“Hunting?” Daylon motioned for the two men to haul Donte over to a blackened stump that had once served as a shade tree before someone had toppled it. Donte sat and nodded. “So, after a girl then?” said the baron.
“Not like that, my lord,” said Donte. “We grew up together before she moved here.”
Daylon asked, “Where was that?”
“A little island far away. You’d never have heard of it.”
Daylon instantly felt a chill run up his back and knew at once this was far more than what it appeared to be. “Her name?”
“She’s called Hava, sir.”
To the two men who had held Donte, Daylon said, “Take him over there”—he pointed back the way he had come—“and find my man Balven. As soon as my pavilion is up, take this man inside. Tell Balven I’ll be there presently. No one else is to talk to him, understood?”
The two men nodded and helped Donte to his feet. To the remaining soldiers, Daylon said, “Take down that ridiculous garroting post.”
They hurried to obey. The baron felt sure that while Sandura had no hand in this, someone else seeking the Firemane child might have, or it was the most unlikely coincidence he could imagine. He was determined to make a quick survey of what was left of the town, then return and question this fellow closely.
Glancing at the stump where Donte had sat, he thanked whatever god might be listening that Deakin had been too stupid to think of beheading the lad.
9
Disasters and Questions
Declan awakened with a sharp pain in his right shoulder and gasped. A young woman turned from her position between him and the man she was tending to on his left. “Hold still,” she said in a firm but not scolding tone. “You’ll pull the stitches if you move suddenly.” She moved away from the unconscious man whose forehead she had been bathing with a cool cloth and said, “Let me help.”
As the young woman helped him to sit up, he ignored the sharp twinge in his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. “How long have I . . . ?” His voice was hoarse.
“Here.” The woman held up a waterskin so that Declan could drink. “Slowly, or you might retch.”
He did as instructed and sipped the water, feeling the cool of it soothing his throat; then, when he could, he took a good strong pull. “How long?” he repeated, handing the skin back to her.
“You were here when I arrived yesterday.” She motioned to the oiled canvas ground cloth beneath him. “So, since the fight the day before?” She was a woman not much older than Gwen, thought Declan: sunburn, hard labor, and not enough food had taken their toll.
He looked around as much as he was able and asked, “Is this as bad as it looks?”
She studied his face. “You live here?”
“I’m the town smith,” he replied.
“Let me get you some more water,” she said without answering his question. She stood up, and he could see the view she had blocked. He felt a stab of fear. A misting drizzle fell, and he knew it must have been heavier before he regained consciousness, as there were puddles and mud everywhere.
His heart went cold: ruin was all he could see on every side. Even without standing and looking over the remaining section of wall to his left that served as one corner of the infirmary, he knew that all he would see would be more char and blood. Had any building been left standing, the wounded would be housed inside, and that included his smithy. From the icy center in his chest he felt a numbing chill spread throughout his entire body, muting any feelings for places and people, those emotions that just moments before he had counted as essential to who he was.
He recognized this new state as something akin to the remote awareness coupled with keen perception he experienced during a fight: a focus on something vital, with his life hanging in the balance. It was as if without volition he became someone else, someone he needed to be.
Without being told he knew Gwen was gone. Had she been alive she would have been the one kneeling at his side.
Pain faded from his chest. The numbness seemed to run up his neck to the sides of his face, a faint, tingling sensation unlike anything he had felt before, but one that seemed to be offering a sort of armor against pain. He felt moisture gathering in his eyes and blinked hard, as if denying the pain would drive it away. Even the agony in his shoulder began to fade a bit. He willed it away, and in one corner of his mind he felt that pain contract, shrivel, folding in on itself, as if he were folding steel, each fold creating strength.
The woman returned, the mercenary captain Bogartis a step behind her. Declan allowed her to help him take another drink, then she went about seeing to the needs of the other wounded.
Bogartis knelt and said, “Glad to see you’re pulling through, lad. You took a nasty shaft to the shoulder. A little lower and you’d have been over in the field, in one of those big holes they’ve been digging. Can you move your arm, even a bit?”
Gently Declan tried, and while the pain was sharp, he could bear it. “A little.”
“That’s a good thing. When the stitches come out you’re going to need to move it around so the muscles stay loose and strong. You might have some scars inside, or at least that’s what the healers say, and if they tear loose it’ll hurt, but you should get your strength and motion back.”
Looking at the old fighter, Declan asked, “How are your men?”
“Two gone, three will recover, but one of them is going to have to find a new trade: his fighting days are over.” He paused for a moment, his eyes searching Declan’s face. “I don’t want to be the man to . . .” The old fighter let out a long sigh. “There’s no easy way, so I’ll just say it, lad. Your girl is gone.”
“My wife,” Declan corrected gently.
“Ah, on your wedding day.” Anger flashed across Bogartis’s face. “I’ve seen ugly deeds, but attacking on midsummer’s day to destroy an entire town, murder all the people . . .” He shook his head as if trying to cast off a memory. “I’ve seen more blood and death than a dozen men in their lifetimes, but this . . . I have no words.”
“What about the others?”
“Which others?” replied Bogartis.
“My apprentice . . .” Declan found himself stopping. Jusan was a journeyman . . . or had been.
“We found two other bodies with . . . your wife. A man and woman.”
“Jusan and Millie,” Declan said softly. The small ball of pain inside him contracted even more. “Help me get to my feet.”
Bogartis helped Declan to stand. He leaned on the mercenary as he took stock of what was left of Beran’s Hill.
“I wish . . .” The old fighter shrugged. “What are you going to do? Rebuild?”
Declan’s tone was flat. “Rebuild what?” He motioned with his left arm. He gazed and gazed for a long moment, then whispered, “Nothing.”
“Nothing indeed, lad,” Bogartis said sadly. “There looks to be as big a war coming as I’ve seen since the Betrayal, and Lord Dumarch is going to need a lot of weapons. When your arm recovers, you’ll be working nonstop. I make no claim to know how any other man should feel, but work can be a balm.” He hesitated. “Declan—I got that right?”
“Yes,” said Declan, indicating that he’d like to sit down again. Bogartis helped him. “Thank you.”
“I saw you fight and you’re a man I’d go over any wall with, and there are only a few I’d say that to, in fact. I’ve seen veterans turn and flee facing less than you did.” Bogartis surveyed the destruction on all sides. “I’ve traveled and fought most of my life. I started as a boy with the baggage for Baron Montalo, until he lost a war to King Lodavico’s father, so I became a sword for hire, just another mercenary, until I took over this little band when my captain was killed. I’ve been fighting for my supper for nearly forty years now.
“I’ve been thinking lately that the day may come—if I live through the next few fights—when I should take what I’ve hidden away and start a new life somewhere quiet. Beran’s Hill seemed as nice and friendly a town a
s I’d ever seen. I thought it might have been a place for an old swordsman to settle down.” He shrugged. “It’s strange, Declan. It feels like I’ve just lost something.”
Declan’s voice was calm and emotionless. “And I’ve lost everything.”
Bogartis said nothing for a long while. At last he said, “Rest, and I’ll come by tomorrow before we leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“Probably where the baron tells me. I’m certain he’s about to be hip-deep in more war than he expected and will be hiring companies.” He paused, then continued. “He’s a decent enough noble, by accounts, and while I’m usually not too fussy about whose gold I take, if he’s fighting the bastards that did this, I’ll happily serve him.”
Declan said nothing as Bogartis departed, then lay back on the oiled canvas. He felt numb and disconnected from coherent thought, and so tired his very bones seemed to ache. The last thing he saw before he lapsed back into sleep was a fitful image of Gwen smiling at him.
Hava dismounted a moment after Molly, who stuck her head inside an abandoned hut, one the archer had said had once been the home to a family of charcoal burners who had left when she was still a little girl.
“Someone’s been here,” said Molly over her shoulder.
Hava knew better than to ask if she was certain, as Molly wasn’t the sort to be uncertain about anything. Stepping into the small hut, Molly knelt by the remnants of a small firepit, barely big enough to heat one pot.
“How long ago?” Hava asked.
“A day or so, perhaps before dawn today. The pit is cold, but it’s dry, so no water from the rain has seeped in, and a lot of dust was moved around, probably from picking up ground covers and gear.” Molly stood up. “Let’s see if we can tell which direction they took.”
Outside the hut, Molly walked around, motioning for Hava to stay where she was, presumably because she didn’t want her making new tracks.
Hava watched Molly scout around for a good ten minutes, into the trees out of sight, then back toward the road, and up a small hill to the west. Finally, she returned. “Usually rain would be bad, but this was a light one, making the ground wet enough to hold tracks for a while without washing them away. Four horses headed out of here that way.” She pointed.
Hava looked surprised. “West? You’re sure? In the same direction as the raiders?”
“They might be blending in with whoever is following that bunch or—”
“Hatu wouldn’t go peacefully.”
“He might not have a choice,” Molly replied. “Someone’s got a knife to your ribs . . .” She shrugged. “Or maybe he’s tied up?”
“So why would they follow an army of murderers?”
“That we will have to ask when we catch up,” said Molly. Without another word, she crossed to her horse and mounted, Hava gaining her saddle a moment later.
Donte sat quietly in a corner of the baron’s pavilion on a padded stool that was probably used by the baron when he changed his boots. The baron and Balven were quietly conferring in the far corner.
Donte had been given a cold, wet cloth to deal with his swollen face. He thought his left cheek might be cracked, as it throbbed more than the rest of him, which was quite a lot. But he had stopped spitting up blood, which he assumed meant he would keep his teeth, and the rest of him felt passable, so he counted himself lucky that the baron had turned up when he did.
Since coming to the pavilion, Donte had seen the baron and Balven talk with a half dozen men who had reported to them over the last hour. Each time the baron had turned to say something to Donte, a messenger arrived, and whatever conversation Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, had planned on having with him had been postponed. Donte was fine with that, as he assumed whatever was coming after they finished talking would hardly be welcome.
The fact that the baron knew Donte was from Coaltachin meant that any story he might fabricate was pointless. Having to tell the truth seemed a more difficult prospect than he had imagined. He put the blame on his teachers, who had taught him only to be an adept liar. He found that idea amusing, but the circumstances seemed dire and he hurt too much to laugh.
Finally the baron turned to Donte and said, “Now let me be brief. It was my understanding that Hatu was no longer of any concern to the Kingdom of Night. Why are you here?”
Donte paused for a moment, then said, “I’m his friend, and Hava’s. We got separated months ago, and . . . I washed up on the shore in Marquensas, Baron.” He dabbed at his swollen cheek, but that only seemed to make it throb more, so he tossed the cloth aside. “I just wandered a bit . . .” As he began, part of his old nature and training to dissemble manifested itself, and he embellished his tale. “I heard from a traveler in a village I was in that a couple who matched their description had an inn up here.” That was the one fabrication he thought he could get away with. Then he added, “Not a lot of couples look like them: Hava is darker than most around here, skinny, but . . . well, she’s a nice-looking woman, and Hatu with his ridiculous sunburned pale skin and that . . . stupid hair of his.”
Balven said, “Stupid hair?”
“He always put color in it, to make it darker, so it never looked completely right if you were close. Good enough for street work and running from guards, but if you spent enough time with him you knew he colored it now and again. We grew up together . . .” Donte stopped, remembering the first rule was not to embellish a lie too much, as it was easy to forget details, and too many details were a sign someone was lying.
Both the baron and Balven remained silent, so Donte said, “So anyway, I decided to come here, got to Marquenet, and heard of the army moving, so I signed on to a company and hitched a ride with the baggage. I wasn’t trying to desert, just looking for my friends. Truth is, I never really swore to Captain Quinn or any other company, so I really couldn’t desert, now could I?”
Daylon was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m assuming at best you’re a thief and a thug, and at worst an assassin and a spy. But you might prove useful, as I may have to reach out to your masters again.” Turning to Balven, he said, “I want him kept apart from the company, but under guard.”
“I’ll put him in a tent,” said Balven. The baron’s body man motioned for Donte to follow him. Donte stood up and trailed Balven out of the pavilion. They walked a short way to another tent. A pair of the baron’s senior castellans were lounging on sleeping mats, and they both stood when Balven stopped in front of the open tent flap.
Balven said to one of the soldiers, “Find another tent.” He made a waving motion with his hand. “Leave a mat but take everything else. Come back and tell him”—he pointed to the other soldier—“where you’re bedding down for the night. Then go find a medic and return to tend to this man.” The first soldier ran off, and Balven told the second, “Stand guard, and if he tries to escape don’t kill him; just beat him up a little more.”
He gave Donte a long warning look, then left without another word.
The newly appointed guard gave Donte a black look. Donte tried to smile, but his face hurt too much, so he just nodded once and moved to the remaining mat, where he lay down. He had learned in childhood that if you had nothing else to do you should sleep. His future was out of his hands: there was nothing else to do.
Balven returned to his brother’s pavilion. As soon as he entered the door he saw that Daylon was reading another report. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Everything to the west, from here to the coast . . .” Daylon tossed aside the report and let it flutter to the floor. “That’s the third message reporting that the entire coast, to the north and south, has been raided. Small boats, a dozen men each, hit every village. More of the same, killing and burning, but leaving with little by way of booty.”
“Those villages don’t have much, so there’s a different point, isn’t there?”
Daylon nodded. “Page!” he shouted.
A young man, barely more than a boy, appeared a moment late
r from outside the tent. “My lord?”
“Wine and two goblets.”
The youth bowed and departed.
Balven said, “It must be worse than I imagine, if you’re drinking this early.”
“I have nowhere to go at the moment and some things to discuss with you, so why not?”
Balven pulled over the stool Donte had used and sat down on his brother’s left side. It was a bit lower than Daylon’s chair, but high enough that eating or drinking from the table wasn’t awkward. And it wasn’t the first time Balven had been in such a position. “What are your thoughts?” he asked.
“Let me hear yours first.”
“The raids along the coast . . .” The baron’s half brother shrugged. “I think they’re to create terror, disrupt the usual commerce, create refugees who will flee to the city and put a strain on resources. Food will become scarce; the newcomers will have to steal to eat or die in the gutters. It’s going to turn very nasty for a while before it starts to return to normal. If it ever does.”
With a wry laugh, Daylon said, “You have been reading some of the military history books in Father’s library.”
“Your library,” corrected Balven. “I lack your insatiability when it comes to reading, but I’m hardly an illiterate fool. Some of those dusty old tomes you adore so much are quite useful when it comes to understanding the requirements of governance. Since childhood my choice has been to wither inside, spending a useless life in envy, or to help my brother who is the only person on Garn I’ve grown to love. I chose the latter.” When Daylon’s eyebrows rose, Balven continued. “You’re a rare and good man, brother, and I’ve felt that since we were boys, though it’s not my nature to be overly . . . praising.”
With a soft chuckle, Daylon said, “Well, I know that.”
“Too many of your friends and enemies think they rule by some inherent superiority and therefore anything they do will be ‘right,’ and woe awaits the person who says otherwise. They will be overrun, ground under massive bootheels.”
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