The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron

by Bolme, Edward

  “Now a formal duel is not something people of her station would take to. She looks like she’d just take her grievances out on the spot, and fight to the death. And by the looks of her and her friends, if she’d been robbed, she’d be spouting for revenge, and they’d all be dragging the alleys for the culprit. But she’s acting powerless. So it makes me wonder. What if it were an arranged fight, like her friend was a prisoner, too? Did she wager all her wealth on her friend, hoping to buy him free, and lose everything all at once? For that matter, say the other was her betrothed or her husband. She might have lost her entire future in one foolish wager.

  “Mark my words, Cimozjen, I was right. This is the place to be. I bet this is all knotted together, and she’s a part of it, however peripherally. We just have to ingratiate ourselves here, and start to belong.”

  Cimozjen glanced over at Four, then down at his armband, hidden beneath the sleeve of his tunic. “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”

  “Time to wake up, Cimmer,” said a musical voice.

  Cimozjen’s eyes fluttered open, and he groaned with relief. “My, but the sun is bright,” he said.

  “It’s overcast.”

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, rubbing his face. He groaned. “All night long I dreamed of falling axe blades chopping me up. It’s nice to wake up in one piece.” He rose, walked to the window, opened it, and leaned out to take a breath of autumn air.

  “I’m glad you’re happy,” said Minrah.

  “I am happy that I did not sever your head,” said Four.

  “Enough,” said Cimozjen. “Believe me, I have already thought enough of such things for this day.” He stood and stretched his back. “Very well, here we are. We’ve found a tavern that might be a source of information. But until it opens, what’s on the top of your minds?”

  “I’d like to catch up on the Chronicle,” said Minrah, “see if there’s anything that might help me. I mean, us. Plus I want to see if we can find Torval’s shoemaker.”

  “And I want to find out what happened to Torval from the last time I saw him during the War.”

  After a short pause, Four said, “I want no one to attack me.”

  Minrah laughed, and Cimozjen turned from the window and said, “That, friend Four, is why I like you.”

  The streets were still wet from the previous night’s rain, and much of the urban grit had been washed from the cobbles. The autumn air was brisk, though not quite so cold that plumes of breath could be seen.

  Cimozjen, Minrah, and Four stood at the foot of the stairs that led to the Military Bureau, a massive edifice between Castle Fairhold and Chalice Center that served as the central administration for the crown’s army. The main double doors sat nestled between thick fluted columns, which in turn supported a huge marble slab that bore the army’s crest, as well as beautiful basrelief sculptures of half-nude Aundairian heroes from the past, all carved in the flowing, elegant style for which Aundair had become famous during the Golden Age of Galifar.

  Minrah pointed as they climbed the steps. “Hoy, look at that hunk of humanity up there,” she said. “Is your torso muscled as tough as that? He looks about your age.”

  “My muscles are not quite so hard as his,” said Cimozjen. “His are made of pure marble. Mine just look that way.” He winked as he and Four pulled open the massive doors of the bureau.

  Minrah walked in, her laughter echoing in the large wood-paneled main hall of the building. Cimozjen entered and walked over to one of the doors, waving off the offer of assistance from a greeter.

  “You seem to know your way around here,” said Minrah.

  “I have seen it often enough.”

  He led the three of them to a smaller office off the main hall and ushered them in. Inside a room brightly lit by everbright lanterns, several clerks worked at desks. Fine wood shelving covered the entire back wall, parsed by dividers into small slots. Carefully marked scrolls filled each of the cubbyholes. Two open arches on the back wall led to more scroll storage.

  Cimozjen stood in front of one clerk, an older man missing the majority of his left forearm. With his stump he held a scroll open, and with his other hand he copied the contents onto a new scroll. Cimozjen noted that he was copying only those names that had been crossed out.

  The clerk neither looked up nor stopped writing on the scroll he had before him. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked as the nib of his pen scratched across the parchment.

  “Please forgive me, but I do not. I wish to inquire after the disposition of foreign prisoners.”

  The clerk grumped. “You’ll need an appointment.”

  “If you please, I have just last night arrived from Karrnath, seeking to discover the fate of one of our soldiers. I have reason to believe that he was taken prisoner, and I hope to find out what happened to him after that.”

  “Mm. I see. And you’re not going to go away until I help you, are you?”

  “If I lived closer,” said Cimozjen, “I would make an appointment and await my turn. But it’s rather a long trip back home.”

  The clerk growled. He set down his quill and began laboriously rolling up his reference scroll with his one good hand. “Fine. I’ll see if we have anything. But chances are like as not we don’t. Our records on our own troops aren’t even complete, and the records of enemy prisoners even less so.”

  “I only ask that you do what you can,” said Cimozjen. “Shall I roll up this other scroll for you?”

  “No, the ink must dry. But I appreciate the offer.” He finished rolling up the scroll, then, with his one hand, expertly tied it shut with a length of twine. “So. This soldier of yours. When would this soldier have been captured?”

  “Most likely around the tenth of Lharvion, 976,” said Cimozjen, “at the edge of Scions Sound east of Silvercliff Castle.”

  The clerk froze. “The Iron Band?”

  “Yes.”

  The clerk nodded and looked up for the first time. His face was as rough as a weather-beaten chunk of granite. “Relative of yours?”

  Cimozjen cleared his throat, hoping that he wasn’t about to dash any chance he had of cooperation by claiming membership in an elite enemy unit. “Comrade,” he said.

  A flurry of emotions crossed the man’s hard face. He set down the pen and pushed his stool back from his desk. Then he rose slowly to his feet, stood fierce and erect, and saluted.

  Twenty-two years earlier:

  “I don’t understand,” said Kraavel. “How could the regent do this to us?”

  “Easily,” answered Cimozjen, staring at the embers of the campfire. “All it takes is a wave of her hand. Her word is law.”

  “But why would she?” persisted Kraavel, his voice filled with righteous indignation mixed with just enough of a whine that his tone fell short of outright treason.

  “Regent Moranna is not required to explain herself to us,” said Cimozjen. “In fact, for her to do so would imply that she needs our approval, and that runs counter to her divine mandate. Moranna speaks with the authority of King Kaius III until he comes of age, and if she no longer desires the service of the Iron Band, she is not required to have it.”

  The mood in the camp was grim, for the Karrnathi army was in full retreat, the Aundairians hot on their heels. The order had come from on high that the Iron Band, among other units, was to be disbanded, and its members were to report immediately to the High Command at Korth for debriefing and reassignment. With three units suddenly swept from his command, General Kraal had been forced to abort his campaign to take Daskaran and turn back to the east. The Iron Band had retreated through the Silver Wood toward Scions Sound, where a temporary bridge had been erected to span the channel between Karrnath and Aundair. The supporting invasion fleet and their troops had been recalled to Karrlakton. The Aundairians, seeing the threat of invasion suddenly evaporate, had sallied forth against the smaller overland force and harried the Karrnathi army in their flight.

  The Karrns were camped near the cli
ffs at the edge of Scions Sound, near the Aundairian edge of the ruins of the White Arch Bridge. An architectural wonder, the White Arch Bridge had reached across the treacherous waters of the channel until its midsection had been destroyed some years earlier. To support the overland forces of the invasion, the Karrnathi military had erected a rope bridge to span the gap, a swaying lifeline several miles long and just wide enough to pass a laden horse, held secure by enchantments emplaced and sustained by the magewrights at either end. When pitching camp for the night, the general had deployed the Iron Band nearest the span to ensure that he abided by the regent’s edict to return them to Korth. This way, they could cross the bridge first and be sent on to the capital at first light.

  Cimozjen turned away to see his best friend pacing back and forth in the darkness, barely visible in the light of the embers of the campfire. “Speak your mind, Torval,” he said.

  Torval executed a sharp about-face and kept on stomping his path.

  “Torval!”

  The bullish man rounded on Cimozjen. “What do you think is on my mind, Mozji?” he yelled. “This is inexcusable!”

  “Watch your tongue, Torval,” warned Kraavel. “ ’Tis treason to—”

  “To what?” bellowed Torval. “To proclaim my loyalty to my king and country? To swear that I serve Karrnath with every dram of blood in my body? To boast that we are the finest unit in the whole of Khorvaire? To bemoan the cruel gods that the regent throws away the strongest weapon in the young king’s arsenal? What have we done to deserve this?” He raised his arms to the sky. “Nothing!”

  Several people started to talk, but Torval held his hands out to each side, silencing them. He stalked over to Cimozjen. “And do you know what will happen on the morrow, Mozji? We will be marched across the bridge at dawn, sent first like women and children. The Aundairians will attack, and, if you’ve heard the same dispatches I have, with overwhelming numbers. They’ll break the line, they’ll push through to the bridge, and they’ll kill the magewrights and cut the ropes. Everyone on the bridge will die, Mozji, falling to their death without ever facing Aundairian iron, and everyone trapped on this side will be slaughtered like pigs.” His voice reached a crescendo. “And where will we be?” He stabbed the air. “Over there, watching! Them! Die!”

  “Torval—” began Cimozjen.

  “Shut your beerhole!” yelled Torval, his spittle flying in Cimozjen’s face, his hands gesticulating wildly. “You know what I think? I think if the regent wants us to disperse, we do it our way! I say we stand between the Aundairians and the army. You know we could hold them off, all day long and the next, if need be, until the rest of the army is safe! Let us be dispersed on the steel of our foes, dying like men instead of running like rats! And if Moranna wants us sent back to Korth, let our bloodied armbands be returned to the foot of the throne as a testament to the world that no one, not even the voice of Kaius, can sunder the Iron Band!”

  There was utter silence in the camp, the warriors’ hearts caught between the proud bombast of Torval’s words and the rebellion they represented.

  Cimozjen looked at his friend, who quivered with rage. “Torval,” he said, “you speak of defying a royal mandate.” He turned to the surrounding soldiers. “You heard his words, every one of you, did you not?”

  The gathered soldiers murmured and dropped their eyes.

  Cimozjen began to walk around the campfire as he spoke, his words evenly paced and full of gravity as he glared at the other members of the Iron Band. “Let every one of you understand that this, disobeying the command of the king, this is the very definition of high treason, and every single one who follows Torval down this path will be burned at the stake like a criminal upon their return to Karrnath.”

  His small circle led him back to face Torval.

  “Mozji,” said Torval, his voice almost at a whisper. “You are the best of us, but even—”

  Cimozjen turned and raised his voice. “But since I’ll die before I yield even a yard of sod to those muck-eating Aundairians, I do not give a damn what awaits me back home! I say the Iron Band shall make its last stand here, right here and right now, in this forsaken land! Let us give not only our blood and our bones, but even our sacred honor in the cause of our country, and let the rest of the army carry our legend back to the king! I will let no one break my vows and take my courage!”

  He grabbed Torval’s arm and raised it with his own. “Who stands with us?”

  The answering roar carried like thunder.

  Chapter

  FIFTEEN

  Brothers in Arms

  Mol, the 23rd day of Sypheros, 998

  You know of the Iron Band?” asked Minrah.

  “I was there,” said the clerk. “Gods-cursedest most beautiful and horrible thing I ever saw. We tried all day to break you boys. I—” He caught his breath and wiped his eye with the heel of his hand. “They pulled us out for a rest, and then threw us back in again.” He looked down as he twitched the stump of his arm. “At the end I couldn’t hardly even hold my shield up, and you boys, you hadn’t had any rest the whole gods-cursed day. And you—you taunted us!” He wiped his other eye with the back of his wrist and stood without speaking for several long moments. “Before we went in again, I told the men next to me, ‘Boys,’ I said, ‘them there is as real of soldiers as you’ll ever see in this life or the next, and curse us all for bein’ the ones to kill ’em.’ ” He sniffed wetly. “That was my last battle. And I thank the Host that it were a real one, you know, a real fight against real soldiers. Could’ve been a lot worse, you know, like fighting those gods-cursed Eldeen druids and getting shot one day all alone in the woods when you’re just off watering the weeds. I’m thankful I earned my discharge with honor.”

  Cimozjen scowled. “You were fortunate,” he said huskily.

  He reached out to shake Cimozjen’s hand. “Yes, I was. And I’m glad to know that someone made it through, truly I am. You boys did the Great Sword’s own job there. I swear you did. So let’s see what we can find for you. Happy to help, I am. Anything I can do for one of you boys.” He turned and went into one of the back rooms, muttering to himself, “Gods-cursedest thing I ever saw.”

  Four took a step closer to Cimozjen. “I do not understand,” he said. “During the War he was trying to kill you, and now he acts as your friend.”

  Cimozjen chewed his lip. “It’s rather hard to describe, Four, unless you’ve served as a soldier.”

  “I have fought. Many times.”

  “Your style of fighting was different. It was an arranged duel—more of a brawl, really—where you and the other person were trying to kill each other. In war, one tries to defeat the other side, and there is no personal animosity between the actual soldiers. You can respect your foe, even admire him, and still fight to defeat him. That’s a part of what is called chivalry. You fight with honor and courage, but the fight is about the battle, not the other person.”

  “Chivalry?” said Minrah. “I never saw any.”

  “It is true, there were undisciplined troops, levees and the like, and more of them took the field as the War dragged on. I dare say the only way their officers could get them to fight was to make them hate the other side, rather than fighting out of a sense of duty or honor. And that’s where the shameful things started to happen, like massacring villages and killing the wounded. That is purely and simply wrong—it is evil, in fact—but the more it happened, the more it progressed from the levees to the soldiers to the leaders.” He snorted. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s why the kings and queens finally agreed to the peace. They feared that if captured, they’d no longer get the respect that nobles are due.”

  “Your answer does not make me understand any better,” said Four.

  Cimozjen took a deep breath as he considered this. “Your style of fighting, what you did, was to win that fight against that person. You had to kill or be killed. If you won, you lived, and if you lost, you died. War is different. For one side, say those of us i
n Karrnath, for us to win, we had no need to eliminate every other living thing on the continent. Likewise, as soldiers our goal was for our side to win, and not necessarily for us as individuals to survive. Sometimes, by sacrificing his own life, a soldier helps his side to win. And that, Four, is a part of what honor is, to sacrifice one’s selfish needs to serve the needs of others.”

  “Sounds like stupidity to me,” said Minrah. “If you’re dead, how can you help them later?”

  “Sometimes one can accomplish more in one’s death than one could in the rest of one’s life,” said Cimozjen.

  Minrah snorted, but said no more as the one-handed clerk returned to the desk carrying several scrolls tucked under his crippled arm.

  “These should have what you’re looking for,” he said.

  Together he and Cimozjen looked over the parchments, locating the quartermaster’s master list of manifests of the campaign in question. Then the clerk unrolled a second scroll, and they poured over the lists on it. “Here you are,” he said at last, pointing triumphantly. “List of those captured.”

  “We’re looking for Torval Ellinger, of Irontown.”

  “Here he is,” said the clerk, stabbing the parchment. “Ellinger, T., head, F.”

  “Head?” asked Minrah. “F?”

  “Heads wounds, you see a lot of them among prisoners,” said the clerk. “Someone gets himself whacked hard and either knocked out cold or driven too confused to fight, then they get rounded up after the battle is won. The other common wound you see is when they take a debilitating wound that doesn’t cause them to bleed to death. Maybe an arrow in the joint of their shoulder, say, or …” he gestured vaguely with his ruined arm. “The F means he was rated as fit. H means they needed a healer, C means crippled and, well, on down the line.”

  “I’m surprised they even bothered to list them by name,” said Minrah. “I’d have expected something like, ‘Twenty-seven accursed usurpers, slain where they stood.’ ”