Terms of Surrender (The Revanche Cycle Book 3)

by Craig Schaefer

  And the spur for his son’s ambitions, Baum thought as he took his chair. I’d love to chain it to him and shove them both off a damn cliff. At this point, it might be the only thing that saves us from ruin.

  “It’s absurd,” Minister Zellweger snapped, his jowls shaking. “A female pope? King Jernigan’s a madman.”

  Wruck, minister of the diplomatic corps, gestured at him with a rolled-up sheaf of parchment. “Don’t discount him. This ploy is aimed squarely at our doorstep. If Livia Serafini’s claim is legitimate, and Pope Carlo falls, that makes Itresca the home of the ‘true’ Church.”

  “So?” shot the advisor on his right. “We can just prop up Carlo’s replacement, whoever it is.”

  “What matters is who the peasants believe,” Wruck replied. “Jernigan’s angling for an extortion game. He can make whatever demands he likes, and if we don’t comply, Livia will declare us all heretics. Do you want an uprising? The masses fear more for their souls than their lives. That’s how we’ve kept them in line this long.”

  Baum took a deep breath. No more stalling. He rested his palms on the table.

  “Everyone not on the emperor’s council, clear the room. Now.”

  A handful of pages and servants scurried out the door, shutting it behind them. All eyes turned to Baum, expectant.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “we are officially losing on two fronts. The crusade is a disaster, and the Terrai have taken full advantage of our momentary weakness, with a strength we couldn’t have predicted.”

  “Tell us something we don’t know,” Zellweger muttered.

  “We need a fail-safe,” Baum said. “Just in case the situation in Belle Terre slips out of control. I believe…it’s time. We need to reclaim the Misery.”

  The room fell into a pensive hush. The minister of agriculture, fresh-faced and the youngest man at the table, shook his head. “The Misery? What’s that?”

  Baum gave him a hard look. “What you are about to learn does not leave this room, on pain of the highest treason.”

  * * *

  “The Misery?” Mari asked. She walked at Nessa’s side along a dusty merchant road, the way flanked by naked, skeletal trees. A light nip was in the air, the chill of late morning.

  “It was the early days of the great crusade,” Nessa explained, “and the war was off to a wretched start. The Caliphate was a terrifying foe, and more than the Empire had bargained for. Someone in the government—maybe ‘Theodosius the Greater,’ maybe his ministers—decided they needed a fallback plan. A weapon of unprecedented power, to unleash against the heathen east as a last resort. And so, discreet inquiries were made. Inquiries that found their way to my teacher.”

  * * *

  The young minister stared at Baum, aghast. “You’re telling me that agents of the Holy Empire hired…a coven of witches?”

  “The sin wasn’t in the hiring,” Baum said, stone-faced. “It was what they did. What we helped them do, up in Winter’s Reach. This was back before the revolt, when it was still a prison colony. More of a death camp, really. Which was, in the end, part and parcel of its true purpose.”

  * * *

  “The alum mines of the Reach were a punishment for the condemned,” Nessa said, strolling at Mari’s side. “The prisoners were worked to death. Given starvation rations and clothed in thin rags. They died from exhaustion, frostbite, festering whip sores, and broken bones. It was where the Empire sent their most hated foes: those who had rebelled against their rule. The purpose of the mine wasn’t to profit from the alum they harvested. The purpose was ensuring the most miserable, lingering deaths the overseers could devise.”

  “But why?” Mari blinked, her eyes wide. “I understand punishment as a deterrent, to warn others from doing the same, but nobody on the outside knew what was happening in the mines. So what was the point?”

  Nessa chuckled. “A sense of authority, earned or not, is the fuel of empire. There are many who feel that challenges to their authority must be punished. It doesn’t matter if it changes anything; it doesn’t matter if it makes sense. Punishment eventually becomes its own virtue. And the greater the authority a man claims, the thinner his skin tends to be.”

  “So what does this have to do with your teacher?”

  “Muskrat devised an ingenious invention. A chunk of lodestone about the size of your fist, ritually anointed and engraved with seals of absorption and binding. The Misery. We placed it in the mines, in a locked chamber within a sacred circle. And there it did its dark work. Every bit of pain, every ounce of suffering, every scrap of nightmare and sorrow were absorbed into the stone. Trapped there, ready to be unleashed on command.”

  * * *

  The agriculture minister cupped his hand over his mouth, pale and shaking.

  “Tell me,” he said softly when he could speak, “tell me this is a fable. Tell me we weren’t a party to this madness.”

  Baum shook his head.

  “The theory was that the stone’s wielder could release the harnessed energy across an entire battlefield. Picture it: an opposing army suddenly wracked with pain and horror, forced to live the memories of the souls it had absorbed, to suffer as they suffered. It would bring the Caliphate to its knees.”

  Wruck wrinkled his nose, his face pinched. “Didn’t work out that way, though, did it? What a waste.”

  “What happened?” the young minister asked.

  “It was too powerful,” Baum said. “It killed anyone who laid a hand upon it. And they died…badly. We ran out of volunteers. Then the Reach had their uprising, and by that time the crusade had turned in our favor. So we left it where it was, a trap for fools in a city of traitors.”

  “So it was…pointless?” the minister asked, his voice trembling. “All that death, all that suffering…we did it for nothing?”

  “We were at war,” Baum replied.

  * * *

  “After the uprising,” Nessa said, “a long, long string of petty tyrants held sway over the Reach, none lasting more than a month or two. Then came Veruca Barrett. And you know how that turned out.”

  Mari nodded. She glanced down, as if seeing herself in her old uniform, a mace on her hip and coffin-shaped shield on her back. She didn’t think about those years, much.

  “Once we knew Barrett was in power for the long haul, we had to be certain the Misery was secure. After all, we might need it someday. We erased Barrett’s memories of the mines even existing, cleansed the public record, and buried the past.”

  “Not everywhere,” Mari said. “Felix, a…a friend of mine. He was looking for the mines.”

  Nessa sighed. “I know. We missed a bit of paperwork somewhere. Now and then, Muskrat would return to study the Misery from a safe distance, trying to tame it. She eventually, carefully, chiseled off a tiny piece of the stone and brought it back to her cave for further experiments.”

  “What happened?”

  Nessa nodded at Mari’s shoulder. “You’re carrying her skull in your pack, that’s what happened.”

  * * *

  Zellweger glared at General Baum. “We couldn’t use the damn thing then, so what makes you think we can use it now?”

  “It’s been a long time. It might have faded in potency. It might have gone dormant. With a fresh batch of volunteers, we might find a way.” Baum slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “It’s a chance, damn it all. It’s a thread of hope, and we’re running out of them fast. If the Terrai rebels continue building momentum, they could undo twenty years of conquest. And what then, hmm? In the worst-case scenario, what if they turn their eye toward our borders, while half of our army is tied up fighting in the far east? They will not be kind, gentlemen. They will not be kind.”

  The council chamber fell silent.

  “All right,” Wruck said softly. “What’s your plan?”

  Baum reached for one of the maps scattered across the polished table and drew a finger across the green hills of Verinia.

  “Right now, several companies of
Imperial troops are marching from Belle Terre to the Caliphate to support the peasant levies. I say we send runners, intercept two of them, and give them new orders: to strike north and conquer Winter’s Reach. Between them and, say, a good brace of fighting ships coming up the coast and laying siege to their harbor at the same time, we should be able to reclaim the colony. If the tide turns, and if we need the Misery, we’ll have easy access to it. If not? We’ve still plucked a nagging thorn from our sides. We win either way.”

  The youngest minister shook his head. “Divert troops away from the crusade? Emperor Theodosius will never allow that.”

  Baum fixed him with a steely gaze.

  “And that is why,” he said, “we aren’t going to tell him.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After the fires died out, after a few curse-blasted and malformed bodies had been dragged away, a smoky haze hung in the coven glade. Fox tasted it in the back of his throat, a foul and acrid thing.

  “Such a waste,” he said, staring down at the tangled pile of corpses. Five good coven mates had gone down in the fight, along with the traitors Moth and Ant. The Owl, though, and her students and her ridiculous “knight,” had slipped away.

  But not for long.

  The survivors milled about the glade, taking stock of their wounds, arguing about who should have done what and when and how. The Dire sat silent in her stone tomb. Listening or sleeping, Fox wasn’t sure. He saw Hedy and closed in on the girl, relentless.

  “Master,” she said, “I’m so sorry about—”

  He grabbed her by the collar, yanked her close, and backhanded her hard enough to loosen a tooth. Then he shoved her away, sending her sprawling to the burnt grass with a bloody lip.

  “If you ever question my orders again, I’ll cut off your hands and use your finger bones for divining runes. Then at least I’d get some use out of you.”

  She rolled onto her side, groaning as she put a hand to her lip. “I’m sorry. I tried—”

  “This is what I think of trying,” Fox said, pulling back one foot as if to kick her in the stomach. Then he turned, spotting Bear in the crowd, and paused. He pointed down at Hedy. “Pick yourself up, stop whining, and come with me. Worthless brat.”

  Bear ambled over, ignoring Hedy as she pushed herself to her feet.

  “You know where the Owl is headed,” Fox said.

  “As far away as she can?” Bear shrugged. “She’s not stupid. She’s gotta hide.”

  “Please. The last thing she’d ever do is hide. No, she’s going on the offensive. To do that, she needs a weapon.”

  “What, like a sword?” Bear peered around the crowd. “Bull’s right over there, but he won’t help her. He was on our side in the fight.”

  Fox leaned in, his voice a low whisper.

  “The Misery, Bear. She’ll go for the Misery. If she plans to fight the Dire, it’s her only chance of survival. She’s arrogant enough to believe she can control it.”

  “That problem’ll fix itself, then. She touches it, it kills her, done.”

  Fox steepled his hands, putting his fingertips to his lips as he pondered.

  “No,” he said. “Even letting her near that thing is too much of a risk. It will probably kill her, but if there’s the slightest chance she manages to control it…unthinkable. Use your Cutting Knife. Open a door back to Winter’s Reach. We’ll set an ambush for her.”

  “You’ll be waitin’ a long time,” Viper said, strolling up behind him. She had one of her long-handled daggers out, gesturing with it like a conductor with a baton, keeping time with music only she could hear. “The Owl’s never gonna make it to the Reach.”

  Fox frowned at her. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I’ll be on her trail. Her and her friends, too. I’ve got four strong burlap sacks on my belt, and I’ll be coming back with a head in each one of ’em to lay down at the Dire’s doorstep. Then she’ll see who the real master of assassins is. You’re about to lose your job.”

  “You insolent little—”

  Viper wagged her finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah. Don’t say nothin’ you’ll regret later, when you’re bowin’ down before your superior.”

  Fox clenched his teeth, nails digging into his palms. She sauntered off, still waving her dagger to a silent tune.

  “Bear,” he said, not turning around, “go back to the Reach and wait for us. Mouse and I will be taking the long route.”

  “But don’t you want to set up an ambush, like you said?”

  “What I want,” Fox said, “is to put my former student in her proper place. If there’s any chance of hunting the Owl down on the open road, I’m the one who’s going to do it.”

  “But what about me? We agreed we’d do this together. We’d share the victory.”

  Fox rolled his eyes. “Don’t be tedious, Bear. Your job is to secure the Misery, just in case the Owl somehow manages to make it to the Reach. Just go back and…do whatever it is you do there. I’m sure it’s an important job.”

  Bear trudged off, grumbling under his breath. Fox turned to Hedy.

  “Come with me. We’ll see if you actually manage to redeem yourself. Help capture the Owl, and it’ll go a long way toward proving your worth.”

  “Wait,” said a voice, a cancerous rasp carried on a gust of hot, acrid wind.

  In the doorway of the Dire’s tomb, a sickly green light shone upon the ancient stone.

  “I shall be accompanying you,” the Dire Mother said. “Personally.”

  * * *

  Bear’s knife sliced a hole in the world. He stepped through the crack, letting the howling black winds of the Shadow In-Between wash over him. For a heartbeat, he was nowhere and nothing, a soul adrift in inconceivably vast darkness. A darkness scented like dying roses and cinnamon, with the faint sound of wind chimes in the distance.

  He set one boot down on hard wooden planks, then the other, the tear whipping shut behind him as if it had never been there. Back in the Hall of Justice in Winter’s Reach, down in the shallow fighting pit where the condemned were punished for the entertainment of the masses. He’d expected the place to be deserted. Instead, he had an audience.

  Not up in the stands that ringed three sides of the room—those were empty. Down in the pit, though, surrounding him, they’d been waiting. Coffin Boys. The mayor’s elite, in black leather and soot-stained fur, gripping their heavy, tarnished maces.

  And up above, reclining in her basalt throne, Veruca Barrett. She lounged in her patchwork clothes and shiny brass buttons, curly strawberry hair spilling out from under the crooked tilt of her top hat.

  “I had a dream,” Veruca told him.

  Bear tilted his head. Her men—maybe ten in all—didn’t make a move. They held steady, waiting for their orders.

  “A good dream?” he asked.

  “An enlightening one. You see, certain details of my rise to power have always been…sketchy in my memory. And yet, I never thought to question it. Almost like something was forcing me not to question it.”

  “Could be the alcohol,” Bear said, hesitant. “Or the saffdust. Or those herbs you import from—”

  Veruca chopped her hand sideways in the air, silencing him.

  “Tell me about the Misery, Bear.”

  He swallowed, hard.

  “It’s not…it’s not for you. It’s dangerous.”

  “Guess what.” She leaned forward on her throne, eyes cold. “So am I.”

  “It was an experiment. A failed experiment.”

  “And yet,” she said, “important enough that you buried all trace of a potentially lucrative alum mine in order to hide it. That impacts my coinpurse. I don’t like that very much. Oh, right, and also you fucked with my head.”

  “That was Muskrat.” He took a step backward, holding up his open hands. “I’ve always been loyal to you. Listen, the Muskrat’s apprentice, a witch called the Owl, is on her way here. We need to secure the Misery. The entire city is in danger.”

  “‘
We’? Oh, no, Bear. Your services are no longer required. You treated me like a pawn. Nobody treats me like a pawn.”

  She gave a nod. Two of the Coffin Boys spread out a length of chain between them. Stout black iron, with links as thick as a man’s thumb.

  “Veruca,” Bear said, “you’re making a mistake.”

  “My mistake was trusting a witch.” She leaned back on her throne and crossed her legs. “Boys? Beat him down.”

  Two ran at him at once, one from behind and one from the left, screaming a battle cry to bolster their courage. Bear was silent. He turned as the one at his back closed in, grabbed him by his wrist and hip, lifting him off the ground and swinging him around before letting go. The Coffin Boy went flying into his partner, both of them hitting the ground hard in a tangled heap. Another ran in, mace high, and Bear spat an incantation as he slammed his palm down over the man’s face. Smoke hissed in a black gout and the man shrieked, staggering backward, eyes bursting into flames as his flesh melted like candlewax.

  Bear snatched the mace from another man’s hand and drove the pommel into his gut, then rammed the iron head up into his jaw, shattering it like glass and flipping him off his feet. He turned on his heel just in time to parry a blow, maces clanging, and his free hand lunged for his attacker’s belly. It wasn’t a hand anymore. It was a bear paw, rippling with arctic-white fur, with claws that shredded leather and spilled the man’s entrails across the floor of the fighting pit.

  The Coffin Boys with the chain tried to get around him. Claws flashed and one fell, gurgling, his throat slashed open and spurting blood. Bear grabbed the heavy chain and ripped it out of the other man’s hands. It whistled as it spun in a whooshing arc over Bear’s head. He dropped low, crouching, lashing out at an oncoming attacker and knocking his legs out from under him. Bear gripped one end of the chain like an iron whip, swinging hard and sending the other end flying. One sharp crack of iron against bone, and another Coffin Boy tumbled to the pit floor with a broken skull.

  The fight was over in seconds. Bear was the last man standing, all of Veruca’s men dead or dying. The chain rattled as it slipped from his exhausted hands, pooling on the bloody floorboards. A sheen of sweat coated his skin and turned to ice in the frigid northern air. He looked up, catching his breath, just in time to see the dangling furs behind Veruca’s throne ripple. The mayor, on the run.