“I beg your pardon,” the farmer said, but before he could continue, Ban Chu rode up to the side of the wagon.
“You will address General Bu Al’Banan as my lord,” Ban Chu said.
“Nope,” the farmer said with a shake of his head, “I only have one lord, and he’s not it.”
“Yeah,” the younger daughter said, standing up in the back of the wagon, “he’s not our lord.”
Ban Chu’s hand went to the handle of his sword.
“Tia,” the farmer hissed, “sit down and be quiet.”
The little girl crossed her arms across her chest and did as she was told, but with a look of defiance. Bu liked this little girl, this little Tia. She had fire.
“Lieutenant Chu,” Bu said softly, “it is all right.”
Ban Chu nodded and backed his horse up.
“We are not vassals of Hámon, General,” the farmer said. “We are free farmers, north of here. There are several of us in the city.”
“Free farmers?” the general asked.
“Aye,” the farmer replied, “for the last two hundred years.”
“And to whom do you hold allegiance?” the general asked.
“The Creator,” the farmer said. “To be honest, General, I don’t really care who rules Hámon. We come here to trade and sell our goods, buy seed for the next year, find workers when the need arises, and for a fair price.”
Bu had never heard of a free farmer. They didn’t exist in the east. Every farmer was a serf for whatever lord or family that owned the land on which they worked.
“How fair have the prices been?” Bu asked.
“Not very,” the farmer replied.
“Maybe we can change that,” Bu said.
“That would be appreciated, General,” the farmer said.
“You and the other free farmers in Venton may leave,” Bu said, “and I will remember our conversation.”
The farmer gave Bu Al’Banan a quick bow and then snapped the reins of his wagon.
“Tell me about these free farmers,” Bu said to Count Alger.
“A nuisance,” Count Alger replied. “Little more than peasants, and you see how they act, even towards men of a higher station.”
“Are they successful?” Bu asked.
“Their farmlands have rich soil,” Count Alger said. “I have assumed several of these free farms as my lands have expanded and our farms on those lands are very plentiful.”
“When the dust settles,” Bu said, “we will have to look north to these farmlands.”
Chapter 42
Sitting with almost twenty other men at a large round table, Del Alzon was not sure who most of them were. They were the aristocrats of Waterton, men who had never bothered to come by his fruit stand or mingle with the common folk of the border town. Yager was there, his newly appointed head woodsman. So were Danitus and Maktus. Along with these aristocrats—the word left a sour taste in Del Alzon’s mouth—were dignitaries from Southland—Finlo and Dûrn Tor—and Gongoreth. He hoped his discomfort wasn’t visible.
In reality, Del’s mind was on the death of Simon, the former mayor of Waterton. The man couldn’t keep his mouth shut and had started sowing discord from inside his jail cell. Men who had initially pledged allegiance to Del had started to rethink their positions. It was Del Alzon’s last nefarious act. He knew a man, one talented in the ways of mysterious deaths. This man found himself the newly appointed jail guard when the man who had been there for years fell from his horse and sustained a serious broken leg. The next day, the newly appointed guard discovered a very unfortunate scene inside the former mayor’s cell—a private cell due to his former status. He had hung himself. Perhaps the weight of his former iniquities was too much to bear. Overnight, those questioning their loyalties to the new mayor, Del Alzon, became supporters once again.
“The egregious attack on Hámon cannot be allowed to stand without military response,” said Amman from Finlo’s Council of Five. He brought Del Alzon back from his thoughts and into the present.
“And what would you have the city of Waterton do?” Del Alzon asked. “This new army consists of thirty thousand zealots, trained to eastern standards. Waterton has three hundred militiamen who run scared when a rat farts.”
The aristocrats of Waterton murmured angrily at that, but as Del Alzon glared at them, they quieted.
“What about the armies of Gongoreth?” Amman asked.
“What about them?” an armored man, all in plate mail, asked. His voice was deep and commanding, and his dark beard and tanned skin were a stark contrast to his bright blue eyes.
“Well,” Amman said, and then stopped, seemingly taken aback by the curtness of the Gongorethian knight.
“You are affected by trade that comes through Southland, are you not?” asked one of the aristocrats Del had allowed to stay on his council, a man named Hammond.
“Somewhat,” the knight replied. “But Southland, nor Háthgolthane, are not the only sources of trade for the west. And a Gongorethian army has not been east of the Blue River in over two hundred years. What would the response be by Golgolithul? Gol-Durathna? Nordeth even?”
“Sir Charles,” Del Alzon said, “is there no help you can offer?”
Sir Charles, the Gongorethian knight, seemed to think for a while. Two other knights stood behind him, along with half a dozen men-at-arms and several advisors. They each took turns whispering into the knight’s ear.
“I cannot justify sending a whole army to help restore the Kingdom of Hámon to its previous ruler,” Sir Charles said, “however; the city of Waterton and the country of Southland have always been kind to my lands in the County of Law. So, I will send five hundred men-at-arms to Waterton, for protection, and another five hundred to Southland.”
“That is most generous,” Amman said, even though the look on his face told Del Alzon he thought otherwise. Del knew the Council of Five wanted an all-out war against this Bu Al’Banan, all without having to lift their own fingers and risk their own lives.
Bu Al’Banan. Del Alzon knew of Patûk, even though the old general had left the service of the east when Del was just a young soldier. His was a superior tactician, a spectacular leader, and a cruel man. But no one ever knew of a son. A man like Patûk probably had at least a dozen bastards all over the world, but he never married—as far as Del knew—and if he had, one might wonder if he would ever have time to raise a son and teach him how to be a soldier. Del Alzon suspected this Bu was just using the name of the former general to gain loyalty, respect, and fear.
Del Alzon shook his head. Patûk Al’Banan was dead. Many wondered if the man would ever die. And from the pox nonetheless. Another lie, Del Alzon suspected, but who could have killed a man such as Patûk Al’Banan? There wasn’t a sane man in all of Háthgolthane with the balls to challenge old Patûk. Kehl, the Samanian, probably would have challenged him. Stupid Samanian pimps, they would fight anyone.
Whoever killed Patûk, Del Alzon thought, is not only a man of tremendous skill, but a man with the biggest balls I’ve ever heard of.
“My men will come to Southland by way of the South Sea,” Sir Charles of Law said. “It would be bad form to have them marched through the Abresi Straits and so close to Hámon. And I doubt any of the other nobles of Gongoreth will give such an offer. Háthgolthane has been a source of much pain for Gongoreth, and its peoples need to learn how to take care of themselves.”
“Will King Buxton approve of such a move?” Del Alzon asked.
“Let me worry about King Buxton,” Sir Charles replied. “I am in good relations with the king, and I think he will see my logic when I explain my reasoning. He may even send some of his royal soldiers to Waterton, although I doubt he’ll send any to Southland. He has little love for sea ports.”
Ammon seemed even more perturbed at that.
“And what of you, Countess?” Amman asked.
A woman in her middle years, wearing a wide headdress of purples and blues that hid her hair and a larg
e dress that required the help of several servants when she sat looked to the speaker of the Council of Five with lazy eyes and pursed lips. They were painted purple, like her headdress, and heavy black paint marked the outlines of her eyes, contrasting her very pale skin.
“I can help,” she replied, “but not as much as Sir Charles. My resources are spread thin, as of late, with some efforts to expand west of our lands. My main concern is that the supposed son of that pompous ass, Patûk Al’Banan, will set his sights even farther west. If he is anything like his father—and who knows if he really is the son of old Patûk—he would do that. Patûk Al’Banan thought he was indestructible, and if he trained this upstart general, then so does he. I will send two hundred men to you, mayor, and I will send a hundred with Sir Charles to Finlo. I am sorry, but it is all I can do.”
“If it is all you can do …” Amman began to say, but the glaring look the countess gave him caused him to stop and look away.
“Countess Elaine,” Del Alzon said, “it is more than enough.”
“And what of you, Del Alzon?” another man asked, a diplomat from Dûrn Tor.
“What of me?” Del Alzon replied.
“Can we trust you, the newly appointed mayor of Waterton?” the man asked, a husky fellow with a great, gray bushy beard. “Your ascent to leadership seems very fortuitous, and you are a defected easterner, just like Patûk Al’Banan and these thirty thousand men that now serve his son.”
Del Alzon felt his blood boil.
“I am no defector, Rufus,” Del Alzon said with the slightest hint of a hiss. “I served my time in the eastern armies and was given leave … honorably discharged. The only similarity between Patûk Al’Banan and me was our eastern blood. And I don’t know this Bu. Who, by the nine hells, even knows if he is an easterner?”
“We have an invested interest in what happens in the east,” Sir Charles said, “but it isn’t critical for our survival. The moment it seems our presence is more of a nuisance, or the moment General Bu Al’Banan decides to set his sights farther west …”
The knight spread his hands, matter-of-factly.
“Our chief concern is the safety and survival of Gongoreth,” Countess Elaine added.
“Understood,” Del Alzon said, and Amman and Rufus both nodded, reluctantly.
****
Del Alzon sat in his room, drinking a tankard of ale. Some young servant had tried to stand next to him and hold his cup, but Del dismissed him. He didn’t need to be waited on hand and foot and wondered if that was truly what the previous mayor of the broken, run down border town of Waterton actually required. He shook his head and finished his drink.
“It seems you have had a hard day.”
The voice, speaking in Shengu, came from the shadows. Del Alzon rose so quickly from his chair that he knocked it over. He turned to face the corner of his room. His sword wasn’t anywhere near him, so he held his heavy tankard in one hand and balled his other hand into a fist.
A slight man with an angular face and close-cropped, black hair stepped from the shadows. A sword, sheathed, hung from his belt, and he raised his hands, showing himself as not a threat.
“Peace,” the man said.
“Says the spy slinking in the shadows,” Del Alzon replied in Shengu.
“My name is Ban Chu,” the man said, keeping his hands up and visible, “and I am the chief scout to Lord Bu Al’Banan.”
“Chief scout?” Del Alzon scoffed with a smile. “Is that a fancy name for spy?”
The man shrugged.
“Lord Bu Al’Banan, huh?” Del Alzon said. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days? This supposed son of General Patûk Al’Banan. You know that any intelligent man knows that’s just hog’s piss. When will he be King Al’Banan?”
“As soon as King Cedric of House Elefante abdicates, of course,” Ban Chu replied.
“And what does this Bu’s chief snake need or want with me?” Del Alzon asked.
“Please,” Ban Chu said with a feigned hurt look on his face, “can we dispense with the name calling?”
“Very well,” Del Alzon replied.
“Lord Bu Al’Banan wishes to extend to you an offer,” Ban Chu said. And when Del Alzon replied with a questioning look, the scout continued, “His power will only continue to grow, but he knows already men conspire against him.”
Del Alzon wondered if this Ban Chu knew about the meeting he had just had.
“He wishes to offer Waterton vassalage,” Ban Chu continued, “and as such, he would make you a lord—a duke. You would be Duke Del Alzon of Waterton. This would give you more land, title—”
Del Alzon’s sudden fit of laughter cut Ban Chu off, and the scout gave the mayor a questioning look, one that was a mixture of irritation and hurt.
“Did I say something funny?” Ban Chu asked.
“What makes you think I want to be a duke?” Del Alzon asked. “What makes you think I want lands and extra money?”
“Who wouldn’t …”
“What makes you think I want anything from you or that jumped up prick who leads thirty thousand idiots, the so-called son of the cunt who turned his back on his country,” Del Alzon hissed, his tone turning from one of jollity to anger. “Waterton is a free city—always has been, always will be. It’s why I came here. I wanted to be free, beholden to no man. So, if you think I’m going to bow down to some rat turd for land and money, you’re dumber than a pig’s fart.”
“It’s free for now,” Ban Chu offered, eyes level and voice indifferent.
“Get out!” Del Alzon yelled. He hadn’t wanted to lose control of his emotions, but he had had enough of this Ban Chu.
“Watch your back, fat man,” Ban Chu said with a condescending smile on his face.
Del Alzon turned and grabbed his sword that was leaning against a small table. He turned back to face Ban Chu, his weapon gripped tightly with both hands, only to find the spy gone. Del Alzon groaned angrily. Spies. Worse than thieves and gypsies.
“Watch my back,” Del Alzon repeated. “Always do.”
****
“We need to build a wall,” Del Alzon said to Maktus.
“A wall?” Maktus asked. “Waterton has never had a wall.”
“It’s time for change,” Del Alzon said.
“How much change is too much?” Maktus asked.
“I don’t know,” Del said with a shrug. “But we need to do it.”
“Do you think it will deter travelers and adventurers?” Maktus asked.
“I don’t give a pig’s ass if it does,” Del Alzon replied. Maktus stopped as they walked through the city, looking at Del Alzon with concerned eyes.
“What’s going on, Del?” Maktus asked.
“We need to be prepared,” Del Alzon said. “I feel the days of being neutral are over.”
“It will take money,” Maktus said.
“We will raise it,” Del Alzon said.
“It will take manpower,” Maktus added.
“We will employ everyone we can,” Del Alzon replied.
“It will take time,” Maktus finally said.
“That … we don’t have.”
Chapter 43
Bryon rolled to his side. His pillow was still wet. Tears. Sweat. He stared at the door to his room then closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. He pushed himself up and sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the floor for a long while, rubbing his feet along a rug made of bear fur. It was soft and warm. He craned his neck to the side, and it responded with several loud pops. Stretching his arms, his shoulders and back crackled as well.
He was glad to be in a normal room, away from Thorakest’s infirmary. His surgeons had finally moved him the previous day. Even though he still felt weak and he still looked a little pale, he had healed well enough. As he stretched, he could still feel the ache in his body, and a part of him wondered if it would ever go away. His dreams hadn’t stopped.
Dreams of dead men, fields of burning grass, and,
always, a dragon, up close or in the distance. Bryon rubbed the wound on his chest. There were only four little scars left, from where the dragon had scratched him, but from time to time he could still feel it, feel the excruciating pain. Had that wound connected him to the dragon in some way? And then he wondered if his dreams were similar to Erik’s. He heard his cousin talking about dreams of the dead.
He had mocked them off as foolishness, childish, until he had them … until he saw Fox’s face, black and rotting and crawling with maggots. He smelled him. Heard him. And then the dragon, the things she said. He didn’t know how he understood her, but he did, and the curses she cried made him shudder.
Bryon finally stood. He kicked the pile of his clothes to the side and walked to the washbasin, dipping his hands in the cool water and cupping them, splashing it up against his face. The water ran down his face and neck, over his shoulders and chest, and down his legs, causing a quick shiver. He cupped more water and poured it over his head, washing his hair. Dirt dripped away with the water and swirled about in the basin as a brown cloud.
A quick knock thudded against Bryon’s door. He brushed the wet hair clinging to his face away and went to the armoire. He put on pants as another knock came and opened the door. A young dwarvish woman stood on the other side of the door. Her cheeks blushed. She looked at her feet and folded her arms in front of her.
“His Maj … Majesty, the King,” she stammered, and Bryon couldn’t tell if her stuttering speech was from embarrassment or from a lack of understanding of the Westernese language.
“In Ervendwarfol, se wen wishen,” Bryon said. He had tried becoming more efficient at the dwarvish language as he stayed in their city.
She nodded.
“His Majesty, the King, he wishes to have audience with you,” she said in her native language. “I am to take you to his private chambers.”
“Very well,” Bryon replied, also speaking in Dwarvish. “I will get dressed and meet you outside this door.”
Minutes later, Bryon followed the dwarvish woman through the castle of Thorakest and they eventually entered a chamber warmed by a large fire roaring in a simple fireplace. Shelves, floor to ceiling and filled with books, consumed the wall to Bryon’s left and, directly across from him, stood a wall covered by drawings of maps and castles and sketches of dwarves and humans and creatures he had never even thought of. In the middle of the room was a large, round table, and King Skella, General Balzarak, and Gôdruk sat around it.
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