by Chogan Swan
Over all, Kilan had approved cutting a tenth of the roster from the fourth regiment, sending them packing. The remaining recruits still weren't sure what hit them.
Ten days ago, it had taken them three hours just to break camp. Now they were breaking camp before first light, marching through the rocky hills twenty minutes after wake-up call and eating breakfast on the move. They covered the day's march before noon, set up camp in twenty minutes and—after a short break for lunch—they drilled the rest of the day.
However, the cooking had improved; after General Kilan threatened to make the cooks part of the ingredients if he came by and wasn't happy with the stew. Morale improved throughout the entire regiment. After only two executions of troublemakers, the rest of the discipline problems were minor.
General Kilan's strategy—if they don't have time, they won't cause trouble—worked well, as always. The fourth regiment had come so far so fast, the general transferred it to one of his lieutenants. Now he was meeting with his commanders and inspecting the other regiments. Kilan was pushing all four regiments to a faster pace. They were three days ahead of the rest of Balaak's army. Tomorrow they would camp at Brandek Pass and drill, waiting for the main force to catch up.
Waterman pulled his cloak around him. They'd been climbing these last three days, and the air was thin and cold at this altitude. The men were finding it harder to breathe as they ran through the maneuvers, but they'd adapt over the next couple of days. The main army would be dragging their butts though.
Waterman was happier away from Balaak's regular army. Sure, a job was just a job, but he felt uneasy around the black banners. Most of that bunch was slime from the deepest cesspool. Waterman was no stranger to pain and blood; he'd seen plenty of both on the battlefield, but some of the things he'd seen in the main camp made his stomach turn and his head throb. He'd never imagined anyone could think of the 'entertainments' they indulged in at the expense of those foolish enough to stay in the path of the advancing army. He recalled a northern soldier who—with a horrible, hungry expression—had demonstrated for Waterman the screaming he'd heard from men, women and children during torture.
He shook off the thoughts and turned back to the drill. “Run that last one again and get your spears higher. I don't think cavalry anywhere uses ponies that small. Chest-high you sod brains.”
Some things it was better not to think about. He'd sworn loyalty to Kilan for five years and he was going to stick to it. It wouldn't do to start breaking oaths. It would have to get much worse before he considered that. He remembered the way Kilan's sword thrummed between his hands when he made his vow two years ago. He knew then, even as he spoke, someone would remember forever if he broke his word.
He turned from the drill to look north. Even though the air was hazy, he could see the shadow that was Balaak's army staining the rising hills.
He pulled his cloak tighter.
Chapter 2 (Shadows Passing)
General Kilan pulled his robe tighter around his shoulders. The fog, thick and musty, covered the slopes and valleys.
Mitkai appeared behind him. “Your commanders are all here, General,” he said.
Together they watched Balaak's advance troops snake through the pass, four thousand elite fighters from Tyr-Goth, picked for their abilities tracking and operating in forest and broken terrain. Two sorcerers accompanied them, keeping their actions shrouded in a fog that moved with them, hiding their numbers.
In a week, they would be at the borders of Gynt where they would try to force Arod to make a stand. No jingle of harness or rattling weapon betrayed them. They glided like wraiths through the fog. A flock of black pigeons swirled above them with muffled flapping, landing—from time to time—perching on heads and shoulders, ignored.
When the last of them had passed the sentries, Kilan turned to Mitkai, “Have the camp close ranks. Send the teams up now to pile stones at the cliffs above the pass.” Mitkai saluted and left at a trot. Kilan walked back to the command tent where his officers waited.
The commanders rose when he entered. Kilan waved them to their chairs then seated himself at the head of the table and searched their faces. Coran, the Russ chieftain; Guthrin, the mercenary; Margai, once baronet of Tindivale in the southern confederacy. In the last weeks, he had grown to understand these men. He knew their abilities and their shortcomings. Almost, he liked them. At this point it helped that he’d not need to lie.
“Today, I may have heard news of my death,” he said, his voice level and dispassionate.
All three commanders remained silent. The Russ looked puzzled. Guthrin frowned, disturbed. Margai narrowed his eyes.
“Balaak called me to his tent before light this morning and told me his battle plan. It seems we will figure heavily in this campaign... among the casualties.”
“Both the monies we've already been paid and those we've been promised are needed to finance other endeavors that Balaak holds dear. His intention is to first put us in the positions of highest risk until all of our companies are whittled to nothing. Then he will throw the rest of us at the Southern Confederacy and crush those left with his regular forces and take back the gold. His plan is that none of this company, save myself—so he says—will live.” Kilan turned his head to look at each one around the table.
Guthrin controlled himself with difficulty, close to panic. Margai too looked shaken. Only the Russ was calm. He grinned—or bared his teeth. All remained silent, waiting for him to finish. A measure of the respect—or fear—he had earned.
“He told me this because he believes my loyalty bound to him with the cord of my life. When he promoted me, he also gave me poison and is certain I will die without his antidotes. He orders my co-operation to put our forces in a vulnerable position after we finish his work.”
Margai asked for his attention, raising his finger.
Kilan nodded.
“Where in this do you hear news of your death then? You imply that he does not hold this power with the poison.”
“No one holds power over another's life, Margai… poison or not. Another can only influence the moment of its passing, and all men will die. Even Balaak, though he may not admit it. Now, however, each of you must ask yourself this question...”
Kilan paused. “... because no one else can answer. Is it better to risk death, or give Balaak control of your life? Within your answers are my life's threads determined at this pass, and whether I will succeed or die.”
Coran stood, his bass voice a quiet rumble. “Among my people, we hold that a warrior seeks honor above life. Balaak must fear death to misjudge you so.”
Guthrin scratched his chin. “I know little about honor,” he said with mock ruefulness. “But he made a contract with me and my men, now I find it was not done in good faith. And it's bad business to let that go unpunished.”
Margai stood up, “I once lost title, lands and wealth, because I would not forget my responsibilities to those who gave me fealty. I'm responsible for their wellbeing. If I understand, ... you plan to strike at Balaak, correct?”
Kilan nodded, hazel eyes grim.
Margai sighed, “I don't give a damn for business, and my idea of honor is, I think, very different from Coran's. What reason is there for my men not to slip off now with the pay we've earned.”
Kilan considered the question's merit, “But where will you slip off to?” he asked. “If you had powerful friends in the South, you would be there. The Tarrian dynasty has allied with the North. That leaves the rest of the East, which lies behind us through Brandek Pass. If Balaak gets through the pass in strength, will you take a ship and hope to find an island? Or perhaps discover the lands rumored over the sea? It is just as likely you will lead your men to death running away as in making a stand now. And if we stand... at least you will have gained allies in the East.”
“It’s not that I don't want to punish Balaak for his plot against us,” said Margai, “but there are several things that stand in his favor.”
; He raised his fist, lifting a finger for each point. “One, his forces outnumber us four to one. Two, he has sorcerous power. Three, you do not deny he has your death in his power, and I see no one else who could command this collection of... troops as effectively as you. Oh yes, he also controls our food supply. Did I leave out anything?” Margai settled back in his chair.
“Yes. The things that stand in our favor,” said Kilan. “Brandek Pass is narrow and easy to defend, this cancels—somewhat—the difference in numbers. He is not expecting us to turn against him: this gives us the advantage of surprise. His sorcerous power in battle must find fear in us to be effective. I know how to counter that. We carry enough food for two weeks with us and a supply of meat on the hoof—mules, pack horses; we won't need them anymore. And I will live long enough to see this matter through. Of that, you can be sure.”
“If any wish to take their men and go, now is the time.” Kilan paused.
His commanders pulled their chairs up to the table and waited.
Kilan unrolled the map.
Chapter 3 (Gambit)
It wasn’t quite dawn.
Keri yawned and tried again to focus her eyes on what she was doing. “Sort've a mixed blessing, workin' for you,” she said with a wry expression. “Ye're lucky I worked for Cor three years, an' Da was a commander too before he was killt.” She scuffed her new boots on the floor, trying to break in the toe section, while she adjusted the straps of Seth's gauntlets.
Seth managed a brief grin, “Well at least you got the boots out of it.”
“Mind you, I don't mean teh sound ungrateful,” continued Keri, tightening his chain vest one more notch.
Seth shrugged to check the fit.
“But if you don't win this fracas...”
Seth glanced at her. Only fifteen days ago he'd said he couldn't fight. Now he was pitted against a weaponsmaster whose name in the city had become synonymous with certain death. Her concern was understandable. “You'll be taken care of if something goes wrong, Keri,” he promised.
“'S not that, y' ninny,” she grumbled. “I'll just be sore disappointed. I've been lookin’ for the chance to be watchin' him die.”
She stepped back to look him over with a practiced and critical eye, pushing a strand of hair off her cheek. “You sure you don't want more protection? I wish you'd at least wear something else on your legs besides them light greaves and ... Yes, I know, you can't sacrifice the speed.”
A discreet knock at the door sounded.
Keri hurried to open it, kneeling when she saw Arturo, resplendent in blue and gold court robe and leaning on an ebony cane.
Arturo limped into the room. “Is the new weaponsmaster ready to assume his post?”
“Almost, lord prince,” Seth took a deep breath and strapped on his sword. As always, an image of his brother flashed through his mind’s eye as his hand ran over the crest of the Dragonsmith on the hilt. “Only one small detail to clear up first.”
Arturo held up his hand, “I understand you're joking, Seth, but remember, nobody knows the full extent of his skill. You are better than me, but I can't help but wonder if Nimshii might be better still.”
Seth smiled. “I had a handicap, when I faced you. At least now I remember everything.”
Arturo returned his smile, though on him it was shaky, “I hope you're right. I'm looking forward to being the first prince of Ibuchan to be outranked by his weaponsmaster.” He pivoted on his cane, “I'll see you before the challenge then. I wish I could second for you, but I don't want to irritate my father more than I must at this point.”
Keri closed the door behind him. “What did he mean about y' outranking him...? Never mind. I get the feeling I'd rather not learn right now.” She bent to pick up a small bundle of bandages and a bottle of clean water. Seth went to the wardrobe and took two wool cloaks. It would be chilly and Nimshii might make them wait. The suite Arturo had given them came with the fine clothes for both of them, a stove, a bathtub and other accessories. He pulled open the bottom drawer and pulled out a short sword. “I'd appreciate it if you would second for me,” he said, handing it to her. “It's just a formality, really. You won't be required to fight or anything.”
Keri looked at the sword without expression then handed it back. “Someday maybe y' can show me how to use one, but right now it would just get in my way. I saw knives in there though. All Da ever showed me was knives. He were a wonder with those.”
Seth put the sword back, “Help yourself then.”
Keri took the pile of knives and spread them out on the bed, pulling each from its sheath and testing the edge, the balance, and examining the metal with care. She picked four and strapped two of them behind her back. The smallest she fastened inside her boot. Then she took another, a long fancy blade with a jeweled hilt, to strap at her waist. “I might as well look impressive,” she muttered.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Full, formal court in Ibuchan is an impressive sight, also an uncomfortable ordeal. Fashion in the city demanded corsets, bustles, stiff shoes and the throne room required hours of standing. Morningstorm D'amo, ruler of the city-state of Ibuchan, did not have to stand, but he wore a girdle and it cut into his ribcage somethin’ cruel. He sat on the high seat, back straight and hoped the assembled lords would interpret his discomfort as sternness. The representatives and heads of the noble houses attended today; all eight of them—high-collared, ribboned, robed, buckled, jeweled...
Morningstorm looked them over like a wary fox eying a pack of hounds. Three houses backed him without reservation: D'arcy, T'agney and D'ant. Their fortunes underwrote ventures he was backing as well. If he fell from power, they would drop in status and even more in wealth. The others... professed their support more than they gave it. Any of them would take his place if they could figure out how.
The nobles all assembled on his right. The guilds—the official ones anyway—clustered to the left. Courtiers, scribes, servants and guards stood where their task or status dictated here and there around the hall. At the moment, they were waiting.
Morningstorm hated being there. He wished—not for the first time—he dared change his policy and switch to being the last to arrive rather than the first. That had been the custom four hundred years ago, but the lesser houses had once conspired while waiting for his great-great-grandfather and had almost succeeded in assassinating him.
Morningstorm wondered if they’d just been kept waiting too long.
The weaponsmaster appeared at his post at the head of the guards, his stiff black figure standing out against the glitter of their polished armor. Morningstorm beckoned him to the high seat.
“Do you know what this is about, Nimshii?”
“No, High Lord D'amo, I was only just informed your son had called an emergency session ... as is his right. I came back from business I was conducting in the city, or I would have been here sooner. I fear he has been most unreasonable of late. He resists my teaching, in spite of the obvious success of my lessons.”
The steward—at his post by the door—rapped the butt of his official staff on the flags, “Heir to the throne, Lord Prince Arturo D'amo,” he intoned.
Morningstorm looked up to see the flamboyant blue form of his son walk into the room with a dignified stride that hid the slight limp he still carried. Two of his personal guards flanked him. When he came to the high seat, he raised his hand to salute his father.
“I would speak privately with you for a moment, father.”
Morningstorm, pursed his lips and waved for his son to approach. Nimshii stepped down. The crowd began a murmur of obligatory chit-chat to afford privacy for the conversation at the high seat.
Arturo took a seat on the cushioned floor at his father's right hand. He turned to face the chair.
Morningstorm watched him, frowning. “What is it, Arturo? A meeting of the high court is a serious thing.”
“This is a serious matter, Father.” Arturo paused, he had thought of many ways to approach this
moment. He hoped he’d chosen well.
“I believe I have found a better candidate for weaponsmaster than Nimshii.”
Morningstorm sighed, “I see you're still angry with him. What has he done that you persist with this..?” he waved his hand in irritation. “I doubt you've got anyone who can compete with Nimshii in combat. You were mad to have challenged him, and lucky he knew better than to kill you.”
Arturo nodded, “We could argue forever and still not agree, but the fact remains I am sponsoring a challenge for the position. This will not be settled by argument.”
“What do you hope to accomplish, Arturo? You've always been so level-headed. You've been closeted with that strange young man the patrol picked out of the river, but I thought you suspected he was trying to kill you. Now—unless I miss my guess—you are betting on him. I don't see what you have riding on this, but if it's money, I hope you got long odds on the bet.”
Morningstorm raised his hand, and the room fell silent. “Because of a peculiar wording of the law, my son found it necessary to call this emergency session to propose a change to one of my appointments. I apologize for this inconvenience. I suggest a review of that legislation and request the council submit a new draft for my approval. Then, perhaps, we can avoid this sort thing in the future.” He motioned to Arturo.
With help from his cane, Arturo stood and announced, “I propose a new appointee to the position of weaponsmaster.” He turned to the dark-cloaked Nimshii and met his gaze.
Nimshii frowned, “Who do you propose to take my place, Lord?” he asked lip rising in a sneer.
Arturo, not leaning on his cane at all, stalked over to the weaponsmaster and stared into his cold eyes. He appeared to search for a reaction. The hall hushed as Arturo said, in a quiet voice, “Your power here is gone. I find your methods too bloody, your motives suspect, and your spies too close to my counsels. Even if my candidate does not defeat you, I will no longer allow you to instruct me.”