by K. C. Julius
“There’s enough men after the bastards,” Glinter said. “The ones taken alive can count themselves lucky. They’ll be given the option of swearing renewed allegiance to King Crenel, and since a refusal means immediate execution, they’ll gladly take the pledge.”
“Why even give them the choice?” Borne asked. “They’re traitors, and could easily turn their coats again.”
“It may seem they’re getting off lightly, but if the country’s to avoid falling under Helgrin control—or falling into anarchy—King Crenel needs every man he can get. Offering amnesty is one way to find them.”
Borne saw the sense in that. Gral needed men not only to fight, but to administer their estates, so that the famine of past years could be averted. And educated men were needed as well, to serve as justices and to regulate the guilds. That said, if Borne were in the king’s shoes, he would have serious reservations about making judges out of these renegades. These unruly knights had been the primary cause of the appalling state of decline in this ravaged land. If not for the army led by the king’s marechal, Latour, who knows how bad things would have become. Latour had not defeated the rogues, but he’d met with significant success in bringing many of them to heel and back under the rule of law.
It was under the marechal that Borne had begun his military career in earnest, and he’d taken to it like a fledgling to the sky. He’d seen plenty of fighting, which was exactly what he’d come for. And not only during battle. In the brief lulls between skirmishes, the men got up to all manner of rough, dangerous entertainment, and as Borne was often singled out as a representative for the Drinnglennin contingent, he suffered more than his share of blows at the hands of the hardened Gralians—which he took in stride. When he finally succeeded in disarming Du Charney, a renowned knight from the province of Santones, in a mock hand-to-hand skirmish, Sir Glinter glowed with pride, and henceforth treated him as his prodigy.
Borne spent the bulk of his free time learning whatever he could, mostly by listening to the more experienced soldiers and storing away their recounts of tactical errors and strategic brilliance for future reference. It helped that he spoke the language, having mastered it under his tutors at Windend, and that his wit was as sharp as his sword.
Now, as Borne wiped his blade on his soiled tunic, Sir Glinter remarked, “You’re a born fighter, just as I told the marechal.” The old knight tapped the side of his nose. “Your dispatch of that great hulking brute caught Latour’s attention, too. He’s asked to see you, so you’d best get out of that filthy gear.”
When Borne reported to Latour, he found the marechal stripped to the waist outside his tent.
“You play chatraj,” the Gralian said, without preamble. The hard-bodied, angular soldier with the sharp nose and piercing eyes of a hawk didn’t stand on ceremony. He treated his men as equals, yet commanded supreme respect.
“I do, Marechal,” Borne replied, realizing then it was not his prowess with a weapon that had earned him this audience.
“Lethally, D’Orses informs me.” Latour gave him a shrewd look. “He says you’ve won thirty ecru off him in the past three days.”
“I apologize if this is an affront, Marechal. I’m still learning the customs of Gral.”
Latour bent over a barrel and scooped water onto his face. “An affront?” He wiped the water from his eyes. “You mistake me. I would test your prowess against mine.” Raising the tent flap, he directed Borne to a board already laid out on a low table.
When they were seated, Latour made the opening move—archer to serf. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Borne replied. “I come from the north of Drinnglennin. My people were coilhorn herders. I would be a shepherd still if our earl hadn’t made me his ward. It’s because of him that I received an education and training at arms.”
“Serf to knight,” Latour noted, studying Borne’s move. “Interesting.” He sat back and lifted his gaze from the board. “And why then, given these advantages, did you leave your homeland to fight here in Gral? Is there something else I should know?”
“No, sir.”
Latour seemed to be waiting for more, and Borne fell back on a Gralian shrug. For a breath he recalled Maura, standing by her window, a letter clasped to her heart.
“There was no future there for me,” he said at last, “and I like fighting.”
Latour laughed. “Well, you’re very good at it. And the gods know, opportunities for combat abound in our land.” He slid his falcon forward to face Borne’s leaper. “Let’s see if you’re equally adept at play.”
It took half an hour for the marechal to win the first game, and twice that for him to claim Borne’s king in the second. As they were setting up for the third contest, Latour sat back and crossed his arms. “Tell me—do you think I am someone who thrives on conceit?”
Startled, Borne looked up into his opponent’s predatory gaze. “Not in the least, Marechal. I believe you to be a selfless and most honorable man.”
Latour inclined his head. “Then why did you not deploy your monter when I moved mine?”
Borne returned to placing his pieces on the board. “I was attempting another gambit. It failed.”
“I saw how you rallied the men at La Morcher, when we were in danger of being routed. Glinter tells me it was your idea to split the company. It saved the day for us.” He gestured to the board. “I don’t think a natural strategist such as yourself would sacrifice a commander to capture a foot soldier.”
Borne met the hawk-like eyes and gave a slight nod, conceding the marechal’s point.
“Come then, shepherd,” Latour demanded, reaching for a flagon and two goblets. “You will give me a game worthy of us both. Otherwise, I will make you very, very drunk.”
* * *
By the time Borne left the marechal, they were both drunk. He staggered back to his tent, and found Glinter waiting inside.
“Who won?” the commander growled.
Borne sank heavily onto his bed and grinned as Magnus thrust his great muzzle into his hands, his tail fanning the air. “It was thrust and parry. But in the end, I claimed victory.” He took hold of the hound’s ears and tugged them gently. “I was lucky. He’s a master player.”
“Did you leave the marechal as mortal guttert as yourself?” Glinter asked, then frowned as Borne tried and failed to remove a boot. “Here, let me do that, you muzzy fool!”
“The marechal has retired,” said Borne thickly. He fell back and obligingly lifted his foot. “I helped him to his bed myself, although I left it to his woman to see to his footwear.”
“He hasn’t got a woman.” Glinter wrested off one boot and tossed it into the corner. “And don’t go getting any funny ideas about me.” He tugged the other free, then dusted his hands. “You’re lucky it was the marechal you were drinking with, otherwise I’d take a few strips off your back. Now sleep it off, then report to me once you’re sober and presentable.”
It was after dark when Borne, sore of head, went to seek his company commander. He found Glinter playing ventre, a Gralian variation of the game known as Guts in Drinnglennin.
“About time,” the bald man growled, tossing his cards aside. “Your drinking partner was up long before you. You made a right bloody impression on the marechal, Braxton. I’m to release you from the company.”
Borne couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly. “What? But—”
“Latour was quite clear. He wants to see you. Now.” Glinter dismissed him with a flick of his hand.
Cursing himself for a fool, Borne headed to the marechal’s tent, Magnus padding at his side. He should have followed his instincts and let Latour win at chatraj. As a result of his cockiness, he’d gotten himself ousted from his unit. What was he going to do for employment now? He could never return to Bergsehn; his presence there would only serve as an offensive reminde
r to Lord Heptorious of Cole’s death. He supposed he’d have to contact Master Waman, who managed Bergsehn in his absence, to arrange for some income until he figured out how he was going to support himself.
Caught up in these depressing thoughts, he nearly collided with a man standing in his path.
“I hope I look better than you do,” said Latour. “I’ve been unpleasantly reminded of why I seldom partake of strong drink during the day.”
“Marechal.” Borne placed his fist respectfully over his heart. “I’ve just come from Sir Glinter. Is it possible—”
Latour held up a forestalling hand. “If you’ve come to ask me if you can remain with your company, the answer is no. I’ve made up my mind, and there’ll be no dissuading me.”
Borne’s heart sank, but he straightened his shoulders and saluted once more.
“There’s no need for all that,” said Latour, his gaze coolly assessing Borne’s condition. “You’d best return to bed, else you’ll be of no use tomorrow. Report to Du Cervole at dawn. He’ll see you’re outfitted with the regiment colors and arms. I’m told you’ll need a horse as well, unless you can ride that massive dog.”
“Marechal?” Borne shook his throbbing head in an attempt to clear it.
Latour had already started past him. “I’ve commandeered you, shepherd,” he called back over his shoulder. “From now on, you ride with me.”
* * *
Borne soon discovered there was much to be learned from the Gralian commander. The marechal was, quite simply, the most brilliant man Borne had ever met. In the long hours spent around the commander’s desk, Borne was privy to the breadth of Latour’s strategic knowledge, and he gleaned more about tactics from one night’s debates than he’d gotten from any military account he’d ever read. And in the field, the marechal was a soldier above all, wielding his sword with deadly accuracy as he harried the lawless knights who continued to wreak havoc across Gral. Riding with him, Borne saw what a true warrior could achieve in the field of battle.
The two men also found that they had other interests in common besides military maneuvers and chatraj. Latour was on impressive terms with the classics, which he had studied at the prestigious Universitat Imperial, along with history, rhetoric, and philosophy. He was also a fierce patriot, and Borne had heard it said that without Latour, King Crenel would have been forced to abdicate or go into exile long ago.
One night, after his other officers had retired, Latour confessed to Borne that he feared their efforts to rein in the rebels would not be enough to ensure his king retained his throne.
“His Majesty must raise a greater army to oppose the Helgrins seizing our northern coastal towns. We lack men, even with hired mercenaries like yourself, and the cost of obtaining more is draining the royal coffers. In the meantime, the noble houses who’ve survived these years of unbridled rampage—and the wealthy merchants who supply them—are paying the renegade knights to skirt their estates and guildhalls.” His expression darkened at this blatant disloyalty to the Gralian king. “Our own people are keeping these bastards in food and arms.”
And in the meantime, King Crenel sits in pampered comfort on his throne at Lugeneux, thought Borne.
On watch the following day, Borne was approached by Versel, a Gralian with a foxy face and a sly nature to boot. “You’re wanted by the marechal,” Versel said tersely before pushing past Borne on his way toward the nearest lean-to. Versel had long since made clear his resentment of a foreigner holding a position of trust with their commander.
Nevertheless, Borne thanked him, then whistled for Magnus, who was curled under a ledge out of the rain. He pulled the hood of his cloak closer as he made his way to Latour’s tent, the hound on his heels.
He found the marechal with Du Charney and Balmon, both of whom had served with Latour for years.
The marechal waved Borne in out of the rain. “You can bring your beast as well.”
On Borne’s command, Magnus shook himself before entering the relative dry of the marechal’s quarters.
Latour tapped a map spread on the table before them. “We’ve been discussing our options.”
The company had been following an elusive band of renegades for over a week, and Latour explained that scouts had ridden in this morning at dawn to report that the outlaws had made an unexpected about-face. Instead of heading for Viscay, a fortified town not far from the Albrenian border under the rule of Comte Rapett, cousin to the king, the rebels were now riding toward L’Asdies.
“Our success against the rogue knights has encouraged them to band together under Du Mulay, one of the worst of them,” Latour continued. “He’s estimated to have a force roughly twice that of ours, and he has the advantage of knowing the countryside around here well.”
“Can we count on Viscay for additional men and supplies?” asked Balmon, a burly man with a mass of black curls and a full beard.
“Comte Rapett’s new comtessa has provided him with the means to vastly improve the fortifications at Beauaguil,” said Du Charney. “I wouldn’t count on his willingness to have his knights swell our ranks. The lord of Viscay has been vocal in his criticism of the king’s lack of protection for law-abiding citizens—and not without cause, it must be said. No, Rapett won’t be inclined to risk his men against the renegades, not unless he’s certain of victory.”
“Even when the rogues set fire to his villagers’ crofts outside the city?” asked Borne, for this was ever the pillagers’ response when denied bribes or booty.
Du Charney shook his head. “The peasants will all be lodged within the castle walls by now. Their crops have been harvested, and anything that might sustain the raiders will have been burned. That’s sure to put Du Mulay and his rabble in a murderous mood.”
“Before we engage with Du Mulay,” said Latour, “I intend to remind Rapett of his duty to his king.” He turned to Borne, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “What do you say, shepherd, to a little sojourn?”
Borne grinned. “I am yours to command, Marechal.”
Chapter 4
Avoiding the main road to Viscay, Latour’s small company set out across rough terrain. The further east they traveled, the wilder the land grew, and brambled bushes soon crowded the trail, offering concealment to any who desired it, which forced the travelers to be ever more cautious. A few peasants might still remain here, surviving by hunting the forests and fishing the rivers of their former lords’ abandoned estates, and it was anyone’s guess as to where their loyalties lay.
Nevertheless, Borne’s spirits were high. He set his horse at a canter, Magnus running at the roan’s side, and found himself looking forward to seeing the marechal in parley with Rapett. Hopefully Latour would succeed in convincing the comte to send reinforcements from Beauaguil back to L’Asedies. There should be time to organize the defenses there before Du Mulay launched his inevitable attack; the renegade troops would need to stop and rest after they made their advance, for only a fool would ride directly into battle with cold, weary men.
When they arrived at Viscay, the wind was on the rise, and the same grey skies they’d left behind in L’Asedies hovered overhead. The only visible sun was on the royal standard Balmon unfurled, its golden flames bright on a crimson field.
The gate into the city was drawn open in a clatter of chains. They passed through, then were instructed to await an escort, which eventually arrived in the form of two cowled men sitting astride burros. Their silver habits identified them as Tertulite monks, devoted to the worship of Priscinae, the Mother Goddess of Gral. Borne recalled from his studies that the members of this order had been the most ruthless persecutors of wizards and magical folk over the centuries, and had played a zealous part in driving the continent’s indigenous å Livåri across the sea to Drinnglennin.
One of the monks drew back his cowl, exposing a balding pate sparsely encircled by thin, straw-colored hair. He looked as thou
gh he’d just eaten a lemon.
“I am Fra Hugon,” the monk said dolorously, “and this is Fra Tumas.”
Fra Tumas’s long legs hung close to the ground, his face obscured under his hood.
“Fra Tumas is under a vow of silence, as was I until I was summoned by my lord’s seneschal to greet you. It is the fasting month.” The monk’s accusatory tone indicated he held the newcomers culpable for his broken vow. “I’m to escort you to the palais, but I can’t promise you an audience with the comte. My lord Rapett has been much occupied, what with the rogue knights ranging so near.”
“It is about these knight that we’ve come,” Latour replied. “I’m certain Comte Rapett will be happy to receive an envoy from his sovereign, King Crenel, to whom he owes his first allegiance.” He fixed the monk with his fierce gaze. “We will see him at once, and then I must return to my army.”
The monk was clearly taken aback by the marechal’s boldness. “I will inform my lord,” he muttered, with a stiff nod of acquiescence, then kicked his burro to lead them up the winding street toward the hilltop castle.
Borne caught his breath when Beauaguil’s towers and cupolas came into view, rising gracefully above the town. He trotted up beside Fra Hugon. “A magnificent castle! It was designed by Jules L’Odrey, was it not?”
The monk nodded. “Half a millennium ago, at the dawn of the After Age. Since then, Beauaguil has withstood fire and siege, and with the recent improvements, it shall still be standing five hundred years hence.” As he warmed to his subject, pride replaced his dour expression. “It took Ser L’Odrey and his artisans seventy-four years to build the palais, then over a decade more before the water gardens were completed. It was his life’s work.”
By the time Borne dismounted, he’d learned that the palace boasted an astounding 444 chambers, warmed by 262 fireplaces and connected by 87 staircases. When it came to the history of Beauaguil, Fra Hugon was a fount of information. Or perhaps he was just making up for all the words he had failed to speak during his self-imposed silence.
