Wintersong

by William Cooper

  ‘And I always thought you sometimes forget the Concord is there to serve the king,’ countered Tobin, ‘not to shackle him. I swore an oath to the King not to the Concord. But the King broke the law this time and I also swore an oath to obey the laws of this land.’

  Tobin looked seriously at Ryder, who now looked saddened, and said. ‘My refusal was acknowledged by a rather terse note from the king. He rather smugly wrote that he has asked “Lord Perriswood to command the army instead, a true lord of the Golden Isle, who has graciously agreed to the kings wishes.’’

  For a moment they both stared at one another then Malcolm burst out in laughter. ‘Robert Perriswood?’ he said. ‘The Kings pet? The poodle of Thornsreach? The King must be desperate to need such a fool.’

  Once the laughter died down they both fell into a thoughtful silence. The crackling of the fire was soothing Tobin into a soft dose when Ryder spoke again, ‘Perriswood, eh? Well damn him, and god help the lads under that fool’s command, Tobin. God help them!’

  The Mercenary

  Remus grinned as the whore threw the ale over Melcher’s florid face. The man fell back and his chair went crashing to the floor, smashing into pieces under his bulk. Melcher lay on the expensive tiled floor of the brothel gasping and spluttering, as his comrades laughed loudly at his bad luck. The pretty girl stormed off, throwing the empty leather tankard at another soldier; who deftly ducked out of the way. Melcher staggered drunkenly to his feet as the soldiers who filled the expensive brothel clapped and hooted in joy. He looked around in bleary eyed confusion, and, after slowly sorting his priorities out in his thick head, shouted for more ale.

  ‘You should have paid her first, you bloody fool!’ shouted Big Owen as the drunken man’s face broke into a wide grin.

  Remus shook his head at the predicament of his friend. Poor old Melcher, he thought, can’t even get screwed in a whorehouse. His comrade was an overgrown oaf with nothing between his ears but pig shit. Yet Melcher was deadly with a sword and a shield, and he possessed the stamina to fight all day. A good man though, generous to his friends. A year ago Remus had earned a wound from a knave with a stiletto, and the wound had become infected. It was Melcher who had taken care of him during those long pain filled weeks. When he was well he had given the oaf a share of his mercenaries’ fee, as was the way of things in the Honourable Company.

  The Honourable Company! That name was a good jest, he thought. Honourable my arse! Never a bigger bunch of thieves, liars and thugs would you find serving in this parcel of rogues. Sword brothers all. To a man they were a bunch of merry bastards, and the biggest bastard of them all was Lotho. Good old Lotho. He had come up all sixes for his lads this time. The man had a knack for finding the best flesh pits in any city, and he always made sure his boys had the coin to spend on a whore. Sensible man, thought Remus. There was many a mercenary company captain that didn’t understand that his business was his men. Lotho knew that the lads who sought a mercenary life all had their reasons for leaving home to take up a sword or long spear. All a soldier ever really wants is to enjoy his life, while he still has it. Good food, good ale and bad women. A mercenary life was risky enough, and they had all lost good friends on too many nameless battlefields. Lotho knew the importance of allowing his boys to relax.

  They were all here tonight for the Wintersong celebrations. Lotho had opened his coffers and paid his lads, but tonight he had laid on the entertainment for the company. ‘No man spends their coin tonight!’ he roared drunkenly, throwing a large bag of gold coins to the simpering Madame. Lotho then vanished upstairs with two blonde twins and a bottle of sack. And why not? The captain was a wealthy man with the appetites to match. He was also a man of considerable reputation that could command the best prices for his soldiers. Remus had always made a point of watching successful men, so he could learn from them. As far as could see the cunning fox had risen to the top by carefully selecting his employers, and therefore the wars he had to fight. He was also clever enough to pay generous bounties that attracted the best swords to his banner. Lotho had no time for fools and weaklings, for not all men who called themselves mercenaries were worth a damn. Every man in Lotho’s employ was a skilled veteran recruited from other mercenary companies. Hard hearts and killers all.

  If he was honest with himself he had to admit he was no better. They called him Remus the Blackhearted, for good reason. For most of his life he had killed for money, and he was good at it. Honour and duty were pretty words fit for fools who slogged and died in the bloodied mud of some shithole country for some prince’s vanity. Not him. If some inbred lord needed killing done, he would bloody well pay for it and pay well. Remus had seen too much of kings and the nobility to have any illusions about that pack of bastards. This world was run by wolves, for wolves. The rest were sheep, and sheep were there to be eaten. Remus learned that lesson long ago, and now he played the game for coin and called no king or lord his master.

  He watched his comrades at play from the corner of the brothel. He was never one for such occasions preferring his own company, and his comrades often respected that. However he was here because he felt that he should be with his brothers at Wintersong. He was a practical man who saw little use for sentiment, but on a day like Wintersong all men were drawn to thinking of the past and most sought companionship. It would not do to seem to be above his comrades on this day. Back home on the Golden Isles the snow may be falling and the old river Thorne that cut Thornsreach in half might be frozen solid. Everyone would be at home, or in the alehouse celebrating in the warmth.

  He had to admit it the southerners knew how to live. The brothel was located in a Senrish port city called Lenurth. Lenurth was built onto the hills of a wide bay, with blue skies and blue seas framing the two storey white washed buildings of the port. He admired their way of life. Business and pleasure was conducted outdoors and they were an open people. Yet, for a moment, despite the pleasures of this port, he felt nostalgic for the snow covered streets of Thornsreach, but it was a short lived feeling.

  ‘You simpleton!’ Remus thought, ‘I’m getting foolish and homesick for a place that was never home to me.’ The Stews of Thornsreach was nothing more than a shanty town filled with crime, corruption and poverty. If the watch didn’t get you, the local gangs would. Hell, sometimes there was no difference between the gangs and the watch, both wanted their dues. He would be as big a fool as Melcher to think that life had been good in that blocked sewer of a place. The only thing he had there was a father he cared nothing for. What had that weakling ever taught him? Apart from how to duck a punch. No that old fool had nothing to give. His halfwit father was nothing more than a common labourer, who seemed unable to hold down any work for long. He had no trade of his own to pass onto a son. Remus had never sought to be a hired killer, but how else could he make a living. If he had stayed on the Golden Isle, what would he be now? In that shit hole of a country, the course of his life had been marked out before his birth by his lowly position. A life of poverty and a damp rat infested hovel in the Stews of Thornsreach, while being worked to exhaustion for a pittance. When he was old enough to understand his world, he had looked around and decided to make his own way. From the first day he walked out of his old life, at the callow age of ten, he had relied on his speed and his cunning to get by. That was fifteen years ago, and he had never returned to Thornsreach. His father was probably dead now, but why care? That was another life, a boy’s life. He left and had survived and grown into a man.

  Before he joined the Company he had earned his keep all across the continent, working for any lord, prince or elector with coin. It seemed to Remus that there was always a war somewhere on this continent and he was never short of work. Soon men began to hear tales of Remus the Blackhearted, and if truth be told most of what was said was exaggeration. Though some tales were true, and he could not say he felt especial pride to hear them. He was a killer by trade, not by inclination and refused to revel in savageries. No matter how good he was wit
h a blade, it was merely a tool to him. Something he used to make his living, nothing more.

  As the years rolled on, and his reputation grew, Lotho sought him out. He remembered that day clearly. He was working for the Doge in Scianna. In his barracks he had received a letter from Lotho. Lotho wished to meet him in a well-appointed hostelry. When Remus first saw the legendary mercenary captain, he took him for an overdressed fop, carrying an expensive sword fit for a duke and surrounded by fawning servants. He nearly walked out, thinking the man a fool, despite the rumours he had heard. Then he caught it. Something in Lotho’s eyes made him re-think his opinion. They had a piercing intelligence and an iron strength about them that seemed separate from the smiling face. Lotho had a laughing callousness that made him realise this man was possibly one of the most dangerous men he had ever met.

  He joined Lotho’s Honourable Company and it had been a good home to him for nearly five years. Lotho had plied his trade across the western world, and he had seen such things in that time. They fought wars that meant nothing to him, in lands that he had never believed he would ever have visited. They lived brutal dangerous lives, but were paid well for it. The only thing that mattered was that they were paid. He had done and seen many things in the service of the company. The great Citadel of Molenra, the burning of the sacred woods at Ruosk, and the nightmare that had been the siege of Paraen. Then Karth. Bloody Karth, the boys called it.

  Karth had been different, some back water hell-hole of swamps, jungles and biting insects. No one had heard of it, but somehow Lotho had been contacted by some Calish lord who had a beef with the men of that nation. Lotho had taken the job as the coin was right, and what could a bunch of savages do against the Company. Arrogance had been their downfall. Those bastards knew how to fight and they were no mere savages. The jungle was a dark-green nightmare full of strange noises and creatures. Some of the lads swore they saw demons amongst the trees, and men vanished in the night. The breaking point came when a patrol had vanished in the jungle. Lotho had sent a one hundred strong unit of shield men to find the missing men. They never marched back. Though the enemy let them hear the screams of the shield men, as they killed them slowly throughout the night. Their agonising cries echoed through the jungle. The next day Lotho wisely decided to cut his losses and return to the continent. They were lucky to get out of that place. The Calish lord was not happy, but Lotho believed his reputation was strong enough to take the tarnish.

  Remus had his doubts. In the world he lived in reputation was everything, and one failure could blight the Honourable Companies’ standing. This morning, he had spoken to Lotho about a new commission. Some Golden Isle lord was coming over to the continent, to fight a war over some ancestral claim. He wanted some men to help him lay siege to Cathan.

  ‘Their general is a stupid cock, if ever there was one,’ said Lotho. ‘He needs some real men to bolster his army. Looks like we will be carrying some lord’s son and his levies. We will make him pay handsomely.’

  There was something unusually blustery in Lotho’s tone, as if he was trying too hard to convince the both of them. Remus was surprised by the choice of commission. It sounded bad to his well-oiled instincts. Cathan was a small city state that had survived numerous attempts at conquest. Its army was disciplined, well equipped and its people had a reputation for strength and bravery. The city itself was constructed for defence. Its walls were well maintained, and a garrison was held in a castle that sat high on the hills above the city. To attack Cathan would take careful planning with no guarantee of success, and a siege would be bloody and protracted. If the Isle commander was a fool, what then? Would he be up to the task, and would he listen to Lotho’s advice? Remus wondered why the old fox had taken the job. Perhaps Lotho’s reputation was more tarnished than he had thought, and had taken the contract to prove the Honourable Company were still the best, or was there another plan? He suspected Lotho had sought a larger prize. Lotho dressed and talked like a lord, but he was of common birth. He had all the appetites of a lord, and Remus wondered if he had been offered a lordship by the Golden Isle King for his help? It had happened before. It would explain his lack of customary caution. The offer of some defunct title and some soft land for the old warhorse must have appealed. Lotho was getting on in years, and must be thinking of his future. But what did that mean for Remus and the Honourable Company?

  His thoughts were broken by shouting amongst the soldiers. They had begun the Midwinter song. It was an odd song, nothing like the traditional song that his father would have sung, but a strange hybrid of all the songs of the many nations that made up the Company. That’s my boys, Remus thought, always singing, and always mistaking volume for quality. The sound lifted his mood and shook off his concerns. They could wait till the morning. He grabbed a leather tankard off a tray carried by a passing serving girl, and he walked out of the gloomy shadows of the brothel and threw his arm over one of his sword brothers. He joined in with the singing. To hell with the past, Remus thought, to hell with the future. I’m with my family now!

  The Queen of the Golden Isles

  The Queen stood at the arched window, looking out at the wide square beneath her. It held the famous Wintersong Market. Many from the Golden Isles would make the long pilgrimage to see. It looked so lively from her vantage point, so beautiful and full of joy, she thought. The tents were colourful and well lit; the square thronged with people, stalls traded their festive wares to all that passed. Stilt walkers made their way through the throng throwing treats for the children, and the air was scented with spices. She thought the scene looked almost perfect; like something from a story book for children.

  Wintersong, the mid-winter celebration that marked the death of one year and the birth of another, was celebrated all over the Continent. The Golden Isles were always so optimistic about the next year. She always felt that the Golden Isle was not an apt name for this country. It was too cold and wet, and the summer too short. No one knew where the name first came from, and the many myths that had sprung up to explain its odd name were all such obvious nonsense to her ears. She had never really liked the Golden Isles, and she had wept when her father had told her she was to marry into their royal family. She had been born on Bastel, a large island off the southern coast of Islinor, near the ancient port of Lanurth. A land of long, warm days, long beaches, blue skies and surrounded by a blue ocean. A warm land for a warm people. She did not wish to be sent to marry the second son of King William, but her father was a powerful lord with responsibilities. It was also the will of the Holy Emperor, and her father had to obey.

  It was a marriage designed to help heal the wounds of a past war. She had no doubt that the generous dowry paid by the Empire would help to keep peace as well as any trade agreements that had been signed. She had not wept for long for she was strong and of an ancient noble family. Pride and honour would not allow for such indulgence. Her father was a good man, and he had prepared her well for court. So, it was with a smile on her face and a sad heart, that she came to this grey and sombre land.

  This was her sixth Wintersong on the Isle, and she had raised three children, two boys and a girl. She loved them dearly and had even grown fond of her soft-spoken husband. He had been such a boy when she first met him, and was still one in so many ways. He had been so nervous when they met in the King’s hall for the first time. She felt nothing but pity for his watery eyes, pale face and stammering voice. She remembered how his thug of a father, and that arrogant peacock of a crown prince, watched her future husband struggle to talk to her with a cruel gleam in their eyes. Her husband was never meant for kingship, and she was never meant to be a queen and mother of a crown prince. King William died of a fever a year later and the peacock crown prince became Alyn II. An arrogant man, but he was strong, and the men of the Concord loved him. What a collection of fools they were, for loving that boorish fool but despising her gentle husband. She had never understood the need for a Concord. The Concord seemed an aberration, in a world f
ull of kings, electors and emperors with absolute power. The Concord had the right to be consulted before new taxes, policies, and of course wars could be declared by a king. Created five hundred years ago by Prince Marturus as a check on a mad king’s power. The Lords of the Concord may have once been great and wise, but now they seemed like petulant children. Her husband had refused to have much to do with them, believing his father’s words that a King was ordained by God to rule.

  She knew the lords blamed her for the king’s refusal to call a Concord. They knew she was born of the High Church, not the Free Church, and they suspected her every action. Thinking her a spy no doubt; judging her for a faith she had held all her life. Shivering, she looked out of the window and crossed her arms. How she missed her father and mother on Wintersong. Her parents wrote frequently, and she read every word as if it was a rare treasure, but the letters were always neutral, for they knew as well as she that the King’s spymaster intercepted all of her correspondence.

  She turned from the window and looked around the large bedroom of the Queen’s Palace and felt its ornate decor close in on her. The commoners called the palace the Glass Cage and she could see their meaning. The Queen’s Palace, she had been told, was built by King Edmund VI for his queen, Angelis. King Edmund had been the uncle of the legendary ‘Good Queen Bess’ and also the last male heir of the Balikris line. His love for the beautiful Angelis was like madness, a feverish hashish dream, and to prove his love to his new queen he built her this palace. It was a place built for romance and beauty not warfare, a notion strange to the lords of this realm. Edmund had nearly emptied the treasury to pay for the windows alone. All so his love could see the bustle of the city. It was four stories of glittering, expensive glass with white marble arches and pillars. To the rear there was a sumptuous garden, filled with statues and fountains. A folly for a fool.