by Tony Daniel
No. Not a true fight. A duel. Blood and bones!
Of all things, his kid brother had gotten himself into a stupid duel.
What was his fool of a brother thinking? Alvis had been acting strangely for the past year. He’d wanted to talk to Alvis about it, but suddenly he was deployed to Raukenrose with Prince Gunnar. He’d stayed hidden for months in the university library’s catacombs, a weapon to be used at the perfect moment.
All the boring time there he had worried about Alvis.
Harrald, Rask’s birth name, and Alvis Torsson were soldiers, and good ones. They were professionals in a land of amateurs. They were part of the elite Sandhaven palace guard, the Nesties. When he and his brother had become Twenty commanders, they’d taken on new names, warrior names. Nesties had done this since the distant past.
Alvis called himself Steel. Harrald had chosen Rask, the Sandhaven word for swiftness.
Now Lance Captain Steel had sent Captain Rask a message asking him to be his second.
In a cursed duel.
Alvis—Steel—was going to fight over something that could have been handled a dozen better ways, all without risking his life.
The story Steel had peddled was that Steel and his lance commander had argued about the division of loot during the sack of the town. Steel wanted more than the traditional third for his men. The lance commander refused and called him a son of a slut for asking.
That was when Steel had challenged the man to a duel. For insulting their mother. It was as if they were city boys again fighting in back alleys.
Steel knew that Rask absolutely hated duels. Even though dueling between Sandhavener officers went on in the shadows, even among the Nesties, Rask believed duels were a waste of time. Rask knew because he’d been in two duels. In one, he was a principal. In the other, he was a second. Both times he had killed a man he would rather not have killed. He hated spilling the blood of his brothers in arms, and hated more the idiotic feuds that flamed up to cause it.
How could Steel let himself get sucked in over such a petty matter?
Division of loot? A trivial insult?
It was like fighting over the biggest piece of goose at Yuletide. On the Chesapeake, there were thousands of geese to go around at Yule. Millions of them returned every year to the bay. Every man could have a whole goose. Why argue over who got the biggest leg?
There were plenty of riches in Raukenrose.
Why fight over some meaningless percentage when you could loot the entire town?
Rask reached the edge of the river cane. There was supposed to be a trail here that led to a secluded clearing by the water. This had become the place for duels. Rask had heard about it even where he served in the castle. He was the commander of the garrison, the leader of the mysterious all-black being’s personal Hundred.
Rask’s Hundred was the elite of the elite. That was why it had been his Hundred that had been smuggled into the township months before the invasion. They had erupted and taken the town militia from behind, like a dagger stabbed into the back of an enemy.
The river clearing was used mainly because it was easy to chuck the body of the loser in and let it float away. Practical. But he was going to see if he could stop this duel before it got started. Rask had gotten more prestige than he’d ever imagined possible. His Hundred had killed Lord Otto von Dunstig. And his Hundred had taken and held Raukenrose castle.
He was sure he could browbeat Steel’s commander into backing down. If he could do that, then he knew he would be able to talk some sense into his brother. Rask rehearsed in his mind what he would say to them both.
But when he broke into the clearing, Captain Steel was nowhere in sight. Instead, there were twelve gigantic men with the heads of buffalo staring down at him—and Rask was a very tall man. Twelve buffalo men and one regular human. The man seemed very young. But he looked as stoic and determined as the buffalo men.
“Cold hell,” Rask said, reaching for his sword.
He never got a chance to use it.
“All right, pull,” said the young man.
It was then that the net sprang under his feet. It wrapped him in rope netting and catapulted Rask up into a nearby willow tree. His hands were pinned tight and his sword remained in its scabbard.
Rask began to scream for help, even though he knew he was too far away from the pickets to be heard.
“Dunk him,” said the young man.
One of the buffalo men walked over and swung him and the net away from the tree trunk. Another unhitched the rope and let Rask drop into the water.
They kept him down a long time. When they brought him up, he was too busy coughing out water to make a sound or call for help again. He was still coughing when they took him out of the net, laid him on the ground, and bound his wrists so tightly he couldn’t feel them. They mercifully waited until he’d got his breath back before stuffing a cloth into his mouth so deeply that there was no way he could spit it out.
“Time to go,” the young man said. He kicked Rask in the stomach. Rask doubled over. A buffalo men picked Rask up and slung him over his shoulder. The buffalo man’s hairy head smelled like the creature had washed it in rancid milk.
Rask concentrated and forced himself not to gag. If he did, he might very well suffocate in his own vomit.
A few paces down the river was a beached canoe. The buffalo man dumped Rask into it. Then he and another took seats in the aft, with the young man in the fore. They pushed off and paddled upriver.
Rask had no idea why he was still alive. He also did not know that his brother had tricked him into this, which he had. He would never have suspected that Captain Steel, Alvis Torsson, had deserted and been picked up by the cursed talking animals of this cursed valley.
“Be still,” the young man said to him. “We’re doing you a good turn, even though you probably will never know it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven:
The Nettles
His wrists ached. They’d marched him very fast after the capture with his hands tied behind his back. The spear butts of the buffalo men prodded him forward, and when it wasn’t that it was the bear-man claws digging into his shoulder blades, turning him to the right or left. He cried out, but that didn’t stop them.
He knew they were bear people and not bears, but what did that mean? They still had claws and big teeth. Now he was not only surrounded by Tier, he was in their power. They’d marched him without letup, and when he’d given out, they’d picked him up like a sack of grain and carried him.
Now here he was and something had just happened to him, something terrible, but he couldn’t remember what.
He had strange memories of eating bloody flesh. Of a cut made across his own arm and his blood draining. That was the most terrifying thing of all. Had they killed him? Was he a ghost? Where was Helheim?
You are not a ghost, man from the east.
The voice came from everywhere around him. It was a female voice, but deeper, somehow more velvety than any he’d ever heard.
That’s the voice I imagine a spider having, he thought. A black widow spider.
Ravenelle stood in a dark, flat landscape. It wasn’t perfectly level but was more like the floor of one of the great deserts she’d heard existed in the west of the world. There were no stars. What light there was came from the horizon. It looked like early dawn, but Ravenelle knew that in this place there would be no sunrise. Yet the light was enough to see by.
The captain lay several paces away.
He was pulling himself up from the ground. He struggled to a knee. His hands were not tied here, but he rubbed one of his wrists where the rope had cut into it in the real world. Then he saw her. He quickly reached back down to the ground nearby and picked up a large rock. He weighed it in his hand, tossed it away, and picked up another rock, slightly bigger.
He charged at her. He held the rock high, ready to bash her head in when he reached her.
He was the type that fear made brave.
Should have guessed it, Ravenelle thought. A captain, a man of war. He’d have learned to turn his fear into something useful.
Ravenelle looked quickly about.
Stinging nettles, Ravenelle thought, and these were duskies, the nastiest kind of all. She had been to this dream desert. This was where new bloodservants were brought to be punished.
She reached for a handful of leaves and was rewarded with a burning pain in her right palm. She bit her lip and managed not to shriek with the agony she felt.
Then she felt something smack into the small of her back. Hurt shot through her from the blow, more intense and sudden than the nettles’ stinging resin.
She turned and saw that the man was only a few steps away. He’d thrown the rock at her and hit her with it, hard. He had another stone in his hand.
Should have expected him to figure out what to do here to survive, Ravenelle thought.
Then he attacked her. Before he could bash her with the other rock, she turned and thrust the stinging nettles into his face.
He dropped the rock and screamed in pain, as she’d known he would. He clawed at his face for a moment, then fell to the desert floor, holding his face and weeping.
She sat down beside him in the patch of duskies.
All right, she thought to the other bloodservant who had been hiding nearby. You can come out now.
I have something to tell you.
Shut up.
Your brother is here.
You lie. He raised the stone, stepped closer.
But I’m not lying. Tell him.
Harrald?
His brother had not been present before. He was sure of it. But there he was standing less than a ten-pace away. Alvis walked toward Rask, stepping through the nettles. But he wore heavy boots here, and the nettles didn’t seem to affect him.
Alvis? What are you…this is a trick.
It’s me, Harrald. I left the Legion. The talking animals found me. I was dying from the ater. They brought me to her.
Rask looked at his attacker, the smallish woman who had conquered him with leaves.
She was a Roman, obviously. Ebony-brown skin. A cascade of curly black hair. She seemed so frail. Clearly that was not the case.
She saved me.
This doesn’t make any sense.
Harrald, listen to her. She can save you from that thing. It’s burning out your mind like it was burning out mine. She gave me back myself.
Rask sat up. His eyes were watering, and his face felt like he’d been attacked by an entire beehive. But the pain was starting to go away.
He had no idea where he was. If this wasn’t Helheim or a land of ghosts, what was it? Then he saw the stone he’d dropped. He reached over and picked it up. The nettle trick wouldn’t work again. If the dark woman tried to hurt him again, he would bash her. But for the moment he had to figure out where he was—and how to get away. So he would keep his brother, or whoever this was, talking.
So what? I’d just be a slave to her instead of it. No thanks.
It’s not like that. She’s not like that.
What is she like?
Good.
But you’re still her slave.
It’s not like that. She’s…I’m part of something. It’s better than before. I was dying.
The small, dark woman spoke. I’ll take care of him. Always. I promise. But first you have to do what we want.
We?
Me.
How can I know you’ll keep your promise?
You know the draugar.
Yes.
Do you enjoy hurting children?
No.
Then what do you have to lose?
He sat for a while, considering. Alvis started to say something, but Rask motioned him to silence. Finally, Rask dropped the stone.
All right. What do you want me to do?
For the first time, the dark woman smiled. And she was not so frightening to look at anymore, despite her wild hair. She was actually quite pretty.
First, answer all my questions, said the woman. Then we’ll send you back.
No! The thing. He will know what’s happened. He’ll strip it out of my mind.
She held out a handful of the nettles.
No, she said. After we’ve finished, you’ll eat these and forget.
Ravenelle shook her head. She was back in the clearing near the army camp. The Sandhaven captain lay unconscious on the grass beside her. “Better take him to the wise woman to tend to his wrists,” Ravenelle said to the bear-man guards. She smiled wickedly. “Then get him back to Raukenrose. Tonight if possible.”
After that, she sent for Wulf and Keiler. Alvis Torsson, her new bloodservant, brought her a cup of tea. He’d also found a buffalo skin, and she sat on this and waited.
She had learned a great deal. Some was useful. Some was terrible news.
Otto was dead.
Wulf arrived first. He put a hand on her shoulder. When she looked up, he must have seen the red tears glistening in her eyes.
“What is it?” Wulf asked.
She shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Wulf, I’m so sorry.”
Then the blood tears flowed.
Chapter Thirty-Eight:
The Plan
Nine days, Wulf thought. It had been only nine days. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d left Raukenrose on the hunting trip with his father. Nine days ago he’d wanted no part in ruling the mark. He’d wished the dragon-trance would go away forever. He’d wanted to leave it all to Otto and Adelbert, to Ulla and Anya, and go to the university. Go to the ranger border patrol. Or work in a library. Get out of the castle for a long, long time.
Well, he was out of the castle, all right.
He was the rallying point for the mark’s army. He no longer felt like running from the responsibility. He didn’t feel lost anymore, or unable to figure out what was required of him.
He had a place. He knew where he belonged. It wasn’t about ruling or status. It wasn’t about whether or not you felt up to the job.
It was what it was. He had Keiler, who had forgotten more about war than most warriors had learned.
He had troops. More coming in almost every hour.
He was part of the plan, and the plan partly belonged to him, and partly to a thousand others.
Wulf was all right with that.
Now finally they were making definite plans to go back.
In force.
Taking Raukenrose township should be impossible without a large army. Raukenrose was a town surrounded by a wall. Sieges took huge resources and many, many troops.
Everyone at the war council meeting knew this, and it hung over them like a dismal cloud during their planning.
They had met in Earl Keiler’s private chambers. There were several chairs, but most of those present, including Wulf, were pacing back and forth or leaned over a central table with a map of Raukenrose and its surrounding area laid out on top.
A fire burned in a large fireplace and the centaur Ahorn was warming himself there. Across the room and as far away from the fire as possible was the Lindenfolk leader, Lady Meinir Fruling.
In addition to Wulf and Earl Keiler, there was Count Davos Bara, the wolf-man leader, Tupakkalaatu of the buffalo people, Bamber Esserholz, who was a beaver-people leader—as well as, Wulf had been told, a legendary riverboat trader—and the raccoon-man head of Keiler’s intelligence, Roland Washbear.
Baron Smallwolf, the fox man, had declined to attend but had sent a representative fox whose name was Aldrich.
Washbear laid out the facts while some smoked pipes and others sipped mugs of Keiler’s mead.
According to Washbear, the biggest advantage they had was that the Sandhaveners had not moved into the town proper yet. Most of the troops were camped outside the northern, southern, and eastern gates, with some also clumped along the eastern bank of the Shenandoah River, which lay on the townships’ western side. Inside the town, it seemed that some
kind of furious search was going on, and there were only a few hundred troops allowed in at a time.
Otherwise, why the Sandhaveners were keeping the bulk of their troops outside the walls was not known.
“But we believe it’s because they are looking for the Dragon Hammer,” said Earl Keiler. “They need the place clear for search parties. They need to roust the populace little by little, not all at once. To comb through the place.”
“How do they know it’s even there?” asked Wulf.
“We believe the draugar you fought might be drawn to it, though we aren’t sure if that is possible.”
“Nobody really understands the draug,” Wulf said. “Not even the lore masters.”
“Or they hope to find someone who knows where the thing is and torture it out of them,” said Count Bara, the leader of the wolf men. He blew out a stream of cloud smoke for emphasis.
“In any case, we must take advantage of the situation,” Keiler continued. “We need to attack at a weak point.”
“The only weak point I can see is one of the gates,” Wulf said. “And the Sandhaveners will have reinforced themselves there.”
“Yes, but although there are a lot of them, Raukenrose is a fairly big place. They can’t be everywhere.”
“So we need to find the least guarded gate,” Wulf said.
“That is exactly what we’ve been doing,” Washbear replied. “We’ve used the otherfolk, particularly the trees. They have an extensive network, rapid communication, and are excellent spies.”
“What do they say?” Wulf asked.
“That the Sandhaveners least fear an attack from the east. They assume we are gathering somewhere to the south or perhaps Bear Valley. They do not have a spy network, and we have been deliberately misleading what cavalry reconnaissance they send out.”
“What about Kohlsted, though?” Wulf asked. “It’s the second biggest town in the mark after Raukenrose.”