A Sellsword's Wrath

by Jacob Peppers

  Belgarin frowned, “Speaking of those masters,” he said, “I have still not heard from them. Not one of them has so much as even deigned to meet their king. Were I a less patient man, Maladine, I might find myself offended.”

  The woman smiled, and unlike the others at the table, if she feared his displeasure, she did not show it. “My king, I understand that my masters’ anonymity might seem … strange, but know that they are fully dedicated to and invested in your victory. I do not mean to be crass, but the gold they have loaned you so far—”

  “Enough,” Belgarin said, waving the matter away angrily, “I know well enough what their contribution has been, woman. You need not remind me.”

  She bowed her head, “Of course, my lord.”

  By the look on her face, it was clear that she would speak further, so Belgarin waved her on. “Go on then. Out with it.”

  “Of course, my king. It is only … though you were, of course, correct in your statement, that wars are won with soldiers and swords, I must remind the king that steel is not free, nor the armor for men or horses, nor the food they eat, even the water they drink has a cost. Wars might be won with soldiers, my king, but soldiers are fed and clothed and armed with coin.”

  Belgarin nodded, expecting something similar. “So you, too, then would caution patience? You would have me wait until my sister Adina has raised an army against me and only then set forth? Does that seem wise strategy to you?”

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, bowing her head, “I, as a woman, know little of such things—” Bullshit, Belgarin thought, “the art of warfare being a man’s art. I do not claim to know the danger should your sister meet with your remaining brother Ellemont or your sister Isabelle. Military campaigns, strategy and tactics are, I’m afraid, too complex for a simple woman such as I am. Perhaps,” she said, turning to General Fannen, “the general might be able to speak with more intelligence than I.” Not likely, Belgarin thought.

  The general was a little over fifty years old now, an age only reflected in the hard lines on his face, and the gray, short-cropped hair on his head. He sat erect in his seat, stiff and formal in his military dress uniform, his posture displaying, to Belgarin’s mind, that strange breed of vanity of which only a lifelong military man seems capable. “My lady?” He asked, turning to her, his head seeming to swivel on his neck independently of the rest of his body. “Do you seek my opinion?”

  Obviously, you pompous fool, Belgarin thought but held himself in check, barely.

  “Indeed,” Maladine purred, “Surely, one as experienced and knowledgeable about the art of warfare as yourself might have some opinion on the matter.”

  The general remained stiff, his expression impassive, but Belgarin saw the pleasure at the woman’s compliment in his eyes clear enough. “Ah, my lady, I admit that I have some little knowledge on the subject.”

  “Well?” Belgarin demanded, “why don’t you share what little knowledge that is, General Fannen, before we all die of old age?”

  The general cleared his throat, straightening his tunic as if the damned thing wasn’t already as straight and stiff as a board. “Forgive me, my king, only I had not expected for my opinion to be sought on the matter and had not thought to speak on it.”

  Then what the fuck are you doing here? “Well,” Belgarin said, forcing himself to keep his temper. Fools or not, those seated around him were all powerful men and women in their own right, any one of which could cause him problems in the future, should they choose. “Let us acknowledge that you now have been asked for your opinion.”

  “Very well,” the general said, nodding his head once. “On the matter of your sister, Adina, I cannot speak with any certitude, but as for the army, I think, perhaps, I might. We have arrived in Baresh no more than a month gone. The men were long at sea on the journey here and some of them, I’ll admit, fell victim to sickness on the long voyage.”

  As you yourself did, Belgarin thought, smiling as he remembered the sight of the normally so well-comported and polished general bent over the side of the flagship vomiting, his face a shade of green Belgarin hadn’t known existed. “Yes,” he said, still smiling, “some of the men had a hard time of it, didn’t they?”

  The general cleared his throat, his posture growing somehow even more stiff—an event Belgarin would have thought impossible. “Yes, my king. If asked for my opinion, I would say that the men might do well with some time to rest and gather themselves. It was an arduous journey and to set forth to battle again so soon … it could affect morale.”

  “Time to rest and gather themselves,” Belgarin said. “Time to whore and dice and drink, you mean. And do not think I haven’t taken note of those young ladies—some barely of age at all, I’ve heard—who’ve graced your own chambers of late.”

  The general went crimson at that, his hands that had to this point been sat flat on the table, visibly tensed. Belgarin laughed, “Oh yes, Fannen, I know of your nightly interludes, and I do not begrudge you them. I wonder, though, how you manage to get your cock into anything and still maintain the creases of your pants, the part of your hair.”

  “My king,” the general grated, “As your loyal servant, surely I do not deserve—”

  Belgarin slammed his hand onto the table and several of the wine glasses tipped and spilled onto the white tablecloth. Servants rushed forward from the sides of the room and set about cleaning it, but Belgarin ignored them in his anger. “Deserve? Deserve, you say to me, general? As the firstborn, I do not deserve to have to fight a war for a kingdom that should rightfully be mine. As the heir to the throne of Telrear, I do not deserve to sit in this frozen fucking wasteland of a kingdom, freezing my ass off while I listen to a bunch of fools yammer on as if their opinions matter in the least.”

  The room grew quiet then, and the general stared at the tablecloth, sitting rigidly, not meeting the king’s eyes. Too far, Belgarin thought wearily, wiping a hand through his hair, too far. You need these men, you know that. Why do you always breaks things? He did not want to apologize to them—they were fools, after all—but he would. He would do much, if it was necessary. He sighed heavily, “Forgive me, gentlemen, lady,” he said, nodding his head to each of them in turn. “My words were unfair and ill-spoken, and I ask that you forget them as quick as you may. It is only that I have found myself stressed of late. The rigors and troubles of being king sometimes are a heavy burden, indeed. Please,” he said, motioning to the silver platters of food and pitchers of wine laid out before them, “eat your fill, drink and let us forget it. I value your counsel, one and all.”

  “Now, general,” he said, once they’d started eating and drinking once more, “please, continue.”

  The general nodded, though the man was clearly still angry, “Of course, my king. It is my humble opinion that the men could use some time to rest and recuperate. Also, I would like time to work with the soldiers of Baresh as well, to incorporate them into the army, and such things take time. I would advise a march in two years’ time.”

  “Two years,” Belgarin said flatly.

  “Yes, my lord,” The general said, and Belgarin did not miss the glance he shot at Caldwell still standing at Belgarin’s side, “Two years would be, in my estimation, the most propitious time. It would give the men much needed rest, and give us time to work with and train the Bareshian soldiers.”

  Belgarin grunted, “Thanks for your wisdom, general,” he managed. “And you, High Priest? What are your thoughts on the matter?”

  The High Priest, a doddering old man, seemed to start at the sound of Belgarin’s voice as if he’d been sleeping with his eyes open—something that wouldn’t have surprised Belgarin in the slightest. “I’m sorry forgive me,” he said, “I had taken a moment to commune with the gods,” he said in his holiest voice, though Belgarin didn’t miss the yawn that was hidden beneath it, “they operate on their own time, of course, not that of us mortals.”

  “I’m sure,” Belgarin said. He was also fairly sure that t
he High Priest communed with the gods about as much as fish communed with men—which was to say not at all. An old liar. Still, harmless enough, in his way. Just so long as the man wasn’t trusted to make a decision about anything that mattered. “I was asking,” Belgarin continued, reminding himself to be patient, “what your thoughts were on the army. Specifically, leading them against my sister Isabelle, the place where, my sources tell me, my wayward sister Adina travels even now, hoping to raise an army against me.”

  The old man’s nod tried for sage and landed on vacuous. “Yes, yes,” he said in what Belgarin suspected was an effort to buy time to work his way through what had been said. “I see. Well, urgency is a mortal affair, not of the gods and certainly not for them. The only right way to move is to move when it is right.” He nodded deeply as if he’d just said something profound or, perhaps, as if he was growing sleepy once more.

  “I see,” Belgarin grated, “though I wonder if you couldn’t be a little more specific. After all, not all of us are as close to the gods as you yourself and some of us, perhaps, might not fully understand the message left in their—and in your, of course—wisdom.”

  The High Priest shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “Ah, of course, your Majesty,” he said, clearing his throat. “That is, it is my belief that the gods, in their might and wisdom, will show us a sign as to the best time of our moving but that such a time has not yet come.”

  Belgarin had to bite his tongue at that. So often holy men and holy women spoke of signs and wonders to be shown. What was a dead beetle to some was, to others, an omen of great portent—for ill or for good depending on who you spoke to. Signs, he thought, were an easy enough thing to find when you went looking. Made all the easier by the fact that people who disagreed were only not as holy as you yourself. He believed in the gods, of course. It was the right—mandated by the gods themselves in fact—that he fought for to earn his rightful inheritance. Still, he had little time for priests and all their words that meant nothing, words as insubstantial as air and of much less use.

  “And what has the Merchant guild to say on the matter?” Belgarin asked, turning to Nigel, the guild’s head. The man was young for such a post, not having seen his fourth decade, but he was said to have a skill with money. Almost, it was said, being able to create it out of thin air like some magician doing a show. “I suppose your opinion might mirror that of our dear Maladine?”

  The young man smiled, taking a moment to enjoy the attention of everyone in the room, running a hand through his hair, the fingers so bedecked with heavy rings that Belgarin could hardly believe the man could lift it. He was the opposite of Maladine in so many ways. While she wore a simple, though elegant dress, her only adornment that of a fine, simple silver chain about her neck, Nigel wore the most ostentatious clothes Belgarin had ever seen outside, perhaps, of a mummer’s show. Thickly ruffled white sleeves emerged from a rich, cream colored tunic, each finger bearing a ring with a separate colored stone. Enough wealth on his person to make Belgarin begin to believe that the rumors about his ability with coin must be true. Either way, he didn’t like the man. You could dress snakes up in motley, if you chose, but snakes they remained. Or, maybe better to call the man a peacock and remove all doubt.

  Nigel took his moment, nodding to each person at the table in turn like some magician in truth, warming up the crowd and acknowledging his audience. Belgarin was just about to lose his patience when the young man spoke, “I think,” he said in a voice that was soft and cultured, “that such a decision is no easy one. I thank all that have spoken thus far—your wisdom and knowledge is humbling and, of course, I thank you, your Majesty for giving me the chance—”

  “Yes, yes,” Belgarin said, “get on with it.”

  The man smiled as if at a joke and nodded, “Of course, my king. It is my opinion that there are benefits to both courses of action. True, in a year, or two years’ time, we would be better prepared, better equipped. But my life in the guild has always been one of taking chances, of weighing the risk against the reward, calculating the odds. We do not know where your sister Isabelle stands, currently. True, it is more than likely that she will raise her armies against us, but it is possible that she will bend the knee when we arrive at her castle gates. After all, from what I hear your sister is no fool—nor would I expect her to be,” he added hurriedly, “being of such a fine and noble birth as she is. She has well seen, no doubt, what has befallen those who have opposed you. It would be quite surprising, I think, for her to offer resistance were you to be at her gates with an army behind you in a matter of weeks. But,” he said, meeting each person’s eyes in turn, his gaze seeming to linger on Caldwell for a moment, “given time? Given two years to muster her forces, to recruit new soldiers and, of course, the whole while your sister whispering in her ear?” He shook his head, “that, my lords and ladies, seems to me an equation all too easy to solve.”

  Belgarin saw Caldwell frown the slightest bit and smiled in answer. Ah, Caldwell. One opinion you could not buy, I suspect. What need a man of gold when he is already wealthier than most kingdoms? Or, perhaps his advisor had paid the man. Yes, he preferred to think that was the way it had gone. I could have told you, Caldwell, he thought, never trust a merchant once you open your purse strings. “Your suggestion then?” Belgarin said, turning back to the head of the merchant’s guild.

  “For me,” the man said, “and with all respect to those present, I find that the wisest course of action would be to act and act decisively, your Majesty. Do not give your sister time to work her wiles—for I have heard that she is adept at bringing people to her cause. As for the money?” He smiled at Maladine, the representative of the bank, but she would not meet his eyes. He shrugged finally, “Well. It will be found, of course.”

  Belgarin nodded, pretending to consider. “Very well,” he said to the room at large, “that decides it. We will march in six months’ time. Prepare, gentlemen and ladies. I want this war finished before two years have passed.”

  “Your Majesty, if I could have a chance to talk,” said the one man Belgarin had not acknowledged. Belgarin glanced where Savrin sat. The man was thin—not the kind of thin that bespoke sickness or fragility, but the kind of whipcord leanness that seemed shared by all fencers and assassins. He was known to be a fencer—one of great renown, undefeated, in fact—and he was the current captain of Belgarin’s household guard. A decision he had made on Caldwell’s advice and insistence and one that Belgarin seemed to regret on a daily basis. Oh, the man was competent enough. His swordplay was quickly becoming legend, and he spoke with a surety and calmness that bespoke of complete confidence in his own ability. A good man to run the household guard, except for the problem that Belgarin was quite certain he was Caldwell’s creature.

  “The decision, I’m afraid, has already been made, Savrin, though I do appreciate you attending,” Belgarin said. He nodded, “Very well,” he said by way of dismissal and those gathered rose, the fat Duke Claudius grabbing a handful of pastries as he did, “I’m sure we all have much that we should be about.”

  Belgarin watched them all file out, Caldwell included, then sat back and took another drink of wine. Soon, mother, he thought. Soon, you will see—I do not always break things. Not always.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Caldwell made sure he was the first out of the dining hall and stopped at the end of the castle hallway, watching the others file past. They each nodded to him in turn, troubled expressions in their eyes, and he wanted to scream at the fools for their transparency. The knowing nods were bad enough, the looks of defeat that they tried to share with him worse still. The king might have his suspicions—no, not might, the man was suspicious and that was a fact—but he didn’t know. It had been a risk, so blatantly bribing and cajoling the members of the counsel to recommend waiting, but he’d had no choice. His master had spoken, and so he had obeyed. It was not his duty to question the wisdom of such a course of action. Still, he regr
etted that the king would now be suspicious. A pompous, self-absorbed fool and, lately, a drunken one too, but even a fool will understand much if given time and cause enough.

  The head of the merchant’s guild, Nigel, moved past, a smug smile on his face, casually waving a ring-bedecked hand at Caldwell as he went by. It was an effort to keep the mask of passivity in place, yet keep it he did. The boy seemed to think it all a game, to think that having a head for numbers, for bargains and sales could keep him safe, but he would learn differently and soon.

  Behind Nigel came Savrin, walking in that casual, almost lazy swagger that he had. He, too, was a fool, but that was alright. Fools could be used. A smith didn’t wonder at the intelligence of the hammer when he used it, didn’t care for knowing its thoughts, only wanted to strike the metal, to shape it and form it. Such tools could be useful, so long as they were understood. Of course, this tool was not a hammer at all but a blade and few better. “Captain Savrin,” Caldwell said, nodding his head. “I wonder if I might trouble you to walk with me for a moment.”

  The captain of the guard nodded his head as he approached, “Of course, Advisor. I’m to check on the guards’ training, see that they’ve learned which end of the sword is the pointy one, that sort of thing, if you’d care to accompany me.”

  They made their way through the castle hallways talking about innocuous things: thoughts on the upcoming battles, the weather, the fine food that had been offered at the king’s table. Inane chatter but necessary. The king had his own eyes and his own ears in the castle, though the fool didn’t know Caldwell was aware of each of them. Had spent his time getting to know their strengths and their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, for such time as his master gave him leave to have them silenced.