Raske frowned, troubled by that reaction. “Do you have any purpose in taking Lang from my command, or is this simply punishment for failing to inform you of his connection?”
“I have a purpose, of course. Although, I don’t see why you should get so up in arms about losing one soldier—my own supply was recently diminished, as you may recall, and you have several hundred under your command at the border.”
“Which is where I should be,” Raske muttered.
“You’ll stay here until this business with Osvald is over,” said King Halvard with sudden sternness. “Once he’s been dealt with, the border-conflict will end as well. He was the one to incite the enemy in the first place.”
Raske had already received this instruction, along with its reasoning. Though he disagreed vehemently, he gave a curt nod. “As you wish, my Liege. Out of curiosity, Captain Bergstrom, did you tell Inge why her life is suddenly in danger?”
“I didn’t see the need.”
“Leave the girl out of it,” King Halvard said. “She doesn’t need to know the reason. She just needs to play her part. And for goodness’ sake, stop referring to her as a ‘her’!”
Raske had been trained from his infancy never to contradict the king, so he swallowed his protests. They formed an unhappy lump in his throat. If the poor girl had to be a sitting target for a madman, she at least had the right to know why, he thought. But ignorance seemed to suit King Halvard’s purposes better. He never liked others to know just exactly what he was thinking.
***
Inge did her best to appear whole and healthy as she listened beside Princess Signe during the king’s grand speech. King Halvard’s rambling eloquence enraptured the crowd of peasantry, mostly because he was describing the great courage of a soldier from their own class. They broke into a broad cheer when Lind knelt to receive his medal. In sharp contrast, the soldier himself wore a troubled expression. He knew it was a sham, even if the tales of his heroism at the border were true. Lind wasn’t the sort of person who needed accolades to perform well. On the contrary, he seemed to prefer anonymity.
She hoped the ceremony would end soon, not just for the sake of Lind’s dignity, but for her own. True to Bergstrom’s warning, her aches had escalated over the course of the day. It took every ounce of her resolve to remain standing just now, and if King Halvard decided to yammer on for another half-hour, she would collapse, crowd or no crowd.
Even as she began to droop, a figure stepped next to her and surreptitiously grasped her upper arm to lend support. Inge looked up in wonder to Colonel Raske.
“Eyes forward,” he murmured, his own attention focused ahead. “It won’t be much longer.”
Obediently she trained her gaze upon the crowd. “How did you know?”
“I’ve told you before that your face betrays your every emotion.”
So he had. She pursed her lips tight and fixed her eyes in a wooden stare. Raske suppressed a chuckle, which Inge took as indication of her failure to hide her annoyance.
From her other side, Princess Signe leaned over with concern. “Is Inge not feeling well?” she asked. Her wide blue eyes flitted from her adopted sibling to the military colonel.
“His Highness trained a little too hard this morning,” Raske told her kindly. “The castle guard wore him out.”
Signe’s mouth rounded. She looked sympathetically to Inge, whose arm she gently patted. “I hope you feel better. They should not run such a young person ragged. Oh! Not that I’m trying to say that you’re a child, or too weak to train with the guard—”
Inge flashed the princess a grateful smile before she could become any more flustered. Signe was too sensitive toward the feelings of others, too worried about hurting anyone with an off-hand comment. It was an endearing quality, but not one that Inge envied her for.
The crowd burst into a huge roar of applause, signaling that Halvard’s speech had ended at last. The king swept back into the castle, with Signe and Inge right behind him. Raske and Bergstrom followed, while Lind peeled away to return to the barracks. Not ten steps into the cool, dim hallway, Inge’s strength failed her. She pitched forward.
Hands caught her on both sides.
“Oh, let me sit,” she panted, breathless. “I think I’m going to throw up if I don’t sit down.”
Obligingly, Bergstrom and Raske lowered her to the ground, where she wilted against the wall. King Halvard and Princess Signe had both turned to watch the commotion, the latter quite alarmed.
“We’ll take care of him,” Bergstrom told her when she stepped forward to help. “Go on ahead—he’ll see you at dinner.”
She started to protest, but her father’s clipped voice interrupted. “Come, Signe.”
After a moment’s hesitation and an apologetic glance, she complied. When the royal footsteps faded down the hallway, Inge sullenly raised her head. “Signe doesn’t get to know what’s going on either?”
“Signe worries about horses crushing anthills because of the pain it might cause the ants. Do you really think someone that kind-hearted should be informed of an assassination attempt?” Bergstrom’s response was scornful, but it made sense. Inge could only imagine that, had the princess known of that morning’s adventure, she would have been eaten with anxiety over her adopted brother’s welfare.
“Are you ready yet, Your Highness?” Captain Bergstrom asked with a note of impatience.
Inge didn’t care if she was holding him up. “Another minute, please.”
“Go ahead, Captain Bergstrom,” said Raske abruptly. “I can see the prince back to his chambers once he’s ready.”
Bergstrom didn’t waste his breath on a token protest. His footsteps sounded a quick retreat down the hall.
“I very much dislike that man,” Inge said, her eyes shut and her head resting against her arms. “Why does he always have to be so unpleasant?”
“It’s his nature,” said Raske. “If you dislike him so much, why did you tell him Lang was your brother?”
She opened one eye to look at him curiously. “I guess I didn’t think not to. It’s not like I had all my wits about me.”
“What else did you tell him?”
There was an edge to his voice, indicative of a tightly kept temper. Inge wracked her brains to recall what she might have said to Bergstrom, what could have possibly made Colonel Raske so angry with her.
“I told him the dagger wasn’t mine,” she mumbled, hardly aware that she had even spoken aloud.
“What dagger?”
“The one that—” Her voice cut out as she raised her head sharply. “Never mind. It’s not important. I’d rather he hadn’t asked about it either.”
Raske’s jaw tightened, but thanks to the difference in their statuses he did not press the issue. “Well, given your dislike of Bergstrom, you might be interested to know that King Halvard signed an order this afternoon moving your brother to his command.”
Inge sat up, alarmed, and instantly regretted that movement. “Why?” she asked as she cradled her aching head in her hands.
“Because Captain Bergstrom made the request, and King Halvard gives Captain Bergstrom most anything he wants.” He was disgruntled about the whole affair and made no attempt to hide it. Still, there was something more to this transfer of authority than he was saying, Inge thought instinctively.
Shame pressed down upon her, that her careless words in a weak moment had caused such a thing to transpire. “So what’s going to become of Gunnar?”
“He becomes one of the castle guard,” said Raske pragmatically. “Do you think you have enough strength to make it to your chambers, Prince Inge? It would probably be best if you rested before dinner.”
He was tired of waiting for her too, Inge thought as she pushed away from the floor. “I can make it,” she murmured. She would have told him she could find her way alone, but she already knew how he would answer that attempt at independence.
Chapter 10: The Virtue of Strength
Gunnar did
not understand why the military kept reassigning him. Only a few months had gone by since his enlistment, but he had already been transferred from his original commander’s battalion into Colonel Raske’s. Now, he was informed, he had been transferred again, this time from Raske’s command to Captain Bergstrom’s.
“Sir, why?” he asked tentatively. Loath as he was to question Raske’s words, he couldn’t fully hold back the confusion that tumbled in his head. He had done nothing to prove himself worthy of joining the castle guard. Lind would have been the more obvious choice.
Colonel Raske glanced at him from beneath furrowed brows. “Captain Bergstrom himself requested you. You have friends in high places now.”
Despite his better inclinations, Gunnar allowed a frustrated sigh to escape his lips. Even worse, he expounded on his feelings. “Pardon me for speaking out of place, but this whole business is getting out of hand! I don’t want to be promoted just because my sister happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time!”
“Are you questioning orders from your superior, Lang?” Raske inquired with deadly calm.
It was enough to bring him back to his senses. “N-no! No, sir! When is the transfer effective?”
“You’re to report to Captain Bergstrom immediately. He should be in his office.”
The colonel was not in a good mood, if his stoic demeanor was any indication, and Gunnar wanted nothing more right then than to make his retreat. He still didn’t know his way around the castle, though. “And that is…?”
“Bergstrom’s office is the last door at the end of this hall. He’s expecting you to report first thing this morning, so you’d better hurry.”
Gunnar saluted and started to leave, but his progress was arrested at the doorway.
“Lang,” said Colonel Raske suddenly. Gunnar waited to hear what he would say, but he seemed uncharacteristically hesitant to put his question into words. “Is there… is there some reason other than your sister that Captain Bergstrom might’ve taken an interest in you?”
Guilt twisted through Gunnar’s stomach. If they knew who his father was, perhaps… but Gunnar had done nothing to betray that secret, and Inge was even more stubborn about concealing it. “Not that I know of,” he said carefully.
Raske dismissed him with a nod.
Not wanting to risk further incurring the colonel’s wrath, Gunnar made a hasty escape. Colonel Raske had been given an office in the military wing of the castle upon his first arrival, so it only stood to reason that Bergstrom’s office would be in the same general vicinity. Gunnar had seen little of the Captain of the Guard, but he recognized him as an austere figure, almost as feared in the military as Raske himself. As he approached the correct door, his footsteps slowed. If Inge had interfered to get him a promotion, he was going to wring her scrawny little neck!
His brusque knock elicited an equally brusque command to enter. Within, Captain Bergstrom sat at a tidy desk, reading a book. He looked up expectantly, and Gunnar stood at ready.
“Soldier Lang reporting to Captain Bergstrom from Colonel Raske, sir!”
Bergstrom answered in a negligent drawl. “Close the door and come sit down, Lang. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Gunnar tried to keep his confusion from showing on his face as he obeyed. Captain Bergstrom had returned his attention to the open book in front of him. It appeared to be some sort of registry, but Gunnar could not make out any of the names.
“I have something of a dilemma,” Bergstrom said abruptly.
“Sir?” Gunnar prompted, as the captain apparently expected a response.
“I already have a soldier in my ranks by the name of Lang. Norling, too.” He raised piercing eyes to look upon his new recruit. Somehow, that cold gaze seemed a thousand times more terrifying than anything Gunnar had received from Colonel Raske. He mentally reassessed his scale of reverence toward the two men.
At the same time, though, he did not understand what the dilemma actually was. Military law made it necessary for any soldier coming into a new troop to change his surname should another soldier already bear the same one. The odds of having both a Lang and a Norling stationed within the ranks of the castle guard seemed far-fetched, but stranger things had happened. Gunnar didn’t mind the prospect of another name change, either. He’d already done it twice within the last year, so he wasn’t exactly attached to the one he bore now.
“So,” said the captain after a long pause, “I am left with two choices: I can either assign you a new surname, or I can discharge you from the ranks all together. I must say, I’m inclined toward the second option.”
Gunnar’s face twisted in confusion. “What?”
Bergstrom continued as though he had not heard the question. “Having the brother of the adopted prince as an enlistee is a troubling enough situation. There are other circumstances that make me believe that you’re unfit to be a soldier, though.”
He picked up something propped behind his chair. Then, he stood and crossed around his desk, his eyes never leaving Gunnar’s face. In contrast, Gunnar’s gaze darted between his eyes and the object in his hands: a heavy, well-crafted longsword. He could tell at a glance that it was beautifully made. What he couldn’t tell was whether Captain Bergstrom was about to swing the weapon at his head. Enlistees were never discharged from service before their allotted time had expired, except in cases of desertion or treason. Gunnar had committed neither of these offenses, but he must have done something to ignite Bergstrom’s ire.
He flinched when Bergstrom drew the sword from its sheath and leveled the blade in front of him. He fully expected the worst.
“Have you ever seen its equal?” the captain asked, though. He had merely presented the weapon for inspection, his icy indifference shifting to a more calculated curiosity.
“I—” Gunnar started. His voice caught in his throat as he allowed his eyes to wander across the weapon. His first glance had not been wrong—the sword was superb—but this subsequent inspection revealed something that made the hair stand on the back of Gunnar’s neck. The shape of the blade, its balance, even the way the hilt was pinned and wrapped told him plainly that this was no ordinary sword from an ordinary swordsmith. It was his father’s work, plain as day.
And he had seen its equal, quite a number of times over.
“It’s an amazing weapon,” he said with quiet reverence.
Bergstrom efficiently thrust the blade back into its sheath. “I asked if you had ever seen its equal, not what you thought of it.” He turned away before Gunnar could stammer a response. “This sword is perhaps my most precious possession, Lang. It’s famous, part of a collection known as the Virtue Swords, crafted by the master-smith Torvald Geirson. Did you happen to see which virtue it represents?”
“Strength,” Gunnar murmured. He had seen the pattern of runes just above the hilt.
Captain Bergstrom grunted, a strangely triumphant sound. “You recognized it as a Virtue Sword, then? Most people have no clue where to look for the name.”
“It caught my eye,” said Gunnar, suddenly on his guard. Had Inge said something about their father? Did Bergstrom suspect?
“Did you know,” the captain continued in that same curious tone of voice, “that there are brigands all across the nation that seek out Master Torvald’s work? Sword enthusiasts and rogues alike have become obsessed with trying to collect the entire set, even though no one’s quite sure how many swords he made. More than one of the original bearers has been struck down and had his weapon stolen from him. Were you aware of that?”
“Yes,” said Gunnar tightly. His father had lamented that despicable behavior, and it had once been Gunnar’s primary goal in life to hunt down the malefactors and reclaim the stolen treasures. He had more pressing worries to attend to now, but he still held those rogues in utmost contempt.
“There are rumors of one swordsman up north who has collected three of the Virtue Swords and seeks the owners of the others,” Bergstrom said. “Master Torvald was careful ab
out the recipients of these weapons, so defeating three of those bearers would be something of a feat, don’t you think?”
Gunnar’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.
“One blade alone is worth somewhere between three and seven thousand crowns, depending on which virtue it is and who first wielded it. I suppose the value would rise exponentially with each sword collected. Is that about right?”
“I don’t know,” said Gunnar. “Anyone who would sell such a weapon deserves to be impaled on it immediately afterward.”
Bergstrom turned at last, a surprised arch to his brows. “Master Torvald sold a good number of them.”
“Master Torvald sold his labor and craftsmanship. Even then, he never made anywhere near the sum of money you’re talking about. He might as well have given the swords away.”
Those words hung between them for a long, tense pause. The heavy atmosphere broke when a grin suddenly appeared on Bergstrom’s face. “He might as well have,” he agreed. “I know several of us tried to pay him more than his asking price, but he would have none of it. These artisans and their pride, you know. Would you care to explain to me, Lang, how it is that beneath the new prince’s bed are concealed no fewer than four Virtue Swords and a very deadly collection of knives and daggers?”
The question took Gunnar so by surprise that he visibly started in his chair. So this was the source of Bergstrom’s inquiries thus far. “What has Inge told you?” he asked suspiciously.
“Merely that the hoard belonged to your father, and that you fetched it to her here.”
He slumped back again. “That bumbler,” he muttered.
“In her defense, she was under some duress at the time. As she’s now a member of the royal family, I have no authority to command any further explanation from her. I can, however, command one from you. Either you and she are a couple of these brigands seeking to collect Master Torvald’s work, or your father wasn’t the charcoal-burner you claimed on your enlistment papers.”
The Legendary Inge Page 10