No question about it: the hurt in his bowels was going to be stupendous. Already it seemed to cut off his supply of air. Sweat or tears ran from him as if he were a sodden towel being twisted. There were too many candles glaring in his eyes. Yet he kept his grip on the captain.
“And I am the only lord here. King Joyse suffered me to remain when the others rode away. I have acted as his chancellor and advisor. Something must be done about the panic. Power must be assumed by someone who will be believed. Who else would you have?
“Who else is there?”
Norge blinked at this question as if he didn’t think it was worth answering.
“I have no hereditary claim, no official standing.” The Tor wanted to wail or weep, but he couldn’t get that much voice past the pain. “But if you support me in this, Castellan Lebbick’s second, a man with the King’s guard behind him—” A gasp came up from his kneecaps, nearly blinding him. “If you support me, I will be accepted.”
“My lord Tor,” the captain remarked dispassionately, “even if I support you, you’ll scarcely be able to stand.” After a moment, he added, “If I can say so without offense, my lord, you aren’t the king I would have chosen.”
“A fat old man sodden with wine and unable to stand.” It was embarrassing to be in tears at a time like this, but the Tor’s hurt had to have some outlet. “I understand. Do you?”
“My lord” – Norge’s calm was maddening, really – “you need a physician. Let people in better condition worry about Orison.”
“Fool,” the lord moaned. “You do not understand.” Pulling on Norge’s mail, heaving against the pain, he got one leg under him; that enabled him to shift his other hand from the floor to Norge’s shoulder. He felt like he had Eremis’ fruitbat gnawing on his guts. Nevertheless he panted through his tears and sweat, “Someone must take command. Orison must be led. And I am here. Prince Kragen is here. For the first time, we know our enemies. We must not miss this opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Norge asked noncommittally.
Oh, for the strength to scream! The Tor’s stomach and throat seemed to be filling up with blood. “An alliance with Alend,” he croaked out. “Against Cadwal. A chance to end this siege and fight.”
The captain said nothing; his reaction was unreadable.
“Norge.” Peering through a blur of pain, the lord leaned closer to whisper straight into the captain’s face. “If I can make an alliance with Prince Kragen, will you support me?”
Norge spent an astonishing amount of time lost in thought. He took forever to arrive at a decision. Or maybe he just seemed to take forever.
Then he said, “All right, my lord Tor,” as if he had never hesitated in his life.
The Tor groaned thickly – relief and anguish. A desire to lie down and hug his belly nearly overwhelmed him. Somehow, however, he forced himself to ask, “How is the Prince?”
Norge glanced away, then answered, “Rousing.”
Hoarse with stress, the Tor breathed, “Reports. I need reports. I must know what is happening.”
Ponderously, as if Norge weren’t carrying most of his weight, the old lord struggled to his feet.
For a moment, pain rose like vomit into his mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; if Norge hadn’t held him, he would have fallen. But that was intolerable. So much weakness was intolerable. If he let himself fail now, Castellan Lebbick would probably get up from the dead and go do his job for him.
With a gasp that went through him like a blade, he pulled air into his chest.
Almost at once, his vision cleared.
Prince Kragen was rousing, no question about it. Artagel still sprawled on the floor as if Master Gilbur had broken his neck; but the Prince was crawling stupidly toward his sword.
A guard who didn’t know any better and probably hated Alends stepped forward to kick the sword out of Kragen’s reach.
“Stop,” coughed the Tor.
Norge ordered the guard to stop.
Still barely conscious, Prince Kragen got a hand on his sword and at once began climbing to his feet.
Each movement helped bring him back to himself; the weight of his weapon seemed to make him stronger. By degrees, he came upright, planted his legs, clenched both fists on the hilt of his longsword. His eyes lost their glazed dullness and began to smolder with a murderous rage.
Instinctively, he sank into a fighter’s crouch. The tip of his blade searched for the nearest enemy. He was going to swing—The Tor nearly wept at the thought that Prince Kragen might do something which would force the guards to kill him.
But the Prince didn’t swing. Slowly, he turned toward the doors; he saw that men blocked his way. “Dastards!” he spat as he wheeled back.
“Who struck me?” he demanded softly. “Where is King Joyse?”
“My lord Prince.” Trembling, the Tor released one of his hands from Norge, then the other. Alone, he took two tottering steps toward Prince Kragen, as if he were presenting his belly to the Prince’s blade. Fire seemed to run like water out of his guts and down the nerves of his legs; nevertheless he kept his head up. “Forgive my weakness. I am unwell.
“You were struck by Artagel.” He nodded toward Artagel’s supine form. “You see the outcome.
“King Joyse is gone. He disappeared shortly after you fell – when Gart attacked.”
“Gart?” Prince Kragen’s eyes widened; his rage receded slightly. His mind was beginning to function. He shifted his grip on his sword. “The High King’s Monomach was here?”
The Tor nodded, conserving his strength.
At once, Prince Kragen scanned the hall, plainly searching for confirmation. He noticed the archers and pikemen dead on the balcony, the slain Apts; he absorbed the absence of the King’s counselors, the absence of the Masters. He saw Castellan Lebbick stretched out behind the Tor, and his mouth twisted under his moustache as if he were suddenly sick.
“My lord Tor,” he said in a bitter snarl, “where are my companions, Geraden and the lady Terisa? They also were protected under a flag of truce.”
Still whispering because he didn’t have any choice, the old lord replied, “Gart had allies. Master Eremis. Master Gilbur.” He saw from Prince Kragen’s face that the Prince wasn’t particularly surprised by the names he mentioned.
“They took the lady Terisa, my lord Prince,” Norge put in casually. “As for Geraden, he went with Master Barsonage. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the mediator carried him off.”
Took the lady Terisa. The Tor blinked stupidly. He hadn’t seen her go, hadn’t known—But he couldn’t afford to think about that now. He had to deal with Kragen.
“So you see,” he said as well as he could, “we have nowhere else to turn for answers. My lord Prince, I think you should tell us the things you came to tell King Joyse.”
“Why?” Prince Kragen’s question cut the air. “Your King accused me of an atrocity. Although I was protected under a flag of truce, I was struck down before I could defend myself.” He bit into the words to control his passion. “Apparently, it is amazing that I am still alive. Even your King’s audiences are not safe. And now he has ‘disappeared.’
“Why should I say one word to you, my lord Tor?”
The Tor had to suppress a yearning for sleep. “Because King Joyse has disappeared, my lord Prince.” The damage to his stomach dragged at him. If he were horizontal, it might hurt less. And if he were asleep, it might stop hurting entirely.
On the other hand, Orison had been kicked in the gut as well. He was needed. He had to do whatever he was capable of doing.
“He is gone. And the Castellan is dead. He died saving my life when Gart was ready to kill me. There is no power left in Orison.
“None except Captain Norge, Lebbick’s second. And Master Barsonage, the mediator of the Congery. And me.