Crowlord

by Michael Wallace

  Damanja rested a hand on Miklos’s forearm when she seemed satisfied with the preparation. “You stay here. The rest of you can go.”

  The others departed with murmurs of assent, striding off with purpose in their step, while Miklos waited. He expected her to demand his plans for subduing the Zoltan rebels causing trouble to the north and east. She fixed him with a hard gaze, and he met it with difficulty.

  “I received reports from my scouts,” she said.

  “I suppose you have.”

  “I don’t like what I’m hearing. It makes me question your commitment. It makes me think maybe you threw your lot in with me through some ulterior motive.”

  “I was open enough about my desires,” Miklos said. “To command your troops in your absence, to rule the lands you seize from Lord Zoltan’s realm. All in your faithful service, of course.”

  “Then what am I to make of what I’ve been hearing?”

  Maybe yesterday he would have shrugged off her concerns. He might have even decided the time had come to do to Lady Damanja what he’d done to Lord Zoltan. First, he’d have to take Davian and the other men who’d played the role of brigands to provoke this war, sweep through the crowlord’s lieutenants to eliminate their threat, and then kill Damanja herself. From there, consolidate his power over her armies.

  But with the departure of the dragon feather, and the clearing of his thoughts, he realized just how weak he was tactically compared to Damanja and her lieutenants. It filled him with doubts. If he hadn’t succeeded in taking command of Zoltan’s forces as expected, how would he subdue a second fiefdom, one he’d only visited as a cloak-changing brigand?

  “I didn’t expect so much resistance,” he admitted. “There’s no one left to lead Zoltan’s remnants, for one. Nobody capable, that is.”

  Damanja frowned. “Is that what you think I meant by. . .? Never mind. Yes, about that. There’s always another leader. A cousin, a second cousin. A captain who was passed over for promotion, and who commands his own loyal troops eager to prove their worth. Villages and farmlands who felt oppressed by taxes and take advantage of the death of their crowlord to rise up. It was never going to be as easy as you claimed. There was always going to be hard fighting to consolidate.”

  “This wasn’t about that, was it?” he asked. “You meant something else.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But it’s nice to know your thoughts. Your insecurities.”

  You have no idea, he thought. He resisted putting a hand over his heart, which still ached from the departure of the dragon feather.

  “I’m talking about my scouts in the foothills. Riders on the old post road. Skirmishes with Balint’s troops captured prisoners, and they talk.” Damanja tapped at her chin while continuing to hold his gaze. “Strange news out there. Odd happenings.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I think you know. Or have a good idea. Why don’t you tell me what you think I mean.”

  “I hesitate to guess, my lord.”

  “Guess, damn you. And do it quickly.”

  It would be an easy matter, he thought, to draw his falchion. He’d cut her in two before she even saw him move. Certainly before she had a chance to draw her own sword. And even if she did get it free, her sword may be a superior weapon forged in the Temple of Righteous Fury—most of the work done by Miklos’s own hand—but it was no match for his own master sword. And her skill with the sword, though it was rumored to be considerable, could never match up with his own.

  But then what? That’s what stopped him.

  “What are you suggesting? Are there others on the move?” he began cautiously. “Others like me?”

  Damanja’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed, there seem to be.”

  He didn’t know how much she knew, so he started with the most likely. “There’s a bladedancer, I believe. He was delivering weapons to Lord Balint. Or maybe she, I’m not sure who it is. There was some trouble in the mountains.”

  That trouble had been his own attack on the bladedancer temple. A test, a way to put his rivals into the game. The reasons for doing so baffled him now, but even though the madness had passed, what was done was done.

  “I’ve been aware of the bladedancers for several days,” she said. “A woman, a young man, and an old fellow with a walking stick. A giant goat of the mountains pulling a cart.”

  It was precise information, and no doubt accurate. He nodded. “My scouts mentioned them, too, though not so detailed.”

  “That you didn’t see fit to mention it makes me doubt your loyalty,” Damanja said. “More than I already did.”

  “I didn’t know if I should trust the reports. Anyway, why would the bladedancers figure into matters? We wouldn’t expect them to intervene.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Of course not. Why would the sword temples intervene in our wars? How strange it would be to see one of their fighters appear on the plains, wouldn’t you agree?”

  This seemed a rhetorical question, and he didn’t answer. In fact he wasn’t sure he had an answer.

  After a long, hard stare, she continued. “Now there’s another one. Riding with a hundred men wearing the colors of Lord Balint through the hill country. Barefoot, his feet marked with black lines and scars.”

  Miklos’s mouth went dry. He thought of his fight against Tankred and Volfram. Which one would it be? The one he’d sensed earlier, or the other? Perhaps both together. Were they pursuing Narina? If so, the woman was in trouble. He’d felt her sowen that day at the temple. She was strong, but for a master sohn, not strong enough. She hadn’t managed to penetrate his disguise, nor discern that his weapon was more than it had appeared.

  Yes, he decided. The firewalker must be after the woman. If the man killed Narina, he could turn on Miklos, strengthened by victory, and force him into a fight.

  “And what about your companion from the temple?” Damanja asked.

  “My companion?”

  “Are you trying to pretend you’re not a warbrand? One of their masters or fraters or whatever they’re called?”

  “Fraters are the bladedancers,” Miklos said. “Ours are called initiates. And I am not an initiate.”

  Lady Damanja gave him a narrow sort of smile, lacking humor. “And your companion? What would a second warbrand be doing on the plains?”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about.” This time, he was telling the truth. “Is it a man or a woman? Where was this person spotted?”

  She sized him up for a moment, then shook her head. “We’ll worry about that later. For now, go west into the hill country and find out what this firewalker intends, if he means to join the bladedancer or what. I’d expected the woman to return to the mountains with her companions, but now I’m not so sure. There seem to be a fair number of your type about.”

  Whatever was happening, Miklos was quite certain that the firewalker or firewalkers did not intend to have a friendly chat with Narina and her companions, at which point the lot of them would set off on some noble quest.

  His original plan had been to stay with Damanja as long as possible, to consolidate his role at her side and eliminate rivals when the opportunity presented. Finally, when the situation grew untenable, to eliminate the woman herself. But now he was thinking about his true rivals, the other sohns he would have to face sooner or later. Could he reach Narina before an enemy found her? He’d like to observe the battle, to see which of his enemies emerged.

  Miklos nodded. “I’ll go.”

  “Of course you will—I just commanded it.”

  His face flushed. “I was only confirming your orders, my lord.”

  “Good, because it sounded like you had given thought to refusing me. Oh,” Damanja added, “and you’ll ride alone. I have need of Davian and those other ruffians who make up your personal guard. For the assault on Belingus, of course. But also, if you have a small army on hand, you might be tempted to start some mischief.”

  “Mischief? What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, I
don’t know, say pretending to be brigands to provoke a war. That sort of thing.” She gave a sarcastic-looking shrug. “No, of course you wouldn’t. What a ridiculous thought, am I right?”

  Lady Damanja gestured toward the open flap of the tent, and with that, he was dismissed.

  Chapter Eight

  The auras on the hillside were confused, and hinted of past violence. And it wasn’t just the human and animal bones lying scattered on the surface that Narina was sensing, although that was part of it. A bloody battle had been fought here in the distant past, and the dead had been heaped upon each other in a mass grave that lay beneath their feet.

  Given Narina’s unsettled feeling, combined with the open grassland that left them exposed to watchful eyes, this was the last place she would have chosen to set up camp while there was still light enough to choose a better location, but there would be no more continuing today.

  Brutus had refused to go any farther, and was now lying on his side, groaning, while Kozmer forced a hand into the goat’s mouth to examine its tongue and check for strange plant matter that might give an indication of what he’d eaten. Whatever it was had laid the beast low, and Narina began to worry for the first time that Brutus was in real trouble.

  Gyorgy paced back and forth until Narina finally told him to sit down, close his eyes, and meditate with his swords on his lap. He did so, but from what she could sense, the boy’s sowen was still distracted. He needed the hammers and the forge, she thought. Too bad the temple was eighty or a hundred miles away, still.

  Meanwhile, Andras had taken his dogs fifteen or twenty paces away and was discussing some matter with his son in low, urgent tones. Narina resisted using her superior hearing to listen in. Ruven crossed his arms, looking stubborn, and shook his head in response to whatever his father was saying. The dogs were growing restless and started to wander, which prompted a whistle from Andras to make them lie down.

  Narina called over to the ratters. “Why don’t you two see about breaking that old cart down?” She gestured to a broken, partially rotted wagon or cart of some kind. “We’re going to be here a while, and you could use the boards and wheels to fashion a kennel of sorts. That will be easier than whistling at the dogs every five minutes to call them back.”

  Andras cleared his throat. “Actually, I was thinking we’d leave you to yourself.”

  “What? You’d set off alone now?”

  The ratter rubbed his hands together and glanced at Ruven, who was still scowling with his arms crossed. “The thing is, it doesn’t feel safe out here.”

  “Which is exactly why you’d be a fool to set off on your own. These hills are filled with lawless sorts, and the two of you—dogs or no dogs—are going to be easy prey.”

  Andras returned a grim look. “I know it. It wasn’t far north of here where they took my wife and Ruven. That’s why we can’t sit on this hill waiting for an ambush. We’re going back to the plains.”

  “As if you’ll be safe down there, either. You’re better off in the company of bladedancers, Andras. You know that.”

  “The brigands might not know you’re bladedancers.” Andras wrung his hands. “What if there’s an ambush?”

  It was such a foolhardy statement for the usually sensible ratter to make that Narina couldn’t help the snort that came out. “Zoltan attacked with two hundred trained cavalry. I did explain what happened to him, right? And you think we’ll be at danger from a few brigands? Come on, think that through.”

  “All the same, I figure we’ll take our chances below.”

  “Go on then, if you want. Run off to your death. You’re not taking the boy, though. Ruven stays with us until we’re safely through.”

  Narina’s words weren’t entirely sincere, and she hoped Andras wouldn’t call her bluff. She didn’t have any intention of sending the man off without his son, only getting through whatever had him spooked so he’d come to his senses. Whatever Brutus had eaten could have him laid up for a day or longer, and she wanted all of them to stay put until he was better.

  “My da can help Brutus,” Ruven blurted. “He just doesn’t want to.”

  “Ruven!”

  “Go on, Da,” Ruven said. “You can cure him.”

  “I really can’t.”

  Narina frowned, eyeing the ratter suspiciously. “Why does the boy think you can?”

  Andras squirmed. “I have a potion for the dogs—every once in a while one of ’em snarfs up rat poison a careless farmer left lying around—but it wouldn’t do any good for Brutus. He must weigh, what? Fifty stone?”

  “What does this medicine do?”

  “Makes the fool dog throw it up again,” Andras said. “Purges him. Or her—even Notch isn’t so clever as to not eat something nasty from time to time. It’s a concoction of bitter herbs that turns their stomach.”

  Given that the dogs’ diet seemed largely made up of rats and other vermin run down and gobbled up, and that Notch was the most aggressive of the terriers and lurchers on the hunt, Narina had no trouble believing that even she would eat something bad from time to time.

  “But all the purging herbs in my bag wouldn’t have an effect on your goat. Not enough for an animal that big.”

  “Actually,” Kozmer said, looking up from where he was prodding at the goat’s belly, “Brutus has a delicate stomach for bitter herbs. It’s his natural defense against his appetite. He’ll eat, throw up, and move on without a second thought. You might give it a try.”

  Andras looked torn. He glanced at the trail from which they’d come, then looked around at the surrounding hillside and down into the forest, as if half-expecting brigands to come bursting out at any moment. Was he still thinking of running off from the safety of the group, or was he more concerned about preserving the stock of medications he kept for his dogs?

  Finally, the ratter sighed and went for his satchel, which he hauled over to Brutus. The goat had softened his aggressive behavior toward the ratters and their dogs since their first encounter, but some of his old grumpiness returned and he twisted his head with a jerk as the man approached. He nearly caught Andras’s leg with one of his horns. Only the ratter’s quick reflexes got him clear in time. Brutus brayed and showed his teeth, but Andras wisely stayed out of reach, and the goat was too sick to stand and chase him off.

  Kozmer had risen creakily from his knees with the help of his staff, and now gave Brutus a rap on the forehead. “Now then, you fool thing. You try that again, and I’ll give you a good thumping. You want to get better? Then you’d better lie down and keep your peace.”

  Brutus, even in his sickened state, kept Andras fixed with a baleful glare as the man fished out a small flask of fired clay and worked free the stopper.

  Brutus’s aura wasn’t the most sophisticated, even for an animal; the sharp, curious minds of Andras’s dogs provided an obvious contrast to the goat’s plodding, grumpy interaction with his surroundings. There was no love in the goat for anyone, and only a bare, grudging respect for Gyorgy, who was the one who kept him fed and groomed. Still, the open hostility toward Andras was unexpected. Was Brutus sensing somehow that the man was about to give him something nasty to make him throw up?

  “Gyorgy, come over here,” Narina said. “Better let the boy do it,” she told Andras, “or Brutus will never stop blaming you.”

  Andras nodded and backed away. His own aura was in a jumble, and he seemed all too glad to hand over the flask to Gyorgy. The boy approached, only to have the goat bray and attempt another swing with his horns.

  “Hold on,” Narina said when Gyorgy made another attempt. “Let’s do this together.”

  Brutus was having none of the treatment, and Narina didn’t want to waste a drop, worried that Andras was right, and there wouldn’t be enough to induce vomiting. She and Kozmer held the goat by its horns, while Gyorgy worked its mouth open.

  “Shove your hand right in there or he’s going to spit it right back out. I’m warning you,” Narina told Brutus, “you give Gyorgy a
bite and we’ll leave your stinky old carcass for the wolves.”

  Somehow Gyorgy got the flask emptied into Brutus’s throat with only a few drops dripping out of the side of his mouth. Brutus let out something between a groan and a belch and sank his head back to the ground. Another groan, and the goat tried in vain to spit it up, but the bitter concoction was safely down.

  Within moments, there was an audible gurgling sound coming from the animal’s belly. Brutus opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and bellowed. He looked and sounded like he was on the verge of death, and they were all crowding in for a closer look when suddenly the goat raised halfway to his knees, opened his mouth, and spewed vomit.

  Narina and Kozmer both darted out of its path, the latter moving with all the speed of a sohn in battle, belying his slow, creaky movements of the past few weeks. That left Gyorgy in the direct path of Brutus’s spew, and the student was not quick enough to dodge. Goat vomit drenched him in a wide spray.

  “Demons take me!” Gyorgy cried as he fell back, sputtering and wiping at his face.

  Narina didn’t have time to see to her student, as Brutus was trying to climb to his feet even as more vomit came out. It was a mixture of half-digested weeds, thorns, a strip of blackened cloth that she’d seen him munching on several days ago when they were in the farm compound and must have been festering in there ever since, as well as other unidentified matter, vegetable and otherwise. Andras went over and prodded through it with a stick, as if trying to identify whatever foul weed the goat must have eaten.

  Narina looked down at Brutus and shook her head. “No wonder you got sick, you silly thing.”

  “This is disgusting,” Gyorgy said. “I’ve got to get cleaned up.”