The Heron Kings

by Eric Lewis

  “What,” he snarled after a long silence punctuated by his ear dripping blood onto the snow, “must I do?”

  “Who hired you?”

  A pause. “The…the queen,” said Kryte.

  “Personally?”

  Another pause.

  “That’s a no then. Who then, Taurix?”

  Kryte furrowed his soaked red brows, but said nothing.

  “He doesn’t know that name, I can tell,” said Gant, caressing the handle of the cleaver he’d taken from Plisten and itching to use it. “Don’t lie to a liar.”

  Corren folded his arms, stepped forward. “Some other lord? Why not use soldiers to hunt us down?”

  Kryte spat contemptuously. “Those idiots are useless. You have no idea what you stir up, do you? Well, you will.”

  Alessia felt a furious heat welling up from her gut. “Ulnoth, the other ear please. Don’t stop this time.”

  Ulnoth knelt down, wrenched Kryte’s head around and set the blade against his other temple. “I shoulda been a chef….”

  Kryte growled more in anger than in fear. “Wait! Fine. One bitch or another, what do I care? But she’s a far sight harder than you.”

  “She? Who, the queen?”

  “No, the other one. At ’Nocca. Some burned bitch does the queen’s shadow work.”

  Nan snorted. “What do you mean burned? Not some highborn lady from Engwara’s court playing shieldmaid?”

  Kryte sneered back. “If she’s highborn then so am I. Face like seared lamb, uglier than yours even. No, you have a death-worshipper after you. I counsel you cut your own necks now and save some suffering.”

  Corren furrowed his bushy brows either deep in thought or troubled. “Where’s this burned bitch now? Still in the city?”

  Kryte shrugged as much as a man in such a position could. “Somewhere ’twixt here and there I ken.”

  “Emony,” Corren barked, “keep him alive!” He grabbed Ulnoth and Alessia, dragged them further up the hill where they could talk without interruption. “You know what this means?”

  “Umm,” Ulnoth said, “kind of?”

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for – someone with connections we can show your letter to. Someone the queen will believe.”

  “Someone currently hunting us to death,” said Ulnoth. “Don’t exactly inspire confidence. Who’s this burned woman?”

  “Probably an assassin,” Corren said. “A touch smarter than your average slogger. Maybe even one of Engwara’s personal agents.”

  “If so,” said Alessia, “this could be our chance. If she has the queen’s ear—”

  “Heh, ears all over the place today.”

  “Shut up, Ulnoth! If we tell her about the bank’s scheming, she’ll tell the queen in turn.”

  “It’s half the equation,” Corren mused, “but what about Pharamund?”

  “Burn that bridge when we come to it. You’re right – we have an in now, let’s not waste it.”

  “But how to be sure our friend there’ll deliver our message?”

  “You just let me and Dannek worry about that,” Ulnoth said, wiping his blooded knife clean. “Satisfaction guaranteed.”

  * * *

  That very night they released Kryte with a very odd proposal, along with the distinct impression that he’d be followed at close remove by more than one arrow ready to ventilate his lungs should he stray from his course, or the lantern he’d been given go out. Ulnoth in fact did so for the first hour, and when it was clear he was headed straight south Dannek led a team to observe him at regular intervals. Before dawn Kryte approached a small party of riders camped upon the wayside and Allard, ready to drop from fatigue, watched from his hidden post as they blurted out exclamations in some foreign tongue at the sight of him alive. Kryte spun around, scowling more darkly than ever, held up the lantern that was almost burned out, then laid it on the ground as if to say, See? I’ve done as you said!

  “Gotcha,” Allard whispered. He backed away and faded into the forest to find a place to take a nap.

  * * *

  To the Burned Bitch,

  We apologize for the unseemly moniker but your emissary seems not to know your proper name. Alas the trap you set for us did not meet with much success, though we commend the effort. Do not despair! We believe we can offer a far greater prize than our heads to adorn Engwara’s pikes. We’ve sent your man – and we use that term most loosely – back to you to request the courtesy of a parley. By pure chance we are in possession of a certain piece of information which could have a profound impact on the course of this campaign of terror that your supposed queen has loosed upon our country. To whet your appetite we say only that it concerns the activities of a certain wealthy entity native to the uttermost west, as well as another to the east. If you agree signal so with a fire arrow – trust we’ll see it. And please do not attempt any further actions against us. Considering your numbers and position, rest assured that at this moment it is you who are at our mercy, and not contrariwise.

  With warmest regards,

  The Heron Kings

  * * *

  “Cheeky bastards,” Vinian muttered when she finished the note. “Fire arrow, warm regards – no doubt these are the rebels that riled up Lenocca.” She cast a glance at Kryte. “Burned bitch, is it?”

  “They tortured me,” said the Cynuvik, pointing to his subtended ear. “I had to say something!”

  “I thought,” spat Vinian as she turned to Carthagne, huddled and shivering in his furs, “you said they could endure any hardship.”

  “Indeed, madam,” the banker replied through chattering teeth, “that has always been my observation. Until now.”

  “Endurance was nothing to do with it,” Kryte said plaintively. “They offered to let me go if I spoke, or kill me if not. A simple business decision it was. Surely a man such as yourself can understand this?”

  “Surely. What does that note say, anyway?” Although Carthagne spoke fluent Argovani, his reading was slower and peeking over Vinian’s shoulder didn’t reveal much.

  Vinian summarized the message, saying only that they offered useful war information and left out the bit that obviously referenced the Marimines Isles. What of value could these wretches possibly know? she wondered. And what is this eastern entity? Pharamund? Strange….

  “Heron Kings,” Carthagne repeated with a snort. “What a silly name.”

  “My experience, when it comes to bandits the bigger the name the smaller the game.”

  “They certainly saw through your plan well enough. What now?”

  “Why not agree to this meeting? Obviously they think they have the upper hand. As well they might.”

  Carthagne’s entire face went as red as his runny nose. “You can’t be serious. You don’t know their numbers – they may be bluffing. Or worse, they may not be.”

  “Yes,” said Vinian with more than a little relish, “and I was willing to spend the lives of all your men just to find out. I still am. Let’s see what these bandits have to say. Then we can decide whether to ‘attempt any further actions’ against them.”

  “Erm…one moment. Let me confer with my man here, make sure he’s suffered no injuries beyond the cosmetic.” The banker wrapped an arm around Kryte and pulled him away from Vinian, whispering in a crude approximation of the Cynuvik language. She tried to listen while appearing not to, but could only pick up what sounded like the words for ‘fast’ and ‘best trackers’.

  * * *

  “Send it up.”

  The arrow arced across the sky. It was a clear and blue day, and the signal stood out proud before it. But Vinian didn’t watch. She stared instead at the message lately put into her hand. Not another insolent note from those terrorists; no, this was from the secretary in Lenocca pressed unwilling into her service. So, Taurix is on a rampage, killing e
verything in his path. How predictable. She had to give it to him, lining the road with crosses and pinning up peasants the whole way would certainly make an impact. Though perhaps not the one he intends. Savage blood or not, he has the mentality of a highborn. Thinks they’ll be shocked into submission. I almost pity old Ludolphus. The whitened face of the courier that’d delivered the message attested to the truth of it, having ridden through Taurix’s advance. “He’ll be here soon,” she said to herself. “Not much time then.”

  “Madam?”

  “Nothing,” she said to the courier. “You can go.” The courier nodded glumly, not keen to ride back through that highway of horrors again.

  “News?” Carthagne waddled up to her, appearing for the first time that day outside the warming tent to watch the signal arrow fly.

  “You might say that,” replied Vinian, handing him the note. “Our lord marshal’s coming this way, along with his distinct flavor of wrath. If we want to catch these terrorists we’ll have to do it before he arrives – I doubt they’ll stick around for this….”

  Carthagne read the message, taking his time to make sure he got it right. “Is…is this true? Is he—?”

  “Whole villages, aye.”

  “By all the gods….”

  “By none at all,” Vinian snarled. “This is man’s work, as ever.”

  “Foolish, and short-sighted. Well, the invitation is answered – what now?”

  “We wait,” said Vinian. “The next move is theirs.”

  Carthagne gave Kryte a quick look, and it was answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Merry Meetings

  Near Wengeddy, the lone survivor of Taurix’s crucifixions happened upon a camped gathering of townsfolk hiding from the depredations of General Pertinax, Taurix’s most trusted officer. As he told his gruesome story his eyes blazed with fury in the firelight. Before the next dawn, the ragged band set upon the bridge across the Carsa River with tools of their former lives – axes, mattocks and saws. Not to destroy it, no, but to make it as weak as a house of twigs. Pertinax’s army streamed out of the recently reconquered town to march south and join Taurix. When the first soldier set foot at the midpoint the bridge crumbled, spilling a dozen men and beasts into the icy waters of the Carsa.

  In Carsolan, the unrest caused by rumors continued, and when the entirety of Harlot’s Row burned to the ground, a grain factor named Marek publicly accused Reynal’s smugglers of causing the disturbances, and Reynal himself of treason. When palace guards came to arrest him, a young boy with a leg wound tried to interfere, and the affair ended with the blood of both of them spilled between the cobblestones, and the guards torn limb from limb by an angry mob. The factor Marek was found drowned, most curiously, in a pot of millet porridge with a silver coin shoved in his rectum.

  Above it all Engwara sat in her palace with the gates locked tight, effectively under siege, and looked down on it all in utter disbelief. Vinian might well have explained it quite exactly, but she was far away.

  * * *

  “I’m hungry.”

  Alessia patted Lalaith on the head after strapping the baggage to her back. “I know, dear, I am too. And cold. But we have to go now. Just a little longer.”

  “Everyone always says that.”

  She took a last look at the clearing. They’d gotten good at picking up and moving – but for the mess in the snow you could barely tell that anyone had lived there at all. Tents, canopies and supplies were rolled up and hoisted onto weary shoulders, animals weighed down with packs and the wagon collapsed to fit between the trees. The Heron Kings had become true nomads. “Go on,” Alessia said, “join the others. Stay in the middle of the pack.”

  She turned to see Dannek running toward the remains of the camp. “That’s it,” he said excitedly. “They say yes! I saw it.”

  “Good,” said Corren, stepping into the saddle of their one unladen horse. The children had taken to calling the dappled gray Phaerie in mockery of King Pharamund, but Alessia couldn’t bring herself to name an animal they might be forced to eat soon. “I’ll go oblige them. You and Nan get to the head and keep the course to safety.”

  Alessia looked up at him. “Why you? Whole thing was my idea – I should go. These people need their leader.”

  “The parley was my idea. And I’ve taught everything I know. I’m not special anymore, you are.”

  Alessia’s face darkened into a scowl. “Corren, the other day I ordered a man tortured for information and felt nothing. This goes on much longer the bastards’ll do worse than kill me – they’ll make me into one of ’em. I want this over. Besides, I’ve got the letter and I’m not giving it up. I’m going.” She took hold of Phaerie’s reins and lifted herself into the saddle – in front of Corren, forcing him to shimmy backward.

  “You’re mad, woman,” he groaned. “At least let’s take along some iron in case things turn sour.”

  “If that happens,” interjected Nandine, shrugging a pack from her shoulders, “you’ll need more than two. Let me come—”

  “No!” Corren and Alessia both shouted at once.

  Crander handed up a sword and bow with a full sheaf of arrows. “Here. One thing we ain’t short of is weapons. If only we could eat metal…. Be careful, these ain’t nice people.”

  “Neither are we,” said Corren. “Keep east, take winding paths, and leave decoy tracks—”

  “Aye, aye, we know that. We all do. Catch up quick, eh? I get nervous with Ulnoth in charge.”

  * * *

  The Heron Kings meandered single file up the hill, a cold red sun bathing them through the branches as it sank. Few spoke, saving breath for the task of porting their worldly possessions on backs. With one free hand Ulnoth led a roan gelding – this one named Enga in honor of the queen – loaded with grain at the head of the great gray human train. He was so intent on negotiating the slippery incline he jumped with alarm when Dannek appeared next to him.

  “Dammit, boy, don’t do that! Like to take you for a Marchman and perforate you like Banwick nearly did me.”

  “Sorry. You seen Gant? He’s got my sparker and he’s sure to lose it on this death march.”

  “I think he’s somewhere halfway back, pestering Sally.”

  “Is it just me or have they been spending a lot of time together lately?”

  “Have they? Hadn’t noticed.”

  “It’s just, I thought they hated each other.”

  Ulnoth laughed. “Opposites attract I guess. ’Course that’d make Sally just about everyone’s opposite.”

  Dannek moved to catch a sack before it fell from the horse’s back. “That doesn’t bother you? I mean you and she were….”

  “Nah,” grunted Ulnoth. “I got no claim on her. Besides, after I lost everything I don’t seem to want much of anything.”

  “Oh….”

  “Listen, don’t pay me no mind. You got your own pretty little yellowhead to think over, ain’t that right?”

  Dannek blushed. “Alixe is great. I just wonder what we’ll do, you know, later. If we survive all this whether she’ll still want me. I mean we’ve all kinda just been thrust together without much say-so.”

  “Aye, we all heard some of that thrusting last night, thank you very much. Look, I’m no oracle for sage advice, but I say just keep your eye on makin’ it through the day and worry about later, later.”

  “Well, what for you then? If not women, what comfort would the grim and terrible Ulnoth wring from what’s left of the world?”

  Ulnoth looked up, appeared to sink deep in thought for a moment, then said in a low rumble, “A thousand-year-long howling wind, to drown out all my thoughts forever. Yes, that would be nice….”

  Dannek laughed nervously. “You’re fracted in the head.”

  “Oh, you’ve no idea.”

 
* * *

  Sometime after dusk an arrow was found lodged in a post holding up Carthagne’s tent. No one saw where it’d come from or who’d shot it. Unnerved that they could get so close – as intended, of course, she thought with grudging admiration – Vinian unwrapped the note around the shaft. North along the highway one quarter mile then turn right at the deerpath. Alone and unarmed.

  “Ha! Fat chance of that,” she said.

  “What is it?” Carthagne peered over her shoulder.

  “Our instructions. Your men ready?”

  “As ever. And with some delightful new equipment – gifts from Lord Taurix.” He held up one of the cross-bows they’d taken. Carthagne had been playing with one for most of the day, nearly impaling more than one of his mercenaries. “You know, I don’t think he puts much faith in technology.”

  “Just keep that thing pointed away from me,” said Vinian.

  * * *

  The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a…well, a knife was overkill. A spoon would do. Or a blunt stick really, proper utensils being a rarity in these parts. And they haven’t even shown yet, Vinian thought. She knew they could be walking into their own deaths, but somehow doubted it. Why bother with a meeting at all? They could’ve shot us down anytime. Carthagne’s six mercenaries with their cross-bows eased her apprehension somewhat, though the banker himself rather added to it.

  “How much further do we have to go?” he wheezed, trying in vain to keep his fine leather shoes from sinking into the mud. “This is ludicrous.”

  “It’s ‘farther’. We go until our friends make themselves known. Quit complaining. You could use the exercise.”

  “A low blow, my dear, hardly worthy of your keen wit. I’ll have you know that in my youth my belly covered hard sinews strong enough to wrestle an ox.”

  “A roast one maybe. Here, the path disappears just ahead – can’t be very far now—”

  “Correct. Stop.” The voice stabbed like a falling icicle. The party jerked to a halt; the mercenaries raised their weapons and cast about for targets.

  Vinian licked her lips, pushed down the pit of anxiety in her stomach. “We’re here. Where are you?”