War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  “Try me and die, Thimenian.” The little man said, and his voice gave him away.

  Jarlben walked up and stood in front of him. “How old are you, boy? Ten?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You killed my father.” The boy’s voice cracked as he spoke through his tears. Still, he charged forward with his little sword, and put his fingers in his mouth when Jarlben smashed it stingingly from his hands and into the sand with his axe. His hair was jet black and his eyes were brilliant blue, even in the moonlight. The boy made fists and came on weaponless, and Jarlben kicked his feet out from underneath him. Several Thimenians put their boots on the boy, pinning him to the ground.

  “I’ll kill you!” The boy cried, his voice muffled in the sand.

  Jarlben chuckled. “Aye, I think you will, but not this night, boy.” Several other men chuckled or laughed. “How are you called?”

  The boy paused for a moment, and then spoke bitterly. “I have not earned a name.”

  “You have today, boy. From now on, if ever you come to Valtheim you will be the boy who stabbed Jarlben. I am bleeding near my ass, and your sword is the reason.” Several more Thimenians laughed at this.

  “Now listen to me, Boy Who Stabbed Jarlben’s Ass.” The chieftain’s tone was hard. “One day you will come to Valtheim to kill me, and maybe you will do it. I killed your father tonight, and you may seek your lawful vengeance. But when you come, and if you kill me dead as is your right, I want you to remember this night. I am not going to kill you, even though I have every right to do it. I am not going to take you thrall, and I am not going to mark you. On the day when you come for your vengeance to Valtheim, I may have many sons there and many grandsons. When you have them before you, remember that on this night I showed you mercy. You will hate me for it, as you should, but remember it.”

  There were many good weapons and bows in the camp which the Thimenians hastily gathered, then they stripped the best of the armor from the dead Borni. Some of the Thimenians went with Levin to the place where the Borni had beached their ship. He called out in the darkness in Mortentian. “Hello, is anyone there?”

  A woman’s voice answered him in the same language. “Who are you?”

  “I am Levin Ghoulslayer, and I killed twenty ghouls on Damrek Island. Who are you?”

  “I am Marcella Tanager from Greentown. If you are a Mortentian, I sure am glad to hear your voice. We’re twenty of us chained up in here. We haven’t eaten in two days.”

  Limme spoke up. “Marcella, it’s me, Limme. We’ve come to rescue you.”

  “Lio’s breath, Limme? Praise the Secret Gods!”

  Levin did not comment on the incongruity of mixing the new and old faiths.

  When Walks Tall stabbed the sleeping Thimenian by the dark of the moon, he knew immediately that he’d been tricked. It was not a body but a bag of rags beneath the blanket, with a shredded bit of cloth for hair. All along the beach his men found the same, to their great consternation.

  Fifty paces out from the beach the Thimenian longship’s sail dropped and caught the wind, pulling it away north on a swift tack on the constant westerly breeze. The halfman they called Kuljin peered over the side, and Walks Tall heard his voice. “Looks like nobody is home, Borni.” He called. “When you get back to the Borni Forest you can tell them that Jarlben the Mighty stole your ship!”

  Walks Tall cursed at him, but the Borni had brought only swords to kill the Thimenians, and he had no way to shoot the halfman. “Back to the camp, run!” He called, but he already knew it was too late. He knew what he would find.

  Dawn found the longship and the White Bear’s Wrath rafted together on the Wrath’s too large anchor, just half a mile out to sea from Hulmar’s camp, where an occasional Borni could be seen gesticulating angrily or walking listlessly about. The thralls had all been released from their chains, and the twenty rag-clad Mortentian women were gratefully breakfasting on stores of food and fresh water taken from casks and barrels in the Wrath’s hold. There was a great deal of salted herring, which Levin could barely stomach, but the women were grateful to have it.

  “How does she look?” Jarlben asked Ohtar the Orange, who was still beneath decks inside of the Wrath.

  “She stinks!” The man proclaimed, but that much was obvious to everyone. The Borni had not bothered to clean the waste from the hold, despite the presence of twenty-one thralls, and Aulig ships stank as a rule anyway. This floating cesspool could be smelled miles away, but it was not the kind of smell that attracted sharks. They had probably left a trail of dead fish in their wake from Tarnanvolle to Northcraven Deep.

  “Sheo’s Breath, I know she stinks. How about the plunder? Do they have two talents of silver?”

  “Much more than that, chieftain.” Ohtar’s reply was happy. “More like ten or eleven talents, I should say.” Jarlben sat down in wonder, then hopped back up when his wound touched the bench on the longboat.

  “I should have killed that boy.” He muttered under his breath.

  “You did worse than kill him.” Kuljin replied. “You showed him mercy. He will never forgive you for it.”

  “Bah, it’s the damned Ghoulslayer. He’s making me soft.”

  “Sure, blame me.” Levin replied. “At least I had the guts to go after Yset.”

  “Guts? That was insanity. You were lucky to survive it.” Ohtar the Orange said, laughing.

  “Ten or eleven talents, and a full share for everyone.” Jarlben announced. There was a roar of approval.

  “What about the Borni ship, chieftain?” Goric son of Goric asked in Thimenian. “I’d not like to sail in her, and I don’t think any amount of washing will do her any good. I don’t even like the idea of towing her. We don’t have a rope long enough to keep her stink off of us.”

  Kuljin translated the question and Jarlben’s answer to Levin.

  “We loot her and burn the stink from her.” Jarlben replied, and Kuljin looked at Levin expectantly.

  “Something to say, Ghoulslayer?” Limme was looking at him too.

  “I’ll take the ship for my share, Jarlben.” Levin said. “And I’d like to take these women back to their homes.”

  Jarlben looked at him and considered, then he laughed. “Ghoulslayer, you are so stupid. That was the plan the whole time. Mulgraff and I meant you to have this ship and these thralls from the day that stupid Walks Tall offered me two talents of silver.” Mulgraff nodded, grinning widely.

  “Of course you must go back to your home, but we must go back to ours. We are all rich men now, even you, Ghoulslayer. It is time to take our silver and our gold and wet our beards with ale and wet our cocks with women. We do not take Borni leftovers for thrall, Ghoulslayer. You may have them all back, and also a full share from this stinking ship.”

  Levin found unexpected tears in his eyes, and he wiped them with the back of his hand. He stepped forward and grasped Jarlben’s forearm, but Jarlben would have none of it. He pulled Levin into a bear hug instead. “I hope you never come reaving to my shores, Jarlben.” He said.

  “I hope not also. I should hate for you to kill me.” Then he winced and grabbed at the back of his leg. “Of course, I think that little Borni bastard is going to kill me first.”

  Kuljin stood up from beside Jarlben and grabbed his sea bag. Jarlben looked at him with surprise. “You want to go with him, halfman? You know what they do to your kind in Mortentia.”

  “I know, Jarlben, but I still have lessons to teach him, and I think adventure follows him like a storm crow. I know a place in Mortentia I can go to if I need to.” He clasped hands with Jarlben but also got the hug. “Have safe travels, my friend, but not too safe.”

  “May your enemies always shit their pants at the sight of you, Halfman.”

  Gear was shifted, bags were thrown back and forth between the boats, the lines were untied and the White Bear’s Wrath weighed anchor for Mortentia, loaded with twenty-one women for crew and Levin and Kuljin as captain and first mate. The ship stank, and it leaked,
and it was barely seaworthy. It was not a bad beginning, Levin thought, as he watched the red sail of the longboat tacking away to the north while he held the tiller on a beam tack to the southwest, a hard and unsteady tack across the waves, with the Wrath’s ill-made keel slipping from time to time, almost into the wind.

  Chapter 61: Aelfric, Walcox Camp and Points West and North

  Aelfric got up from the wooden stool that so often lately seemed to have attached itself permanently to his rear end, taking a long moment to stretch his legs and arms, and then marched a few steps to get the blood moving again. His dinner, a combination of bread, buttered bread and sweet bread, lay half-eaten next to a wooden mug of dark and bitter ale he hadn’t touched. It was too hot for drinking ale, and the heat had stolen much of his appetite as well. Bishop Weymort stood when he did, and although the bishop had finished his mug of ale and another, he rose on steady feet. Whatever effects the spirits in the ale might have had, the heat burned them away almost as fast as a man could sweat. Both Aelfric’s tabard and the bishop’s livery were sopping, and Aelfric knew that he’d picked up a bit of the gamy odor that seemed to prevail in the command tent, jokingly called the Privy Lord’s Privy by some of the wittier men in camp.

  Haim and several other fyrdmen had a collection of some hundred men marching in a long circle around the broad field south of what was left of the town of Walcox, and as they marched they sang a song of the free companies that was old before Aelfric had been born. His father’s men might have sung it twenty years ago during the last Aulig war:

  “I was drinking jack in Kancro Town, waiting on a sail,

  My woman left me for a sailor man.

  Fyrdman came and sat him down, offered me an ale,

  He had a silver penny in his hand.

  He said you look so troubled son, let us get a flagon,

  We drank til we were blind as men can be.

  I woke up on a forced march, a-lying in a wagon,

  He said welcome to the Free Company.

  Now I’m marching with the free company,

  I got blisters on my feet, and I think they’re going to bleed

  I’m marching with the free company,

  Brother, don’t sign nothing you can’t read.

  Well, I went up to the fyrdman, I said brother I am gone

  I didn’t sign up for this, and I really don’t belong

  He said son that is desertin’, and they’ll hang you from a tree

  So I’m marching with the free company.

  Marching with the free company,

  I got blisters on my feet, I got water on my knee

  Marching with the free company,

  Brother don’t sign nothing you can’t read.

  Well I done bespoke the captain, I said captain let me free

  I didn’t sign up for this, that fyrdman played a trick on me

  He took a piece of paper and he showed my mark to me,

  Said get marching with the free company.

  Marching with the free company,

  I don’t want to be no spearman and the spearmen don’t want me

  Marching with the free company,

  Brother, don’t sign nothing you can’t read.”

  There were a hundred different verses, and probably as many different versions of the chorus, too. Aelfric knew most of them by heart, for he had heard it and sung it all the way from Silver Run to Walcox, and he knew the men could add to the story of the hapless recruit from early morning all the way until dark. Ironically, although the men didn’t know it yet, they weren’t really in a free company anymore.

  Aelfric stretched his neck and reached into the scroll pouch that seemed to always be at his belt these days. It was a letter, signed by the king himself, and addressed to Aelfric by name.

  To Our Most Esteemed Lord Aelfric of House D’root,

  Son of Hambar D’root the Renowned, Liberator of Maslit

  Lord of Root’s Bridge and D’rut Keep,

  From Our Hand this the twenty-fifth Day of Indicas,

  In the Fourth Year of Our Reign

  We have heard of your achievements on the field of battle nigh unto the ancient town of Valkaz, and we offer congratulations on this most significant and important victory. As you are doubtless aware, this victory gives the entire Kingdom of Mortentia great joy, and the vanquishing of so large a host should fill our enemy with fear.

  In keeping with the wishes of our esteemed late father, the Great King Byroth D’Cadmouth, Vanquisher of the Cthochi and Restorer of Justice, etcetera, etcetera, the lands which were won by your father have been restored to your house free of all encumbrance, and to you personally as the lawful heir, the much lamented decease of your father having now become evident.

  We have further become aware of the great prevalence of our enemy in the lands north of the Whitewood Forest, and the besiegement of the most valuable and essential City of Northcraven. At the present pass it is not possible for Our Person to undertake the hazard of journeying out of Our Regency.

  Furthermore, as Our most esteemed cousin the Right Duke of Northcraven lies distressed and without communication, it is incumbent upon Us to appoint such a person as We deem trustworthy to execute Our will within such jurisdiction as strength of arms might secure, and THEREFORE,

  It is hereby decreed, adjudged and ordered that you, Lord Aelfric D’root of Root’s Bridge Freehold, are forthwith appointed to secure such position of strength as you are able, and to execute Our will within, such as you deem it to be. Furthermore, you are to attempt to secure such frontier as you deem fitting and to relieve the distress of the City of Northcraven insofar as is possible for you.

  In order that Our will should be accomplished, the following powers are hereby DELEGATED unto you for not longer than the duration of the emergency; or until such prior time as you release them: Draft of Peasantry, Levy of Freemen, Non-Capital Judgment In Civil Matters, Capital Judgment in Military Affairs, Assumption, Confiscation and Appropriation.

  Furthermore, insofar as you are able, you are commanded to apprise Us of developments as they occur, and in connection with such duty, you may command the Eyes of the King.

  Executed this the 25th of Indicas,

  In the Fourth Year of Our Reign,

  Falante D’Cadmouth, keeper of the realm, securer of the peace, defender of the true faith, etcetera, etcetera.

  Aelfric had taken it to Commander Faithborn of the Hammers right away, to make sure that it said what he thought it did. The commander had read through it once, then sat down and read it again. “Balls of fire, Aelfric. He’s made you his Hand in Northcraven.” The commander said after his second reading.

  “I don’t understand.” Aelfric said. “Does this mean I’m his lead general now?”

  “No. Not at all. You’re his Hand in Northcraven. It means all the generals answer to you. And no offense, Aelfric, and I hope you don’t take this wrong, but he must be really desperate. You’re a right brilliant tactician, and nobody can dispute that, but to make you his Hand? It means no one else would do it, or he couldn’t find anyone else.”

  “Why no one else?”

  “Because this is a slap in the face aimed at every Earl, Lord Mayor, High Captain and King’s Regent in the north. Certainly the Lord Mayor of Nevermind would have wanted the post, also the Lords Mayor of Redwater and Brinnvolle or the Earls of New Brinnvolle and Theotman Common. That’s to say nothing of the godsknights. There are many prominent men in that group, several of them with military experience. But he picked you.”

  “You think you know why, don’t you?” Aelfric could see it in Faithborn’s expression.

  “Yes.” The man said, nodding sadly. “Because you are the only one with an intact army in the field. It means that all of the northern musters have either failed to materialize or been killed; and it means that none of the musters from south of the Whitewood are likely to be here before winter. And we’re supposed to break the siege of Northcraven? We’ve barely five thousand men h
ere.”

  Aelfric sat down, stunned by the implications of the letter. It was as Faithborn had said. It was the only explanation that made sense. He looked at the letter again. “Sweet Lio. Is that what ‘secure such position of strength as you are able’ means? He doesn’t expect us to win back the north. He just wants us to dig in and hold onto something, because he’s not sending help.”

  Faithborn nodded. “He’ll be happy if you hold anything at all, I think. And you notice there’s no exchequer’s order attached. We won’t be getting any gold, either.”

  “How am I supposed to pay the men? The money we have will dry up in two months.”

  “Like the letter says. Draft, Levy, Assumption, Confiscation and Appropriation. Fancy words that mean you have the power to order Mortentians to fight for you, be they peasant or freemen, and you don’t have to pay them. You can order any local nobles to provide you with men, you can assume the command of any armed force you encounter, and you can take gold and silver wherever you can find it.”

  “He’s made me a bandit.” Aelfric said aloud.

  “No, he’s made you a king, sort of. Not that there’s always a difference.”

  Aelfric watched the men marching. They were all Red Tigers, both old ones and new. The old ones could be distinguished by their fading rust colored tabards, tabards that they made dead sure they didn’t lose or tear. The alternative was the horrible blotchy purple ones that were the result of dying royal crimson with blue woad dye. The men called them piss purple, because the process of making the blue dye involved mixing woad leaves with drunkard’s piss. For some reason regular piss wouldn’t do, and Edwell the clerk had a steady stream of volunteers to get drunk and fill buckets with piss to make the dye.

  Aelfric had seen battle now, though, and the piss purple tabards were still a better alternative than bloodstained ones. Since receiving the letter he’d put a stop to the dyeing of tabards, though. There was no reason for it anymore. He had command of all of the troops here, even Faithborn’s, although he saw no reason to assert his authority with the Hammers. Faithborn was a fine commander, and he needed no direction.