by Vox Day
Legio XVII had finally existed the massive, and to Marcus’s mind, misnamed, Elvenwood the previous afternoon. The lines for the march castra were still being laid out when a Savondese detachment arrived consisting of four knights and six mounted men-at-arms bearing an imperious invitation, which amounted to a summons, from the Red Prince. Thus it was that Marcus Gaius Trebonius, Arvandus, and the Second of the Second’s centurion, Cyriacus, were being escorted by an honor guard in the direction of the Savondese army. Vitalis accompanied them as well, to prevent any language-related misunderstandings. In their absence, Proculus and Cassabus had been left in command of the legion. The Savondese knights rode well on their slow, but powerful steeds thanks to the device they called a stirrup, and the burnished plate armor they wore was a considerable improvement over the black steel breastplates worn by the Amorrans as well, but otherwise, their footrests and steel armor were the only martial elements of note that Marcus had observed thus far.
The senior knight, Sieur Damase de Bruissac, had told them nothing about the battle they’d discovered, about the orcs, or the arrival of the legion’s supply train. His round face was bland and his incurious eyes were seemingly innocent as he professed complete ignorance of anything but the prince’s orders to bring the Amorran general and the Viscomte de Lechaire to his pavilion. Judging by the pristine state of his armor, the tightness of the leather thong attaching his sword hilt to its scabbard, and his tendency to prattle on about complete inconsequentialities, Marcus was inclined to believe him.
“So I was telling Sieur Pons, he was the son of the baron at the time, before his father was given the west county by the King hisself, I was telling him that what we needed wasn’t more footmen, what we needed was more wine! Ha! Oh, he laughed, he did! He was allus one for a good jest, Sieur Pons. What do you think o’ that?”
Marcus smiled, a little tightly, and nodded. Other than the king, and what may have been an oblique reference to one of the members of the king’s high council, he had never heard of any of the people that Sieur Damase was describing in such enthusiastic detail.
Fortunately, it was not long before they came within site of the prince’s pavilion. He had elected to receive them in front of it, as there was an impromptu court setting arranged outside on the grass, complete with a gilded throne upon which a young man was sitting, flanked by men on either side, engaged in conversation with one of the blue-cloaked men to his left. A considerable audience had gathered, petitioners, it appeared, considering the unexpectedly large number of unkempt women and dirty-faced children in the mob of three or four hundred being kept at bay by armed men.
The families would be those unfortunates who had lost their homes and villages in the orc raids, he surmised, who were now desperately seeking support, if not redress, from the crown. But the crowd didn’t consist only of refugees, as towards the front, he could see fatter, more prosperous men, presumably merchants or perhaps influential townsmen who had petitions of their own to present to the prince.
To the right and left of the throne, and slightly behind it, Marcus was surprised to see a pair of heads displayed on spears. Both belonged to orcs, although the one on the left was nearly twice the size of the other. It was an unexpectedly savage demonstration, and for the first time since they’d arrived in Savondir, Marcus felt a momentary flicker of concern.
Sieur Damase pulled up his horse and raised a hand. “Stop here, monseigneurs.” His voice was firmer, more commanding now, and when Marcus, surprised, looked at him, he saw the bland mask was gone, replaced by a harder, more calculating expression. “You will address the prince as Your Royal Highness. You may keep your swords, but please understand that there will be archers with arrows nocked and aimed at you.”
“This is how you treat an ally?” Marcus spat angrily, but in a low voice so as not to permit the curious onlookers, most of whom were now staring at the Amorrans, to hear.
“Prince’s orders,” Sieur Damase replied, unapologetic. “Take no offense, monseigneurs. He has learned to take precautions since the death of his brother. This is how he treats everyone.”
The Amorrans looked at each other, but it was clear that they had little choice in the matter. Given the excessively wary nature of the welcome, Marcus wasn’t even certain that they would be permitted to ride away safely should they decline to see the prince now. Well, better an arrow in the chest than one in the back, he decided.
Nodding to the others, he dismounted. He threw the heavy red officer’s cloak he was wearing behind his shoulders and decided to leave his helmet tied to the saddle. Even without the reported archers, there would be no escaping the Savondese if their prince had treachery in mind.
Nevertheless, he quickly surveyed the audience as well as the men with whom the prince had surrounded himself. There were about forty guards, men-at-arms wearing leather or chain mail, but they appeared to be there mostly to keep the large crowd of refugees, merchants and other supplicants seeking the prince’s attention at bay. Ten formed a semicircle on either side of an alley that the other twenty had created that was just wide enough for ten men; the men-at-arms were shoving back those who tried to enter it.
At Sieur Damase’s gesture, the Amorrans began to walk down the gauntlet towards the throne, with Marcus leading the way. He winced as he saw one woman holding a young child by the hand foolishly try to push past a guard again after being denied; the big bearded man barely glanced at her before knocking her to her knees with a back-handed slap across her face.
As they drew closer, Marcus saw that four of the men flanking the heir to the throne of Savondir were knights, apparently of some rank, and three of the four were bruised or scratched about the face. They’d seen recent combat, then, they might have even been responsible for slaying some of those orcs his men had found in the forest. A fifth man, shorter than the others, was dressed simply in a black tunic and leggings. Three of the four blue-cloaks struck him as being remarkably young, nearly as young as the prince himself.
But the tallest of the four, and the one to whom the prince had been speaking, looked familiar. Marcus stifled a curse as he recognized Theuderic, royal battlemage, elf-friend, and abomination before God. Theuderic’s eyes glittered with amusement at Marcus’s reaction, but otherwise the arrogant battlemage gave no outward sign of recognition.
Sieur Damase cleared his throat and startled Marcus by fairly shouting in his ear. “Your Highness, I present to you the Viscomte Trebonius de Lechaire, the Légat Valerius d’Amorr, and various officers of the legion. Viscomte, Légat, you stand before His Royal Highness Étienne-Henri de Mirid, Crown Prince of Savondir and the Seven Seats, Duc de Chênevin and Red Prince of the Sacré Royaume.”
Unimpressed by the recitation of titles, Marcus had the feeling he was expected to bow, but instead he smartly nodded his head, once. As his companions followed his example, he saw the prince’s lip twitch in a sneer that might have been amusement, or scorn, or perhaps a combination of the two. But the young man didn’t seem prone to take offense, as he languidly lifted two fingers of his left hand to acknowledge their presence before him.
His Royal Highness Étienne-Henri was not a tall man. Marcus guessed the prince would barely come to his nose if he stood up. The prince was also slim and small-boned, but despite his stature he had a certain presence to him would have made Marcus feel wary even without the hidden archers. He was a good-looking youth, although his clean-shaven face was chiefly distinguishable for a prominent nose and small, deep-set eyes of an uncertain color. His fingers were long and slender, and although he sprawled carelessly on the throne, leaning upon one elbow, Marcus had the impression that he was more striking a public pose than demonstrating true aristocratic decadence.
He did not wear a sword, or even a dagger, and his uncalloused hands looked more accustomed to holding a harp or flute than a weapon. And yet, his expression was confident and calmly predatory; Marcus had the impression that this was not a man who did his own killing, but did not hesitate to
order others to do it for him. Others such as Theuderic de Merovech.
“It is good to finally meet our brave allies at last,” the prince said. He was a tenor, but his voice was not unpleasant and he spoke with an air of confidence. “Monseigneur le viscomte, I am neither unaware nor unappreciative of the assistance you provided the realm in defeating these noxious foes.”
“Assistance?” Marcus asked, astonished. Theuderic closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “That is to say, your Royal Highness.”
“Forgive me, monseigneur, but I fear I do not know how one is to address one of your rank. General? Sieur? I am given to understand you may be a knight of sorts.”
Marcus recovered himself and smiled. “I am no equestrian, your Royal Highness. Legatus will suffice.” He saw Theuderic lean over and whisper in the prince’s ear.
“Légat? Nothing more? Is that not a humble title for a man with so many swords at his disposal.”
“It is not humble in the least, your Royal Highness. Five hundred senators jointly rule Amorr, whereas there are fewer than 30 legati in all the Empire.”
“And only one without.”
“Only one. As you say.”
“They say there are no kings in Amorr.” The prince stared at him speculatively.
“Oh, kings we have in plenty.” Marcus smiled coldly. “Some are brought there and exhibited in the arena before they are beheaded. Others come of their own free will, to beg for men and gold. There are kings in Amorr. But they do not rule. Your Royal Highness.”
The prince, he was not at all surprised to see, frowned at that. He clearly did not like Marcus’s refusal to play vassal, but his voice remained calm. “I am told my father offered you a title, and yet you rejected it. Why?”
“I do not expect my men and I to remain here long. God willing, we will return in the spring. My duty is to the legion and to Amorr. I dare not accept the responsibilities that come with such an honor.”
“Seeing as how the greater part of the nobles of this realm appear to consider the occasional rebellion against the crown to be one of their responsibilities, I suspect the Haut Conseil would prefer if most of them would imitate your future absence.”
Marcus smiled at the prince’s dour expression. “I fear I know little about how things stand here in Savondir, but if they are as unsettled as they are presently in the Empire, I have no doubt you are correct, your Royal Highness. That being said, it seems to me that the orcs are our most pressing concern.”
“Oh, I rather doubt they will return soon, not after the licking we gave them.” The prince met his eyes, as if daring Marcus to contradict him. “As I was telling Count Trebonius, we very much appreciate the assistance provided by you and your men. I should like to reward you, Légat, but if you will not accept lands and title, I understand there is something else I may give you.”
He gestured towards the crowd behind the Amorrans.
“I have been informed that you had an amount of trouble with certain parties failing to follow through on various contracts. Is that true?”
Marcus raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t surprised that the prince knew about their logistical situation, only that the matter interested him enough to mention it.
“I believe that is the case, your Royal Highness.”
“It is to be lamented, but I fear this is an all-too-common occurrence here in the north.” The prince laughed, a little bitterly, and for the first time, Marcus felt as if the young man was expressing his true feelings. “Allow me a surmise, you paid up front?”
“Only half.”
“I am glad to know you’re not a complete fool, Légat. I rather expect they were hoping you’d be wiped out by the orcs, so they could then sell the goods to me. I imagine they must have found your survival a disappointment of sorts. How would you have dealt with such faithless providers in your empire?”
“Failing to fulfill a legionary contract is a capital offense, your Royal Highness. Those who fail to deliver are hanged, while those who think to cheat us are excruciated. So perhaps you will understand that I am unaccustomed to anticipating such behavior on the part of our suppliers.”
“I’m astonished you have anyone willing to supply you at all.”
“I am given to understand that it’s only necessary to hang a few of them to convince the rest of the importance of living up to their obligations.”
“A sound enough principle, I suppose. As it happens, we have a few of the responsible parties here.” The prince lifted his hand. “Don’t be shy, do come forward, my dear men. Monseigneurs, if you don’t mind?”
The crowd gasped. Marcus glanced to see what had drawn their attention, and did a double-take. He turned around, feeling his eyes widen with disbelief at the sight of the rosy coronas that had mysteriously appeared around the heads of five men towards the front of the audience. No, the appearance of the halos was no mystery, he corrected himself. It was magic.
He whirled around and glared accusingly at Theuderic, but the normally supercilious mage maintained an even expression as he shook his head slightly. So. If the prince knew about their procurement problems, there was no chance he wasn’t well-informed about the Amorran’s view towards the corrupting evil of sorcery. And that suggested he was knowingly flaunting it before them, although Marcus couldn’t see what he hoped to gain from it.
The five men came forward at the prince’s command. Three of them were babbling, almost incoherently, as they alternately pleaded their innocence and begged for mercy. One man, a fat, bearded man in a white, freshly laundered tunic stood there as impassively as a pig waiting patiently for the butcher, while the smaller man next to him also said nothing, but shook in fearful silence.
“Enough,” snapped the prince. “Silence their lying tongues!”
A mage gestured. Almost as one, the five merchants jerked and clutched at their throats, eyes bulging and mouths gaping open as an invisible noose seemed to pull itself tight around their necks.
“Hanging, the Strangler, it all amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”
“General!” Trebonius hissed. Marcus could feel his heart beat faster. The prince was looking at the merchants, a cold, contemptuous smile on his face, but then he turned his gaze to the Amorrans and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s rather easier this way, wouldn’t you say?”
The wordless choking sounds the dying men were making was horrifying. There was something foul in it that went far beyond the mere use of sorcery; Marcus had witnessed both executions and deaths in battle, but this struck him as open murder. And worse, murder in the false cloak of justice.
“Spare them, your Royal Highness,” he said, even as one man dropped to his knees. “They are not Amorran citizens, and as such they cannot be held accountable to imperial law.”
The prince’s dark eyes sparkled triumphantly. Marcus had the impression that he had just been tested, and failed.
“And, more importantly, they have neither been confessed by a priest nor shriven,” he added.
The unseemly sparkle abruptly vanished, replaced by momentary chagrin. “Of course, Légat. You do well to remind me.”
The prince raised his hand, his palm open, and all five merchants gasped loudly for air. Three of them were on the ground now, and one, already doubled-over, fell to one knee.
“Forgive us, Highness!” one of the men on the ground managed to cry out, his chest still heaving.
“It is not for me to forgive,” the prince said. “You have not sinned against me. Perhaps our Amorran friends, whom you have wronged, would be able to tell us how you wretched thieves might best express the extent of your repentance?”
“Delivery,” Trebonius responded immediately. “With a twenty percent reduction in the outstanding amount owed.” Marcus approved. Vengeance bought neither grain nor wine, and with no access to House Valerius’s treasury or credit, the legion would have to husband every king-stamped coin until it returned to the Empire.
“Is that all? Very
well.” Étienne-Henri addressed the five merchants, but his eyes were on Marcus. “Is this penance acceptable to you?”
As the merchants practically fell over each other in their haste to assure the prince that it was indeed acceptable, and more than acceptable to them, Marcus nodded. And he was not surprised when the prince raised his hand and rose easily to his feet; he did not know what the young royal intended, but he was certain that a reduced price transaction would not content a man so casual about ordering five men strangled right in front of him.
“Monseigneurs, monsieurs, honored allies, and my good people of the East March, I know there are many here who have suffered. It is neither meet nor just that dishonest men such as these should grow fat by cheating the brave men-at-arms who defend those who have lost homes and fields and loved ones. Here is my sentence: in return for sparing their lives, the Amorrans shall pay only half their outstanding debt upon delivery, and of the amount saved, they shall pay half to the good Count Marsazan, who shall distribute it equally among the common petitioners here.”
There was a moment’s astonished silence, and then a cheer went up from the crowd. The prince acknowledged it with a graceful bow, then said something unintelligible to one of the knights, who laughed out loud. One knight, presumably the count referenced, looked dismayed; in a single gesture, his liege lord had adroitly saddled him with the burden of hearing the petitioners. He was the only one who showed no signs of recent combat, and Marcus had a suspicion this was not a coincidence.
“Should we offer up the amount we’re saving too?” Trebonius had no need to whisper with all the excited shouting behind them.