by Ari Marmell
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Baron Kortlaus and Crown Marshal Laszlan proceeded up the gently winding stairs with the too-steady and overly precise steps of men fully aware they’ve imbibed just a little bit more than they ought.
The bulk of the evening, over which much wine was consumed, had been spent in discussions of a martial nature. Orban held many such meetings with a variety of nobles and officers, putting together countless possible plans and counter-plans for the moment Ktho Delios finally made their move. Kortlaus was present for of those sessions, as one of Orban’s three—or two, to hear him speak of it now—possible successors. Tonight, however, he’d attended not as a potential Crown Marshal, but as Baron of Urwath, since the territories and strategies under consideration involved his own lands and soldiers.
Once the borders on the map had begun to move under their own power—an effect, to be fair, caused as much by exhaustion as by drink—they’d elected to wrap up the conversation. The talk, then, had turned to more personal matters, a discussion that continued as the baron politely walked the old marshal back to his quarters.
“…doesn’t matter,” Orban explained as the steps gave way to carpeted, lantern-lit hallway, “how sure you are that you won’t let your affections influence how you command him in battle. It will interfere. You’ll find yourself wondering, ‘Does his station really need to be over there, where it’s so dangerous? Surely he could do just as much good over here.’”
“I don’t know, Orban, I really feel I could separate—”
“We all do, initially. But you can’t. And even if you could? He won’t believe it. He’ll wonder if he’s earned every opportunity you give, every choice assignment, or if you’re doing him personal favors. He’ll wonder if every shit duty you give him is you compensating for any potential influence. And what about the other men and women under you? They’ll wonder the same. It breeds resentment, and resentment between a commander and his soldiers is lethal. To people and possibly to nations.”
They turned a corner, the shadows around them seeming to dance in time with their footsteps. “You make it sound as though a bit of dallying is going to bring all of Kirresc crashing down.”
“It probably won’t. But it’s not impossible. There’s a reason we have rules about officers fraternizing with soldiers under their command. And while those don’t necessarily bind you, as baron and lord of your own vassals, let us just say that it remains a strong suggestion.”
“How strong?”
“‘Keep it behind your codpiece where your subordinates are concerned if you ever want to be Crown Marshal, or to prevent your troops from being co-opted by royal decree’ strong.”
“Ah. That is strong.”
“Isn’t it, though?” Orban suddenly laughed. “I promise you, you’re not the first officer or nobleman I’ve had this talk with, Kortlaus. You’ll get over it.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. When did you and his Majesty have it?”
The Crown Marshal froze, and Kortlaus—feeling suddenly a lot more sober—wondered if he’d just stepped in something too deep to easily yank himself out. But while Orban’s smile turned sheepish, it didn’t fade. “Would you prefer the official response to that, or the unofficial one?”
“How about both?”
“The truth is, King Hasyan and I did give this a lot of thought, before we… became too deeply involved. I’ve a signed and sealed royal proclamation, granting me permission to ignore even the king’s own commands if I ever feel they’re intended to protect me at the cost of a military objective or any of my people.”
Kortlaus boggled.
“That’s the official response,” the marshal continued. “Unofficially? Um, I’m an old hypocrite, and you should do as I say, not as I do.”
Between the wine and his relief at not having offended the man who held his future in his hands, Kortlaus’s laughter was more uproarious than the comment warranted. Either way, however, both men were in high spirits when they finally reached the door to the marshal’s quarters.
“Remember,” Orban said. “We’ve an early morning briefing with Sir Jancsiv and Dame Zirresca on saddlery and barding stockpiles.”
Kortlaus groaned aloud and staggered theatrically against a buttress in the stone. “Surely we can put that off for later in the day!”
“Not a chance. My schedule’s too full, and if I’m rising early after tonight, you’re rising early.”
The baron sighed loudly. “Taskmaster.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
The younger man began to walk away, and then, unable to help himself, “Orban, have you heard any news of—?”
“The idiot? No.” As always when the subject of Nycolos Anvarri came up, the Crown Marshal sounded equal parts furious and afraid. “No, I have not.”
He’d known better, but it had been over a week since he’d last asked. Worry had gotten the better of him. He definitely knew better than to press the topic. “Understood. Sleep well, Marshal.”
Orban grunted something vaguely polite. Kortlaus left him fumbling at his door, retracing his steps down the hall and wishing his own quarters were nearer.
What the hell was Nycos thinking?! Did he understand what he’d done, how much trouble he was in, the opportunity he’d assuredly torched without hope of repair? Kortlaus had no doubt his old friend believed he was doing something important, something right, but he still wanted to strangle the man with his bare hands. He’d only barely climbed back into everyone’s good graces from the first time he’d pulled something like this. He couldn’t possibly have thought he’d be allowed to do so twice!
As he’d done so many times, Kortlaus silently begged the gods and the heavens for some kind of answer, some flash of insight that would make Nycos’s actions make sense. And as every time before, they failed to answer.
This time, though, Kortlaus heard something. The clatter of toppling furniture, the familiar limp thump of a falling body…
He shouted, calling for help from whomever might hear him, even as he pounded back toward the marshal’s chamber. He hit the door hard, shoulder first, unconcerned now with courtesy or propriety.
The room beyond was unlit, a murky swirl of shadows as unsteady as a wind-swept pool. Still, the illumination from the hallway peeked furtively around the corner, enabling him to make out a pair of figures—one sprawled awkwardly beside the table, the other standing, one hand raised high and clutching a blade that reflected the feeble gleam.
Again Kortlaus cried out, tensing to spring at the mysterious figure, enraged beyond measure that anyone would dare attack the old Crown Marshal here in his own home, in the safety of Oztyerva Palace. And then he too collapsed, a flash of agony swiftly fading into soothing unconsciousness, felled from behind by a second assailant he’d never seen.
___
The commotion spread through an entire wing of the palace. Servants and soldiers raced through the halls, drawn first by alarmed shouts and then by frantic commands as word of what had happened spread through Oztyerva. Nobles awakened to the furor and either opened their doors to learn more or barricaded them for extra safety against the unknown tumult, depending upon their individual natures.
All save one particular nobleman, who did neither.
He’d known this was coming, if not tonight then soon enough. He’d arranged it, provided servants’ garb, patrol schedules, the layout of Oztyerva, everything necessary to make it possible. Still it came as a shock to hear it actually happening. Only now was it real, and he felt as though the blood had drained not merely from his face but his entire body. He grew weak, dizzy, and found himself kneeling beside his great, almost decadently lush bed.
He’d done what he must. With so much at stake, he’d had to take such drastic steps! Not just for his own ambitions, but for the greater good!
They’d made him do this!
Margrave Andarjin tried so very hard to pray, but even the gods could hardly have understood him through the tears he wo
uld never have shed before another living soul.
___
Saying only that he needed to be sure his plan had worked, Nycos had insisted on remaining in the vicinity of Vidiir for another couple of days. In that time, he’d snuck back into the city to ensure King Boruden carried through with his proclamation, and that the messengers were dispatched as ordered. Nycos was fully prepared to pay the royal couple another visit if necessary, despite the fact that Castle Auric was now swarming with additional soldiers. Fortunately, it hadn’t proved necessary. Whether fearful for their own lives (a threat on which Nycos would have followed through without a second thought) or for their children (a threat Nycos honestly didn’t know if he’d have carried out), the king and queen obeyed. They addressed the populace from the walls of Castle Auric, and indeed dispatched several dozen couriers—couriers who, to judge by the one Nycos intercepted on the snowy highway, carried precisely the message he’d demanded.
It had been, all told, a brute force effort, but Nycos was convinced that was why it had worked. Facing a known opponent or diplomatic pressures, Boruden would have been in his element. This? A monster in his own bedchamber? He’d been helpless. Perhaps he might eventually have devised some scheme or deception to get around the problem, but that was why Nycos had given him no time to think.
Unfortunately, Nycos had decided, he himself was also out of time. He’d something he needed to do, and he’d already put it off as long as possible.
After scouring the grasslands around Vidiir for a while, he finally found a rock large and flat enough to serve his purposes. Hauling it from the earth, he’d then carried it to the nearest copse of trees and settled within.
Wincing in anticipation, he laid his left hand on the rock. An instant’s focus, and the fingertips of both hands again transformed into those fearsome, piercing talons.
With utmost care, he placed the tips of his right-hand claws against the first knuckles of his left hand; any higher and he wouldn’t get the roots. A deep shout in defiance of the pain to come, to summon the fortitude he needed, and he pressed his right hand down, hard, until talons met rock.
A few moments drifted by as he caught his breath, allowed the first wave of shock and pain to subside. With his undamaged hand, he carefully collected the claws he’d severed from the other, wrapped them and slid them into his pack.
Silbeth’s frustration and irritation shifted to concern when he’d wandered back to camp, his left hand swathed in bloody bandages. “What happened?!”
“Tree branch broke when I was trying to climb, get a better view of the surroundings.”
And just like that, her concern faded. “In this weather? Ten feet up or a hundred, you couldn’t see a dancing manticore more than a few yards out. If you’re going to lie to me, Nycos, at least pretend you don’t think I’m an idiot.”
Smim snickered. Nycos cast a sidelong glare, and the snickering abruptly stopped. Without another word, he’d begun to strike camp.
Thanks to winter’s various moods and leavings, to say nothing of the lack of convenient highways, it took them almost a week to reach Quindacra’s border and pass into neighboring Wenslir—deliberately far from any official crossings. The countryside didn’t change much, nor were there any obvious markers out here in the wild, so the precise moment of transition was something of a guess. It hadn’t been long, however, before they’d stumbled upon what had once been a Wenslirran village, now a charred skeleton half-buried by snow. Not merely the buildings, but the surrounding trees, had been razed by a flame so brutally intense that, in its hottest spots, even ash hadn’t survived.
“I’ve never seen a fire that could do this,” Silbeth whispered as they picked their way past the lonely ruin.
“I have,” was the only reply Nycos could make.
Later that afternoon, he’d steered Avalanche over to pace beside her—a simple act made frustrating by his still-healing hand. “Silbeth, how does your religious devotion to an assignment impact your behavior after the assignment’s complete?”
Rather understandably, she blinked at him. “You’re going to need to clarify that a bit.”
“I mean…” His grip on the reins saved him from waving his hands about and making himself look even more foolish. “You’re here to keep me safe.”
“Ostensibly. Something I’d feel a lot more confident about if you weren’t constantly running off and keeping things from me.”
“No doubt. But, suppose you were to… learn something about my past.” He kept his gaze firmly, stiffly forward. “A secret that, were it to come out, would cause me great harm.”
“Then,” she said thoughtfully, “as long as this secret in no way meant that I’d been misled as to the nature of the job I’d undertaken, I’d be obliged to keep it.”
“But only so long as the assignment lasted?”
It was an odd look for her, but Silbeth fidgeted in her saddle. “It’s a murky area,” she admitted finally. “I would… probably keep it to myself anyway. Unless I felt doing so was going to severely harm others, or a future contract somehow required me to reveal it.”
Nycos slumped. “So you couldn’t guarantee you’d never speak of it.”
“No. No, I couldn’t make that promise.” Then, clearly sensing the unspoken importance, she added, “I’m sorry.”
So am I. It startled him how much so, and he realized—much to his own chagrin—how deeply he wanted to be able to trust her, to stop keeping her in the dark as he had been.
It made sense, though. No matter how strongly the Priory of Steel considered its members’ assignments to carry the weight of religious writ, that devotion had to end when the job did. Otherwise, they couldn’t commit equally to the next one, or the next.
Except… Silbeth’s faith shone through the lens of the Priory, but it wasn’t to the Priory, was it?
“What if you swore an oath?” he asked. “In Louros’s name, separate from any ties Mariscal’s contract might establish between you and me?”
“If I swore such an oath, of course I would keep it. Which is why I won’t do it. Put plainly, Nycos, I don’t trust you that much. I’m not going to let you bind me without knowing to what end.”
For a time they rode without speaking, each listening to the patter of light hail bouncing from their cloaks and from the frozen soil around them.
“I don’t want to put you in this position,” Nycos began sincerely.
“Then don’t.”
He had to force his hands not to drop the reins, to reach out, beseeching. “But we’ve both got our backs up against a wall. You can’t complete your task if I run off without you—and before you say anything, we both know I can lose you if I truly wish it. And I can’t do what I have to do with you around, if I can’t be absolutely positive of your discretion.”
Nycos swore, despite the climate, that he was about to sweat beneath the heat of her glower. “If your intent here is to increase my willingness to trust you, Sir Nycolos, you have impressively missed your mark.”
“I know.”
It was clearly not the response she’d anticipated.
“I could—some would say should—have just vanished one night,” he continued, “without bringing this up at all. But the truth is, I don’t want to continue this journey without you. I’d rather have you fighting at my side. I’m not trying to extort you into giving me your oath where you’d rather not, Silbeth. I’m trying to find an excuse not to leave you behind.”
“I see. I’ll… think about it.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
“So go away and let me think.”
Nycos fell back, allowing her to ride alone, a short distance ahead. He felt absolutely zero surprise when Smim’s own steed swiftly sauntered up beside him.
“Master, this has gone far enough.”
“Has it?”
“You cannot truly mean to trust her, or any human, with the truth!”
“Smim, I live among them, as one of them, and yet I’m u
nable to talk about, or act on, the central facet of my being. It’s maddening!”
The goblin shook his head hard enough to set tiny hailstones flying. “I don’t understand. You spent centuries at a time alone, save for your servants! Sharing with others wasn’t precisely on your list of priorities.”
“I’m… I know. But you were the one who pointed out, months ago, that my human body, human blood, was affecting me. I can’t pretend you were wrong any longer.”
“And what of me, Master? You’ve always been able to speak freely with me.”
“Smim, you’ve been a loyal servant, and even a friend, since my transformation. But you’re still a part of my old life, and an outsider to human culture. I need… It’s not enough.”
“Master, you cannot trust her with this! Not her, not anyone! You’re going to get yourself killed, and quite possibly me along with you.”
“You worry too much, Smim. I know what I’m doing.”
Oh, how he wished that were true! All he could do, for now, was hope that Smim wouldn’t do anything stupid “for his master’s sake” until Nycos had figured out just what the hell he was doing.
___
Another few days nearer to Gronch, and Nycos decided it was time they properly arm themselves.
They’d stopped for a midday meal, sitting in the lee of a tiny rise that barely qualified as a hill, and he’d announced that they should set up their tents against the cold, start a fire—essentially make camp.
“We’ve still got a good few hours before it gets dark,” Silbeth protested. “Why waste the travel time?”
“Because,” Nycos said, carefully unwrapping that long, narrow bundle on which the mercenary had remarked back when they’d first snuck from the Oztyerva stables, “we’ve some preparations to make before we reach the Ogre-Weald.”
Laid out upon the snow, the leather parcel revealed a couple of long prybars, a slightly shorter hook-beaked crowbar, and two bars of iron fencing. Beside them, tied together in a smaller bundle, were a blacksmith’s hammer and tongs.
“Um?” Silbeth asked after taking it all in.