by Kal Spriggs
The other three stared out at the hillside. “The big one, about the size of a man?” Gerlin asked.
“That's the one,” Eleanor said. She drew back her runic bow. For a second, the air seemed to hum. Katarina could swear that the air around the arrow seemed to distort. Katarina could see the muscles stand out in Eleanor's arms as she drew it back. Despite her size, Eleanor had well-muscled arms and shoulders, probably from the much practice she had with the bow.
There was a sharp crack, like the snap of a whip when she released the arrow, which flew in a straight line, with absolutely no arc.
That crack followed a moment later with a peal of thunder. Katarina stared down the field to where a cloud of dust obscured the boulder. The spring winds cleared the dust a moment later, but it took Katarina a moment to realize why she could no longer see the boulder.
The arrow had shattered it into several large chunks.
“Ancestors,” Gerlin breathed. The normally unflappable halfblood had an expression of shock on his face. For that matter, Samen's jaw was dropped and he had gone pale.
“Thank you for the lesson, gentlemen. Lady Katarina, thank you for the conversation.” Eleanor smiled politely at them all, and then turned and walked calmly back towards the camp. “I suppose I better reassure everyone we aren't under attack,” She called over her shoulder.
Samen walked off a moment later. He still shook his head, either in surprise at Eleanor's skill with the bow or in bemusement at her lesson..
Gerlin looked over at Katarina, “You know, I thought the lesson was to Samen, when she first showed off.” His tone was thoughtful and Katarina thought she even heard a tone of worry in his voice.
“Yes, of course it was,” Katarina said.
“Yes... but she could have done that without her bow. That one was a message for the entire camp... and especially for you,” Gerlin said. “She's a woman who's lost everything. She has no home, no family, and nothing left to lose... nothing but her son who has chosen to follow you.”
Katarina shivered, “You're saying it was a threat. If something happens to her son-”
“No.” Gerlin said softly. “She's been to battle, she knows there are no guarantees. She might hate you for his death, but she will accept that, as a risk he chose himself.”
“You seem to understand her very well,” Katarina said.
Gerlin shrugged, “My Lady, she's saying in the clearest way she can, that if anyone hurt her son, they won't even see the arrow that kills them.”
“Oh.” Katarina closed her eyes. Her mind went back to Eleanor's odd questions, and she felt a cold weight settle in her stomach. She wanted to say the very idea seemed absurd. Why would she ever fall for a peasant boy from a remote village? In no way would she risk herself or put the future of the Duchy at such a grave risk. Love for family, that was acceptable, but passion outside of the arranged marriage she must accept at some point, she could never allow herself that.
She felt nothing for Aerion. Nothing more than friendship.
If only I believed that, she thought.
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Keep, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
Eighteenth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering
Kerrel found Pargan with his feet up on an ale barrel, halfway through a tankard of dark ale.
“Good to see your habits of self denial and aestheticism haven't changed,” Kerrel said. She rolled her eyes at his behavior.
“Thanks, I think,” Pargan grunted. “I hate it when you use those fancy words, makes me feel even more like a low-life.” He waved at another cushion next to his, and at a filled mug, “Join me, let's reminisce about old times.”
Kerrel stood, “I thought I made it clear I was hear to talk about Jonal.”
Pargan set his tankard down, and wiped foam out of his shaggy beard, “And let me be clear. Sit. Drink. Talk.”
Kerrel sat. She felt like a child as she picked up one of the Mongrel's oversized tankards. She took a sip and grimaced at the bitter taste. “Happy?”
“You never had good taste in beer,” Pargan grunted. He drained his own, then filled it again directly from the cask. “I remember when you first showed up, with some idiot story about being the bastard daughter of some minor noble. Didn't fool a single one of your trainers, though some of your fellow recruits might have believed it.”
“I couldn't very well have enlisted under my name and title, now could I?” Kerrel said. She shrugged, “And I needed the training and experience.”
“That you did. Though if I had suspected your intention to strike out on your own as soon as you learned enough, I wouldn't have taught you nearly as well,” Pargan said. “I hate it when I train the competition.”
“I think the Firebrands and the Mongrels rarely compete for the same contracts,” Kerrel said dryly.
“That's because out of all the lessons I taught, there was one you refused to learn,” Pargan said. “Stay away from politics. Never let a job become more than a job, don't let your loyalty be to anything besides the money and the contract.”
Kerrel frowned. She took a deep gulp of the bitter ale to give herself time to think. She wondered if he even suspected her goals and if he did, then what others might put together. Finally, she spoke, “You believe I've gotten political...”
“I know you have,” Pargan said. “And I don't need your ten Solari vocabulary to notice when water's wet. You've supported Hector, moved right up to a position of trust with him, and he's gained something more than an employee's loyalty from you.” He frowned, “Word is, you've shared his bed.”
“That's none of your business,” Kerrel said. She felt her cheeks grow hot.
“Of course it is, especially when you involve me in this business with your cousin,” Pargan said. “And I don't need to be a noble to see how this whole mess stinks. There's too many people asking for my time and offering damned fine concessions if I do this thing or that.” His ugly face twisted with irritation.
“Like who?” Kerrel asked.
“Like I shouldn't tell you or you'll get yourself dead,” Pargan answered. “They set up your cousin as a warning, girl. They don't like how you have Hector's ear.”
Kerrel slammed the tankard down. “Tell me.”
He grimaced at her, “If I were ten cycles younger, I'd take you over my knee for spilling a drop of this stuff.” He took another swig. “Alright... though I'd probably be doing us both a favor if I kept my old mouth shut.” He leaned back and didn't speak for a moment, but Kerrel recognized the thoughtful look on his face, so she didn't interrupt.
“It starts with Commander Pradjahdar,” Pargan said finally. “He's involved in this up to the top of his silken white head of hair. You know how when you interview several witnesses, they all tell their stories a little different, right?” Kerrel nodded and Pargan continued, “Well, every one of Pradjahdar's scouts has the exact same story. They happened to be riding in the area. They saw Jonal talking with some Armen. He turned to run, they ran him down and captured him. He had all these coins in a bag on his saddle. They tell it the exact same way, every time.”
Kerrel bit back a curse, “So they're lying.”
“Either that, or they're the most detached people I've ever met,” Pargan said. “They even talk about killing the Armen like they're reading a cooking recipe for something they don't like to eat, you know like candied chicken liver or something.” Pargan blinked, “Nah, those Vendakar are sick folks, they'd probably like that.”
“Very well, so what else?” Kerrel said and ignored his humor.
“Then there's your friend Zabilla Nasrat,” Pargan said. “Who hates your guts for some reason or another. Don't get me wrong, he's not overly fond of any mercenaries, but when he talks about you, I get the impression that he really wants to put a sword through your guts and listen to you scream.” Pargan shrugged. “Knowing that, you would expect him to conduct the tribunal in record time. I half expected him t
o convene it on the march and string up your cousin from a scaffold on a wagon, just to save time”
Kerrel couldn't argue with his impression. She waited for a long moment while Pargan chugged down his tankard. He slowly filled it up from his ale barrel, his face thoughtful as he watched it foam. “And?” Kerrel finally asked.
“And instead, he keeps pushing it back. He asks for witnesses, makes note of errors in collecting evidence...” Pargan grunted, “Half the time, I think he's just making crap up. He's insistent that he knows Jonal is guilty, but he stalls the entire thing. We haven't even had a chance to set down and hear what Jonal has to say or to hear if he'll plead guilty or innocent.”
Kerrel frowned, “That doesn't make any sense at all.”
“Right, so either he's involved or he has some plot of his own he's got running, maybe to pin the whole thing on you,” Pargan said. He drained his tankard again, and stared at the empty one for a moment. “Or maybe he just doesn't like to see an innocent man hang. He's a mean bastard, but pretty fair minded most times.”
Kerrel frowned. After her previous encounters with Zabilla, she would not care to wager on any feeling of fairness on his part. Especially not in regards to her or her people. I still have to settle whatever it is between him and I, she thought, assuming there is something and it's not just some minor local tradition I've upset.
“Then, of course, there's Attrimar,” Pargan said with a belch.
“The pimp?” Kerrel asked.
“He's more than that,” Pargan said. He wrinkled his nose, “He's deep in organized crime. Smuggling, extortion, fencing... everything that makes money. He should have nothing to do with this whole thing. Hell, if Hector wasn't such a big source of income, I'd put him forward as someone who'd betray this army to the Armen. Even so, two of his men have come forward to swear that they saw Jonal dragged unconscious from the main camp by a couple of Vendakar. Also, Attrimar has mentioned that some of his recently acquired slaves told him they saw Vendakar in their camp the night before the battle.”
“That should clear a lot of it up!” Kerrel said.
“I doubt it,” Pargan said. “It would definitely put most of the rest of the mercenaries up in arms about the Vendakar, but Lord Hector trusts them too much. It will take more than the words of a couple of shady witnesses and some Armen.”
“But it makes sense,” Kerrel said. “The Vendakar provided the evidence, the witnesses, and even dragged Jonal in, along with some Armen corpses. If we can get evidence to show that the Vendakar set up Hector...”
“Then what?” Pargan said. “Everyone knows the Vendakar hate the Armen more than anyone else. Worse than that, there's no motive. Hector provides money and trade, things that the Vendakar Houses need right now. What would they gain if they betrayed Hector? It's not like they are in position to attack the Duchy.”
Kerrel frowned, “So... what now, then?”
“Now, I'm going to continue getting drunk and forget we had this conversation,” Pargan said. “I'm certain you'll ignore my good advice and get even more involved in this mess. If you are determined to get yourself killed, I'd recommend talking with Attrimar to figure out his angle.”
“You think he'll tell me?” Kerrel asked.
Pargan shrugged, “Asking him directly might appeal to his sense of humor, if nothing else. Otherwise, I'm certain he'll have one scheme or another he will want your help in, he's a born opportunist.” Pargan gave a loud belch. “Oh, one last thing.”
He passed her a small note, and Kerrel recognized the eight point star pressed into the wax seal. “Your friend in the south sent this, one of my messengers brought it to me after we made camp.”
“Thanks,” Kerrel said. She took the letter and stared down at it, “You read it?”
“What kind of teacher would I be if I didn't follow my own advice and stay out of politics?” Pargan said. “And that damned symbol means nothing but politics. Old politics, but politics nonetheless. Truth to tell, I nearly burned the damned thing when I first saw it.”
Kerrel looked up and met his gaze, “Thank you Pargan.” She patted his hairy shoulder and stood.
He snorted, “Thank me by outsmarting all these scheming bastards. That's the second part of the lesson, if you have to get involved in politics, be better at it than everyone else. That is how the Countess got her title, after all.”
***
Aerion Swordbreaker
The Hidden Valley, Duchy of Masov
Eighteenth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering.
Aerion sat up with a start as someone kicked his foot. He let out an exhausted sigh when he saw Walker. “What do you want?”
“So sour, Swordbreaker?” Walker asked with a smirk. “Come on, get up, it's time for some fun.”
Aerion grimaced and rubbed at his one eye. “Look, you might have spent the past couple days relaxing, but someone remembered I worked a forge. I've been hammering scrap metal into spear heads for the past two days.”
Walker just snorted, “Poor you. You know it's your own fault for volunteering, trying to impress a certain noble lady.” His smile grew a bit bigger as Aerion felt himself flush. “Now, I've got just the reward for all that hard labor. I managed to talk that skinflint Solis out of a cask of fine Marovingian wine. What say you we get drunk and find some trouble?”
Aerion sighed, “That doesn't seem like a good idea.”
Walker cocked his head at him, “Really? Says the young virgin who has never been drunk?”
Aerion flushed. “I'm not... that is, just because I've never...” He stammered.
Walker patted him on the shoulder, “It's alright, big guy. But trust me, we'll have some fun. Hurry up and get dressed, Quinn and Josef are waiting on you.”
Aerion pulled on his tunic and rolled off his pallet. He sighed as he stretched, but he managed to get to his feet without too many groans. Walker waited impatiently in the doorway. Aerion finally gave a last, longing look at his sleeping pallet and followed the other man outside.
Quinn and Josef stood there, Josef with a large wine cask over his shoulder. “What kept you?” Josef asked. His deep voice showed no strain from holding the barrel, but Aerion doubted that his friend liked being used as a pack mule.
“Swordbreaker here was tired, didn't want to get up,” Walker said with a snort. “Quinn, lead the way?”
Quinn shook his head, “I still think this is a terrible idea.”
Walker cast his gaze at the stars, “By the spirits of my ancestors, of course it's a bad idea. We're young men, this is what we're supposed to do. Get drunk and make poor decisions! That's how we get to be wise old men like Arren.”
Aerion glanced around, worried that someone would see or overhear their discussion, but the camp seemed mostly quiet. They had all put their pallets in one of the smaller buildings, one that no one else had claimed, and it was a short distance from the other buildings. The sun had already gone behind the mountains, but had not yet sunk so low that it was dark. There was a stillness to the air, yet the warm summer air felt good.
Josef just sighed. “Lets get this over with.”
“So exciting,” Walker chortled. He led the way off towards the head of the valley. Aerion realized their destination after he turned off on a winding path. There was a small box canyon, away from the rest of the valley. He flushed as he remembered what use it saw during some of the celebrations and feast days.
They continued along the trial until it wound down, between two narrow boulders and then opened up into the wide box canyon. A roaring fire was in the center of it, surrounded by thick green grass and stones set to be seats. Around a dozen young men and women sat around the fire and most of them turned to look at the new arrivals. Aerion recognized several of them. Kara, the Innkeeper's daughter, Rialan, Rane's oldest son, and also Marek, Jessia's younger brother. Kara was a couple cycles older than him, though she'd mostly ignored him. Marek and Rialan, though were his age and they'd both disliked him since childhood. Marek, e
specially, had egged the other children on.
“Guys, maybe this isn't the best idea,” Aerion said, his voice low.
“Hey, we brought some wine!” Walker said.
Marek scowled at them, but before he could speak, Kara walked forward. “My dad said he swindled someone out of a lot of money to buy his best wine. I guess that'd be you?” She asked.
Walker smirked, “Well, not much of a swindle, we all got what we wanted, you know?” His voice was friendly, but Aerion winced. He couldn't see this going well.
Marek stepped forward, “We don't share our company with a fatherless bastard like him.” He pointed right at Aerion and behind him Rialan and another boy stood up.
“Well,” Walker said softly, his voice dangerous, “I don't share my company with cowards who've never fought.” Walker waved a hand at Aerion, “Aerion Swordbreaker here is a proven fighter.”
Marek gave a snort, “Aerion? He's never even been in a fight. He backs down from any confrontation...”
Quinn stepped forward, “Aerion's killed seven of the Usurper's mercenaries and saved my life in the doing at least once.” The stocky printer's apprentice sounded suddenly angry. “And so what if he has no father? He's a good man and a solid friend.”
To Aerion's surprise, Josef set the cask down and stepped forward. His forbidding bulk caused Marek and Rialan to back away. “He saved my life too. More, from what I heard, he tried to protect your village and was nearly killed for it,” Josef's deep voice was solemn but there was an edge of anger to it.
Kara turned to face the others, “They're welcome here.” She turned and looked at Aerion, “Aerion too, his mother saved my entire family.” She took a deep breath, then looked expectantly at Josef, “So, big fellow, how about you bring that wine over by the fire and we can really start enjoying ourselves?”
***
Captain Kerrel Flamehair
The Lonely Keep, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov
Eighteenth of Tremarn, Cycle 999 Post Sundering