“Milady, they drove him to madness!”
“He was weak, and overreached himself.”
“One does not become the Emperor of a great nation by weakness and folly.”
“Yet we ourselves have a King who cannot hold his Kingdom, and a slavering usurper who fails year after year to take the throne. If there is anything I have learned in this life, it's that a man's station does not determine the cloth from which he is cut.” Her gaze did not leave Rogald, but I felt my heart flutter all the same. Sir Erroll also seemed discomfited. Suppressed anger darkened his cheeks, and not only because her words were tantamount to treason. The woman continued, “If we persist, will you attempt to stop us?”
“We have never hindered travellers. It would only provoke undue anger and violence. I merely beseech you to turn back. If not now, then later, before you make a terrible mistake.”
She smiled and sipped her cider. Her eyes shone at Rogald over the rim of her cup, and she set it down again slowly, deliberately. Her voice dripped like honey. “My dear Chieftain, I believe we are ready to eat now.”
The Chief wore the kind of deflated expression I'd come to associate with anyone who tried to stop the woman in her single-minded pursuit. With a heavy sigh, he gestured to his servants, and they began to bring in the steaming platters of food we'd been promised.
The dinner conversation was polite and delicate. Those who spoke Southern translated for those who didn't. By fits and starts the story of our travels came out, but no one brought up the bronzes again, despite the fact that we were wearing them in plain sight. It hung in the air every time Rogald and the woman locked eyes across the table, but neither of them would acknowledge the elephant in the room.
I knocked back every mug of cider they put in front of me, and became progressively more tipsy as the evening went by. My mouth tasted of berries and pine sap. It was a good drink once you got used to it, unlike Kingsport wine, which you could use to clean privy chutes. I was determined to enjoy it while I had the chance.
God only knew I needed it. Sober, my mind kept circling back to the same thing. Not the mission, no. I would think about a boy called Calum, and his mother, and the unwelcome Sir Graeme who could be the only father my son would ever know.
Why? Why did that bother me so much?
As the meal wound down and the demands of hospitality were dispensed with, the Men of the Valley began to excuse themselves. The ones who couldn't understand us fled first, followed by everyone else in dribs and drabs, until only Rogald, Racha and the man in the bronze coat remained at the table.
“Now you have heard our story,” said Rogald, “I hope you'll do me the courtesy of telling me yours, Milady. To what purposes do you seek to use the Armaments?”
“Only one, my Chieftain.” She smiled, cheeks rosy from the cider. “We desire to depose an evil man.”
“Which one?” Rogald asked bluntly.
“Which one would you prefer, Sire? As you say, there are many.”
“By your own words you love neither the fool in the South, nor the brute in the North. One is as bad as the other. However, I promise you on my honour, you will never reach Kassareth.”
He stood and leaned over the table, making the most of his impressive height. “Those paths have claimed more lives than you could count. Good men who knew the mountains from birth, went fearlessly across the Edge, and never returned. Everything you have ever heard about the Edge of the World is true. You clearly think you know where Kassareth is, but how will you get there? As the crow flies?” Harsh laughter ripped from his chest. “Remember what it took to get here, Milady, and understand that these are the most hospitable parts of the Claw.”
“Then it is selfless concern for our lives that compels you?” she teased.
“I will not be mocked under my own roof, Milady.”
A growing commotion from outside stopped the verbal duel in its tracks. Even through my gentle haziness I could hear voices raised in alarm, the clatter of iron and wood, and the earthy vibration of hurried footsteps. Hoofbeats. Then the sharp crackle of burning thatch, followed by the faint, acrid tingle of smoke in my nostrils. Something was amiss.
One of the Brunokes' personal retainers burst into the room, shouting hard, urgent words in their mountain dialect. I looked at Racha for an explanation, but she was already halfway to the door, ornamented hatchets in hand. She glanced back and snapped, “To arms, all of you! Grenoke attacks!”
We stumbled to our feet and drew the weapons we carried. A little too deep in our cups to be anywhere near a battle, even the Rangers looked unsteady, but we had no choice but to engage. Descard slapped some sobriety into his men and ordered them to grab the bows they'd left at the roundhouse. They ran to obey. So, with one bronze sword, two steel ones and some big knives, we burst out of the Chief's hall.
Half the valley looked to be on fire. Pine trees flared like giant torches, and even the wet thatch of the roundhouses was catching like kindling. Riders in green galloped from place to place, dousing everything in lamp oil, cutting down anyone who got in their way. I counted at least two dozen cavalry inside the palisade ‒ how they got in was still unclear ‒ and the surprised, fragmented response from the Brunokes cut no ice. Even the Chief's retainers were barely holding their ground.
One of the horsemen galloped past us and slashed me across the back. I yelped from the impact, but the bronze plate saved me. My attacker slumped in the saddle as Descard's knife plunged into his neck.
“Keep moving,” the Baron said. “Cut their horses out from under them if they come close. As soon as we get our bows, this farce is over.”
Behind us, Rogald's powerful voice boomed across the valley, trying to rally his people. A handful fought their way over to him. Many were cut off or too busy with their own life-or-death struggles. For all their strength and resilience, the mountain men were undisciplined, and they failed to organise any coherent force.
The Grenokes, on the other hand... They fought like men trained in the Army, charging and reforming, never getting bogged down. I took a closer look at Descard's kill. Maille glinted underneath his green coat, and his weapon was a cavalry sword of good Army steel. If they were natives, I'd bugger a horse.
Our little group quick-marched down the long central street, now a battlefield. Some of the heaviest fighting in the valley lay ahead of us. Descard and his boys ran from cover to cover, picking off obstacles by way of those deadly knives, while the rest of us drew attention or simply scrapped it out. Sir Erroll charged into every melee, laying about with sword and shield, kept safe by loyal Faro at his back. The bright glow of the fires shone off the great bronze disc that served him for a shield, like a tiny sun lighting up the night.
I put my sword through metal and flesh and bone. The drink didn't seem to slow me down at all. It only took a twirl and a step, and another green-clothed man came off his horse, now short one leg. He landed on his face in the middle of the street. I pushed my point between his shoulderblades, withdrew, and looked for my next opponent. I heard the twang of bowstrings. More riders went down. It soon became obvious the odds were turning against them. They beat a hasty retreat, but not before the Rangers picked three more out of the saddle, one arrow at a time.
I stopped to wipe sweat and blood from my forehead. It'd been a short skirmish, but looking around, our little group had done more damage than all the Brunokes combined. Damn near three quarters of the enemy dead had been tallied up by us oh-so-unwelcome 'Bronze-Bearers.' That ought to stick in Rogald's craw.
Then I noticed the bodies of the Brunokes, and all the savage humour of the moment went away. Men, women, children not old enough for their first kiss. Burnt or trampled or cut down without care. My skin crawled as I looked from body to burnt, mutilated body.
For a moment I was reminded of a Harari village and crimson-stained mats that squished underfoot. But that was a mistake, all in the heat of the moment. This was no mistake. It wasn't even an ordinary military raid. This w
as cold-blooded butchery.
The Chieftain found us by the roundhouse. He had Yazizi, Aemedd and the woman in tow. Racha joined us a moment later, still barking orders to get the fires out and the wounded seen to. She dabbed at a red-raw burn halfway up her arm. Her face was the match of her father's ‒ grim, twisted in fury, thirsty for revenge.
Without a word Rogald waved us into the house. It was not a request. Any semblance of diplomacy or gentle persuasion had gone out of him.
Inside, he turned on the woman, six feet and more of scowling pugnacity. “We are besieged in our own land. The balance between the tribes is shattered. After all this time, we finally rid ourselves of Selcourt's yoke, and now they willingly put it back on!” He spat on the ground in contempt. “You will never reach Kassareth, Milady. Not without the help of Brunoke.”
Shrewd eyes looked the Chieftain up and down. She resumed their earlier conversation as smoothly as if the interceding battle hadn't happened. “Suppose, for the sake of argument, that we accepted your help. At what price is it offered?”
The air between them crackled with energy. They were sizing each other up. Rogald seemed to understand, for the first time, who and what he was dealing with.
“I provide supplies and a guide,” he said in a tight voice, enunciating each word with exaggerated care, “if, in exchange, you use the Armaments to rid me of Nevill of Grenoke. Also, the return of the Armaments when your tasks are finished.”
“Upon your honour, Rogald of the Valley?”
“And upon yours, Lady Silbane.”
“I will accept on one condition, that you allow us to choose our own guide. On this I will not waver.”
“Agreed,” Rogald snapped impatiently.
“Witnessed. Then I'm ready to make our choice.” She raised her arm and pointed. “We want Racha of Brunoke.”
So the game was won.
Rogald of the Valley left the house in silence. His shoulders slumped. His face was pale, his jaw clenched. He had the look of a sick man. Racha gave the woman a long, unkind look, then rushed after her father.
A wet, ragged cough burst from the corner, breaking the silence. Aemedd wiped blood from his chin and blinked rheumy eyes. “Was that wise, Milady?”
“There goes a man who loves his family. Now, with his precious daughter beside us, he'll take every care to make sure we come back alive.”
“Shrewd. If he stays true to his word.”
“His word is all he has.”
All the same, we mounted a watch that night. Faro, the Rangers, and finally myself. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, chewed some St. Killin's wood to help ease my way into the morning, and watched the lightening sky behind the curtains with my sword draped across my knees. Tribesmen laboured all night to care for the bodies, to dig graves, and salvage what remained of their torched homes. It was heartbreaking. I had to remind myself of the bigger war, or I would've happily gone to fight this one.
I finally put the sword away when the sun peeked out from behind the mountains. Underhanded things didn't tend to happen after dawn. I got my wobbly legs under me, stretched, and went out for some air.
I stopped in mid-stretch, barely a step beyond the threshold. Racha of Brunoke leaned against the wall to my left, next to a travel pack. She had her arms crossed and a thousand-yard stare levelled at the distant mountaintops. Despite the casual pose, her body was tense as a crossbow, wound up and ready to fire.
“Um. Good morning,” I offered. “Have you been here long?”
Her eyes barely flickered. “Yes.”
“Alright then.” I took a deep breath and tried again. “I'm not sure if we were ever properly introduced. I'm Byren. You can call me Karl, if you like.”
“I know your name.”
“Fantastic, then we're practically friends already.”
Some sarcasm slipped in, there. I couldn't help it.
“I am here not to make friends.” This time she actually turned her head to glare at me. “Not with those who abuse Brunoke hospitality. Not with you, tainted by the Armaments. I am here for my father's honour.”
“Abuse your hospitality? Come on, you can't be that blind.”
“No,” she grumbled, “and I know the harpy you follow is the one to blame. Expect me not to thank you, though. I volunteered not to get killed over the Edge.”
“Believe it or not, that makes two of us.”
I took up a spot against the wall at a respectful distance and enjoyed the chilly morning breeze. It tickled my nostrils with the scent of grass, stone and wet leaves. And goats. Reaching into my tunic, I took out my hip flask, uncorked it, offered it to Racha. After a moment's indecision, she accepted and took a long swig.
“So you drink a lot of armpit sweat in the lowlands, then?” she asked, handing it back.
“I'll have you know that's genuine High Gin, oak-aged for longer than you've been alive. Maybe your tastebuds have been ruined by too many years of weak cider and fermented goat's milk.”
That was the first time I saw Racha of Brunoke crack a smile.
I went on, “By the way, your Southern is a little off. You don't expect and didn't volunteer. You're saying it like you would in Northern, which doesn't work so well.”
“I... will keep that in mind. My father went to the Academy, not I. Even if there were no war, they take not females.” She grimaced as she caught herself. “I mean, they don't. Is that right?”
“More or less. You'll pick it up.”
The conversation struck a sudden lull. It was the silence of somebody working themselves up to say something big.
“I've heard stories about the Bronze-Bearers all my life. You are... not what I expected. Nothing about this is how I thought it would be. With my father. With the Grenokes. And yet, I am unsure how I thought it would go. Maybe I expected more knights like your Erroll. Shiny armour and pretty pennons on their lances. Big and brash and stupid.”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you.”
“No, I meant‒ Agh!” She threw her hands up in frustration. “You understand not! This... It is... Like a story. Like something important. I am not important. I do not... belong, that is the word. I have no business being over the Edge.”
I followed a cloud across the sky with my eyes, and took a deep breath. “We need a guide.”
“You need a miracle. My father knows not where Kassareth is, no more than the rest of us. How could he when no one has been there in three thousand years? I will guide you, and we will wander around until you get lost and starve to death. If the beasts don't get you first.”
“My mistress seems to have every confidence in you.”
“Wonderful. I will feel no joy in keeping her alive. You, maybe. I might even take you back with me when the others are gone, if we make it that far.”
Laughing, I told her, “Don't count them out too quickly. We've weathered some storms together. You know the three chaps with the bows are His Majesty's Household Rangers, right?”
Her eyebrows shot up in honest surprise. Even here the name carried weight. “The King's Own? I saw them fight, but I realised not...” She glanced over her shoulder, as if her eyes could pierce the stone walls to see the grey-uniformed men inside. They held a fresh gleam of respect. “You are not what I expected at all.”
It was difficult, in that moment, not to imagine Racha of Brunoke naked and panting underneath me. She was another world away from either Yazizi's whipcord slenderness or the woman's sculpted grace. Stocky, wide-hipped, drawn with broad strokes but made alluring by her sheer liveliness. She moved like a dancer and when the morning light hit her cheeks just right...
I shut my eyes tight and forced my mind onto other things. A tell-tale, embarrassing erection was the last thing I needed. What's wrong with you, Byren? I asked myself. How many women do you need?
As many as you can get your hands on, eh? chortled Humber, somewhere in the back of my skull. I threw a mental brick at him.
The orange sun finally crept above the highest
, whitest peaks, and sparkled amidst a wispy cloud bank. The sky was grey and fat with encroaching rain on my right and my left, but we got to enjoy at least a few warm rays, at least one morning. Racha shielded her eyes against the sun.
“You should tell your friends to rise. My father is having your horses loaded, and wishes to speak to everyone before we leave. I will meet you in the hall.”
I nodded and watched her go. My eyes lingered on her bottom rather longer than they ought to. At least she didn't look back.
We were packed and ready, standing before the big pine table in the Chief's hall. I could taste a rueful note in the air. Everyone had enjoyed the fire, the roof over our heads, and the hot meals in our bellies. Leaving those comforts behind again so soon was a sad occasion. We really could've used a few days' rest in Brunoke. From Rogald's granite expression, however, we wouldn't be welcome.
He sat on the edge of his antlered throne, surrounded on all sides by ancient, crumbling pieces of parchment and vellum. Some were marked in ink, others pencil. Charcoal on a few of the really old ones. I spotted crude maps, scribbled annotations and directions, drawings of landmarks and a few rubbings of spidery Brass Men carvings. The red rims around Rogald's bloodshot eyes told volumes about what he'd been doing through the night. His attention never left the papers, as if he might discover some important fact at the last minute.
“This,” he croaked, “is everything we know about Kassareth. Half-forgotten stories from our most ancient ancestors. The Brass Men did not write, so what we have is based solely on oral tradition, which is prone to error and embellishment. I have done my best to compile it into a set of directions for you to follow.”
“We are deeply grateful for your assistance, my Chieftain,” the woman purred. “We‒”
“I haven't finished,” he said sharply, raising his eyes to confront her. “I'm giving these directions to my daughter. They are written in a language none of you can read, nor will it be possible for you to learn. She will guide you to your destination. There'll be no trouble as long as you keep her safe.”
Written in Blood Page 38