“I am humbled, Soldier Yohan, that you had to remind me of my own beliefs.”
“You’ll play, then?”
“I could not refuse, had I wished to.”
The fiddle was the only instrument they were able to carry on this march, and Yohan had long considered it a waste of space and weight. He had lost sight of the importance of music to the harpa. Now he thanked the gods that Patrik had not.
Sunset bathed the fiddler in a curious light as he stood, poised, bow across strings. His eyes were closed, his focus on summoning whatever unfathomable reserves that allowed him to play with the magical amalgam of precision and emotion that had caused Yohan and all the other soldiers to fall in love with caravan eves, when music and dancing had driven away worry and hardship for a few brief hours, night after night.
The first note held in the air for countless seconds, a lone arrow to the heart, then was joined by a second and a third. Then the notes quickly lost individual distinction, blurring into a harmonious whole.
The women were not here to perform in body, but Yohan saw their spirits in the colorful horizon, moving together and apart, black silhouettes in impossible motion.
Summer and Meadow, and behind them the apparition of Silvo clapped his hands. Yohan looked left, seeing Brody’s smiling face, full of love for one of the dancers. Then right, where all the other soldiers appeared one by one. The last was Corporal Mercer, scowling even as his foot tapped to the rhythm.
Yohan closed his eyes so he could simply listen. This was the first song he had danced to with Summer. He thought of it as her song. Summer’s song.
The music was a salve, carrying away worry and pain, if only for a time. When it stopped, he remembered all the problems that plagued him once more. But the haze had been lifted, his mind freed of endless torment.
That night, he dreamed of his mother, his father, and a little village called Parca. Twoscar was not there.
In the morn, Yohan felt he could think clearly for the first time in a month. And by the afternoon, he was as distressed as ever.
As they returned from their scouting expedition, Patrik voiced the only question that mattered. “Where are they?”
The prison camp was still there, though only half the number of tribesmen remained. It was difficult to get an accurate count, because the barbarians traveled back and forth from camp to town with increasing frequency.
“I know not. Perhaps into Threefork.”
“And perhaps not.”
“Aye.”
“Do we stay, or do we move?”
“I know not.”
“No decision is still a decision. It’s just a bad one.”
“The wrong one could be even worse, and only a fool plans based on a guess.”
“We should have freed them when we had the chance.”
Yohan did not argue. Instead, he prayed for the panic to fade sufficiently for his wits to return.
Throughout the afternoon, he worked on formulating a plan to get all his questions answered. By that eve, he was ready to share the plan with his companion.
“I think it’s worth the risk. I go into town.”
“You mean we go.”
“It will be dangerous.”
“You don’t seem to understand yet. There is no danger that would stop me.”
“What of the danger to the prisoners, harpa? What if I can succeed better on my own?”
“Are we speaking of the morrow, or everything? You cannot be rid of me so easily, soldier.” Patrik glared back with a hostility not seen in recent days. “You speak of nothing I have not considered a hundred times already. If I truly endanger our task, tell me now. But I will not be easy to convince. Do you wish to try?”
“I do not, and I knew your answer already. I simply do not like to send a man to his doom without giving him the chance to avoid it.
“Very well, we go together. It shouldn’t be difficult to obtain disguises. A few furs from a patrol ought to do. We already look and smell bad enough to pass for tribesmen.”
That night, the heavy rain emptied the streets of Threefork. Most citizens supped inside their homes and went to bed early. The weather was also an excuse, for the locals had not yet become accustomed to so many savages wandering in their midst with such brazen impunity, visiting tavern and brothel, carousing with civilized folk as though they belonged.
A few of the barbarians even went so far as the town hall, where the interim magistrate allowed their visitations with more frequency than even his own kinsmen. One of the tribesmen, in particular, entered the seat of administration so regularly that he was whispered to be the real voice of authority.
This rumor did not particularly bother the inhabitants, however, for the new magistrate was widely viewed as a contemptible lout. And the barbarian—a man with distinctive features, a bushy red beard, and humorous temperament—was one of the few well-liked by those who had gotten to know him over a drink or four.
Had anyone been watching that night, they would have seen two different savages make their way to the same building. Covered in long furs, though the rain did nothing to lessen the heat, the two quietly walked from gate to town center without so much as a nod or a glance to anyone else.
The remaining tribesmen were drunk, fornicating, or well on their way to one or the other as the two men disappeared inside. The restless civilians were hiding, the restful asleep. Everyone but the participants themselves would find out the events of that night only at dawn the following morn.
“I tell you, Redjack, your people cannot continue to take our food as if it were their own. The caravans have stopped delivering, and our farms do poorly. We need everything we have left.”
“I appreciate your concern, Magistrate.” The last word received an emphasis of derision. “I will relay your demand to the Chekiks—”
“Not a demand, Redjack,” simpered a man Yohan did not recognize, though his position and status were clear enough from the few minutes of eavesdropping. “Not a demand. A request. One of many factors the Chekiks should consider in their calculations.”
Yohan could not see the second man from where he stood, peeking through the slivered aperture of a cracked door. But he knew the voice well enough to visualize the distinctive face with its amiable, disarming features. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“Their calculations?” Redjack laughed. “Where do you think the people of Threefork fit into their calculations? Or one troublesome magistrate, for that matter?”
“Why, I…” The high voice found no basis to continue.
“Let me remind you, Kazmir, that you now serve the Communion first, Gothenberg second. Your good king Deniger agreed to that when he surrendered his kingdom at the first sign of raiders.”
“He did not know you would be starving his citizens.”
“You mean he did not care. His concern was only that the invasion hit Vilnia instead.”
“But our food—”
“What do you think was meant when he agreed to supply our raiders? That we would be discreet? Polite? Docile?
“Nay, he knew what he was doing…sacrificing one insignificant town in exchange for the destruction of his rival.” Redjack’s mirth increased with each laugh. “I thought the fighting between my people was shameful, but we’ve got nothing on you Imperials.”
Yohan had heard enough. It was difficult enough to restrain his rage at the first sound of the traitor, but he had done so for the sake of the mission. He had come for answers, and now had more than he wanted.
He had spent the last few minutes half-listening, half-remembering the betrayal and destruction of Captain Marek’s company. Of Jena’s squad. Of Summer’s caravan. And countless others, unknown but not forgotten. Not forgiven.
Yet the betrayal of an entire kingdom—nay, of the empire entire—was too much to bear.
Redjack was still speaking as Yohan pushed the door open the rest of the way. “…think your king has abandoned you, Kazmir. You should put your faith in th
e Communion, in Sulja, and in me. For the empire is not long for... What is it, brothers?”
Both men turned to face the newcomers. Neither showed recognition in that first instant. Instead, one showed irritation and the other anxiety. Then the second face turned to shock, the gaze lowering to the sword thrust through his ribcage.
Yohan withdrew the blade and let the magistrate collapse. It would not do to allow the enemy even an instant of opportunity, so he crossed the five feet separating him from the tribesman in the time it took for those small black eyes to squint, then widen. Then it was too late, and both of them knew it.
Redjack smiled. “Brother Yohan. I’ve been wondering when you would show.”
“Now. Now is when I show.”
“I knew you would—”
“Don’t waste my time. You know I’m in a hurry. You know my questions.”
“Why?”
Yohan shook his head. “There is no time for why. What, where, and when.”
The room was lit by a single candle, and its flickering glow made Redjack’s dark eyes seem to dance. Heavy rain pounding the wooden building was the only sound for one long moment.
The tribesman paid no attention to Patrik, who stood just inside the door, keeping an eye on the main entrance to the building. The only things in the world just then were Yohan, his sword, Redjack, and his scheming mind.
“Lower your sword first, brother.”
Yohan raised it threateningly. “They’ve not been eaten. What, then?”
He disliked the hopeful expression that appeared on the other man’s face. “You think I’m a monster, don’t you? Nay, brother. These Chekiks are true monsters. Their demons are true monsters. And now, many of my kinsmen are monsters.”
“Tell me.” He focused on the lips, as if he could discern truth from lies by watching the words emerge.
The smile became a frown. “I am telling, you aren’t hearing. The Communion makes monsters of us all. You can accept their blessing, as they call it, or you can resist. And wind up like him.” He kicked the body on the floor. “Dead in poxing Threefork.”
“Ironic.” Yohan jerked the blade forward a few inches, and even unflappable Redjack recoiled.
His eyes shifted from sword to wielder then back again. Then, strangely, he gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m a mean bastard, I know. But I didn’t know what they were like. Not at first. I could watch the rituals, the meals, so long as all I had to do was watch. Why not? There was nothing I could do. Nothing but get away from them as soon as I could. That’s why I’m here.
“Unlike the others. The ones still with your women. They’ve crossed the line, brother. Gone over. There’s no saving them, but I thought I could—”
“You’re stalling. Stop.”
“I don’t know much. You know they eat us, but there are other ceremonies. Things that use blood. The nobler, the better, from what I was told. And pain. Their gods feed on that. But most of all, life. That’s the worst part, watching the life drained from a man, or a woman. Not ripped, not quickly, but wrung out slowly like water from a rag.”
Redjack’s eyes became distant, looking inward rather than out. “You can see it on the faces… Not only that, you can see it come out…” He shuddered, then refocused on Yohan.
“I hope you stop them, brother, I really do. I have no love for Imperials, but no one should have to—”
“Where?”
“One of their shrines. A place for sacrifice.” He looked down once more at the sword. “Lower that, brother, and I’ll say.”
He paused expectantly. No one moved.
Redjack did not seem perturbed. “I always had a fondness for you, brother. Neither of us belonged with the Vilnians, and they never let you forget. I often asked myself why you stayed. I had a reason to remain. What was yours?”
Yohan lowered his arm. “Where, brother?”
Redjack almost managed to suppress his grin. Almost. “Sea’s Pass. But you—”
The lips continued moving, but since the head was no longer attached to the rest of the body, they no longer produced sound. Yohan turned away, feeling no satisfaction. Wiping his blade before sheathing it, he led his silent companion back out of the chamber.
He glanced back one time when they reached the exit. He saw the lips still moving, the face staring vacantly to the ceiling. The bastard always was good at talking.
Yohan closed the door.
7
Allstatte
“Your pardon, but the king is much too busy to see you,” the attending soldier announced. She was a beefy woman with an unsightly scar across her forehead, and her voice was deep and convicted. The words were polite, but the tone was derisive, and the point was emphasized by a strong hand clamping down on Jak’s shoulder.
This was the second time what seemed like a simple request was balked by the Akenberg soldiers. Their arrogant authority both unnerved and reassured him. While their orderly confidence gave him a faint hope that they might stand against the evil he knew to be coming, that same demeanor reminded Jak of how insignificant he was compared to the true powers in the empire.
And now it seemed what tiny role he could play was stymied by the same infamous engines of discipline that gave the Akenberg army its reputation for strength.
Perhaps this was for the best, after all. Jak had other, more personal affairs to which he ought to attend. Feeling guilty enough already for leaving Calla and Kluber behind while he sought this audience, he turned away from this makeshift seat of power.
But he stopped before going far. He glanced back once, pondering. The king’s tent was smallish in size and unmarked from the exterior. The only visible sign that the ruler of Akenberg was within was the posting of a solitary guard at the closed flap.
This was a captain’s tent—not even a general’s, let alone a king’s. And it spoke volumes about Nicolas’ personality to a perceptive, thoughtful observer.
The city of Allstatte sat less than a mile away from this Akenberg bivouac. Surely, much of the army here could find housing within the city walls, had that order been given. Perhaps Nicolas had not wanted to upset the people of Allstatte any more than necessary, considering the lengthy siege through which they had recently suffered.
But Jak believed there was more to the decision than that. The tent itself was a giveaway. Its single occupant clearly preferred modest accommodations over opulent, economy over luxury, the military life over the administrative.
These thoughts jibed with the first impressions taken from his initial interaction with the man. A most surreal experience, and one that Jak had not taken the time to fully process. Servants simply did not interact with kings, so that aspect alone was difficult to believe. Yet it had all happened so quickly, and so perfectly aligned to the chaotic circumstances, that Jak felt as though he had never really made any choices along the way. He had simply allowed the current to pull him speedily along, heedless of direction. And only hoped it was not a whirlpool that would ultimately pull him, and those he cared about, down into the abyss.
In a way, he had already seen one dark abyss, had spent far too long there, and would do everything in his power not to go back. Himself, or his friends.
Better get back to them, then. He realized he was still standing there, staring at the tent while the guard stared back with deepening suspicion. Not a good impression, Jak. He turned away.
“Wait.”
The king’s companion, the big private named Pim, happened by and took in the scene. He addressed the guard. “What’s amiss?”
She scowled and aimed a thumb in Jak’s direction. “This one wanted to see the Third.” She spoke as though Jak was not present to hear, or as though she did not care.
“This one knows the Third, Leny. Let him through.”
Her scowl deepened as she glared at Jak once more, but she nodded once and stepped out of the way.
Pim led Jak into the tent, where King Nicolas sat behind a portable desk, hunched over a stack of papers, obliv
ious to everything else.
No one spoke for a time, providing an opportunity to study the king’s face. The forehead was creased, the corners of the mouth turned down in a frown. Concentration, strain, and displeasure were as clearly written as the letters in a book.
Jak had heard all the chatter by now. That this man was new to the throne, a second son, forced into a position he did not expect and had never trained for.
From all indications, he took the role seriously—but it did not suit his disposition. This one prefers the battlefield and the dueling arena to the audience chamber, for sure. No wonder he makes this tent his throne room.
The silence dragged on uncomfortably. Jak looked down at his feet, fidgeting, becoming more and more aware of his own inadequacy. What right do I, a mere housethrall, have to ask favors of a king?
At last, Pim cleared his throat. “Third, the Reacher Henrikson requests an audience.” The way those closest addressed their leader—using the Swordthane title rather than the royal—all but confirmed Jak’s impressions. “He says it will only take a moment.”
Jak had said no such thing, having said nothing at all since a few embarrassed words to the guard outside long minutes ago. But he took the hint easily enough. Be quick about this, thrall. Don’t waste our time.
That was all well and good, presuming he could conquer the sudden queasiness in his belly and the growing instinct to run away. Not until now had he realized just how petty his request would sound to a ruler responsible for an entire kingdom. Jak had to force himself to look away from his feet and at the man behind the desk, a man so clearly burdened by countless, more important worries.
Yet as the king looked up, Jak watched the lines of strain transform into an unvarnished smile. “Henrikson, I’m pleased to see you. How fare your companions?”
Jak’s voice caught, and he made a choking noise. He felt an embarrassment stronger than any he had ever experienced. For some odd reason, he thought of the first pretty girl he had tried to converse with as an adolescent. The words then had formed readily enough in his mind, but had come out of his mouth in a completely different order.
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