "When we were short on generals, Father sent me north to hold things together and coordinate intelligence," said Arlana. "Galeron was one of the better informers I had. When he wants to, he can charm the pants right off you." She looked at
him and grinned wickedly.

  "I don't need to know about your escapades," Soren said, wrinkling his nose.

  "It was a figure of speech," she said. "It would have been wildly inappropriate for royalty and commoners to mix." Arlana shifted in her chair and traced a finger up her leg. "But it would have been fun."

  "You said he was a mage."

  Arlana sighed. "Listening with one ear again. It doesn't become a king, Soren."

  "Think you can do better?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "I knew this would happen, and not a day after...I'm all that stands in your way to the--"

  "As if I want to sit in that old thing. Maybe the blow to your head was harder than you thought," she said. "Galeron wormed information out of a captive Delktian so easily that he about had a fit. They're very particular about their pride, you know. Galeron promised he used magic on him, just for the sake of appearances, and it calmed him down nicely."

  "Regardless, sire, he bears the Deathstalker's black sword," said Commander Tomkin. "The weapon and his own admission ought to be enough."

  Soren nodded. "Agreed." He turned back to Galeron. "My father offered you a place among his retainers and my sister's hand in marriage--"

  "And so much more," Arlana purred.

  Soren threw her a weary look. "Yet, here you are, a sell-sword committing treason. You assisted a mage in the murder of my son and attacked your king. You are my sister has a soft spot for you, else I'd have ordered your execution on the spot. What madness possessed you to choose this path over the rewards offered to you?"

  "I imagine that buxom milkmaid had something to do with it," Arlana said. "How is she these days?"

  Galeron scowled. She would bring up Melia. "Unimportant."

  Arlana's thin eyebrows shot up, and her full lips turned in a smile. "Oh, you don't say? She turned down a war hero? Well...the peasantry has such poor taste sometimes."

  "Answer the question," Soren said.