HaHA! Here it is! Sorry it took so long. I hit a bout of writers' block, and then I forgot about it for a while, and then school started… anyway, thanks for bearing with me (at least, I hope you're bearing with me). Well, I present to you Chapter Five in Son of Kings! Enjoy (and review)!!
Chapter 5
"Calm down, lad, wait a bit!"
"Lemme go! I want my father! Don't take me—"
"Your majesty—"
"I said, let me GO!"
"Andrin, stop it!"
Breathing hard and glaring at the man who had a firm grip on his elbows, Andrin stopped struggling. Rendeg, captain of the guard, looked him sternly in the eyes and said, "Your father told my soldier to get you out of the city, and he did as he was told—on your father's orders. If you go back now, you're disobeying him. If you have any respect for him, you'll stay where you are."
With a rebellious glance at the path that led up to Minas Morgul, Andrin sank sullenly to the ground. "I want to go to meet him."
"He'll be here shortly, lad. He wasn't far behind us."
"But he was hurt," Andrin retorted, glowering at Rendeg. "It'll take them longer because of that."
"My soldier said that the wound was little more than a cut. A journey on horseback won't be too strenuous for him."
Andrin hunched his shoulders against the cold morning that was just beginning to dawn. Rendeg took off his cloak and slung it across the young prince's back. "Your father will come," he said softly, and then he turned and walked away.
Andrin could not help but relive, again and again, what had happened. The Gadianton throwing the dagger, the blade thudding through the metal of the armor, his father's shaking hand wrenching it out, his order to the soldier to remove his son from the city, kicking and shouting as he was dragged away, his last glimpse of his father as Drían bent over him…
"He'll be alright," Andrin told himself in a whisper. He drew Rendeg's cloak closer around him, grateful of the thick cloth that turned away the cold.
Most of the army had come ahead with the soldier who took Andrin, setting up camp when they arrived at the foot of the canyon. They had placed the prince directly in the middle of the ring of tents, next to the fire, where he was constantly surrounded by soldiers. They all settled down to wait for the remainder of the men to arrive.
It took a full hour before they saw the first horses crest the ridge, solemn soldiers perched on top. Andrin leapt up, forgetting the bowl of stew that had been provided him moments before, and dashed towards the sloping path to meet them. He was caught at the edge of the ring of tents, however, by Rendeg, who threw an arm across the prince's chest to hold him back, a strange look on his face. A mutter swept the camp as the men approached, grim and quiet. No shouts of victory, no gleeful yells… only stoic silence. Andrin fought against the captain's grip, but to no avail; he called for his father, but no answer came.
"Something's wrong," a soldier near them whispered as they watched the line of silent soldiers grow nearer. "Where's the king?"
The men were dismounting, leading their horses through the camp to the meadow. Most gazed determinedly at the ground, and the few who looked up would not meet Andrin's eyes. A feeling of foreboding had welled up inside the young prince, and he broke free of Rendeg and rushed to a white mare, upon which Drían rode, silent and unsmiling.
"Uncle, where—"
But Andrin stopped short. Between four horses that rode in close formation were stretched four ropes that met at the middle, bound to an improvised stretcher. A blanket was lashed between two heavy boughs and fortified with lengths of rope, and on it—
Andrin felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. His heart waited an eternity between each beat; his breath did not seem to want to come. His hands shook, and he felt a strangled, wrenching sob tear out of his throat. "Father," he mouthed, but no sound came. He reached out to touch the still form, but he recoiled at the last second, not wanting to feel the cold, clammy skin that, mere hours ago, had been so warm.
His father's face was tranquil and serene even in death. His hands rested on his chest, clasped over the hilt of his sword, which had been wiped clean of blood. He could have been sleeping but for the utter stillness of his body—his chest did not rise and fall with breath, his hands did not twitch, his eyes remained shut.
Andrin felt strong arms lifting him, drawing him away from his father's body, and he looked up to see Rendeg, tears coursing openly down his weathered face. He drew Andrin close to his chest as he carried him towards a tent, and the prince tried to pretend that the muscular arms that held him belonged to his father, but it did not work. No amount of pretending would change the fact that the king's lifeless body lay behind him, borne between somber.
He was dimly aware of Rendeg laying him gently on a mat and pulling a blanket over him. There were people moving around him, but he hardly noticed them; all he could think about was the empty hole in his heart where his father had always been.
His eyes had been dry until now, but he suddenly felt an overpowering wave of tears welling up in his throat. It started quietly, silent tears slipping down his face, and built in momentum until his whole body was wracked with sobs. He curled up on the mat, burying his head in the pillow. He'd had his father back for a few brief moments, and then it had all been snatched from him once more. Nothing was right now, nor would it be again, and the peaceful life he had led in Minas Tirith until a week ago seemed like a past that belong to someone else, one that was in no way connected to him.
What seemed like an eternity later, he slipped into a fitful slumber.
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Rendeg stood silently, his arms folded, gazing down broodingly at the small form curled on the mat. The young prince shifted uneasily in his sleep, shivering even with the warmth of thick wool blanket on top of him. The captain of the guard knew that there was nothing he could do to ease the grief, but he wanted to reach out and cradle the boy in his arms, sooth him, tell him that everything would turn out alright.
"Captain?"
Rendeg turned. In the door of the tent stood Captain Drían, the king's brother. One hand was clenched over the hilt of the sword that hung at his waist; the other was shaking slightly. Rendeg tried to read the unfathomable emotion in those dark eyes as he inclined his head in a solemn gesture of mourning. Fighting down the lump in his throat, he asked hoarsely, "How did it happen?"
With a long breath, Drían began pacing back and forth. He was silent for a moment before he spoke in a subdued voice. "The first dagger wound was not fatal. He was blacking out, but it was from pain and loss of blood—he would have survived had we gotten him out in time. The only soldier who had noticed took the prince and left on Andrith's orders. I turned around to find someone to help me get him out of the Dead City, and while my back was turned, a Gadianton plunged this into his stomach."
From his belt he had drawn a long, crude dagger that was obviously of Gadianton make. It trembled in his pale hand, and he turned away as he swallowed hard, his face etched with grief. Rendeg approached him gravely and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. "The people will mourn his passing, but none more than his family. I'm sorry, captain."
"Where is the prince?"
Rendeg glanced over his shoulder at the form asleep on the mat, and Drían, following his gaze, moved towards the boy and knelt beside him. He laid his hand momentarily on his nephew's forehead, and then he stood. "Have you any idea why the Gadiantons kidnapped him in the first place?"
The captain of the guard let out a long breath. "I would say that it was to lure the king into a trap, except that they could not have thought that they had enough men to pull that off successfully. Then there's the possibility of ransom, but there were no demands made, even with three days between the prince's disappearance and the night we attacked. Then there's the question of how they even knew he was in Osgiliath, or what he looked like when they arrived to take him." He shook his head gravely. "There must be a spy within our ranks," he said softly, "someone feeding information to the Gadiantons."
Rendeg's mind had deduced this fact directly after the prince's abduction, but his heart had yet to accept it. He did not believe that any one of his men would sink low enough to reveal information that would be fatal to his king. They were not perfect, but they were good, loyal soldiers whose fealty to their sovereign could hardly be doubted.
He watched Drían gazing silently out at the gray streaks of dawn that were beginning to shoot through the sky, and his gaze traveled from the uncle to the nephew. He inhaled sharply when he realized the full percussions of the king's death on his son: Andrin, son of Andrith, was now the fourth king of the Reunited Kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor.
Boys are not meant to be kings, Rendeg thought bitterly as he watched the new leader of his kingdom toss fitfully in his sleep. He should not have had to take up this mantle yet. He can no longer be a boy, he has to be a man. His father is not the only part of him that died today; he can never have his childhood back.
The army put a day between itself and Osgiliath, and another long trek still stretched ahead of them when they settled down for the night. They had not moved nearly as quickly as they had in coming; the soldiers were not particularly eager to return home, not bearing such tidings as they had. Victory seemed a small gain in light of what they had lost.
An unusual quiet oppressed the camp that night. Voices that were usually raised in song and merriment were subdued into grave solemnity. Laughing faces had lapsed into melancholy sorrow, and grief was etched in the countenances of more than a few.
Drían sat beside the fire that blazed inside the ring of captains' tents, the picture of grief and helpless rage. In truth, sorrow was not an emotion he associated with himself; he had known before he ever started planning that he would have to push it all away. Rage, however, was right on the mark. The battle had been intended to kill the kingand the only other claimant to the throne, Andrin, but he had only succeeded in getting rid of one. That had been too risky as it was; he had planned to corner the two alone in the dungeon, kill Andrith before he had time to realize what was happening, and then dispatch his nephew. He had been delayed at precisely the wrong moment, though, by a Gadianton who was particularly adept with a blade, and he had missed his chance. It was a miracle that no one had seen him stab his own brother in the midst of the battle.
He had to think of another means by which to clear his way to the throne.
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A score of men sat grouped around a crackling fire, whose merry blaze belied the heavy mood that had settled over them. There were very few whose thoughts were occupied by anything other than what had happened at the culmination of the battle; most found they were unable to push it from their minds.
Their king was dead.
"Captain Drían hasn't spoken a word to anyone all day."
The speaker was a rugged man with a short, bushy beard and small, dark eyes. "I heard Jyd telling someone that the king's death devastated him, maybe even past repair."
"I feel more sorry for the prince," answered another quietly. "His father's dead, poor lad, and suddenly he's got a country to run on top of it."
"He won't run the country," said a third. "Captain Drían is the only other male in the House of Telcontar; he'll act as regent until our new king is old enough to take responsibility for it."
"I don't know if Captain Drían is in the right state to be regent. Like I said… perhaps he'll go mad."
"Aye," quipped another man. "He and the king were very close, I hear tell."
Someone made a hushing noise, and all stopped talking to listen. Footsteps were approaching from the darkness surrounding the fire, and a moment later someone emerged from between the tents.
"Is there one here by the name of Solin?" the newcomer asked, scanning the faces of those grouped around the fire.
A shadow moved just outside of the ring of light. A man, sheathing a dagger he had been sharpening, unfolded himself and moved from the darkness into the flickering glow. "I am he."
He was tall, with long, dark hair, a narrow face, and roving eyes. He carried himself warily, even though no danger threatened, and he seemed to take in everything within his sight. The sword that hung at his side, even now when most men had left their own with their belongings, was thin, light, and of exquisite make. Every muscle that moved spoke of power, agility, and speed.
The messenger looked rather intimidated by the belligerent appearance of the man, but to his credit, his voice only quavered slightly when he spoke.
"Captain Drían requests your presence in his tent immediately. Shall I tell him you're coming?"
"No need," the man named Solin answered, starting off in the direction of the captains' tents. "I'll tell him myself."
Two soldiers were standing at the entrance when he arrived, allowing him to pass only once he had stated his name and business. He pushed aside the canvas tent flap and stepped inside. Captain Drían was pacing restlessly back and forth across the floor. He looked up as Solin entered.
He bowed. "You asked to see me, Captain?"
Drían nodded curtly. "Yes, soldier. Dismiss the guards outside my tent; tell them to help secure the camp's perimeter."
Solin did as he was told, though there was hardly any need to relay the orders; the tent was hardly soundproof, and the guards had heard quite clearly. Returning to face the captain, he waited patiently while Drían paced for a few moments longer. Finally, he paused and looked at his subject.
"I need a task done," he said slowly, "one that requires a very skilled warrior. While looking for one, I was referred to you. Are you as good as they say you are?"
Solin knew flattery when he heard it, but that did not by any means make him immune to it. He felt very gratified that his skills had come to the attention of a commanding officer other than the one that oversaw the faction of troops to which he belonged. Humbly, though, he answered, "I don't know what they say, sir, but I do my best."
Drían let out a hollow laugh. "Don't bother with modesty, soldier, I want the truth."
Solin allowed the shadow of a smile to flit across his features. "Very well, sir. I'm the best you'll find in all of Gondor."
"Then answer me a question. How far does your loyalty to me extend?"
He was slightly surprised by this question, but he answered without hesitation. "I would give my life for you, sir." It was true; in his opinion, if a man would choose his own life over the life of a member of the royal family, then that man's life was not worth living.
Drían contemplated him a moment. "Your life?"
"Every one of them if I had a thousand. Give me an order, sir, and I shall carry it through to the very best of my ability."
Drían let out a long breath. "You deserve to be a captain, sir."
Solin didn't know how to respond. To be addressed as 'sir' by his superior—what was more, by the man who was probably about to become regent of a kingdom—was something he had never prepared himself for. "I—sire, I don't…" he stammered, "I don't know how to thank you for such a compliment. Give me any task, captain, but make it nigh impossible, so that when I complete it, I can feel at least partially worthy of the honor you have shown me."
Drían waved him off. "You're already worthy. I only ask this as a favor."
"Anything," Solin said hoarsely.
"You swear you'll do whatever it is I ask of you? I'll have you made a captain upon our return to Minas Tirith should you succeed."
"My captain, you honor me. I swear, upon every fiber of my being, or let me die by my own hand."
Drían smiled. "That will not be necessary, I'm sure."
"What is it you require of me?"
There was a brief pause.
"I need you to kill the prince."