Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy Page 19

  “Name your price,” said Lale.

  Hyan answered: “I want to be king.”

  Lale snickered. “I’m afraid that’s out of my power, Duke.”

  “Not necessarily. I am royal heir. You need simply kill my queen.”

  “I am a general, Redfort, not an assassin.”

  “Exactly. No assassin could kill Elorien. She is too well guarded. I need an army to kill her.”

  “Then use your own.”

  “And have Heland see me as a usurper? Nay, Lale. If you want the girl, you shall obey my words, hum?”

  Lale was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “What exactly brews in that twisted mind of yours?”

  “I want you to conquer Heland and execute the queen.”

  “You are mad.”

  “I am also head commander of Heland’s armies. As such I pledge you: not a sword will hamper your conquest.”

  Lale barked a laugh. “What good is your crown without a kingdom?”

  “I will have my kingdom, Lale. I will not let you keep it. Conquer Heland. Execute the queen. Then leave.”

  “Humph! On what pretext?”

  “I will pretend to chase you. I can be quite the actor, you know. After you execute the queen, I will feign some grand show of bravery, storming over the palace walls with my men. Your part in the play will be to flee before me.”

  “I will not be made a fool of.”

  “Oh, you will, Lale. You will if you want the girl. Conquer Heland. Execute the queen. Let me chase you away. As soon as you’ve left Heland, and I am rightful king and hero besides, then you shall have the Esiren Firechild.”

  “You ask too much! You are mad! You’re asking me to feign a war!”

  “You’ve been fighting a real war over the girl for ten years. What’s a fake war in comparison, hum?”

  “You are madder than my father, Hyan Redfort. But I will do as you ask. I have business in the Forest first—the tree dwellers cannot wound a prince of Stonemark and go unpunished. But then I will return. In one moon, I will expect Heland’s borders empty of swords, and a clear passage to Brownbury. You ask a high price, Redfort, and a humiliating price. But for my father’s sake I will pay it.”

  Hyan clapped his hands together. “Splendid! Then we shall meet again in one moon, with you fleeing before me. Guards!”

  As the soldiers approached their duke, Lale turned to walk away. But at the mouth of the alley, the prince paused and looked back. “Oh, and Hyan?”

  “Yes, Lale?”

  “I was wondering. How did you get that old prune of a queen to name you her heir?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Lale’s voice was chilly. “Because you are a hornswoggler, Redfort. You revel in treachery, like a pig in filth. But I warn you, Hyan Redfort: if you try to hoodwink me, if for some reason I don’t get my girl, it will be your head I put on a spike.”

  Before Hyan could reply, Lale vanished around the corner. The fat duke dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, mumbled something under his breath, then walked the other way with his men.

  Roen crawled back up the roof. Dawn was rising over the city, gilding the roofscape. Roen’s mind pounded with what he had heard. Lale and Hyan conniving a mock war to kill the queen. Hyan—king. The mere idea sickened Roen.

  He stood up. Hyan Redfort would not see the sunset, he vowed. The rooffolk had waited long for the duke to return from Greenhill. Now they would catch him. They were ready. Roen felt excitement tingle through him.

  He crept to where Nepo slept, knelt by her, and touched her shoulder. The spindly woman opened her eyes, blinking sleepily. Slowly her gaunt face split into a smile.

  “Roen!” she breathed.

  “Nepo,” he said. “Hyan is back in the city.”

  For a second, Roen thought he saw disappointment in Nepo’s pale blue eyes. Before he could ponder it, a hand clutched his arm from behind. Roen turned to see Grom, Nepo’s younger brother, staring at him with his one eye.

  “You saw him?” Grom’s voice was cold and slow. “You saw Hyan?”

  Roen nodded. “In the alleys with his guards.”

  Grom’s grip tightened. “You sure, ground man?”

  “Does pigment blend in oil? Come, Grom, today your Ketya comes free.”

  Grom nodded and released his grip. “We wake the rooffolk.”

  The two men moved from blanket to blanket, waking the outlaws. They told the news to each in turn. Before the palace bells peeled dawn, three scores of outlaws stood amassed on the roofs, each with a sword in hand.

  For every sword there was a dead Redfort, Roen knew. For the past moon the rooffolk had been fighting a war of shadows against the City Guard. Redforts were found dead in dark alleys and darker taverns, knives in their backs or garrote marks round their necks. More weapons had been robbed from Redfort barracks, along with chests of food and wine and oil and cloth. These folks had been cutthroats and thieves in their former lives, and they fought as such. The Guard was helpless against them.

  They each had their reasons for fighting. Roen fought for his father. Grom fought for his Ket, whom he had sworn to protect. Burnface Bas and One Toothed Ok each had children in Hyan’s Dungeon, and Friendly Fara, Roen had learned, had once been raped by a Redfort. Others fought simply because Hyan had set prices on their heads. By naming their common cause aloud, Roen had turned them from runaways into savage fighters. And that common cause was catching Hyan Redfort.

  And today was the day, Roen thought. By the Spirit, today we roast the pig.

  He climbed onto a pointed steeple.

  “Rooffolk!” he said. “Today our friends and family come free from the Dungeon. Today the prices lift from our heads. To catch the duke we must spread over the city, a man on every roof. Sooner or later he’ll pass beneath one of us. When you see him, alert the others, and together we’ll leap down onto his guards and—”

  Suddenly, Roen fell silent and frowned. The crowd too frowned and rustled. Something was happening below in the streets. Roen heard a commotion of falling feet and clanking armor, like an army running. He heard shouts, grunts, singing, and above the din another noise—a girl’s voice. A familiar, squeaky voice. Roen could just barely make out the words.

  “Spirit help me, descend from heaven!” the girl cried. “Spirit help me, descend from heaven!”

  The clamor grew closer. Roen looked down between the overhanging awnings. In the street below, leading a group of ragged Esirens, ran Ketya. Pursuing the group were scores of armored Redforts.

  All around Roen, the rooffolk began to run. Swords drawn and faces grim, they leapt from roof to roof, following the escaped prisoners who ran below.

  “Spirit help me, descend from heaven!” Ketya cried.

  “What does she mean?” Roen asked Nepo, running beside her.

  They jumped over an alley and continued running along the long roof of a tavern.

  “When an outlaw is pursued by the Guard,” Nepo explained, “she doesn’t climb onto the roofs, so not to lead the Redforts to our camps. Instead she goes to a hideout, where we can ‘descend from heaven’ to help her.”

  Roen glanced down. The Redforts were many and armored. Roen did not see how the rooffolk could defeat them. The outlaws were stealth warriors; they could not face a real army in daylight. Roen’s stomach knotted. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They were supposed to kidnap Hyan, not face his Guard in battle. Roen considered calling his comrades to stop, but knew they wouldn’t listen. They were savage people, too given to their rage to heed reason. Roen felt his plans and hopes collapse.

  The outlaws stopped atop a wide, dilapidated building, which might once have been an inn, but now seemed to host only rats. Grom was the first to enter, crawling down the spout and into a window. Burnface Bas entered next, and after him One Toothed Ok. The rest of the rooffolk lined up to follow. Down in the street, the escaped prisoners entered the building and slammed the door shut.

  It was Roen’s turn to enter th
e window. He paused above it, hesitating. This was not the way. Entering this house would be entering a coffin. And yet... it was Roen who had convinced the outlaws to fight Hyan in the first place. If he backed down now, they would never trust him again. With a heavy heart, Roen slung himself over the roof and entered the window.

  He landed in a dusty attic. The single door was open, revealing a staircase. Roen climbed down the stairs into a large, cobwebbed room cluttered with broken furniture. The outlaws and freedmen crowded the place. Roen saw Grom embracing Ketya, mumbling, tears in his one eye. The gamine was splashed with blood. Many other escaped prisoners were just as bloody. Their clothes were torn and their faces dirty.

  The dirtiest prisoner, a girl of fifteen or sixteen years, stood on a table in the center of the room. She was so covered with soot, her skin and hair were black. Only her golden eyes marked her as an Esiren. Roen surmised from the way the freedmen surrounded her that she was their leader.

  “What do we do now, Aeolia?” one man said.

  Aeolia! Roen furrowed his brow. Where had he heard that name?

  The sooty girl bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said, sounding abashed and distraught at once. Strangely, her accent was Stonish. “Why do you ask me?”

  “You came here to save us, Aeolia!” Ketya piped, detaching herself from Grom’s embrace. “You are our Firechild. You must lead us!”

  The Esiren Firechild! Roen caught his breath. Could this girl truly be her, the one Sinther was hunting? The golden fireflies had begun glowing sixteen years ago, and this Aeolia looked about sixteen. It was possible. Roen remembered the conversation he had overheard. Yes, it all made sense. This was the girl Lale agreed to kill Queen Elorien for. This was the girl who would make Hyan king.

  Aeolia wrung her hands. “The men, grab tables and blockade the door. And guard the windows! Upstairs too. Um... the women and children, you search the building, look for slats of wood, sturdy chairs, anything that can be a weapon.”

  The escaped prisoners rushed to their tasks. The men and women collected chairs and tables. The children scurried for stools and broken slats of wood. Roen spotted an old, feeble man with long white hair struggling to drag a table. Roen rushed to help him, and the old man looked up.

  He was Smerdin.

  Roen dropped the table. For a moment he could not move. Then he cried and embraced his aged and whitened father.

  “Father! I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “My son, Roen, I can’t believe, I thought they got you too, I....” The old man’s words blurred into weeping.

  Before Roen could say more, booms rattled the blockaded door. Roen glimpsed the crimson uniforms of Redforts behind the wooden blinds. The building shook as the soldiers pounded against it.

  “Quick, more tables!” Aeolia cried. “Bring anything you can. Secure that door!”

  More tables were heaped. The door creaked, splintered, but held. Roen didn’t think it would hold long. He shuddered. The soldiers outside were armored and trained, and they outnumbered the outlaws.

  They won’t burn us out, Roen thought. They won’t risk hurting Aeolia. No, they would break in. The siege might last fifteen minutes, Roen reckoned. An hour at most. After that it would be a massacre.

  Smerdin seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “Roen,” he said, “is there another way out?”

  “There’s a window upstairs. You can climb onto the roof.”

  “Then go,” Smerdin said. “You must seek help.”

  “Help, where?”

  “From Elorien.”

  Roen laughed. “The queen? What do you mean? She won’t defy the Redforts’ right to claim escaped prisoners.”

  A window smashed open. A soldier slung a crossbow over the sill and shot. A woman clutched her chest and fell. Hurriedly, the Esirens slammed a table over the window, blocking it. The Redforts’ swords smashed at the table from outside.

  Smerdin held Roen’s head and looked into his eyes. “Elorien will do as you say. Trust me.”

  As crazy as it sounded, something in his father’s tone made Roen believe him. And so, with the sounds of splintering wood behind him, Roen turned to rush upstairs.

  “And hurry!” Smerdin called after him. “We won’t last long.”

  Roen dashed into the attic. Two Esirens stood guarding the window.

  “I’m going to get help,” Roen told them. “Let me out the window.”

  One of the men shook his head. “There are Redfort archers outside. You’ll be killed.”

  “I’ll climb onto the roof,” Roen said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll be shot dead.”

  “If I don’t get help, we’ll all be dead.”

  Roen laid his foot on the windowsill. He paused and looked back.

  “This Aeolia,” he asked. “Is she truly a Firechild?”

  The Esirens nodded. “True as they come.”

  Roen pursed his lips and pushed himself out the window.

  He saw them at once, two archers in the alley. Heart racing, Roen spun, jumped, and caught the roof. Bowstrings creaked below. Pain exploded in Roen’s thigh. He gritted his teeth and heaved himself onto the rooftop. Before he could duck, another arrow slammed into his shoulder. Jaw clenched, Roen ran, stumbling across several rooftops before he slumped down panting. He was out of range now. He only hoped the Redforts wouldn’t follow. If Aeolia was their main quarry, perhaps they’d let him flee. Roen didn’t think they had seen his face.

  He hurriedly reviewed his wounds. Blood soaked him, but no internal organs seemed to have been hurt. Healing would be quick. He took a mouthful of shirt and yanked out the arrow in his thigh, then the arrow in his shoulder. They came out with gushes of blood. Shakily, Roen ran his hands over his wounds. They closed perfectly, leaving not a scar. With a deep breath, Roen stood up and glanced behind him. The hideout was surrounded by a small crimson army like a puddle of blood. Fifteen minutes. An hour at most. Roen turned away and hopped onto the next roof.

  The domes and spires of Brownbury sprawled leagues ahead. The palace, glistening on the mountaintop, was agonizingly far. Roen moved as fast as he could, leaping heedlessly. But as he drew closer to the palace—higher up the mountain—the streets became wider, and the roofs farther apart. At Brewer Road, Roen was forced to climb down.

  It was afternoon—market hour—and the entire city thronged the streets. Roen wrapped his cloak around him, concealing the bloodstains and his face. He tried running, but the crowd was too thick. When he tried elbowing, the crowd jostled back. It seemed for every step he gained, he was pushed two steps back.

  “Let me pass!” he shouted. “I’m in a rush!”

  Faces in the crowd smirked.

  “We’re all busy,” one man said.

  “You’re no better than anyone else,” said a woman.

  Roen clutched his head. This couldn’t be happening, not now! He tried shoving harder. The crowd resisted him. Roen felt sick. He was stuck, his father was minutes from death, and the Redforts were about to make Hyan king.

  And then Roen heard a nasal voice from behind. “Out of our way, peasants! Coming through!”

  Roen turned his head and froze. Clad in enameled armor, sitting atop a chestnut destrier, Duke Hyan Redfort came riding down the street. The crowd fled from his horse’s hoofs.

  Roen knew what to do.

  He elbowed toward a fruit stall and climbed up. The vendor tried pushing him off, but Roen held his balance. When Hyan came riding by, Roen took a deep breath and leapt onto the duke’s horse.

  Hyan gaped, so stupefied he could utter only one word.

  “You!”

  If I had a knife I could have kidnapped him now, Roen thought ruefully. Then, with a sigh, he punched Hyan’s nose. The fat duke tilted in his saddle and crashed to the ground.

  Roen tried to control the bucking horse. He had never been much of a rider, and the destrier whinnied and kicked beneath him. Hyan rose cursing to his feet and drew his sword. Roen
kicked the horse madly. Be it his urging or the sight of Hyan’s steel, the horse broke into a wild gallop. People scurried out of its way.

  “Whoa, hold it, hold it!” Roen cried, clinging for life. The horse only galloped harder. At the end of the road it turned the wrong way, onto Market Street, heading away from the palace.

  “No, you fool!” Roen shouted. “Stop!”

  He pulled the reins mightily, and finally the horse slowed. Roen wheeled it around and began leading it in the correct direction. The horse moved leisurely, as if strolling in a park.

  “A little faster...,” Roen urged, kneeing gently.

  The horse burst into a wild gallop, crashing into everything. People screamed and fled. Stalls overturned. Fruit rolled. Dogs barked. Behind him, Roen saw Hyan lolloping in pursuit. But soon the duke vanished from sight. The galloping horse was nearing the palace. Before long, Roen was riding on Purple Lane, outside the royal gardens.

  The horse, however, galloped alongside the gardens, refusing to enter them. Roen cursed. How did anyone ride such a beast? He yanked the reins, trying to stop the animal. The horse seemed content at galloping full speed. No matter how hard Roen tugged, the horse wouldn’t slow. A vision of the hideout, its inhabitants dead, shot through Roen’s mind. He rose in his stirrups as the horse galloped under a sycamore. He reached up and grabbed a branch.

  The horse galloped out from under him. Roen was left dangling. Then the branch snapped, and he fell to the cobblestones. Muttering, Roen rose to his feet and ran into the gardens. The grassy sward sprawled all the way to the palace. Roen raced down the main path, his shoes thumping. Scores of marble statues, the likenesses of erstwhile monarchs, frowned as he ran by.

  The palace grew closer, looming above him. It was built of white marble, and its teardrop domes were gilded. Embedded in the widest tower was a huge, round clock with brass hands and golden numbers. Roen had painted these towers a hundred times. The thought that Hyan might soon rule them was unbearable.

  Finally Roen reached the end of the path, where a pair of wiry gates broke the palace wall. Behind the gates, a staircase stretched up to the palace. Before the gates, loomed the gatekeeper. Roen gulped.