by Eric Lewis
“But Pharamund – oh, I’m sorry, King Pharamund – has him guarding the road to Thoriglyn. Good man, but I fear it’s too late. That’ll be all. Go get some rest.”
The scout sighed in relief, bowed deeply, then turned to leave the tent.
“Oh, one thing.”
“Yes lord?”
“Tell absolutely no one of this.”
The scout bowed again. “Of course not, Marshal.”
“And—”
“Yes?”
“Have Lord Felgred join me at his convenience.”
“Yes, lord.”
“And tell no one of that either.”
“Yes, lord. Erm, may I go now?”
“Yes gods damn you, go!”
The man fairly leaped out of the tent.
Fifteen minutes later Felgred was announced outside. Rather than admit him, the Marcher lord hid a leather sack under his cloak, strapped on his sword and walked out to meet him. “Ah, how are we this morning, my landless nobleman? Sleep well?”
Felgred sniffed. “I think I may be catching a cold, actually. All this marching.”
“Sorry to hear it.” Taurix gestured toward the nearest boundary of the camp. “Walk with me awhile, will you? We’ve matters of strategy to discuss.”
“Strategy? Oh, of course. I’m gratified that you asked to speak with me, Taurix. I actually have some interesting ideas. You see, if only we could equip some reliable mercenaries with cross-bows—”
“The fortunes of war are a funny thing,” said Taurix. “One moment you’re scrambling for your life, for every breath, your own blood pooling at your feet and the whole world is the few paces between you and the closest bastard keen to bash your noggin in. The next, you’re the bastard. The blood now fills your nostrils, your mouth waters at victory so close you can taste it. Some unseen hand moves you like a piece on a castra board, invincible. You know what I mean?”
Felgred twitched, suddenly nervous. “I, um, suppose—”
“No, of course you don’t. No matter. What matters is, there come times – very, very seldom, mind you – when you get to see that hand, to be it even. It seems fate has conspired to make today such a day for me.”
“Ah…I’m glad to hear it, my lord. Have you obtained some new ally? A new source of funding, some secret intelligence?”
Taurix laughed, and Felgred’s face lost a few shades of color. “Well put! In a way, all three.” He walked them to a line of trees, the closest to be spared the axe when campground had been cleared. Taurix chose a wide one that blocked them from view of the tents. “You see, I’ve realized our prime tactical mistake: Pharamund.”
“The king? I don’t understand, how can—”
“You know the secret to a good sword blow? Actually, it’s twofold: first is proper edge alignment, getting the angle of the cut right, to reduce friction. Second is to hit with the sweet spot on the blade that focuses momentum, lets the sword do the work – that’s what it’s made for after all. Pharamund’s an idiot. He knows absolutely nothing about fighting a war. Which is forgivable. Except he’s too stupid to let those who do know get the job done for him. That is not forgivable. Loss piled upon loss upon loss and my hands tied, and there’s nothing even I can do.”
“Well, we could appeal to him for more authority—”
“Sssh. It’s too late for that,” Taurix said gently. “You recall, don’t you, you pisspot, what I told you about my motivations?”
“W-what of it? What do you—”
“Be glad then that you’re about to contribute, for once in your miserable, worthless life, a very great deal to the furtherance of that noble cause.” Taurix drew his sword with one hand and took some of Felgred’s ridiculously long yellow hair in the other.
“Hey—!”
He flung Felgred hard against the tree trunk, jamming his soft face deep into the bark and in one swift stroke sliced clean through the lordling’s neck. And as this was a moment Taurix had imagined with glee many, many times, his edge alignment was perfect.
The body jerked once then fell away, blood spurting from the stump in an arcing fountain. Felgred’s head swayed back and forth in Taurix’s grip. A surprised expression remained, and the dying eyes seemed to focus on Taurix one last time as he held them level with his own.
“I’d say I was sorry for this, but that’d be bullshit. I will send you off to hell with one true thing, though: I’m going to fuck your king up the arse with this sword for making such a fool out of me.”
Taurix dropped Felgred’s head into the leather sack, then went to summon a courier – he finally had some good news to send to King Pharamund.
Chapter Fourteen
It Worked!
The girl waited on a bench outside the general’s apartment, overhearing bits and pieces of gossip between soldiers with nothing better to do. She heard Wengeddy mentioned several times, along with phrases like ‘magnificent massacre’ and ‘complete pacification’. And of course, ‘Vendreesen’.
The fort was new and hastily built, meant to slow Engwara’s strike up the Carsa Valley. The lumber smelled fresh cut and outside men threw up timber towers and blockhouses and slept in tents. In the center of all this stood the headquarters of the man in charge, and information as to the habits and appetites of General Duelleigh had not come cheaply.
The door creaked open and a bookish young clerk emerged. A rumbling voice behind him said, “Keep it under wraps all the same. Desertion’s bad enough, but theft and murder into the bargain – word of that gets out we’ll lose half the army.”
“Of course, sir.” The young man stepped aside to reveal an elderly one with a scowl that looked carved from rock. He raised one eyebrow when he noticed the girl and the guard said, “Claims she has an appointment, chief.”
The girl stood but kept her eyes respectfully down. “A lie, sir. Well, partly.” She held out the note she clutched.
The guard snatched it away, gave it a suspicious look over, shrugged and handed it to the general, who read it with an expression that could’ve been a grin or a torture victim’s rictus. He nodded to the clerk. “That’ll be all for now.” He turned to the girl. “Hmm. So, Captain Nera sends me a free whore, does he?”
The girl nodded. “Engaged for a full week, sir. Paid in full.”
“And what have I done that the captain should be so generous?”
“He mentioned something about some casks of Cynuvik red you sent him?”
The general grunted. “Huh, I guess there’s proof Duelleigh of Edrastead knows his wines after all. All right.” He jerked his thumb back toward his office. “Might as well see what you’re made of.” He ordered the guard not to disturb him for the next hour and slammed the door behind them.
The room was only part office, with a desk and chair and scroll rack. A partition concealed a cot, wash basin, trunk and a wine pitcher with two cups set by. “Is that the famous Cynuvik red I hear of, my lord?”
“Hmm? Oh, aye. Brought a cask with me. I run a dry fort but command has its privileges. Otherwise what’s the point, eh?” His cackle sounded like a dying coyote.
“May I try some? It’s been a thirsty journey.”
“Pour us both a cup,” said the general as he began pulling off his tunic and undershirt.
They’d patted the girl down, or groped her more like, before letting her into the building, but not closely enough to discover the envelope folded into the sleeve of her gown. It was expertly done, and when she turned around the general had his braies down around his ankles. He reeked of rancid onions even from a distance. Her stomach churned but she forced a smile. “I see you don’t believe in wasting time, my lord.”
“At my age, child, I haven’t time to waste. Get over here.”
She sauntered to the cot, imitating the gait of the quayside two-copper doxies she remembered from home. Sh
e handed him his cup and fought to look away.
He took it all in one go. Perfect. She took a tiny sip from her own cup. “Mmm, exquisite,” she said. “You have a keen palate.” It tasted like horse piss, but he wasn’t listening.
He fumbled at her gown, ripping the seams and sucking on skin as it was exposed. “Mhm, you done bathed recently,” he said as if that were the most exotic thing he could imagine. He had her tits out and she yelped when his yellowed teeth bit her nipple.
“Yes – oh! Ow! Oh, you are a beast of a man.”
Duelleigh peeled off the last of her clothing and threw it over the partition. Two bony fingers jammed between her legs. He took her shivering for arousal. What would he do when he found her dry as a bone? “Oh, gods,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said, throwing her down onto the cot and kneeling over her. “Oh….” He frowned for just an instant, rubbed his sagging gut, then shook his head. “Meh.” His aged cock poked out – just barely – from a bushy gray nest. “Have a taste, my child.” He slid his hips forward, toward her face. She was going to be sick.
“Aargh,” the general suddenly exclaimed, grabbing his belly again and falling on top of her. “I’m going to be sick!” He rolled over and retched slimy red onto the floor. “G-guard,” he moaned between heaves. “Guard!”
The soldier stationed outside the not-at-all soundproof room rushed in after two hard kicks to the locked latch. “General sir, what’s – yech!” He tried to avert his eyes but between the girl, his naked general and the mess on the floor, there was nowhere to look. “What the—?”
“Don’t just stand there,” said the girl, heedless of her own nudity, “can’t you see the general’s ill? Get him to the physic!”
“Um, right. Help me carry him,” said the guard with desperation, dropping his halberd. He hoisted the groaning general and threw a stained blanket over his shoulders.
“I can’t go out like this – think of the gossip! They’ll say he can’t even take a whore without keeling over. You can handle him. I’ll be along in a minute.” She began gathering the remains of her gown.
“Oh, uh, right. Good thinking.”
“I’m thinking of my professional reputation. Now go!” As if on cue the old man retched again and almost fell from the guard’s grasp.
“Come on, sir, all will be well.” The two hobbled too slowly out of the room.
With literally seconds to spare she dropped the pretense of dressing and rifled through the desk like a whirlwind, jittery with adrenaline. It wasn’t there. The trunk? Clothing, coins, bits of armor and leather gear. She even went through the soiled clothes he’d been wearing. Nothing. She went back and checked the scroll rack – there were too many damn slots! She tore out the scrolls, notes, pens, everything but what she was after. Outside men’s voices rose and the clomping of booted feet echoed. “Shit,” she spat. “After all this….”
In frustration she heaved the scroll rack over. As it fell something tumbled out, making a hollow woody scrape as it slid. Desperate, she raised the rack back up and inspected the pile underneath, hoping against hope for—
There!
She plucked up the small pewter seal – such a tiny, delicate thing to be the cause of so much care – and wasted no time in throwing on only half her clothes and rushing out of the office, out of the building and into the midday brightness.
No one was guarding the outside. There was a commotion around a large tent at the east end of the fort with men standing about gawking. Some at the back jumped up for a glimpse at the spectacle of their ailing commander.
One man ignored all this and walked toward the girl, keeping his eyes fixed on some point past her. Closer, closer, close enough to touch as they passed. Exchanging no words, the girl dropped the seal into his waiting grasp. If anyone watching had blinked, they’d have missed it. Her part in all this thankfully ended, she made her way to the untended gate and out of the fort.
* * *
The man walked as casually as one can when holding a general’s stolen seal while surrounded by that general’s soldiers, past a fire burning inside a portable copper pit over which a tin of lentils boiled. His other hand palmed a tiny red candle that he ignited as he went by. A few more steps and he ducked between the back of a bunkhouse and the fort’s timber wall and produced a list from his belt pouch with a blank space left at the bottom. He dribbled some molten wax onto the space then pressed the seal into it, supporting both on his knee. The hot wax smarted only for a moment. He pulled the seal away slowly, lifting one end first in a rolling motion like he’d seen done before. Perfect. He blew on the impression to cool it, then went back the way he’d come, tossing the candle entirely into the fire this time. No one saw him; the fort was absorbed in the drama over the general.
Besides the general’s apartment, the largest structure in the fort was the storehouse. Outside it the man nodded to the old carter who sat high in his big, empty wagon. The carter nodded back, and a trickle of sweat ran down his brow while he double-checked the horse team’s tack.
“Not there, there!” a supply sergeant barked at a conscript more out of boredom than need, for if stacking crates was tiresome, supervising the stacking was even more so. Easier on the back though, to be sure.
“I tried over there. The boxes don’t fit,” whined the laborer.
“They fit yesterday, they damn well will fit today if you just—”
“Excuse me.”
“What?” The supply sergeant spun on a heel in anticipation of another target for his bored ire, then saw the insignia adorning the man’s tunic. The gold braid stitched about his foxhead badge marked him as a horseman – definitely an officer and probably at least a minor nobleman. The sergeant blanched. “Um, pardon sir. What can I do for you?”
The man presented his forged list. “Orders from General Duelleigh. These supplies are to be loaded and dispatched immediately.”
The sergeant scanned the list as fast as one of elementary literacy could, and his jaw dropped. “Four tuns wheat, two tuns millet, two barrels salt pork, thirty bowstaves, one cask cider, twenty short swords, ten bolts – what is this? This is half the entire storehouse!”
The man sniffed. “And?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t even have a wagon that’d—”
“I do. It’s waiting outside.”
“But this – will we get a replacement for all this? We got a lot o’ mouths to feed. Where’s all this going, anyway? The general never told me nothing about—”
The man sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but His Grace is moving to liberate the towns along the Carsa that Engwara burned. This is all needed for the strike, which is to be a swift one whilst you lot sit behind these walls and wank each other. Now does that meet with your approval or shall I inform the king the whole thing’s off because you have a problem with it?”
“What? I didn’t know—”
“Of course you didn’t! No one’s supposed to know so those snakes are taken by surprise, ken’ee?”
“Oh. Oh, I got ya!” He looked again at the daunting list. “Everything looks to be in order, then. Take a while to load.”
“I’ll help you.”
The sergeant blinked. “Y-you will? Personal-like?”
“Speed is essential, man! Half of winning wars is getting where you’re going before the other bastard does. Move it!” The sergeant and his minion jumped to obey. They carried crate after barrel after sack after cask, with even the old carter helping as he could.
When it was done they all stood soaked in sweat. “That’s it,” said the huffing sergeant, who’d grown unused to doing the stacking himself of late, “wagon’s full to bursting.”
“Fine, I’ll return for the rest later. And,” the man leaned in with a conspiratorial smile, “I’ll commend your diligence to the general. I hear he’s
taken on a new courtesan that lays men out cold. Mayhap you’ll earn a dance.”
“Thank you, sir!”
He climbed into the wagon. The crowd that had hounded the physic tent was mostly dispersed back to their posts. He turned and waved back to the sergeant. “Gods save His Grace the king!”
“Eh? Oh, aye! Gods save ’im!”
The carter whipped the horses forward. They had to cross the entire length of the fort, and each second of it seemed an eternity. “Almost there,” he mumbled. “Let’s just don’t cock it up.”
“Hard part’s over, ain’t it?” asked the carter.
“Aye, that’s what I’m worried about. My experience, it’s the easy parts no one bothers over where things go to shite. Almost there….”
A swath of red appeared on the periphery of his vision. The freshly dressed but pale general crept across the worn dirt track flanked by a horde of sycophantic officers and men. The clerk next to him pointed out the packed wagon and said something. Duelleigh looked at the wagon – so slowly it seemed to move! – then at the storehouse with its doors still wide open and a big empty space inside. With a sudden frowning vigor the old man tromped over to the building.
“Don’t look back,” said the carter, “don’t look.”
“What did I tell you? Always the easy parts! Can’t we go faster?”
“Faster risks tossing half this stuff out. And a lot of unwanted attention.”
Almost there. They were less than twenty yards to the open gates. And that was precisely when things went to shite.
A great cry went up from Duelleigh’s retainers all at once, and if the general himself joined it he was drowned out. The confusion made for a few more seconds’ delay but their meaning was eventually made clear: “Close the gate!”
“That’s it, we’re humped. Whip ’em!”
Anything that wasn’t tied down shook violently and the topmost boxes flew back to shatter on the ground as the carter lashed at the horse team without hint of restraint. The animals neighed in protest but surged ahead as the gates began a comically lazy process of swinging shut. Behind them a half-dozen riders, armed but armorless and mounted only by chance when the alarm arose, raced after and were catching up fast.