by Fire
But Prado did not notice. He did not see the struggling riders pass in front of him, even those that offered greetings, and he did not see the mule fall sideways, pinning one of its handlers underneath. He was thinking about Rendle, and wondering what the bastard was doing right now tucked away in his Haxus refuge. His lips were curved in a kind of smile as he thought how surprised Rendle would be when he saw Prado and his mercenaries riding down on his own pitiful company. It was a thought that kept Prado warm even on the coldest nights.
Prado would have been disappointed to learn that Rendle had not paid him a single thought in months, not since the night Prado had escaped his clutches. He had been far too busy with his own plans, and they had nothing to do with revenge.
“Well, my mercenary friend, what do you think?”
Rendle looked up from the map he was cradling in his lap. The man in front of him looked old before his time and overtired, but Rendle noticed the way the man held himself and the look of ruthlessness in his eye and was not fooled. “Your Majesty?”
King Salokan of the kingdom of Haxus—thin, ascetic, and proud—looked vaguely irritated. “What do you think?” He swept his arm out to encompass the military camp that lay before them.
Rendle grunted. “Good. There are four thousand, as you promised?”
“Of course, all mounted.”
“And I have their command?”
Salokan pursed his lips. “Well...”
“That was one of the conditions.”
“I know! I know!” the king snapped, his irritation with the steely little man before him genuine now. “But these are proud men, Captain Rendle. They are not used to serving under a ... under a ...”
“Soldier for hire,” Rendle finished for him, his voice unsympathetic.
Salokan shrugged. “There you have it! It was hard to convince my officers—”
“Who is the brigade commander?” Rendle interrupted.
“What?”
“Who is their brigade commander? I assume he voiced the greatest opposition to my taking over his troopers.”
“General Thewor. A loyal soldier. Many, many years of service—”
“Did he fight in the Slaver War?”
Salokan frowned in thought. “Yes, yes I think so.”
“Then he probably served under one of your mercenary commanders back then. Maybe even me.”
“Possibly.”
“Then, your Majesty, I suggest you remind him of that,” he said in a tone that let Salokan know he was not prepared to suffer Thewor gladly. “If he served under me once, he may have the honor of serving under me a second time.”
“I don’t know that Thewor will accept the logic.”
Rendle breathed heavily and threw the map away. The king jumped a little, and his personal guard stared threateningly, but Rendle sized up the former and ignored the latter. Salokan was a butcher. He had a cunning mind, an acute sense of survival, and—surprisingly to the mercenary— huge reserves of patriotism; the last was something Rendle could never understand.
Salokan had never forgiven Grenda Lear for defeating his father in the Slaver War all those years ago and was determined somehow, someway, to pay them back for that humiliation. Rendle knew he was one of Salokan’s keys for that revenge.
“I will not lead a force that is not completely behind me into enemy territory.”
“You will do what you are ordered to do,” Salokan said coldly.
“No, your Majesty. If you want Lynan, only I can get him.”
“I will kill you,” the king said, his tone suddenly mild. “One of your under-officers will lead your company into the Oceans of Grass under the command of my general.”
“If you really believed that, your Majesty, you would have killed me months ago.”
Salokan tried to feign offense, but could only snigger instead. “We read each other too well. That’s dangerous.”
“For whom?”
“For you, of course. I’m king.”
Salokan said the words without arrogance, and Rendle knew it was true.
“I’ll be gone in a few short weeks. You won’t have to worry about me then.”
“But you’ll be back. At least, I hope you’ll be back, with Prince Lynan as your prisoner. That is what all this is about, after all.”
Rendle shook his head. “No, your Majesty. This is all about your invasion of Grenda Lear. You will invade whether or not you have Lynan. The kingdom is confused and in more turmoil than it has seen for over a quarter century. Lynan’s presence in your army gives the invasion greater legitimacy, but that is only a political thing. You win or lose on your army.”
“And a portion of that is riding with you into the Oceans of Grass; which brings us back to our original point of contention.”
“Indeed. You want my mission to be a success. I can’t have some civilized dignitary in charge of it. I know the Oceans of Grass, I know the Chetts. Your General Thewor wouldn’t know which way was up once he was on the plains, and wouldn’t recognize a Chett if one came up and bit off his prick.”
“I won’t argue the point.”
“But you will argue with your general?”
“I suppose I must.” Salokan looked away. It was a small defeat, and stung his pride mostly, but he resented it more than he should have; he knew that, and kept his temper. His army was strong and ready but lacked experienced commanders; he could not do without Rendle. Not yet, at least. After he had beaten Grenda Lear and won back Hume—and who knows? maybe even conquered Chandra?—Rendle could be dealt with. Or promoted. Salokan had found that a good way to bind men to him, and some women. As long as they weren’t promoted too far; no point in giving them ideas above their station, and certainly not above Salokan’s station.
The king stood to leave. Rendle copied him. “Would you like to come with me to visit the general?”
Rendle smiled tightly. “Oh, I’m sure you can handle it.” Salokan nodded. “Undoubtedly. Still, I thought you would have liked to see Thewor’s face when I tell him the news.”
Rendle shook his head. “I bear him no spite.” Yet, Salokan thought. “As you say. We will meet again tomorrow.”
Rendle wanted to ask why, but thought he had pushed his luck with the king enough for one day. “I look forward to it.”
“There is the border post,” Prado said, pointing to the thin red pole by the side of the road. “We are marching into Hume. Another three weeks and we will be on the border, and the company can rest until the thaw starts.”
Freyma and Sal nodded, less cheered by the fact that they had reached Hume at last than they were depressed by the thought of another three weeks of marching in these conditions. The last two days had seen heavy snowfalls, and the temperature had been low enough to keep the snow on the ground. With over two thousand men and horses tramping over it, the road was still slush, but the margins were more stable. Still, the cold at night was terrible, and it was hard getting the company moving again in the morning.
After this, campaigning will be easy for them, Freyma thought, but at the moment it gave him little consolation.
He looked up into the sky and grimaced at the darkening clouds. It would snow tonight. If it fell after the tents were put up, it would keep them a little warmer, but not by much. Speaking of which, they would have to make camp soon. Winter days were so short, and a good portion of each day was spent getting the company in order for the march.
He looked down the trail, saw that another hour would see the last of the mercenaries pass out of Chandra. Prado would probably call the camp then. His gaze stopped suddenly on the tall thin man sitting on a black stallion on the side of the road not one hundred paces from the border post.
Barys Malayka. I’ll be glad to see the last of that bastard. He’s been following us too close for my comfort, he and his sword. Freyma smiled to himself then. His sword Deadheart. I’d like to give him a dead heart.
For his part, Malayka was as happy to see Prado and his mercenaries l
eave Chandra. He could ride back to Sparro now and let King Tomar know the plague had left his lands. He was disappointed to see so many of Arran’s archers following Prado, but guessed most were out for adventure and were too young to remember what Prado and his ilk had done to the countryside during the Slaver War; then again, the Arran Valley had been virtually untouched. Prado and other mercenary captains had settled there after the war and brought it some prosperity. Thanks to Ushama’s amnesty, King Tomar could not go after them as he had wished.
But maybe now that war was coming again, an opportunity would present itself. Malayka liked the thought of that. He still wanted to give Tomar the head of Prado; the king would put it on a pike and stick the pike in the middle of a midden. Or maybe preserve it and keep it as a warning to all other mercenaries.
He waited until the last of the company had passed over the border, then turned his horse back to the road and started the long journey back to the Chandran capital. It would be several days’ ride thanks to Prado’s buffoons mucking up the way, and in the spring Tomar would have to pay to have it pounded and flattened again. Worth it, though, to remove any trace of Prado.
Malayka glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing in the growing dark. The company had disappeared as if it had never been, and in that moment felt in his bones that none who marched with Prado would ever return to Chandra alive. He repressed a shudder. Times were grim enough without entertaining flimsy premonitions, and why should he care anyway? Good riddance. Good riddance to all of them.
Chapter 13
The camps around the High Sooq almost seemed deserted. Some of the fires had old men and women and the youngest children around them, but everyone else was training or forging or herding. Lynan hunched down to the ground and cleared away the snow with his hands. Underneath, the grass was brittle and yellow, the ground hard with frozen water. According to Gudon, once the earth became cold, winter was at its peak. From now on it would get warmer.
He stood up and shrugged off his new poncho—a long, fur-lined garment given him by Korigan—because it was starting to make him sweat. He hardly felt the cold at all anymore, something he put down to that part of him that was Chett rather than to his new nature. He had been so busy since reaching the High Sooq he had not had much time to consider the changes wrought in him by Silona’s blood, and was relieved for it. Silona was not someone he wanted to consider in any way or form.
The air was filled with the smell of burning cow dung, an unexpectedly sweet aroma. In the middle distance cattle clumped together for warmth. He could hear, but not see, the training: the clash of wooden swords, the trot, canter, and gallop of the cavalry, the barked orders.
Lynan recognized Kumul’s voice and kept down the anger and jealousy that rose in him like bile. He hated himself for feeling this way. He had no claim on Jenrosa, had even stopped thinking about her in that way, but the thought of Kumul together with her made him feel spurned. He thought he could have handled it had it been Ager or Gudon or Korigan ... in fact, anyone who hadn’t been so important in Lynan’s life as Kumul.
What did she see in the old fool, anyway?
He cursed himself loudly. Kumul deserved better from him. In fact, Kumul had always deserved better from him.
He closed his mind to it, delved deeper to try and make sense of everything that was happening. There were some days when he wished everything would just get on, that winter would finish, that he could ride east and force the issue with Areava and have it decided one way or the other. Then there were other days when he wanted nothing more than to slow everything to a crawl so he had time to understand fully what was happening, especially now that he was making decisions not just for himself but for thousands—tens of thousands!—of other people. He could not even conceive what it must have been like for his mother, who had ruled over millions. Was it something she became inured to?
Lynan could see as far as the end of winter. He would have an army then. But what to do with it? East into Hume? He nodded to himself. He had to secure the Algonka Pass, the only easy way for an army to cross from Grenda Lear’s eastern provinces into the Oceans of Grass. South was desert, occupied by the wilder and even more warlike Southern Chetts, a people about whom he knew nothing, and about whom even the Northern Chetts knew little. If an army trying that route did not die from thirst, they would be butchered in its sleep. That left the north. The plains were protected from Haxus by a spur of the Ufero mountain range that divided the Chetts from the east, and was pierced by a few narrow and dangerous passes that no army could successfully navigate; at least, that’s what Gudon assured him. Assuming that to be true, the Algonka Pass was the key to everything.
And once the pass was in his hands? What next? He shook his head in frustration. He did not know. It would be hard to make a decision about that without more intelligence on what Areava was doing. And there was only one way he could be sure to get that intelligence.
It took him twenty minutes to walk to Ager’s training area, filled with a hundred warriors practicing hard with wooden short swords. Many of them were just beginning and insisted on using the weapon in great slashing arcs; they were paying for it with bruised ribs as their more experienced opponents jabbed at their chests and bellies. Ager was with a small group of Chetts that included Gudon. He was surprised to see that the right hand of a number of the training Chetts were dyed a bright red. Ager was holding the wrists of one of the warriors so her movements had to copy his own as he fenced with Gudon.
“You see that?” Ager told the warrior. “Keep your movements short, concise. Never move just for something to do. Don’t lose your balance on the attack. The only time you lengthen your pace is when you thrust!” With the last word he lunged forward suddenly, his whole body angling over his right knee, his right arm extended; the warrior almost toppled over, but managed to stay on her feet, her body stretched to its limits. Gudon backed up, barely deflecting the blow. Ager stood and freed the warrior. “You see? You don’t lunge as far as you might with a long sword, but you can still get the reach of someone flashing a saber around.”
She limped away, smiling gratefully. She looked up and saw Lynan, bowed deeply, then hurried on.
“What was that about?” Lynan asked Ager.
“Fencing lesson—”
“Not that. The bowing.”
Ager glanced at Gudon, who seemed pleased with himself. “You are a prince of the realm,” Ager said offhandedly.
“I was one of those yesterday, too, and no one bowed to me like that then.”
“Ah, but yesterday no one belonged to the Red Hands,” Gudon said.
“The red what?”
“Like the Red Shields,” Ager explained. “Except with them it’s their hands. Shields would have been difficult since the Chetts don’t use them as a rule.”
“Red Shields? Red Hands? What are you getting at, Ager?”
“Your bodyguard, your Majesty,” Gudon said.
“My bodyguard?” Lynan was astounded. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I need an army.”
“You’ll get both,” Ager told him. “The Red Hands are sworn to protect you, no matter what comes. They will die for you. You should be proud.”
Lynan closed his eyes. I don’t want anyone else to die for me. He sighed. Then throw away the army, he told himself. Leave the Chetts; flee the continent altogether.
He knew he would do none of those things.
He opened his eyes and nodded wearily. “How long have you two been planning this?”
“Since three nights ago,” Ager said cheerily.
“Why?”
Ager and Gudon exchanged one of those glances again.
“Something happened three nights ago, didn’t it?” Lynan asked.
“Yes, your Majesty, but not directly against you.”
“Ah, I see. It was directed against you, or Gudon.”
“Truth, little master,” Gudon said, “perhaps both of us at the same time, or maybe against you through us. We do
n’t know.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes,” Ager said bluntly.
“When do my bodyguards start... well... bodyguarding.”
Gudon looked over his shoulder and nodded to someone. Lynan heard two sets of footsteps behind him. He turned and saw two large Chetts, one female, one male, each with bright red right hands. They bowed deeply to him, then waited. Their faces were impassive. He saw from the designs on their ponchos that the man belonged to the White Wolf clan, and the woman to the Owl clan.
“They start now, your Majesty.”
“And who is their captain?”
Gudon bowed low this time. “If the little master will accept me.”
Lynan felt a surge of affection for his two friends, and pride. “But their captain cannot stay with them.”
Gudon looked at him questioningly.
“I have a mission for you.” He turned to Ager. “Go back to your training, old crookback. I need to discuss matters with my new captain of the royal bodyguard.”
“The Red Hands, your Majesty,” Ager corrected him.
Lynan smiled slightly. “Indeed. My Red Hands.”
Ager finished the training soon after Lynan and Gudon left; he had more training scheduled for the afternoon and needed to rest. A group of four Chetts were waiting for him behind his tent. He recognized the symbol of the Ocean clan on their ponchos. Three of them were middle-aged, the fourth a young woman. All were armed.
Wonderful. Where’s Gudon when I need him?
He looked around for other support, but there was no one else in sight. He glanced down at his wooden sword; his own saber was in his tent. With his crooked back he could never run away from them. He breathed deeply and walked straight up to them.
“I’m tired,” he told them gruffly. “Get out of my way, please.”
The young woman stepped forward; a long scar ran down her cheek. “This won’t take long, Ager Crookback.”