Every man around him started muttering in disapproval. Alghernon wanted to speak his mind, but the ram awarded him not the opportunity. “Uncle, do me the kindness of escorting lady Juni and her handmaidens to the chambers we’ve prepared. The rest of you go back to your chores and see to your duties.” Kalafar kissed her warmly on the brow. And with that, his lord uncle took Juni by the arm and inside the keep.
As the courtyard became scarce in muttering knights, the master at arms, Helga Brigadale, approached him with cautious eyes. “My lord Sodomis, we must choose a side. Surely the Northlands cannot remain neutral.”
“And why not?”
“What will your vassals say?”
The ram wanted to lash out, but to manifest his anger openly would have been a sign of weakness. “The opinions of my vassals are of no concern to you,” he said in a scolding tone. “Right now, we don’t know who to trust. All we know is that we haven’t enough grain. That we haven’t enough peasants. That we haven’t enough men to waste sending them off to die for the ruthless ambitions of others. It isn’t about honor, but wisdom. The wisdom to survive, the wisdom to know when to fight and when not to. Our men are needed at home for autumn’s harvest.”
He went closer to the master at arms; and with a finger traced the ram’s horns, which were painted on her breastplate. “The ram,” Kalafar said in a low voice, “has not yet touched the gates… When it does, I’ll be sure to call the banners and go to war. Most likely, those gates will have already been battered. And victory will require less men to sacrifice. Until then, we observe and observe… as much as we can.” He gave her a kiss on the lips – a cold kiss which a lord gives to his subjects as a sign of approval and forgiveness. When their eyes met, Kalafar knew he had her. The master at arms, Helga Brigadale, had understood the reasons of her liege lord.
Later that day, Kalafar Sodomis dispatched several riders to his vassals – to bring them knowledge of the usurper’s war. Warning them that elements from within the Empire, not mere chance, had allowed the exile to land with thirty thousand troops. Lastly, the ram told them, quite poetically, that, “The snows of the north shall remain white and pure, unstained by blood and dishonor.” The meaning of this was obvious. Weiyenor would not allow treachery. And all the messages sent to his vassals contained inside a silver coin – the metal was a symbol of honor and virtue.
With those silvers, the lord Sodomis had put forth more instructions. He wrote to his lords of sacrifice and honoring the past. He requested of them a special meeting, a meeting of council. He also chose the place of such a gathering… an old place, thought to be cursed by evil winds and much sorrow. It lay to the north, beyond the Frost forests. It was called Devil Mound; a place of great tragedy… old tragedy dating back to the Age of Glory. When the north was ruled by only two houses, cast out by the emperor of that time to suffer their reign only over the cold and barren earth – on account of their treachery and crimes committed against the realm. They were Fengard and Wyrm; fierce rivals, cruel, and without honor.
After more than a hundred years of skirmishes, hatred, and plotting, and a hundred years of incest marriages – the two heads of the warring families agreed on a lasting peace. They met on neutral undisputed ground, that of beyond the Frost forests, deep into the north. Amidst the ice and snow, they found there a large and queer mound of black stone. It resembled something of a hellish figure, so they called it Devil Mound. There, the Wyrms and Fengards met each other with treachery in mind – with slaughter as their purpose…
But such a tragic tale was not without its element of allegory. Awakened by the bloodshed, the demon trapped within the stone came to life and devoured all their hateful souls. However, beneath such dark superstition, there was the symbol of sacrifice. That the blood spilled there by the Wyrms and Fengards – the blood of many a soul – had warmed the cold heart of the north. And since then, the land had grown easier to tame, for men to settle and plow the earth.
At last, it was time to witness that godsforsaken place, to remember who they were. And reflect upon the sacrifices they would have to make themselves. For no creature upon the earth could live its life without paying for it... and death collected all such debts. One could not adjourn such payment forever; in the end, a sacrifice was always needed. My father told me of it once, when I was a boy. He told me of the icy devil in black rock; a demon who’s thirst for blood had been satiated long ago by warring butchers and traitors. Quite soon, I will see it for myself. The messages concluded with the words of their liege lord, the words of house Sodomis... ‘Ours is the path and sword.’
In the evening, Kalafar and Juni had their supper together. Lord Alghernon was busy in his study. And lady Olivia... gods knew where she was, but he didn’t care. All the recent news and events were things of dread, and more or less they affected his spirits. Kalafar’s previous thoughts of vengeance regarding Erasmus Verwick had died down.
The man’s old and sick, and has no male heir. That house is destined to end with his own death. Sometimes fate proves to be just. Still, Kalafar would have enjoyed greatly to see the old wretch plead for his miserable life. Then to shove a sword between the murderer’s ribs. And then to watch the piss-smelling corpse in beautiful silence, as its lifeblood dripped away.
“Kal,” Juni said then. “You’ve barely touched the food in your plate. Please forgive me for seeming such a glutton, but the journey has left me with quite the appetite. And these sausages of northern make are very good. They taste better than those of back home. I had no idea the kitchens of the northern lords employed so many spices.”
He smiled at her. “They don’t, my sweet. We prefer the more traditional ones. You’ll have to thank sir Quintus More for the ample stock of spices he left us.”
Juni nodded. “How is your brother, Arfaij?”
I don’t know, and I don’t care, Kalafar wanted to reply, but he kept that thought to himself. “He’s out playing the soldier – training a small regiment of greenhorns on the Snow Plains. Those are the domains of lord Holton Brax. Arfaij’s honey-time with his lady wife has been, ahem... quite short. But pleasant, I hear.”
That last one was a lie. Kalafar had no idea how it went. The first day following the ceremony, Arfaij had looked bewildered. Kalafar remembered his brother’s face – bored, frustrated, and groggy. Feelings of envy and pride were difficult things to keep in check. Arfaij always loved his duty more than his own whims. And he enjoyed swordplay and riding better than he did women. Kalafar’s musings weren’t thoughts of spite; but neither of understanding. At the day of their birth, destiny had spoken out. Arfaij was the second son, not the first. And their lord father, Jorghel, had seen fit to respect the right of primogeniture. Weiyenor is mine; not his.
Juni didn’t drink any wine, only water, even though it wasn’t a fasting day. While at the table, she made no mention of the dire events in the south. The smile she put on was just a mask, he knew. Poor girl. She remembers little of her past, and now she’s at a foreign court in foreign lands, with so many strangers about. Worse still, conflict is stirring in her home country. Kalafar reached for Juni’s hand and kissed it.
“My sweet,” he said afterwards; voice warm and measured. “You are betrothed to the warden of the Northlands, to the ram of Sodomis. You’ll no longer be just a Mayflower, but a ram as well. When calmer times will be upon us... we’ll be wedded properly, in the sight of men and gods. I need you to be strong, not for me, but for yourself. I am your half, and you are mine.”
“I can be a ram,” said Juni, “a ram on a field of flowers that bloom in May. I will miss Redgarden, my sister and my parents. But my life is here now, in the north. You chose me in spite of my condition; and you chose only me, with no dowry. I’m ashamed of myself for not remembering my childhood years; the years we’ve spent together, playing and doing all those things you told me of...” Her eyes turned wet, and a tear trickled down her cheek. “I’ll make you proud of me, you’ll see. I will make you a good wife.”
“And I shall be a kind husband. Together we will rule as ram and wife.”
Chapter XIX: Birus
Against the wind the banners stood tall and proud, displaying their heraldry. The noble hawk of house Mandon. The grey griffin of house Bellworth. The blazing star grass of Reed. The sanguineous sword of Wolfgar. The three stars and crescent moon of Merrick. And between them the sigils of the lesser stream lords. All the levies and all the tents resided under the cloudless sky outside the gates of Rainhall – still many leagues away from Sun’s Helm.
The counts had revealed a total of fifty thousand men; brave men, defenders of the true emperor. Birus Mandon, however, lingered over one thought... a dreadful one. Erasmus Verwick, the warden of the Eastlands had betrayed him. The imperial chancellor had betrayed Hagyai Rovines by siding with Amarius Mero. And the lord of Findar’s Keep had ordered part of his army to invade the Streamlands. Such treachery, Birus thought to himself. The Three curse your soul, Erasmus.
But all the same, numbers weren’t everything. Be it honorable or dishonest combat, only the right choice of tactics yielded the best outcome. So far, the northern lords had stayed from calling their banners; and there was no word from Weiyenor – no position regarding the usurper’s war. He chooses to wait and see. But in doing so, the young ram is aiding the usurper’s cause.
As for the black knights of Rogfort, they faced a blockade that stretched for many leagues on the widest navigable parts of the Izer. Starting from Strongbrass, down to Goldfield and the Dusken Hills, and ending on the Ivory Coast, where the river’s western arm flowed out into the Silverwind. In such conditions, warships armed with bowmen, scorpions, and flamespitters – Blackway and his knights had yet to meet up with them. They had to take the long march on land around the blockade. It seemed that the only hope for justice and peace lay in his hands and those of his streamlanders.
Inside the war council, the stream lords were bickering amongst themselves. Regardless of their colours, smell, height, and girth – they were all proud nobles. They commanded soldiers, as well as martial wisdom. The lord of Rivermark had to pay careful attention to each and every one of them. Each voice that wanted to speak needed to be heard; each thought needed to be weighed. Narak al Zull was also present; but he loomed in one of the tent’s darker corners – silent and watchful.
“How has it come to this?” Birus spoke out before his vassal lords; lessening the clatter of mailed fists, grumbles, and armored feet. “Soronius Mero just landed without a word, without a sea battle; taking us all by surprise. Now he surrounds Castle Spire, while those treasonous eastern lords have outflanked us at Thinriver and are freely pillaging the heart of our lands. My lords, this is a war council... council by all means.”
“My liege,” lord Bellworth stepped forth, “the emperor will not hold out if we turn the men back north to scour those traitors. A thousand men, locked behind the same walls with food in scarce supply, are likely tempted to open the gates for a Sunborn usurper. Soronius Mero has behind him tens of thousands and plenty of wine, bread, and meat. The castle defenders might do so if they feel we’ve abandoned them. We need to split our forces into two regiments. One will continue south to break off the siege; and the other will head back to deal with the eastern invaders.”
Birus paused for a moment to consider – silent without blinking. I’d prefer to be outnumbered than to outnumber. The confidence of a larger force is always a bad sign for the leader of such a host. And a smaller army travels faster. “I agree with your thinking, lord Rayken. We would gain on their trail and manage to chase them swiftly enough. The Plains of Woodheart; that’s it. That’s a place with neutral advantage for all sides. And having superior numbers, the eastern invaders will grant us battle there.”
The lord of Stonerunner Creek spoke next. “Lord Bellworth’s proposal is most sound. It is a good strategy. I support it, and ask my liege for the honor of leading the attack against Soronius Mero.”
“No! I should have that honor,” lord Wolfgar intervened with a stern voice. “I was your father’s right hand, sire. During the civil war, I fought on the western front together with the northlanders, side by side with the two rams of Sodomis against the black knights of Rogfort. Edmund Blackway had us outnumbered; and outnumbered we managed to keep them away from the heart and soil of the Streamlands. My liege, this honor should be mine.”
“All of you presume too much,” intervened the lord of Wellmoat, Anton Merrick. “What if our liege wishes to battle the usurper himself. Our warden and lord of Rivermark comes before Byrnehold, Stonerunner Creek, or any other seat of power. We’re all fighting on the same side. Regardless of who leads which regiment, all of us will be rescuing emperor Hagyai. And as for me, I’d love nothing more than to cross swords with Verwick’s treasonous lot.”
They turned to him, all of them, with measuring eyes. They awaited the judgement of their liege lord. Birus thought on it. Bellworth’s plan was worthwhile. The strongest of his vassals, however, was the lord of Stonerunner Creek, Latten Reed. He commanded the most soldiers, both footmen and mounted knights. But lord Wolfgar was proven in battle – proven against dire odds. Then Birus thought of himself. The hawk didn’t seek to attain glory or favors; all he wanted was to deliver the Empire from war, from the usurper. And at the same time punish those lords who had turned their cloaks and betrayed their oaths. He had to decide, and so he did.
“My lords,” Birus finally broke the silence, his voice one of confidence. “If Kalafar Sodomis had honored his allegiance to the emperor, there would be no reason for us to split our forces. Alas, the armies of the north are not with us.” He took a deep breath and voiced his decision.
“I will take the smaller regiment back home to repel the eastern invasion. You, lord Wolfgar… you will take command of the larger regiment and continue south to break the siege. I will take the Mounted Arrows and three-quarters of mine own levies. The other quarter I entrust to you. The bigger the second regiment, the more swiftly we’ll have the usurper on the run – on the retreat.” Birus looked to the sellsword; al Zull betrayed no sentiment of disagreement, but neither of eagerness. “That is it, my lords. We start preparations this day. And on the morrow, each of us will go do his duty. By the grace of the Three and in the emperor’s name, we will fulfill that duty!”
“Long live the hawk! Long live Mandon! For Hagyai!” His lords shouted, banging their fists against their armored breasts. They bowed their heads and left the tent on a trail of grumbles, whispers, and encouragements – though, all of them appeared content with his decision. Birus was glad for that much, at least. Glad that his command suppressed the thoughts of dissent.
When the men had gone, Birus looked towards his mercenary captain. Al Zull seemed thoughtful. “Narak, you haven’t intervened to speak your council. Have you no thoughts on this course of action?”
The sellsword scratched his chin and replied with a tilted head, “Of course, lord employer. My thoughts on war and life are many. But Rayken Bellworth beat me to it. This course of action, of splitting your army is most sound; if one is blessed with such loyal vassals.”
“I trust the lord of Byrnehold with mine own life,” Birus replied at once, stern in his belief and well aware of the sellsword’s implication. His lord father had suffered treachery in the past, treachery from Rainhall and Wellmoat. But that had been a different time, a different emperor, a different war... In this conflict, there was no oath made to a bloodthirsty and deranged sovereign. No hard choice between reason and madness; between joining the Inquisition and serving the demented Zygar Ferus.
Narak al Zull grinned. “Very good. On the morrow, we ride to chase the enemy. I must go bloody the horses, then.”
“What? I don’t understand. What do you mean by bloody?”
“Walk with me, good lord employer, and you shall be enlightened.”
They made their way through the camp at the stables. The Mounted Arrows had a separate pavilion for their horses. Birus
saw a few of the mercenaries carrying buckets of discarded remains of meat. They were red with blood. The smell, of course, delighted the flies.
“I’ve told the butchers to spare the blood from the slaughtered meat,” al Zull explained. “In this manner it’s put to good use, instead of being wasted. Here’s what we do to our horses. We tie them down – so as not to go wild and hurt themselves. Then we wash them with blood. We do this again, and again, from time to time; so that they may grow familiar with the smell and cease to fear it. In battle, when my archers are trying to steady their aim, in order for the arrows to reach their desired targets, and not those of chance – the animals must not go wild underneath them at the smell of blood.”
“Mayhaps we could do this to all of our horses,” Birus said with a sense of wonder. However, the mercenary captain shook his head.
“It wouldn’t do, my lord. The animals don’t adjust to it over night. It takes time… time we don’t have.” He walked further down the stable, stopped and squatted. “This one is mine own,” Narak pointed at his warhorse – a great black stallion with a lightning between his eyes. “I call him…” The words faded on the mercenary’s tongue, as he was about to say the name.
“I thought you and your riders didn’t name your horses.”
“True, lord Mandon. We don’t. In our line of business, death is ever looming – on us, as well as our mounts. It’s easier to forget a stranger. Still, in my mind, this animal is my friend. If I would call him anything, I’d name him... Friend. Shhh, it will be alright,” al Zull said softly, lightly touching the horse – his fingers passing through the blood soaked mane.
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 23