Good Company

by Dale Lucas

  A long silence fell among them, each of the party trying to make sense out of what they were hearing, how their predicament had gained an entirely new cast in light of hitherto unknown facts. Torval, for his part, turned what little he knew—what little the lord marshal had said—over in his mind.

  “You say he abdicated,” Torval finally said. “But you also brand him a traitor. Which is it? It can’t be both.”

  “I owe you nothing,” the lord marshal said bitterly. “Least of all an explanation.”

  “If not him, then the rest of us,” Captain Tuvera countered. “If you want any more aid from us, Lord Marshal, you’ll tell us everything—truthfully. Otherwise we leave you here beside this road to rot and find your own way out of this forest.”

  “You would abandon your charge?” the lord marshal asked.

  “Not her,” Elvaris said. “Just you.”

  “That goes for us, as well,” Wallenbrand said. “We were contracted to deliver the lady and the Raven, period. Not to go hunting through these woods in search of either. Start talking, Lord Marshal, or Croften and I will consider our contract null and void.”

  Torval wished he had something to threaten the lord marshal with, other than simple bodily harm. But, of course, he and Rem were the ones getting the short end of this stick. They’d come along to earn a reward. Knowing what he knew now, Torval wondered if that gold would have ever been paid . . . or if the Duke of Erald, eager to see his outlaw brother hauled in and executed to keep all his secrets safe, might have simply arranged for the two of them to disappear.

  In some strange way, Torval thought, this disaster might have saved us. If we’d simply carried on and delivered the Raven to the duke . . .

  “I was his teacher,” the lord marshal said finally. “His teacher, his sworn protector . . . his friend.” His voice was quiet now, gentle, even. The voice of a tired man unloading a heavy burden. As he spoke, he stared into the fire before them. “Since I was only a boy, I’ve served the House of Lyr, worn the livery of the duke. I was page to Korin’s grandfather, then squire and first sword in his father’s own ducal guard. I remember when Korin Lyr was first drawn from his mother’s womb—may Aemon protect her. For the greater part of my life, my strength, my purpose, all were bent to the protection and nurturing of the House of Lyr. Korin, his brother—the both of them—were like my own sons. In some ways more so, because my boy was never as gifted or as promising as either of them.”

  Torval suddenly thought of Rem, and his claims about his own father’s hard heart and unwavering demands. No wonder his young partner had disliked the lord marshal so intensely upon first meeting him.

  “But something in my instruction failed to take hold. Korin Lyr, for all his bravado and skill and apparent charm, was no man of quality. He preferred whores and mummers to the ladies of the court his father tried to pair him with. Sought revels and leisure when he should have been at his father’s elbow, attending to matters of state. And for all those years, Verin jostled to make a place for himself. He worked harder, sacrificed more of his time and effort, nigh killed himself in a vain attempt to win his father’s favor over Korin’s own firstborn primacy. But the elder Lyr would not be moved. Korin was firstborn, and so he would inherit, despite all of his failures, his clear lack of dedication. Verin was told, time and again, that his lot was to serve, to protect, to support, but never to rule.”

  Torval studied the lord marshal carefully. The man’s eyes were downcast, aimed squarely into the crackling flames before him. His voice carried hints of bitterness and regret, anger and frustration, but his self-control remained. Not a single tear glinted in his eyes. His lip never quivered or bent into anything so vulgar as a frown.

  “Those of us in the small council hoped a change might come upon the boy once his father passed, but that was not to be. He ascended to the throne, took the crown, and began his rule, but he was the same beast. Missing roundtables, ducking embassies and treaty negotiations to hunt in the woods or go whoring in the city streets. He bedded almost a dozen young women of quality—perfect matches for marriage—assuring each of his good intentions and pledging love and devotion . . . but he never married a one. We lost vital trade alliances, were threatened with all-out war, saw the honor of the House of Lyr impugned—all because one spoiled boy could not grow up and accept his duty.”

  “So you tried to murder him,” Torval said. “To put his brother on the throne.”

  The lord marshal raised his eyes. “We did not try,” he said. “We succeeded. Or so we thought.

  “It was agreed among a small number of us that Verin should rule, that Korin should be removed. We paid two of his more annoyed and embittered companions to accompany him on a long hunt in these woods, to make sure that Korin Lyr did not return. That he met with some fell hazard that would strike no one as strange or extraordinary. What we did not count on were the Devils of the Weald. They, apparently, found the three of them in the midst of conflict.”

  “How do you know all this?” Captain Tuvera asked.

  “One of the two assassins survived the encounter. Barely. When we found him, half in the grave and left to die on the forest road, he gave us the story. He and his partner had made their move on the young duke, but failed to deliver killing blows. They’d given chase, but in the midst of that chase, the Devils of the Weald found them. They slew his companion, filled him with arrows, and took the young duke prisoner. The Devils demanded a ransom. We offered them twice as much if they’d simply kill the young duke and rid us of him. Curiously, they never responded to our offer.”

  “How long before you knew they’d let him live?” Wallenbrand asked.

  “A year, perhaps. The young duke—the new duke—had insisted on making his own hunt in the Ethkeraldi. Our party was ambushed by the Devils, and in the midst of the melee, I saw him. The boy I’d raised and protected and taught, firing arrows at his own royal house like a common brigand, smiling when I called his name and challenged him. I knew what a terrible mistake we’d made then. The old saying goes, If you strike a king, you must kill a king, lest his fury be roused. We tried to usurp a throne from a foolish, self-indulgent boy, but all we did was chase him into the wilds and make him a monster.”

  “But you couldn’t leave him there, could you?” Torval asked. “He was a liability now. Living, breathing proof that the Duke of Erald was a pretender and the small council were a bunch of usurping schemers. That’s why you want him so badly now. Why you’ve spent all these lives in an effort to run him to ground.”

  The lord marshal speared Torval with a cold glare. “It is no longer simply self-interest, master dwarf. Now, more than ever, it’s a matter of honor. With every breath, that boy dishonors his house, his throne, his country. He dishonors my faith in him, all the sacrifices I—and others—made to make something of him. On top of it all, he’s now taken my son from me—my only son!”

  “You put your son in harm’s way,” Wallenbrand broke in. “No one else. Blame yourself for that.”

  “He is to blame!” the lord marshal roared. “And he will pay! On my boy’s blood and the graves of forty generations of the House of Lyr, that monster of a man will pay!”

  “A monster you made,” Captain Tuvera said.

  “That may be so,” the lord marshal said. “But I can unmake him. I will unmake him. And the lot of you, by Aemon, will help me!”

  “How do you reckon that?” Torval asked. Was the man mad?

  “Because all of you still want something. You, women, want to recover your good lady. You, sellswords and dwarf, want your gold. And I want the Raven. Help me get what I want, and I promise every one of you, you’ll get what you desire and more.”

  Torval said nothing, simmering over the insult implicit in the lord marshal’s pronouncement. Gold? Bah! He was far from gold-hungry now. All he wanted—all that would satisfy him—was the recovery of his friend and a safe, speedy journey homeward.

  That, and perhaps—just perhaps—the lord marsh
al’s head on a pike.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After Rem’s plunge into the waters of the Kaarten, Tzimena was hustled down to the river’s edge, where a rope had already been tied across the stream’s span, anchored high on a tree nearby and descending gently toward another tree on the river’s far bank. Korin crossed with her, the two of them settled into hemp loops, then set loose to slide from one side of the river to the other. More of her onetime lover’s accomplices waited on the far side to catch them and make sure they didn’t collide with the tree the fly line was anchored to.

  Once they were safely across, the rest of those on the river’s opposite side joined them. Tzimena saw two more crossing lines farther upriver, widely spaced, and noted that, in all three cases, when it was time for a last person to cross, the line anchoring the rope on the eastern side of the river was undone, the person bringing up the rear was tied to it, then they leapt into the river and were hauled across by their mates. Someone might follow, but they wouldn’t be using the Devils’ crossing technique. Once everyone was over the river, their widely spaced company set off through the darkening woods at a rapid march, eager to put distance between themselves and their pursuers before night fell.

  Tzimena did her best to take account of those whose company she was now trapped in, but it was difficult, seeing as the bulk of the group was scattered far and wide around her in the forest, and the last light of day was fast being sapped from the purpling wood around them. From what she could glean, the band was made up of men and women, most wearing old, ragged forest greens or rough-spuns mimicking the colors of the sylvan landscape around them. She saw women with scars and missing teeth; handsome men with oiled hair and good swords; filthy-faced children and hoary-bearded old men. A motley band, all in all, mismatched in every way except for their skill at hit-and-run warfare. On that count they were unbeatable.

  I should’ve fought harder, she thought. Refused to follow. Just dropped myself, right there on the forest floor. Made him drag me. Tried to hit him harder, tried to scar him, to hurt him. What have I done, letting myself be taken by these rogues and outlaws? Is he even the man I used to know—

  She suddenly tripped on a gnarled root. Before she sprawled forward and met the ground, facedown, Korin had her, catching her midfall. He held her in his arms—gently, with concern—and stared into her eyes.

  “Easy now,” he said softly. “The darker it gets, the more the roots will try to trip you. Step lightly.”

  “Step lively,” a tall woman up ahead said over her shoulder. “We need to move faster, not more carefully.” She was Korin’s height or taller, her mouse-brown hair cut short and swept away from her face. She was the tallest, most powerfully built woman Tzimena had ever seen—and the core of Tzimena’s entire house guard was made up of strong, capable women. But the women in her mother’s employ tended to be wolves or panthers or even hunting hounds, whereas this one was a full-on mother bear or lioness. Even her bow—a full-length, professional archer’s longbow—was larger and more formidable than those wielded by most of the men around her.

  “Just keep marching, Tymon,” Korin said. “We’ll get where we’re going soon enough.”

  The woman, Tymon, though several paces ahead, snorted audibly. There was something between her and Korin, Tzimena could tell: a mutual respect, but also a sense of betrayal or disappointment . . . as if Korin had done something to offend her, but she had yet to make the nature of the offense known. Tzimena didn’t relish hearing about it. Infighting would do little to procure her safety while she tried to figure out how to get away from her onetime betrothed and his merry band of thieves and killers.

  “There’ll be food when we make it back,” Korin said quietly beside her. “Wine and beer, too. We’ve got barrels and barrels in reserve. We found caves in the woods—a veritable labyrinth, with multiple entrances and exits. It’s amazing—wait until you see it!” He sounded like a child reporting the sumptuousness of his home to a newly arrived traveler.

  “Food sounds good,” Tzimena said with honest relief. “I’m starving.”

  “Prisoners eat at our discretion,” Tymon said over her shoulder.

  “She’s not a prisoner,” Korin snapped back.

  Tymon threw a long, wondering glance back over her shoulder without breaking stride. “Isn’t she?”

  Korin didn’t respond. Tzimena didn’t like the sound of that.

  They walked for hours, until well after the sun had gone down. When the wood was finally too dark to see in, small torches were lit along the advancing line and the group carried on, those still marching in darkness following the lights borne by those leading the way. Everywhere around them the forest came to life: small claws scrabbling on the loam, small bodies rattling the underbrush in their furtive passage, the churring of nightjars, and the wondering hoots of owls. At intervals she heard hillcats screaming in the distance, the sound chilling her blood with how distressed—how human—it sounded. Once or twice, Tzimena thought she heard the sounds of something larger—a deep rumbling, as though in a watching predator’s gullet. But each time one of those sounds reached her ears and made her stop in her tracks to examine the impenetrable darkness surrounding her, Korin would gently take her arm and urge her along.

  “What’s out there?” Tzimena finally asked him.

  “Just about everything,” Korin said calmly. “Eyes forward. Keep moving. Among us you’re safe.”

  She seriously doubted that, but she did as she was told.

  Finally, after an apparent eternity, the land started to slope gently upward. They trudged with the incline, their scattered party gradually coalescing into something like a snaking, single-file line, until eventually, after pressing through a close copse of trees that barely allowed passage for one or two at a time, they broke into a clearing on a sort of promontory, tucked between the rocky outcroppings of a gently rising hillside. Tzimena saw guards posted upon the high rocks ahead and supposed they were guarding the entrances to those caves Korin had spoken of. In the gloom she could pick out at least two small cave mouths, with dim firelight burning deep within them. Below the sharp ledges and sculpted stone of the hillside lay a small encampment made up of lean-tos and stone-circled cookfires, as well as a few random tables standing right out in the open for the preparation of victuals. Moving amid this ad hoc outdoor kitchen, more people awaited them. Tzimena estimated the attack group from the forest consisted of about fifteen outlaws in total; another dozen—men and women, children and elderly—waited here in the lee of the hillside.

  “There he is!” an old man wheezed out of the company, and came tottering forth, one arm outstretched, toward Korin. His left hand was tied up against his body, visible, but clearly withered and useless. “There’s our prodigal master, come home again!”

  The old man laughed as he threw his good arm around Korin. Korin hugged him warmly, a bright smile on his face. There were torches and lamps spaced around the little amphitheater between the outcroppings, providing much more light than there had been in the woods. After a long embrace, Korin withdrew. The old man turned his protuberant, bulgy-eyed gaze on Tzimena.

  “And is this her?” he asked from behind his untrimmed whiskers. “Is this the bride?”

  Tzimena shot a glare at Korin. Bride?

  “This is Tzimena,” Korin said, his gaze begging her for both silence and patience. “Tzimena Baya, Holgur Deadhand, one of my most trusted companions.”

  “I thought we were all your trusted companions,” the woman, Tymon, said from one of the tables where food was being prepared. She was greeting a woman engaged in vegetable chopping. They shared quiet words and quick, furtive kisses.

  A boy milling among the newly arrived group was looking around, reading all the faces, clearly searching for someone he wasn’t finding.

  “Where’s Mott?” he asked. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.

  “We lost him, boy,” a big bruiser with a war hammer said. The man offered a fell glance to K
orin and continued. “We lost many. Too many.”

  “Do we have a count?” Korin asked, undeterred by the hammer swinger’s silent insinuation.

  A middle-aged bowman with a shaved head and gold rings in both ears responded. “Mott, Taron, Beidel, Crumbley, and Jinx, by my count.”

  “Laric and Adolyn, as well,” someone else added.

  “That’s seven,” Tymon said, now approaching Korin, her longbow finally laid aside. “Seven of our best, for you”—she looked to Tzimena—“and for that.”

  That. Tzimena didn’t care for the insinuation. It wasn’t pride that made those words hurt, it was practical concern; clearly this Tymon was someone of power and influence in the group . . . and she regarded Tzimena as little more than a piece of property.

  And not very valuable at that.

  “This was my wish, and you realized it,” Korin said. “You have my gratitude, Tymon. Eternally. Now, if you’ll give us a moment . . .”

  “A moment?” the woman asked, incredulous, then stepped closer. She spoke to Korin quietly, through clenched teeth. “There are people mourning here, Lyr. Every one of those we lost had a father or a mother or a lover or a sibling or a child here—every one. You’d turn your back on their suffering now so you can entertain your whore?”

  “I’m no one’s whore,” Tzimena said, the words tumbling out before she could catch them. A fury was rising in her, despite the fact that she knew it would not improve her position. “May I remind you, I was dragged here. I didn’t come of my own free will.”

  Korin looked wounded by those words.

  Tymon just sneered. “Didn’t fight very hard, did you?”

  Tzimena felt something inside her contract and bristle, but she knew better than to raise further objections. She was nothing here—no one. A bargaining chip. If she was going to find her way out of this, she had to blend into the background and make these outlaws drop their collective guard . . .