by Dave Duncan
Sophie rose, holding out Boris. “Husband, remember your years! Your heir is only a child, and you must live long to see him grow tall and strong like his father, so he can ascend the Ivory Throne!” Boris, understanding only that he did not like that smelly, hairy man, renewed his howls, but he had served to divert the Czar’s thoughts.
“True, true. Well, I shall not go to Treiden until Stenka assures me my loyal streltsy have contained this plague of treason. Will that satisfy you, wife? I shall wait at Czaritsyn. You, Sanin, will guard my palace and my family.” He reached out a twisted, spotted hand to touch Boris’s silver curls. “Take care of him, Czarina! Beware the traitors, the witches. Remember how they killed Igor, Fedor, Alexis, Avramia, Leonid. Keep this last of my fledglings safe.”
For a moment Sophie could almost feel sorry for him. “I will, sire, I promise.”
“And yourself,” the Czar mumbled, turning away. “They murdered Melania. And Ludmilla. And Irene.” That was the first time he had ever admitted that Sophie’s immediate predecessor was dead. Her death would not have been in any way his fault, of course, even if he had strangled her with his own hands.
His mad gaze settled on dithering old Skuratov. “Chief Boyar, you also will remember that my son’s safety must come before anything else. You will consult the Czarina and heed her wishes!”
The old relic bowed acknowledgment.
Stenka was gloating. “To Treiden, then, sire? When?”
“Now!” Igor shuffled toward the door. “To Czaritsyn first. Come, Anfrei, Leonid! I know you enjoy the taste of traitors.”
VIII
Paragon Regained
• 1 •
It had seemed easy when Beau explained it. Czaritsyn lay a couple of days’ ride north of Kiensk and southeast of Treiden. Its exact location in the great forests of northern Skyrria was kept secret, but Arkell could always point to it. The garrison would certainly be complacent and probably small, except when Igor was there with his guards. Arkell could determine his whereabouts, too. All Sigfrith need do was bypass Treiden unseen, sail up the Dvono, and make a lightning raid overland—which required no more than the basic skills Baels inherited with their mothers’ milk, began practicing as soon as they could walk, and admired more than anything else in adults. If the loot available came anywhere close to its legend, the atheling would return to Baelmark a national hero. With the swordsmanship his father had taught him sharpened up by lessons from Beau, he could confidently make a play for the throne of his forefathers.
In practice, things had not worked out quite that way. Arkell’s uncanny power had been no help in finding a path through the maze of the delta, and when the myriad channels had eventually converged into one, it was obviously a smaller stream than the Dvono itself, a tributary. Since it seemed to lead in the right direction and its banks were virtually uninhabited, the shiplord declared it good fortune and chose to press on. But water was low in the fall and Skyrria very big. Eadigthridda needed a week to cross the tundra and reach the vast conifer forest of the taiga. The longship had a very shallow draft and could even be manhandled overland for short distances, but she could not cross a bog and after a few more days the river shrank to a stream trickling out of an evil-smelling swamp.
Bael tradition required a shiplord to consult his werod before making decisions. Sigfrith jumped up on a chest and called a council.
“All hearken! Human Compass points southeast, a point east. Slow as we’ve been, he’s changed the bearing every day, so Czaritsyn can’t be far off. I’m going to leave a skeleton crew here, and lead the rest overland. Argue with that?”
Swithin was much inclined to. His only choice when Beau rescued him from Birgit had been to cooperate or drown, but he did have some leeway now. At first sight the answer was easy—to drag his ward off on a Baelish raid seemed the height of insanity. But second thoughts suggested that remaining with Eadigthridda might put Dimitri in worse danger. If the Skyrrians tracked down the hidden ship, or if Sigfrith never returned, then the skeleton crew might use the Prince as a bargaining chip to buy their escape, or else just treat him as consolation booty.
“Tricky one,” Beau said. “I’d say bring him along.”
Dimitri was close by, of course. He howled. “Why?”
“Because,” Swithin said, “staying here may get you shipped to a Baelish slave market. Besides, Czaritsyn is closer to home than this is.”
The Prince grumbled, but an hour later, when fifty-one Baels and three Chivians marched off into the woods, he went with them.
Although the thanes were experienced raiders, they had not come equipped for a long trek in what was now early winter. They lacked tents and adequate clothing, especially proper boots. Beau insisted they take turns carrying his accursed mirrors, and it was an inescapable law of warfare that infantry burdened with weapons and equipment could carry no more than ten days’ rations. There was nothing to eat in a spruce forest.
Six days from Eadigthridda, the expedition had still not reached its goal and its mood was ugly. Kiensk must know by now that there were Baels on the coast. Death had become a race between starvation and the Skyrrian army.
“A kopek for your thoughts,” Beau said cheerily.
Chin on fist, Swithin had been staring morosely into the campfire, ignoring the terse, haphazard talk around it. “I was reviewing Ironhall chronicles. Like SWITHIN, 402—Whatever happened to that big oaf?”
“Easy! He wandered into the woods and was eaten by wild geese.”
“And isn’t that the truth?” said a harsh Baelish voice from the far side of the circle.
“Wouldn’t call that one big,” said another. “Stringy, yes.”
“All feet and neck.”
“And fists,” Swithin muttered, but not too loudly. He had felt big, or at least lanky, at Ironhall; he did not here.
The night was too cold for sleeping. With the moon close to setting, dawn must come soon, but so must snow, if this wind kept up. Sigfrith, Dimitri, and a few others were still snoring, but most had gathered around small fires, huddled together in search of warmth. Arkell, Beau, and Swithin were sharing one with six ill-tempered pirates.
The forest was noisy. Vast gusts of subarctic wind could be heard coming from afar, the sounds of thrashing boughs growing steadily louder until giant spruces overhead joined in the rampage, shedding a rain of cones and needles. Then flame and sparks would whirl up from the little fires and everyone would huddle closer until the violence passed and the storm song faded away to the south. By then another wave would be advancing from the north.
“Not eaten by geese,” growled Erwin, whose skull was notably lopsided. “Eaten by Baels.”
“Yuck!” Plegmund said. “We still got rations to get some of us back to the ship. It’s just a matter of culling.”
As second in command, the bosun should be staunchly supporting his lord. Swithin glanced uneasily at Beau, but Beau’s inevitable smile was no help.
“Who do we need least?” asked Wulfstane. “Compass Man?”
“He’d be useful at sea.”
“The midget who got us into this.”
“But I eat so little,” said Beau. “You and Erwin guzzle like pigs.”
“We don’t need him,” Plegmund said. “He can eat his flaming mirrors. Who else? The useless fat Prince? Or Stringy, there?”
“Which useless fat Prince?” Erwin said. “The Skyrrian one we could ransom.”
“That’s mutiny,” said Sigfrith, rising up in the shadows behind him. “Draw your sword.” He drew his.
“Lads?” Erwin looked hastily around for support.
Plegmund sighed and told him, “You should have waited until tomorrow. One more day we can manage.”
“Draw!” Sigfrith repeated. “Or die where you sit!”
Swithin’s stomach clenched as he decided that the atheling was serious. A brief lull had settled over the forest, so that even the crackling fires could be heard. Erwin’s neighbors scrambled away from him to
escape the expected explosion of blood.
Without rising, Erwin extended both hands to the menacing figure outside the circle. “Just joking, lord! Passing the time. It was my old bang on the head talking, that’s all.”
“Can I claim first offence?” asked Beau quietly. “He called me a midget.”
Some of the Baels muttered angrily, but Sigfrith laughed. “Very well. You go first and save me the trouble.”
Erwin growled and leaped up, ax in hand. He must know he stood no chance against the Blade and it had been Wulfstane who used the m-word, but this challenge could not be refused.
Beau stayed where he was, cross-legged. “Tonight. If we’re not at Czaritsyn by sunset, I’ll fight you with axes. If we are, you ask my pardon.”
“And if I say we do it now?”
“Then I’ll cut your guts out.”
While Erwin struggled with the decision, Plegmund said, “You won’t feel hungry if you got no guts.” The others laughed.
“At sunset with axes? To the death?”
“It’s a deal,” said Beau. “Let’s strike camp, ealda.”
Before sunrise the raiders were on their way, limping along through more hummocky forest, full of ponds, ridges, and swamps. It was an hour before Swithin managed to shepherd his constantly grumbling ward forward to join Beau and Arkell, who always walked near the front.
“Well?” he demanded. “You really think you have a chance against Erwin with axes?”
Beau laughed as if he’d already forgotten his crazy challenge. “Don’t intend to find out! We’re almost at Czaritsyn.”
“How can you know that?”
He flashed a quicksilver grin. “I have a compass. When we set out this morning Lackwit was pointing east and already he’s at northeast by north. It’s just over this hill.”
Even last night, Beau must have known they were close. So, almost certainly, had Sigfrith and Plegmund. Before Swithin could make any well-pointed comments on the shortcomings of Baelish humor and Beau’s participation in it, Atheling Sigfrith uttered a peculiar whistle. His men went down like scythed corn, carrying the non-Baels with them onto the spongy needle mat of forest floor. Somewhere a mirror shattered.
For a moment there was only the sound of the wind and Beau trying to hush Arkell’s weeping—he did not like unexpected manhandling. Juniors in Ironhall had tended to laugh at the bookish Arkell, while secretly appreciating his cleverness and good humor. Now he was a terrifying warning of what might happen if Dimitri came to harm.
Then Swithin heard hooves. Two horses, no more, going fast. They went by without stopping, somewhere not far ahead of the raiders, and their sound faded away eastward. They would not be going at that rate if they had come a long way.
“Bosun,” Sigfrith said, “send a man ahead to scout that road and two more up the hill.”
An hour later the entire expedition was sprawled among the trees along the ridge top. The far face fell away steeply, giving them a clear view of Czaritsyn, which was surprisingly similar to what Swithin had expected—a village enclosed by a high palisade. The wide clearing around it was divided into fields by rail fences, providing pasture and an unobstructed view for the defenders. The timbered buildings seemed too large for private dwellings, and the two-story edifice in the center would certainly be the Czar’s.
“See those horses!” Sigfrith said. “We can ride back.”
“Would be easier to eat them here,” Beau retorted. “There must be twenty chimneys smoking. How many inhabitants need so many fires at this time of year?”
Dimitri spoke up at Swithin’s elbow. “The riders we heard were harbingers, so the staff is making ready for visitors.” He smirked, understandably smug.
Some of the nearby Baels cursed luridly.
Beau said, “Lackwit, which way is Kiensk? Good man! And which way is Czar Igor?”
Arkell’s arm swung around to the west.
“He’s coming here,” Dimitri said. “He never travels with less than fifty streltsy!”
“He may be on his way to Treiden.”
“We’ll soon know,” Sigfrith said. “If worst comes to worst, we can eat horse and then head home empty-handed. Meanwhile we wait for nightfall, or that.”
That was a black wall of storm sweeping in from the north.
What came first was a pack of hounds, a dozen of them, some as large as cattle. Even before they came into view, their baying had set the horses in the pastures racing and plunging in terror. It made Swithin’s scalp prickle. Behind them rode a column of black-clad streltsy that grew longer and longer and yet still kept coming, so the dogs were almost at the gates before the last of the troop entered the clearing. Igor was somewhere in there, indistinguishable.
“At least a thousand,” Dimitri remarked cheerfully. “Would you like me to send my Blade down with your challenge, Atheling?”
His Blade was wondering what would have happened if the raiders had reached their destination a couple of hours earlier.
Things could get still worse, so they did. Flurries grew to blizzard. The raiders set up camp in a hollow on the west side of the ridge, but they dared not light fires even there. Packed together like nestlings in every sheltered nook they could find, they ate a meager meal and grumbled, but there was no sign of mutiny, neither serious nor make-believe.
“Igor’s on his way to Treiden looking for pirates,” Sigfrith said stubbornly. “He’s stopping in here to wait out the snow. When he leaves, we’ll take over.”
“Could fetch a horse for breakfast,” Erwin suggested.
“And if someone’s out walking the dogs?”
Nobody volunteered.
Beau said, “Is it true, Atheling, that the only Bael who ever starves is the last one?”
Someone said, “Shut up, midget.”
• 2 •
Midnight, or thereabouts, found Swithin and his ward huddled together under a makeshift shelter of spruce boughs piled against a fallen tree. Snow continued to fall, and in the forest it tended to fall in huge wet lumps from high branches. Sometimes the soggy thumps would be followed by wild cursing. After hours of grumbling, Dimitri had taken up snoring instead, which was almost as irritating.
A faint sound nearby and Beau said, “Starkmoor?” softly.
“Ironhall.”
“Time you and I discussed your problem.”
“Yes.” They had not spoken in private since the sinking of Birgit. Dimitri continued to snore.
“You know,” Beau said chattily, “he’s not a bad man, that ward of yours. Not clever, but honest. He loves his family, he’s loyal to his Czar. I’d guess he’s a good lord to his people. You could have drawn much worse.”
“Yes.”
“Igor’s the trouble. You, your ward, and Igor—the three of you must never come together.”
“Succinctly put.”
“And killing any one of you is not an option.”
“BURL, 356?”
“No,” Beau said. “He was dying anyway, so he could be no more help to his ward. Assassinating Igor, even if it were possible, is out of the question—Blades are not assassins. That just leaves exile. If Sigfrith storms Czaritsyn, he’ll want to take Dimitri along. That could be a good idea from your point of view. If Dimitri can be branded a traitor for being in league with the Baels, then he won’t resist when you want to take him back to Chivial.”
The thought was grotesque. SWITHIN, 402 would be Ironhall’s favorite farce, the tale of the Blade who dragged his ward into a battle. Generations of seniors yet unborn would roll on the floor in hysterics. “I’ll consider it.” It was a nasty shock to realize that he might have been so wrong to trust an old friend.
But Beau chuckled. “And you’ll decide that it’s impossible, just as I did. I’ll back you on that. Wanted you to know.”
Better! “I was hoping you might have seen a solution I’d missed.”
“Just the obvious one that if Sig can’t take Czaritsyn, he’ll try to cover his costs by selling
us to Igor or dumping us in the slave markets. We’ll have to make a break for it before we reach the ship.”
“Tricky. He’ll be expecting that.”
“Yes,” Beau whispered. “If I ever mention Good King Ambrose, that means I intend to skedaddle after dark. All right? Further plans to be announced.” He vanished as quietly as he had come.
By dawn continuous snow had given way to flurries. Sigfrith set men to keep watch from the ridge top and two more down by the road; then he perched himself on a rock and beckoned everyone else to close in. Hungry, frozen, and furious, pirates gathered around, sitting or kneeling in the center, standing at the rear. They blew on fingers and stamped icy feet.
“All hearken! We can’t hope to sink a garrison that size. If they’re leaving today, they’ll go soon and we’ll move in when they’re beyond recall. We’ll be icicles if we sit here and wait for another night. Argue with that?”
No one did. Whiskered faces showed approval. When Baels suffered as these men had suffered in the night, somebody must pay.
“And if they don’t go?” Dimitri demanded triumphantly.
He had found a good rock to sit on. Swithin stood at his back and worried.
Sigfrith shrugged. “Then it’s a long walk back.”
“It’s an impossible walk back,” the Prince said. “You have almost no food and it will take you twice as long in this snow.”
“What’s this ‘you’?” the atheling bellowed. “I didn’t notice you fasting on the way here. We’ll rustle some horses after dark and make a race of it.”
“You’ll sneak fifty horses away unseen? And ride them bareback? Without bridles?” After two weeks’ captivity, Dimitri was clearly enjoying himself.
Sigfrith scowled. “Let’s suppose the streltsy go but the Czar stays. Beau, tell us again about the dogs.” The dogs had been a fairytale until yesterday. Now they were horrible reality.
Beau said, “The popular belief is that Igor bewitches men into hounds. One of my Blade brothers killed one and it turned human as it died. I consulted Grand Wizard about them—he’s the King of Chivial’s top conjurer, and he’s had more than a year to think about this. He says they can’t be dogs, only a sort of illusion. He said he can conjure a dog to grow very big and fierce, but it will sicken and die within days—which these do not. Thirty years ago evil conjurers tried combining men and animals into chimera monsters, but they were unstable and certainly not controllable. Their shapes kept changing and they never lived long. So Igor is turning men into mirages of dogs, not real ones. Admittedly, the difference matters only to a conjurer, because they look like dogs, smell like dogs, feel like dogs—they’re quite capable of tearing your arm off—and they can probably follow a scent as well as real dogs. They believe they’re dogs, which makes them loyal to their master. But it’s sort of makeshift, like turning water into ice.”