Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  “I still don't know why the whole company is headed south,” Baran grumbled. “Be a right pain to move us all, especially with all the new people, and still get them trained and properly integrated. Waste of good troops, too.”

  Jonal looked over his shoulder, “I don't expect much fighting to be had up north, not until the raiders return next spring. I mean, we destroyed the entire Armen army there on the Lonely Isle, there shouldn't be anyone else to fight, right?”

  “Might seem that way,” Kerrel said softly, “but that's only looking at our battle in isolation.”

  Baran grunted and spat to the side, “Damned Armen raided the Grand Duchy of Boir, sacked Port Riss, besieged Boirton, and, if the rumors are true, killed their Grand Duke and half their nobility. The raiders who went south will need to return home and the Lonely Isle has long been their staging area. They'll be coming through by the thousands.”

  Kerrel nodded, “Plus there were enough surviving Armen to defend their raid camps. Lord Hector will have to attack each of them, one by one, in order to burn them out. Meanwhile, the raiders coming home will be rich with loot and slaves and eager to protect it all and prove what great warriors they are.”

  “Lots of skirmishing and fighting,” Baran nodded. “Lots of bastards need killing.”

  Jonal led the way in silence for a bit. His voice was thoughtful when he spoke, “So then, why are we headed south? Lord Hector can't have unlimited pocketbooks, he's already leveraging heavy taxes on Masov, and he's paying for our company to grow... shouldn't he need us up North?”

  Kerrel nodded in approval, though more for the thought he put into it and the economic implications he saw than in agreement of his final conclusion. “Those taxes of his... and the way he took power, those caused him some issues in the South.” She sighed. Really, talking this over in the street was hardly the ideal location. While most people in Longhaven had their heads on business rather than listening in, it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that there were spies abroad. She was certain there would be some who would pay to hear what Lord Hector's recently promoted Commander of Cavalry and Ducal Investigator had to say about it all...and what she did have to say could be damaging. Yet at the same time, what she had to say was no more than what most people already knew. “The southern nobility are angry over his treatment of them, they don't like how he's appointed men like Covle Darkbit to watch them.” Not that I blame them for that, she thought darkly, Darkbit is a bastard of the worst sort, “They also don't like how Hector has taken away a lot of their autonomy.”

  “Commoners are worse, though,” Baran grunted.

  “Yes,” Kerrel nodded. “He's hitting them the hardest with his new taxes, then sending men like Darkbit and Grel to collect those taxes. The taxes fund his campaign against the Armen raiders, but they are turning the general population against Hector in the process.”

  Jonal pondered that and Kerrel hoped he would see the lesson and learn from it. The single-minded determination of Duke Hector the Usurper was admirable in some ways. He certainly had spared his lands from the savage violence that had descended upon Boir, but he had brought a different kind of savagery to Masov, one where the people no longer trusted in their protectors, one where families on the ragged edge had to start thinking about survival come the long winter ahead. And if anyone understands how brutal winter can be, it's the Duchy of Masov, she thought. The coastal Duchy often had the heaviest snowfall of all the Five Duchies during the long months of winter, with the southern highlands receiving forty or more feet of snow. Some places, she had heard, had up to eight months of snow-fall.

  They came at last to the Black Oar Inn, with a cheery sound of laughter and the warm glow of light from its windows. “So what can we do?” Jonal asked, his voice uncertain.

  “What we must to keep the peace,” Kerrel said softly. She thought suddenly of Lord Hector's private discussion with her before her departure. He asked me to be his assassin, she thought, knowing full well what it would cost me. She wasn't sure she could do that, but she knew full well the stakes. Civil war loomed with the dead Duke's daughter backed by the southern nobility and the commoners and Hector backed by the northern merchants and tradesmen. That kind of war would leave the Duchy of Masov shattered, much like her own home of Asador. Could she kill an innocent woman to prevent that? Even if I do kill Hector's cousin Katarina, Kerrel wondered, would it do any good?

  ***

  Aerion Swordbreaker

  The Eastwood

  15th of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Aerion ducked under a blow and brought his shield around to block another. Aerion's face was drawn in concentration. His opponent struck again, faster than he had expected and far faster than he could react, and the blow caught him painfully in the left arm. His wooden practice blade spun out of his numb arm, his fingers unable to hold its weight.

  Aerion took several steps back and held up a hand, “Alright, enough, I yield!”

  “So quickly, then, Swordbreaker? You may one day find yourself fighting without a blade, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to practice that,” Simonel Greeneye said with a smile as he lowered his own practice weapon. The other man didn't use a shield or another weapon in his off hand, instead he wielded the long blade ambidextrously and sometimes with two hands. Of course, his 'practice blade' was almost as ornate as his actual sword, what Aerion had heard called Mede Khmali. Simonel was tall for a Wold, a bit taller than Aerion's own six feet of height, lean and muscular. His long, raven black hair normally hung free, though for their sparring session he had it braided, while his reddish bronze skin had a light sheen of sweat.

  Aerion, on the other hand, was well aware that his blonde hair, pulled back into a tail for the sparring session, had come loose and was sodden with sweat. His skin and clothing were both drenched as well, and he caught a whiff of himself, a mix of rust and oil from his scale mail and sweat from exertion. The tall Wold was disgustingly capable, to the point that Aerion had come to judge his own success not on scoring hits, but upon lasting a few seconds longer in one of their sparring sessions.

  It would have been disheartening, yet it seemed that the Wold King was just as effective against his own people, some of whom had not just decades or centuries but thousands of cycles of experience. As if to punctuate that thought, Aerion felt a hand clap his shoulder, and he turned to find another of the Wold. Ceratul smiled at him, “Well fought, young one. If nothing else, your persistence is admirable.”

  Aerion flushed a bit, but he gave the other man a smile. Ceratul was the Wold's Warmaster, their military commander, though, from what he had seen, Simonel took a large part of that authority himself. While Amelia, the other royal guest, had said that Ceratul seemed to dislike non-Wold in general and Starborn in particular, Aerion had found Ceratul to be nothing but friendly.

  “Though if we doubted that, our first meeting would have proven your determination,” Ceratul said. Aerion shook his head at the reminder. The long, running fight that had led him to the Eastwood was almost a blur now. He was more amazed at his own survival than anything else, particularly after the fight in the ravine where he had faced a seemingly unending stream of Armen raiders and their Noric allies. Aerion had led them away from Lady Katarina and the rest of his friends, fully expectant that he would not survive, yet the Wold had appeared at the last minute, apparently drawn by the horn he had found in the ruined fortress of Southwatch.

  Simonel seemed to notice his discomfort, “Ready to go again?”

  Aerion bent to pick up his practice blade. It was new, made by one of the Wold craftsmen, and it was almost exactly the same weight, length and shape as the broken blade he had also found at Southwatch. When Simonel had first offered to spar and Aerion had declined with the excuse that he only had the weapons he carried. The next day, the Wold King had gifted him with the weighted wooden practice blade.

  Aerion gave the other man a nod, still somewhat uneasy at the free ways of the Wold. They seemed to hold Simo
nel with great respect, but their informality still caught him off guard at times. Aerion settled into a defensive stance and waited, his feet set and his weight centered. Simonel gave him a slight smile, “You'll never win if you fight entirely on the defense, Swordbreaker.”

  Aerion felt his face flush at the title. He had told Amelia about the label given to him by his friends, for his knack of breaking every sword he'd ever taken into combat. The only exception was the broken blade he'd retrieved at Southwatch. Since that's crafted out of star metal and already broken, Aerion thought dryly, that isn't saying much. Still he hadn't expected the Boir noblewoman to take such glee in spreading the story.

  Yet the amusement that the Wold showed when they used the title was tempered with something like respect, Aerion knew, which embarrassed him all the more. I'm a low-born, commoner, from a remote village, who will never know his father's name, Aerion thought, somewhat bitterly. He knew he had accomplished much, but he also felt uncertain about the praise, almost as if he took credit for the deeds of someone else.

  Simonel gave a war cry and came in. His long practice blade flashed in a sharp, downward arc. Aerion caught the strike with his shield, confident that his own strength could match that of the Wold King. Despite the fact that they were nearly even in height, Aerion had a heavier frame, with muscle gained from cycles of working the forge as a boy and months of combat and training. Simonel backed a bit, “I forget how strong you are, sometimes, Aerion.”

  Aerion smiled in return, “Best to play to my strengths.”

  “Indeed,” Simonel said with a smile of his own. A moment later, without changing expression, he leapt forward into a lunge. Aerion managed to deflect it with his shield, but Simonel spun into a series of attacks, mixing fast slashes, lunges and blows from his feet and hands that forced Aerion to parry and block more and more desperately, until finally, the Wold King swept Aerion's feet out from under him to drop Aerion on his back.

  Aerion grunted as he forced his lungs to draw breath, “Well fought.”

  Simonel offered him a hand and pulled Aerion to his feet. “Well fought, yourself, you're improving, Aerion.” His voice was warm and reassuring, but Aerion didn't miss an edge of something else there, almost concern, though he couldn't guess why.

  “I'll take your word for it,” Aerion said with a snort. “I certainly can't match your speed and skill.”

  “I'm only human, Aerion Swordbreaker,” Simonel said with a frown, “And don't underestimate your skills, I think you've a natural talent, and once you reach your full growth, by Amuz Nebeli, you'll really be a monster to face.”

  “Thanks,” Aerion said, “Though I think I'm done sparring for the day.” Aerion was only eight cycles of age, he knew, but he still towered over many older men and many of the Wold.

  “Giving up so soon?” A light voice asked from behind him. Aerion turned to find Lady Amelia Tarken. “I thought the indomitable Swordbreaker would last longer.”

  Aerion gave her a quick bow, “Thank you, Lady, but I'm afraid that King Simonel has the advantage.” While she had been friendly and seemed to adopt much of the Wold informality, she was still a Starborn noblewoman and part of Aerion rejected any notion of treating her as anything else. In the outside world, no one would care how he might interact with the Wold, who were almost mythical due to their isolation. However, a low-born commoner showing familiarity to a noblewoman was likely to have very bad things happen as a consequence. While he was unlikely to encounter Lady Amelia in the greater world, she wasn't the one he was really worried about, he could privately admit.

  And it's a good practice to maintain here, he thought, to better prepare myself for when I rejoin Lady Katarina. Even at that thought he felt his heart ache a bit. He had known all along that he should never dream of friendship, much less the attraction he felt for the exiled heir to the Duchy of Masov. Still, her words at Southwatch had hurt, especially the acknowledgment that she felt that same attraction... and that they could never give into it.

  Amelia's companion cleared her throat and Aerion started a bit, realizing that he had paused longer than was socially acceptable. “Princess Tirianis,” Aerion nodded respectfully.

  King Simonel's sister gave him a wicked smile in return, “So formal, still, young Swordbreaker? We'll have to break you of that, else the outside world will come to doubt our savage ways and decadent natures.” She was almost as tall as her brother, with the same raven black hair and bright leaf-green eyes, though her skin was a red-gold color somehow softer than Simonel's. Instead of Simonel's leather sparring armor, she wore a green dress that clung to her figure in a fashion that would have made him blush and stammer only a few weeks earlier.

  Aerion flushed a bit, suddenly reminded of the bathing area where men and women gathered irrespective of sex. It had been an enlightening experience upon his first visit. Combined with the variety of behavior and the odd ways they had tried to make him feel welcome, he could only shake his head and smile, “Don't worry, Princess Tirianis, I'm sure they won't believe my tales anyway.”

  ***

  Chapter One

  Lady Katarina Emberhill

  Aboard the Ubelfurst, the Ryft

  15th of Pargan, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Lady Katarina Emberhill, daughter to the murdered Duke Peter of Masov, and now leader of an insurrection against the Usurper Duke glared across the table at her opponent. Katarina had prepared hard for this moment and at last the time had come to make her move. She leaned forward and moved her piece into place and grinned evilly at her opponent, “Check,” she said, triumphantly.

  The squat, muscular man across from her raised one gray eyebrow. Cederic's colorless eyes hid his emotions well. “Very nice, Lady Katarina, very nice, I think you've been taking advice from Gerlin,” he said with a glance over at where the halfblood scout stood.

  The dark skinned man didn't give any sign that he had heard. He remained in close study of the Armen documents they had captured. Katarina was surprised that he didn't seem to trust the Admiral's assistant, a rescued Armen woman, to help, but she couldn't blame him. Gerlin didn't seem to trust any of the Armen, though he shared half his ancestry with them. And perhaps that is why, she thought darkly, her mind on the Armen and Norics who had nearly killed her and had resulted in the deaths of too many of her followers.

  “However,” Cederic said softly, “I think you've yet to perfect your skills.” He slid one of his own pieces forward and took hers, “Check... mate, I believe.”

  Katarina scowled down at the chess board. Chess was one of the Starborn games, brought by her ancestors in their voyage from the stars. It was a game which she normally considered herself quite good at. During her years in exile in the Duchy of Marovingia, she had regularly defeated both of her older cousins and occasionally even her uncle. “I don't think I want to play you anymore,” she growled.

  “About time you stop playing games,” Bulmor grunted. Katarina rolled her eyes at that comment. Bulmor might not speak of it, but he was a difficult chess opponent himself. Though, she thought, I haven't seen him play in years, not since I beat him that one time.

  “Well, I suppose we have other things to discuss anyway,” Cederic said with a smile.

  “We do,” Bulmor said, his gruff voice stern. Her squat, muscular armsman looked serious and Katarina gave a slight sigh. In many ways, she had held off from this discussion because of how raw some of her emotional wounds still were. Still, she would be dishonoring the sacrifices of those who had given their lives at Southwatch if she did not continue this fight.

  “Very well,” Katarina said. She looked over at Gerlin, “Go and get the others.” They were her defacto council, the advisers whose words she most respected and trusted. The halfblood, normally sarcastic and loquacious just gave her a nod.

  Katarina sat back while Cederic began to put the small chess pieces in a pouch. She cocked her head at the wizard, “While we wait... I've been meaning to ask, how does all this fit into your pla
ns?”

  The short man sat back and raised his eyebrows, “Quite a brazen tactic that, asking me directly. I'm left with responding in kind and giving away my secrets or keeping my tongue and appearing properly mysterious and sinister.”

  “Or deflecting her question with a sarcastic comment,” Bulmor growled. Katarina knew that her armsman didn't entirely trust the wizard and for good reason. Most wizards were terribly mysterious, in part to guard their knowledge and in part, Katarina thought, just to build a level of mystique. More likely to listen to a mysterious wizard rather than a loquacious one, she thought.

  Cederic gave the armsman a smile, “True. However, I have always said I would answer your questions, when we had time... and I think we now have the time.” He gave a sigh, “I am, as you know, a Shrouded Wizard and a Disciple of Noth.”

  Katarina said, “Which are synonymous, right?”

  “Not entirely,” Cederic said. He frowned, “There is a large difference, in some aspects, but most of those won't mean much to you. Still, you need to understand something about them to understand why I am here... and why I'm helping you.” The wizard frowned, “What do you know of the Shrouded Isle?”

  Katarina chewed at her lip in thought for a moment. She hated questions like that, because she had no way to know the right answer, just what rumor and legend told. If legend had it right, Noth was the youngest of King Gordon's children, the first Starborn to be born upon Eoria. “Noth retreated there after the death of his father, King Gordon, the first of the High Kings. After the Sundering, he worked some form of magic, either an enchantment or rune, upon the shores of the island to protect it and his people. No one can reach it, now, not without powerful magic of their own.”