Ruins of Camelot (17 page)

"But surely, the King's forces greatly outnumbered that of the enemy," Thomas interjected.  "They were a mere collection of brutes and peasants, many of the latter conscripted against their will.  What could they do against an organised royal militia?"

"Such were surely the thoughts of High Constable Ulric," Yazim agreed.  "But Field Marshal Darrick was in charge of the spies, and what he heard in their reports made him wary.  None today know the details of those reports.  It may be that Merodach had stricken alliances with foreign powers, securing a much larger secret force to help overthrow Camelot.  If so, nothing was ever proven.  Regardless, Darrick advised Ulric to strike covertly, to flank the enemy camps by night rather than confront them head-on by daylight, as was the High Constable's plan."

"But Ulric refused, I should guess," Thomas commented.  "After all, stealth and trickery are hardly the tactics of a noble army.  Why resort to cunning by dark when one can rely on the might of numbers and the courage of conviction?"

"You would make an excellent High Constable yourself, my friend," Yazim smiled grimly.

"Alas, I would not, for I do not labour under such convictions myself.  I am far too interested in the solidarity of my own skin to risk it for that of the Kingdom.  But we are speaking of Camelot.  Men were indeed willing to die on its behalf.  They considered it a high honour."

"To die, yes," Yazim nodded, turning his face to the fire, "but not to be slaughtered."

Thomas shook his head slowly.  "But how could such a thing happen?"

"It is a mystery that has vexed the tellers of histories for many decades," Yazim admitted.  "All that is known for sure is that Merodach simply waited.  He appeared to mount no preparation against the camps of the King's army.  When the Army attacked, Merodach's forces merely fought back, but with strange, deadly ferocity.  There was no contest.  The King's ranks fell before the sword of the enemy like wheat before a scythe.  It is said that a freak storm fell upon the melee, driving the Army back from the foothills and allowing the enemy to descend upon them in the open, surrounding them like a noose.  When it was over, the valley floor was beaten to mud and stained red with the blood of the King's soldiers, most of whom died horribly and viciously."

"Thus, Darrick did die on that day," Thomas nodded gravely.

"No," Yazim countered, looking up at his friend.  "Sir Ulric and the Princess's husband were captured.  His tale was told by his personal page, who managed to escape from the enemy camp that night along with a few others.  By the time they straggled back to the castle, the day after the birth of the young Prince, there were barely a hundred left to tell the tale."

Thomas frowned as the wind gusted again, carrying dead rose petals into the air.  "To what end?  Did the brute Merodach intend to use them as bartering tokens?"

Yazim let out a small, derisive laugh.  "To barter for what?  There was nothing the King had that Merodach wanted, save for the throne itself.  Merodach's only aim was destruction and mayhem."

"Then what did he want with the Princess's man, Darrick?"

Yazim glanced at Thomas again and then up at the silhouette of the ruined castle.  "It is quite simple, I suppose," he answered speculatively.  "He wanted to interview him."

Merodach's stronghold was at the top of a short tower keep that had been captured many months earlier.  It had been barely guarded at the time, being mostly forgotten and overgrown, but Merodach had transformed it into a thriving hub, fortified by no less than thirty watchmen and guards. 

Darrick sat on a bench next to High Constable Ulric near the centre of the round room, surrounded by six of the hardest, most inhuman-looking men he had ever seen.  Two other prisoners, Darrick's and Ulric's pages, were chained to the wall by manacles.  Their captors stood against the curved walls, arms crossed or hands on the hilts of their swords, their faces nearly expressionless in the evening gloom.  Rain fell beyond the narrow windows, filling the room with its steady roar and cool mist.  In the middle of the room was a heavy table, close enough that Darrick could see parchments scattered over it.  A large scroll had been sketched neatly, showing a detailed outline of the King's army encampments.  Behind the table sat an ornate chair, still impressive despite its age and wear.

"They mean to interrogate us," Ulric muttered to Darrick, his voice gravelly.  He'd been injured, but not mortally.  The left side of his face was covered with a mask of dried blood, staining his red sideburns and goatee dark maroon.  "We must withstand whatever torture they inflict upon us for the sake of the Kingdom.  If we survive the night, I have devised a plan—"

"Be still your tongue," one of the guards growled with slow emphasis, "or we'll take it away from you."

"Do what you must," Ulric replied, lifting his chin.  "We will not obey your orders."

The guard's eyes narrowed, and his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword.  A moment later, however, a shadow moved as light bloomed in the room.  A man climbed the stairs, carrying a torch.

"Forgive me for making you wait, good sirs," the man said, smiling at Darrick and Ulric and notching the torch into an iron stand.  He was thin but muscular, with slightly receding dark hair, cut short and swept forwards so that it accentuated his square, regular features.  He looked more like a pleasant school professor than a warlord.  "Battle is a very time-consuming business, as you surely know," he went on, forgoing the chair and leaning against the corner of the table nearest the captives.  "Fortunately, it seems that this particular skirmish is, for the most part, behind us now.  Even you must be relieved by that fact, despite your predicament."

Merodach glanced over the table, spied a wad of cloth on its ledge, and reached for it.  Drawing his sword with a flourish, he held it before him, showing the streaks of dark blood that stained it.  He raised the cloth to wipe off the blade and then paused, glancing up at Darrick and Ulric.

"Now, there's no reason that this needs to be at all unpleasant," he said glancing from one to the other.  "I presume that you already know why I have brought you here, yes?"

"Do your
worst
, you cur," Ulric spat, drawing himself upright and making to stand.  "We will never bow to you, never give you the satisfaction of—"

Merodach moved almost lazily.  He swung his sword around in a short, sweeping arc, slashing it diagonally across Ulric's throat.  Darrick ducked as blood spurted forth in a curtain.  Ulric gagged, choking on his own blood, and clutched uselessly at his neck.  When Darrick looked up at him, he saw that Ulric's head was very nearly severed.  A moment later, the High Constable keeled back over the bench and hit the floor, dead.  He lay there crumpled, one heel still hooked over the bench, his eyes staring up with blank shock.

"There," Merodach said, leaning back against the table and looking at his sword.  "As I said, there is no reason for unpleasantness. 
You
won't be unpleasant," he asked, glancing up at Darrick, "will you, my good sir?"

Darrick was too stunned to speak.  He looked at Merodach and willed himself to stay calm. 
The amazing thing,
he thought,
is that if I were pitted against him on the battle floor, I think I could defeat him.  What is it about him that makes him so confident?

"That's better," Merodach replied, as if Darrick had answered him.  "I only have a few simple questions.  Nothing I could not learn via other sources if it became necessary, so you must not feel you are doing your king a disservice by answering them."

"And why," Darrick began in a dry rasp, then cleared his throat, firming his voice, "and why should I answer you?  You'll just kill me when you are through."

Merodach frowned slightly.  "Why would I do something like that?  You think I enjoy killing people?  You are but a young man with a full life ahead of you.  I'd sooner destroy a priceless work of art than end your noble life.  Answer me my questions, and surely, you will live to see another day."

Darrick considered this and then shook his head slowly.  "You're lying," he said, narrowing his eyes.  "You've murdered hundreds of people.  We all know the stories of your cruelty.  Your name is a tale of horror
throughout
the Kingdom."

At this, Merodach grimaced.  He lowered his sword across one knee and began to clean it with the cloth in his left hand.  "Regrettable but necessary propaganda," he announced with a sigh.  "Alas, I have been forced to take some rather unfortunate actions in the name of my quest, but that does not make me into some sort of monster.  Still, I respect that you doubt my word.  The truth is," he said, raising his eyes again, "I need you alive.  You are the King's son-in-law, are you not?  You have his very ear.  He will listen to you.  I need you alive… to take him a message for me."

Darrick studied Merodach's face, looked into the man's eyes.  "What message?"

"In good time," Merodach replied, waving the rag in his hand as if the issue was unimportant.  "First, let us get a few niggling questions out of the way.  Tell me, good Sir Field Marshal, how many trebuchets are left to guard the city walls of Camelot proper?"

Darrick paused.  He lowered his chin thoughtfully and then raised it again.  "Fifteen," he answered, looking directly into Merodach's eyes.

Merodach smiled at Darrick and then chuckled.  The chuckle turned into a light laugh, and he lowered his sword so that its tip touched the floor.  None of the guards, Darrick noticed, joined their leader in his mirth.

"Good sir," Merodach laughed, shaking his head.  "That, I believe, is the worst lie I have ever heard.  Come now, be reasonable.  I
want
to let you live, if only so you can perform my little errand.  Don't make me kill you for such pathetically feeble attempts at deception.  Answer me truthfully.  How many trebuchets defend the city walls?"

Darrick sighed deeply.  He looked away towards the narrow windows and the falling rain beyond.  "Six," he answered, and then shook his head.  "Perhaps less.  I don't recall."

"I think you recall very well, sir," Merodach said with a knowing smirk, "but good enough.  Thank you.  Now, what number is the King's retinue, and what is his daily schedule?"

Darrick met Merodach's gaze again and frowned.  "I do not know what you mean.  I only moved into the castle upon my wedding, and I left very shortly thereafter.  I am not aware—"

"
The King's daily schedule!
" Merodach shouted suddenly, leaping to his feet and flashing his sword.  "When does he leave the castle?!  Who accompanies him?  How many?!"  Spittle flew from Merodach's lips as he screamed, leaning close to Darrick's face.  "Lie to me one more time and you may return to the castle lacking your hands and feet! 
Tell me now!
"

"He does not keep a regular schedule!" Darrick answered loudly, leaning back and hating himself for the waver in his voice.  "He does as he pleases!  He is the King!"

"
How many are in his retinue?!
" Merodach demanded, his eyes bulging.