Kings of the North

by Elizabeth Moon

  “Go ahead,” Burek said.

  Andressat took a firm hold. He had set many a broken wrist and forearm in the past, usually with good results, but those had not been the result of a sword blow that drove the mail into the flesh. At home, he would have bound fresh leaves of herbs against the swelling, to aid healing. Here … was nothing. Not even clean cloths. Nothing to do but set it anyway. He pulled firmly, feeling the bones grate; Burek made no noise. Finally, he felt what he had hoped for—larger pieces were end to end, at least—and he bound on the splints, with Selis’s help. When that was done, Burek let out a long hiss of breath. Andressat touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. It meant more than one thing; he saw from Burek’s expression that the young man took all that meaning.

  “It’s better,” Burek said. That, too, might mean more than his arm. “We need to get moving.”

  “A sling,” Andressat said. He fashioned a sling and helped Burek put the splinted arm into it. Selis helped Burek sit up.

  “We’ll get the horses, sir, and—I suppose we’ll be taking Dort’s body? There’s no way to bury him up here.”

  “Yes. Kerin, you know this country—how far to a border fort?”

  “We might make it today, Captain,” Andressat said. “What about the enemy’s arms?”

  “We’ll take those, too, if the horses can carry the load—wasn’t yours hit?”

  When Andressat stood again, he could see the horses not far away, nibbling the frostbitten turf. One—the one he’d been riding—still had an arrow sticking from its neck. “Mine still has the bolt in its neck,” he said. “Could be a bad wound, could be nothing—won’t know until we get it out.”

  It took another full glass or more to catch the horses, strip the enemy dead of weapons and money—“Sorellin coins—bet they’re counterfeit,” Burek remarked—and load Dort’s body, wrapped in his own cloak, onto the pack horse. Andressat’s horse carried a light pack; he rode Dort’s, and they set off at a foot pace.

  It was near dark when Andressat spotted the border fort tower. “Ride ahead—” he began, then looked at Burek. Burek’s face was pale, taut with pain. “Sorry, Captain—”

  “Good idea, though. Cam, go on and let them know we’re coming …” He glanced at Andressat. “Should he—?”

  “Yes,” Andressat said. He reached into his belt-pouch and handed Cam a ring. “Show this, but only if you’re sure it’s Andressat troops.”

  Cam rode off at a hand gallop. Before they had covered half the distance—slower, now that it was dark—they saw torches approaching. Andressat’s second son came with the party that met them.

  “Sir, I was about ready to set out in search for you, though you had told us not to—I had no idea—”

  “Nor I, Meddthal. I have traveled far indeed—but here we have a man injured—this is Burek, a captain in Phelan’s Company.”

  “Burek—” Meddthal said; in the torchlight his expression was hard to read.

  “Indeed,” Andressat said. “And the reason I am alive to greet you. Is there a surgeon at the fort?”

  “Yes—” Meddthal glanced again at Burek. “Captain, can you ride another glass, or—”

  “I can ride,” Burek said. “But not fast.”

  That night Andressat watched by Burek’s bed. The surgeon had given him numbwine enough to put him to sleep, then unwrapped Andressat’s splints and shook his head over the arm.

  “It is not the broken bones—you know this yourself, my lord Count. It is the damage to muscle and sinew. And I understand you had no herbs, not there in the open.”

  Dark-bruised and twice its normal size, the arm looked grotesquely like that of a sun-swollen corpse. Andressat repressed a shudder. He had sent the lad away in anger … and now the man might lose his arm. “What can you do?”

  “I gave him an infusion of cooling herbs with the numbwine; as you know, that is specific for wound swelling and also wound fever, but that was only a half-glass ago. I am cooling a paste of ganteh and lurz in tallow. If the swelling goes down, we may be able to save the arm. If not—”

  “We must save it,” Andressat said, surprised at the tone of his own voice. “I must talk with my son.”

  In the other room, Meddthal had a hot meal laid out. “Sir, isn’t that the—”

  “Yes,” Andressat said. He sat down heavily. His sons knew he’d not liked Aesil M’dierra’s junior officer, but not why.

  “I thought he was with Golden Company.”

  “M’dierra sent him away. On my account, I learned.” He swallowed a spoonful of hot spiced soup, then another. Meddthal dipped a slice of bread in oil, sprinkled it with salt, and nibbled on it as he waited. “So then he went to Phelan’s Company—which isn’t Phelan’s anymore; it belongs to his former senior captain, Arcolin. Count Arcolin, now.”

  “Northern title …” Meddthal muttered.

  “Don’t, Medd,” Andressat said. “But by the humor of the gods—and in this I can see the hand only of the Trickster—it was Burek who undertook to see me safe home, and Burek who saved my life.” He drank more of the soup and sopped bread in the dregs. “I have many things to tell you all, but I am very tired. I was wrong about Captain Burek, though … wrong from the first …” He shook his head.

  “Father—sir—”

  “Not now. I must rest, but make sure he is not left alone, and wake me if there’s a crisis.”

  In the morning, Burek’s arm was no worse; the surgeon was guardedly hopeful. “His fingers are still warm; he roused once and drank more of the infusion.”

  “How long before he can travel?”

  “You’re not going to make him leave!”

  “No, no, of course not. But he told his troops to expect him in Foss—if he cannot make that meeting, we need to send word.”

  “He won’t be fit to move at all until I know whether the arm must go or not. A tenday, at the least, most likely longer. What are you going to do with that body?”

  “I don’t know what their customs are. And he is their captain; I should ask him.”

  “Not before noon, and he’ll be groggy then. Ask one of the others.”

  Selis and Cam had made a neat Phelani corner of the fort barracks, all the gear stacked and covered with a cloak, but they were both in the stable, where Dort’s body lay on a trestle. “How is Captain Burek?” Selis asked, and then—apparently noticing Andressat’s change of clothing—added a belated “my lord.”

  “The surgeon hopes he might not lose the arm,” Andressat said. “It seems no worse this morning, he told me. But now—I do not know your customs of respect for the dead.”

  “We bury them, of course,” Selis said, as if that were obvious. “I was going to ask—”

  “The soil here is thin,” Andressat said. “Over solid rock. There’s a dell a glass or so from here, where we’ve buried before, but it filled up during Siniava’s War. We could raise a mound of stone—”

  “It’s winter,” Selis said. “We can take him back to the others—it’s only a few days. When can the Captain travel?”

  “The surgeon says not for ten days or more,” Andressat said. “That’s if he doesn’t lose the arm. The swelling must go down completely; the surgeon wants to be sure there’s no pus forming.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  Andressat explained as best he could. “I know the rest of your cohort was expecting him to be at Foss when they arrived or shortly after. You will need to go and tell them he’s not able to come. There are only two of you—I could send—”

  “No, my lord.” This time Selis remembered the courtesy. “We’ll travel faster alone.”

  “Not with a body,” Cam said.

  They both looked at Andressat as if he might have some solution. He had none.

  “We’ll have to leave him,” Cam said. “We have to let the others know about the Captain—get word to Captain Selfer. We’ll need to ride fast, and we both have to go—you know that, Selis.”

  “I know, but—�
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  “Dort would say the same. So would the Captain, if he could.”

  Selfer watched the column coming up the track from Valdaire and wondered if Burek had stayed behind in the city for some reason. With or without a captain present, the cohort rode in perfect order and dipped the Company pennant crisply, as it should.

  “What report?” he asked.

  “Sir, Captain Burek was wounded; he’s in Andressat, in the care of a surgeon.”

  Selfer listened to the rest of the story. Burek had been rash to take less than a hand of Phelani—two more would have changed the flow of battle—but he understood the reason: five could travel more quickly than seven, and he had already detached a hand for the decoy party that had approached Andressat from the west.

  Burek had no memory of the previous days when he woke to find the surgeon rewrapping the splints.

  “You’ll do,” the surgeon said. “Swelling’s well down, and your hand’s still warm. I expect it hurts some.”

  “Not that much,” Burek said. His mouth felt furry and tasted horrible; the surgeon’s assistant lifted his shoulders and held a cup to his lips. Burek swallowed: clean water with just a hint of mint.

  “Wiggle your fingers,” the surgeon said. Burek did so, and pain wrapped his arm. He clenched his jaw against the pain. “Um,” the surgeon said, in a tone that meant something, though Burek didn’t know what. “Still a lot of muscle damage. You’ll need to continue with the infusion. And it’s time you got yourself to the jacks, though you’ll need some help. Get him up, Jens, but slowly—he might faint.”

  He was not going to faint. He told himself that, though his head spun when he first sat all the way up, his feet on the rug beside his bed. But with help, he did make it to the jacks and back to the bed, despite the sensation of falling sideways because of the weight of his splinted arm.

  “Where are my men?” he asked, when he was back down.

  “Gone to tell the others you won’t be coming for a while,” the surgeon said. “They left two days ago. The Count’s offered you a place in Cortes Andres until you’re fully recovered, once you can be moved. You’re not going to risk that arm for six hands of days at least.”

  “I can’t lie in bed six hands of days!”

  “Of course not. But you must be down most of the time until I’m sure of that arm. You came close to losing it; I’m not letting your pride make it go bad again.”

  Burek tried to sit up again, but could not; the surgeon smiled.

  “You’ll be stronger each day if you do what I tell you. The herbal infusion is strengthening your blood; you must eat what I prescribe, and exercise exactly as I say, if you want the full use of that arm later—if it’s possible, I mean.” The surgeon paused. “It might not be, though the Count did a good job with that first splint. Do not blame him if it is not perfect.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Burek said. “Why would I?”

  The surgeon pursed his lips. “I heard things—that he had once had a grudge against you. If so, you might think he took ill care on purpose.”

  “No,” Burek said. “I had no quarrel with the Count and have none now. It is true he did not like me, but that’s his business.”

  “He likes you now,” the surgeon said. “It is not merely that he credits you with saving his life, but something else, which he has not shared with me—or anyone that I know of, though I could read it in his face and voice. It is almost as if he discovered a member of the family.”

  “I am not that,” Burek said, looking away.

  “I didn’t suppose you were,” the surgeon said. “But some men mellow in age, and others harden; I think now he’s mellowed. Travel does that for some.”

  In another hand of days, Burek was able to come to the table for meals, where he found eating one-handed more difficult than he expected. Meddthal, the Count’s second son and fort commander, was a lean, tough-looking man in his mid-forties. He treated Burek with courtesy, often eating his meals at the same time and asking intelligent questions about mercenary service without seeming to pry.

  “My father said you’d served with Golden Company as well as the Duke’s … did you like serving under a woman?

  “Aesil M’dierra? It made no difference to me; by her reputation she’s as skilled a commander—and as honorable—as Phelan or Halveric.”

  “I met Phelan, in Siniava’s War,” Meddthal said. “I’m not surprised he became a king, though my father was. I wonder how his successor will do with his lands.”

  “Very well, I think,” Burek said. “Certainly the troops seem happy with him. And Captain Selfer—he was one of Phelan’s squires.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Meddthal said, “since it seems we’re going to be seeing another miserable war. Damn these ambitious men! Why can’t they be content to rule their own lands well? There’s more than enough work for a lifetime in that, if you do it right.” He shook his head. “Though it would be hard luck on you mercenaries, then. I suppose you like the life of the sword—”

  “Not at the moment,” Burek said, lifting his arm slightly in its sling. “But some of it, yes.”

  “I would rather go back to minding the wine production,” Meddthal said. “But my father needs me here, so here I am.”

  “I don’t want war,” Burek said. “What little I saw of Siniava’s War … no one sane wants that. But I do think wars come, want them or no—”

  “Someone wants them, or they wouldn’t—”

  “True enough. Alured does, I think. Some demon drives men like him and Siniava. But there will always be brigands, even without a war, and someone must protect the farmers and merchants from them.”

  Chaya, Lyonya

  Kieri woke with a start, as if someone had touched him with a coal. A vision of fire glittering on dark water, ships of fire … and the taig, roiled with fear.

  He was out of bed before he knew it, sword in hand, feet planted firmly on the carpet. The sword steadied him, even as its jewel flared brightly in the dark room. Where? Where was the menace? It must be the Pargunese coming across the Honnorgat, but upstream or down?

  And had the Pargunese king betrayed him? Or been overthrown? He reached out to the taig as he had done before, this time to steady it.

  I am here. Your king is with you.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come,” he said aloud.

  “Sir King, I felt something—” It was Berne, one of the half-elven Squires.

  “And I,” Kieri said. “North—the Pargunese are across the river, bringing fire.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Dress,” Kieri said. “I can’t do much like this—” He glanced down at his winter bed gown and his bare feet and gave Berne a rueful grin. As he’d hoped, Berne chuckled, a bit nervously. “It’s not my first war,” Kieri said. “Send to the kitchen—we’ll need hot food as soon as possible—and to the stable—we’ll need horses prepared for couriers. Also Garris: he has the Squire roster. I’ll be dressed and down by the time you’re done.”

  As he lit the candles—by this time he had enough control of his powers to do that by magery alone—he wondered what prompted an attack now, at this moment. Had the Pargunese king turned against him? Unlikely, he thought. Had he been killed by his wicked brother? Possibly … though the reports he’d had regularly from the king had indicated he felt he was making some headway and wasn’t in flight for his life.

  Reports days old. Much could have happened, including the king’s brother making an attack out of panic. Kieri reached out to the taig again, this time to call the Lady. She would have felt the disturbance, he was sure, and in this crisis he must ignore the anger he still felt against her. But he could feel nothing—had she, in her anger, locked herself away from him completely? Surely she would come, with the taig in danger.

  He dressed quickly, mail under his outer garments, shirt, doublet, and capelet all in the royal colors, boots, and the day-crown he usually wore only for semiformal audiences. His people needed to see
their king looking calm and regal … but martial, too. When he opened his door again, the Squires posted there looked worried. He smiled at them.

  “Whoever ordered the attack cannot know how quickly word reached us,” he said to them. “Remember, even the king of Pargun does not know about our taig-sense, or all the details of our deployments. I do not think this is his treachery, which means the attackers know almost nothing. They will think they can gain a foothold before we even hear about it.”

  “But what will we do?” Berne asked.

  “Eat breakfast,” Kieri said. “Never fight a war on an empty stomach.”

  Downstairs, servants scurried about; all seemed a confused bustle. Garris, his face blurry with sleep, at least had his uniform on straight as he came out of his office. “Is it war, Sir King?”

  “I believe so, yes,” Kieri said. “It seems someone in Pargun still seeks to burn us out.”

  “You’ll want to send for Aliam Halveric, then—”

  “Indeed. It is a shame to wrest him from a home still under repair, but I need him and his troops. And we’ll need the rangers from the southern borders—and the west as well—but first, we eat.”

  Garris grinned, to the obvious surprise of the other Squires. “Aliam’s rules, eh?”

  “Right. It’s near enough dawn; the kitchen may have already lit fires, so I suspect we’ll be getting hot food soon.”

  “The Council?”

  “I expect they’ll arrive on their own while we eat. As will my elven relatives.” Surely they would come, would appear any moment. “I am monitoring the taig now, but would like Orlith or another to do so as well.”

  “Is there any chance our river force can throw them back?”

  “It might, depending on what force they sent and what their fire weapon is. The Pargunese king’s mention of a ‘forbidden hill’ and ‘dragons’ fire’ worries me. It may be nothing more than a scare-name, but if it’s not—”