by Chogan Swan
“Yes, my lord. No visitors,” said Fitzroy. He saluted and herded the medic through the door.
“We need to talk,” said Arturo.
“Yes we do,” Seth said as he pushed himself off the bed. “Can I help you back to bed?”
“Thank you, but I can manage,” said Arturo, pushing himself to his feet. “I'm not so bad...” He climbed into the bed, collapsing on his face.
Seth rolled him over with care.
“... off as you might think,” finished Arturo.
Seth grinned. “Yes I can see how much you've recovered.”
Arturo snorted. “Recovered or not, I'm sure Nimshii is up to something, and I need your advice. You seem to know more than I do about what's going on around here, and you've spent most of your time in jail.”
“Before we speak,” Seth said, “I must tell you my memory has come back.”
“Good, I'm glad for you,” said Arturo. “Is it important right now? I mean does it apply to the situation here.”
“Yes,” Seth said. “It’s important I tell you, or you might think I've taken advantage later.”
Arturo stared at him.
“I propose,” Seth said, “that we form an alliance to our mutual benefit.”
“Who are you that you can form alliances?” asked Arturo.
“Seth Arodan, co-regent of Gynt.”
“But Gynt..., Seth Arodan? But you're nothing like...”
Doubt struggled in a brief losing battle on his face. “That's why I couldn't place you. It would seem our intelligence sources are lacking in Gynt. I thought you were dead, and my drawings of you are badly out of date. But, Seth, how long have you been away?”
“I left on the eve of Springfest.”
Arturo sighed, “I'm sorry, Seth. I hate to be the one... so much has happened since then. Two months ago, a large force of bandits and other elements appeared out of nowhere—or everywhere—and attacked the keep at Gynt. Even though Ibuchan and Gynt have been at peace for three hundred years, we never formed an alliance. There were trade agreements, but....”
Seth listened with dread. He felt a cottony numbness growing inside him.
Arturo went on with regret in his voice. “My father elected to remain neutral. Arod's lords to the south and his allies never had a chance to mobilize so early in the spring. And now, the keep at Gynt is no more. The army that attacked it... they broke down the gates, entered the keep and then the entire mountain collapsed and buried everyone.”
Seth forced a breath into his tightening chest. His father, his home, all his memories, he could never go back.
Arturo continued, his voice subdued. “Reports said you were ill, in quarantine somewhere. Everyone assumed you died. No one knows where your oldest brother is. Your other brothers were defeated over a challenge to your stewardship. One died, one was banished.”
Arturo's words ran down. “I'm sorry, Seth. Even if you can re-establish your government, nevermore will Gynt be a major power in the East.”
Seth's mind whirled, but the hand was still holding him, its presence as strong as when he dreamed. Yet still, he was numb.
There was a flapping of wings at the window, the shutter was open, but the window was closed. A raven perched on the windowsill.
Seth ran to the window and threw open the sash.
“I think,” said the raven, “it would be too early to say, 'nevermore'.”
“Fletch!” Seth cried.
“What?” snapped the Raven.
“The pinecone, it was you.”
“Oh, that. Of course.” said the raven, “Must you always state the obvious? I spotted you when you first rode in.”
“What did you mean, too early?” asked Seth.
Fletch tilted his head. “Premature?”
Arturo cleared his throat.
“Seth, you haven't introduced me,” the raven remonstrated.
“Arturo, may I introduce Fletch of Ravenswood. Fletch, I present Lord Arturo, heir of the ruling house of the city.”
“Lord Arturo, ah yes, Earl of Dirthshire and Baron of Perth as well, if I'm not mistaken,” Fletch said, dropping his beak in a bow.
“Greetings, Fletch, and welcome, it is a pleasure to meet a raven of your kindred again. I had the opportunity to negotiate with Kirikoraklek of Ravenswood five years ago over the matter of logging rights in the outlying forest.”
“I knew him, but we’ve not been in touch for some time,” said Fletch. “He is a distant cousin to my mother.”
“Fletch! What did you mean!” yelled Seth. “If you are trying to guard a secret, I give you permission to speak before the lord Arturo. But tell me now.”
“As you wish, your majesty,” said Fletch his voice—for once—was respectful. The raven flap-hopped from the window ledge to the arm of the day bed. For half an hour, he told of the challenge for the stewardship and the true version of the fall of the keep then the struggles in the woodlands of Gynt. His raspy voice almost made Seth feel as though he were home again.
The raven paused a moment and cocked his head. He looked troubled as though not sure how to continue. He glanced at Arturo, and then spoke a brief phrase in dragon, “Danger to the weyr.”
Seth nodded, “I understand your wish to be cautious, Fletch, but say on, if it concerns strategy against our foes.”
The raven fanned his wings a trifle in consternation, but continued. “Four days ago we saw a fog rolling down the slopes of the foothills along the south branch of the River Tarr. My... 'associate' grew suspicious and sent me to take a look. Four thousand forest fighters from Tyr-Goth approached under the cover of the mist, along with birds that scout for them. Soon, they should be in a position to force us to make a stand. The King believes they are the vanguard of a major force coming through Brandek Pass. Our intelligence sources tell us the Tardek has agreed to let them through the pass in exchange for a treaty that cedes to him the southern half of Gynt. Your father and his advisors were planning something when I left, but I don't know what.”
Arturo sat up with an oath. “Does he indeed think such a treaty would be honored? The greedy fool.” He rubbed his eyes as though tired. “This will also cut off inland trade to Ibuchan. I don't see my father staying neutral on this.”
Seth rubbed his chin, “Which way will he lean though? I imagine Tyr-Goth will make persuasive offers. He may see opposition to a force of that size as useless.”
Arturo shook his head, “I'm not sure. Once I would have said he would never trust or treat with the powers in the north, but now.... He's changed.”
Seth turned to the raven. “Fletch, you said messenger birds were not sent to our allies until after Almin had been found compromised. How long ago was that?”
“Messages were sent three days past,” said the raven. “Three replies so far: Larain of course, and one from the Ihn-Wazi, the other from King Runcivil of Rukland. The Kyrds will send as many as they can muster, but Runcivil can only send apologies, worthless son-of-a-grackle dropping.”
Seth nodded. He agreed with Fletch's estimation of Runcivil, but Rukland's lack of support didn't surprise him. His father had always considered him a weak ally, not for lack of military strength, but Runcival had a long history of keeping his word only when it was convenient.
From years spent in the throne room and playing music for state functions. Seth had picked up his father's strategies of diplomatic maneuvering. “He'll send troops,” he said with assurance. “Only mercenaries though and as few as he thinks he can get away with. He won't be in any hurry.”
“Why?” said Fletch, doubt lacing his tone. “That fat, lazy...”
“It's simple,” Seth said. “Father will inform him if he doesn't live up to the agreements of the alliance, Larain will have Perth close the Gem River. All his merchant traffic and his access to Port Gem will be cut off.” Seth grinned. “Runcival wouldn't like the drain on his treasury that would cause. The merchants would have a new king bought and installed in a month.”
Ar
turo chuckled, “I've always admired your father's diplomacy.”
Seth nodded but stared at Arturo, “It won't be enough though,” he said.
“No,” said Arturo. “Not with the Tardek's treachery on the scales as well. Tyr-Goth will be through the pass before anyone from the south can come against them, and then.... The battle will be... expensive.”
“But...?” Seth said, sensing more to come.
“Yes,” acknowledged Arturo, “Ibuchan might arrive there soon enough, but I doubt my father would take such a risk. If we did not get there soon enough, if we were not reinforced, from Gynt, or if Tar attacks our flank—we’d be wiped out. It’s much too vulnerable for my father to approve...,” Arturo tapped his fingers on the covers.
Seth waited; Arturo was still considering something. “However,” Arturo paused then laughed. “As your friend Fletch has reminded me—ever so delicately—I do owe you allegiance for Perth, don't I?” He shifted on the bed. “On the other hand I hold an inheritance from the Tardek for Derthshire, surely you can see the conflict.”
“Nevertheless,” said Fletch, “It gives you a valid reason to act in favor of Gynt. The knights of Perth are all loyal to Gynt, and it's no secret they make up most of your personal bodyguard.”
“I like Perth,” said Arturo. “Loyalty has not gone out of style there. They are loyal to the regency, but they are also loyal to me. Dirthshire is ten times richer, but they'd stab me in the back if they saw an advantage....”
A long silence ensued that Seth knew not to break.
Arturo slapped his hand on the bedcover. “Five hundred elite troops with supplies for two weeks can ride on my command. They could stop up the pass for a time, but it would cost us; there could be deep losses. But with Tyr-Goth to the south and north, Ibuchan would not stay a free city-state for another year.”
Fletch and Seth exchanged a glance; the raven winked.
Arturo thumped his fist on the covers, “I swear I would do it, if it were not for one thing.... I will not leave this city with Nimshii here spinning his plots at my back.”
“Have him dismissed,” Seth suggested.
“He is my father's appointee,” replied Arturo, gloom in his voice. “By law, I can't dismiss him without cause unless...”
Seth smiled, thin and hard, finishing the thought, “unless a more qualified candidate is presented.”
Arturo looked at Seth, troubled. “Believe me, as one who's challenged him and lost, there are few 'more qualified' candidates.”
“Appoint me,” Seth said, his voice was quiet but decisive.
“He will challenge,” Arturo assured him.
“I'm counting on it,” Seth said. “He has much to answer for.”
Arturo sighed, “You had better win, and not just because I've been enjoying your company. Everything will hinge on it.”
Seth nodded, “Appoint me. There's no time for another solution. Their plans are too advanced. We must cut through the webs. We can't pause to untie them.”
Fletch chuckled, “Humans. You always agonize over the most obvious decisions.”
Arturo turned to the raven. “I saw that wink, raven. You saw it coming down to this from the start.”
“Ha,” croaked Fletch, “It's a fool bird indeed that doesn't see which way the wind is blowing.”
Book 3 — The Dragon and the Rose
Chapter 1 (Spider in the tent)
The shadow brooded in the tent.
Threatening clouds hid the sliver of moon. The hill where the tent sat gave a view of the army camp around it. Torches and campfires glowed on the hills of the trampled countryside—tiny, red specks stretching into the north. The shadow stirred and uttered a command in low tones; a messenger fled down the hill into the camp.
When I move against Arod this time, I will be sure. I will use no weak tools beyond their abilities, and all avenues of escape will be blocked. This time, I will be sure.
He’d been so close to his secondary target on his way back from the keep. It seemed his master had handed him an unexpected victory before the target slipped away on dragon back. Balaak shivered, thinking about his brush with that unseen presence at Re-Hidalg. Almost, it lent credibility to that prophecy.
Balaak raised a goblet to his mouth and drank, emptying the cup. He stroked his hand, running his fingers down burned-in scar lines that ran over the two fingers yoked together by the double ring. The stone on the ring glowed dull red. The scars were his reward for the failure at the keep. He’d been over-extended and vulnerable, how could he have expected that vicious counter-attack from the old dodderer? As though it were not enough, he had lost a tithe of his powers. The generation he'd spent questing in the darkness was all wasted. Now he could no longer fly, and his spy in the camp was dead. He would not report failure to Lord Mogvorn this time.
Rising, he paced to the end of his tent and back. How long ago had he sent the message? Balaak hissed in a quick flash of rage. The messenger should have returned by now. Fools and incompetents surrounded him, and that needed to be changed.
“Sergeant of the Guard,” he called in a voice that carried itself the precise distance necessary. He prided himself on his precision; he could tell the exact number of fleas on the rats scuttering past his tent in the night. He could predict the weather for two weeks in advance, but when he dealt with men, they fell short of his expectations.
The sergeant stepped into the tent and saluted. Balaak frowned; the sergeant took two seconds longer than he needed to. “The messenger is late. Have him beaten when he returns. Ten lashes.”
The sergeant saluted again. His eyes lit up. Balaak knew administering punishment was a favorite part of his job. He nodded to himself, satisfied. It would be taken care of.
He returned to his chair. The bottle moved across the table to him at his wish, and he filled the goblet again. He felt no effects from the wine, but sometimes the taste soothed him. It was a rich, dark red, spoils taken from the house of a minor lord during the march, but he noticed a slight bitterness. The vintage was not traveling well.
The porter must have jostled it or left it in the sun. He would have the man's tongue cut off as an example. It was a fitting punishment, taking away the man's sense of taste for ruining the wine's, but it still wouldn't help the wine.
He sat back and waited, rubbing his scarred hand. The army had grown on its way south, picking up recruits along the way. He didn't think much of the quality of most of them, but there was always a need for shock troops.
Balaak noticed one man of considerable abilities though, a mercenary leader. What struck Balaak was that his men followed orders and kept strict discipline. Balaak valued that. What's more, he needed someone like that. The army was so large now he could not oversee everything alone. The adjutants tasked with bringing the army from Tyr-Goth had died along the way. One dying in a skirmish with the men of South Dragonsmere, the other killed in his sleep by a lieutenant who wanted his position. Not the sort of adjutant Balaak wanted under him—of course he killed the fool.
The third displeased Balaak once too often. Balaak hadn’t killed him because the man held high connections in Tyr-Goth and Tarr. Instead, he transferred him to the auxiliaries, where at least Balaak didn't have to be around him. The sound of the messenger returning at a gallop came to his ears.
In a moment, the sergeant of the guard entered Balaak's tent with the return message. “The Fifth Auxiliary commander replies he will attend you at once. He asks your indulgence for the time taken to dress.” Balaak waved him away. The sergeant hurried off, the prospect of a more pleasant job before him.
Balaak pulled two mugs from a chest by his bed. Mulled wine would be appropriate. The foggy night held a chill as they drew nearer to the mountains. His main forces were still two-week's march from the pass.
Taking the mugs to the glowing brazier, he shook in a portion of mixed spices from a red-glazed ceramic jar and filled them with wine. With his fingers, he plucked a hot iron from the fire and dunked i
t in the mugs; the wine sizzled and steamed as it heated, letting off a spicy aroma. His fingers glowed blue, but did not sear.
The necromancer’s face took on a thin smile; from another chest, he pulled a tiny brush and a clear vial filled with a cloudy liquid. With care—he uncorked the vial, dipped the brush, and painted a thin line of the liquid around the lip of each mug—half-way and left from the handle. He tossed the brush into the fire, careful not to touch the bristles. All trace of the liquid disappeared, drying on the warm mugs. He positioned them on a silver tray on the table and sat down again to wait, patient now as any spider.
Twenty heartbeats later, he heard the sergeant begin administering the lashes to the tardy messenger.
Sixty heartbeats more, the punishment ended and, in spite of the sound of the messenger's screaming, the necromancer could just hear footsteps approaching from the camp.
The guard at the tent's entrance announced the commander in a much-practiced voice, moderate and clear, but not too loud. Balaak expected him to perform this part of his task well, and he knew the man felt well rewarded each time he spoke and escaped punishment.
“The Fifth Auxiliary Commander to see you, Sir.”
“Come,” said Balaak.
The commander entered and unfastened the steel pin that held the front of his cloak closed, allowing his arms free movement.
Balaak stayed seated—his prerogative—and waved to the other chair. The commander sat; Balaak watched him. The man moved with the grace and care of a cat. His eyes swept the room and then blinked. He turned to regard the cups of wine on the tray. Balaak recognized the glance and blink as the outward signs of a memory storage technique. Later the man might be able to remember every detail of the tents interior..., if he left it alive. The necromancer continued to study him. He was of solid build, and perhaps thirty-five years old, but his eyes made him seem older. They were brown and green—grim, world-weary eyes.