David Dalglish - A Sliver of Redemption

“Halt!” shouted a guard, and by the growl of his voice, Sergan knew he had found no wet-eared conscript.

“I’m armed but not dangerous,” Sergan said, lifting his hands upward as two soldiers approached, both with their swords drawn. “I’m here on behalf of King Antonil, and I need to speak with your lord.”

“You’re a spy,” said one. “On your knees, now.”

Sergan fixed his most brutal glare on the man. “I would rather die with an axe in my hand than bow one knee to the likes of you.”

They circled him, one to his back, one to his front. So far he kept his axe at his side, and in truth he wouldn’t dare draw. He just needed to delay. Every second was precious.

“One last chance,” said the guard before him. “On your knees, now, and hand over your axe.”

“I’ve come to speak with your lord,” Sergan said. “I’ve come with an offer of…”

The guard behind him struck the back of his neck. Vision swimming, he fell to his knees. A sword pressed against his throat as the other took away his axe and cast it several feet to the grass.

“Where’s Gideon?” asked one of them. “Where’d you hide his body?”

Gideon?

“You mean that little boy pretending to be a soldier?” he asked. “He went running for Lord Hemman. Still, he’s a smarter man than either of you.”

The older struck his face with his fist. Sergan spat blood and chuckled.

“Now that’s the welcome I was expecting.”

A sword hilt struck his side, followed by a boot to his stomach. He coughed and beat the grass with a fist.

“What is going on here?” he heard a gruff voice ask. He glanced up to see a raven-haired man glaring down. He wore a thick coat of fine leather and a thin silver crown across his forehead. Several soldiers surrounded him, their belts bristling with weaponry.

“Hemman?” Sergan asked.

“Arthur Hemman, lord of the north. Step aside, both of you. I will not have a man who comes here in peace to be treated in such a manner.”

Sergan accepted an offered hand to stand. He glared at the men who had beat him, and they glared right back.

“A fine welcome for a man who comes offering a deal,” he said.

“They will be punished accordingly. Put them out of your mind, and please, tell me your name.”

Arthur had a nice baritone to his voice, and he stood with his back straight as a pole. Perhaps they might just get along.

“Fine then,” he said. “I’m Sergan Copperson, and I’ve served Neldar’s military since I was out of my diaper-cloth. I speak for Antonil Copernus, rightful king of Mordan.”

It was as if a lightning bolt shot through the surrounding soldiers. It didn’t seem possible, but Arthur stood even straighter.

“We serve the priest-king,” Arthur said. “It is treasonous to speak of loyalties elsewhere.”

This is it, Sergan thought. Tread carefully, like you got porcupines for socks.

“Loyalties forged in blood, protected in battle, and trusted for centuries shouldn’t be tossed to the wayside, nor ever be spoken of as treasonous,” he said.

“How can we trust he’s even alive?” asked one of the soldiers. Arthur held up a hand to silence him.

“Rude, but true. How has Antonil survived? Where has he been while another sits on his throne?”

“You can ask him yourself. He’s hardly a minute’s walk from here, just awaiting my signal that it’s safe.”

Sergan enjoyed the second bolt that ran through the soldiers. They were gathering now, at least thirty in the vicinity. He hoped it stayed quiet, though. If the priests caught wind of what was going on, matters would turn dire.

“He would come here, into the very camp of his enemy?” Arthur asked. “Surely he is not that foolish.”

“Not foolish,” said Sergan. “But he is brave enough to do so. Or would you come out and meet him, as is proper for a lord come to pay respects to his king?”

The tension thickened at once. Sergan stared at Lord Hemman, refusing to break eye contact. The man was thinking, tossing and turning over ideals, loyalties, and practical matters of fortune and standing. He’d thrown the dice. Time to see if it was a seven or the reaper’s eyes.

“I will go to him, as is deserving of his standing,” Arthur said. “But I will not go alone, nor unprotected. I do not question Antonil’s honor, but only those who might use his name for their purposes.”

“And the other lords?” Sergan asked. He felt the tension drain out of him and was beyond thankful. “Will you bring them, too?”

“I would rather not risk it,” said Arthur, and Sergan realized there were a hundred ways to interpret the response. “I will speak for the others in matters I am most comfortable, and relay to them anything beyond that. Now lead.”

Sergan glanced back into the darkness. He’d been instructed to bring Antonil by sending a messenger with a password. Seemed like it was time for a little deviation from that. Hopefully neither would get mad…or end up dead.

“Follow me,” he said. “Bring as many as you like, but keep your swords sheathed. They’re not alone or helpless, either.”

He turned to go, and Hemman followed with a group of ten soldiers. Sergan wasn’t entirely sure where Antonil waited. He’d been told they would move about, keeping to the skies and watching for any messenger or stranger wandering out in their direction. Such a large group as they were, he figured they’d find him with little difficulty. So he walked, keeping silent and glad those behind him did the same. He’d done his part. He’d talked, and did a damn fine job of it, too. At least, he thought he had. He wasn’t dead yet. Surely that counted for something.

“This is far enough,” Arthur said as they reached the end of the campfires’ light. “You say he is waiting, then where is he? I will not venture into the wilderness to await an ambush.”

Sergan glanced upward, then chuckled.

“He’s here,” he said. “Look to the stars, boys. We’ve got men with wings.”

Azariah landed first, a spell already glowing on his fingertips. Arthur’s soldiers stepped closer to their lord and readied their weapons. A single flap of the angel’s wings, and they tensed, preparing for an attack.

“Lay off ‘em,” Sergan said. “I’m no prisoner, and they’re no ambushers.”

Azariah nodded. He lifted his mace to the air and waved it once in a circle. Down came the rest of the angels, the two kings in their arms. Antonil stepped free, and when he saw Arthur, he smiled and bowed low.

“Welcome,” he said. “I am honored by the courage it must have taken to meet me.”

“How do we know he’s the real king?” one of the soldiers whispered a bit too loudly.

“Because I remember him from his wedding,” Arthur said, pushing the man aside. His eyes never left Antonil’s. “Welcome, King Antonil. I would embrace you, but sadly we find ourselves on opposite sides of this war, and I fear the dagger that might find my back.”

“Then let us remove that fear,” Antonil said. “Come. Join my army. Your allegiance to the true king of Mordan has not changed. You strike me as an honorable man. You know you belong at my side when I reclaim what was taken from me.”

“Your army?” asked Arthur. “I watched the chaos at the Bloodbrick. You fight with angels and elves and ruffians of Ker. Where are the men of Mordan? Where are the men of Neldar?”

“They are among the ruffians,” said Bram as he took a step forward. “Though I must say I disapprove of such an ignorant name.”

Arthur’s eyes widened as he realized who stood before him.

“King Bram,” he said, bowing. “You both honor me. I am not worthy, two kings come to visit just myself.”