Reluctantly she approached. “My lord?” In the hearth’s glow, the pale ochre of her hair turned to orange.
“Closer, sweet girl,” he whispered. Upon the backdrop of shifting shadows, the hearth making them twist and change by way of light – he thought he saw something in her, something familiar. “I won’t bite. Come. Lie next to me. I would talk with you.”
The girl did what she was told. And in a low voice she asked, “What would my lord like to talk about?”
As he gazed into her brown eyes, he thought of something new, a most ambitious course of action. “My name is Sycarus. As you may know, I come from the Old World, which lies across the vast waters to the east. I’m from the Streamlands. Lovely country there. Good earth, many streams, plenty of fish, rich forests also. But what is your name, little girl? Where do you come from?”
A moment of silence followed, with only the soft crackle of burning wood filling the chambers, that and the girl’s breathing. It was a faint sound, most soothing to the ear.
“My name is Akilah, my lord. I don’t know where I was born. I’m an orphan. I used to live on the streets of Sand’s Port, along with other children. We’d beg and steal for a man – Jorro was his name. He later sold me off to this manor’s household. I’ve been serving master Omir ever since. Emptying the chamber pots, cleaning the floors, dusting the furniture, preparing food in the kitchens, helping the washerwomen.”
Sycarus wanted to hear more; he enjoyed the girl’s soft and honest voice. “How was your life before you came into this household? Was this Jorro a bad man, Akilah?”
“Yes, he was, my lord. He used to beat us, especially the boys. Those who weren’t good at stealing, he’d cut some of their fingers, he’d blind them of one eye, or cut off one of their ears. He’d then send them off to beg on the streets. The guards wouldn’t chase them off, or beat them up. Well, not all of them anyway. Jorro used to say that cripples would bring in more money, for the crowds would take more pity on them.”
Sycarus felt the tremor in her words. An orphan himself, he knew very well what she was speaking of. Somehow, he had forgotten much of his own past. But this girl lived on the streets of Sand’s Port. I lived on the streets of Smalltown. Huh, she’s braver than I am. And that fat swine would sell her off to a brothel, right after her flowering. “Do you like it here, Akilah? Is your master treating you kindly enough?”
“It’s a lot better here in the manor,” she whispered softly. “I would like to see new things, though… See green forests and fields of crops, waterfalls, and mountains. I’ve never seen such things, but I often hear people talking of them; saying how beautiful they are compared to the desolation of this land.” She sighed, then continued.
“There are some chores I don’t like to do here, but I do them anyway. Sometimes when I misbehave, I’m punished. The old serving maid strikes me over the rear with a wooden rod. I was punished this very morning before my lord came to visit the master. All because I stole and ate an apple tart from the kitchen. It was meant for the master’s table. But it’s not that bad.” The girl gave a faint nod. “It’s not as bad as Jorro’s punishments. If I would have stolen something from him, I would have lost a finger.” Her voice shivered at the thought.
Sycarus stood up, grabbed a candle glass from the table, went to the fireplace and returned with it lit. “Show me,” he told her bluntly. “I wish to see.”
The girl turned on her belly and lowered her breeches. Red lines covered her cheeks and stretched down to her thighs where the wooden rod had slashed at her. Sycarus took pity on the child and pulled up her breeches. He returned the candle glass onto the table, and came back to the bed. A wicked thought took bloom in his mind towards this servant girl. It seemed a worthwhile notion, or rather plot...
She’s most likely nothing more than a merchant’s bastard with some black skin washerwoman. I could pose her as an Aharo girl. Granted, her skin is not red, but it’s not that black either. After a moment of ponder, he knew what was to be done. If some plotter managed to pull this farce on the emperor, then why can’t I? Hmm? I don’t care about the usurper’s war. Surely he won’t prevail. Hagyai Rovines is the true emperor, and he has the greatest of lords on his side – the hawk of Mandon, the sable warhorse of Blackway, the ram of Sodomis. After the loyalists will crush the usurper, I will shed light on that farce of a betrothal. And I will be rewarded for it.
“My sweet Akilah, I promise you won’t have to do any more household chores, and you won’t have to suffer any more punishments. On the morrow, I am asking Omir to find me a ship captain willing to take me back to the Old World, to mine own lands. And I shall take you with me. That is my gambit, little one.” Sycarus got the girl up on her feet; and then planted a warm kiss on that orange ochre head of hers.
A curious frown the girl posed him. “What is your gambit, lord?”
“Why, you are, sweet one. You are the emperor’s wish for his own son and heir. You... are the Aharo maiden.”
Chapter XXIV: Birus
The reek of ash tickled the nose and sickened the gut. The walls of Rivermark were left black by the fires and the smoke. The ruins beneath their feet were littered with the dead... burnt corpses one and all. Birus had known these people – known them by name and duty. They had served his house; had shared in his bread and memories. The guards and grooms. The handmaidens. The court physician and his disciples. The blacksmith. The kennel master. All his servants and all their children... My friends and subjects. I failed mine own people.
There was nothing to distinguish now; no pale face of peaceful stillness sleeping in death – only aspects encrusted with fear and terror. No way to separate the features of man and woman. No pink flesh anointed with crimson blood. There was only sorrow... blackened husks crying without sound. A dark venom coiled around his heart, an inexorable swelling of defeat that pervaded everything.
On closer inspection, they found that the castle souls had been killed before the flames had engulfed them. Someone from the inside had opened the gates to the attackers. And that someone has perpetrated this betrayal, this massacre. Whoever did it was now long gone with the routed eastlander host. Some reward for our victory, Birus reflected; staring in disbelief at the misery around him. Even crows didn’t feed on ash; yet they pecked at the blackened husks to sate their own curious hunger – in efforts to reach and find within the meat unspoiled by fire.
When he found the lord steward inside the main hall, sitting on the chair, Birus had fallen to his knees. The sight of the dismembered corpse was a profanity so large that no words could describe it. Alder Abelbrooke had his hands where his feet should have been. And his feet were laid upon the chair’s arms. In his lap the thick accounts book stood, and on top of it… Abelbrooke’s head – his eyes gouged out, and his tongue stretched out bloody hanging over his chin. It was a sickening display of a cruelty unmatched by any beast… Only by man, Birus said to himself, after he had retched at the gruesome sight.
There wasn’t any written note left; but words were dust in the wind. This horrid deed was message enough. It had to be a thing of vengeance. All of his soldiers agreed on that. And then the hawk’s thoughts drifted to a certain name, a man who had deemed himself not long ago his satan. “Tychos,” Mandon hissed. “I swear on the gods of all the pantheons, I will not suffer demise until the spirits of my slain shall know retribution.”
Birus Mandon instructed his soldiers, those who knew how to sew, to patch up lord Abelbrooke’s limbs for burial. There were many to bury. Birus had no priests with him, not even a sister of the temple. He would have to perform the rites himself. That wasn’t anything new, though. He had witnessed burials before – those of his two brothers, that of his lady mother, and later that of his father and liege lord. Lady Mandon had killed herself with a noose in her own quarters, after she had learned what became of her children. And his father had died shortly after that, from a heavy spirit and broken heart.
By now, grief had become a neighb
our to Birus… a neighbour that lived next to his soul, a neighbour that would never leave. This damned war was uglier than the last one he remembered. Men fought with honor back then, he tried to tell himself. It was a lie, though; for things appeared so different to a youth’s mind. But now I know the truth.
Later that day, a rider came bearing word from the south. Even after all of this, the tired lord of Rivermark still hoped for good news. He received the messenger outside in the yard before the eyes of all his soldiers, who were also eager to hear of what had transpired between the usurper and the loyalists. Let us hope Wolfgar and Blackway crushed Soronius and his treasonous dogs. “Give this man a horn of water,” Birus spoke in a stern voice. “He has been riding a long way, and is no doubt thirsty.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the messenger replied – head bowed.
His squire, Shandru, gave the man his horn. The news bearer drank at once, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His tired features seemed to darken right before letting out the news. And recognizing that change in the man’s spirits, Birus felt a shiver running down his spine – the bitter chill of defeat.
“My lord, you have been betrayed. There was no battle in the south. The siege of the capital has ended. The gates of Castle Spire were opened from within. Soronius Mero has won the throne...”
All of his soldiers cursed at such foul news. They were even about to pummel the poor man to death in their outburst of incredulity and rage. Birus had to shout at them with all his breath in order to keep them in check. Once he regained their silence, the lord of Rivermark spoke his mind. “How can that be!? What of my bannermen!? My stream lords!? Wolfgar, Bellworth, and Reed, and all the others!? What about the bloody westlanders!? Of Blackway’s knights!?” With those questions raised, Birus felt something inside the pit of his stomach – dread. If it was true that the usurper now sat on the throne, details wouldn’t matter… wouldn’t change anything; but he had to know them all the same. “Tell us, man! And tell us quickly!”
“Yes, my lord. When the knights of Rogfort met up with the regiment of streamlanders led by lord Wolfgar, before they would attack the usurper’s army – they attended a parley with Soronius Mero himself. I know not what they discussed, but when they returned, lord Wolfgar was preparing to give the order to advance. And then…” For a moment, the news bearer lost his breath.
“Damn it to the abyss! Tell us what happened!”
“Ahh… yes, my lord. Before he could give the order, Wolfgar was killed… murdered before everyone’s eyes.”
No, no, Birus almost said it out loud, tasting bile at the back of his throat. Not more betrayal. Not more turncloaks. He had won a battle, a great battle. He had won with smaller numbers. He had fought bravely with conviction for the cause of justice and honor. And I failed. I’ve won a battle, but I’ve lost the war. And the people of my castle, children, women, elders... I’ve failed them as well. He would dread knowing the truth.
“By whom and how?” Birus asked the messenger in a solemn tone; the wrath in his voice vanished like dust in the wind. His tone was now cold and meek.
“It was lord Bellworth. He drove a dagger in the man’s neck. Lords Reed, Blackway, and Merrick, and all the others just… stared. They didn’t raise a sword, nor a word. And there was no battle... Shortly after that, the gates of Castle Spire opened, and Amarius Mero received them in the great hall and accepted their oaths of fealty. The lords who took up arms against him were pardoned. He expects all the other high lords to ride south for the capital within a month’s time and re-enter the true emperor’s justice and peace. Else be branded rebels and traitors to the realm.” The messenger swallowed loudly before uttering his next words. “The wardens who have yet to swear fealty are two… the lords of Rivermark and Weiyenor.”
Birus scratched his beard – by now it had grown thick. The lord of Rainhall, he mused. Once a traitor, always a traitor. “What of Hagyai Rovines, empress Hellena, prince Yoffis, and his betrothed Aharo girl, Iyleen?”
“The empress has been confined to her quarters; at least, that’s what I heard. Soronius Mero has thrown his brother into the dungeon. That I know for certain, for I overheard lord Merrick talking with others about it. The prince, however, was missing from the castle. They didn’t manage to find him; neither him nor the Aharo girl.”
At least a fragment of the news is good. At least those children have managed to escape. Birus sighed, and turned away to look at the blackened walls of his once glorious seat of power. The beauty of the past and the ruin of the present filled him with sorrow. “Give this man bread and water, and whatever else we have left that we can spare. Shtolm! Where are you? Where is my master at arms?”
Norbert Shtolm appeared from the crowds about him, and went to one knee. The man’s armor was no longer stained with blood. The metal, however, still adorned the marks of war. To the hawk’s mind, that texture was better than polished plate. “What does my liege command of me?” Shtolm answered.
“Rise, my friend. I want your honest council. And I want it here, before everyone’s eyes. I want you all to judge out loud and amongst yourselves. Let no man claim I was pig-headed in my rule. Let no man suggest I was ever arbitrary.” Birus took a deep breath before uttering the next words. He could feel their stares upon him, blunt knives over flesh. They look to me for orders, for guidance. But I shan’t sacrifice them for my pride. Birus Mandon took another breath and voiced his question.
“What say you, sir Norbert? Should I ride for Sun’s Helm and bend my knee to Soronius Mero? Or shall we, against all odds, stand in aversion and defiance towards the man, the usurper, who sits now upon the Sun Throne?” Birus eyed Shtolm with a deep and thoughtful frown. He knew the master at arms would pick up on it – that his question was not a command for war, but for truce. “Speak your mind, good sir. And the rest of you judge his words as you see fit.”
“My liege,” Norbert Shtolm said in a loud voice, loud enough for all men to hear. “Indeed our cause was righteous, and we banished those eastern invaders from our soil, but... But we should not throw our lives away for a bested monarch. Your men have wives, sons, and daughters. They have to put bread on the table, wood in the fire, and clothes upon themselves. Those eastern devils have pillaged us, have turned much of our crops to ash. And we are in the months of autumn, with winter looming over us. Rivermark is devoid of provisions. We wouldn’t last long even if every man of ours fought like a giant or demon.”
Norbert Shtolm paused for a moment, and turned his gaze towards the men. “Fellow soldiers, judge what you will. I say we have peace.” And all the others felt the same.
After that had been decided, Birus had one more thing to take care of – ending the contract with the Mounted Arrows Company. Those mercenaries had fought well for him, even short-handed as they were. Birus remembered how it all started. First came the unexplained riots in the streets of the capital. He had seen several inciters, the ring leaders, and they seemed more than ordinary disgruntled plebs. The way in which they appeared mostly in the northern part of Sun’s Helm to cause trouble – and thus, leaving the docks thin of guards – made him suspicious from the start.
With all the convulsion, Narak al Zull appeared on his horse, with his mercenaries trailing behind him. They were all armed. And they told him of what they saw on the sea. They told him of the coming fleet, bearing the colours of Harpool as well as the Sunborn’s Fist; and how the wind favored their obvious cause. Thus, the Mounted Arrows weren’t able to gather their full numbers; for many of them were still scattered throughout the low countries.
In that moment, Birus Mandon had left the capital with due haste to make for Rainhall; and once there, he had called the banners. I retreated to that murderer’s castle. I asked the turncloak for his council, and I acted upon his words. Huh, the crude irony of it all. Birus smiled a bitter smile at that reflection. The lord of Rainhall had betrayed house Mandon once before. Now, that same lord committed the same sin. Father spared the devil�
��s life. But saw fit to kill his own blood instead.
Fortunately, al Zull’s payment had been made on the warden’s credit through the banks. That was a good thing for the Mounted Arrows; for in the wake of his victory, his castle had been looted. And everything else had been put to the torch. The hawk of Mandon was now left poor, as well as defeated.
“I have honored my contract, lord,” al Zull said in a solemn tone. “Though your enemies have fought without honor, and some of them with inhuman cruelty, you still won your battle. You will be remembered as the true victor of this conflict; while all others will be remembered for what they are – betrayers, turncloaks, and butchers.” Narak sighed deeply, and offered his hand. Birus took it, and they tightened their grip as men did to show kindness and respect.
“Al Zull, you and your mercenaries... and your beliefs have left me a changed man. I’m sad to say, though, that your warrior god has failed to hear my words. Perchance I didn’t pray with enough vigor. Or mayhaps... the fire in my spirit was not bright enough and unworthy of divine intervention.”
The sellsword smiled. “My friend,” he called him friend. That word bore more weight and value than any title. “You won your battle with honor. Allahr was not deaf to your words, nor blind to the fire inside your heart. Life is struggle. Only death may pay for life, and only life may pay for death. What is life, if not struggle? I worship the god of life.”
With that said, the mercenaries left. Birus had instructed sir Rootwine to escort the Mounted Arrows westward, to Rhinefeld Harbor. If they were to leave the Old World’s shores, then that route was the safest.
Hours later, at nightfall, Birus found no peace of mind. He couldn’t bear to eat anything, for he had no appetite. All he could do was to think and think. And for that he needed to be left alone inside the ruins of his solar. Every moment or so, he would talk to himself – ask questions, give answers; trying to make sense of things. Trying not to go mad with grief. His greatsword was in its scabbard, right next to his knee, leaned on the chair. Birus would need to find a skilled blacksmith to mend the scars that Traitor’s bane had received in battle.
An Empire Of Traitors (Of Hate And Laughter Book 1) Page 28