Black River (The Hounds of the North Book 2)

by Peter Fugazzotto

  "Your fault," said Shield looking at the secretary. "And I will break you when I'm done with these children."

  The secretary gave one look to the guards and then ran back into Cassius's quarters.

  The guards came forward, swords drawn, shields held close, an arc closing in on the Northman. But Shield felt no constriction. While returning to Vas Dhurma and the disappointment of what they had become confused him, seeing a handful of armed men filled him with clarity. A simple problem lay before him – distances, angles, strategies, fear – and the solutions would come as easily as breathing and moving.

  He stood, hands on hilts of sword and dagger. This was for Hawk, dead so far from home, dead at the hands of cowards.

  In that moment before he drew his blades, at the point from which there would be no turning back, a voice cut through the hall.

  "Shield, my old friend, sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

  Cassius stood in the doorway, smiling, arms held wide open. He looked as if he had gained weight since the Hophtian campaign, the white tunic more expansive around his midsection. Life in Vas Dhurma had treated him well. His red robe was bordered with gold fabric, a sign of his rising position in society, one that allowed him greater access to the resources of Empire and the ears of the influencers. Even the sword at his side had changed, no longer the leather handled practical tool of a soldier in the field, but instead a gilded decoration with a wolf-headed handle and a scabbard blinding with gems and gold scroll work.

  The head of the guard, weapon still pointed at Shield, turned to Cassius.

  "I am sorry," said the First Captain, the wide smile still on his face. "My fault."

  "But this Northman insulted us. He threatened a Vas Dhurman, a crime punishable by lashes."

  The smile dropped off Cassius's face and his voice turned low. "Without warriors like Shield, the destiny of Vas Dhurma would be a very different place. And beyond what he has done for Empire, he has saved my damned life on three occasions. His only crime is impatience. He is a soldier like you and me. We cut him a little slack. We stick together."

  The guards sheathed their swords and with a few backwards glances retreated into the compound.

  As Cassius embraced Shield, he whispered in his ear, "What would you have done, my friend? It would not have turned out well."

  "I would have died with honor," answered Shield.

  Cassius pulled out of the embrace and held his comrade at arm's length. "Vas Dhurma does not treat you well."

  Within a few minutes, they were seated in Cassius's receiving chamber. The room was as Shield anticipated: a bear skin run, marble statues of nymphs, mahogany chairs, silk curtains opening to the breezes to reveal a wide view of the Dubyr River and the rich farmlands rolling east of Vas Dhurma. A table was laid with bowls of grapes, olives, bread sticks and hard cheese.

  "I could have wine brought if you are thirsty."

  "Not a social call, Captain. Or First Captain, I suppose it is now."

  "That business with the witch brought attention to me, that and the earlier sieges across Hopht. Good attention for a change. But now what is my life but ledgers and merchants and maps and schedules for moving supplies from one forsaken place to another? But an army must eat."

  "I've come for help," said Shield, staring down at his feet – still filthy with the blood and dust from the morning. He should have cleaned himself up a bit before coming to ask a favor. So he told Cassius of the hard times and troubles that the Hounds come into since their return to Vas Dhurma: the failure to be called for duty with the legions to the East, their dwindling monies, Cook and Night leaving them, their lack of work, Harad's insistence to return north, and the death of Hawk.

  "Hawk? Dead?" Cassius pinched his temples. "He was such a good man – sharp of tongue but always sharper of blade. If there is anything with his funeral that I can help with."

  "We floated him in the river. No riding the smoke to the land of heroes. Not here in Vas Dhurma."

  Cassius shook his head. "What's the help you want? I'll do whatever I can."

  "Get us, the Hounds, on those supply trains so we can join up with the legions in the East. Put in word so we can be of use again. We can still hunt warlocks. You owe us this."

  "I told you in Hopht and I'll tell you now again: the legions are in the East, fighting, moving forward, and any talent they want, they pick up along the way. They want locals, men who know the land, the cultures, the weaknesses that can be exploited. The generals don't want Northmen fighting in the East. They don't hunt witches and warlocks there. They only want control of the trade routes. You aren't the disciplined foot soldiers they need. What do you know of the East? I've asked, and I've asked, and I've asked again for you. But the answer is always the same. Empire has no use for the Hounds in the East."

  "No use for us but to die in Vas Dhurma, after all these years of loyalty."

  "You were a fool to be as fucking loyal as you were. What'd you expect?" said Cassius. "To become citizens of Vas Dhurma, to be accepted? I know they promised that to you in those early days, but those promises were only to ensure that you would betray your southern king. Surely you must have seen the lies."

  "We were loyal to you."

  "And I to you. But so what? Too many things are beyond my grasp." His fingers found the bowl of grapes and plucked them from the cluster without eating them. "How many years did I toil as a foot soldier in the legions? How many years and lost men and battles won for Empire before the son of a peasant farmer from the Southern Sea was given a promotion, an opportunity to be viewed as something more than a second class citizen? And you think you, a barbarian from the North, a sell sword, can be anything more than that? This is Empire, warts and all, and you know it."

  "I don't want your gold swords, Cassius. Or your silk robes or your wretched perfumes." Shield pounded his fists on the table between them, the bowls jumping with the impact. "I don't care if we never rise to the rank of citizens. I just want the Hounds back in the field. I want us singing with our swords. I want us alive again. I want the blood of warlocks and witches to pool at my feet. Give us at least the chance to die with swords in our hands."

  "My hands are tied. The legions will not have you."

  "What about the Grand Collegium and the hordes of Chroniclers. Surely they need a strong arm. We are witch hunters after all."

  "I have no influence there," the Vas Dhurman captain said. "And I am not sure how welcome foreigners are there. The tides have shifted: the hearkening to the old ways, worshipping the gods, the pure race. The Emperor is creating a mythos to shape the world to come, and in that world, there is no space in Empire for Northerners or any others but as wage slaves and peasants. Harad's idea of returning north is not a bad one."

  "What's left there for me?"

  "What do you think you'll find here?"

  "Let me die with a sword in my hand."

  Cassius sighed. "You should have gotten away from all this long ago when there were opportunities. You and your damned bloodlust. Chasing after the ghost of the man who killed your father."

  Shield brushed off the front of his gray wool pants, slapping the dust out of them. "Then I'll be off, Cassius."

  "Wait. I can't give you back the life of the soldier. Empire wouldn't have it. But merchants come to me all the time for favors – to get their goods in the supply trains heading to the East. I have a wealth of favors owed. I'll call one in for the Hounds right now. Not a witch hunting job but one of the sword still. Merchant Sange is out there warming the bench with his ample behind. He is almost the wealthiest garment merchant in the city. He always needs muscle in the markets and men to guard him as he waddles about."

  Shield's stomach rolled. A hired tough for a merchant? Was this what he was to become? Would this be where the dream died? But then he thought of the Hounds, warriors only in memory, the death of Hawk. What else could he offer them? They needed coin and purpose. Otherwise, he would lose them forever and what would become of
him? Guards for a merchant. Not what he wanted, but as he thought about it, he realized that it was better than the whirlpool of despair they were being dragged into. They would bide their time until he could turn that back onto the trail of the witches and the warlocks.

  He lay his hands on Cassius's shoulders and nodded.

  HEAVIES

  HARAD TRIED TO keep his eyes on the words on the page, but the silver bells hidden beneath the ivory silks of the young maiden sauntering through the cloth market of Vas Dhurma distracted him. He pressed his finger harder along the line of words.

  Thus did Favius pass through the ordered camp of the 4th Legion stopping to provide word and encouragement to the host and went on till he came to the crest of the hill where his centurions gathered in a circle round him. Below him, the tents of the clans gathered to the Warlock King, the pretender, the speaker of ill, spread as far to the north as the mists allowed.

  The bells jingled again and Harad had to steal a glance. The maiden's hips swayed beneath the watery fabric as she walked along the bustling market stalls, her hands trailing over silks and ethereal cottons, her fingers pulling at fine golden threads and silver lace.

  He then sat down, and Favius, proud son of Vas Dhurma, father of the Empire reborn, with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: "My friends, I have had a dream from heaven in the dead of night, and know that, on the morn, the Warlock King shall be dead and the fields before us will be covered with the blood of the North."

  The ringing bells drew him away from the page again. Henna scrolled and vined along the tops of the maiden's sandaled feet and her hands. He wondered how far the decoration covered her skin and then choked back that thought.

  So intent was he staring at her that it took him a moment to notice that she stared back at him with as much interest and wonder.

  Harad forced his eyes back to the book, hands tightly fisted.

  Patch, slurping at the dregs of his bowl of beef noodle soup, bumped the Northern giant's shoulder with his fist. "So sure you want to leave Vas Dhurma, Hammerhead?"

  Harad grunted and bent to the book but the words lay dead – black scribblings unreadable to a wandering mind.

  The two Hounds sat on a low bench at the soup stall where they had lunched every day for the last two weeks, ever since Shield had told them he had something for them. Patch had thought that they finally had a witch-hunting job that would pay in sacks of gold, while Harad imagined the journey along the road to the North. In the end it was guard work for the Hyberian silk merchant – looming at the entrance to his cavernous tent, riding a day's journey south to ensure that wagonloads were not robbed, escorting an overloaded cart to the docks or one of the gates, walking behind the fat merchant and his fatter wife, the Hounds becoming the status symbols of a man who had risen and wanted to be noticed by those who had doubted him and those who wanted to displace him.

  From where Harad sat, he could see the inside of the tent – the piles and drapes of silks and fabric, the maidens and their chaperones, the young trilling shop boys in their white tunics, the fat Hyberian merchant wagging his finger at Shield.

  "Much more comfortable out here than in there," said Harad.

  "Born out here but trying to sneak a peek in there. The story of our lives," said Patch.

  The cloth market was in the heart of Vas Dhurma, situated in the valley between the three most prominent hills and not far from the Crown Plaza and the Emperor's Palace. It was one of the many market districts that defined the city: the cloth market, the gem market, the spice market, the iron market, the fish market, the livestock market and a whole host of smaller less significant markets.

  These main markets were not the ones that kept the city functioning on a daily basis. Other smaller, local markets provided the daily bread and simple cuts of cotton. Instead these main markets facilitated Vas Dhurma's trade with the rest of Empire. While the silk merchant did a bustling business with the known families of the city, his true wealth came from coins in palms and contracts won for the legions and assessors forgetting to note certain shipments as they passed through the city gates.

  Here in Vas Dhurma, the silk, the embroideries, the leathers, the fine linens, the cottons and the hemps from the far reaches of Empire came together by ship, cart and mule; prices were argued, product exchanged hands, and while, in some cases, the cloth was destined for local tailors and dressmakers, most of the bundles were reloaded onto ship, cart and mule to be sent to other parts of Empire.

  It was not a trade of efficiency because often the routes to and from were circuitous and purposefully long.

  Instead it was a trade of control and that was what defined Empire and how Vas Dhurma gathered its wealth.

  Trade between provinces and tribute states was only allowed to occur in the markets of Vas Dhurma.

  Both in and out of Vas Dhurma, goods were taxed – a double tax filling the coffers of Empire and creating great wealth for the middle-men merchants and their politicians.

  But, more importantly, the taxes fueled the ever growing armies of Favius and the Dhurman Empire.

  Beyond the rhetoric of the false gods at the doorstep of Vas Dhurma and the fabricated stories of young farm girls being snatched from their homes in the middle of the night, the war in the East was about retribution for the breaking of a trade agreement by a former province.

  The strong men of Sasarra, fed by the whispers of their own merchants, had decided that it would be more beneficial to trade their silk directly with their neighbors to the north than shipping everything through Vas Dhurma and then shipping it north.

  Empire responded with its legions. Thus the campaign in the East.

  Harad poked a finger at the words in his book, a book stolen from the burning ruins of a small palazzo in Hopht. While the others grabbed coin and gems, Harad's big hand found this book. The others had laughed around the campfire, spitting out jokes about the oaf who could not read but nevertheless stole a book. But he had the last laugh, his nights spent hunched over the book alongside that old, near toothless Hophtian who had opened the magic of reading to the big Northerner during his time in the desert prison.

  "This book is amazing, Patch. The stories it tells. A history of the wars."

  "Lies. It tells lies. It's their book."

  "The book talks of home."

  "Home?"

  "North. Cullan. Beyond the Black River. Our villages. Our people."

  "Two decades removed and you still think of it as home. We're old men now, Harad, gray in beard, long in tooth, not even enough use as fodder in a meaningless trade war at the edge of empire. Does your book talk about that?"

  "We would be remembered. We would be welcomed back."

  "I doubt we would be remembered, a wayward band of youth that left so long ago, and in my case if I were welcomed back it would be with blades in my back. I left for a reason, Harad. We all did, didn't we? Maybe not at first but after what we did for Empire, what we did to the Warlock King, I doubt we would ever be seen as anything but traitors."

  "I can't die here. My blood and bones call me back to the Black River."

  "For such a monster of a man, you're a hopeless romantic."

  Harad shook his head. Would they ever leave this place?

  A cartful of dyed silks bumped over the cobbles and patches of mud. A young boy, a Northerner, switched a cutting across the backside of an ox guiding him through the mid-morning market traffic. In a narrow alley, two dark-skinned Hophts clung to the shadows, heads together in whispers. Further down, two women bantered back and forth on the price of a sack of ivory buttons. One alley over the aromas of roasted chicken wafted.

  Soon, the other hired men would come to relieve the Hounds from their duty at the entrance to the tent, and the Northerners with Shield at their head would go to the wealthy neighborhood of the Eastern Gate for a delivery of silks for the wedding of the third daughter of one of the commanders of the Legions.

  Harad knew Shield would try to get an a
udience, for as thankful as they were for the work with the merchant, as thankful as they were to have their bellies full, they were still wage slaves of Dhurma, men biding their time until the end of their days and Shield wanted them East where he hoped to find warlocks.

  Harad refocused on the book.

  So did Favius stand with his faithful sharing embraces and good word before he retreated to his tent where a pack of treacherous Northerners crouched in the shadows, hell-forged knives in hand, waiting for word from the Legion Commander, waiting for the word that would turn the tide in the North.

  Harad shook his head. The author was wrong. It was not like that. The Hounds had met Cassius at their camp. Favius had never come to them.

  When he brought the book north, he would need to figure out how to tell the story properly when he read it to the wide eyes around the campfire.

  The author was not there so he must have made a mistake. That was all.

  More importantly was that the book made the North a part of the history of Empire. He could share this with his people. Through these words, his people could realize that they are a part of Empire, that all things are connected, despite the hardship and bloodshed. They could have a place in the world and no longer be alone.

  With the power of words, his people would finally not be lost, and he would be the one to guide them there. Words would give them strength. The chaos of the last generation would finally make sense.

  Harad's thoughts were interrupted by a low cough from Patch. Harad straightened up, eyes attentive to the merchant's tent and the market. But the cough was not to alert him to the watchful gaze of the merchant or the Hophts across the way.

  Instead it was to the maiden with the bells. She passed again in front of them, her eyes once again finding Harad's.

  Harad let his breath stream out of his mouth, his head dizzy, his face hot with blood. "Gods above, what is wrong with this place?"