Parno's Destiny: The Black Sheep of Soulan: Book Two

by N. C. Reed

  “A bold gamble, brother,” Memmnon kept his voice neutral. He did not want Parno thinking he was interfering with the youngest McLeod's running of the military.

  “We have to gamble, Memmnon,” Parno shrugged. “We face two large forces to our North and West. If we do not consolidate our forces and try to dislodge them, then protecting the coast will be of no use to us. We need to push them back, and then punish them.”

  “Punish them?” Memmnon's eyebrow rose at that.

  “That is for later, and assumes we will be victorious,” Parno waved the idea away for now.

  “What do you need from me?” Memmnon asked.

  “Continue to support Roda and the others in his group,” Parno said at once. “The things they uncover will be priceless to us, both in war and in peace. They need and deserve our support.”

  “They have the full backing of the Crown, and each has two Royal Marshals in attendance to ensure they get whatever they need,” Memmnon promised. “Finn has objected to the number of women working in the Foundry, but he understands that we lack the men to fill all the positions he has, or that others have. Our women are strong and independent, and many have demanded to be allowed to assist in the war effort. It seemed beneficial not to deny them.”

  “Not to mention keeping certain of the noble women happy,” Parno grinned.

  “That too,” Memmnon grinned sheepishly. “And honestly, Parno, they are doing excellent work. There's no good reason to prevent them from serving in these roles.”

  “I agree, and have given orders to include women in the observation and warning posts along the river and the coastlines,” Parno replied. “I would also expect to see women medics soon, if Stephanie has her way.”

  “'Stephanie', is it?” Memmnon grinned broadly at his brother, who flushed.

  “Memmnon,” he said warningly.

  “Just making an observation, brother,” Memmnon raised a hand in placation. “Well, your apartments are ready for you,” he rose. “You and your men should rest. If there is a need, let me know and I will see to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  *****

  Sherron McLeod watched from the shadows as Parno departed the conference room, leading his foreigner and other lackeys along. Including the traitorous Enri Willard who had once been so close to her cherished brother, Therron. As Memmnon emerged behind them, Sherron set upon him.

  “So it is true,” her voice cut across the hallway. Memmnon turned to see her standing there.

  “What is true?” he asked. “What brings you out so late, sister?”

  “Father has replaced Therron with Parno?” Sherron asked, eyebrows climbing high on her head. “Where is Therron, by the way?”

  “Therron has been sent away Sherron,” Memmnon told her flatly. “He defied the King one time too many and is paying for it now.”

  “Defied him? How?” she demanded. “We're at war and he replaced his Marshal with Parno of all people? Has father lost his senses as well as his courage?”

  “Mind your tongue!” Memmnon snapped, somewhat more harshly than he'd intended. “And where do you get the idea that our father has lost his courage, sister? That is perhaps the most ridiculous thing you've ever said. Given your track record, that is making a statement all its own.”

  “Father feared Therron and so did you!” Sherron accused. “Both afraid that his popularity among the nobles and the army would make him more powerful than you! So you contrive to have him removed and 'sent away'!”

  “Sherron, I must assume that your delusions of conspiracy are the result of listening to Therron speak about himself too often,” Memmnon replied acidly. “Too much of that will rot your brain, as you seem determined to prove. Therron defied a direct order from the King himself. Doing so very nearly cost us the war before it was well underway. If not for Parno, you would likely be dead or in captivity at this very moment, along with the rest of us and this city lying in Nor hands. That is why he was 'sent away', dear sister. I assure you that our father lacks nothing in the arena of courage, either. It was him that faced Therron down and pronounced judgment on him.” He took a step closer to her.

  “And you would do well to keep your voice down when speaking so, since father has allowed the story that Therron is ill to be repeated rather than let the truth be known. That is far more than he deserved, considering all of his actions.”

  “You still fear him, even now,” Sherron mocked her older brother. “You reek of it, Memmnon. Fear that your younger brother would surpass you and rule in your stead. Shameful.”

  “For the record,” Memmnon fought to control his temper, “he could have the crown so far as I'm concerned. But he would need no heir in all likelihood, since he would almost certainly be the last sovereign of Soulan. His 'rule' would be ruinous and result in our being bowled over by the Nor heathen in short order while Therron preached to all and sundry that our forces were superior and we could not be beaten. That is all he did for most of the winter as we tried to prepare.”

  “We will never fall to the Northern Heathens!” Sherron snapped. “Soulan has stood since the time of Tyree and will continue to stand long after the last Nor bastard is rotting in the earth!”

  “Yes, that's exactly the sort of thing Therron was saying,” Memmnon nodded. “Of course, the reality is somewhat different, sister. The 'heathen' are far better prepared than at any time in our shared history. They have trained and equipped a massive army that you may have heard is now camping out on several thousand square miles of Soulan soil!” Memmnon's voice rose steadily as he spoke. “Prime growing areas for that matter. Every day they sit there is another day lost to growing season on some of the best producing lands in our kingdom. And that leaves aside the loss we've already suffered in livestock that was left behind to feed the damn Norlanders!”

  Memmnon worked to calm himself, suddenly aware of how loud his voice had become. He looked around him carefully, ensuring that no one had heard him speak.

  “Look at you,” Sherron hissed when she saw his actions. “Lurking and spying to see if anyone can hear us talk about the fact that Therron is the one who should be making these decisions and not you!”

  “I'm not making any decisions, you ignorant twit!” Memmnon snapped back, no longer concerned with preventing a scene. “The King is giving the orders you ignorant child, not me. If not for his leadership we'd already be Nor slaves! If we lived at all, of course,” he added. “You'd make a fine prize for some Norlander's harem, would you not? 'Daughter of the last King of Soulan!'” Memmnon's voice rose as if introducing a dignitary entering a ball room. “Yes, that would be quite the fashion accessory in Norland, Sherron! Assuming he didn't just keep you locked away for his own use, or to share with others on special occasions!” Memmnon stopped again, working to calm himself.

  “You are as deluded as Therron was,” he added quietly. “At least you aren't in a position to ruin the kingdom with your rabid ignorance. I tire of this fencing match, sister.” With that he wheeled on his heels and started for his own apartments, tired from more than just arguing with his ridiculous sister, or a day of labor.

  “You'll rue the day you betrayed Therron!” he heard his sister almost screech behind him. Appropriate considering, he decided. She was as hateful as a banshee for certain.

  “You'll see, Memmnon!” Sherron's voice was louder now as Memmnon drew away from her. “Therron is the heir we need for Soulan's future! He will be seated upon that throne and not you!”

  He can have it, Memmnon didn't bother saying aloud. At the moment, having his own small ranch of horses and a few fat cows looked very appealing to the Crown Prince of Soulan.

  Very appealing.

  *****

  “I must say, I do find them women very appealing,” Ezekiel Watts murmured, almost as if afraid of being overheard speaking well of Rosa's 'girls'.

  Aaron Bell gave a short chuckle, shaking his head at Watts reluctance. In the two weeks since the Tinker and his entourage had take
n over the Hogshead Inn, business had been brisk to say the least, and Rosa's girls weren't the only reason, or even the main reason. Only a very few got to spend time with any of the women.

  The majority of the customers were soldiers and townsfolk who came to drink and eat, both pursuits had to come by in a town beset by one army and threatened by another. Where the Tinker came by either was still a mystery to all by his most trusted associates. Of which Watts was not a member.

  “What?” Watts looked at Bell.

  “You're the only man in this town who'd look at them beauties and say they were 'very appealing' as if he were ashamed to be heard saying it,” Bell laughed softly. “Go ahead and admit it, Zeke, you like havin' 'em around.”

  “Never said I didn't,” Watts sniffed loftily, adjusting his belt as he stood straighter. “Said I wasn't no flesh peddler, that's all. Don't mean I can't appreciate a fine lookin' woman as much as the next man.”

  “It's not like we're a brothel, Zeke,” Bell rolled his eyes. If Watts knew what was really happening he'd likely be more approving, but that was something no one could be trusted with who wasn't a part of it. One slip was all it would take to ruin the entire operation.

  “We're closin' fair to it,” Watts replied, though without heat. “It just don't set well, with me, that's all,” he continued after a moment. “Women ain't things, boy. They deserve better, that's all.” The older man was clearly bothered by the situation.

  “They're treated better than most women anywhere,” Bell pointed out. “Safer than in their mother's arms, they are, and you know it for a fact, seein' as you're part o' that. And, if it makes you feel better, I agree with you. Thing is,” Bell leaned in, lowering his voice, “this is what they know, that's all. You see how some of the town folk look down on the women who just work here in the Inn. They're looked down on because of some kinda hate ag'in their blood. Those girls are as fine a bunch o' women as I've known, but they won't never get any real respect cause of who they are.”

  “So, they choose to profit off that hate,” he shrugged, straightening out. “They make hypocritical bastards that wouldn't be seen with 'em in public for no 'mount o' money pay handsome like just to be in their company in private. Use that hate and hypocrisy against 'em. That's all.”

  Watts eyes shown with new understanding as Bell finished speaking, nodding slightly more to himself than Bell.

  “Hadn't thought along them lines,” he admitted. “I ain't never been one to hate on folks cause o' who they are. Guess since I don't do it, didn't think on others doin' it neither.”

  “It's hard to stomach,” Bell nodded. “Makes me want to punch some of these sons flat, it does, but . . . ain't mine to do or to make decisions for them, either. They live their life by their rules, that's all.”

  “Can't blame no one for that,” Watts agreed. “I appreciate the education, youngster,” he said with a slight grin. “Reckon I can learn a bit now and again, provided you use a big enough hammer on me head.”

  “You're not so bad,” Bell replied. “And it speaks right well of you that you don't think along them lines yourself, you know? It ain't no bad thing not to be familiar with that kind of thinking, so far as I'm concerned.”

  “I appreciate that too,” Watts chuckled. “Well, reckon I better get out there and check on the brew. We'll be getting busy soon.”

  “Imagine we will,” Bell noted the sun sinking. “Guess I better get busy myself. Tinker ain't prone to look kindly on slackers.”

  “That's a hard man right there, too,” Watts nodded. “Good one, I'd wager, though I ain't known him long. But there's a hardness to him a man would be smart not to go testin'.”

  “You said a mouthful there, brother,” Bell agreed completely.

  *****

  “Your license is in order it appears,” the Provost officer said, returning the Tinker's paper with a seeming reluctance. “Mind you stay on your manners. Never have cared for your kind,” he added darkly.

  “My kind?” Tinker raised an elegant eyebrow in reply. “By that I assume you mean a man who is willing to work for a living? Do manual labor or trade his services to others as a means of supporting himself and his family? That kind?”

  “You watch your mouth, vagabond,” the officer almost snarled. “I won't have none of your back talk, you hear?”

  “Oh, I hear you, officer,” Tinker replied in kind. “And by the end of the day every soldier I've helped with any problems will know it as well,” he smiled thinly. “As will the officers who use my services or visit my Inn. One of whom I believe is your immediate superior? No, I think he is actually your superior's superior.” He paused, allowing the threat to hang between them. The officer tried to maintain his stance, but the threat of his commander, let alone the General, was a bit too much to ignore.

  “Now you're threatening a member of the Provost?” he blustered.

  “I've made no threat of any kind,” Tinker was instantly back to the affable vendor he normally portrayed. “Merely pointed out that I heard you, and well enough to repeat it. You asked a question and I answered.”

  “Is there a problem here?” a new voice entered the conversation. The provost officer turned rather quickly to see a man behind him in officer livery.

  “Just doing my inspections, Brigadier,” the provost informed the cavalry officer. The man was dirty faced, carrying a saddle that was trailing a broken cinch strap.

  “Are they finished?” the man said testily, shifting the obviously heavy saddle in his grip. “Some of us have need of this man's services. Rather urgently,” he added pointedly.

  “All finished, sir,” the inspector nodded hastily. “I'll just be on my way.” With a last glance at the Tinker, the inspector scuttled away.

  “Revolting creature,” the young officer said darkly.

  “I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir,” Tinker smiled, taking the saddle himself and placing in a wooden horse. “I was trying to assure him that his threats were understood.”

  “Threats?” an elegant though dirty eyebrow rose. “What bloody threats?”

  “I'm afraid that my ancestry is an offense to the inspector, sir,” Tinker replied calmly.

  “What kind of rubbish is that?” The man demanded. “This isn't Norland! See here, Tinker. Can you repair that strap for me?”

  “Of course, sir,” Tinker nodded at once. “Perhaps an hour? Maybe a little more.”

  “Perfect,” the young commander nodded. “Meanwhile we'll just see about this ancestry business,” he growled darkly. “And if that creature bothers you again, I want to know it at once, you hear?”

  “I do sir,” Tinker bowed slightly. “I will do as you say.”

  “I'm not giving orders to you, Tinker,” the man's tone softened. “But by the Crown, I'll not see that kind of talk in this camp so long as it comes from below my rank. There's no place in Soulan for that kind of silliness in peace time, let alone with an enemy at the bloody door!”

  “I did not take it that way, General, I assure you,” Tinker soothed the ruffled young man. “I appreciate your kindness.”

  “Well, you work on that saddle while I work on this other matter,” the man ordered. “I'll be back.”

  “Of course, General,” Tinker smiled brightly. “I'll get right on it.”

  Tinker whistled slightly to himself as the brigade commander stomped off to 'deal' with something that had offended him almost personally.

  *****

  Buford Beaumont sat his horse just inside the tree line atop a ridge far to the north of where the Soulan Army now sat blocking the Imperial invaders. His glass in hand, he surveyed the area below with a patient eye, taking in details that would be important later on.

  “What's doing, Buford?” Horace Whipple asked as he rode up, reining his horse in beside the other man.

  “Just havin' a look,” Beaumont replied, lowering his glass. “There's a station of some kind down there,” he pointed, passing his glass to Whipple. “Have a look. There's at l
east four dozen horses there, probably more I can't see, and a good company of men. I see smoke that's likely from a forge, too. I think this is a way station of sorts for the Nor supply line. Replace lame horses, repairs to wagons and shoe draft animals and what have you.”

  “Agreed,” Whipple nodded after a moment, returning the glass. “Many of them are in uniform and appear to be standing post, too.”

  “Where?” Beaumont asked, having overlooked that. He followed Whipple's point and raised the glass once more. Sure enough he spotted a picket post. Then another. Having an idea of where to look now, Beaumont soon had nearly two dozen pickets spotted and a squad of videttes patrolling around the site between the picket posts.

  “Not enough to stop us if we attack,” Beaumont declared. “Things is, do we strike now, or try to wait a day or so and see if we can catch a supply train here first?”

  “We've no idea of their movements,” Whipple mused, considering the question. “We could leave a squad here to monitor the post, keep a record of trains through here which would give us an idea of how often they send them, how large they are and how well guarded.”

  “And we do what in the meantime?” Beaumont asked, frowning.

  “Well, we can loop well around to the north and watch the trail,” Whipple offered. “We might catch a supply train on the trail and take it.”

  “Wouldn't that make leaving an observation post here nil?” Beaumont asked, considering the suggestion. “Once we strike, they're like as not going to change the route or add more security.”

  “I've considered that and have an idea. It's a bit risky I suppose, but everything we do is a risk at the moment, wouldn't you agree?” Beaumont nodded.

  “We would do well not to advertise our strength at first,” Whipple continued. “I suggest we use company and regimental attacks, always just large enough to get the job done and then leave survivors to tell the tale. That might make their leaders suspect that we're nothing more than a guerrilla band roaming the backwoods.”

  “Survivors are apt to just increase the numbers to make themselves look better,” Beaumont shrugged.