Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1)

by Michael Jason Brandt

  But Kevik was already shaking his head. “They’ll expel me, Jak. From the academy.”

  “You killed him!” the high-pitched voice shouted accusingly, reminding Jak of the other witness. There were too many things to process at once, and his mind reeled in confusion.

  Standing as straight and tall as possible, Jak walked swiftly toward the injured boy, who had regained his feet but still clutched the damaged knee. Jak attempted to look and sound as menacing as possible as he glared down into Hinch’s pained face. “Nay. I did. Do you hear me? I did it, and I’ll come for you next if you tell anyone otherwise.”

  Hinch looked terrified, but nodded. Good enough. “Now get lost,” Jak ordered. The boy turned and limped away as fast as he could, leaving everything behind.

  Jak turned back to the scene. To his surprise, he saw Kevik picking things up. Already with the burlap wrap in one hand, he began collecting all the discarded weapons. He carried them over to the body, dropped the large cloth beside, and placed the swords on it. Then he drew the killing blade from Gallo’s chest and added it to the pile. As he began to wrap the bundle back up, Jak moved toward him.

  “We should leave everything the way it was,” he said.

  Kevik, crouching as he worked, shook his head. “We’re getting rid of it.”

  “It’s okay, Kevik. We don’t need to. We’ll tell them—”

  “I heard you. And I forbid you from doing it.” He paused a moment before continuing. “These two weren’t from around here. No one will know about this for a while. Maybe never. You put the fear of Todos into that kid. He might never say anything.”

  “Kevik, the village needs to know, the body needs to burn—”

  “Why? Do you really think it matters if the shrine doesn’t get to burn every single body?”

  “Whatever village they’re from needs to know. His family—”

  “Family? What has family ever done for you or me?” Kevik spat and glared up. The strength of his conviction rendered Jak speechless. Kevik went back to tying the bundle. “My mind is made up, and you’re obligated to serve. Got that?”

  He stood and shoved the bundle into Jak’s arms. Then he bent down, picked up the dead body, and slung it over his shoulder. The blacksmith’s son was not small, but Kevik the Killer was unaffected by the burden.

  “Now, we’re going to dump all this into Broker’s Pond, and we’re not going to say a word to anyone. Even Calla. Do you follow me, Jak?”

  In all his years of servitude, there had been a great many orders that the housethrall had not liked carrying out, but had done so anyway. This one was easily the worst.

  Chapter Seven

  Cormona

  ALTHOUGH THERE was much about the circumstances to trouble his anxious mind, Prince Nico had to credit the Asturians for their hospitality. The guest quarters were magnificent, he was treated by servants with a respect accorded to the highest dignitaries, and the meals delivered to his dining chamber thrice per day were suitable for the king’s own table, even if Nico were never invited to sup there. The food was a colorful profusion of unfamiliar dishes, where even the few he recognized had subtle variations in flavor that turned each meal into a culinary adventure.

  At first Nico had been reluctant to try some of the more exotic fare, but once acquiring the curious impulse to sample the oddities there was no looking back. Never having spent time away from Akenberg, he had never before realized how truly bland was the food of his home province.

  He only wished for more in the way of company with whom to enjoy the experience. Sometimes Renard joined him from the smaller adjoining suite, but the older man spent most of his time with the soldiers in the barracks. Nico could not blame his retainer, for Nico joined them himself as much as duty allowed.

  Most of his days were spent learning what he could of the castle and its inhabitants. The place was spectacular in design and decoration, particularly considering the drab isolation of the surrounding region. It seemed as though some thief had stolen all the color from the environment to concentrate it in this single structure. Vast tapestries hung from the abundant windows, vibrant oil paintings covered the walls, and nearly every surface was gilt in silver or gold.

  Accentuating the theme of opulence, pretty young girls were seen everywhere. Some were courtiers, but many were servants, their attire so fine it was difficult to distinguish between the two. He wished some of these would accompany him for his solitary meals, but everyone was far too busy—or apprehensive—to share more than a few words at a time with him. A persistent mood of nervous foreboding hung in the air, never allowing anyone to forget the imminent threat of war that loomed so ominously.

  Curious how Cormona would fare in this conflict, Nico spent no small amount of time inspecting the defenses of both castle and city. The former were truly impressive—soaring towers and sweeping battlements adorned with curiously cherubic gargoyles, a design fulfilling both form and function. On the other hand, the latter consisted of little more than a low, wide stone wall around the city’s crowded neighborhoods, interspersed with an austere tower or two per elongated side.

  In Nico’s mind, the people had good reason to worry about the threat of Duke Iago’s approaching legion. As did King Anton, whose face was drawn with worry on those few occasions when Nico caught glimpses of him. If their roles were reversed, Nico would worry, too.

  It felt strange being in the midst of, but not fully within, the bustle and gloom. This was now the eleventh day since news of Iago’s first victory had reached the king’s ears, and Nico knew from studying the maps that an army marching at a reasonable speed would reach the capital soon. Anton had chosen not to march toward the enemy and meet in the middle, but rather to take the time to mobilize what forces he could from the local population. This last tenday was spent integrating these with the professional soldiers that garrisoned Cormona on a regular basis.

  From what he observed watching them practice rudimentary maneuvers on the rocky plain outside the walls, Nico estimated that they numbered little more than a thousand. Depending on which rumor one put more faith in, Iago’s forces had anywhere from two to ten times as many.

  The only good news—for Nico naturally found himself pulling for Anton—was in the disparity of quality. Although much of the defending force comprised relatively untrained levies, a substantial number were those capable veterans that formed the backbone of any good army. Iago’s troops, however, undoubtedly consisted of the mob-like amateurs that rallied around every poorly conceived cause. For sure, he would also have some well-equipped and disciplined units, but not so many as the king. It was the test of strength and resilience between the two armies that would determine the outcome of the impending clash—and whether Nico returned home escorting a princess or empty-handed.

  From watching the maneuvers day after day, he could already see improvement in the coordinated movements of the hastily integrated forces. Nico had learned from Captain Bayard the importance of getting groups—whether squads, companies, or entire regiments—to move as one. No matter the skill of individual soldiers, once fighting devolved into every man and woman for themselves, all hope of order and discipline fell by the wayside. Panic and chaos quickly ensued. The approaching battle would largely depend on which side could postpone that calamity the longest, making every hour of training vitally important.

  It was a meaningful lesson for a young, aspiring commander.

  Most afternoons, Nico would spend a few minutes with his company to reassure himself that all was well. Today, however, he was tempted to skip the trip in favor of some additional reconnoitering, wanting instead to spend more time learning all he could of Cormona’s upgraded defenses. The time and effort might be edifying, for one never knew when such knowledge might turn out to be useful.

  He had already discerned that Cormona was vulnerable to siege. Considering the dearth of fresh water in the area—desiccant Qiver aside—the city relied on a constant stream of porters to and from a cluster o
f nearby springs. Cut those off and the city would quickly succumb to thirst and illness. Even if Iago were aware of the weakness, however, he would be unlikely to pursue that strategy. Rebellions rarely had patience. The duke would seek a faster, bloodier resolution.

  In the end, Nico cut his inspections short to visit the barracks anyway. He knew there was very little that Captain Bayard could not handle on his own, but the prince and commander wanted to remain an important part of their routine. Besides, he was hoping to spend a little more time with the twins, Mip and Pim, of whom he was growing increasingly fond. Perhaps he could even talk some of the crew into another game of cards. The remembrance of the last, with a desire to make a stronger showing for himself, remained fresh in his mind.

  “There was an altercation in the sparring chamber this morn,” Captain Bayard reported. The unemotional way he habitually spoke made judging the severity of the problem difficult.

  Nico knew that some of his troopers had taken to frequenting the chamber—partly to keep their skills sharp, but mainly to relieve boredom. He waited quietly as the captain explained how the argument had developed.

  “We’ve used the chamber before and never had a problem, but in recent days there have been far more people practicing than usual. Space became crowded, and our folks were chased away. They chose to report it to me rather than risk a fight…though I know it galled them to do so.”

  Nico nodded, the picture becoming clear. “How many of us?”

  “Three. Corporal Keldon and Privates Manus and Lima.”

  “Be sure to commend them for their discretion.” Nico hesitated. “You and I should have seen this coming.”

  Bayard’s eyes widened. “Oh?” This was the first time Nico had ever seen the man defensive.

  “Yes. The Cormonans are tense. Their livelihoods are in turmoil. You can feel it in the air. We should expect that tempers will flare up.”

  A slow nod. “There is some truth to what you say. But we should be cautious about letting them look down on us. It sets a bad precedent.”

  “I agree. Let’s do something about it, shall we?”

  The sparring chamber was indeed crowded, far more so than its counterpart in Neublusten. The approach of Iago’s army had suddenly made everyone quite interested in learning how to defend themselves. Not that everyone present was practicing—there were a number of those pretty girls so ubiquitous in the castle, although whether serving or merely watching was unclear. Probably a little of each.

  Traditionally, the sparring chamber formed a focal point of every castle, and Cormona’s was no exception. The large room measured sixty paces to each wall, high-ceilinged and well-lit from a number of large overhead windows. This was one part of the castle without decoration, with bare stone walls except for a single banner with Asturia’s golden olive tree crest on red background.

  Along with Renard, Nico brought the same three troopers who had been expelled earlier, although he had not told them exactly what he had in mind to address the situation. He was not entirely certain just how much weight his personage carried. Hopefully, any domestic officials present would respect his lineage as Prince of Akenberg, while any military officers would respect his rank as commander—but that was far from certain.

  Which was why Renard carried the small sack slung over his shoulder.

  Whether this undertaking was successful or not, Nico preferred that any future objections be directed toward him. This, at last, was a role he could perform for the Threeshields. It was his duty to his men and women to stand up for them in a dispute, and his responsibility to the Asturians to make sure the Akenberg presence did not add to their anxieties. Those were already severe enough without the added complication of strife inside the castle from those who should be friends.

  Scanning the crowd for faces he might know yielded the expected lack of results, for although being treated courteously, Nico had not managed to meet many Asturians of status. Now regretting that shortfall, he had no idea whom to approach in order to resolve the issue. He would have to wait for them to come to him.

  He motioned toward a corner of the chamber where no one was currently sparring. The fivesome staked their claim, and Corporal Keldon withdrew a pair of practice swords and bucklers from the bundle he carried. He handed one of each to Manus and Lima, who waited for a nod from Nico to begin practicing.

  Nico felt that he could watch them with an expert eye, considering the years of critical examination Renard had drilled into him. Manus was unspectacularly competent, showing no glaring weaknesses—exactly what Nico would have expected from a veteran of his years. Lima, on the other hand, was younger and much rawer in talent. She was faster than the man she currently faced, but her movements were more imprecise. In a few years, she would be the better of the two. But today, Manus had the upper hand.

  From the corner of his eye, Nico watched an officious-looking man approach the group. Nico moved to intercept him, hoping for recognition but ready to announce himself, if necessary.

  It was not. “Your pardons, Prince,” the official started. “This chamber is for Cormonans only. I thought we made this clear earlier.” His eyes darted a glance at Corporal Keldon.

  “So I heard.” Nico suppressed any resentment from his tone. He wished to be diplomatic, but firm. “I request that you make an exception, however.”

  The official’s mouth opened and closed, wordless. It was a start, Nico decided.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name, Prince? Ignus. But I don’t see why—”

  “A pleasure, Ignus. King Anton must appreciate having servants who attend their duties so faithfully. At the same time, he will also appreciate those who understand when to use judgment over strict regulation.” Nico said all this casually, pretending that instructing servants was second nature to him. He took his eyes off Ignus and watched the continuing clash between Manus and Lima. Seeing the older man score a solid hit on her leg, he smiled. “Nicely done, Manus! Lima, I dare say you will have him in time, but the old soldier still has a few nicks left on that blade.” The tone was lighter than he had ever used with them before, and the two soldiers exchanged curious glances.

  Still Ignus persisted with his objections. “Prince, I am sorry, but I must insist.”

  Nico respected the man’s courage. It could not be easy for him to confront nobility like this, even that from another kingdom. Still, Nico wondered whether the man would have remained so insistent if it had been heir Marko present rather than a mere second prince.

  “Very well, Ignus. I will seek an exception from King Anton personally. I will be sure to compliment him on the rigid exactness of his servants.” Ignus looked terrified at the prospect, but he did not take the hint to change his mind. Nico turned to Renard. “You have my things?”

  Even as a hushed silence fell over the once-noisy chamber, Ignus found his voice again. “Thank you for your understanding, Prince. If you do speak to the king…” He stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes finally registering the cloak that Nico had wrapped about his shoulders, along with its fastening headpin. The servant’s eyes grew wide.

  “Forgive me, Thane. I had no idea,” he said at last.

  Nico was calling attention to himself, which made him uncomfortable. But this was what he had come for, and duty compelled him to take advantage where he could. “Ignus, have you changed your mind?”

  “Aye,” the man said, accidentally slipping from the polished speech of courtiers to the vulgar diction of the masses. Then he caught himself. “That is to say, yes, My Prince. We would be honored if you trained amongst us.”

  “Thank you, Ignus. I’m pleased we were able to reach an accommodation. Your discretion is a credit to the castle.” Nico turned to Manus. “Well now, soldier, are you ready for a second challenge?”

  Manus grinned, an incongruous sight combined with that hideous scar. “Aye, Commander. I believe I might have another nick on this blade for you, too.”

  Nico grinned back in approval. The
bluster took some of the stuffiness from the atmosphere. “We shall see about that.”

  Not wanting to embarrass the trooper, Nico allowed Manus to press a few ineffective attacks before ending the contest with a sudden counterattack that the private had neither the quickness nor expertise to defend. “Devil’s breath!” the older man cursed as his sword hit the stone floor.

  “Nice fight,” Nico said instinctively. Manus only chuckled as he shook his stinging hand.

  During the few minutes of sparring, Nico had only tangentially been aware of the crowd watching. Now that the practice fight was over, he became more cognizant of the stares. As he looked around, most eyes hurriedly looked away. A few pairs stared back, however, and so Nico found himself looking into the vaguely familiar face of the tall boy from the arrival ceremony—the young man that Nico presumed was Anton’s son, Prince Tobias.

  The boy had practice sword and shield in his hands and a reverential expression on his face. Nico sensed the chance to accrue a little royal favor, even if only with one of the children. He strode toward the boy and adopted what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Prince Tobias, I believe?”

  The lad’s eyes widened, but he did not respond. For a moment, Nico wondered whether his presumption had been a mistake. Then the mouth opened and a stuttering noise came out. The younger prince was still beginning to form his first word when an older, wispy-whiskered man intervened. “Prince Tobias, we should be going now.” The boy’s trainer, no doubt, just as Renard had served for Nico. The man looked directly—and somewhat apologetically—into Nico’s eyes. “Your pardons, Swordthane.” He gave a minuscule bow and led the boy from the room.

  Nico watched them leave, disappointed by the lost opportunity.

  “Don’t mind him,” a pleasant voice said. He turned to face one of the girls he had noticed on the way in. He wondered whether she was one of the prince’s servants. Dressed more casually than the ones who attended to Nico’s suite, a strong sign that her rank was a step below those.