"We fought all the way into Vherador, then we lost two longboats and had to come back. After that I found I'd lost my feel for Thimenia and I came home." While Tuchek spoke, he considered Celdemer Ferris. The man looked almost girlish, despite his finely polished armor and the great sword at his back. Tuchek knew that Celdemer was, despite his appearance, one of the deadliest men he'd ever known. When Tuchek, then called Eskeriel, first met Celdemer, the knight had been but fifteen, and Tuchek only a few years older. Even then Celdemer had worn his emotions wide open for the entire world to see, and his feminine mannerisms had often resulted in trouble. Celdemer's father had died young, and never been a part of his life, and women had raised him exclusively. In those days Celdemer had lacked even basic sword skill, and he'd come to join the Free Companions to avoid the constant drubbings he received at the hands of his fellow villagers.
Celdemer's knowledge of the sword came slowly, but he practiced constantly and he never forgot something once he'd learned it. Tuchek had been one of his teachers, and by the end of the war, the thin young man had survived five battles and was at least Tuchek's equal with the blade, if not the better swordsman. Still, there was something almost freakishly direct about the man. He would tell you to your face if he was upset and he would openly weep over the slightest thing. He was also so punctilious about his duty and so completely honest that he would kill his best friend if he felt it was necessary. He might weep while he did it and cry himself to sleep for days afterward, but that made him no less deadly. Today, however, he had no reason to be other than friendly to Tuchek, almost embarrassingly so.
"How long has it been, Eskeriel? Fifteen years since I saw you last? You look older, my friend, but no less tough." Celdemer gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. "You must tell me what you've been up to."
"What about you?" Tuchek asked, reluctant to be the object of discussion. "You seem to have come up in the world."
Celdemer blushed and shrugged. "You mean the armor. Of course I became a godsknight after the war, Eskeriel. You know I always wanted to. I had to apply for three terms before the Church would accept me of course, they had a problem with my, um, disportment was the word they used. I had to show them I could fight in spite of my pretty face. Ha!"
"You use the war sword now, too?"
"Oh goodness." Celdemer brushed his hand against the handle of the long weapon. "And what a problem that was! I got so tired of lugging a shield around and I liked the reach of the longer weapon. My captain laughed when I started practicing with it, but they don't laugh anymore. I'm quite good with it, you know."
Tuchek was prepared to believe it. The two-handed sword, most often called simply a war sword by veteran soldiers, was a long, heavy weapon, nearly as tall as a short man. Although it was as unwieldy as a pole-axe for most men, for those who mastered it no other weapon would serve. It would split a wooden shield at a single stroke, and, because it was wielded two-handed, would serve its user as both shield and sword in a duel. A single skilled horseman, carrying such a weapon, could break through a shield wall using it, and it was nearly as good as a lance in a joust. Undoubtedly Celdemer had applied his usual obsessive practice methods to master the weapon.
"And your rank, now?"
"I'm a captain of godsknights now, Eskeriel. I have a troop of twenty knights under me, and we're mustering here to go up to the war." Celdemer paused, his face suddenly grave. "Isn't it terrible, my friend?" He shook his head sadly. "Another Aulig war. When I think of all of those poor, brave young men it makes me want to cry." Tuchek was not surprised to see tears welling up in the knight's eyes. "Oh look. Here's my inn now. Isn't it beautiful? And look, there's one of my lancers. That's Brant. Doesn't he look fine? You should have seen the condition their armor was in before I took the command, simply disgraceful." Celdemer sniffed indignantly as the man Brant, his armor glittering in the pale sunlight, saluted sharply, putting rounded thumb and forefinger to his steel cap. The man shot a single questioning glance at Tuchek, then went to rigid attention as his captain approached.
"At ease, Brant." Celdemer laughed. "This is my good friend Eskeriel. Now don't you frown, I know he looks a dreadful old Aulig, but he's a good king's man, and I vouch for him. He's also a much better swordsman than you are, so be careful." Celdemer widened his eyes in mock alarm, hissing the last three words. Brant looked uncomfortable, but smiled weakly.
"As you say, captain." Although uncomfortable under Celdemer's eyes, the soldier looked extremely competent to Tuchek. Even standing at ease he looked ready to leap at any command. His armor was polished to perfection, and not a single line or thread was out of place in his livery. Knowing Celdemer as he did, Tuchek knew that his old friend would tolerate nothing less from men under his command, no more than he would tolerate any man who was less than a perfectly competent soldier. Whatever role Celdemer played in this war, his troop would be a force to be reckoned with.
They walked to a small table in the inn's common room. The stone-walled Golden Eagle stood head and shoulders above the other taverns and inns in Silver Run, both for the quality of its food and accommodations as well as the dignified air of its common room. No scantily clad wenches for this place. Instead the serving women affected almost an air of nobility, and the cutlery was all either highly polished silver or fine porcelain.
"Celdemer, I know you always have your ears to the ground, even if you are become a godsknight." Tuchek began. "Surely you know more about what's going on with this war than anyone else in this town. How did it start?"
Celdemer seated himself with a small fussiness that Tuchek would have found annoying in anyone else. "It is a terrible business," he began. "I'm not sure exactly why the Cthochi started the fight, although you can be sure it was they who began the killing. Either way, this war has been coming for some months. Apparently some children have been kidnapped up along the Redwater, and taken away by Auligs. The foresters tracked them as far as the river, and it was definitely Auligs who took them, Light knows why. As if that weren't enough, apparently there was a priest involved."
Celdemer grimaced distastefully. "A perfectly dreadful man, Prior Cashen, from what I have heard. A known pederast, over a hundred victims, and if I myself had known of it beforehand, I should have killed him myself. Anyway, each of the children taken, it was later found out, had been christened by him, and they were all around the same age. He committed suicide, cut his own throat by all accounts, using a briskattan to do it. I suppose that was appropriate, in a way, him killing himself with a birthing knife. He was a positive pestilence on children."
Tuchek shook his head grimly. It was not the first time a priest had been implicated in this type of thing, but certainly the severity of this priest's actions was unusual.
"A list of the names of the children was found in his residence, along with a large sum of gold. Apparently he was selling the children, or at least getting paid to tell the Auligs where they were."
"But why would the Cthochi want children?"
"Oh who knows? You know you can hardly predict an Aulig's behavior."
Tuchek looked askance at Celdemer. "Present company excluded, I assume."
"Certainly not." The blue eyes resting on Tuchek grew considering. "I know you are a good man, Eskeriel, but I also know you were born and raised Cthochi Aulig. You are probably the least predictable man I've known in my lifetime. I do so hope you won't go over to the other side in this fight. If you did that I should have to kill you, and that would be perfectly awful."
Tuchek's face grew still, knowing that despite the light tone, Celdemer was being perfectly earnest. "I wouldn't like to kill you either." He told his friend sincerely. "I haven't yet decided what side I'm going to take in this war, should it come to taking sides. To be frank, I've got other business now that seems to me more important than another fruitless border war."
"Well, I had hoped to bring you into my troop, Eskeriel." Celdemer sounded disappointed, then seeing Tuchek's horrified expression, he lau
ghed. "Not as a godsknight, of course! I know you better than that. Still, we have retainers and scouts, some of them fighting men, and you would be more than welcome in my camp. You have no idea how boring it is to fence and train with men who cannot approach my skill." The godsknight sighed. "I hope very much that you do manage to stay out of this fight, my dear Eskeriel. Still, a war can sweep men into it unintended. Be very careful of the side you choose."
They paused, seeming to have hit a sticking point in the conversation. Tuchek sipped slightly at a jack of ale. "Tell me the rest of it, Celdemer. How did the fighting start, and how is it going?"
"Well, apparently Hanjenger -you remember him of course, wonderful fighter-" Tuchek nodded absently. He had fought under Hanjenger years ago as a scout, and the man was both imaginative and competent. "He went over to parley, may have even been under a flag of truce, although no one knows for sure. The next day he washes up on the banks of the Redwater minus his head and so full of Cthochi arrows they must have had to bury him standing up. The scout who went with him was killed too, so there's no sure telling what happened on the western bank. Since then the Auligs have killed every Mortentian they could find on the western side, and quite a few on the eastern side, too. Northcraven is holding, of course. It would take fifty thousand Auligs fifty years to get through the fortresses there. The smaller villages and towns aren't doing so well, especially along the river."
"How many bands are in it?"
"All of the Cthochi, near as I can tell from rumor. Maybe a few thousand from across the sound, too. Maybe more. The king's eyes didn’t waste any time calling for a muster, I can tell you that. They must be positively desperate to send this far for troops."
Tuchek nodded, showing nothing, but inside he was thinking furiously. The missing children had something of his father's stamp on it, or someone like him. Allein-a-Briech had schemed for thirty years or more, obsessed with bloodlines and ancient prophecy, just to bring him, Tuchek, into the world. Several hundred men had been sent to their deaths so that the old druid could capture Tuchek's Hereli Aulig mother, and a war started over the affair. Every kinsman of hers who could have even arguably laid claim to his bloodline Allein had ordered secretly murdered, and even his mother murdered once he'd been born. All to fulfill a dubious prophecy. The head Cthochi shaman would not hesitate to kidnap or murder Mortentian children if it meant clarifying some ancient rhyme or dusty bit of prophecy. A war with Mortentia would be of little consequence to the man, whose entire existence was devoted to his witchery.
Tuchek's escape from his father and from the entire Cthochi tribe had broken Allein-a-Briech's heart, it was said, and his defection to the Mortentian side in the last war had nearly broken the old druid's mind, as well. Tuchek's reasons for leaving the Cthochi and then turning against them were complicated, and he still found himself doubting the wisdom of what he'd done.
He looked across the table at Celdemer and saw a man who knew exactly who he was, what he was doing and why. He admitted to himself that he was envious. If it came to it, he knew Celdemer would do his duty without hesitation, even if it meant killing Tuchek, and he wondered, should that day come, if he could act so freely. Even if he could kill the master swordsman, would he?
He prayed he would never have to find out.
Aelfric sat across from Tessil Barith in the common room of the Silver Penny, his fourth cup of wine standing half-empty. His teeth felt slightly numb from the wine, and he clacked them together experimentally. He doubted very much that he would have been able to stand steadily, although at least now his clothing was dry. Haim had drunk half again as much wine as Aelfric had, but the half-breed was holding steady in a brooding, introspective sort of way.
"You handled that sword like you knew how to use it." Tessil Barith observed.
Aelfric nodded. "Lots of instructors. As soon as I bested one, my father paid for another."
"Your father, you say. And who was your father to afford instructors?"
Aelfric put a finger to the side of his nose. "It doesn't matter, Lord Barith. My father's dead and probably unburied." He took a deep, angry breath, liking the way the air coursed thickly into his half-drunk throat. He took another swig of wine, then muttered darkly. "I'll bury a few of those who killed him, though."
"Ah." Tessil Barith nodded sagely. "Then ‘tis revenge you are after. I think that is a good thing, although the church would disagree. Gives a young man something to strive for. Tell me, Aelfric, what else are you looking for, other than men to precede your father's march to eternity?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, what is your ambition? Surely not just revenge. I can tell you that once you fill those empty graves, you will need something else to strive for. Are you a farmer, a herdsman, a craftsman? It seems a waste to let your instructors' tutelage lie wasting on some farm or in some crafthall in Arker."
"I don't know anything about farming or herding. I don't have any craft."
"You've never served an apprenticeship?" Haim looked up suddenly from his wine cup, his eyes tightening with warning. His companion's noble upbringing was a subject they had agreed to leave well-buried, if possible, and he could tell that this mercenary leader was digging close to it. Close, but not yet on the mark. Although they had agreed not to bring it up, they had not yet concocted a story that would explain Aelfric's lack of a background. Inspired by the wine, perhaps, Haim spoke up for the first time in over an hour.
"They don't teach no trades in the Blackhill."
Aelfric looked over at him sharply, his eyes widening in outrage. Haim had just intimated that Aelfric was a paroled convict! Commander Barith leaned back in his chair with an all-too-knowing look on his face.
"So that's where you're from, eh? That explains you knowing nothing of a trade, at least." Aelfric was about to speak a denial when Haim cut him off again.
"Aelfric and me agreed not to talk about our past." He said to Barith. Aelfric, sputtering, looked at his friend in horror. "We did agree not to talk about it, Aelfric, din't we?"
"You never said anything about the blasted Blackhill…" Aelfric began, but a warning look in Haim's eyes stopped his indignant reply half-said.
Barith, seeing the exchange, drew his own conclusions. "So, maybe not paroled, eh? Maybe there's a writ behind this?"
"There's no light-burned writ!" Aelfric hissed.
"Say no more." Barith and Haim said at the same moment, and Aelfric looked confusedly at both of them.
"Maybe I can help you out." Barith continued when Haim fell silent. "Maybe you need a place to go where you won't be noticed, eh? Maybe a situation where no one need ever hear your names again? I could use a couple of strong lads, one of whom at least is good with a sword, you know. Lads with the courage to act in a tight place and good reason not to go the wrong side of me." Just a slight emphasis balanced the last few words on the boundary between warning and threat, and Aelfric cursed Haim's stupidity in suggesting they had a criminal past. He, at least, was wanted, if not for the reason Tessil Barith suspected and not by the same authorities. A word in the wrong ear would see him killed by assassins from Elderest, and something of his fear must have shown on his face, for Barith continued greasily. "Don't worry lads, your secret is perfectly safe with me so long as you consider a couple of suggestions of mine…"
By the time Tuchek finished his conversation with Celdemer and returned to the Silver Penny, looking for the two lads Jecha had implicitly put in his charge, it was too late to save them. He found them in the common room, roaring drunk, wearing the ill-fitting red and black tabards of Red Tiger mercenaries over the clothes he'd last seen them in. He shook his head in disbelief, then turned and walked back to the Golden Eagle before they could see him. It was like Celdemer had said. The war had swept him up unintended.
Chapter 26: Eastern Jagle Bay, Torth Island
The wind grew in strength as it crossed the open water of Jagle Bay and joined the already gathering lambent winds there. The early summer
sun pushed the wind eastward, and by the time it broke upon the masthead of the Sally's High Touch, it was strong enough to scatter whitecaps into the sloughs between the heavy waves of a storm-boding sea.
Captain Endam Berrol knew that the storm foretold by the wind could come any day, but long years spent traveling back and forth across the decks of the Sally's High Touch told him that it would not be this day. Beneath and across his decks another storm was brewing, but like the storm behind the wind, it would not break today, perhaps not any day.
He was not fool enough to waste such a gift as the wind brought, especially after having lost several days' speed to the doldrums that had brought him back within the Bay Line and out of range of the raiders that had accompanied the one he'd burned to the waterline. The heavy surf that broke against the hull of the Sally's High Touch would have foundered the disabled pirate, and he wondered whether its sister ships had taken the time to rescue the men in the sea or simply let them perish. He knew enough of the Hyndrant pirates to strongly suspect the latter.
The confident, friendly air of his crew had blown away with the smoke of the burning ship, and his men eyed him now either with awe or superstitious dread. Only Parry Meade remained as unruffled in his unstinting discipline as before. Of course his mate had known of the Brizaki fire before he'd used it, and was therefore not shocked by it like the rest of the crew had been.
He knew he hadn't had a choice in the matter, but the dreadful fires had brought their own troubles.
With full sail on, the spinnaker out and a strong following wind, Captain Berrol knew that he could make the City of Torth now ahead of schedule. When he got there, however, he felt sure he would lose some of his crew. At the best, he knew the average Mortentian sailor's dread of the Art would cause some of them to choose other vessels in Torth; vessels that were not captained by a warlock or worse. At the worst he might find godsknights or Inquisitors coming to call, men who would wring a confession of witchcraft from his tortured lips whether he resisted or not. Then would come the fire and the stake.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 25