by Eric Lewis
“Aargh!” They grappled on the ground, neither able to reach for the halberd. The soldier pounded and Ulnoth pounded back, succeeding only in knocking the helmet off. The soldier managed to get ahold of a fist-sized rock from the edge of the road and slammed it into Ulnoth’s forehead.
Ulnoth hollered and fell back. In a moment the soldier was atop him, thrashing away with his knuckles, blood flying every which way. Still no one else in the column had noticed any of this and it marched on, oblivious.
Too weak to throw off the man who was killing him, Ulnoth gave in to his fate. But just as he welcomed death’s warm embrace, the blows stopped and the weight atop him fell away. He forced open his swollen eyes, lifted his head, and cackled at what he saw.
“Gah! Get offa me, you crazy bitch!” The soldier squawked as Alessia wrapped the soldier in a bear hug, holding his arms up and dragging him backward. Wasting no time, Ulnoth turned and grabbed the discarded helmet by the nasal and, just as the soldier wriggled free of Alessia’s grasp, swung it with his last reserves of strength. The soldier went down on his back, and now it was Ulnoth on top, reinvigorated and wailing on the man with his own armor.
He smashed the face under him over and over, and though it was probably incoherent to any but him, Ulnoth screamed with rage and red joy. “Give! My! Regards! To! The King!” With each syllable he smashed meat and bone, and suddenly he was back in the taphouse with all his friends watching him murder his first one. That one green, this one red. Even score, one to one.
The fever only subsided when he felt Alessia tug on his tunic and scream something in his ear. Crunching had long given way to squishing, and when he looked down what he saw bore no resemblance to anything remotely human.
He stopped, dropped the blood-soaked helm and looked over at Alessia with a smile. “Thanks for the h….”
He collapsed onto the puddle of gore, exhausted before he could finish.
* * *
“Is that how it was the first time?”
“I told you, I don’t remember – wait, yes. I do now. It was worse this time.”
“Worse?”
“Then I was out of my mind.”
“And now?”
“Now…my head’s clear. And I want more. I’d call that quite a bit worse.”
“And I helped you.”
“Aye.”
Chapter Nine
Turn
“We aren’t going to catch him, are we?”
“No,” spat Taurix. “No, my lordling, we are not. The bastard stole a night’s march on us. On me.”
Felgred rode at the sulking marshal’s side ahead of the host of five hundred, both of them covered in mud to the knee. Taurix looked perfectly at home, though the entire army could likely feel the frustration radiating from him, the seething desire to tear off at speed from the slow-moving human machine and challenge Ludolphus in person. Felgred by contrast appeared utterly miserable until a military courier rode up and handed him a message cylinder. He broke the red wax of Pharamund’s seal and pulled out a stretch of vellum. “Ah, well, you can rest easy. Orders from His Grace – there’s a mercenary company marching toward Everwest. The king’s spymaster is arranging to buy them off, but doesn’t trust the bastards to keep faith. We’re to turn back north and pursue.”
“Mercenaries,” snarled Taurix. “They’re not worth my morning cack. I can’t be everywhere at once! I’ll send General Pertinax.”
“His Grace has ordered you, lord marshal—”
“If Pharamund wants to take the field, let him. Ludolphus is the greater threat.”
“Should’ve left Murento alone,” Felgred said, already forgetting his agreement to remain silent on military matters. “It was a distraction. If we’d stayed south we could’ve linked up with my men there and—”
Taurix drew rein, stopped. “What?” He asked it quietly, gently. The front ranks of the army were taken by surprise at the unexpected halt, unsure whether to stop also or march around the mounted lords. “What. Did. You. Say?”
Felgred drew up paces ahead, looked back with confusion. “Eh? What do you mean? Look, you’re disordering the lines—”
“You already have men in the south?”
“Well, yes. I must at least try to defend my lands, after all. What of it?”
Taurix’s face turned bright red. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve cut Ludolphus off before he got anywhere near Carsolan!” The bellow unnerved men and horses alike, and a ring of avoidance formed around them.
“A few,” he replied, “…hundred at most. Hardly enough to stop Lud—”
“It would have slowed him enough for me to catch up to ’im, you preening fool!”
“Now wait just a moment, you—”
“What?” Taurix nudged his charger closer, glowering down on Felgred and daring him to answer. “What am I?”
Felgred gulped. “N-nothing. I meant nothing, my lord, forgive me.”
“Wrong, little man. I am most assuredly not nothing. I am the lord high marshal. I command all of His Grace’s troops, including yours. And if you ever keep so much as a single slogger’s position from me again you’ll suffer a fate that will make you envy the last marshal.”
Near the end of the day the army gnawed a meal of hard bread on the march, made soft by the rain. The incessant plinking on helmets and the splashing feet could drive a man mad, but they were in good spirits for all of that. Brathilde’s household troops had reacted stupidly, just as Taurix knew they would, and rode out to meet his harriers only to come face to face with the bulk of his army as it limped back north, stung from the failure to catch Ludolphus and itching for a fight. Now the baroness’s retainers drained their insides into ditches and hedgerows, blood and mud mixed into a vast gray soup.
It’s not enough, Taurix thought while they pitched a soggy camp in the ruins of some abandoned pasture. Petty skirmish here, town there. Not nearly enough.
“Not nearly enough,” Felgred whined. “Fill it up!” The servant poured more wine into the cup until it threatened to spill onto the young lord’s sleeve. Felgred nodded a greeting when Taurix stomped into the tent.
“What are you doing here?”
Felgred held up the cup, sloshing wine everywhere. “I’d have thought that was obvious by now. Come, look at this!” He thrust a sheet of paper, partly folded and repeatedly crumpled to look at it, into the Marcher lord’s hand. “Gone. It’s all gone!”
Taurix scanned the missive. “Hmmph. Lost your precious estates, did you?”
“Not just mine. That she-Chthonus is ravaging all the way up the Carsa! What a disaster.” Felgred downed the wine in a few great gulps, belched loudly.
“Lot of good those men of yours did. I could’ve made some use of ’em. Now their only use is dog feed.” He wadded up the note and threw it back in Felgred’s face. “I told Pharamund to put all troops under my direct control. This is why! Get out, go sleep off my wine in your own tent.”
With Felgred banished, Taurix collapsed into a twitchy, restless mockery of sleep. He dreamed in the old Marchman tongue of his childhood. Red dreams, to freeze your soul.
At some point the rain stopped. The dead of night takes on a truer meaning in the country than it does in cities. The still quiet looms like a gaping maw to swallow the whole sky, even with armed and blooded brutes gathered close. Killing is tiring work, and they slept as soundly as those left dead and unburied behind them. Except for the men who woke screaming, but those were fewer these days. So when Taurix jerked awake in the darkness only the tiniest ripple on the surface of his senses told him he was no longer alone in his tent. “Who’s there?”
“A friend,” said a hard, feminine voice, “if you want one.”
“Guards—!”
“Don’t bother. They’re taking a little nap right now. I don’t want us interrupted.”
&nbs
p; “Who’re you?” Taurix demanded, joints creaking as he sat up and turned in the general direction of the voice. “You come from that bitch Engwara? Come to kill me?”
A low giggle. “Taurix, if I wanted you dead you’d never have awoken. I had the option and chose not, try and remember that. That bitch sends her greetings. Ludolphus as well.”
Taurix sneered into the dark. “Does he really?”
“No, not really. What he has to say about you’d make even me blush. Tonight I’m just an ambassador.”
“You make a dramatic entrance,” said Taurix, playing for time while his hand inched toward one of several blades he kept close, even at night. “What’s your message? You want to surrender?”
“I see serial defeat hasn’t killed your sense of humor,” said the voice. “I’ve come to invite you over to the winning side.”
In defiance of the night Taurix let out a booming laugh. Perhaps it would bring guards from farther away, but he had a feeling she’d be out and disappeared long before they arrived. “You’ve got things a bit backward, dear. I hold the whole of the north from the Edras to The Bastard, and the Marches down to Seagate. That looks like winning to me.” His hands caressed the contours of the knife. A throwing knife. Perfect.
“Sorry, my lord, your information’s out of date. In a day or two a scout will inform you of two things. First, that about two thousand of Her Majesty’s troops are headed straight for Vin Gannoni.”
“Ha! You want to scare me, you’ll have to do better than that cack. Two thousand, from where?”
“That’s the second thing. We have – and I’m truly sorry to have to be the one to tell you this – retaken Everwest.”
Silence. Then: “That’s ridiculous. Impossible. I happen to know that—”
“Mercenaries are a finicky lot, aren’t they? Professional fighters, hard as steel. Fight like Chthonii when they have to….”
No. It can’t be. Taurix felt his spine go cold. He gripped the knife tighter.
“But when they don’t have to and can still get paid? Ooh, but they can be true scumbags. At least, that’s what your king intended, yes? Well, two can play that game. A double-double-cross, I guess you’d call it—”
The knife sliced through the darkness with a silky swoosh. Taurix listened for the thud of punctured flesh, a scream. Neither came. Just a clattering, then silence. He leaped to his feet, straining to see something, anything to attack, but his old eyes failed him. A heavy sigh came from his right. Or was it from behind?
“Please don’t do that again, it’s been a long day and I am tired. I can hear you breathing. I know where you are and where you’re going to be before you do.”
“You. Filthy. Bitch….”
“I can see I’ve overrun your patience, so I’ll spell it right out. Join the queen and put someone competent on the throne, and your Marchlands are safe and yours to rule forever. Or not and watch Vin burn. Then whatever you’ve left of Murento. Then Ólo, again. I doubt the Pelonans up north will want much trade with someone who can’t keep his own backyard in order. They might even join up with us just to bring an end to it all.”
“I’ve already pledged to Pharamund. Your precious queen drove me to that—”
“Pharamund’s weak and stupid and dominated by his barons. Engwara is not, though she admits her mistake in making you an enemy. But there’s no other way this can end, and deep down in places you can only face alone on nights like this, you know it.”
“I don’t believe it. Any of it. It’s some damned trick….”
“That’s for you to decide. I’ve said everything I came here to say. You can think on it and I can walk out of here, or you can throw more silverware at me.”
Taurix burned to rip the woman apart. His Marchman half screamed at him to try. But if there was even a chance the bitch wasn’t lying…. “Go. Go, and may the gods burn you.”
“Too late for that, my lord. Good night.” A swish, a rustle, then silence again. Taurix relaxed a clenched fist, felt blood under his nails.
* * *
Vinian strode through the ranks of tents, putting her skill at mimicking a masculine gait to the test against the outline of watch fires. It was good enough to get her to the southern perimeter, where a sentry challenged her.
“Who goes there?”
“Your mysterious benefactor. See?” She pulled a small sack of coin from the folds of her jacket.
“Oh. Ah. So, you’re done, then?” The sentry fidgeted and looked about nervously. “You promised—”
“Just talk, like I promised. You heard the old ox laughing from here? All’s well. I’ll be off now, and no one the wiser.”
“Yes, well then…could I have…?” He switched his halberd to his left hand and held out his right, expectant.
“Of course,” said Vinian with a smile. She dropped the sack into his waiting grasp, and as it landed with a soft clink she whipped out a blade of her own – a little skinning knife, razor-sharp. With a single fluid stroke she opened the sentry’s throat. So expertly done was it that for almost two whole seconds he stood, confused about what’d just happened.
Vinian put a gentle hand on the soldier’s shoulder and said in a soothing voice as his life sprayed out, “Never trust a traitor, even one you turn yourself.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but only a gurgle came out. Still clutching his payoff, he collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings were suddenly snipped. His armor clattered loud against the silence, so the spymistress didn’t dawdle but melted back into the surrounding countryside, just in case Taurix changed his mind and tried to come after her.
* * *
“That’s all for today,” Engwara said with a broad sweep of her hand. The remaining petitioners turned away, disappointed but as always, determined to return tomorrow. She left the audience chamber by a small door behind the throne. Carsolan’s palace was old and drafty, so once she became Argovan’s most powerful countess, Engwara’s first order had been to fully renovate her private apartments. Late afternoon sun bathed her little drawing room in yellow warmth reflected off the Lacaryc Sea. The autumn chill warned that the shutters would soon be battened down, so Engwara didn’t bother to hide her irritation when she found Vinian already lounging in the chair she had meant to bask in while there was yet time. “How did you get in h— No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“It’s not as comfortable as the one upstairs,” Vinian said, running her finger along the rich floral patterns woven into the upholstery. “Gaudy too, to my taste.”
“Then don’t sit in it.” Engwara shooed Vinian away like she was a bothersome housecat. “A queen should at least get the choice of her own furniture. You’ve returned, decidedly unimpaled. Can I assume success?”
Vinian opened her mouth to reply, paused. “Have my people checked this room lately?”
Engwara nodded. “This morning – it’s secure.”
“Good. Yes, I must’ve made an impression on Taurix. He only tried to kill me once.”
“Encouraging.”
“He did have some unkind words about Your Majesty—”
“No doubt.”
“—but I think he might come around. Good bit of leverage we bought with one dead mercenary and a little petty cash.”
Engwara let out a most unqueenly snort. “Petty? It cost a fortune!”
“I just mean, I passed a lot of corpses on the way home, and most didn’t wear Pharamund’s colors. Or any colors. If you’d let me turn this into a war of assassinations it could all be over with a lot faster. And cleaner.”
“Oh, not this again. I told you – I can’t have what’s left of the nobility worrying I’ll slip a knife between their ribs in a fit of pique. A few after a battle or siege is one thing, but if men of consequence all started to fear for their very lives? Why, they’d never trust me ev
en after we win. We’ll have to do our heavy lifting the old-fashioned way.”
“Just a thought,” Vinian said while helping herself to some of Engwara’s excellent white wine.
“Oh dear girl, don’t sulk. I wish I could. Gods, with a thousand of you I could conquer the world.”
Vinian allowed herself a grin. “You mean I could conquer the world.”
Engwara didn’t immediately reply to the remark, regarding her most valued retainer with a look that lay somewhere between curiosity and concern. “Of course,” she said at last. “Speaking of which, you might want to tell your agents to be a bit more careful than usual. One of my own couriers was robbed by highwaymen last week.”
“I know,” Vinian said. “Luckily the message wasn’t very important. Wengeddy’s of little value, according to Ludolphus.”
Engwara gasped. “Gods below, are you spying for me or on me?”
“As you said, everything under moon and sun.” She raised her glass in a mock salute and drank deep. “Don’t ask how the sausage is made.”
Engwara stared at her with a worried look. “I wonder if I’ve not created a monster.”
Vinian laughed, almost choking on her wine. “Don’t worry, you didn’t create me. You just hired me.”
“That makes me feel so much better!”
“I live to serve, Majesty.”
Chapter Ten
Can’t Go Home Again
It was a hell of a thing, watching a town die. Alessia and Ulnoth had come close enough to Wengeddy to see that they were too late to be of any help. Thick stinking smoke billowed over the walls, only somewhat muffling intermittent screams, while through it banners of red with the device of a black fist brandishing a mace fluttered. A great gate lay flung wide open and smashed, while beyond it towers lay in ruin or in flames. Soldier companies streamed up and down the road, some laden with pillage, others with women and crying children bound with rope, no doubt headed for the few slave markets still allowed in the furthest north.