An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1)

by Enache, Serban Valentin Constantin

  Though Arfaij Sodomis was the same age with his brother, fate had decreed for Kalafar to come first out of their mother’s womb. Even though they were twins, they looked very much apart. While his brother resembled more of their lord father’s face, Arfaij resembled only his tanned skin. Everything else about him came from his lady mother, Olivia; save for one thing. It was quite the irony. Kalafar resembled their mother in height, while Arfaij resembled their father. The gods do have a sense of humor, he thought to himself. That much is true about the Three. A pity the Faith claims otherwise.

  Some of the men were inside their tents, while small parties of ten or twelve foraged in the woods nearby. They were several leagues away from their destination; and they would enjoy some respite here, till the coming of night. Not much cheer was coming from the camp, save for Rotten’s japes and the laughter of several greenhorns, whom enjoyed his performance near a fire in the company of hot wine. Young faces without age lines one and all. They were going on about whores and bastards. About Rotten having missed the opportunity to fuck his unnatural sister; and about his father who had lost his nose to a dog named Fluffy. The crowd laughed so hard that half of them had wine coming out their nostrils.

  “Enough!” Arfaij broke the excessive cheer. Everyone stared at him with wary eyes. The lord Sodomis wore a brown fur cloak, mail underneath his crimson surcoat, and woolen shirt underneath the hauberk. The ram on his chest was sewed in gold thread, and its horns were depicted as on fire. Though the blazon of Sodomis was a ram with fiery hooves – Arfaij enjoyed the ram to have fiery horns as well. He gave the raw men a menacing look. He had to, for he was the commander – his voice, their order. “Stop this idle banter and get some rest. We’ll soon be moving along. And the road by night will be a lot colder.”

  “But commander, we’re supposed to have our respite.” Rotten protested in a squeaky voice. “Our feet are still sore from the long march. Why must we travel by night instead of by day? We can move faster and longer during day if we get a proper night’s rest; you see?”

  “I see plenty,” Arfaij replied in a low voice, but by no means soft. “And all you seem to know is how to state the obvious. We have a long march ahead of us this night. A great effort to make our legs stronger and to harden our resolve. Best profit from this respite while you can.”

  Arfaij knew from his lord father, that it was better for the men to love their leader, whilst also fearing him. He had yet to show the greenhorns the other side of that lesson. But I’ll show them on the Snow Plains, and they will learn to obey and fear. In times of war, disobedient soldiers were scourged, and deserters were crucified. Improving his standing with the lower orders was in his interest. When these men would return to their homes, they would return hardened, skilled, disciplined... And grateful, as well as honored to have trained under my command. They’ll spread the words about me; about how I’m very much like them and different from other noblemen.

  In chance his brother, Kalafar, would prove weak as the ruler of Weiyenor, and weaker still as liege lord of the Northlands – Arfaij would be there to relieve him. Not only by virtue of his birth claim, but with the favor of the smallfolk behind him. He was not about to let the rule of his house fall prey to some ambitious vassal or alliance of traitors.

  It should have been mine from the start, Arfaij reflected with apprehension, his teeth working behind his lips. Weiyenor should have been mine. The rule over the whole of the north should have been mine. I’m stronger than him. I’m faster than him. I’m better than him with sword and shield, with spear, with bow, with the reins, as well as my fists. What can he do better than me? Quite a few things, now that he thought of it. But they were trifling things. Sums, words, settling disputes...

  Bugger that. A lord doesn’t need parchment and ink to rule his lands and holdings. For that there are offices to be filled with dutiful men. Let the scribblers handle the scribbling, the physicians handle the sick and wounded, and the lord handle the rule. Strategy, swords, and skill win order and peace. In the absence of power and fear, there is no safe throne to sit on.

  From another part of the camp, the crackle of steel on steel blows could be heard. The earth was muddy, so Arfaij had to watch his step as he made for the racket. Two uneven men were exchanging slashes, thrusts, and swings, as well as boasts. Some of their comrades watched them closely with interest, while others paid them no mind. Those were tending to the fires, the roasts, the whetstones and their blades; while others were catching some snores.

  “How am I doing, Ivar?” The plump man said, after dodging a blow on his left.

  “You’re sluggish and clumsy as ever, Hork,” his taller opponent said with a mocking grin. “Better stay away from those roasts. Before long, I’ll send you falling on your ass.”

  Plump but sober Hork stood sideways, dodged another blow, this time to his right, and managed to trip his adversary. In the next eye blink, it was Ivar who fell on his ass. Everyone laughed and Hork laughed the loudest.

  Arfaij offered the man a hand to help him on his feet. “Next time don’t boast before you fall, and it will be less amusing.”

  “See? I did good. Didn’t I, commander?” Hork chuckled between heavy breaths, while wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “I got you good, Ivar.”

  “You tripped me, fat man. That’s all you did. The bloody ground’s muddy. You got lucky, nothing more; so quit your boasting.”

  Arfaij raised his hand and everyone else fell silent. “Both of you showed poor form and poor judgement. The only reason you dodged the sword is because Ivar can’t take his wine. He is almost half drunk, and you are not. Also, a poorly timed and executed attack invites a fatal counterattack. Best you remember that, both of you, all of you.” Arfaij turned and saw that many others had closed in around them, including the knights who accompanied him – sirs Falken Trent, Tolbert Smallgrove, Peter Steinward, Red of Runswick, Edwyn Watt, and several other knights, his own retainers. With so many eyes upon him, Arfaij would make the most of it.

  “Fight like these two, and in a real battle you’ll die like fools! Remember this, fear kills more men, more than any army. If you break formation, you kill your brothers as well as yourselves. Those men to your right and left, front and rear, expect you to be there; just as you expect them. Each soldier has his part to play. He needs eyes to see, ears to hear, sense to grip his weapon, balance to keep him standing, and courage to follow orders.” He studied their faces with narrowed eyes. These were the future hands in which the banners of Sodomis would stand tall and proud. These were the men who’d one day follow the ram into war.

  Arfaij continued, his voice stern and measured. “I want to turn you lot into real fighters. You are northlanders! The children of snow and ice! You are tougher than any of those southerners who bask in the heat of both night and day! If you manage to learn the trade of war, you’ll be unequalled by any soldier. Remember those western knights?!”

  The crowds roared at that. They were alive, remembering, and loud.

  “Outnumbered we kept them at bay. They pushed us, and we kept pushing back. Blackway and his knights couldn’t pass into the Midlands, to aid their demented blood gods worshiper sovereign. We pushed them back at Highmount! At Bronze pass! And at Streamwake!”

  The men were cheering now, and in unison, their voices were as thunder – a thunder of man, hungry to spread the roar across the land at the fall of night.

  “However, I cannot work miracles...” Arfaij grinned, and the crowds murmured a chuckle. “At the end of our journey and that of our training, those of you unable to endure the life of a soldier need not be ashamed.” Pricking their manly pride is always better than promises of punishment. Only when faced with fear does a man’s pride fade, and in such moment, I am to be that fear.

  “The Winterlands don’t require only soldiers, but farmers, fishermen, woodcutters, craftsmen, smiths, miners, servants of households, and there are many other trades. Each man who labors dutifully, labor
s for the greatness of our realm and that of the Empire. You are each a pillar stone of the whole, and let none have you think otherwise.” He walked towards the fire, towards the pig roast, pulled out his dirk and cut himself a piece of cooked flesh. “Let’s eat! This night, we march!”

  The sky turned a faded yellow, as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. By now, the warm breeze had also disappeared. A few hours after the men had finished with the food and drink in their bellies, it was time to move again, onwards to the Snow Plains of Herron’s Keep. Lord Brax had promised him at the wedding, that he’d provide all the necessary accommodations for the training. It boded well for Arfaij to have the second most powerful lord in the north honor him with the comforts of his halls.

  The Snow Plains were the domain of house Brax. And once there, he would grow the skill and mettle of his greenhorns. Order and discipline was the lifeblood of any army. Arfaij Sodomis, he thought an ambitious thought, lord of Weiyenor and warden of the Northlands. The titles sounded good attached to his name. But such a thought was treason; and there was no other fate for the traitor, save death... Or exile. Though, my brother wouldn’t show such kindness towards me. He is no stranger to pride, I’ll give him that. But I wouldn’t blame him, for I’d do the same in his place. All the mercy I’d show would be the mercy of a quick death.

  Inside his tent, Arfaij unfolded his map across the table to inspect the markings. They still had to make good leagues... But then one of his knights requested a word.

  “Yes, sir Edwyn?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord; but this bunch of volunteers is filled with fools and miscreants. We’d be lucky if we can turn half of them into fighters.” Sir Edwyn Watt was nearly thrice his age, a hero of the battle at Bronze pass. He was a man of proven martial resolve, courage, and loyalty. “The plains near Herron’s Keep will be a lot colder. I can’t wait to hear their complaints about the harsh winds, the thick snow, and the drills. Though, truth be told, I am more worried about the horses, than the men.” Sir Edwyn sighed, then leaned over the map and pointed with two fingers.

  Arfaij frowned. “The Black Forest? What of it, sir?”

  “Wolves, my lord. We’ve heard complaints from some of the village folk on our march to the west. This season, there seems to be more of the cursed creatures and getting bolder. Farm animals have been attacked, even the dogs. So far none complained about attacks on people, but who can say? With your leave, my lord, I’d take a few of these greenhorns with me; those who claim to know something about hunting. It would be good to turn out a couple of wolf pelts, mayhaps some game too. And of course, the village folk would be grateful for our help.”

  Arfaij rolled up the map, and turned to face the venerable knight. “What is that to us? They are not our villages. They’re the domains of lord Holton, just like the Black Forest. Besides, we only have a handful of dogs with us, and few of them are lymers. A proper wolf hunt requires skilled hunters not damn newborns.”

  “Indeed,” Peter Steinward intervened, chin held high. “The lord commander is right. A proper hunt requires able hunters; and I know my skill, as well as that of sir Red of Runswick. Him and I have routed many a wolf in our years and many a game with you, my lord, and your brother. I’ve also seen sir Tolbert at work with his longbow. He’s quite the marksman.” Sir Steinward pulled out a skinning knife and inspected the blade’s sharpness. “I enjoy cutting flesh and skin. I also enjoy collecting wolf fangs, not just pelts. Worn as charms, it is said they ward off evil and bring good luck – ”

  “Rubbish,” sir Edwyn cut him off. “A vile superstition, remnant from the primitives of these lands; well before the Unnamed Conqueror landed here and scoured their foul seed from the Old World.”

  Sir Steinward gave a shrug. “A superstition, true that is. But a superstition that has outlasted much time, many a generation. I trust there are some bits of truth in the old beliefs.”

  “Like in the worshiping of blood gods, sir knight? To sacrifice the flesh of beast and man on the altar of idols? And drink their blood to attain the favors of the dark powers? What seeds of infernal truth lie in that?”

  Before Peter Steinward could reply, Arfaij intervened to silence both of them. “That’s enough, sirs. We are men of reason, not of blind faith or superstition.” He took a moment to ponder the old knight’s request, then conceded to it. “As you will, sir Edwyn. We’ll all be doing some hunting. Perchance lord Brax won’t have any complaints towards our action, prior to his knowledge. But I won’t send the whole regiment, not even a hundred men to roam for the blasted fiends. Twenty or thirty souls should suffice.” The two knights nodded in accord. “Well then, time to move.”

  The sky was getting darker, and the men had finished taking down the tents and putting out the fires. Arfaij mounted his destrier, and gave the signal to march. He tapped the horse’s flanks with his heels, and after a short moment the small regiment began to move.

  Arfaij Sodomis rode in front. “Let the drummers give their beat. Something cheerful.” The music’s martial rhythm alongside the throng’s pace seemed to make the stars brighter and the moons paler. The banners of Mero, the Sunfist encircled by a golden beam with its rays sinister, and the ram with fiery hooves of Sodomis, stood tall and fierce – just as the knights who carried them, sirs Steinward and Smallgrove.

  “The night won’t be young forever,” he whispered to himself. “And it’s so beautiful to travel under just moons and stars.”

  The regiment marched for leagues – stopping for respite during the day, in the more wind-sheltered places, along the passes, hills, and nearby villages. This journey would harden the greenhorns, though, some were likely to fall sick and catch their deaths out here. Arfaij had brought with them only several physicians and their apprentices. But there was no cure for a fever. One is either meant to live through it, or die. True northlanders need to endure and conquer, as did their fathers before them. Only a handful of the greenhorns had managed to contract the sweating sickness. And none of them had died... such a thing was interpreted by his knights as a good omen.

  With the past nights, the season of summer was over. Autumn’s days were a holy period in the Temple’s calendar. It marked the evenness of the cycle, when the Sun Father and Moon Mothers shared equally the rule over night and day. Arfaij had commanded the regiment to change its marching pattern; for the skies ahead were no longer clear, but heavy with clouds. Marching in the night, with the light of the moons and stars reflected in the clear snow surrounding them, was one thing. But going about in blackness with only the light of torches was another.

  “Only a day’s march remains, my lord.” Edwyn Watt said with a smile on his red face. “And we will have reached the Black Forest.”

  The wind that blew against them now was a stranger from the warm one a few days before. Herron’s Keep stood far below the horizon; and the Snow Plains appeared closer with every passing moment. To their right, hamlets could be seen in the distance; the faint tongues of smoke lifting themselves above the hovels. While to their left, the Black Forest grew in size and smell.

  Ah, the forest’s scent... scent of ice, mold, leaves, and pine. For all of the north’s harshness, it was still beautiful to admire. It had a peculiar taste to it, of strength and purity. As they approached, no sound of wild beasts came to their ears; that made Arfaij grin. “The forest appears quiet, sir Edwyn. I don’t hear any of your wolves howling.”

  “My lord, please tell me you don’t mean to call off the hunt. Hehe, does the forest frighten you?” The venerable knight chuckled not unkindly; and so did the others.

  “It’s not the forest, sir, the greenhorns frighten me. Many of them are still children, regardless of their bulks and beards. Most of them have never seen a boar, and hunting wild animals is not like chasing a pig. But still, I promised a hunt. I’ll take ten men, you and sir Tolbert as well. Meanwhile, the regiment will continue to travel to Herron’s Keep. Sir Falken will lead them onwards. Us three parties should be abl
e to cover enough trail, and see for ourselves the truth about these rumors.” Strange that lord Brax would let his villagers suffer these wolves. But Arfaij had no time to linger on that thought.

  “It will be interesting to measure my skill to that of the other knights,” sir Tolbert Smallgrove said as he dismounted. “Though it hardly seems fair. I’ll wager fifty silver pieces that I bring more kills than Runswick by going alone, with just my lymer.”

  “I’ll take you on that wager,” sir Red replied in a sly tone. “Oh, but before that, you should let someone else hold that banner. Can’t hunt with your hands full, now can you?” Both men laughed, but sir Edwyn was unimpressed. Arfaij shared too the old knight’s sentiment.

  “Give it to Ivar,” sir Peter joined the talk. “When he’s not drinking, he’s a sharp lad. And lucky for us, there’s no more wine left.”

  “Enough with the japes and boasting,” spoke the lord Sodomis. “None of you will be going at it alone.” He made a sign, and the others joined in around them. Arfaij changed his destrier in favor of his courser. Such a horse was better suited for hunting, being quicker and less in weight. And so they banded into three hunting parties, and left the regiment on its way to the Snow Plains in the charge of sir Falken Trent.

  The grey clouds shrouded the sun, and the blackness of the forest awaited them. The men organized themselves and agreed to double back before sundown. If the forest would indeed prove to be festering with wolves, they would bring the word to lord Holton with due diligence. Sir Smallgrove’s party was to search the eastern side, sir Edwyn’s party was to follow the trail west, and his own was to head up north, all the way to the great gap of the forest.