book1

by Fire

  “Gored by one of his bulls, no doubt. He liked farming, too, I seem to remember.”

  “Knifed. Got in a brawl with a local.”

  Prado sucked his teeth. “No way for a soldier to die.”

  “No way for a farmer to die either. You thinking of recruiting his people as well?”

  “As many as I can get.”

  “Sal Solway put her company down near Black Petra’s. That’s another hundred or so. She’ll join up, at any rate. I hear her inn was burned down.”

  “We’ll make the biggest company Theare has ever seen,” Prado said, his eyes gleaming.

  “We? I haven’t said I’d join up, Prado.”

  “You didn’t say, that’s true.”

  “You’ll pay me six times what I make from my farm, and I leave in summer with all the booty I can carry.”

  “Anybody would think you were a mercenary.”

  Freyma laughed, and the two men shook hands.

  Prado set up in the second largest inn in the valley’s largest town. His men wondered why he did not stay in the largest, but Prado would not tell them the largest inn was where he had kidnapped Lynan, slaying the owner of the tavern in the process.

  Once word got around he was recruiting, over eighty of his old company came to see him and sign up, many of them bringing their children to sign up as well. By the end of the first week, he had over two hundred on his roll.

  He sent Freyma to spread the word among any other mercenaries he could find closer to the Chandran capital, Sparro, and by the end of the second week his numbers had swelled to four hundred, many of them veterans, and even including a few locals with no military tradition but eager for adventure and easy money. Freyma had been right about Sal Solway, and Prado now had his second captain. She was a short, solidly built woman of middle years with short black hair. He let Freyma and Sal choose their own lieutenants and sergeants, and within a month of arriving in the Arran Valley had a force of five hundred mercenaries, all mounted, and divided into two companies of roughly equal strength. Freyma wanted to start training right away, but Prado told him to wait until they were on the border with Haxus.

  “I want to get north and find billeting before spring.”

  “They can’t train in winter,” Sal complained.

  “They can and will,” Prado said harshly. “They’ll do whatever they have to do if they want to stay in my company.”

  “How long before we leave the valley?” Freyma asked.

  “Another day or two, then we head for Sparro, picking up any of Sal’s and Black Petra’s old companies that still want to join, then north, recruiting where we can until we get to the border with Hume. I hope to have at least two thousand under me before I start calling on Queen Charion for some of her regiments.”

  Sal was impressed by Prado’s ambition. “Two thousand! We can do a lot with two thousand mercenaries.”

  “We only have to do two things,” Prado reminded her. “Kill Rendle and kill Lynan. If I can avoid using Charion’s regulars, I will.”

  “You said it was Areava who first commissioned Rendle ...” Freyma began.

  “What of it?”

  “... did she employ other companies at the same time? Could we get them to join us?”

  “They’ve already taken Areava’s gold. She wouldn’t look too kindly on us paying them again.”

  “Not whole companies, maybe,” Freyma mused, “but a troop here and there?”

  Prado grinned. “Well, maybe a troop here or there. I’ll leave that to you.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t have at least two others with you now,” Sal said to Prado.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Bazik and Aesor. They were your sergeants once, weren’t they? Stuck closer to you than ticks on a dog.”

  “I was wondering when they’d turn up,” Freyma added.

  “They won’t be here,” Prado said darkly, and something in his tone told Sal and Freyma to leave well enough alone.

  On their last day in the valley, as their company gathered with their mounts along the main street, Prado still kept open a table for any last-minute recruits. He was glad he did. So far, five more locals, each armed with their own bow and arrows, had signed up, and there was a short queue still waiting to be processed. He wanted as many of the Arran Valley archers as he could get his hands on: there were none better in Theare.

  “Have you been in combat before?” Freyma was asking the next in line, a boy barely old enough to shave, but he had weapons and a horse.

  “No, sir.‘’

  “Then your pay is one gold piece a day, and one share of any booty after each battle.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Can you write?”

  “No, sir.”

  Freyma pushed over the page he had been writing on as he asked his questions. “Make your mark here,” he said, handing him the stylus. The boy did so, and Freyma then gave the stylus to Prado to countersign. “Right, report to Lieutenant Owel at the end of the line; she’s the one with a roan mare and a scar shaped like an arrow point on her forehead.”

  The boy nodded, bowed a little to Prado who patted him genially on the back, and made way for the next in line, a man who had seen better years and came with the yellow sash of the grieve’s office and a dress sword that would be good for little except sticking fruit.

  Well, we can’t expect them all to be warriors, Prado thought to himself, then brightened when he saw a small group of riders approaching from north of the town. They were well mounted and well armed. Now these were the kind of recruits he wanted.

  “Name?” Freyma asked the man in the yellow sash.

  “Goodman Ethin.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Clothier by trade.”

  “Any military experience?”

  “None. But I am currently grieve hereabouts.”

  Freyma nodded. “That will do.” He pointed to Goodman Ethin’s sword. “We can’t afford to arm you with anything better. You fight with what you bring.”

  “I’m not here to sign on to Jes Prado’s company,” the man said.

  “Then why in God’s name are you wasting my time?” Freyma spat.

  “To arrest your general.” The man turned to Jes Prado. “Sir, I am placing you under arrest to answer charges of murder and kidnapping.”

  Prado stared at the grieve in astonishment. “What are you on about, man?”

  “I am charging you with the murder of a local innkeeper, Yran, and the kidnapping of a youth, on a night during the summer past.”

  Freyma laughed at the grieve. “You must be joking?”

  Some of the locals in the queue started drifting away.

  Prado’s face went red with anger and surprise. “Do you have any witnesses to either the murder or the kidnapping?”

  “You deny the charges?” the grieve returned.

  “Do you have any evidence at all?” Prado insisted.

  “I have the testimony of patrons that you were among the last customers in the inn on the night of these events. At any rate, I am arresting you until the charges can be proven or cleared.”

  “You can’t do that!” Freyma shouted indignantly. “He’s a general in Queen Areava’s service!”

  Goodman Ethin regarded him coolly. “Even the queen is not above the law.”

  “The youth in question was an outlaw,” Prado said.

  “So you do admit it!” the grieve declared.

  Freyma stared at Prado. “Jes, what are you talking about?”

  “I admit nothing,” Prado said. “I took the youth into custody. He was to be delivered to the queen for trial.”

  “To the queen, you say! And why would she be interested in him?”

  “Because he was Prince Lynan, murderer of King Berayma and traitor to the crown.”

  The grieve’s face went white. “No.”

  “Oh, yes. You might remember his companions?”

  “Of course...”

  “Kumul Alarn, ex-c
onstable of the Royal Guard, Ager Parmer, ex-captain of the Royal Guard, and Jenrosa Alucar, student magicker. All outlaws.”

  “The big one was Kumul Alarn? Kumul of the Red Shields?” The grieve’s eyes were almost popping out of his head. He shook his head. “But what of Yran? Do you deny murdering him?”

  “Killing him? No. Murdering him? Yes. He tried to defend Prince Lynan.”

  The grieve shook his head. “This is incredible.” He regarded Prado carefully. “Nevertheless, the charges still stand. If you are right in what you say, then you will be found innocent and can continue with your business—”

  “I don’t have time for this. I am on an important—a vital!—commission for the queen. Nothing must stop me.”

  “For certain,” the grieve said, his voice starting to quaver, “the law will stop you, sir.”

  Prado could see more of his potential recruits moving away, and then he saw the group of riders he had noticed earlier gathering around. He did not want to lose them as well.

  “Freyma. Take care of this interfering fool.”

  Freyma smiled thinly. “With pleasure.” He stood up and drew his sword. The grieve backed two paces and drew his own slight weapon.

  “Hardly a fair fight,” said one of the new arrivals. All eyes turned to the speaker, a tall, thin man with long, graying hair and eyes as dark as a hawk’s. He was mounted on a black stallion, and was dressed in a short coat of well-made mail dented and scraped from many blows. A long sword in a plain scabbard was strapped to his back.

  “Maybe you would like to lend him your sword?” Freyma suggested sarcastically.

  “No one but myself may ever touch Deadheart.”

  “You give your sword a name?” Freyma sneered, and many of the mercenaries laughed. “And Deadheart at that?”

  “I did not name it,” the stranger said equably. “My father’s father called it Deadheart. I saw no reason to change it.” He rested his hands across the pommel and leaned against them, looking for all the world as if he did not particularly care which way the conversation went.

  “This is none of your affair,” Prado cut in. “This man is interfering in the queen’s business.”

  “And he is King Tomar’s grieve, and since King Tomar is Queen Areava’s subject, he is also on the queen’s business.”

  Prado placed his hands on his hips and said in his most authoritative voice: “I have the queen’s commission. My duty is urgent and cannot be interfered with.”

  “I know,” the stranger said evenly.

  Prado and Freyma exchanged quick glances. “Who, exactly, are you?” Prado demanded.

  “My name is Barys Malayka.”

  Prado’s eyes narrowed. “I know that name.”

  “So you should, Jes Prado. I am King Tomar’s champion. I led the Chandran cavalry against your company at the Battle of Sparro.”

  A low murmuring started among the older mercenaries.

  “Yes, I remember. You caused me grief.”

  “And you and your company caused Chandra great grief during the Slaver War. I tried to reach your banner. I wanted your head to give to King Tomar.”

  Everyone looked at Prado, expecting him to explode in anger, but instead he smiled easily. “That was then. Now we are on the same side.”

  Barys considered the statement. “Regrettably.”

  “Are you here to sign on?” Freyma asked. Prado chuckled.

  Barys shook his head. “I’m here on official duty.”

  “What duty would that be?”

  “King Tomar heard from the queen that you would be recruiting here. He sent me to make sure your methods had changed since the last time you recruited in Chandra.”

  “Why didn’t the king come himself if he was so concerned?” Freyma asked chidingly, earning another chuckle from Prado.

  “I did,” said a new voice, and one of the riders behind Barys moved his horse out from the group.

  Prado’s eyes boggled. There was no mistaking the large, bearded man who emerged from his bodyguard. His hair was grayer than when last Prado had seen King Tomar, but his brown eyes were still the saddest he had ever seen; they seemed filled with the pain of the whole world.

  The locals immediately went to one knee, including the grieve. Goodman Ethin was by now sweating profusely, feeling like a rat caught between two very hungry snakes. He wished he had stayed a clothier.

  The mercenaries remained standing, but except for Prado all averted their eyes from the king’s gaze. Prado bowed his head the merest fraction. The king ignored him and addressed Goodman Ethin.

  “You are carrying out your duty as grieve with commendable bravery,” Tomar said. “Unfortunately, what Jes Prado told you is true. Queen Areava has full knowledge of his actions in this valley last summer, and has given him a special commission which cannot be delayed. All charges against him are dropped.”

  The grieve, not daring to look directly at his king, nodded vigorously. “I understand, your Majesty.”

  “Stand up,” the king instructed, and the grieve did. Tomar drew his own sword out of its saddle scabbard and handed it hilt-first to the grieve. The grieve took it, his hands shaking like autumn leaves on a tree. “As a sign of my trust in this man, and my determination to see that such devotion is rewarded, he will now carry my sword when acting as grieve in the Arran Valley. If he is in any way harmed or interfered with, I will ensure the perpetrators are hunted down and punished.”

  Tomar stared directly at Prado. “Is that understood by all?”

  Prado nodded stiffly. No one else said a word.

  “How long do you intend to stay in Chandra?” Tomar asked him.

  “We leave the valley today. We will pass within a day’s ride of Sparro, then north into Hume.”

  “It should take you no more than four weeks.”

  “Four or five, depending on how the recruiting goes.”

  “Four,” Tomar insisted.

  Prado sighed. “Very well.”

  Tomar turned to Barys. “Stay with the mercenaries until they leave Chandra.”

  “Your Majesty.”

  “I hope we never meet again, Jes Prado,” Tomar said to the mercenary, and turned his horse. His guard followed, except for Barys, who dismounted and stood next to Goodman Ethin.

  Prado grunted once, and ordered Freyma to continue with the recruiting.

  “But there are no more recruits,” Freyma said, and it was true. All the locals who had queued up to sign were gone.

  “Time to leave the valley, I think, General Prado,” Barys said lightly.

  Chapter 9

  Olio was leaning against the wall of a house. The timber was old and frayed and he could feel a splinter digging into his back through his shirt. It made him open his eyes. He tried to swallow, then stand erect. He slumped back against the wall. In his right hand he held an empty leather bottle. He held it upside down and a few drops trickled down his hand.

  “None left?” he said out loud.

  He dimly remembered scrounging the bottle from one of the palace kitchens after his evening meal. If he was going to be a general, he might as well have one last drink. No one saw him take it, and no one stopped him leaving the palace after that. He had walked the streets for what seemed like hours, visiting at least two taverns on the way to resupply.

  Olio looked around. It was dark, and he could not see much of the street he was standing on. Judging by the manner in which the buildings leaned in over the street, he assumed he was in the old quarter of the city. There was no one else around. Ten paces from his feet there was a dead dog, small and pale, its eyes milky, with something inside it rummaging around in what had been its stomach and making the dog’s hide ripple.

  He tried to stand again, but could only manage it if he kept his free hand against the wall. He took a step, then another, and had to stop. The ground seemed to whirl under his feet and he fell down. Again he tried to swallow, but it felt as if his tongue had been glued to the top of his mouth.

 
; He heard footsteps behind him and he turned. A young woman, her head buried in a shawl, was trying to get past without him noticing. She was dragging along a small boy with a snotty nose and bare feet.

  “Mumma—”

  “Don’t look. We have to get home.”

  “He’s sick, mumma.”

  “I’m not sick,” Olio said loudly. “I’m a general. Get me my horse.” Again he tried to stand, but without success. “Better yet, get my carriage.”

  “Mumma?”

  But mumma just walked faster, actually lifting the boy off his feet to get him past the drunk man.

  Olio watched them go, feeling a little affronted. “I’m a prince, too!” he called out after them, but they just kept on going.

  “I should have worn my crown,” Olio told himself. He was right next to the dead dog. A rat’s head poked out of a hole in the dog’s belly, sniffed the air, disappeared again.

  Even though he was now sitting, the ground still seemed to spin. He put his hands out to steady himself, but they never seemed to connect with anything. He collapsed sideways and lay crookedly, his hand finally letting go of the leather bottle. A moment later two hooded men stood over him. One bent down and gently shook his shoulder.

  “He is ill,” said the one still standing.

  “He’s pissed,” said the one bending over Olio. He could feel rich cloth under his hand. “A nobleman, perhaps.” He grabbed Olio’s jaw and turned the man’s face so that he could see it. “It can’t be.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It can’t be.”

  He stood up. “Get Father Powl. I will stay here with him.”

  “Father Powl?”

  “Quickly! As fast as your legs will carry you!”

  Primate Giros Northam was woken by a lay brother.

  “Your Grace, I have an urgent message for you from Father Powl.”

  Northam shook his head of the last dregs of sleep and sat up. The lay brother handed him a wooden cup filled with warmed wine. He swallowed it thirstily, the loose flesh around his neck wobbling like a turkey’s wattle.

  “He brings the message?”

  “Another lay brother left it with Father Tere, who is on vigil tonight.”