The others leaned in closer, speaking in whispers. “You’ve heard something?” asked Ramalyas.
“A nephew of mine works at the palace. He overheard some people talking. There have also been several messengers coming and going in the last few days.”
“The rumours?” said Zoll, nervously touching his oiled moustache.
“All true,” said Iyele, shaking his head. “Her Majesty refused a suggestion from King Taikon,” he said with a sneer. There were no suggestions from the Mad King, only orders. The propaganda from Zecorria claimed every nation in the alliance retained their sovereign power, but everyone knew the truth. Taikon ruled the west. So far his influence on Yerskania had been minimal and Gunder intended for that to continue. “The day after her refusal our warriors were given the glory of leading the charge against the Seve army. They engaged with the infidels, but soon realised they were doing so with little support. This continued for two days and many of my countrymen were needlessly slaughtered.”
Yerskania was not a nation known for its warriors. They were merchants, craftsmen and sailors. They made armour and weapons for other countries. They didn’t wield them on the battlefield. Their small army was normally used to chase down raiders in the countryside and bolster the Watch during emergencies. With the bulk of the army on the front line in Seveldrom it left the city vulnerable to outside forces.
“I lost two nephews and three nieces,” said Iyele. “They are still counting the dead in the passes. I heard four thousand, maybe as many as five.”
A heavy silence settled on their table. Gunder took off his cap, straightened his wig, then bowed his head in respect. They sat in silence for a minute before conversation resumed.
“Do you know what orders the Queen was given?” asked Gunder.
Iyele shook his head. “After a second day of slaughter, urgent missives from the palace were sent to Taikon. Heavily armed warriors from Morrinow and Zecorria took to the battlefield in place of my countrymen.”
“Blessed Mother guide their hand,” said Ramalyas, more out of rote than real belief.
The food arrived and they ate in silence, digesting the news and possible repercussions alongside their meal. Before coming to Yerskania, Gunder rarely ate fish or seafood. Here it was a staple of the local diet, and at least one meal every day contained something fishy. Because he didn’t want to attract undue attention, and he was supposed to be a native, he ate like a local. There were a few dishes he enjoyed, but at times he tired of fish and chicken, and would have killed for a juicy steak. A little beef was imported from Morrinow, but the best came from the southern grasslands of Seveldrom. The current shortage meant the price of red meat was doubling by the day. Perhaps investing in spices had been a bad idea.
Gunder’s smoked-fish platter was a modest portion compared to the others, and he devoured every mouthful with vigour. The other merchants were still eating by the time he’d finished and was greedily eyeing up a plum cake at the next table. When it was time for dessert he ordered crystallised slices of fruit, while the others ate pastries and honey-soaked cakes. Another round of ale was delivered and half was consumed before conversation resumed.
“I’ve heard some worrying rumours from the north,” said Gunder. Zoll gestured for him to continue and the others leaned in closer.
“A friend in Zecorria told me there’s been looting and burning of holy temples.”
The others looked shocked, but Zoll continued to sip his ale quietly. Gunder noticed the Zecorran’s nonchalance, but he waited for the others to spot it.
“What do you know of this?” asked Iyele.
“It’s nothing,” Zoll said dismissively, but when he saw their worried expressions he continued. “It’s only a few pagan shrines, and no one was hurt. It’s just a filthy little cult.”
“Do you know who gave the order?” demanded Ramalyas.
“Who do you think?” said Gunder rhetorically. “And how long will it be until he decides churches of the Maker, or temples of the Blessed Mother are not to his liking?”
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Ramalyas aghast.
“It won’t come to that,” promised Zoll, but even he didn’t sound convinced. Stories were already leaking out of Taikon’s palace about him killing people because they stared at him in a manner that was displeasing.
“It’s been a long day, my friends,” said Gunder, getting to his feet and pulling on his cap. “Until tomorrow.”
Taking his time and enjoying the cool night air, Gunder took a circuitous route back to his house. As a centre of commerce the capital city of Yerskania was a welcoming place to all travellers. It was often called the crossroads of the west and until the war it had seen visitors from all over the world. Traders used to come from as far away as the desert nations in the far east, along the silk road beyond Seveldrom. Now dark-skinned eastern faces were absent from the crowd and there were no tall Seves, strutting along proudly in their moulded leather armour. There were also no golden-skinned faces from Shael in the south.
Since the war began, visitors to Perizzi comprised tanned Zecorrans, lean-faced Morrin and masked Drassi warriors, following merchants and the nobility as bodyguards. There was the occasional blue-skinned Vorga, but everyone gave them a wide berth and didn’t make eye contact. As if thinking about them had summoned one, Gunder rounded a corner and nearly walked into a Vorga.
Small for a Vorga at six feet tall, it glared down at him, its hand hovering above a dagger the size of a short sword. Dressed only in a kilt and vest, he couldn’t tell if it was male or female. Both were equally brutal warriors. Its slightly damp pale blue skin glistened in the light from nearby lanterns.
“Are you blind, fat man?” it grated.
Gunder stared at the bony ridges around its wide jaw, doing his best not to look into its slightly bulging eyes. One of the Vorga’s sail-like ears flipped away from the side of its head as it bent down towards him.
“Did you say something, coward?” it hissed, showing him a row of spiky teeth. He’d rarely been this close to a Vorga but now understood why some people called them frog-faced. In truth they were more reptilian, but they would take that as an insult as well. They came from the sea and were children of Nethun, Lord of the Oceans.
With a hiss and irritated click of its teeth the Vorga stormed off and Gunder heaved a sigh of relief. A minute later two members of the Watch walked past, trailing the Vorga at a discreet distance, just in case it caused some trouble.
Gunder zigzagged his way home across the city in case someone decided to follow him. Perizzi was bisected by the River Kalmei and was criss-crossed with bridges. Seven huge stone edifices and more than two dozen footbridges wide enough for three people walking abreast. Gunder trotted across one of the smaller bridges at a brisk walk before doubling back several times.
As soon as he stepped inside the house he knew something was wrong. There was a peculiar stillness to the air, a distinct pressure against his ears. Taking a dagger from a concealed sheath in his sleeve, he slipped off his shoes and crept through the house, moving silently from room to room. In the kitchen a woman with luscious red hair was sat at his table, casually eating an apple.
“You’re late.”
Gunder heaved a sigh and sat down opposite. “I wish you wouldn’t sneak in, Roza.”
“Any news?” she said, carving another slice of apple.
“Some,” he said, then filled her in on the news about the Queen of Yerskania and King Taikon. “I suspect there will be a royal decree in the next few days.”
“Do we know what he’s ordered her to do?”
“No, but if it threatens the city, we must intervene. Send word to our contacts in the palace. We need to know what she is planning ahead of time. So, what do you have for me?”
“Rumours mostly, but I’ve heard one story from several sources about Taikon’s health.”
Gunder looked towards the heavens and pretended to pray. “We’re not that lucky. He can’t be dying.”
“Sadly not. Not only can he heal any wound, but apparently he’s now stopped eating. Servants have also seen people coming and going at all hours, so it looks as if he doesn’t need sleep either.”
“Shit,” said Gunder.
“If he never stops working, night and day, the cracks in the alliance will disappear faster than we can create new ones.”
“He’s moving more quickly than we anticipated,” said Gunder, rubbing a hand across his beard. It itched a lot, but combined with his make-up it helped make him look like a fat man.
“What do you want me to do?”
“The Warlock has been spreading stories about Taikon’s childhood to fit the holy books,” said Gunder. “Princess Talandra wants us to make sure a few different stories emerge. You know the sort. He casts no shadow. No reflection in polished surfaces. Red eyes. Take your pick. But keep them short, and let others turn them into something more. Trickle them in and send them to everyone we have. The whole network.”
Roza frowned but didn’t disagree. It would take a few days to get a message to all of his contacts in the west, and a few more before the first rumours could be trickled into the general population. But once the rumours had passed through a hundred mouths, they would mutate into something else. Soon people would be swearing they knew someone who had seen Taikon drinking blood and consorting with dark powers from beyond the Veil. Such rumours would spread quickly to all nations in the west, and become impossible to repress.
“It’s going to take a while,” pondered Roza.
“I trust your judgement. Move as fast as you can.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Send an update to the boss.”
“And then?”
“I’ve been ordered to make a new friend,” said Gunder with a chilling grin.
CHAPTER 10
The others went ahead of him into the hospital tent, but Vargus lingered on the threshold. The massive space inside was full of beds and each bore a bloody man, injured from the day’s savage fighting.
The enemy had hit them hard, and this time they’d come fully prepared, covered in heavy armour and armed to the teeth. Casualties had been high as they’d not expected the western enemy to be so brutal. They seemed driven by insatiable rage; many had screamed and cursed, declaring them evil, abomination and blasphemers. The manipulations and lies of King Taikon and his cronies had worked them into a religious frenzy. Some of the Morrin had even been foaming at the mouth, driven insane by narcotics or religious fervour. They believed their cause was righteous, and that they were fighting on the side of light. They were heroes, cleansing a putrid stain from the land which would usher in a new age of peace. Trying to convince them of something else would be pointless. Vargus knew if he were in their position it would sound like propaganda. This war would not be over quickly or solved with words.
Surgeons with black caps moved around the long hospital tent, tending to the worst injured, while nurses looked after the rest. Sisters of Mercy sat with the dying, cradling them, singing lullabies, cuddling and kissing them until their eyes glazed over and their hearts stopped. Incense burners sat in all four corners, and at regular spaces along the tent, but the whole place still smelled of blood and shit.
To Vargus’s right a man started gasping his last breath, crying out for his mother as blood seeped through the bandages on his chest. A Sister of Mercy held him tight, paying no attention to the blood he spat on her clothes and face. A few more breaths and then he was gone. The Sister laid him out flat, crossing his arms over his heart and gently closed his staring eyes. Only then did she wipe the dead man’s blood and spit from her face.
She glanced briefly at Vargus and he thought she looked familiar. She was tall, with wavy red hair and green eyes. Looking more closely at her face he realised it bore a passing resemblance to someone from a long time ago.
“I bet you need a drink more than me.”
The woman offered a tired smile before turning away to wrap the dead body in a sheet with calm efficiency. Two stretcher bearers came in and took the body away. It wouldn’t be long before the bed was filled with another dying man, pissing himself and bleeding to death.
“Are you just going to stand there?” asked Hargo from further down the tent.
Vargus took a deep breath then wished he hadn’t as the smell of the blood and death stuck in his throat. Halfway down the tent a group of warriors had gathered around the bedside of Benlor the ranger. His right leg ended just below the knee where it was covered with a thick swathe of white bandages. Benlor’s face was pale, yet he looked calm and at peace. He wasn’t being tended by a Sister of Mercy or a priest, which was encouraging. Knelt at his side was his twin, Rennor, who looked distraught in comparison, as if he’d absorbed all the pain of his brother’s injury.
The other lads wore sombre expressions, but were also grateful it wasn’t them lying on the bed with one and a half legs. A few kept staring at the ground, not knowing where to look, or maybe they were counting their toes and glad to be coming up with the right number.
“If any of you start crying I will get up off this bed and strangle you,” Benlor warned them. “I’m not going to die, am I Vargus?”
“No, you’re not,” he said, squatting down beside the bed. He offered Benlor the bottle of southern whisky he’d brought with him. “I thought you might fancy a drop. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Ah, my favourite,” said Benlor, cradling the bottle to his chest.
“That’s good whisky,” muttered Black Tom. “Expensive stuff.”
“How would you know, Tom?” asked Orran, but Tom just shrugged.
Benlor hid the bottle behind his arms. “Don’t think I’m going to share it with any of you beer-swilling dogs.”
“Don’t be greedy now,” said Rudd, licking his lips. As ever he was hungry, and thirsty. “We’ve got refined taste.”
“Rudd, you couldn’t tell the difference between wine and beer if you were blindfolded.”
“Both get you drunk in the end, so what’s it matter?” he asked the others. Curly shrugged, clearly confused as well.
“You see what I have to put up with?” said Benlor, and his brother forced a smile. “This whisky is exactly what the doctor ordered.”
“It’s not going to make his leg grow back though, is it?” snapped Rennor, gulping back a sob. An awkward silence settled on the group and the tension increased. Black Tom pursed his lips as if he were about to spit, changed his mind and swallowed with a grimace. The uncomfortable silence stretched on for a while.
“I’ll tell you one good thing about this,” said Vargus to the twins. “From now on, it’ll be a lot easier to tell you two apart.”
Rennor was horrified and on the verge of violence, until Benlor began to laugh. His whole body shook until tears ran down his pale cheeks.
“You sick bastard,” muttered Rennor, but he too was smiling.
“Ben, we did all we could. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough,” said Vargus. The ranger gripped his hand tightly.
“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Before I met you and we started the…” He trailed off, trying to find the right word.
“If you say cult, I will cut off your other leg,” warned Vargus.
“I was going to say brotherhood. Fair enough?”
“I suppose.”
“Before that, I was just another warrior for the King. I had my unit and we were friends, but nothing like this. I’ve lost a leg, but I’m still a richer man.” His gaze swept over the gathered group. He wanted to say more, but didn’t have the words. Hargo and the others understood. There was no need to say it.
A nurse came to check on Benlor and frowned at the group. “Do they all have to be here?”
“They’re family,” said Benlor.
The nurse stared at the men, none of whom looked even vaguely alike, and raised an eyebrow.
Vargus took the hint. “Get some rest. Safe journey home.”
The
others said their goodbyes and began to file out, leaving Benlor alone with his brother.
As he was about to leave the tent Vargus felt a prickle run up the back of his neck, as if he were being watched. He turned around, expecting one pair of eyes, but instead saw dozens. Along both sides of the tent, all of the wounded men were staring in his direction. Every warrior still able to move raised an arm in salute. A final farewell between brothers.
It was dark when Balfruss woke up in his tent. He must have slept for eight hours and yet still he felt exhausted and wrung out. The fight from earlier in the day had proven more draining than he had realised. Emerging from his tent, he saw Eloise reading by the fire and Darius adding spices to a pot of bubbling stew. His stomach growled at the smell, reminding him it had been a long time since his last meal.
“Just in time,” said Darius, handing him a bowl, which he filled with rice and then a generous helping of stew.
“Where are the others?” asked Balfruss, blowing on his food to stop it burning his mouth.
“Asleep or resting. I’m sure the smell of food will bring them around.”
“He won’t come,” said Eloise, fixing Balfruss with a pointed stare. He didn’t have to ask who she meant.
“At least let the man eat first,” Darius chided her.
“I’ll speak to him,” said Balfruss. “I promise.”
They ate the rest of their meal without mentioning him. Ecko came to the fire to eat with them, but had little to offer in the way of conversation. Their shared stories and adventures in the far east meant little to him, although he listened with polite interest. Until recently Ecko had never left his tribe, or homeland, in the north. Unable to share stories and experiences of travelling abroad, Balfruss tried a different approach.
“Tell me something about your people. About their history.”
“I could tell you many stories,” said Ecko, mopping up the last of his stew with some flat bread. “Tales of the Weaver, the Sky God and the Underking, but they would only be reflections of what is true. Perhaps you should visit with us to learn about my people.”
Battlemage Page 9