“The highest honor is to earn your glory with your life, all the way to your peak—the point at which your future cannot exceed your past. Then, in one heroic effort, to die with dignity, sealing your reputation in perpetuity. Usually, we interpret this to mean in a duel with another thane, but there are other ways. Perhaps even greater ways… Like Eberhart walking away at the height of power. His legacy is clear. Every woman and man in the twelve kingdoms wishes he were back.
“I believe the Second found one. His death will be remembered always.”
“You’re happy that he died, then?” Pim asked.
“No. It terrifies me. He left the Order without a leader. We have no First and no Seconds. Only Thirds.”
“You’re a Third,” Lima said. “And you defeated a Second.”
“Don’t remind me. It’s always in the back of my thoughts. What is my duty? Worried as I am about the kingdom, about the empire…I’m equally worried for the Order. It must survive for its values to carry on.”
“Simple enough,” Pim said. “You will lead it.”
The wine was making Nico’s head swim. He looked at his eternal companion, his bodyguard, his friend. He felt the sudden desire to cry welling up just in time to stop it. “I can’t take any more, Pim. It’s too fast.”
Lima put her one hand on his arm. “We’ll help you.”
But will Leti? Much as he loved these two for everything they did, he needed Leti in order to go on. She was his hope, and the nearer he came to bringing that hope to fruition, the more he feared it was illusory.
He could not explain these things, however. Not even to them. Once more, he wished he had someone other than ghosts to confide in.
“I wish Renard were here,” he said. “That gruff old bastard would set me straight.”
“You want someone to set you straight?” Lima brought her tin cup down heavily onto her knee. She laughed, intoxicated, that particular mix of happy and sad. “You still have it all. Try losing an arm.”
Pim snorted and moved in agitation.
“What?” she barked at him, accusingly.
“Try losing a brother.” He glared back at her, but the tears came quickly to them both.
Nico leaned back, letting the two reconcile. Perhaps they might find love. He hoped so, for there was nothing better. Or was honor? The two ideas were sometimes so very difficult to separate.
“I lost a brother, too,” he said at last. Then reconsidered. “No. I didn’t so much lose my brother, as he lost me. Father, too. My own family wanted me dead.” He wasn’t upset, just thoughtful. He had reconciled this particular pain a long time ago, after perhaps the thousandth attempt.
“Nico, you’ve proven them wrong many times over,” Lima said.
He smiled. “You called me Nico. You never call me that.”
“Maybe not. But that’s how I think of you.”
He looked at Pim. “You, too?”
His friend nodded, and Nico leaned back. “I’m glad.” He lifted the bottle and shook it. “A few sips left. Shall we finish? Or are we all ready to fall into our bedrolls?”
They held out their cups, and he poured three equal measures.
“To your arm,” Pim said, looking at Lima.
“And your brother.”
The three of them drank, then stood, declaring the session at an end. Nico envied them as they made their departure, for they would find sleep while he would not.
But he climbed into his bedroll anyway, and closed his eyes, and would have been relieved to discover how wrong he was, had he been able.
Cormona was not yet in sight when one of Nico’s favorite people paid the king a surprise visit.
General Freilenn, the man who backed the one-time inexperienced young Third in a council of war, then did as much as anyone to win the subsequent Battle of Akenberg, arrived unannounced in Nico’s tent, smiling broadly and visibly pleased to see his ruler.
Nico rose to meet him with a handshake. “Good general, I look forward to hearing how you accomplished such an impressive feat.”
“I look forward to telling it, but I’m afraid the full version will take hours. More time than we have.”
“And the short version?”
“The Asturians are shy. They backed away from battle at every provocation.”
“They weren’t when I was here before. I wonder what has changed.”
“That, I cannot say. But what I can is that we have an important dignitary set to arrive in the morn, and I thought you might want to arrange their surrender personally.”
This was an extraordinary gesture by the general, Nico knew. Receiving an enemy surrender was one of the highest honors afforded a commander in war, and Freilenn’s career would be boosted by the event. This suggestion, this going out of his way to defer to his king, was such a palpable show of respect that Nico would have immediately distrusted it from almost any other source. But the general’s naked happiness, and the sincerity behind the gesture, were so readily apparent that no distrust was warranted.
Nico had half a mind to politely refuse, to instead allow the other man to bask in the glory he deserved. But the bigger picture compelled the king to allow no unnecessary delays. Besides, the eagerness to see Cormona and the royals again was thoroughly irresistible.
“Who is the dignitary?” he asked. He could easily imagine Leti used in such a role. Please let it be her.
“I’ve not met the man yet, personally. A Lord Jacinto, adviser to King Anton’s court.”
Nico frowned, not at all pleased. Though the final events of his time in Cormona were shrouded in unknowns, he believed Jacinto was perhaps more responsible than anyone else for the distrust and accusations that turned a good relationship sour.
Other than Nico’s own father, of course.
He could not look forward to the meeting the way he had hoped, but Nico could still look forward to the result. And the reconciliation that followed.
“Of course, General. I recognize the generosity of this invitation, and the extraordinary effort on your part to deliver it in person. Your service is commendable.” He smiled, the formalities over with. “Share a drink with me, Freilenn.”
“That would be my pleasure.”
Nico stared at the obstinate old man on the other side of the table, disbelieving his ears.
“Your capital is in an untenable position, Lord. We can take it, either by siege or assault.”
During his last stay, when he believed himself a neutral bystander, Nico had conducted a personal reconnaissance of the city’s defenses. At the time, the task had been as much a means to occupy his troubled mind as anything practical, but even his amateur observation noted Cormona’s dependence on a series of springs that would easily fall within the lines of a siege. It was a tremendous weakness for the defenders, and for the citizens themselves, should an attacker be willing to put them through that deprivation.
Nico was loath to do so, for more reasons than one. He admired these people, cared for them and their culture, and had no wish to turn them into enemies. Not when he needed allies more than anything.
And, of course, there was his promise to Leti. Perhaps it was already too late, but he wanted to believe the oath was not yet broken. At least, not in her eyes.
Jacinto laughed. “Perhaps in time. But not imminently. Not without cost—in time or in soldiers. Either way, you cannot afford that.”
“That’s for the good of the empire, Lord.”
“Bah, what does an Akenberger care of the empire?”
Frustrated, Nico wished he could deal with someone else. Anyone else. But he knew there was no use wishing. Koblenzar’s intelligence network had been hard at work, and Nico’s understanding of the circumstances brought to acceptance.
King Anton was on his deathbed. There would be no reconciliation with the man Nico had once fought for, saved from certain defeat, and received a wreath of honor from. That dream was over.
Ostensibly, Prince Tobias ruled in his father’s ste
ad. But Koblenzar was certain the real power in Cormona was Jacinto. His judgment was final. That he hated Nicolas was no surprise. But the magnitude of that hate was.
“If you give us no choice, then you doom your own people.”
“Living under the heel of Hermann’s son is its own sort of doom, young king.”
Nico let the insult pass without comment. He cared as little for etiquette as this poor excuse for a ruler, and saw no reason to insist on empty pleasantries.
“So be it.” Nico leaned back in the chair, facing each of his officers in turn. Freilenn and Koblenzar nodded, as did Freilenn’s personal aide, Captain Piveto. Only Lima appeared irresolute. She met Nico’s eyes without giving any hint of her own opinion. But he knew she would support his decision wholeheartedly, no matter the cost.
“So be it,” he repeated. “General Freilenn, begin the investment. Be sure to close off the springs outside the walls. No stores in or out.” He faced Jacinto once more. “You bring starvation on your own people, needlessly.”
The man sneered. “Months, Young King. We have taken in stores already. This is a matter of months, not days. Where will the Chekik invasion be by then, I wonder? West Vilnia? Gothenberg?”
He leaned forward. “Halfway through Akenberg? What value will your stolen land have then?”
General Freilenn was generous enough to share his headquarters, now a semipermanent structure given the extended presence of the Akenberg army. Nico valued his subordinate’s opinion and expertise, and together they discussed a wide range of subjects spanning all three Imperial conflicts.
Halfway through Koblenzar joined them, upset that he was not included from the beginning. At one time, Nico would have castigated himself for the display of favoritism, though the older general had no direct command of his own and thus no technical jurisdiction in these matters. Lately, however, Nico found that he cared less and less for needless courtesies, particularly with a man who showed few enough of his own.
As an eve breeze brought the faintest relief to the unnatural heat of day, Lima showed in the two messengers as Nico requested. For the edification of Freilenn, Privates Hirt and Rama recounted the events of the east, up to and beyond General Cottzer’s death and the literal fall of Halfsummit.
The passage of time, a repetition of telling, and the boon of a good night’s sleep gave this version a greater sense of order, and Nico discerned details he missed on the first listening. Moreover, coming in with no preconceived notions, General Freilenn prodded for clarifications and interjected useful questions both during and after.
Voices naturally dropped lower as night fell over the camp, and as the subject matter turned darker and darker.
“Privates, what more can you tell us of the Chekiks? What more of their tactics, their methods?”
The messengers looked at one another before Hirt cleared his throat. “As to that, there isn’t much more to say. I spoke already of the guile, the magick, the laying of traps. All else is rumor and speculation.”
“There is often truth in rumor,” Freilenn pointed out.
“Bah,” Koblenzar grumbled. “Soldiers are the most superstitious—”
“Go on, Private,” Nico said.
“Well, as to that…” Hirt seemed uncertain. He looked again at the other messenger.
“Talk is they eat their captives, Third.” Rama spoke without the hesitation of the younger private. His voice was strong, confident, and intoxicated. “And they flay off the skin, as trophy. Treat us much as we do animals, you see. They’re hunters, and we’re prey.”
When he paused, Freilenn said, “Go on.”
“That’s the hard part, you see. Whether it’s a tactic or just how they are, the buggers know what they’re doing. Wrecks morale, makes it harder to fight back. Tough to charge in when you’re worried about being shit in a latrine a day later, you see, and your lifeless face hanging on somebody’s wall. Only thing that keeps some going is fear that they’ll get to our families back home.”
Seeing the looks with which his outburst was met, Rama added a quick, “Your pardon, Generals. Third.”
Nico felt an inner rage building up inside, though not at this private. No, the anger was directed mainly on one man, Lord Jacinto, whose bitterness exceeded reason.
The rage was contained, but Nico did not trust himself to speak for the moment. He had always been a calm, patient youth. When exactly had emotion gotten the best of him?
The moment I became responsible for every life in the kingdom.
In any case, he was not the only one who felt the burden. General Freilenn grimaced, then said aloud what Nico was thinking.
“While we waste time here, others pay the price. I feel sorry for anyone in the middle of that horror.”
9
Gothenberg
“Bones,” Yohan said, pointing to the glinting white objects half-buried amidst the refuse of the recent camp.
“You don’t think they’re Summer’s, though?”
“Nay. I’m sure much was lies, but I believe that part of Redjack’s story. I think the women are headed for a different end.” He inspected the refuse more closely, then wished he had not. “Our women, that is.”
He walked away, letting the harpa see the torn white dresses for himself, and form his own conclusions.
Yohan had initially thought of using the remnants of this camp as one of their own, for it was good ground on which to cook and spar. Now, however, he wanted to put this place in the distance, even if it meant stopping in the rougher terrain ahead.
Now that they were inside the hills, they could see the mountains in greater detail. The next day or two would take them the rest of the way through to a point not far from the opening of Sea’s Pass.
Yohan still maintained hope that they would catch their quarry before that point, though that hope slipped a bit with each passing hour and no sign that the trail grew fresher. In sad fact, the opposite was happening.
He and Patrik had briefly discussed stealing mounts from Threefork, something that would have required time and planning, but was certainly no riskier than sneaking into the town hall to take revenge on the traitor. Ultimately, however, they agreed that stealth and surprise were their only advantage over the numbers they faced, and a pair of horses would eliminate that edge.
Besides, Yohan believed that two men pressing hard could catch up to a group of twenty or more, now that their destination was known.
That was another part of Redjack’s story that Yohan believed, at least in part. He had no problem accepting Sea’s Pass as the next stop of the journey, if only because part of him always knew he would be returning to the Stormeres.
As for the rest of Redjack’s fanciful tales…the man was too full of deception and dishonor, and his words so rambling and nonsensical, that Yohan gave up trying to separate truth from fiction. As his companion had grown fond of saying, there were tricks and deception at every turn. It was simply easier to focus on the things he could control, and that meant catching up.
Now, Yohan had to admit he was wrong about the relative ease of that task. He had not counted on the hours of hiding from large parties of tribesmen coming from the direction of the pass. All told, there had been three groups of a dozen or more, and each occurrence forced the two hunters to fall back to suitable cover and wait for the passing.
“What are they doing?” the harpa had asked, though Yohan had not known the answer. The groups seemed to be wheeling empty carts in the direction of Threefork.
“Redjack spoke of supplying the raiders.”
“Tricks and deceptions at every turn, Soldier Yohan. Tricks and deceptions at every turn.”
It had now been more than a day since the last encounter, and the two men could hope there would be no more. They pushed hard to make up for lost time, but the fear of falling too far behind became increasingly worrisome.
“At least the weather is cooling,” Patrik said. Though discouragement affected them both, the caravaneer had manage
d to find golden linings within dire circumstances. These small offerings were a boon to the soul, even if Yohan could not bring himself to say so aloud.
“Never hold your shield still like that,” Yohan reprimanded. “I know it gets heavy, but it has to keep moving, just like your feet. Especially against axes. If an axeman sees a stationary target like that, they’ll cleave it in two. You need to deflect, more so than block. Guide their blade away, like so.”
The caravaneer had managed to acquire some slight proficiency with the sword, but the shield remained his biggest weakness. Unfortunately, the two worked in close conjunction, one all but useless without the other.
Yohan considered reproaching Patrik further—more harshly, just as an army instructor would do—but his companion was exhausted, and the hard march was taking a toll on them both. Perhaps rest was more beneficial now than practice.
They each sat in silence, their thoughts drifting in different directions. Or perhaps the same.
The rock on which he looked up the slowly rising trail was so comfortable that Yohan felt sleep tugging him down. A refreshingly cool—almost even cold—breeze wafted between the clusters of rocks and over the southern ridge line.
That ridge line warrants inspection, he thought. Enemies could be positioned there, less than a hundred yards away from where he sat. They could be talking, planning an attack, and he would never know because he was too weary to check.
Yohan closed his eyes.
“My son, I know you aren’t old enough for this conversation, but events require it.” Yohan’s father shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, alternately looking down on the five-year-old boy sitting cross-legged on the deerskin rug and at the package he held just out of sight.
Yohan sat quietly, unaware of the gravity of impending events, but always respectful of the man he looked up to, figuratively and literally.
“I have a gift for you—”
At this, a boy’s instinctive enthusiasm broke free of the weak bonds of deference, newly learned but not yet matured. “What is it, Da?”
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