“What do you want from me now, brother?” Michael said, sliding his sword safely back into its scabbard.
“Just to see my brother safely on the road.”
“To gloat?”
“When have I ever gloated, save when we were children?”
Michael answered with silence and gave Calot a slight squeeze. As he passed by, Johan reached out a gloved hand grabbed the reins.
“I try to warn you, Michael, but you don’t ever listen.”
“Pray tell me, brother, what I should have listened to this time.”
“The quaver in our father’s aging voice. The croak in old Butler’s voice. The subtle, soft breathing of Towler.”
“I should have listened to the old men.”
“You should have listened to their age, Michael. Old men are hard and stubborn, set in their ways and they don’t like to be countermanded. Perhaps if you had held your tongue this morning your stunt would have been reluctantly rewarded. Now you head home, to shame.”
“This isn’t gloating?”
"I'm trying to teach you something, Michael."
“Why? I’m out of the service. I have nothing to give for the kingdom. Or at least, nothing I am permitted to give.”
“You may be free of the military, but you are still a prince of Artalland. Nobody can strip you of that inheritance.”
“The younger prince. I have no inheritance, besides by grace or by… some other event.”
“The future is uncertain. Death is always a closer friend than you realize, even outside of this business of war."
“You’re thinking of Tasolo?”
“Yes. Illness comes to even the strong. Do not forget him.”
“I cannot forget my younger brother”
“Michael, did it occur to you that I could have been slain today?”
Michael thought for a moment. “I suppose I always know that’s a possibility, but you’re too good to be slain. Too valuable for ransom. And you never lead from the front.”
“It is irresponsible to lead from the front. I have a duty to minimize my risk in the pursuit of my manly duties. And you do too, for you know that I could die, and since I am yet childless, you would be king. Or father could have been slain, and then your position in the house all the more relevant.”
Michael said, “I shall be safe in Calasora now, at least.”
Johan chuckled. "Oh no. The battlefield is indeed safer than the capital for you. On the battlefield, you are at least competent. Among the gentry, you are… Politics are dangerous, brother." Johan took a slow breath. "I said old men are hard, but they are also wise. Butler is not a fool. He considered the press down the ravine among possibilities, as he assumes the enemy has the same knowledge of the terrain as himself. That gambit was stacked in our favor. By sending two of our best companies - and indeed they are the best, Michael, for in the ways of war you are far from inept - he could counter a sortie. If none came, they had a clear auxiliary objective. Did you not discern this in the planning meeting?"
“Truthfully, no.”
“You were too busy objecting to the plan to consider its merits,” Johan said. “I’m sorry for being harsh, but that is how it is.”
“He knew Angelico’s companies would be wiped out.”
“It was a possibility, yes.”
“I couldn’t allow that. I won’t sacrifice my men like that.”
“Then it is good you are exiting warfare now. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. You cannot think that the men beneath you are as valuable as yourself.”
“What?” Michael said, suddenly raising his voice. “How could you say that?”
“Because it is true. You are a prince, they are noble sons and mostly commoners. To secure the future of the kingdom, it must remain in the hands of those most competent to guide the kingdom, which is us. To deny your importance is to hand Artalland over to tyrants and fools. You must always do what is necessary to hold power, lest it fall into hands of lesser character.”
“Sending my friends to die doesn’t sound like good character to me.”
“See, there it is. These men are not your friends, Michael! They cannot be your friends, for they can never be your equal. They are soldiers, sworn to do what is necessary to preserve their king and, therefore, their country.”
“So the end justifies the means.”
“If it doesn’t justify the means, what does? You are a grown man, Michael. It is time to put childhood ideals of being righteous behind you, and focus on the outcomes of your actions.”
“The outcomes of my actions won the battle tonight!”
“The battle was won before the first horn call. Before the first arrow flew.”
Michael scoffed. “My actions saved a large part of my legion.”
“At the risk of the entire army, and therefore our family and our country. I need you to think like a king.”
Silently, Michael pulled Johan’s hands away from the reins.
“Wait, Michael.”
“No.”
“You must not leave alone, without a retinue to protect you.”
“I require no protection, brother.”
“Please, I have something I would ask you to do.”
Michael stopped and looked back. Johan pulled a roll of paper from the inside of his cloak and handed it to him. “Please give this to Julia when you see her. And tell her I miss her.”
Michael nodded, stuffed the scroll into a pocket in his coat, and slowly rode out past the makeshift battlements.
“Preserve yourself, brother!” Johan called after him. Michael waved a slow hand in return.
Chapter 3: Strange Company
Michael regretted his choice to leave during the night almost immediately. The wind whipped at his cloak and the rain blew into his face, and the face of Calot, who he began to feel quite sorry for. The quilted jacket he wore did little against the chill that seemed to soak him, and the moon behind the clouds did little to light his way. He relied on the ever-marching tall grass to his right to guide his way on the road.
Worse than that, however, was the solitude, and the time it afforded him to relive every moment of the day, faces of dead and living men alike flowing across his thoughts in the darkness. This began to disturb him after some miles, so he got down to light a lamp, which was difficult in the dripping rain. When at last the wick took he hung the lamp beside his horse on a small lamp-pole, which dispelled some of the darkness, though it did little to make him feel less lonely.
“It is a cruel thing, to leave a man alone with his thoughts after a battle,” he said to Calot. “Maybe that’s why we’re so quick to celebrate being alive.”
Michael began to replay the events of the day over and over in his mind, wondering how he could have prevented what happened to him. He wondered what he should have said, or what he should have done differently. Always, given the size of Ballaco’s force, he came back to the conclusion that the battle would have been lost.
Ballaco, with a full battalion of mixed units, would have come out of the ravine well north of the forward camp, but it would have been higher ground and well-covered. He would have easily routed Michael’s reserves, which were almost entirely infantry and of a similar number. From there the general would have pinched the battlefield, and perhaps even captured the king, though he thought it more likely that his father would have seen the maneuver and surrendered, knowing the day was lost. He was a stubborn man, but no fool.
He had won the battle, but… why did Ballaco send so many men down the ravine? Or, why were there only two companies sent against him? Things didn’t add up. Ballaco had to have known what he was doing.
At last Michael tired of his own thoughts and rested Calot beneath some drooping beeches on a little hill, where the ground was a little drip. He first thought he was too miserable to sleep, but eventually, the fatigue of the battle, and the ache in his side, made him forget the infinite turns of his head, and he nodded off.
A day and a half a
fter leaving the army, Michael had come upon a little village, nestled in a sparse wood with good vineyards and fields all around. There was no inn as such there, but a homely landowner put him up for a night, recognizing him as the prince. The next day he came upon another town, called Gabora Minor, which was busy and full of people, who let him know that if there was a Gabora Major it was long lost in the hearty oak woods of the country upland from the village.
There he rested in a raucous inn called the Mottled Wyrm, which had comfortable beds. It seemed that in Gabora Minor nobody recognized him as a prince of Artalland, for nobody gave him any deference. Being raised a prince and then spending his youth in the military as an officer, this behavior was strange to him. People did not step out of his way when he went on a walk, nor did they make any offer of service without him asking first. The local stable-keeper, in fact, told him to come back later, as he was too busy to fuss over yet another horse. And everywhere, people wanted to haggle, demanding outrageous sums for simple services.
Michael decided to stay there an extra day, finding the strange behavior strangely refreshing. He also enjoyed (as he admitted to the bartender of the Mottled Wyrm, who did not seem to care) that nobody recognized him. He felt for those days detached from the army and the shame of his dressing down by his father. His whole life felt empty too, for before he had always filled it with the life of military officership, and yet the emptiness was likewise refreshing.
He found himself, therefore, doing something he had never before permitted himself to do, which was wasting an afternoon sitting on a mound of turf beneath a tree, reading a book of fiction and folktales. As he turned the dirty pages (the book was borrowed from the innkeeper, a jolly old woman who collected fiction) he found himself feeling strangely happy.
“Oh, that’s a fun one.”
Michael squinted and looked up to see a dark-haired woman standing nearby wearing a simple dress, holding the reigns of a large warhorse.
“Yes,” Michael said, shutting the book for a moment and reading the title of The Lays of the Old Wyrms. “I seldom read fiction. My father always said it was a waste of time and rot for the mind.”
“That one’s not fiction.”
“It’s about dragons and faeries.”
“Which are both real.” Sharona sighed and smiled. “I especially like the stories with the dragon Garamesh. Oh, and don’t gentlemen usually stand for a lady?”
“What?” Michael said. He finally processed what she had sad and stood up hastily, brushing the grass off his trousers. “Yes, the… dragon.” Michael coughed. “Do you require assistance?”
“No. I just hadn’t expected to see you sitting under a tree reading.” She squinted for a moment and looked to the west. “Where was I expecting you?”
Michael stepped forward and suddenly recognized the face. “Sharona, isn’t it?”
“It is I. In the flesh,” she said airily, her face unreadable.
"I didn't recognize you without your armor on. What are you doing here? You should be attached to the mage corps, not be on leave. Not yet, anyway."
“I was sacked.”
“What?”
“I was sacked,” she said loudly.
Michael shook his head. “You lost your commission, you mean?”
“Yes, that’s what they told me. I was losing my commission,” Sharona said. “Now, we were talking about dragons...”
“I recommended you for a commendation,” Michael said, feeling perplexed. “What happened?”
“I don’t know… Someone or other came and told me I was released from duty, handed me a sack of silver, and told me to go home. So that is what I am doing.”
“You seem rather ambivalent about your situation.”
Sharona shrugged. “I think I already did what I was meant to do with the army, but I still need to-”
“Wait,” Michael said, looking at the horse behind her. “What are you doing with that horse?”
“Rabble-rouser? Yes, I did rename him. I’m riding him. Well, not currently, obviously, but within a larger frame of time I am riding him as a means of transport.”
“I mean, you own that destrier?”
“Can you really own a horse?” Sharona said, raising her eyebrows.
“Yes, you can,” Michael said. “What I mean is, did you bring that horse with you when you were admitted to the corps?”
“No, he was given to me.”
Michael shook his head. “No. That horse belongs to the Artalland army. It was assigned to you for your use as a soldier. You stole that horse.”
“Can it really be stealing if you can’t own a horse?”
Michael blinked slowly. “Yes, Sharona.” He sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll smooth it out somehow when I get back to Calasora.”
“Oh, that would be appreciated.”
"Consider it payment for what you did in the battle. All the same, you really ought not let that horse be seen around any cavalry officers. Nobody with the right eye will mistake a destrier for a traveling horse.”
“I don’t expect to see many officers. Now, we were talking about dragons. I have an interesting story that I should tell you. You see-”
"You know," Michael said. "I ought to get going. I have some errands to attend to." He turned to walk away and gritted his teeth as he paused. He took a long breath, feeling a nagging inside him, then said. "Should I gather that you are traveling alone?"
“I am.”
Michael grumbled softly. “Where are you headed? I’ll escort you there. You ought not travel alone on the road.”
“Why? You’re alone.”
"I'm a man and trained soldier. I'm in no danger of passing highwaymen."
“Neither am I. I can crack men’s femur bones, remember?”
“Are you carrying chicken bones?”
“No, but I have other tools.”
“Well, if you want an escort I am at your service, such as it is. Where are you headed?”
She looked away for a long moment and frowned, as if thinking or, as Michael half-thought, listening to an inaudible voice.
“Colasora,” she said.
“Fortuitous,” Michael said flatly. “I shall escort you there.”
*
The sun was hot as they let the horses take their own paces along the dusty road. Sharona wore a piece of cloth over her head loosely to keep the light out of her eyes. For lack of a traveling hat, Michael wore his helm with his visor up, but no padding beneath. He debated in his mind whether it made things better or worse, as the metal began to get quite hot.
“So,” Sharona said. “We never finished our conversation about dragons. There was-”
“What was there to finish? Dragons aren’t real.”
“You really ought to travel more.”
“Well, have you seen one?”
“I have, as a matter of fact. Well, sort of. I was trying to explain… but I’ve definitely seen a few drakes. Those are small dragons, very beast-like. They can’t really talk. Not like the true dragons, like Tathanon, or Iodemus, or Garamesh.”
“And where exactly have you seen a drake?”
“In the Dobo Wold, of course.”
“You’ve been there?”
“I am from there.”
“What the hell are you doing in Artalland?”
“I am riding a horse beside a prince.”
“What prompted you to cross the Divine Spires and come to Artalland, then?”
“I had a dream.”
“We all have dreams.”
Sharona narrowed her eyes contemptuously. “In it, a dragon told me I needed to come here to discover who I am.”
Michael smiled at her. “You don’t know who you are? I thought you were Sharona.”
“Well, I admit I thought I knew who I was. I’m not an orphan, if you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but that’s good, I suppose,” Michael said. He took his helmet off suddenly, feeling awkward. “Orphans are a terrible tragedy.”
>
“What an odd thing to say,” Sharona said, frowning.
“So… What made you want to join the mage corps, once you arrived in Artalland?”
“Well, I lit a lamp with magic, and someone saw me and asked if I was an officer in the mage corps. So I found the Calasora legion and signed up. I thought maybe that was what mages do in your country.”
“The few we can find we try to press into service, it’s true,” Michael said. “I hear the gifts are thinning out as time goes on, though.”
“That’s because this world is slowly dying.”
Michael laughed. “Is that all?”
“Oh no, that’s not all, but that is why magic is seen less in people. The once bright Faylands are beginning to dry up. The eternal dream is giving way to the mundane, not the magical.”
Michael was silent for a moment. “What happens when it dries up?”
“The world dies. Or it will be dead by that time.”
“What happens to us?”
“We’ll be dead by then, I’m sure. It’ll take a long time to dry up totally, I think.”
“I mean, what will happen to people when the world dies.”
“Nothing,” Sharona said, with a shrug. “The world will be dead, not the people. It will be mundane and unchanging.”
“I changes now?”
"Yes, in subtle ways everywhere, in big ways in some places. In the past, the world was constantly being reformed by the twists in the Eternal Dream and the dreamers still in it." Sharona looked over her shoulder at nothing in particular. “I’ve been there, you know. The Fay Lands.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. The people in my village seem to think it made me crazy.”
Michael was about to say, They’re right, but thought better of it. "Let's pause here a moment. There are some people up the way."
“How do you know?”
Michael pointed over the trees. “A bit of smoke. We’re close to Landera, but not too close. Could be a bandit or two.”
Michael reached down and retrieved his crossbow. He set about loading it.
Needle Ash Book 1: Knives of Darkness Page 4