The Pen and the Sword (Destiny's Crucible Book 2)

by Olan Thorensen

  Biltin’s face was a deep red, whether from anger, embarrassment, or anything else Erdelin didn’t know or care. Biltin started to yell back at Erdelin when his father said, “Shut up, you idiot!”

  The hetman shifted his position on the bed, wincing from his wound. “You are correct, Colonel. My son ignored yours and my instructions on how this raid was to be carried out. I assure you that had I been able to lead the raid, there would have been no such deviations.”

  Erdelin forced his tone down to a more respectful level to address the hetman. “Hetman Eywell, of that I’ve no doubt. We’ve always worked well together. However, I must tell you that the evident inability of your men to keep discipline during the mission disturbs me, and I assure you that General Akuyun and Assessor Hizer will also take note of this incident. I trust that there will be no repetition of such actions?”

  “I assure you, Colonel Erdelin, I’ll see to it.”

  Erdelin let himself appear somewhat appeased. “See that you do, Hetman. I’ll expect a detailed written report from your son on his decisions and also independent reports from your senior men on the raid. Captain Tunak will be doing the same. I expect the major details to agree, but I also want to see observations on the Morelanders’ responses when surprised and after being alerted by your son. Also details on how the Morelanders performed in the fighting, their weapons, and anything else relevant. I’ll prepare a consolidated report to send on to General Akuyun.”

  Without further formalities, Erdelin spun and started out of the tent. As he raised the flap to leave, he stopped, turned back again, and said casually, “Oh, and since the prisoners and loot were contrary to orders, naturally Eywell can’t keep either. I’ll take possession of them in the name of the Narthon Empire.” Without waiting for a response, he walked out, letting the flap go.

  “Father, I—” started Biltin, only to be cut off.

  “As I said in Erdelin’s presence, you’re a complete idiot! All you had to do was follow orders. We’d finished sacking Allenford when I was hurt. You couldn’t even follow orders for a few more hours?” The hetman’s low growl kept those outside from hearing, but his tone was deadly and finally got through to Biltin that he could be in serious trouble. Brandor Eywell ruled his clan with an iron fist, and it was a brave or exceedingly foolish man who crossed him, son or not.

  “The Narthani are going to take the entire island and absorb it into their empire. The only way our family and clan will survive is to prove useful to them. It’s even possible that if we impress them enough, we could end up in charge of most, or even all, of Caedellium. But they have to believe they can rely on us. What you did on this raid jeopardizes those chances. I don’t want to die knowing our family and clan will disappear. I certainly can’t have an heir who risks the future of the clan by acting stupidly. If it’s not you, remember I have another son and many nephews.”

  The implied threat chilled Biltin to the bone. He knew his father and had no doubt the threat was real.

  Hetman Moreland

  Gynfor Moreland rode at the head of three hundred riders into Anglin. They had passed through the remainders of Lanwith and forged on without stopping to help with the injured or put out fires still burning. The hetman was hoping to catch the raiders before they destroyed Anglin or more of his province. They were late again but found the local countryside had enough warning and time to gather men at Anglin. After several attempts to force the town, the Eywellese had retired back toward the border.

  Hetman Moreland seethed, as he led the Moreland pursuers to the Eywell-Moreland border, the dust of the raiders still hanging in the air. They crossed the border and less than a mile later ran into the first Eywellese sentries, who then retreated and obviously sent word of the Moreland pursuers. When they crested a hill three miles from the Parthmal, they could see what appeared to be many hundreds of Eywellese and as many Narthani riders, along with more on foot, forming up and facing them. Badly outnumbered and no longer on Moreland land, the Morelanders turned back, Gynfor Moreland swearing he would have his revenge on both the Eywellese and the Narthani.

  Anarynd

  Erdelin gave orders to his subordinates, and the Narthani started the twenty-two-mile trip back to his headquarters in Hanslow. The wagons of loot from the raid he had no plans for; his staff would see it was portioned out to their troops in Eywell Province or sent on to Preddi City. For the prisoners, there were different fates. Senior officers would have first choice, then officials in charge of the Narthani troop brothels would choose enough of the women to bring staffing to recommended levels and a few extras. There were always those who never accepted their fates and fought to the death, committed suicide, or just died. The extras would ensure that staffing levels stayed acceptable for many months. By the time more women were needed, there might be supplies from other clan provinces. The rest of the slaves would be sent on to Preddi City to either be distributed where needed and useful within the Preddi civilian occupied areas or be shipped back to Narthon.

  As soon as they arrived in Hanslow, soldiers pulled the captives from the wagons and herded them into a corral. Captain Tunak had underestimated. There were more than two hundred Morelanders from the two sacked towns, villages, and farms, all women and children.

  The sight of the Moreland captives reminded Erdelin that he needed a replacement woman. His latest slave had displeased him once too often with her sullen moods. Moreover, he’d had her for eight months, and she hadn’t gotten pregnant, meaning he wouldn’t have considered taking her with him when he rotated back to Narthon. A sixday previously he’d had her taken, sobbing, by one of his guards to a troop brothel. If she couldn’t serve him adequately, let her see how it was to service fifteen to twenty men a day.

  Erdelin strode quickly among the captives, ignoring children and older women. No one in particular caught his fancy. Two of his officers pulled out women. One of the officers was Captain Tunak. He was young for such a privilege, but he performed well, given the situation he found himself in, and Erdelin wanted Tunak and the other men to recognize his approval of the captain’s performance.

  Halfway around the corral, a woman caught Erdelin’s eye. She was striking. Long blonde hair in disarray and hanging to her waist. He caught a glimpse of blue eyes that otherwise stayed downcast, as appropriate for a Narthani slave. The blonde color was found in the Caedelli, though rarely with the Narthani. Tear tracks streaked her face, but she wasn’t crying or wailing like many of the others. Erdelin took that to indicate a sterner mettle. He pointed her out to the leader of the guards, who looped a noose over her head and handed her off to one of Erdelin’s aides. He didn’t see her again until reaching Hanslow and his villa. There, several staff members came running out. A Narthani soldier took his horse, and Erdelin’s chief house slave led the blonde woman into the house.

  Anarynd couldn’t understand what the Narthani leader said to the middle-aged slave who held the rope around her neck. After an exchange, the slave led her into a room with basins, ewers, and cloths. The leader stood watching her, while the older man hustled away, then returned shortly with two slave women, one older with graying hair and the other younger. Both kept their eyes downcast. The leader gave obvious instructions to the women, and the men left, while the woman undressed Anarynd and cleaned her using warm water, bars of soap, and cloths. When they finished, they wrapped a white cloth around her and pulled her by her arms to a room where the leader sat at a desk, examining papers. The three of them stood in front of his desk while he worked. After a minute, he wrote something on a piece of paper, placed it to one side, and looked up. He spoke to the younger woman, who then translated to Anarynd.

  “You no longer have a name. You’ll be called ‘Slave.’ If you please your new master, he may someday give you a name. He commands me to tell you to do whatever you can to please him. Your previous life and name are gone forever. Your only purpose is to please him, in bed or any other way he wants.”

  The woman’s voice softened.
“Do it, girl. No matter what it is, it’ll be far better than being condemned to the brothels. If you please him enough, he may even keep you when he goes back to Narthon. Forget about home. It’s gone forever. Even if you escaped, would your family and clan take you back? They took me in Preddi three years ago. It hasn’t been the life I wanted, but it is life. If you want to survive and stay sane, do as I say.”

  The woman squeezed Anarynd’s arm, gave her a sympathetic smile, and then spoke to Erdelin. With a curt word, he dismissed the two women. The man rose and walked to her. She trembled when he pulled the cloth from her, then motioned her to the bed at the corner of the room. When she hesitated, he slapped her smartly across one cheek—not enough to knock her down, but enough to sting and obviously merely a warning. She put a hand to her face and walked toward the bed.

  As she passed him, he stroked her buttocks, then followed with his hand on her back. She lay on the bed and tried to steel herself for what was to come. She wasn’t a virgin, but her few experiences were furtive youth’s experiments. Part of her wanted to scream and cry; another part wanted to fight; another wondered whether she should or could take her own life. However, the Word forbade suicide. Could she endure what was to come, as the sympathetic younger woman had advised?

  What would Maera do? She would be strong, Anarynd knew. Maera would do what she had to survive and would look for a chance to escape. She imagined Maera hugging her and asking her to be brave.

  She looked at the face of her new master, smiling with a confidence that conveyed dominance over her. He pulled his robe over his head and stood naked by the bed. His swarthy complexion and body hair gave him an animal-like look.

  Anarynd would spend many years trying to forget that night. It wasn’t just that he hurt her, it was his laughter while doing it. Never saying a word, just grunting and laughing as her face pressed against the hair on his chest. When he finished, he left her on the bed, curled into a ball but not crying, because she swore to herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  Word Reaches Maera

  Maera was annoyed that Ana’s latest letter was two sixdays overdue. Not that she blamed Ana. The delivery of letters wasn’t on a reliable schedule, plus, Ana on occasion forgot or delayed writing for a sixday—and on rarer occasions more than one. Maera knew her own punctual writing reflected her orderliness, which she didn’t expect of others, or so she told herself. Still, Maera so looked forward to the letters. The recent exchanges had increasingly focused on Ana’s possible marriage and plans for Maera to come early to help with the preparations and be with her friend. Fortunately, the wedding would be at the groom’s family’s house, so Brym Moreland couldn’t stop Maera from attending.

  By the third sixday without a letter, Maera alternated between irritation and concern. Her pregnancy only accentuated her worry. Her mother had warned her that mood changes would come and go instantly, especially in the early months. Maera’s concern changed to alarm when a letter from her father mentioned a fast and hard-hitting Eywellese raid into Moreland Province. Especially hard hit were the towns of Allensford and Lanwith. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the locations. Ana’s family lived not far to the east of both towns. Surely, the aftermath of the raid was interrupting letter movement, and Ana was fine . . . wasn’t she?

  That evening Maera explained her worry to Yozef.

  “I’m sure she’s fine. It’s just the raid and letters stopping at the same time that worries me.”

  “Why not write to your father and have him inquire to the Moreland hetman?” suggested Yozef.

  Maera winced. “Gynfor Moreland and Father have never been on good terms. Gynfor hates Father, and Father barely tolerates him at clan meetings. Father has so much to worry about I don’t want to bother him, though he’d contact Gynfor if I asked.”

  “That’s part of his role as a father. Don’t worry. I’m writing a letter to him, so I’ll just add concern about Anarynd and ask him myself. I also have several soap and paper franchises in Moreland. I’ll write Factor Molin Gilmore, my agent in Moreland, and ask him for any information.”

  Maera breathed easier and gave her husband a wan smile. “Thank you, Yozef. I’m sure it’s nothing, though I’ll feel better having it confirmed.”

  As a result, Culich sent a semaphore message to Hetman Moreland, asking, as a favor, if he would confirm the status of his distant relative Anarynd Moreland. No answer came back for more than a sixday and then only a vague statement that he would look into it when he found the time away from all of his other pressing matters.

  A sixday later Yozef received a semaphore message from his factor in Moreland City, the province’s capital. The factor had personally gone to Anarynd’s family. The news the factor summarized in the semaphore message was followed up with a detailed letter two days later. Yozef waited for the letter before talking with Maera.

  After reading the letter, Yozef left the Bank of Abersford, where Cadwulf was giving him a monthly verbal report, and went straight home. He dreaded relaying the news, though he thought it best to let Maera know as soon as possible.

  She was standing on the veranda when he walked up to the house.

  “You’re home early,” she said questioningly. She had been working and resting at home that day.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said grimly.

  Maera’s good mood vanished. He took her arm and guided her indoors. She looked at his face for a hint of what was happening. They sat on a wide sofa-like piece of furniture. He held her hands in his.

  “I’m afraid it’s not good news, Maera. I’ve heard from my factor in Moreland City. He went to Anarynd’s family. Her father and others wouldn’t talk to him, but a younger brother and an aunt confirmed that Anarynd had been in Lanwith when the Eywellese raided it.”

  Maera’s grip on his hands tightened and she paled. “Is she . . . dead?”

  “She’s been missing since the raid. She was in the town with her aunt, a Tilda Purcells-Moreland, sister of her mother. They went to do some shopping, some of which was in preparation for Anarynd’s wedding. Neither of them has been seen since, and their bodies weren’t identified. One survivor believes he saw a young woman who looked like Anarynd being taken prisoner and put into a wagon.”

  Maera said nothing at first, then . . . , “Any possibility the reports are wrong?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely. The factor said Anarynd’s family is convinced she was taken prisoner, and that from what he could find out in Lanwith, it makes it seem likely to be true.”

  Maera again was quiet for several minutes.

  “Maera, I’m so sorry. I know how much Anarynd means to you.”

  She knew he was trying to be kind, but no . . . he didn’t know what Ana meant to her. The only person she had ever truly felt she was just herself was with Anarynd . . . until Yozef came along. A prisoner of the Eywellese or the Narthani? No, not a prisoner. A slave, if all they’d heard was true. And for a young woman who looked like Ana, there was only one use they’d have for her.

  Oh, Merciful God! ARE you merciful? How could you let something like this happen to someone like Ana? To me!

  Maera rose and walked outside. Yozef held out a hand to her. She grasped it with one hand firmly, then patted it gently and pushed it away as she left the house. He took it to mean she wanted to be alone and granted her wish. She sat on the veranda for two hours. Yozef checked on her several times. Finally, she came inside and went straight to their bedroom. He waited a few minutes and then followed. She was in bed, under the covers. He undressed and lay next to her, not touching. After a few minutes, she turned to him, buried her face in his chest, and sobbed . . ., never saying a word. She finally stopped and fell asleep, still tight against him. He held her until he, too, fell asleep.

  When Maera woke the next morning, there was a moment of confusion. She was awake, but there was something wrong. Then the news of the previous evening washed over her again. Tears came to her eyes; however, she didn’t cry. Cryi
ng was over. Anarynd was gone. The thought was a hole in her chest, and there was nothing she could do. “Maera Kolsko-Keelan” was back in charge. She had responsibilities—her husband, the child on the way, duties to the clan and her new community. Life would be good, but it would never be the same.

  Chapter 25: What If?

  Cannon and Ammunition

  Yozef was sensitive to supporting Maera, as she dealt with the news about Anarynd. Neither of them mentioned her name, though he never doubted what was constantly on Maera’s mind, especially when he found her staring off into the distance or clinging to him longer than before when they embraced. As sixdays passed, then a month, Yozef saw her slowly returning to her former self, at least outwardly.

  Anarynd’s fate reinvigorated Yozef’s thinking about the Narthani, something that had seemed less urgent as he became absorbed with Maera, their marriage, the child-to-be, and all of the adjustments that followed. Now the worries for the future came back with a vengeance, prompted by memories of the raid on St. Sidryn’s, the Narthani, his talks with Culich, and the implications of the Moreland raid.

  What if the Narthani attacked Keelan? Every intuition pointed to cataclysmic events to come. If the worst came, what could he do to help protect Maera, the child, himself, and all of the Caedelli? The question and the search for answers felt overwhelming, and when he tried to focus on what was doable, his first thoughts returned to their failure with cannon. After months of effort, the foundry still hadn’t succeeded casting a functional 6-pounder barrel.

  Christ, I wished I’d read more about early weapons technology so I could dredge up out of my new memory how to make a damn cannon barrel.