by Scott McKay
“What kind of confessions?” Burns asked.
“Like for example, every few days, I guess it was, they’d haul me up and demand I admit the Lord of All was fiction and Ur’akeen was the one true god. There was a female voice that kept demanding that, and when I said no, they’d slice off a piece of the top of my ear. That happened four times,” Matthew said, showing them where the wound had been bandaged.
“The second day, I guess it was the second day, they blindfolded me and hauled me somewhere, and this woman, whoever she was, told me they knew I would try to escape. I said of course I would. One of them then takes out his dagger and he slashes at the back of my right knee. I think he cut open my hamstring, and I haven’t really been able to walk correctly since. I guess they knew what they were doing, because I don’t know how I’d escape from anybody after that.”
“Dr. Gallaway says they whipped the bottom of your feet regularly,” Baker said. “Any idea as to the purpose of that?”
“I wish I had one,” Matthew said. “It felt like maybe it was punishment, but for what I can’t say. I got the impression they were taking me someplace different to do that than where I was taken for the other things they did.”
“Up the stairs? Down the stairs?” Crate asked.
“For the feet, it was definitely up the stairs,” Matthew said.
“Thank you, Captain Stuart,” said Baker. “Anything you’d like to add?”
“No sir,” Matthew said, “other than I’d like to request a combat assignment to get back on the front lines. I owe these dirty bastards for what they’ve done.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Baker said as the inquisition broke up. “Captain Stuart, why don’t you hang around for a bit; I’d like to have a private word.”
“Yes, sir,” Matthew said, standing to exchange salutes and handshakes with the other officers as they departed the cabin.
When they were alone, Baker walked around the desk to the credenza on the side wall, poured two glasses of whisky from a decanter and gave Matthew one. “You’ll want that,” he said.
“Is there bad news?” Matthew asked.
Baker nodded. “Sit,” he said.
Matthew did, and Baker sat in the chair next to him instead of behind his desk. “It’s about your family back home,” he began.
“Something happened.”
Baker nodded. “After Strongstead fell, the Udar sent war parties into Dunnan’s Claim on raids of all the homesteads, from south of Battleford all the way to the coast of Adele Bay. They hit almost every farm.”
“Oh, no,” Matthew said. “Including Hilltop Farm?”
Baker nodded.
“My family’s all dead?”
“No, not all,” Baker said. “Your brother Rob was coming back from Aldingham when it happened, and Ethan and Hannah were able to hide in the basement. Sarah was taken, but she’s safe.”
“She was taken?” Matthew asked, his voice rising. “What does that mean?”
“They captured her,” Baker said. “She shot five of them and then she was tackled by one, and she hit her head and got knocked out. They took almost four hundred women and were bringing them back south toward Strongstead. But we mounted a rescue and got them back.”
“Who mounted the rescue?” Matthew asked.
“Well, this ship was there. And there was a contingent of just under three hundred men who chased them down. Lieutenant General Terhune led it. Your brother was also there.”
“You mean Colonel Terhune.”
“He’s a Lieutenant General now,” Baker said. “And Major Will Forling was the second in command. In fact, Forling fought their headman in single combat and killed him to free the captives.”
“Major?” Matthew said. “That gangly sonofabitch outranks me now?”
Baker laughed. “He’s Sarah’s fiance’ now.”
“Whaat?” Matthew said. “Sarah can’t stand that guy.”
“There’s more,” Baker said. “Your parents are gone. They died in the raid on Hilltop Farm. As did your sister Tabitha.”
“By the Saints,” Matthew hissed. “I’ll get my revenge for that. How did they go?”
“I don’t know the details,” Baker said, lying. He thought Matthew should hear the story of George, Tabitha and Judith from his family. “But there’s something else. Your uncle David led a party of militia from Dunnansport on the rescue, and he was killed west of Sutton Hill.”
“Uncle David has one arm,” said Matthew. “How was he going down into a fight with the Udar?”
“He was captain of the militia,” Baker said. “I’m sorry.”
Matthew was dumbfounded. “And all this happened while I was laying on my ass in a dark hole after my fortress fell,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“I know it’s a lot to process,” Baker said. “But we’re here for anything you need. You’ve been exceptionally brave through this ordeal, and your country is very grateful for your sacrifice.”
“My sacrifice?” Matthew asked. “Sir, I haven’t sacrificed shit. What I did was lose a battle because I was fast asleep in my bunk and I killed half my family losing it.”
“I know that’s how you’re going to feel for a while,” Baker said. “You’re going to want to get past it. Your people are going to need you in the time to come.”
“Where are they?” Matthew said. “I suspect they couldn’t go back to Hilltop Farm.”
“Rob, Sarah, Ethan and Hannah are in Dunnansport with your aunt,” Baker said.
“Why is Rob there?” asked Matthew. “He’s a second lieutenant in the army, isn’t he? He’s not standing a post somewhere?”
“As I understand it Lieutenant General Terhune gave him indefinite leave to take care of the family,” Baker said. “He’s running the family business, and from what I gather he’s quite good at it.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened. “I appreciate the information, Commander,” he said. “When do we land in Dunnansport?”
“Should be about nine hours or so,” Baker said.
“Thank you, sir,” said Matthew. “May I take my leave?”
“Absolutely,” said the commander. “Why don’t you grab a little shuteye before we land?”
“Good idea, sir,” Matthew said as he hobbled back to his bunk.
NINETEEN
Trenory, Tenthmonth Sixteenth, 1843rd Year Supernal
“What did you call me?” the huge man demanded, as he turned to face the conversation at the crowded bar.
“I’m sorry?” Randall answered. He had no idea what the man wanted or what he was talking about.
“You called me a son of a bitch,” the man said, accusingly. “I heard you say it. Go and deny it, you coward.”
“Honestly, I didn’t,” Randall assured him. “I told my friend here his son will be rich if he agrees to the business proposal that I’m making him.”
His friend, Tom Wilkins, told the man Randall was telling the truth.
“Pig shit,” the man answered, and Randall could tell he was a belligerent drunk. “Both of you are liars.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But we don’t want any trouble. We’re just here for a bit of whisky and some commercial discussion. I’d be happy to buy a beverage for you.”
The huge man spat on Randall’s boots--then looked at him with what would have been a toothy smile if he’d had all his teeth, which he most certainly did not.
Randall did what he had to do, which was to grab the whisky bottle he and Wilkins were sharing and break it over the big man’s head. The impact stunned the man but didn’t take him down, so Randall planted a boot into his groin. That did put him on the floor, but he wasn’t done. So, as the man rose to his hands and knees, cursing Randall and threatening to kill him, Randall kicked him as hard as he could in the ribs.
“Stay down or I’ll have to hurt you,” he told the man. At six feet tall and thirteen stone, Randall could hold his own in a scrap with mere mortals, but this two-legged
bull would slaughter him in a fair fight.
But still the man tried to get up. Randall didn’t think he had a choice but to plant the next kick to the side of the man’s head. And that did put him down, Randall expected for good.
“By the Saints, Thurman,” Wilkins said. “You could have killed him.”
“Well, I’m not going to let him kill me,” Randall said to his friend. “That last shot was for safety’s sake.”
“Anyway, it’s time to go,” Wilkins said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
He made for the door, which Randall thought was a quite brilliant idea and turned to follow. But while Tom was able to leave the tavern unmolested, it wasn’t to be for Randall. Three large men blocked his exit.
“You hurt my friend,” one of them said. “You have to pay.”
“Hey fellas,” said Randall, “he did say he was going to kill me. He accused me of calling him a son of a bitch, which I didn’t do, and he spat on my shoes. I’d say he started it.”
They weren’t satisfied. The three men surrounded him, and then he sensed somebody moving in behind him. When he turned around, he saw that it was the huge man, who was bleeding from his left ear and wheezing as he held a hand to his rib cage. And the man then gave him that same half-toothy smile which started the whole mess in the first place.
“All right there,” Randall said, in as soothing a voice as he could. “I’m sorry for disrupting your evening. And I truly don’t believe you’re a son of a bitch.”
“You know who I am?” asked the man.
“I do not. I suspect you’re quite important, though. And certainly, very large.”
“Yer gonna find out,” the man said. “Grab him.”
His three friends did.
Randall expected he was about to have the life beaten out of him when the four men dragged him out of the tavern out onto Sothard Street, in the heart of Trenory’s rowdy Millflower District, which lay along the banks of the river Aileen on the south side of town. But instead they walked him the three blocks to the constabulary on the corner of Sothard and Clivern. Dragging him through the door, the huge man bellowed to the duty sergeant, “Where’s Dustin?”
An enormous man, even larger than Randall’s victim, he had to be six-foot-seven and easily twenty stone. He came from the back office wearing a constable’s badge and said, “What have you here, Willie?”
“Son of a bitch attacked me,” came the response. “Broke a bottle over my head and kicked me in the ribs. I wanna file a charge.”
“I really must protest,” said Randall. “I’ve been kidnapped by these gentlemen, and the unpleasantness down the street at the Red Shoat was a misunderstanding, nothing more.”
Dustin the constable approached him with a suspicious look. “You kicked my brother?”
Randall rolled his eyes. This was all he needed. Just when he was about to rejoin the family business and have a worthwhile job for the first time since leaving the army, he was about to be locked in the city stockade.
“It was self-defense, I assure you,” he told the constable.
“Naw, I don’t think so,” Dustin said. “In you go.”
The four men dragged him down the hall to a holding cell, and Dustin keyed open the door and swung it wide in time for them to throw him in.
“I’d like to send for counsel,” Randall said. “I have business matters in the morning, and I’m able to post bond for release.”
“Stuff it,” Dustin said as he locked the cell. “You’ll get yours in the morning.”
Randall watched as Willie and Dustin gave each other a bear hug, and the constable and the four men exchanged pleasantries as they walked to the front of the constabulary. Randall sank back onto the bench in the cell.
“Shit,” he said to himself.
This kind of thing was simply too common in his life, and this time there would be hell to pay. Randall was no longer a particularly young man, after all; at thirty-five he shouldn’t be getting in tavern brawls or having run-ins with the law. But for the last ten years since discharging from the Ardenian infantry as a first lieutenant, which wasn’t a particularly impressive rank for someone spawned from such a prominent family as the Thurmans of Trenory, he’d been a magnet for adversity.
Randall’s people were the ones behind the Thurman rifle, the best firearm on the market and formerly the standard-issue weapon of both the army and marines. For some reason, which Randall never understood, the company had lost that contract. It didn’t matter, though, as civilian sales of the rifle had only increased over the past decade, and the company’s profits had stayed robust.
His father Harry, though advancing in age at sixty years and in suspect health, was still the company’s president. Randall’s older brother Richard, not Randall, was Harry’s protégé. That left Randall a bit out of place at the Thurman Rifle Company, and, sadly, he had been left to find his own way. But not without means, of course; when he finished his military service after spending five uneventful years at Fort Murtaugh, Randall was presented a check for the princely sum of one hundred thousand decirans and charged with growing, rather than spending, that nest egg.
Consequently, he made several very savvy, if a bit speculative, investments. Two of them, a share in an apartment building in the new Ryland district on the city’s southeast side and a stock investment in the First Trenory Bank, were good revenue producers.
The rest, though, fell victim to a series of unfortunate events. His grain storehouse exploded when a wayward cigar butt ignited a shipment of wheat destined for a river barge and a trip up the Tweade to Oakham, and the insurance company refused to pay on a truly misguided suspicion of arson. Randall’s investment in a restaurant called the High Drover was a failure; the steakhouse lasted less than six months. His fledgling steamship line was losing money; he owned three small steamers which were to specialize in fast passenger and cargo transport along the Tweade, but he quickly ran afoul of the Steam-Pilots’ Guild and was told he was barred from employing their members, and thus effectively barred from operating his vessels to service any destination upriver from Trenory.
Downriver the market was a bit slow. Battleford, the next town down from Trenory, was one hundred fifty miles away and had all of eight thousand people. Barley Point, fifty miles further, had just three thousand, though not far south of that little town his older sister Judith had lived on a large farm with her family. And Dunnansport, seventy miles further on at the mouth of the Tweade, had only five thousand. The steamers weren’t exactly gathering barnacles at the dock, but it was a rare day when their runs downriver turned any black ink of note.
Which meant that within about four years after receiving his hundred-thousand-deciran inheritance, Randall had largely blown the lot. He had the principal investments in the building and the bank, but the income they produced was barely enough to cover the losses from the steamer company and his monthly bills. Thanks to family connections Randall got himself a job as a clerk at the bank, of which he owned a small piece, and he hoped he’d be able to move into commercial banking with First Trenory. But his immediate supervisor, a Mrs. Regina Hampton, had proven hostile to his advancement with the firm.
And late last year, after nearly five years of service, she’d fired him, quite unjustly. Randall had, after all, merely sought to resolve a disagreement between an irate customer and a coworker of his, and the snippy treatment the man was inflicting on Susan Huntley simply couldn’t be tolerated. Particularly given that Randall and Susan were a bit of an item, which was nobody’s business but their own and certainly not something Mrs. Regina had any standing to forbid as fraternization among company employees per bank policy. Thus, when the man said something entirely inappropriate to Randall as he attempted to diffuse the situation, he really should have been congratulated for having dragged him out of the bank and telling him never to return.
But it was unfortunate that the man happened to be the son of Mr. Walter Burgess, the forty-two percent shareholder in First Tren
ory Bank. Randall was surprised upon finding out his victim’s identity, and a bit chagrined when Mrs. Regina unceremoniously dumped both himself and Susan into the ranks of the unemployed on the spot.
And Susan, the ungrateful shrew that she was, broke up with him that night.
He’d bounced around with a couple of not-entirely desirable jobs after that, generating a bit of ready cash to cover his living expenses by selling his small house in the well-regarded Smithfield district in the middle of town and renting a cheap apartment here in Millflower. He’d been spending the bulk of his energies of late trying to drag the steamer line into profitability, but without success. But last month Randall had broken the glass on an action he really hadn’t wanted to do. He went to his father, hat in hand, and asked for a job.
That occasioned a rotten experience in which Harry and Richard double-teamed him in expressing their disapproval of his choices and behavior, haranguing him over his unproductive love life and lack of domestication and berating him for his poor commercial decisions. But after the lesson was over, Randall at least had secured a job as the Thurman Rifle Company’s assistant director of business development subject to his demonstrating that he’d memorized Harry’s exceptionally wordy and excruciatingly detailed company manual.
What it meant to be the assistant director of business development, he had no idea, but at a salary of five hundred decirans a month it was enough for him to re-enter the upper middle class. Now all Randall needed to do was unload the steamer company and its losses, and his financial situation might begin to stabilize a bit. That’s why he’d invited his old chum Tom Wilkins, with whom he’d graduated from the Supernal College in Stannifer before joining the Army, to make him a quite competitive offer on those steamships earlier that night.
And Wilkins was, miraculously, receptive. Right up to the point when hulking, drunken Willie interrupted their barroom conversation with his idiotic paranoia.
I should have kicked him harder, Randall thought to himself. The son of a bitch.