Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  “Taxes?”

  “That is Riverside’s problem, but Stirling is whining about the garrison. Some soldiers have been rowdy and the city wants to punish them, but that’s the commander’s job.”

  Grendel frowned. Given his experience with young soldiers, “rowdy” generally meant stolen trifles or compensating husbands or fathers. The Obsidian Guard was trained to be better than that, but there was always some fool who got lax with his men.

  “And what did you do? I hope you did not raise Riverside’s taxes to punish them for complaining.”

  “I considered that, but Isaac didn’t think it wise. He said the goal is to milk the cow, not drain its blood until it dies. In fact, lowering taxes can produce a net gain in income.”

  “To a point. Too high and you kill the cow; too low and you do not milk enough to feed yourself. What did you do?”

  “I lowered the taxes three percent to show my benevolence, then rather brusquely sent him home. According to Isaac’s sources, the council is now split between those who think I can be pressed further and the ones who fear annoying me. I doubt they’ll come calling anytime soon.”

  Grendel smiled. The boy was a chip off the old block. And Isaac gave good service to the son like he did the father.

  “What about Stirling?”

  “I fed their representative and let him talk seven cottages full. When he finally finished, I told him it was the commander’s prerogative to keep his guardsmen in line and sent him home.”

  “And did you contact the commander?”

  Falki shook his head. Grendel frowned and quickened his pace. Falki moved to catch up, while the others wisely fell back. “Falki, I just cut a deal between Alex’s boys and the Flesh-Eaters that may have headed off a war. You need to deal with the small problems before they become large ones. Having the commander make an example of men who misbehave when they are in their cups is easier than repressing a riot. That costs money and anyone shot or hanged will not pay the taxes needed to keep this” — he gestured toward the fortress surrounding them — “going.”

  Falki frowned. Grendel narrowed his eyes. He had hoped the boy would understand his wisdom without arguing. “When we are done here, I will take Jessamine upstairs. Contact the commander of Stirling and tell him to keep a tighter leash, or I will be the one to know why.”

  “Yes, Father.” Falki was not eager enough for Grendel’s taste. “Did anything happen on your trip?”

  “Besides that dispute, there was a minor insurrection that had to be put down,” Grendel said. He gestured to some of the bureaucrats in his entourage. “They will have more information.”

  Falki’s gray eyes lit up at the mention of a rebellion being crushed. He and his company had gotten good at hunting bandits and armed ex-freeholders where the Guard veterans had been resettled, but there were fewer such opportunities these days. Grendel preferred his son learn to govern, not just fight. Ideally, there would be no rebellions at all. Falki and those like him could slake their bloodlust by hunting.

  “You will be able to read the reports. Both of us taking the field at once is a big risk. Suppressing some pissant rebellion is not worth it. Do you want some ambitious son of a bitch to think he can kill your brother Arne and take Norridge for himself if we both die?” Falki nodded, once more too reluctantly. “Did anything else happen while I was away?”

  “Well, there is this.”

  He handed Grendel a folder marked “Assassination Plot — Gov. Orm Hildasson.” Grendel’s frown deepened. He switched back to Jiao. “You did not see the need to tell me this first?”

  “It’s been dealt with. Hildasson killed the assassins and sent the other conspirators here for your judgment.”

  “And he did not deal with them himself?”

  “Because several are on the Hamilton city council.”

  Grendel raised an eyebrow. That did change things.

  He turned to his entourage. “Return to your duties. I will summon you if needed.” He turned to Astrid. “You wanted to see me?” Astrid nodded. Grendel smiled. “I have something I need to work on, but it should not take long after I drop you off.”

  Grendel, with Jessamine and Astrid trailing behind, approached the doors carved with wild beasts marking the entrance of his harem. The two guardsmen entrusted to watch his home, women, and youngest children crisply saluted. Grendel returned their greeting and the guardsmen opened the doors.

  The vast space opened up before him. Alrekr leaped off his shoulder and flew beneath the vaulted white ceiling. The complex was quiet — at this time of the afternoon, the eldest children still living there would be with their tutors and the younger ones likely napping.

  Grendel headed toward the heavy door bearing the saber-cat insignia that marked his apartment. He walked beside the long pool, watching a nude pink form slice through the water. It was Lenora, the concubine who had once minded Falki, Arne, and Astrid.

  Between the lack of physical labor and good food, he and his were in danger of getting fat. Though Grendel did not appreciate famine victims, neither did he appreciate the unhealthy and weak. It took strong women to bear strong children. Swimming was an excellent exercise and to that end, he prescribed courses of swimming to his women and children. He followed this regimen himself in addition to drilling with his men.

  He smiled as he watched her swim. Though she was years older than the youthful Jessamine, Cora Wilkes, and Catalina, she was smart enough he could actually talk to her. And though bearing two children had left its mark, the exercises were certainly paying off.

  At the thought of Catalina, Grendel looked over to the rooms closest to his own, where Catalina and their son Havarth Grendelsson lived. Unlike the others, she did not want to be there. He continued along the edge of the pool and drew close to her rooms.

  Through the door he heard her singing, in the high, steady voice one used when singing to a child. “Turkey in the straw, turkey in the hay. Roll them up and twist them up a high tuckahaw.”

  Catalina told Merrill stories and sang Merrill songs to her son, did her best to inculcate her people’s values in him. Her subtle rebellion only played into his hands. After all, the boy would have to appeal to the people of the former Merrill realm to retain their loyalty once he disposed of Clark.

  Sometime soon, he would let her take her horse outside the city. He would make sure Havarth rode on a dead-broke pony as well. In order to be a proper Merrill he would need to know how to ride. Although it would be years before he could unleash the boy, one could never begin too early. Catalina would be less melancholy for awhile, less likely to kill herself or, even less likely, try to murder him some night in bed. Havarth needed his mother, her dying by her own hand or his would be counterproductive to his plan, and she was an excellent lay besides.

  But first, he would need to see how Falki dealt with the plot against the governor.

  Lenora rose from the pool, blonde hair dark from the water and clinging to her neck and shoulders. Water rolled off her full breasts, the breasts that nursed his children Logmar Grendelsson and Lin Grendelsdottir. Although she first looked at Grendel, her attention soon fell on Jessamine. Jessamine met the older woman’s eyes for a moment, but soon her gaze fell to the floor.

  “Jessamine, put your things away,” Grendel ordered. The younger concubine had not borne any children to potentially threaten Lenora’s brood, but that would not last. And Grendel had taken her on the trip south, not Lenora. Governing his empire took up enough time as it was. Letting his women squabble would add even more headaches.

  Jessamine nodded and headed to her room beside Catalina’s, pulling her wheeled suitcase behind her. Lenora stepped closer, a smile spreading across her face. Although Grendel had business to attend, she had no way to know. He would need to reward her enthusiasm, but not right now.

  He stopped her with a finger to her breastbone. “In a couple of hours.” He gently turned her toward the pool. “Finish up. I will meet you in your quarters when my work is
done.”

  She headed back toward the pool, an extra bit of swish in her hips. Grendel’s appreciative gaze followed her as she returned to the water. Astrid made a distasteful sound behind him. Grendel snorted. “Where do you suppose those babies you love to play with come from?” He turned to face her. “You know, it is about time I started looking for your husband. You are not much younger than Katie was when I found Egill.” Astrid turned beet red. “Now I have some work to do. I should be done in an hour.”

  Astrid scampered away while Grendel went into his private rooms. Once ensconced in his comfortable chair, he opened the folder. Four of the seven members of the city council were involved. Not only them, but the city manager and several local police, including the chief. They had concocted some bullshit story involving raiding an establishment known to be frequented by gangsters and “accidentally” killing the governor, who had stopped by on his way back to the district capital.

  He scowled and marked the files of three of the four members of the city council with his red execution stamp with a bit more force than necessary. Their kin would pay to sharpen the headman’s axe afterward. And they were lucky — if they had succeeded in their scheme, he would have had them blood-eagled.

  The fourth council member’s case was a bit more ambiguous. Even under torture, the man had been consistent about his involvement, or lack thereof. Maintaining the same story while being flogged, branded, and having fingernails torn out was beyond most people.

  He set that man’s case aside. He would take a closer look later.

  He marked the city manager and the police officials involved for death as well. He would have executed the rank-and-file police involved, but the governor and his detachment of Obsidian Guard had already taken care of that.

  He paused. That was eight death sentences and one he might or might not spare. His son had sentenced eleven more to die. Two were financial supporters of those implicated, while another owned a local bank. Two were relatives of the councilmen. Two were union organizers. Two others were scribblers of all people. And then there were three children, the sons of those slated to die.

  The last document brought a smile to Grendel’s face. It was a general order to the Obsidian Guard garrisons in every city in the Basin except for Havelock and Colby. In light of the Hamilton plot, a representative of the local commander was to attend all meetings of two or more city council members, public or private, indefinitely. Never let a good crisis go to waste. Leaving the two most loyal cities alone was clever — their example would answer any claims that this was a power grab. It would be wonderful if it were a case of like father, like son.

  Still, he would sound out his son’s reasoning. A calculated purge merited pride. Mindlessly lashing out like Jasper Clark did not. And Falki had committed that sin before…

  “The councilmen need no explanation,” Grendel told his eldest son. “The police officials likewise.” He took another swallow of mead before speaking again. “But the others? I would like your reasoning.” Once he had visited with Astrid as promised, he had summoned his heir to an empty office deep within the citadel, well away from his harem.

  “One scribbler was part of the plan.” Falki drank from his own goblet. “His reporting on the local lowlifes would give the whole ‘mistaken identity’ charade plausibility.”

  “And did actual criminals frequent that ballroom?”

  “Of course. The plotters weren’t idiots. They’d want a plausible explanation for why their police would barge in and start shooting.”

  “The rest?”

  “The other scribbler criticized the local commander and our government in general. The union men were involved in that strike the Guard had to crush in the spring, which is what pushed the council from pissing and moaning into treason in the first place. They somehow hadn’t been sent to the mines with the rest, but they’re not escaping this time. The rest were allies of the councilmen. Killing their sons means no revenge.”

  This was exactly what Grendel had hoped for. “I like the way you think. I approved all of your sentences, bar two. The councilman who was not as involved as the others would best serve us alive. That means we will not kill his son.”

  Falki’s fingers tightened on his goblet. “Him? He claimed he didn’t think they were serious, but he should have thought again. He’s a threat to your rule, the same as the others.”

  Grendel frowned. Time for another lesson. “There is more to ruling than imposing one’s will by violence. You have to make friends as well as enemies. Gratitude can be a powerful source of allegiance. If all you have are enemies, soon someone else will sit on your throne.” He paused for effect. “It will hopefully be one of your brothers if you botch it when I am gone.”

  Falki scowled. “That’s not much incentive to keep them alive, now is it? You named me your successor, but you keep fathering rivals.”

  Grendel leaned forward, locking eyes with his son. “That is not much incentive to let you succeed me, if you will murder my other children before my body is cold. I have many sons and I am not that old.” Falki tensed. “How about this? If any of your brothers die, you die next.” That would make sure Falki protected them, at least while Grendel lived.

  Falki replied more quickly than Grendel expected. “Clever. I like Arne and he knows his place, so you needn’t worry about him. And we need Havarth to hold over Clark’s head and get rid of him when the time comes.” He leaned forward. “However, there is Logmar – ”

  “Logmar is fifteen and has never commanded men in battle. You are twenty and you have. Your fixation on him does you no credit.”

  “He is already making friends with people in the capital, sons of the elite and lowlifes both. Probably people who don’t want to be ruled someday by a half-Jiao. Building a power base.” Falki paused. “Signe is content I succeed you and look out for Arne and Astrid. Lenora, that governess with delusions of grandeur, wants him to be the next first lord. You’ll need to keep an eye on her.”

  “I do not need to do goddamn anything.” Grendel kept his eyes locked on his son. “Having someone plot against you that you cannot simply kill if you want to keep your head might be good practice.”

  Of course, he would keep a closer eye on Lenora. Of all his sons, Falki was in the best position to succeed him if he died tomorrow. Barring treacherous stupidity on the boy’s part, he intended to keep Falki alive. Blood-kin were precious.

  “While we are still on your brothers, it is in the best interest of our family for you to keep them around once you put on my cloak,” Grendel continued. “Even Logmar. Remember what I told you before. One arrow can be easily broken, but many arrows together cannot.” Falki rolled his eyes. “And what if you die in battle, some hunting mishap or, say, get sick?”

  Falki’s grip tightened on the goblet. His mother and younger full brother had died in the cholera epidemic that had swept Norridge after Grendel claimed the city. The cholera that had nearly killed Falki himself. It paid to know what buttons to push.

  “That’s incentive to give you grandchildren.”

  “That would please me, but they had better be from Nora Matthews before they are from anyone else.”

  Had James Merrill the good sense to submit, Grendel would have married Falki to Catalina. It would have been a win-win — the Merrill’s grandson would rule all between the mountains and the desert and the seas and Grendel’s senior grandchildren would have the prestige of the oldest dynasty in the known world, a lineage dating back to the day after the ancient world had burned.

  But the fool viewed Grendel as a parvenu and Falki as mongrel, and so it was war. James Merrill’s loss was not Grendel’s though. Marrying Falki to Alex’s daughter would ensure the bonds between the Basin and Sejera and the Leaden Host remained tight long after Grendel and Alex were gone. Although marrying Catalina to Falki after wrecking the southeast meant an enemy whispering in his son’s ear, taking Catalina himself meant his own claimant for the Merrill throne. And besides, Catalina
was quite fetching.

  Falki nodded. Grendel smiled. “I am glad we understand each other. Anything else?” The younger man shook his head. “Excellent. Now I have some other business to attend to. Make yourself scarce.”

  Falki nodded again, turned on his heel, and walked out.

  How the Merrills Do Justice

  Andrew sat at a ramshackle wooden table beneath a dull green tarp, a smile on his face. He fondled a bronze medal etched with the image of a horse and the letter V.

  It hadn’t taken long for word to get around about what Andrew’s squad had done. The captain gathered the whole company and then called the squad forward. After some quick questions, he gave each man the bronze decoration. The others clapped and cheered. Even Wyatt joined in, though his expression soured when his eyes met Andrew’s.

  It’s been less than a month and I’ve gotten a medal. Who knows what’ll come next?

  Of course, that award didn’t exempt him from chores. He pocketed the medal and returned his attention to the disassembled rifle spread out before him. He picked up the bristled cleaning brush and peered down the breech. The three rounds he’d fired during target practice left little behind, but even a little would be too much if it caused him to miss in the next scrap with the Flesh-Eaters.

  “Andrew,” Will interrupted. “You’ve got to come see this.”

  What the hell did he want? Knowing Will, probably nothing good. “Can it wait?”

  Will shook his head. “No way. The Merrill has decided what Flesh-Eaters we’re going to keep. He’s going to have them kill the rest.”

  Andrew nearly dropped the brush. “What?”

  “Remember the ones we took alive? The ones we reckon are trustworthy join up. Then we have them kill the rest and send the heads back to the Flesh-Eaters. No way they can skedaddle now.”