“Yes, sir. I am having military training. That is, I have military training.”
“Uh huh.” Sigmund was already turning, having no interest in Hafgan’s credentials. “Sundown, Arkon.”
Chapter 22
Brockmore. A sprawling estate with gently rolling hills that bloomed with pink, white, and red roses. Partially a productive winery, its grape vines produced some of the sweetest fruit in three countries, which was sold at a premium to a relatively limited few who could afford it. It was a great manor house—an architectural marvel—rivaling that of many noble lords and ladies, though this land had originally been developed by merchants. Altogether, one of the loveliest places in Ardia.
Now, it was an armed camp.
As Emma and her traveling companions arrived at the outskirts of Brockmore, she was amazed at the transformation of the estate. Or, the decimation was more like it. The rolling hills were now covered in canvas tents arranged in some relative order, but the order itself had come at the cost of uprooting many of the gorgeous rosebushes, and the emerald, grassy hills had been transformed into beaten-down and browning wisps of turf interlaced with paths trod bare by heavy feet. A perimeter, miles long, was being dug, men swearing and shouting as their blistered hands shoveled the earth aside, this immediately being formed into a barrier just beyond the obstacle. The road, usually made of hard-packed clay, was now a sticky muck sucking at the wheels of their cart. And, everywhere, armed men were roaming about, doing whatever it was that soldiers did. Shouting orders, rattling swords at one another, boasting, and so on.
“What is happening here, Emma?” Lady Escamilla asked, her eyes straight ahead. Given that the road was choked with wagons and soldiers, the two were strolling next to the wagon in the grass, where it was slightly less muddy.
“You are worried about retaliation from Penton, so you have mobilized your forces, stripping your other holdings of soldiers,” answered Emma, guessing this was the purpose behind all of the pigeons. “You plan to dig in here while you wait to see whether his army comes after us.” The plan seemed reasonable to Emma. The ditch looked to indicate that Escamilla’s forces were preparing for invasion, and they had passed a heavily manned wooden barricade on the road a half mile back.
“How many soldiers do I have here and how did I gather them?”
Emma had nary an idea of how to count this many men. She took in the tents, stretching in neat rows beyond her immediate field of vision. She examined the massed groups of soldiers who were cramped in the lanes, as well as the formations maneuvering in the distance. It was overwhelming, and she had no idea.
“Perhaps five thousand?”
“Very good!” Escamilla sounded surprised.
Lucky guess!
“Now, how did I gather five thousand men?”
Easy. “You sent pigeons out immediately after we escaped from Rostane.”
“My holdings, estates, and interests are spread all across the four duchies. Issuing orders, moving and arming men, preparing this land for their arrival... This takes more than the couple of weeks that we have been traveling from Rostane.” Now, Escamilla eyed Emma, the older woman’s mouth twisted in disappointment.
“You knew that it might come to arms some time ago.” Emma had attempted to sound decisive, but her comment had sounded more like a question.
“Indeed. I increased my standing defensive staff at Brockmore months ago, when the little duke began acting with more aggression. The first message you sent out, when we became imprisoned weeks ago, was to mobilize my other forces. Many of my holdings are now operating with a skeleton crew, with those men ordered to flee in the event of any sort of encroachment and to alert me here at Brockmore.”
Emma was impressed, as always, by Escamilla’s foresight. The woman seemed to be prescient. “I would imagine that you invested heavily in military rations of late, Camilla.” Emma flashed a quick smile.
“Now you are starting to think like me.” Escamilla’s own mouth twitched slightly upward, an increasingly rare sight these days. Emma felt a brief surge of joy at the sight.
The small retinue—Emma, Escamilla, Fenrir, Havert, and Tilner Pick—were finally approaching the great manor house. Surrounded by a squat wall, covered in deep-green ivy, the three-story structure rose before them. At each corner stood a graceful tower containing a decorative brass bell. Emma recalled from her visit here, years before, that the four bells chimed with different tones and that, after quite a bit of practice, the servants could play surprisingly melodious songs. The second-story windows were stained glass, and told the story of Yetra. A person could circle the building and see the entire saga, from Yetra’s conception by her mercantile parents and the destruction of her city to her defeat of Ultner and his consignment to Pandemonium. All while the pagan gods stood by without interfering.
It was a foolish, magic-ridden story. Essentially a fairy tale that had somehow launched the largest religion in the continent. A religion wrought with political gambits, scheming, and bigotry.
Though she loved the (formerly) beautiful grounds of the estate, the heavily religious theme of Brockmore Manor certainly didn’t suit Emma, and didn’t seem to be consistent with Escamilla’s own religion of choice: the almighty power of Escamilla. Nonetheless, for some reason, she’d done little to renovate or strip the manor of its religious overtones.
Emma sighed. And, she keeps Ignatius Pender around.
“Greetings, my dearest Lady Escamilla Breen—home at long last after your great trials and tribulations, rivaling those of the Yetra, herself!” The chaplain had limped out of the great double doors, carefully descending the handful of stairs. His orange robes, overlaid with a green stole that was topped by his balding, grayish-brown pate made him look like an overgrown pumpkin. Emma worked to not curl her lip at the sight of him. The man never stopped preaching, and was the very embodiment of hypocrisy.
“Greetings, Ignatius. It has, indeed, been a trying time,” offered Escamilla with a brief nod, ever courteous.
“The Book of Amorum states, ‘When fog surrounds you, and all is obscured in darkness, faith shall sustain you.’ Faith, Lady Escamilla, is the cornerstone of all our lives. Without faith, what is life but a series of meaningless gestures?”
“What is life, indeed?” muttered Fenrir, failing to meet the chaplain’s eyes. Another glare from Tilner. When Emma wasn’t making Fenrir’s life as difficult as possible, Tilner was acting in that capacity. Emma appreciated the reinforcement.
“Chaplain.” Tilner bowed respectfully, as deeply as if the man had at least been a duke, if not a king. “If you would excuse us, our lady has traveled a long way and is in need of comfort.”
“Not to mention a bath,” jested Escamilla without any real mirth. Emma agreed on that count. Though she had cleansed herself of blood and ancient dust, she was used to cleaning herself daily with a bucket and sponge, with the occasional luxury of a bath with Escamilla’s blessing. By this point in their journey, she was feeling more than a little… ripe.
“Of course, my dearest lady. I would never stand between you and succor after your ordeals. However, if I might, I would speak with you about the massing of these mighty forces set before us.” He gestured, grandly, to the busy, despoiled lands in front of him.
“Later, Ignatius. I promise. There is too much to discuss.” Escamilla had put him off with grace, though Emma was certain that the old windbag simply wanted to proselytize about love and Harmony, without fully understanding the plight that Escamilla—and Ardia—was in. The man had no concept of “aggressor.” If he’d had his way, all these men would have lain down their arms and been slaughtered already.
Emma never understood why Escamilla allowed Ignatius to retain his place in Brockmore at all, even allowing him to join her retinue to The Plateau on occasion. It had been years ago when Escamilla had acquired Brockmore. It had been the titular Armus Brockmore—an aging merchant king—who’d sought to sell his lands instead of allowing his atheistic an
d amoral son, Peyton Brockmore, to inherit them upon his death. Escamilla had showed immediate interest, purchasing the land even though she’d had to sell off some of her own assets to afford it. Armus was allowed to stay in the manor until his death, and the deal had been that Ignatius would retain his own post throughout that time. Given the choice, Emma would have sent the man packing the day that Armus’ heart had stopped. Ignatius was ever questioning and meddling in Escamilla’s affairs, not to mention constantly quoting that damned Book. And yet, here he remained.
Just as the group moved toward the door, there was a clatter of hooves behind them, a man shouting at his horse. An exhausted messenger—wearing the gold livery of Florens, resplendent with a river otter under a layer of dust and muck—dismounted and stumbled toward them.
“I need to see Lady Escamilla. Is the lady present?” His eyes were drawn to Emma, perhaps expecting her to be the lady. It was almost flattering, except that she would never have wanted that kind of burden. She valued her red curls too much to see them go gray before their time. Anyhow, being a serving girl with a dead mother and an unknown rapist for a father, she lacked the pedigree.
With a tired sigh, Escamilla stepped forward. Her age clung to her more than ever, covered as she was in the dust of the road and still wearing a simple shift, a bandage wrapped around her arm. The bite wounds, though it had been a couple of weeks, were slow in healing. Fenrir had said something about the filth that lived in each of their mouths. Emma bet Fenrir’s own oral cavity was dirtier than average.
“I am Lady Escamilla. Word from his grace, Eric Malless, I take it?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Tilner, summon my war council.” She said, steely-eyed.
“But, my lady, you should rest—”
“I don’t recall asking your opinion,” she cut him off.
“Yes, my lady.”
---
‘War council’ may have been a bit too grand a term for the disparate group arrayed before Lady Escamilla, at least by Emma’s estimation. There was, of course, Tilner Pick, his mustaches freshly waxed, staring darkly at any man whose eyes lingered on Escamilla for too long. Guy Empton, the de facto general of the gathered forces, towered over all in the room, his height masking the fact that there was a growing bald spot right on the top of his relatively young head. The five captains—Ezram, Braston, Quentin, Perod, and Garen—Emma could not tell apart. Each was a grizzled, middle-aged, long-haired, slightly-greasy military sort. And, all five had beards.
The sixth captain was more distinct, as she had strikingly brilliant silver hair tied into two complex braids. And also in that she was a she. Trina Almark, known as the Silver Lady, was the captain of Ultner’s Fist, a mercenary detachment of a few hundred fighting women. The group was infamous across Ardia and beyond, partially because of its success and partially because of the novelty of seeing women who’d been trained to fight. Many men had scoffed at Ultner’s Fist only to be handily spanked, or the very bloody equivalent.
Also in the room was the chaplain, Ignatius Pender, reclining in the corner and somehow managing to look both supremely pious and supremely smug. Fenrir stood against the wall nearby, muscular arms folded, stubble on his pale scalp beginning to show, sipping heavily from a flask he’d found somewhere. There were several others Emma didn’t recognize, including a young, heavyset man who was maybe twenty years of age and sporting a recently broken nose. Finally, there was the messenger from Florens, still wearing the dust of the road, though he had washed his face and hands. Underneath the dirt, he was a boy, only fifteen or sixteen, and much too young to be trusted with such an important task. And, perhaps, he hadn’t been trusted with it at all.
“…and they overtook the six of us in the evening after a long chase. Our leader, Sir Evan Reband, was separated from us, being knocked from his horse early on, his fate unknown. The rest of us scattered… Has anyone else arrived yet? Sir Lewis, or my fath… Sir Reband?” The boy had a hopeful, moist look in his eye—a puppy hoping to avoid a beating.
“Not as of this evening… What’s your name, soldier?” asked General Empton.
“Jeffers Reband. I’m not yet a soldier.” A heavy silence followed, somehow seeming at odds with the cheerfully colorful light that bathed the great meeting chamber, filtered as it was through the stained glass. After years of peace in Ardia, it seemed there was to be civil war among the duchies. And perhaps the first casualty was this poor boy’s own father, this Sir Evan Reband. Emma felt a dampness building in her own eyes, and felt glad that she was obscured, standing behind Escamilla.
It was the chaplain who broke the silence. “My son, ‘strife befalls us all. A weak man lets it define him, while a strong man lets it expand him.’ In the coming days…” Ignatius, turned, taking in each of them, “…young Jeffers’ story will become all too familiar. Children, separated from their fathers. Children, sent to war. Life must be preserved at all costs, no matter what must be sacrificed. Our pride is nothing compared to the value of life, the value of our children’s futures.”
“And what would you have us give up aside from pride, chaplain?” This from one of the captains, who had a slightly bushier beard than the others. “Should we give up our very freedom so that the powerful can grow even more powerful?” There were grunts of assent from the council, as well as several dark looks from those who likely held the chaplain—and Yetra—in high regard. Tilner was one of those casting such looks, as was one of the captains. Perod, maybe?
“Peace, Braston,” said Ignatius. So, Braston had the bushier beard. That should help Emma identify him. “War need not always be the answer. We have not yet bandied words with Duke Penton. For it is said that ‘the most noble of wars shed not a drop of blood, and—’”
“You think words will make a difference? Penton tortured, cutting and burning, a brave man. Baron Erlins. Penton forced Lord Malless to suicide after beheading his cousin. And Penton thought to kill Lady Escamilla! There shall be no peace!” Emma was surprised to find that hers was the angry voice filling the echoic chamber, echoing discordantly off the cold stones. Even more astonishing was that she had stalked toward Ignatius, and that he had shrunk back from her fury.
“This is not the place for four-fingered servants to have a voice. Get the fuck out of here and mind your betters!” Before anyone else could react, Captain Perod—if that was his name—had strode the few steps to Emma and roughly grabbed her arm, his gloved fingers digging into the meat of her forearm. Gods, he was strong!
“Stop this!” shouted Escamilla, stomping her foot, her expensive, amarillo silk dress stirring around her. The man didn’t listen, and continued to drag a struggling Emma toward the decorative iron doors.
Suddenly, she found herself freed, so abruptly that she nearly tumbled backwards. Regaining her balance, she saw the most unusual sight, as Fenrir stood over the toppled Perod, the latter of whom was struggling to his feet while holding a hand to his face.
“Stop this immediately!” demanded Escamilla in her most imperious tone. Perod reached his feet, breathing heavily for a moment before lunging at Fenrir, fists swinging.
The man was a fighter, Emma could see immediately. He connected two solid punches to Fenrir’s gut, and one partially-deflected punch to the cheek. Fenrir, however, was a big man, and did not go down. Rather, he absorbed another punch to the head in order to grab the man’s face and drive it into his upward-propelled knee, crushing the man’s nose. In a smooth motion, Fenrir lowered his leg then and swung it directly between Perod’s legs, quickly ending the fight as the man again collapsed to the carpet-covered stone, dripping blood onto the expensive, decorative rug.
Those gathered in the colorful chamber were stunned, perhaps unable to believe that such violence had been committed within the presence of the war council. Ignatius’ jaw was hanging open while Tilner’s fists were clenched in rage. Emma, herself, was rubbing her arm where Perod’s fingers had dug into her flesh. She met Fenrir’s eyes—glossy and detache
d though they were—and, for a second, it was five years ago. It was just a second, though, before Emma came back to the present, suddenly becoming acutely aware of her mangled appendage. Shaking her head furiously, she stalked back to her place beside a livid Escamilla.
“This is completely unacceptable! Perod, you are stripped of your commission.” The man rolled to his side, continuing to groan, one hand on his face and the other between his legs. “It is I who shall dictate who is, and is not, to be present in this council. It is I who shall make the decisions here. It is I who shall provide the yets to help protect our nation. Do not forget who has been providing you and your families with a comfortable living and safety all these years. Now, you are all called to return the favor. Not for me, but for Ardia.” Her eyes were gleaming fiercely, teeth bared and shining with saliva. Her short speech was greeted with an embarrassed stillness, though Fenrir seemed unaffected, disconnected from the rest.
Tilner was also unmoved by the lady’s speech. “What about this man?” Tilner gestured hotly at Fenrir. “You dismiss Perod, your loyal captain, a man you have known and trusted for ten years. Meanwhile, this… degenerate… stands among us, close to your person. He should be removed immediately!”
“Care to try your luck?” growled Fenrir, a fierce, detached look still about him. He took a step forward and Emma heart pounded, feeling real fear for Tilner. In that moment, Fenrir looked like a true killer.
“Enough!” Escamilla’s voice fell like an avalanche. This time, even Fenrir seemed to take note, his eyes coming more focused and looking somewhat abashed. Tilner certainly appeared chastened. “Tilner Pick, you have no more right to dictate who is in this room than Perod, and you are not immune to being dismissed.”
Tilner glared at Fenrir, askance, but returned to his seat. “Apologies, my lady. I would never think to question your decisions.” Though his thoughts were clear to everyone in this room.
Solace Lost Page 30
