Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 12

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10 minutes

The Emperor Lives

“Silence there!”

The ranger punctuated his command with a boot strike to the center of Tammet’s back. His hands were tied behind him, and he could not stop his fall. A sharp black stone raked across his face as he pitched into the forest floor. Tammet stifled a cry, unwilling to give even that to his captors. The stone had just missed his eye, and he could feel the hot blood already pouring from ear to cheek.

“Get up!”

The lead ranger was a short man, fair-haired and beardless beneath his cowl. What he lacked in stature he made up for with a stocky frame, and skin that bore remnants of the old pox. Another man, tallest of the five rangers, walked up beside the stocky leader. He ordered the remaining three to stay close to the other prisoners.

“That’s an ugly wound,” he said. “We’d better close it now. They’ve a long journey before Wyverheld, and we can’t have him bleeding out before we even make the wall.”

The leader scowled. “Let him bleed a bit. It’ll do him good.”

He grabbed the prince’s arm, lifted him as easily as he would a child, and shoved him to set him walking again. Tammet stumbled forward. Blood was pouring down his face. It pooled in the collar of his cloak.

The group continued in silence for a time. The travelers hadn’t been far from the nearest fortress when they were caught, and now it lay but a quarter mile east. Tammet glanced quickly at his mother. Rusu’s face was inscrutable. For a moment, she seemed to apologize with her eyes. She’d been trying to have a private word with him earlier, which was what led to the kick. Suddenly her eyes fixed upon the short leader, then flicked toward the men surrounding Mac Brón. She mouthed something. Tammet shrugged, not understanding.

“Alright, boy!” said the stocky man. “I told you not to speak, and that counts as speaking.”

He turned to the tall one. “Keep them here. I’m going to teach this boy a lesson.”

The tall ranger raised a hand of warning. When he did, his green cloak rolled down his arm, revealing the crimson hose of Ketch.

“Lassater,” said the man calmly. “You’d be a fool to lay another hand on the prince. This’ll look bad at the wall. Orders are to send him to the steward. Unharmed.”

“Oh, I won’t leave a mark, Frelco” said the stocky man. “Not another another, anyway.” Lassater chuckled. “But this boy must be put in his place. Now. Before the others see him. Many of us have had our loyalties questioned, though we served the emperor with honor. I will not have him sowing doubt; confusing the men, or giving further cause for dishonor among the-”

“Stay,” said Frelco. “This is not about your name and honor. I know your loyalty. You needn’t prove anything here. But if you harm the prince before he is judged, be sure our noble steward won’t forget it, even if mother and son are ruled traitor.”

The leader considered a moment. He looked at Tammet, and there was bitterness in his eyes. “You know my loyalty, Frelco. And yet, though I am captain, here you are, to keep an eye on us.”

The man called Frelco said nothing.

“Very well,” said Lassater, turning again to the prince. The flow of blood from one side of the boy’s face hadn’t visibly slowed. “Hold here a moment, then, while I clean him up.” The stocky man turned to the other three rangers. “And keep an eye on that big one. If he so much as moves — or if I give the order — you know just what to do with him.”

Mac Brón glared down at Lassater. Since he was missing a hand, the rangers had bent his arms up his back at the elbows, and had tightly and cruelly manacled them around the front of his chest. Every step sent pain through his shoulders. Lassater led Tammet off a dozen paces towards a table-shaped rock. He made the boy sit down, and then produced a healing kit. The stocky man made no attempt at gentleness; quite the opposite. He positioned his wide frame between the boy and the others. None but Tammet could see the lips move beneath his cowl.

“Look,” he muttered, and casually flipped his cloak hem to one side.

Beneath his green ranger’s cloak, he wore the royal blue. Tammet looked down, afraid to react.

“Four of us,” muttered the man, “Sent to the wall. But not the tall one.”

Tammet nodded with his eyes, then flicked them to the right, where the empress would be.

“Yes. She knows.”

Tammet sighed. That was what she’d been trying to tell him. They were saved, possibly.

“When we go back,” continued Lassater. “I run the tall one through. ‘Tis a shame. But he’s Ketch, and your passage must be unmarked.”

Tammet’s eyes fell. Were these the decisions that the powerful made for the sake of greater goods? For the second time in weeks, he’d encountered good men on the wrong side of things. The tall one would have spared him Lassater’s feigned cruelty. Was it right, then, to kill him?

“There’s no other choice,” muttered Lassater, seeing the boy’s expression. “Now bite down on this.”

He stuffed a wad of leather into Tammet’s mouth. The prince made himself look at the needle and thread that the ranger now raised to his cheek. The cut was indeed deep, if it needed stitching. The needle prodded, then pierced. He felt every inch of thread pulled through the wound. As it passed to and fro, he thought of the tall ranger who would soon die in his duty. Tammet resolved to endure his own suffering without complaint, as if by doing so he might make right the evil he was condoning. If only such men could be won over! But loyal men were loyal to the death. That was their strength, and their folly.

Finally the stitching was done. Lassater produced a small round bottle. Inside was a dark paste, which he smeared over the closed wound. Tammet could not stop himself now; he gasped, and tears filled his eyes. Without even waiting for him to recover, the stocky man raised him, and pushed him toward the group. The pain made it difficult to think, and Tammet stumbled forward with little sense of the rest of his body.

“Get back in place,” grunted Lassater, pushing him toward the tall one.

“And you!” he said, turning to the three rangers. “Do it now.”

Frelco made some sound, and he raised a hand to stay the others. In a flash, one of the rangers tore something from Mac Brón’s back, and the manacles fell free. Rushing to prevent them killing the prisoner, Frelco suddenly stopped in his tracks. He cried out in surprise when Lassater drew his own sword, and stepped towards him.

“Traitor!”

“Not I, friend,” muttered Lassater. “But the emperor was slain indeed, and you serve the one who slayed him.”

Frelco drew his own sword, and charged. Lassater met him steel-to-steel, while the other men — with Mac Brón — formed a circle to keep him from fleeing. The battle was savage, but quick. Both men fought in the classical style, but though Frelco’s reach was longer, Lassater’s blows were far stronger. He caught Frelco on a downstroke, and hit the other’s blade so hard that it slipped from his fingers. Lassater swung at his head, but Frelco was able to drop below the rushed blow. He scrambled backward on his haunches, but could not escape the circle of rangers. He stood up, and found five swords at his throat. Yet none of those who stood guard wished to strike the killing blow. The man was unarmed now. Lassater nodded, understanding the situation.

“I deem you a man of honor,” said Lassater, “and this does not please me.”

Frelco looked at his killer, afraid, but uncowed. He would not spare his eyes the killing stroke, but glowered down at his executioner’s blade. Reeling from the pain in his own face, Tammet looked to his mother. His eyes implored her; for what, he did not know. She looked back at him, flint-eyed. Waiting.

“Halt!”

The words cost him dearly. Tammet felt the fresh-bound wound strain beneath the black paste.

“The prince,” said Lassater, through thin lips, “can do nothing for this man. His loyalties are to the emperor’s killer.”

Lassater set his killing stroke, but Tammet burst into the ring, placing himself between the stocky man and the Knight of Ketch. He looked again at his mother. She dipped her eyes. She would not lead him now. It was for Tammet to act.

“I am…emperor’s son,” said the boy, wincing. “And not by sin shall I take my throne. This man is my subject, and he has done no wrong.”

Lassater stared at him, dumbfounded, his face growing red with gathering rage.

“He serves the steward!”

“-No!” interjected the boy. “Step back, man. All of you.”

Lassater looked at him, still incredulous, but he and the others lowered their swords. Tammet turned to Frelco. The prince’s face was bleeding again, for speaking strained the new bindings.

“Your loyalty, sir? Is it to steward or emperor?”

The tall ranger eyed him with undisguised skepticism. He seemed to weigh his words carefully.

“Truly, young prince, ‘tis to the realm of Talahm-lár, and to him who rules it in justice. But that, I think, is not you. For have you not slain your own father?”

Tammet only looked at him. The man’s eyes were pure and true, and yet full of loathing for his own person, a loathing which only honor restrained behind polite tones. Here, even now at Tammet’s mercy, this knight was ruled neither by fear, nor by wishful thoughts.

“You must decide that,” answered the prince.

He lifted his hand, and held the palm flat and high, sweeping it across the other’s brow. It was the gesture of royal pardon.

“I free this man,” he said, looking hard at Lassater. “And hold him guiltless.”

The rangers, other men who wore the royal blue, let their swords fall to the ground, starting with the oldest. Tammet looked again at his mother, but her eyes were not on him. She stared up into the canopy. A little light came through the black trees, and found its way to her face. He turned back to Frelco.

“Go now. To the fortress. To your red knights. Or else to whatever seems right to you.”

Frelco took a step back. Reluctantly, the circle opened to let him pass. Slowly, he began to walk away from the other rangers, moving east, as if toward the great Wall of Fortresses that overlooked the lands of the Worm. Tammet kept his hand raised, holding back the other rangers. When the tall one was clear, he made as if to sprint toward the wall, then suddenly stopped. He looked at the prince, nodded, and, scooping up his kit, fled west into the darkened wood.

For a time, they stood in silence. Lassater himself went off, and clutched at the bark of a tree as if to sate his rage. The empress came up to Tammet, and began clean the blood which again seeped from his cheek. Finally Mac Brón approached. The hint of a smile teased the beard around his lips.

“You look hideous,” scoffed the northman. “Can’t you heal your own face?”

Tammet shrugged. Healing was not so easy in his own case.

“Leave it, then,” said the barbarian. “You look more the man now.”

He walked off, leaving Rusu to attend to him. Lassater returned then, flanked by his rangers.

“What now, prince?” he said, pointing to the woods after Frelco. “He goes, perhaps to inform the steward.”

“Perhaps,” said the empress, “but I think not. The wall is east.”

Lassater sighed, and shook his head. “What do you wish of me, empress? Shall I at least track him?”

She shook her head no. “You must take us through the Wall of Fortresses. Past them, and down into the lands of the Worm.”

“That is madness, my queen.”

“Even so.”

He bit his lip, and stared angrily into the dirt, digging at it with his boot. “And then what? What use are we to you, we who have waited here, biding our time, and risking our lives to help you?”

She smiled at him. When he saw her face, color came into his pock-marked cheeks, and he was forced to look away from her. She touched his elbow.

“Continue to do so,” she said. “Bring us to the cursed land first. Then, go. Do as you feared the Knight of Ketch would. Spread the word, but in secret, to trusted men. And this is what you are to say: The emperor lives, young and true, and he will come again to claim the land.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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