Qas laughed. “My fortunes are about to redouble. I hereby release these crowns to their destiny.” He emptied a small wooden security box, lined with purple cloth, and pushed the last handful of coins forward. “Alas, I must cover the rest with a credit note.”
Sirath stared greedily at the gold. He didn’t yet feel that the reward from the councilor was his. It still seemed a mistake — that the council would demand it back. But everything here would be fairly won.
“This promises the bearer twenty crowns,” Qas threw a parchment to the table. It was decorated like Pieter’s merchant bond, though not quite so colorful. Clearly a sign that Sirath was still favored by Fortune. “Your turn, Mishak, my luck-starved friend.”
Mishak moaned at his cards. “What ridiculous amounts do we stake here? Has anyone checked their abacus? I am running out of change.” The squat Lithian had a face like beaten leather, and wore a fur and hide jerkin. He tossed in a handful of gold coins, and copper bangles that covered his arms jingled with them.
Sirath disliked Lithians on sight — one had beaten Lucen bloody, for no provocation other than impatience. But Mishak had said he was Marresh tribe, and blamed the blood of the Aremian horse people in the Hurkesh and Agadesh tribes for their reputation. Sirath was happy to accept that, so long as this Lithian paid up a losing stake.
“I will use this.” Mishak reached down for a canvas satchel by his feet. He removed from it a leather folder, and placed it on the table. “This cartulary was used in payment for my saltpeter, and will call you fools for what you are.”
Sirath frowned. “A what?”
“A collection of rights and privileges,” Jerine explained.
Mishak nodded. “Charters and deeds, for a small parcel of land with a keep. The administrators of Admollan valued it at one thousand guilders. That will cover my stake at fifty crowns.”
Sirath snorted. With that worth, the keep couldn’t be much to look at. But he would hardly sniff at becoming a landowner, no matter how small.
“Qas, you’re a blag and a bluff, and I will see you called for it.” Isobelena-Annalishia claimed to be a trade envoy for Queen Gallerisha of Nahadaradica. And a virgin priestess. Dressed in a carpet gown of many colors, she’d said she was forbidden carnal knowledge before she was thirty. After, she could take as many husbands as she liked. Sirath had grinned and attempted to charm her for that. Until Jerine whispered that his attention invited castration, and that her retinue included eunuchs with razor-sharp sickles. Sirath had felt himself shrivel at the thought.
Isobelena pushed the last of her coins forward, then reached behind her head and unfastened a silver necklace — a pair of entwined serpents, hung from a chain. She lay it on top of the coins, with a confident smile. “The authority of the Goddess. Priceless.”
Qas laughed. “My friends, the cards are called. Reveal your hands.”
Sirath’s heart beat too fast as he stared at the gold. Lusting for it. His excitement building to make it his own. He lay down his cards — a King’s House, made up with a jester.
The others followed suit. Qas had five princes, Mishak a Queen’s Rush. Isobelena also had a King’s House, but without a jester.
Each hand was worth a wager for in any game, but Sirath’s was the highest. He cried out for joy. This treasure was his! He reached over to draw in his winnings.
Mishak grabbed his arm. “A natural always trumps a jester. Isobelena wins.”
Sirath froze, and held his breath. “Not where I come from it bloody doesn’t!” He stood from his seat. His legs quivered, and his throat became so tight that he could barely speak. “What’s this crap about jesters not winning?” Everyone took an interest in his raised voice.
Qas’s good humor thinned. “As I said, we played Irithian rules.”
Sirath couldn’t move. They were trying to cheat him. Just like at that inn, where he’d claimed the mules in compensation. He wasn’t going to stand being robbed again. Not over gold. He looked for anything nearby to aid him, even a weapon.
Jerine lay her cards to the table. “I think congratulations may be premature.” The painted Wheel of Fortune lay face-up on her cards. The table went quiet.
Qas laughed heartily. “You hold Fortune in your fingers, literally so. Jerine wins!”
Jerine touched Sirath’s arm. “I’ve won. I’ll return all your money to you. You’ve lost nothing. Sit down.”
Sirath’s gut was wound tight and he wasn’t sure how to react. His strength drained, and he flopped back in his seat.
The merchants marveled to see so many strong hands played in the game. Jerine took the silver necklace, fastened it around her neck, and wore it.
Qas offered Jerine his empty money box. “Alas that my gold should feel homesick. Here, take this, then it shall not.”
Jerine took it with thanks. She placed it onto her lap, and dragged the coins from the table to clatter into it. She placed the credit note and leather folder on top. Then closed the lid and locked it with the small brass key provided. “My apologies if my friend offended,” she said, indicating Sirath. “Last night he tackled a gang of street thugs, so that others could escape a fire at our inn. He suffered a head wound for his troubles.”
The merchants spoke excitedly on the recent spate of fires, and the bright, falling star proceeding them. The hope was that none of this would affect the Imperial Tournament. The merchants then fell to chattering about their favored charioteers, and a rivalry between a Musclosios for the blues, and a golden-nosed Scorpios for the greens.
Sirath hated their chatter, hated the charioteers, hated the thought of a golden nose. Despised that he’d lost, and felt forced to accept that. And ashamed that Jerine apologized at his indignant right. But there was little point upholding the truth that he’d been cheated when she offered to return his lost fortune.
Jerine stood from her chair and held out her hand for him.
Sirath took it. “You said I saved your life. Is that why you’ll give my gold back?”
“No. It’s for friendship. I’d say that’s more valuable.”
Ezekiel was pacing near the door. “At last. Can we now please return to Erin?”
Jerine nodded to him, then looked at Sirath. “I’ll sort out your share at the Bod and Bumpkin.” She gave her farewells to the merchants at the table.
Sirath was just glad to leave, wanting to forget that he’d almost lost all his wealth.
The world outside was blinding bright. Every color was too sharp, and every smell stronger. The noise of the street almost overwhelmed. But he still had his money, and that meant possibilities. First, get back to that tavern, and see if Ulric and Dalathos had returned. Then leave, before anything else happened.
Prepare to Arms
Ulric
Ulric breathed in the smells of wild heath, as the Emperor’s Guard continued their ride. He no longer held the reins so tight, and could keep one hand free without fear of falling.
The land had become more wild, like the valleys of home. The paved road scythed through long grass littered with tufts of hogweed and clumps of bramble. Nearby copses of trees were a mix of pale beech, rough firs, and thick, wrinkled oaks. Good old ones, too. The sight of hills to the east called to him.
He could settle in a place like this — whittle the face of Old Man Forest into logs to sell in the city markets. He could track for a boar and challenge it. Then cut the pork into steaks for drying, gut the carcass for sausages, and boil the bones for broth. He might trade the hide for eggs, cheese, and milk, as he’d done so at Del.
He wouldn’t need to return to the city at all. He could stop and make camp here. He might get some hunting done before evening.
But if he did that, it might spoil things for Dalathos all the more. They’d ridden under a cloud after arguing with the officer. The Emperor’s Guard were important to Dalathos, and Ulric wanted to respect that. But he’d no wish to suffer their arrogance any more. They didn’t want him with them, and he didn’t care for th
em, either. Dalathos had found his place. Ulric would leave for his. He’d watch for where the spirits of this land welcomed him, then go his own way, and let the others go theirs. If —
“The carriage!” The cry went up at the front as they rode over a ridge.
The Emperor’s Guard become tense and excited. Ulric shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as they cleared the low summit, unsettled by the change in mood. Ahead, four black horses pulled a covered carriage toward them.
Soldiers rode behind it, as if in pursuit. A knight led them, a black and white tabard over his armour. The soldiers pulled their mounts from the road. They broke to a canter across the grass, directly at the Emperor’s Guard. Swords flashed to the air.
Commander Mollinos shouted, “Prepare to arms!”
The Emperor’s Guard drew their sabers, and spurred their horses on.
Ulric felt his palms sweat in his gloves. No one had explained the reason for their commission. Danger now screeched through his bones.
Commander Mollinos yelled, “For honor and blood, charge!”
The Emperor’s Guard broke to a gallop. Their horses kicked up a spray of mud and clods of grass.
Ulric rollicked and bounced in his saddle as he struggled to keep up. “Dal, what’s happening?”
“Get your ax out!” Dalathos scrambled to unstrap his greatsword.
Ulric heard fear in his voice, and struggled with his own rising panic. He fumbled to unstrap the weapon from his belt — his hands had become numb and clumsy.
The two groups rode at one another. Ulric and Dalathos trailed behind.
“Keep with me!” Dalathos drew his greatsword over his lap, then shoved his baldric back over his shoulder.
Ulric felt his heart drum in dread to the thunder of hooves. He needed to believe this was a game — a practice, a drill. A show of strength between friends.
The horsemen ahead came together and clashed. Horses plunged forward and reared back. Soldiers stood in their stirrups and slashed with their swords. Metal clattered and scraped. Men yelled and screamed. Horses whinnied. Riders tumbled to the grass.
A few soldiers galloped through, directly at him.
Dalathos broke ahead. He whirled his greatsword in a loop through the air. Left, then right. Gouts of blood spurted from two headless soldiers.
Ulric shriveled in his saddle, sick with horror. He stared too long in disbelief. His breath stuck in his throat. A rider loomed up, almost upon him. A sword lashed out. Ulric shrank back and raised his ax protectively. He half-closed his eyes and tensed for a blow to his body.
Something rang against his ax. His arm peeled back with the force. That unbalanced him — he slid from his saddle, and his feet slipped from his stirrups. Ulric fought to pull himself upright with the reins. But his mule jolted too much and he fell.
He let go, with wits enough to throw his ax aside — so as not to fall on it. Then he hit the earth with a thump, and rolled heavily. When he came to a stop he lay dazed on his stomach. There was grass on his chin and mud in his mouth. The ground rumbled through his body. He knew he lay helpless, but was too winded to move. He expected death to claim him any moment — trampled by horses, else a sword in his back.
He struggled to rise, desperate to flee. His body shook like a leaf in a gale. His breath went too fast, and no good air came to his lungs. His chest was so tight he thought he would vomit.
A hoof stamped by his face, then was gone.
His good ear was filled with hollering, squealing, and crying. A horse screamed like nothing he ever wanted to hear again.
One of the Emperor’s Guard leaned over him. Ulric dared to hope that meant safety. But the guard’s face was bloody and torn, and the top of his head had been cracked open, like an egg. The man collapsed with a sigh, his bloodied brains showing.
Ulric shivered in revulsion. He managed to climb up into a crouch. Something struck his head and his helmet spun away. He reeled back, stunned for a moment; found himself sprawled against a fallen horse. It shuddered, covered with gore.
The world became distant and silent, surrounded by shadows. Ulric didn’t want to die, didn’t want to be fighting. But if he wasn’t to be killed, he must grab his ax and defend himself. If he could find it. His heart cried out a prayer to keep his auntie safe. And, if he died, for her not be too upset.
He scrabbled and groped for his weapon. The grass was red and slick and stank like foul water. His hand grasped the haft of his ax. Relief surged through his blood. His muscles pumped hot and his body seemed to grow beneath him. Standing up, holding his weapon, something inside snapped loose.
Metal and Blood
Dalathos
Dalathos swung Protector from side to side with one hand, his other gripping the reins. The weight tore at his forearm, the balance all wrong from the saddle. His mule veered and swerved under each swish of the blade.
He gritted his teeth as he forced his way past the melee of riders. The ring of striking metal had never sounded so terrible. Men around him squealed like pigs being slaughtered. Protector struck a soldier in the back — the blow changed its momentum and almost caught his own mount with the backswing. Dalathos struggled to regain control. He glanced behind to ensure that he didn’t endanger Ulric with the movement. His stomach dropped to see Ulric’s mule follow with an empty saddle.
A horse bolted across his path — too close to avoid. His mule collided with it. Dalathos spun through the air, then slammed into the ground. He scrambled to his feet. A blade slashed down his arm. It gashed open his blue tunic and slid down the mail.
A soldier stood with a sword, his face sweating and eyes wild.
Dalathos could only stare, defenseless — Protector was somewhere in the grass.
The soldier raised his sword to strike.
Dalathos stumbled forward and barged into him. The soldier staggered back, behind a black horse that bucked and reared. A hoof clipped the soldier in the ear, and he dropped without a sound. Then the horse collapsed over him.
Breathing hard, Dalathos turned and frantically sought Protector. It lay only a few steps behind. He snatched it up, and with both hands held the Plough stance — hilt at his hip, blade rising up — ready to parry any attack.
Horses, riders, and men fighting on foot, surrounded him. The air was filled with hollering and whinnying, and the abattoir stench of metal and blood.
A soldier galloped at him.
Dalathos retreated back a step, then swung out from fear. The blow lacked discipline and strength, and he missed. Then the rider was gone.
Boots thumped behind him.
Dalathos swung around and fumbled a parry. He locked swords with a soldier whose face was pale and speckled with dirt. They grunted, and stared at one another. Then Dalathos shoved him away, and chopped down, deep into the shoulder. Dalathos struck again and again at the wound. Blood splattered up. The soldier grunted and collapsed like a sack of grain.
Dalathos drew back, panting and dizzy. He stared down at the man, whose eyes he had looked into a lifetime ago.
The world seemed to go quieter — a lull in the fighting. He glanced about. Three Emperor’s Guard were in flight, back the way they’d charged. Dalathos spat in dismay at their cowardice.
He turned, keeping alert for another assault.
The knight in the black and white tabard was across the field. He pointed his mace at Dalathos. Then kicked his black warhorse into a charge.
Dalathos felt his heart drop, knowing he had only moments to act. He changed his guard, Protector now raised by his shoulders. He tried to remember the name of the stance, and what Ringneck had taught him to follow through with. Ringneck had always worn the same traveling cloak, and now it seemed the most important thing in the world to remember what color it was.
The horse thundered closer.
A figure rose from the ground between them. By the curled gray locks it looked like Commander Mollinos, dazed and bloodied. His breastplate hung loose and he cradled a glistening mass in his
lap.
The knight pulled his mount aside, then wheeled his mace into the back of the officer’s head. Commander Mollinos flailed to the grass.
Dalathos tried to catch his breath and keep it measured, to calm and steady himself. Roof — that was his stance. He considered his balance, and shifted his hips. He planted his legs firm and wide, to maintain strength. He rolled his fingers along the hilt. His arms prickled hot.
The knight raised his mace and loomed nearer.
Dalathos spun and lunged forward. He hurled all his weight into the blow. Protector slammed into the knight’s breastplate. Sparks flashed and metal shrieked. The knight’s helmet flew from his head and he tumbled from his saddle — rolled over the ground while his horse galloped on.
Dalathos rushed forward. He raised Protector, ready to stab down a death blow.
The prone knight groaned. He had cropped blond hair, just like him. Dalathos hesitated.
A shrill yell came from behind. That might be Ulric. There was no time for cold butchery while his friend was in danger.
Dalathos plunged back, past fallen men and panicked horses. His legs trembled weak, and it was hard to breathe. He nearly tripped over the body of an Emperor’s Guard, the man laid face down with his head broken open.
Dalathos stopped and called out, “Ulric!”
Lieutenant Domus stumbled toward him. Blood dripped to one side of the officer’s face, his locks there slashed away. A soldier cantered up, and Dalathos knew the lieutenant would be cut down.
Dalathos ran forward and grabbed the rider, then dragged him to the ground. He rammed his pommel into the man’s head, and beat him until he went limp. Dalathos dropped him and staggered back, his lungs burning for air. He fell on his knees before Domus.
The lieutenant pointed back to the road. “The carriage! We must reach it.”
It rattled over the ridge the Emperor’s Guard had charged from, then disappeared from sight.
A terrible howl rose to the air and Dalathos knew it was Ulric. Two soldiers ran at the noise.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 29