by K R Schultz
They needed information from the Scriptorium in Narragan. Something he had read there haunted him like an ancient ghost. Drey had freed a faint memory of it when he mentioned his master’s trip to the Eniila homeland. Possibly Baradon held the answers he needed to save Aarda from the ravages of the Nethera.
I wonder if I have been looking in the wrong place. Narragan is risky, and Baradon is even more perilous. The Eniila do not tolerate Abrhaani interlopers, but Laakea could pass for a young Eniila lordling with two Abrhaani slaves. It might work. In fact, Baradon might be safer for me than Narragan…or it might kill me.
CHAPTER Nineteen
Voerkett
Laakea and Isil prepared so they could leave once Rehaak returned with the leather strips Laakea needed for his breastplate. Isil packed provisions and blankets, while Laakea tested the balance and weight of his new weapons. Once satisfied with the rawhide wrapped grips of his swords, he took some practice cuts at the tall stump he and his father had used for a practice pale. The weapons sliced gashes a hands-width deep into the dense wood with only light effort, and Laakea grinned as he examined the damage to the oaken stump.
Satisfied with the blades’ effectiveness, he padded the backside of the breastplate with layers of woolen cloth and tied it in place with cords instead of leather straps. Why am I wasting my time with string? Rehaak will return with the leather soon? By midday, satisfied with the weapons and armor, Laakea set it all together and added his leather forearm guards to the pile. The heavy leather protected me from sparks when I worked the forge, and it should protect me from weapons too. “What’s taking Rehaak so long?” Laakea dropped the bundle of gear near the table.
“We didn’t ’spect him to return till early evening and we ain’t leavin’ till first light tomorrow. Come, sit a spell, and have somewhat to eat.” Isil pushed a bowl of steaming stew toward him. “You must be hungry after all that pacin’ you been doin’, It bein midday and all.”
Laakea had recovered from his ordeal in the Creator’s forge, but his stomach ached with endless hunger.
“I still can’t believe how much you eats—sees it, but I can’t believe it—I expects you needs more fuel than us Abrhaani ’cause o’ your big muscles.”
I guess that makes sense. I only know that I get weak and dizzy when I’m hungry. Laakea picked up the spoon and shoveled the leek and lentil stew into his mouth. Between gulps he said, “Thank you for another delicious meal, Isil. You and Rehaak make every meal so tasty. I don’t have the knack for cooking.”
“That be a bit o’ understatement, according to Rehaak, but you’re welcome,” Isil teased. Though she did not have firsthand knowledge of Laakea’s infamous blacksmith cooking, she had heard Rehaak’s description of Laakea’s attempts at culinary prowess.
Laakea continued his assault on the bowl of stew in front of him and said, “Could you tell me more about your husband Voerkett, if you don’t mind?”
“Sure, I’ll tell you about him if you likes. I got most o’ the hate out o’ me now. What do you want to know?”
“Do you know much about his life before you met him?”
“Sure, he told me stuff about how he used to live in Baradon. Does that interest you, lad?”
“Yes, very much. Go ahead. I really want to hear what you know about Baradon.”
“Voerkett’s folk was rich merchants. He was born in Baradon, and he growed up in the port city o’ Sethria. His kin was movers and shakers, high up on the social ladder.”
“What caused them to leave?” Laakea mumbled through a mouthful of stew.
“That’s the story I’ll get to if you keeps your britches on.”
“Sorry.” Laakea shoveled the last spoonful into his mouth, wiped the bowl clean with a slice of bread, and when he had eaten that, he licked his spoon clean.
“The city was under siege by your pa’s folk, and the gates of the city were about to fall. Young Voerkett’s folks hid him in a secret room ’bove their mansion’s portico to hide him from the invaders. He were a small boy, maybe eight or nine summers.”
Laakea remembered the name of the city from the stories his mother told him. According to her, Sethria was the last of the Abrhaani towns in Baradon to fall. Aelfric fought in that ultimate battle for control of Baradon’s coast and won Sethria from the Abrhaani. The Eniila forced the intruders out of Baradon and drove the Abrhaani back to Khel Braah. The victory set the Eniila free and left them in control of their homeland. Laakea’s attention shifted back to Isil’s story.
“While he was a-hidin’, he spied the city below him from the window of his secret room. Voerkett watched them Eniila bust down them city gates. They flooded into the city like a wave, and blood flowed like water in their wake. Our people was fightin’ to defend their homes and families, but they was no match for them bloodthirsty Eniila invaders.”
Laakea always imagined the battle for Sethria was a glorious rebellion of the Eniila people to repel Abrhaani interlopers. The story, told from the Abrhaani viewpoint with Eniila forces described as bloodthirsty invaders of a peaceful and prosperous city, disturbed him. Laakea wanted to correct Isil’s account, but he resisted out of loyalty to her. Isil has earned the right to her opinions without argument from me, but I know she is wrong.
“Our folk fell back to the city’s center, and the fightin’ flowed right up to the house where Voerkett was hid. The last o’ the city’s fightin’ men stood firm at Voerkett’s home, with Voerkett’s pa and his bodyguards. The guards fought off a couple o’ charges and held the steps o’ the mansion till the Eniila king showed up.”
Laakea slid to the edge of his seat and leaned forward, as his hunger for details forced him to interrupt. “Sorry, but what did he look like?”
“The king were a giant fella with a fearsome look in his eye, his armor, drenched in the blood o’ his victims. He wore a great domed helmet and carried a big two-handed sword. There were a big gash down his left cheek, so’s the side o’ his face and chest were covered in blood. Voerkett tol’ me he were a rampagin’ demon escaped from the pit o’ hell.”
Isil’s description awakened memories in Laakea. Pa has battle scars covering his body, and he has a big scar on his left cheek and temple that glow like coals from the forge when he’s angry, but many Eniila bear similar marks. He said the scar is “evidence of hard lessons learned, and bitter memories best forgotten.”
Isil went on. “Once he got there, things changed. The king organized the forces what had been skirmishin’ with the household-guard. He cut through the defenders like a hot knife through lard. His men followed him, fought their way up the blood-soaked stairs, tramplin’ the bodies o’ the fallen as they came.
“Voerkett’s household-guard surrounded his pa tryin’ to protect him, but the king and his blood-crazed mob cut their way through ’em. When the guards was dead, he made Voerkett’s pa kneel in front o’ him while they brought the servants, the women, and Voerkett’s ma out o’ the house. He made ’em kneel beside Voerkett’s pa while they looted the mansion.
“Once the valuables was hauled away, the king said to Voerkett’s pa, ‘You Abrhaani can expect more of this if you ever set foot in Baradon again. Baradon is our land, not yours. I suggests you go back to Khel Braah. The only way you stays in Baradon is dead or in chains as slaves. What’s your choice? Give your answer to my men.’ He walked away right through the bodies without waitin’ for the answer.
“Voerkett said he would never forget that face as long as he lived. He swore to get vengeance on the Eniila and their king for what happened that day.”
“Why was he so bitter when the king allowed them to leave?”
“But they wasn’t allowed to leave, laddie. Them bastards stripped and raped the women, even Voerkett’s ma. They forced his pa to watch it. Voerkett watched too, from the window ’bove the portico. Women died from repeated rapes. Once they done their worst to the women, they cut Voerkett’s pa’s head off and stuck it on a spear, a trophy they paraded around the
city. Anyone what survived got took away in chains to be slaves.”
Laakea no longer wanted to correct her version of the story. Bile stung the back of his throat. He swallowed rapidly, but the taste wouldn’t go away. Laakea imagined his reaction if he saw his mother raped, and his father butchered like an animal in front of their home. Those images could poison a person’s life forever. A lump in his throat formed as he tried to tell Isil how sorry he felt for Voerkett. “There is no honor or justice in such behavior, and I’m ashamed of my father’s people if this is true.” Afraid of the answer, he stopped himself from asking if Voerkett’s mother had survived the rapes. The moment for asking passed when Isil continued. Perhaps Voerkett never told her.
“Once night fell, the Eniila got to celebratin’ their great victory with more rapin’ and burnin’. Voerkett slipped out o’ his secret room. It took days o’ hidin in the sewers, eatin’ rats, lizards, and other filth before he found a small yacht anchored offshore. He swam out to it and climbed aboard the boat. The Eniila don’t put much stock in ships, so they had left the boats alone. The harbor was nearly empty because most had sailed away to escape the butchery, but maybe this one’s owner waited too long.
“Voerkett took more’n a tenday to sail across the Syn Gersuul by hisself to Khel Braah. He were almost starved to death, and he were sick from dehydration afore he got to Khel Braah. He used to wake up with nightmares from the memories.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Aelfric and Kett
Aelfric ignored the stiff postures, squared shoulders, and the hatred in the Abrhaani seamen’s eyes while he climbed the gangplank. He’d had sixteen years’ experience alone among men who loathed him, so their hostility was as familiar as the scars on his hands. Aelfric stalked up the narrow gangplank and stopped at the top long enough for Hermad to direct him to his berth. Once Hermad completed the errand, he left the ship again.
Aelfric found his place below, stowed his gear beneath his hammock, and lashed it in place like Hermad had instructed him. The other passenger the captain had booked was not in the cabin, but his gear, stowed below the other hammock, indicated he had sent his luggage ahead. The “fine gentleman” as the captain called him, had a significant pile of luggage, and the mound’s size was evidence of the fellow’s wealth and status. Aelfric stretched out in the hammock and waited for sleep to overtake him, but his mind chased schemes like a hunting dog pursuing a rabbit. It raced so fast slumber couldn’t catch him.
The small window of the cabin dimly lit the cramped quarters. It was now just past noon. Slivers of sunlight, reflected from the water outside, played across the beams and planks of the deck above Aelfric’s head. He ignored the noises of the deckhands and stevedores at work while he considered his options.
Once I arrive in Baradon, I see two courses I can pursue, but other possibilities might appear. The first and most direct way is to march to the front gate of the capital city, announce my identity, and challenge my brother to single combat. It’s not a smart choice, but it’s the most direct way to dispatch my underhanded brother, A tad shortsighted in the long term.
Whatever pleasure I derive from killing Aelrin, I must still get rid of Aelrin’s fellow conspirators afterward. Unless I eliminate them at the start, they might push me out of power later, either by force, by subterfuge, or by assassination. Removing them singly will consume too much time and energy. Not an optimal solution.
Another troubling thought. Although I’ve practiced daily with Laakea, I spent the last sixteen years far from combat as a father and husband, not a warrior. Aelrin has doubtless fought many battles holding on to the kingdom he stole from me and forced me into exile. Pity I never grasped his jealousy of my growing political power, and the depths he could sink, just to have it for himself.
Aelrin will be hard to kill in single combat. Perhaps he is dead, either in a duel or by an assassin’s hand. No, impossible. Aelrin is still alive. I sense it. I have a month or more to practice while aboard the Sea Witch, but training within the limited space onboard will make that near impossible.
He had not drilled since the night Laakea had fled from his anger. He had only three tendays to toughen up and hone his skills. But, if at the end of the voyage, he still felt unprepared, he could spend his silver on lodgings and wait until he felt ready or opt for plan number two.
Plan two will take longer, but it reaches farther, resolves more problems, and proves to everyone that I still have the charisma to lead. I’ll have to find enough people sympathetic to my cause, raise a force, and begin a civil war. Mercenaries won’t get the job done. I don’t have enough silver to hire warriors for a large army. I’ve never trusted sell-swords since they have a nasty habit of switching sides if their opponents offer them a richer purse.
I must win the people’s affection. The people will gladly face death with pride if they follow someone they love and respect. The people of Baradon are the army I need, not a pack of money-grubbing mercenaries. If the people put my brother’s head on a pike for me, it’s the ultimate proof of my right to rule and proves Aelrin is a pretender to the throne.
Plan two dealt with all the plotters who had helped Aelrin achieve power. The start was the most problematic part of his strategy. Aelfric needed to recruit a sizeable force to unseat Aelrin and his co-conspirators. Building an army large enough for a coup without attracting Aelrin’s attention was problematic, but a coup dealt a deathblow to challengers. A purge of the elite would boost his morale and convince the people of his legitimacy. It provided Aelfric time to strengthen his hold on power and rebuild his reputation.
Aelfric smiled at the notion and let the problem remain unsolved. He would face the challenges when and if they arose. For now, he needed rest. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, heedless of the hubbub occurring on the deck above him and the Abrhaani businessman’s wintry smile and his veiled eyes staring at him through the hatchway.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Shared Dreams
Eideron scowled at both young people and said, “Begin. Tell us what you know.”
Aibhera and Simea shared their identical dreams in a torrent of words that blended like water in a stream. They interrupted, clarified, and corrected one another. The barriers to friendship had evaporated like morning mist, only to be replaced by a feeling of dread. Himish, eyebrows raised, tapped his lips with his forefinger while Eideron leaned forward as they listened in solemn silence.
After Aibhera and Simea had finished their stories, Himish, white-faced, rubbed his chest while he spoke with Eideron. “You were correct, old friend. The Synod needs this information. Perhaps we can get their testimony onto the next meeting’s agenda. If the Eniila and the Abrhaani work together again, it fulfills the old prophecy and means we must rejoin them and bolster their efforts.”
Eideron nodded in agreement and looked at Aibhera. “Why aren’t you apprenticed to someone? Anyone can see you are extremely gifted. What was your score when the Synod tested you?”
Both young people paled as though the room’s temperature had fallen and frozen their faces into whitish masks.
“What is wrong?”
“The Synod has never tested Aibhera,” Simea blurted.
Himish said, “I detect no falsehood in the statement but—”
Aibhera interrupted Himish by holding up her hand and then silenced Simea, when it appeared he would speak again. “Don’t say anything, Sim.”
“All right then! Who assessed you? Simea’s carefully worded half-truth means someone tested your talent.” Eideron’s voice rose in volume. “Moreover, why didn’t we examine you? Every youngster must take the compulsory examination before puberty, by Synod law.”
“It’s not her fault, Master; they rejected her. They wouldn’t let her take the exams.”
“Who? Who prevented her from taking the test, and for what reason?” Eideron’s volume increased again, and Simea trembled, but he wouldn’t back down because of his loyalty to Aibhera.
“Enough! Eideron, remain calm!” said Himish. “Stop bellowing like a wounded mithun and listen to them.”
“Aibhera, tell us what happened,” Eideron said, as he took control of his passions.
“Simea told the truth. The Examination Committee refused to allow me to sit for the test. Simea felt the Synod treated me with contempt and smuggled the exam out of the exam room so I could take it under an assumed name. The council posted the scores, but they didn’t know who the extra person was since the name wasn’t on their roster for that session. They assumed it was a clerical error and posted my score along with the rest of the names.”
“What reason did Councilor Herron and his bunch of legalistic nitwits give for barring you from the exam?”
“The Examination Committee said I was unfit because my mother had engaged in a morally questionable relationship.”
“What do your mother’s actions have to do with your status?” It was Himish’s turn to raise his voice.
Aibhera continued despite the interruption. “My mother had remarried after my father died, instead of remaining single, and they said I was morally unfit because of it.”
“They can’t do that!” he spluttered. “The only reason for disallowing someone’s application is for immorality.”
“Yes, they said her mother’s immorality disqualified Aibhera and her sister Kyonna,” Simea interjected.
“What!” both men shouted in unison.
The older men’s reaction baffled the youngsters, who had expected a scolding, at the least, for disobeying the direct edict of the Examination Committee. Eideron and Himish flew into a rage, but neither man was angry with them. The whirlwind of anger and outrage left Simea nervous and puzzled, but untouched at its center.
Himish was the first to relieve their bewilderment.