Baroness of Blood r-10

by Elaine Bergstrom

  He left, the hawks screeching at the sound of his boots on the stairs.

  As soon as they were alone, Jorani turned to Ilsa-bet. "You said you know what I do for your father. Tell me what that is?"

  She pointed to the center of the rug. "Beneath the carpet is a door that leads to a hidden room. You were in that room for days before father left for battle. I think you made him some elixir to drink that would make him stronger."

  "And I gave him a powder as well, and instructions to have one of his soldiers go upwind of the rebel camp and let the powder loose into the air. It filled the rebels with fear and indecision. I made them easy to defeat."

  Her eyes widened. "You did that?"

  "Does that trouble you?"

  "No, we only won with fewer losses on both sides. We would have won anyway."

  "A good reply. Now, how did you know about my private chamber?"

  "I spied on you. I saw you go down there."

  "How did you keep the hawks quiet?"

  "I walked carefully. I made no sound, and stayed in the shadows of the passage. I've had much practice." She smiled, ruthlessly she hoped. "I've seen Marishka sitting with that handsome fop from the palace guard. I've seen Mihael steal off to play cards with the kitchen servants. And I have seen you with Lady Lorena, holding her while she cries."

  "We all fear for your father's safety, child," Jorani answered.

  "She curses him with her lack of faith."

  "You know what her custom demands if he dies in battle. Can you blame her for being afraid?"

  "She'd do better to breed. Then custom would allow her to raise her child."

  Jorani's anger flared, then dissipated just as quickly, leaving him gazing thoughtfully at her with just a hint of distaste. UI think I was right about your education, but there will be no lessons today. Prepare for a long hard ride tomorrow."

  TWO

  Ilsabet met Jorani in the courtyard the following morning. She was dressed as befit the daughter of the lord, in a pale blue riding gown trimmed with lapis beads. Her hair was braided around her head like a crown.

  Jorani, in contrast, dressed like a servant and carried a pair of hooded brown robes. "Put this on," he ordered, holding one out to her.

  She shook her head. "The daughter of Baron Janosk Obour, ruler of Kislova, will not sneak through her father's lands like some thief."

  "Your father has no guards to spare for our ride," he reminded her, thrusting the robe into her hand. "Put this on."

  She hesitated, then said, "Very well, but it comes off before we reach my father's camp."

  They rode in silence through the fields, fallow in late autumn, Jorani constantly scanning the countryside, alert for an ambush. At the edge of the forest road, he reined in his horse and gave three loud whistles. A handful of soldiers rode toward them. As they did, Ilsabet untied the brown robe, turning the front flaps back over her shoulders to reveal the beauty and wealth of her gown. In spite of her plain appearance, she looked regal, and Jorani, noticing this, gave a quick nod of agreement. With Ilsabet at his side, they led the soldiers through the forest to the baron's encampment.

  The smell of death was thick as they approached the camp. Ilsabet looked upwind and saw bodies stacked in a single huge pile, their pale limbs tangled together like some weathered deadfall. Farther on, they passed a second site where bodies were arranged carefully on the ground, respectfully covered and guarded until they could be returned to their families for burial.

  "The difference between victors and defeated extends even to death," Jorani commented.

  Ilsabet covered her face with her hand, inhaling the scent of the perfume she had applied that morning, and quickened her pace.

  Baron Janosk's soldiers lounged in front of their cooking fires. Many of them were wounded, and the rest looked far too weary to fight. On the ride in, Ilsabet had been told that their rest was well earned. The clash had ended in a complete rout of the enemy. Their leader and three of his henchmen had been captured as they fled toward the border, undoubtedly trying to reach the protection of Baron Peto's lands. Ilsabet passed three of the prisoners chained to a post. They looked dirty and starving, as if they had been in hiding a long time.

  The rebel general had been separated from his men and put in an iron cage near the center of the camp. Though his hands and feet were shackled and a dirty rag was tied around his mouth, he was heavily guarded. Ilsabet dismounted and walked toward his cage, Jorani at her side. "Note him well," Jorani whispered to her. "This is what an enemy looks like."

  The rebel leader was a young man, not nearly as tall or muscular as her father, hardly formidable except for the fanatical expression on his face and the fierce fire that seemed to glow in the depths of his hazel eyes.

  "He calls himself Dark," Jorani said. "Mo one knows who his family might be, though from the looks of him I'd say he comes from the lands north of Pine."

  "What will happen to him?" Ilsabet asked.

  "What do you suggest?" Jorani asked in turn.

  "Lady Lorena would undoubtedly think we should wed him to Marishka."

  "Undoubtedly, but to do that we'd need his real name, which he refuses to give, probably because he has a wife already," Jorani replied.

  "Father will want to behead him."

  "What would you do?"

  She had the young man's interest now. He stared at her, an insolent expression on his face, as if to say that nothing done to him could ever deter others from his cause. Looking directly at him, she answered boldly, "I would take the men who served him and burn them at the stake. Let the sight of their agony be the last thing he sees before we take out his eyes. Let the pain of that same fire be the last thing his hands feel before they are scarred so terribly that he will never be able to lift a sword against us again. Then send him back to his people, an example of the justice and the mercy of Baron Janosk Obour."

  The guards eyed her with respect.

  Baron Janosk had come out of his tent to welcome his daughter just in time to hear her speech, and to see the reaction of the guards to it. He walked up behind her, laying a hand on her shoulder. "At nightfall it will be done as my child commands," he said, then led Ilsabet to the shade and comfort of his tent.

  The space resembled his room in the castle, though on a far smaller scale. A thick carpet covered and softened the earth beneath it. The canopy bed was draped with netting to protect against the biting flies that plagued the country in winter as well as summer. The table could easily seat half a dozen people. Servants were clearing the campaign maps from it and replacing them with plates and silver goblets for the noonday meal.

  As they dined, Jorani and her father discussed further measures to deal with the rebellion. Normally Ilsabet would have listened, but not today. Instead, she stared out the open tent flaps. Soldiers were obeying her father's command, piling wood in the clearing near the cage. The rebel leader watched, and even though she was far away, Ilsabet knew his stance was one of defiance.

  How would the man feel when he saw his comrades die? How would he feel when they laid him back and lowered the hot pokers toward his face? Such terrible thoughts, and yet there was a strange and exciting beauty to them as well. If she wasn't certain that her father would object, she would ask permission to go to the man, to talk to him, to try to understand the current of fear that must be running through him now.

  She started to look away, but glimpsed a girl, a few years younger than herself, hiding behind a nearby tent and watching the men work. It seemed to Ilsabet that the girl was crying. Could Dark be her father? The girl was too small to be a threat. Ilsabet turned her attention back to the men.

  The patch of sunlight falling through the open tent flaps moved slowly across the carpet and up the far wall. At dusk, Janosk and the others went out to witness the executions. Ilsabet felt dizzy but held her head up bravely as she sat between her father and Jorani.

  They waited until the fire was burning high before throwing the rebel leaders in. O
ne died almost immediately by turning his face to the flames and inhaling their searing heat. The others struggled, but it was hopeless, and they died soon after. It seemed to Ilsabet that, after so many patriots had been killed defending her family, after all the widows and fatherless children had been left alone and weeping for those destroyed, it should have taken them much longer to die.

  Their leader was next. He did not struggle when they opened his cage, and he walked bravely with his guards to the flames. It was seemingly the first time he'd noticed her, sitting so still between the two adults. He stared at her, not the fire or the bodies of his comrades or the heated swords being raised to his eyes.

  With his head still turned toward her father, Dark began to speak. "I tell you that a dozen more will take my place, and a dozen more for each of them," he said as the fire touched his hands. "There will be no peace in this land until the heads of your children are mounted on pikes above your castle gates, until the walls of the castle itself are dismantled stone by stone, until…"

  He fought the pain, valiantly it seemed to Ilsabet, then for all his pride, he began to scream.

  This was just punishment for the rebels' crimes. Ilsabet listened to his screams, a vague smile of satisfaction on her face, and a current of excitement rolling through her frail body.

  Beside her, Baron Janosk stood, his hand in a white-knuckled grip on his sword. "Never," he mumbled. "You will never harm them so long as I am alive."

  "He speaks the empty words of the defeated, and rather poorly at that," Jorani commented.

  "But the man still has power, that's for certain," Janosk said then called to his men. "Take out his tongue as well, and be done with it."

  They pulled Dark away from the fire. There was no need to force the knife past his teeth for he was panting from the pain, and on the edge of shock as well. Ilsabet doubted he even felt that last crippling cut. If he did he gave no indication.

  After, with what was left of his eyes and hands wrapped in lengths of dirty cloth, Dark was taken out of camp, and left on the road to Pirie.

  Ilsabet watched him walking slowly down the road, his head bowed, his feet scuffing along the ground feeling the way. At the rate he could travel, it would take him days to reach the town.

  "If I had said 'let him go' would you have done it?" Ilsabet asked her father.

  "You are my child. You never would have suggested that," he replied.

  "What will happen to him?" Ilsabet asked.

  "He may die before he reaches his family," Jorani said. "So much the better."

  "He'll get help soon enough. That kind always finds it," Baron Janosk replied.

  Her father's voice sounded uneasy, and Jorani looked at him with some concern as they walked back to the baron's tent. The tent was warmer now, heated by glowing stones carried inside from the campfire and collected in a pit near the table. A corner of the huge tent had been screened off and a bed made up for Ilsabet. She changed out of her gown and slipped on a warmer robe and boots and joined her father and Jorani at the table.

  The light from the trio of oil lamps on it threw shadows on the tent walls, multiples of father, Jorani and herself, all flickering nervously.

  For a few minutes no one spoke. Jorani opened a bottle of wine and poured three glasses. He held up his glass, cleared his throat, and addressed Baron Janosk. "Your daughter is right, my friend. It is over. I salute your skill." He drank. Ilsabet did the same, sipping the little bit he had poured her.

  "And what do you advise I do next?" the baron asked.

  "Go home to Nimbus Castle tomorrow and fly green banners from the walls as a sign of peace and reconciliation. Do what you can to restore prosperity to your lands so your people will know that you are a ruler who cares for them as well as one who punishes."

  "I've fought them too long. No, the iron hand must remain, or my mercy will bring the family to ruin." Ilsabet had been thinking of her own small family and how Lady Lorena had joined it. "Father, you took Lorena as your second wife to forge a bond with an enemy. Couldn't you do something similar now by wedding some of our soldiers to the widows of the men they killed?"

  "The child makes an intelligent suggestion," Jorani said. "There will be a shortage of men in the villages. You'll have to send some of the soldiers for harvest anyway, or we'll all starve next winter."

  "If it's done properly… diplomatically… and when I have done something to warrant their affection once more." Baron Janosk's voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities. "Yes, I believe Ilsabet shows signs of your type of wisdom, Jorani," he said, looking at his daughter as he spoke.

  "What do you suggest we do next?" Jorani asked.

  "We let the troops rest a bit, then while they're jubilant in their victory, we march on Sundell."

  Jorani considered this, then admitted, "We'd annex the richest lands between here and the Shaar. The course has its merits." Ilsabet could not understand the nuances of the adults' discussion. The strength of the drink, combined with the long day, soon made her sleepy, and she retired to her bed behind the screen painted with drag-ons and knights in armor, listening to Jorani and her father speak of the future in low, hopeful tones. She saw someone's arm brush against the wall of the tent. There were spies everywhere, her father often said. She was about to call out when she heard a soldier outside greet another. Whoever was there left, padding softly away. Ilsabet rolled over and tried to sleep.

  THREE

  The physical pain in Dark's eyes and hands was bearable only because he had no choice but to bear it. The consequences of what had been done to him gave far greater agony.

  Blind, mute, scarred; unable to fight or work or even to take care of himself, he would serve as a reminder to all who once knew him that it was futile to challenge Baron Janosk Obour. Worse, he would live out his days as an object of pity to his wife and boys, as well as his village.

  If he ever reached it. Since he had left the Obour camp, he had been hearing the cries of the forest cats. At first their screeches had been distant. Now they seemed to be growing closer. The cats were large, but cowardly. They would not attack a grown man in daylight. Had he been whole, he would have simply traveled on until nightfall, then made for the rocky ground and found a cave or fissure in which to sleep. Knowing any attempt to leave the road would undoubtedly result in his being lost, he sat with his back to a tree and waited, thinking that whatever pain the cats inflicted with their teeth and claws would be nothing compared to what he'd already been through.

  And they would spare him a useless future.

  As he waited for the end to come, he sensed another sound, the faint footsteps of someone steal-ing closer, trying to get a look at him without being seen. Soldiers would not bother with such stealth. It had to be one of his own spies moving toward Baron Janosk's camp.

  Hope, that refuge of the vanquished, rose in him once more, and he gave a low cry, the first cry he made without means to speak. It sounded scarcely human.

  "Dark?" someone whispered.

  The voice was so soft, so low he could not tell if the person was young or old, male or female. He turned in the direction of the voice. Cried out again, louder.

  Another whisper. "Is it safe?"

  Dark nodded and heard the sound of someone shuffling closer in the darkness, kneeling beside him, and whispering, "Dark! Dark, what has Baron Janosk done…?" There must have been a moon lighting his face because the voice trailed off and the arms holding him began to shake. Did he really look so terrible?

  "Dark, I'm so sorry. I saw you captured and stole into the camp to learn where you were held, but I had no time to warn the others. I saw the soldiers crowd around the pyre. I heard you scream and thought they'd burned you as well." Apparently realizing he could not recognize a voice from the low whisper, his rescuer said, "I'm Chardin. Renze's daughter."

  Though it had been some time since he'd seen her, he remembered her well enough. She'd been a tiny girl with bright brown eyes and a tongue just shy of imperti
nence, a child no older than Baron Janosk's bloodthirsty brat. Now she was fighting alongside her father, and Renze, always protective, let her. How desperate they'd all become.

  "I stayed in camp and listened to the baron plotting," she went on. "They plan to invade Sundell."

  Dark bowed his head. Baron Janosk would use the wealth of Sundell to buy his people's loyalty. The move made sense. Dark had been captured while trying to cross the border in hopes of convincing Baron Peto of Sundell to assist them. It most likely would have been a futile gesture, for Peto's neutrality was well established.

  His neutrality was far less likely now.

  "I have water… I stole a little of the soldiers' food…" Chardin paused after each statement, waiting for a response. "We have a small camp in a hill cave a few miles from here. Father is there with some of the others. Can you walk?" she finally asked.

  He nodded again and let Chardin help him to his feet. The terrain they traveled was far from level. Though Chardin was attentive, Dark stumbled often, falling once and instinctively catching himself with his burned hands. He managed to stifle a cry, but it was some time before he could find the strength to go on.

  By the time they neared the remote camp, Dark's legs were barely able to hold him. Chardin called to the others to come help. Dark felt the heat of someone's torch, arms lifting him, carrying him to the fire. There they made him a bed from a soft pile of pine boughs and hides, and wrapped him in a blanket.

  They had no healer, but one of the rebels had some ointment that he rubbed on Dark's burned hands and eyes, and a potion that he made Dark swallow. It alleviated the pain somewhat, and gave him strength.

  Through pantomime, nods, and shakes of the head, the camp learned the fate of the other men.

  "We'll never recover from these losses," Renze said despondently. "The rebellion is over."