“But … we are not in the east, so what shall we do with you?” Bu asked.
“My lord …” began one of the king’s advisors. He was a portly man, much like the king, with brown ringlets in both his hair and his beard. His yellow robe was no doubt meant to look like gold, and he wore rings on each of his fingers, even his thumbs. But before the man could get past his insincere introduction, Bu’s sword was out of its scabbard and, up under the man’s jaw, was lodged firmly in his skull.
A scream echoed throughout the hall, and Bu thought it had been the woman standing next to the king, but she simply looked on with wide, inquisitive eyes; it was the other advisor who had screamed in such a feminine manner. He was a slight man with a thin ring of hair around an otherwise bald head. He wore a woman’s paint around his eyes and on his cheeks. Bu stepped forward, the king slinking back in his throne, and removed the other advisor’s head from his shoulders.
“These were your advisors?” Bu asked.
The king nodded, tears in his eyes.
“No wonder you lost,” Bu added. He wiped his blade off on the robe of the first dead man. “You will stay in the keep … as my guest.”
Bu turned around, sheathing his sword, looking to Pavin, Ban Chu, and Li and then turning around again. Li had counseled him extensively in the formalities of western nobility over the last few days, and Bu finally realized why Patûk had kept him around.
The woman just stared at Bu. There was a boldness in her brownish hazel eyes. She was a pretty woman. The paint on her lips and cheeks and around her eyes, but she would be pretty despite that. And she was curvy, with round hips and large breasts. She looked like the king—her father—but only slightly.
“Your nobles abandoned you, Cedric,” Bu said, folding his hands behind his back and making sure to refrain from using the title of king. “But I doubt they trust me either. Your notions of nobility in the west are confusing at best. I would just kill the lot of you, but I know that will not sit well with your people, if I mean to rule them.”
Bu could see the irritation work its way across Cedric’s face. The princess looked at her father, then at Bu, inquisition still on her face.
“We need something that will help the nobles of Hámon accept me as their ruler,” Bu said.
“They will never accept you,” Cedric hissed, his frustration finally boiling over.
Ban Chu stepped forward, his sword halfway out of its scabbard. Bu caught his hand and shook his head. His lieutenant bowed.
“You see, Cedric,” Bu said, “my men follow me because they respect me. Your men follow you because … well, I don’t know why they do. Yes, your nobles will accept me, especially once I marry your daughter.”
Cedric stood quickly.
“You cannot!”
“Truly?” Bu replied with a smile on his face. His eyes met those of the princess. They gleamed with mischief. He could see in her eyes she was cunning and bold. She was nothing like her father.
“This is preposterous,” Cedric said.
“No, this is the way of the west, is it not, Li?” Bu asked.
“It is, Your Majesty,” Li replied, and his change in title made Bu smile again.
“How would he know?” Cedric said, pointing to Li, who wore a cloth mask over his face and a hooded robe so that only his eyes were visible.
“He is my steward and my seneschal,” Bu said. “Yes, I will marry your daughter; you will live, and your people will recognize me as their king. Princess.”
Bu extended his hand to the princess, and she took it without hesitation. Cedric tried grabbing her arm, but she shook him off.
“Ilsa,” she said.
“Princess Ilsa,” Bu said.
“Queen Ilsa has a much better sound to it,” Ilsa said.
“Yes, it does,” Bu replied.
****
In the west, according to Li, a woman could be stoned or burned for lying with a man before she was married. Certainly, that was true with a princess. But Ilsa was relentless in the bedroom, and Bu knew this was not her first time. He breathed heavy as he felt the sweat pool around his body. She traced a lacquered fingernail along Bu’s chest, stopping at his nipple before pinching it. He winced, and she giggled, burying her face in her pillow.
“Are all western women as aggressive as you?” Bu asked.
“Are all eastern men as out of shape as you?” Ilsa retorted and then laughed.
“Three times, woman,” Bu huffed.
“It’s a slow night,” Ilsa said. “Sorry.”
“By the gods,” Bu said and then sat up when he heard a knock on the door.
He stood, wrapping one of Cedric’s old robes around his waist.
“I always wanted to fuck in my father’s bed,” Bu heard Ilsa say, more to herself than him, and then giggle.
Bu opened the door to Li. His seneschal bowed.
“Aren’t you going to cover yourself?” Bu said to Ilsa.
“Why?” she replied. “I am their queen. If they stare, have their eyes plucked out.”
She had fire, Bu had to give her that. He shrugged and let Li in. He wasn’t wearing his cloth mask, and when Ilsa saw his disfigured face, she gasped and pulled the bedding up to her chin. Ban Chu followed the maimed seneschal, followed by Bao Zi, who walked gingerly with bandages still on his face.
“I am glad to see you doing better,” Bu said.
Bao Zi simply bowed, ever so slightly.
“What is it, Li?” Bu asked.
“I have been looking at the scroll I copied,” Li said, folding his hands—thus covering his crippled right hand—inside of his robes.
“Yes,” Bu said. He caught his soon to be wife wriggling underneath the covers of the bed, biting a finger seductively. He felt himself become aroused and didn’t much care about what Li had to say at the moment.
“I have translated more of my copy of the scroll,” Li said.
“You discovered the missing piece?” Bu asked.
“No,” Li replied.
“Then why are you here?” Bu asked.
“I have discovered where the Dragon Sword is located,” Li replied.
“Oh,” Bu said, his interest now peaked.
“In my travels, I had heard of a wizard from Gol-Durathna,” Li explained. “It is a story that is over a hundred years old, but the myth speaks of this wizard practicing dark magic. Just that alone would be enough to have him banished from the northern kingdom, or worse. But the stories surrounding him say he was also experimenting on people, testing his spells on live subjects, peasants that lived near his lavish estates.”
“What does this have to do with the scroll and the Dragon Sword?” Bu asked as his interest waned again and Ilsa began moaning while she pleased herself.
“General Bu,” Li said in a whisper, leaning forward, “this wizard found his way to a village called Fealmynster, north of the Gray Mountains. It is there that he enslaved all of its inhabitants, has employed giants to build him and protect a large keep, and found the fabled Dragon Sword. If I have discovered this truth hidden in the scroll’s inscriptions …”
“So has the Lord of the East, and if he gets his hands on this …” Bu said, looking to the ground as he thought of all the possibilities.
“It would be a disaster, my lord,” Li said. “You must find it before he does—or his lackeys. Once he gets his hands on that scroll, he will waste no time in sending the Black Mage after this weapon.”
“Patûk was right,” Bu said introspectively. “This is a powerful weapon.” He looked up at Li. “As soon as I secure my rule here, in Hámon, I will leave for Fealmynster.”
“Bu, my lover,” Ilsa said, almost pouting.
“We will speak on this more in the morning,” Bu said, ushering Li, Ban Chu and Bao Zi out of his room with as much haste as he could.
He turned to face Ilsa, uncovered and waiting for him on the bed. She smiled mischievously. He dropped the robe wrapped around his waist and smiled. Who would have thought a l
ittle gutter shite from the alleys of Fen-Stévock would be a king. He felt powerful, the world would be his, and the east would pay first. Then the rest of the world.
****
Bu married Ilsa the next day. Her father gave him her hand at spear point. She could have cared less. The priest of Freo—the Western goddess of love—hadn’t even finished pronouncing them as husband and wife, and him as King of Hámon, when Ilsa dragged him back to their bedchamber. She was as power hungry as Bu, and it both excited and worried him.
The very next day, he sat astride Warrior, ready to travel north, to the Gray Mountains.
“Why must you go?” Ilsa asked. Bu couldn’t help thinking the tears in her eyes and the sadness on her face were feigned.
“Because I refuse to sit on a throne and hide behind those I rule like your father.” His words were hard, but he couldn’t help seeing a small smirk amidst Ilsa’s tears.
Bao Zi and Andu would go with him while Li, Ban Chu, and Pavin would stay behind. He trusted Ban Chu. Li would be worthless on the road and had proved himself a worthy steward, and he was sure that he had scared Pavin into submission—and he would prove a good leader in Bu’s absence. Another dozen men, all knights of Hámon, sat on their warhorses in front of him outside the walls of Venton. Bu had commanded the twelve wealthiest and most powerful nobles of Hámon to give him one warrior each to travel with him.
“Sir Garrett is the best knight of all Hámon,” Count Alger said, sitting on his palfrey next to Bu.
Bu gave the count a hard look.
“Your Majesty,” Alger added quickly.
“You will find that I award those who are loyal to me,” King Bu Al’Banan said, “beyond their imaginations …”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Alger said. “I can imagine quite a lot.”
“But to those who cross me,” Bu said slowly, intentionally, turning slightly to look at the count. “I am not some dickless king who will sit on his throne and turn a blind eye to insubordination. Do not cross me, Alger. Do not test me.”
The look on Alger’s face was one of true fear, as much as he tried to hide it behind those lazy eyes and that nonchalant look of his.
Bu nodded to Bao Zi.
“We move,” Bao Zi said in his deep, gravelly voice.
“Watch my wife,” Bu said to Ban Chu before he rode completely away from the city. Then he nodded to Alger. “And watch that one. Stay the course. We stick to the plan.”
Ban Chu bowed as Bu led the twelve Hámonian knights north.
“What is our course?” Bao Zi asked. The man almost never spoke.
“First, I find this Erik Eleodum’s family. I am told they are wealthy free farmers north of here,” Bu said, “and we kill them. This man’s family will pay for Patûk’s death. And then we head north. Li has drawn us a map. We will follow it.”
“Very well, my lord,” Bao Zi said with the slightest hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth.
Chapter 45
“I don’t understand why a froksman would be working for Golgolithul,” Nafer said in Dwarvish.
“Why is that?” Erik asked.
“The Eastern Empire destroyed most of their lands,” Nafer explained as they followed the trail of the two men who had stolen the Lord of the East’s scroll. “Enslaved them. And those that weren’t killed or enslaved by the east, the goblins took care of the rest.”
Erik felt a tingle at his hip.
“They are close,” he said.
“How do you know?” Nafer asked.
Erik felt a stronger tingle.
“I just do.”
As they rounded the next bend, Erik could see the giant walls of Fen-Stévock in the distant north. They were tall and black, and even from a league away, they looked larger than anything Erik thought a man could build. The sun had just begun to rise in the east, and the walls seemed to drink up the light. Villages dotted both sides of the Merchant’s Road as they neared the capital city, most of which looked much like Stone’s Throw, small communities that had gathered for common commerce and protection, hoping to capitalize on their proximity to Golgolithul’s largest city. In front of the city walls sat a sprawling municipality, Nafer called it South Gate, and he and Erik had reached its southernmost borders. This made tracking the two thieves all that much harder, but Erik’s dagger led him, and he followed.
South Gate was poor at best. Erik dared a small smile as he rode past run down tavern after tavern and whorehouse after whorehouse. Bryon would have loved it there.
The people looked little better than the primary institutions of this suburb of Fen-Stévock. Those who weren’t hocking their wares or goods or food along the street were begging and fighting. Erik kicked out at several men and women who became too interested in their horses.
Erik felt another tingle at his hip, and then a sharp pinch. He gave out an involuntary yelp.
“What is it?” Nafer said, but then leaned forward in his saddle and pointed. “There they are.”
The froksman had covered his face and head with a scarf, and the passersby seemed rather unaware of the humanoid, more intent on drinking or selling or talking, but Erik could tell it was him. And his companion, the bald, stout man, stood next to him.
They had stopped by a small stall right in the middle of a busy side street of South Gate. The reins of their horses, Erik’s horses, were held firmly in their hands while they drank something.
“A water break,” Erik suggested.
“Aye,” Nafer replied. “They must’ve assumed they lost us once they reached South Gate. We should hide the horses and go on foot. Look at all the people. It would be hard to ride fast through here.”
They rode into a nearby alley and tethered their horses to the back of a shop. Erik paid a beggar boy a silver coin to watch their horses, but he didn’t expect them to be there when they returned. He didn’t really care. All that mattered was that they retrieve the scroll.
“Hurry,” Nafer said, “we have to get to them before they enter Fen-Stévock.”
Sneaking back into the main thoroughfare in the shadows, Nafer and Erik crouched behind an abandoned cart, watching their two targets drink and catch their breath. Nafer leaned forward, trying to eavesdrop. He could not understand the clicks and hisses the froksman made but could make out what the man said. Halfway through their conversation, Nafer’s eyes widened.
“They aren’t working for Golgolithul,” Nafer whispered.
“Who, then?”
“Gol-Durathna,” Nafer replied. “They mean to stop us. I heard mention of King Agempi and the General Lord Marshall.”
“Who?”
“The head of all of Gol-Durathna’s military,” Nafer replied.
Perhaps that would be better. Gol-Durathna was a kingdom known for its compassion, and an ally to the dwarves of the Gray Mountains. The kingdoms that would become Gol-Durathna led the charge against Golgolithul at the Battle of Bethuliam and deposed the original Stévockians. Erik wondered if it was a good thing, maybe some sort of divine intervention that these two had stolen away this scroll that had to do with the dragon. But they had mortally wounded Demik.
Stay the course.
Erik touched his dagger.
But, surely, their king is a better man than the Lord of the East.
Power corrupts even the most righteous of hearts. Stay the course and retrieve the scroll. If you do not, many will die.
I understand.
“Wha’ you doin’ back here?” a man said, coming up behind Erik and Nafer.
“Minding our own business,” Erik said. “Now go away.”
He hadn’t bothered to even turn and face the man, but a large hand clasped on his shoulder and stood him up. When he turned, he looked straight into the burly chest of a very large man. A year ago, Erik would have been terrified, but now, he was simply annoyed.
“We don’t want trouble,” Erik said, looking up at the dirty, bushy-bearded face of a resident of South Gate.
“A lil’ whelp and a dwarf sneak behind my cart means you wan’ trouble,” he slurred, the stink of ale on his breath.
Nafer stood and turned, and as he did, the man pushed Erik. He was strong, but Erik could have stood his ground if it wasn’t for him stepping on a broken wheel. He fell back, rolling over his head and coming to his feet with Ilken’s Blade instinctively drawn. But now he was out in the middle of the street, and when he looked to the bald man and the froksman, they saw him. They glanced at one another briefly and then at Erik before they threw down their cups and mounted their horses.
“Hurry!” Erik said, and he knew Nafer was close on his heels as he ran after them.
They couldn’t gallop in the busy street; they could barely move. It looked as if they were about to dismount as Erik and Nafer caught up to them, pushing past a throng of citizens that had just begun to crowd the road, when Erik felt the earth underneath his feet roll. Most ignored it, but Nafer felt it too by the look on his face. The look the man and froksman gave one another said they felt it too. The bald man heeled his horse hard, but Erik felt another shake of the ground, this time much stronger.
Everyone felt this one, and people started yelling and running about, mostly shouting in Shengu, but Erik heard one man yell “Earthquake!” in Westernese. As another shock hit the suburb of South Gate, toppling some unstable carts, the people became even more scared, crowding against each other frantically and pushing each other out of the way. A hot wind blew through the street of the suburb, wafting up the smells of sewage and trash and sweat, and the air felt heavy and constricting.
“That’s no earthquake,” Erik said, staring at Nafer intently, “that’s the dragon.”
Erik heard that roar again, like the distant rumbling of thunder even though there were no clouds in the sky. The air grew hotter.
“Nafer,” Erik said, both swords drawn, caring little that people would see the magic sword, “she’s close.”
Nafer just nodded.
The horse that the bald man rode reared up as the people in the street became more frantic, throwing its rider to the ground and falling over itself. The froksman stopped to help his comrade.
Breaking the Flame Page 32
