Crowlord (The Sword Saint Series Book 2)

by Michael Wallace

  She closed her eyes and sifted through her surroundings. The chaotic auras on the near bank and in the middle of the river were hard to fight her way past, but once she’d done so, she was through the town walls and into the city. Here she expected more of the same as she’d felt on the outside, together with the usual jumble of town life. Like Hooffent, but with ten times as many villagers.

  Instead, her attention was drawn to a single point cutting through the noise. Standing in the midst of the surrounding auras, it felt like a spear planted in the ground with its tip thrusting skyward. This wasn’t a mere aura, but the sowen of a master sohn from one of the sword temples.

  Narina withdrew her own sowen, afraid that continued prodding would get her noticed. When she’d returned her consciousness to her own surroundings, she stared across the river, thinking matters through.

  Gyorgy gave her a worried look. “Did you feel someone?” He looked to Kozmer when she didn’t answer right away. “Who is it?”

  “No way to know,” the elder said, “but there’s a conflict waiting if we cross.”

  “And should we do it?” Gyorgy asked. “Or should we stay on this side?”

  Kozmer licked his lips and stared at Narina while addressing the boy’s question. “That’s for your teacher to decide.”

  “You sound nervous,” she said to the elder.

  “I don’t know who it is,” Kozmer replied, “but they’re. . .well, they’re stronger than I expected. So early in the fight, but so strong already. What is your sowen telling you?”

  “My sowen says that if I go, if I fight, one of us will die. Either the rival sohn, or me. I’m not keen on either option, to be honest. I don’t plan to die, and the blood of a crowlord already stains my blades. I don’t need any more killing.”

  Talk of a stain wasn’t metaphor. . .not entirely, anyway. She felt it marring the aura of her dragon sword when she picked it up, a weight of death that belied its polished white gleam. One of those deaths stood out from the others. The dragon had gone through Lord Zoltan’s belly, pierced through to his back, and gutted him as she pulled it out again.

  Her blades had killed dozens of others in the battle at the farmhouse compound, but it was Zoltan’s death that would see his fiefdom ripped apart as his enemies feasted on the corpse. Untold misery would follow.

  Captain Pongur came riding back at last. “The bridge master is an idiot. Whatever orders he has, they’re nothing to delivering these goods to Stronghand.”

  “So he won’t let us cross?” Narina asked. Could this be the delay that gave her a chance to collect her thoughts?

  Pongur hissed between closed teeth. “Oh, he’ll let us cross. But I had to tell the villain what we were carrying, and others heard. Blasted news is going to get back to Balint before I have a chance to deliver the goods in person.”

  “You’ll get your moment of glory.” She made a sudden decision and turned to her companions. “Unhitch the wagon. We’ll be leaving it here.”

  “What?” Pongur said. “No. Keep your wagon. Deliver the goods in person and collect your coin.”

  “We’ve already been paid. And you can count the wagon as a bonus. Brutus will be happy to trot home unencumbered. We might even be able to pry off those metal shoes he despises so much. Goats don’t like to be shod, as you can imagine.”

  Pongur sucked in his cheeks, which gave his thin face an even more gaunt expression. “Lord Balint will want to see you all the same. Verify from your ears it’s all there. That nothing has been stolen or swapped out. And what about the dog? Your servant was telling my men that you wanted to return the beast to its rightful owner. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  The captain gestured a gloved hand at Gyorgy, who stood with a hand resting on Skinny Lad’s back. Gyorgy didn’t answer.

  “Would you take responsibility for the ratter’s dog?” Narina asked the man.

  “Demon’s blood, no. What if the ratter isn’t in the city? What would I do with this flea-bitten cur, then?”

  “A fair point. So we’ll keep the animal for now,” she said with a shrug. “Andras knows where to find us when he wants his dog back.”

  “Just come into the city,” the captain pleaded. “Come, do your duty—my lord won’t hold you against your will once it’s done. He wouldn’t do that.”

  Pongur started his horse toward her as Gyorgy and Kozmer continued their work unhitching the wagon, while the goat tossed its head, anxious to be free of his burden.

  Narina changed her stance, swept back the edge of her cloak, and rested her hands on her sword hilts. “I would not advise that,” she said coldly.

  “Dammit, I won’t let you leave until I’ve done my duty.”

  “You won’t even see the swords before they cut you in two. And anyone else who lifts a hand against me will follow you to the grave.”

  Pongur backed his horse up with a string of curses. He stared at her with a clenched jaw, then cursed again. At last he started shouting at nearby men, ordering them to get in there, form a team to grab the cart, and haul it to the floating bridge and across to Riverrun.

  “One last thing before you take it,” Narina said as soldiers moved to obey. She went behind the cart and pulled back the tarp. “There are a few things in here you didn’t pay for.”

  She grabbed Zoltan’s battle-axe, a skillfully wrought weapon made by warbrands, equal or greater than any of the arms the bladedancers had made for Lord Balint. The weapon had a heft to it; it could sever heads with the blade or crush skulls with the spike on the back side, yet it rested lightly in her hand, and she could feel her arm tensing to swing it, as if called to action by the weapon itself. Few crowlords had ever wielded its equal.

  “Gyorgy, get the other temple weapons we captured at the farm compound.”

  Narina trudged through the muck toward the riverbank, while Pongur yelled after her to stop, yelled at Kozmer to intervene. Gyorgy followed, carrying a pair of broken spears and the sword taken after the fight with Lord Zoltan and his riders. Dozens of men stopped what they were doing to watch.

  “Throw them in,” she told her student. Gyorgy obeyed.

  When they were gone, Narina gripped the axe handle with both hands, twisted her body, and flung the battle-axe into the river. It fell into the churning water and disappeared without a trace.

  Chapter Four

  Lord Balint clapped a hand on Andras’s shoulder, and the ratter couldn’t help but wince in discomfort. That hand was meaty and powerful, and seemed to not know its own strength. Balint could have subdued Andras with his grip alone, no doubt.

  A few days had passed since their initial meeting on the other side of the river, and this time the ratter had been summoned to the great hall of Riverrun’s imposing castle. It was lit with torches, with old, smoke-stained tapestries around the walls that seemed to be a relic of some peaceful era, now forgotten. Like most crowlords, Balint seemed to live half his life in the saddle and had little use for luxuries. Hunting, brawling, drinking, and war making were his primary leisure activities.

  “Where is your son?” Balint asked. “Where is the little ratter?”

  “He’s staying outside of town with the dogs, my lord.”

  “Ah, that’s good. I was worried something had happened to the little one.” Balint’s eyes softened, and he chuckled. “I’ll wager the boy is filthy and in need of a bath by now.”

  “He surely is. The dogs don’t belong in here, anyway. Neither does Ruven.”

  “Ruven, yes! I was trying to remember the boy’s name.” He waved a hand. “Nonsense. I have dogs about—look at those lazy fellows, just lying around—and one of my own sons could have shown your boy the stables.”

  One of Balint’s sons had already shown Ruven around a couple of months back, and that was precisely why Andras hadn’t brought the child into the castle, but turned him back when the time came to climb the steps to the gates. Sent him off with two moons to pay for a room in a scruffy inn north of Riverrun where they’d s
tayed on several other occasions. The innkeeper’s wife would be sure to give the boy a good scrubbing with soap and a brush made of boar bristles until he was pink and shiny. Wash the dogs, too.

  The only other time Andras had entered the great hall, then to report Zoltan’s defensive fortifications south toward the delta, two boys had led Ruven off to show him around. One was Balint’s son, a boy of about twelve who was a good head taller than Ruven, and the other looked to be the son of a steward or head servant. This second boy seemed to exist primarily to be bossed around by Balint’s son.

  Andras had watched them go with misgivings, and wasn’t surprised to hear later that the older boys had taunted the young ratter and pretended they’d smother him in the haystacks for sport. It could have been worse. Still, he wasn’t about to make that mistake again. He owed Balint for saving Ruven from the brigands and avenging Terezia’s murder, but letting his son be bullied by his betters wasn’t part of Andras’s responsibilities.

  There were two dogs lying beneath the table where Balint had been meeting with his captains over maps and mugs of beer, and they lifted their heads as if taking interest in the conversation. Old hunters, from the look of it, with grizzled jaws and a sleepy air. Didn’t mean they wouldn’t get in trouble with Andras’s dogs, an encounter that also had the potential to go badly.

  Andras was nearly as protective of his dogs as he was his son. He’d already lost a terrier, seen a second wounded, and sent off one of the lurchers to who knew where. He trusted that Narina would keep Skinny Lad from harm, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t worrying all the same.

  “Is there a reason you called me back, my lord?” he asked.

  Balint gave Andras’s shoulder a final shake—friendly, but jarring all the same—and then gestured for the ratter to sit at his table. There was a man sitting there already, his back to them. Andras hadn’t paid much attention upon entering the great hall. Now he saw with surprise that it was the firewalker he’d met on the south bank of the Vestanovul a few days earlier.

  The man had taken off the red-and-black cape and silver gorget. Instead, he’d dressed in the gray of Balint’s personal guard. There was no sign of his long, slender sword, either. If not for the high cheekbones and sandy brown hair, Andras might not have recognized him; these soldiers, captains, and the like often looked the same to him.

  After sharing news of Narina’s arrival, Andras had realized with horror that this firewalker meant to attack and kill her. Possibly kill Gyorgy and Kozmer, too. He’d wanted to rush out to find them on the road and warn them. But his responsibility was to Lord Balint, the man who’d saved Ruven from brigands and avenged the death of Andras’s wife. He’d obeyed Balint’s command to enter Riverrun and await orders. Now those orders had come.

  What had happened these last few days since they’d last met? Had this firewalker killed the bladedancers? Demons and demigods, he hoped not. But the man’s presence, unharmed and with a careless arrogance to his posture, was a bad sign. As Andras sat as far from the firewalker as possible, it occurred to him that he had a way to find out without coming right out and asking.

  “My lord, has there been any word of my missing dog?”

  “That bony thing you left with the bladedancers?” Balint asked.

  “Aye. I only have two lurchers, and I’m already down a dog. One of my terriers fell to Damanja’s spearmen.”

  Balint’s face turned red. “The vermin, killing a helpless dog. I’ll get you another terrier, friend. We’ve got several on my estate outside of town, and you’re welcome to your pick of them.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  But no thank you, all the same. The last thing Andras wanted was one of Balint’s untrained dogs. You had to raise a ratter from a pup, and even then, plenty of dogs weren’t made for it. Good breeding also counted. That gave them the instincts, the inexhaustible love of the hunt. As for whatever terrier or terrier-like dog Balint foisted off on him, he’d be stuck with it. He couldn’t give away the dog, because no doubt the crowlord would ask about it later. Andras’s best hope was that Balint would forget having made the offer in the first place.

  The crowlord cast a look to the firewalker, who nodded an answer to some unspoken question. “You should have had your dog by now,” Balint said. “Should have taken the beast here at Riverrun, in fact. It should have come across with the woman when she delivered the temple weapons. But the bladedancer balked—she didn’t cross the river. Delivered the goods to my soldiers, then ran off.”

  So the bladedancers were still alive. Thank God. Andras had stayed loyal to Balint instead of warning them, and fortunately, that loyalty hadn’t led to their death.

  He risked a small question. “Why wouldn’t she have crossed, my lord?”

  “Never mind your questions. Impertinent and unnecessary.”

  “Sorry, my lord.”

  “I have another small task for you, or rather my lieutenant does.”

  Andras looked around the room, taking in the pair of men who’d been standing quietly at the two entrances to the great hall, thinking Balint meant one of them. The crowlord liked his closest guards to be either lieutenants or captains in the army, men who’d proven their bravery on the battlefield and their loyalty through years of service. Many crowlords met their end in war, but not a few had been cut down by underpaid castle guards who’d turned on their masters when offered silver coin stamped with the stern faces of enemy lords and ladies.

  But neither of the men at the doors reacted to Balint’s words, and Andras realized with surprise that the crowlord could only mean the firewalker, who now rose and stepped forward.

  Andras was quite sure the man hadn’t been present in Riverrun or anywhere in the fiefdom when he’d left several weeks earlier. So why had Balint brought the man so quickly into his confidence?

  The firewalker gave him a hard stare. “So.”

  His gaze held Andras with such intensity that the ratter felt he’d been speared to the wall, unable to move or even drop his eyes.

  “My lord,” he managed.

  “I am no lord. My name is Sohn Tankred, and I trained in the Blade Temple of the Elegant Sword.”

  Something in the way he said this made it sound like he no longer belonged to the temple. In any event, this was a designation that Andras hadn’t heard before, and his eyes dropped to the man’s bare feet, blackened with some sort of scarring tattoos.

  “That’s right, a firewalker to you lesser sorts,” Tankred said.

  “I meant no disrespect, my. . .sohn.” Andras glanced at Balint, who crossed his powerful arms and gave a stern nod, as if saying he should obey every word of this man. Andras turned back to Tankred. “You have a task for me?”

  “I need to find these bladedancers, but they don’t want to be discovered. They’ve crept across the countryside, wary because of certain events—this battle with Zoltan, and perhaps other encounters. Frightened of rumors and suggestions recently put into their minds. They’re hiding by day and traveling cautiously by night.”

  “And you want me to find them somehow? But I don’t. . .my lord, they didn’t share their plans with me.”

  “You have a connection to your dog.” It was not a question, nor had Tankred seemed to consider Andras’s objection. “The beast has been traveling with the bladedancers, and the woman has created her own link with the animal, binding her sowen to the creature’s aura so that the two may find each other. She should have disposed of the dog when it was no longer of use, but she seems to have kept it with her. You can find your animal, and therefore find the bladedancers.”

  “Yes, hmm. About this connection. I can’t feel Skinny Lad—I really don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I’m not even sure what you people mean when you talk about auras.”

  “You will once I’ve touched you with my sowen. You’ll feel the dog’s aura and follow its trail. They’ll be traveling slowly, and I expect you to catch up with them within a few days. When you’ve found the bladedancers, I�
��ll be able to follow you in turn.”

  Balint grunted. “You can’t simply follow the ratter as he travels?”

  Tankred shook his head. “I won’t see Narina until your man makes contact. And if I creep along too close behind, she’ll feel me coming and make another run for it. We’ll have the same result as last time. Also, as soon as I cross into Zoltan’s lands there are other enemies to worry about. I’m not ready to face them.”

  “And once you’ve taken care of the woman?”

  “Yes, after. Then I’ll be ready. And don’t forget her companions. She’s not traveling alone. They must be dealt with, too.”

  Balint let out a scoffing sound. “Companions? It’s an old man and a boy not much older than this ratter’s son.”

  “In single combat, that so-called boy would cut down the greatest warrior in your army. I won’t dismiss the old man, either.”

  “If you say so.” The crowlord didn’t sound convinced.

  Andras found this talk alarming. Was Tankred plotting to kill Narina, Kozmer, and Gyorgy? Why? A lot of people seemed to wish them dead lately, but he’d never heard of fighting between the sword temples.

  Narina or Kozmer must have sensed it already, felt Tankred lurking in the city, waiting to fall upon them, which is why they’d traveled so far, only to hand off the temple weapons at the last minute instead of crossing to Riverrun to meet with Balint. A personal delivery had been Narina’s plan, he knew, and she wouldn’t have changed that without good reason.

  Andras made an attempt to appeal to Balint and deflect his master onto a different path. “But my lord, even if I can find my dog’s aura, it will take time to catch up to the bladedancers—perhaps days—and then more time as they continue on their way with the firewalker in pursuit. They might be in the mountains by then. All the way to Hooffent, maybe. Then they’ll go to their temple—what harm can they do then? What about Zoltan and Damanja? Shouldn’t we be fighting them instead of worrying about the bladedancers?”

  Balint’s jaw clenched. “I fight the war, ratter. You bring me information, understood?” There was a blunt force in his voice, as hard as the steel of a war hammer.