by Kal Spriggs
"We could have," one of the tradesmen said, "for some of the things they suggested!"
Ancestors, Kerrel thought, these idiots are supposed to be protecting civilization. She would have to pass along to the other chapters to cut them out of further decisions. These morons seemed to treat their obligation like some sort of private club. "Could you tell me who these other members are?"
"Oh, of course!" the Baron of Leizno said. "We have a list... uh, just in case, of course."
"Of course," Kerrel said. Since one of the first oaths of the Order was absolute secrecy under pain of death, she wondered just how much longer these fools would survive. "Well, if you'd give me that list, I'll need to get back to my duties to Lord Hector."
Right after I pay some of these individuals a visit, she thought. Hopefully not all of them were terminally stupid.
***
Commander Kerrel Flamehair
"Ah, I was just wondering how soon it would be until you paid me a visit," the old woman said as she opened the door. She snorted at Kerrel's expression, "I take it you paid the Baron and his lackeys a visit?"
Kerrel shook her head, "I did... just what happened there?"
Magda Harnoff gave Kerrel a wry grin, "What happens now and again when people stop thinking about the long term. They grow complacent." She shook her head, "I should have poisoned the lot of them, but I didn't want to attract Lord Hector's attention."
Kerrel nodded. Hector's attention would be brought if six powerful people all died at the same time, especially with his army camped around the city.
"I don't have much time," Kerrel said. "I'm supposed to be meeting with Lord Hector in a few minutes. He's talking with Lady Katarina about peace. I need the Luciel Order to put some weight towards that."
Magda gave her a nod. "Of course. And you don't want people making money off this war to get in the way of that?"
Kerrel shrugged. "I suppose not. Can you talk to them?"
Magda gave her a wicked smile, "Ah, child, we're well past that I'm afraid. I can't say I'm a fan of Hector, but I'd support him if it meant preserving the Duchy. The Baron, well, he's about profit. He owns quite a few shares with trading companies that supply Lord Hector's campaigns. He'd stand to lose a great deal of money without Lord Hector in power... and a moderate amount without this insurrection."
Magda shook her head, "No, I don't think anything an old herbalist says to him will have much influence. Still, I will invite him and his friends to tea and we'll discuss it."
Kerrel frowned, "But I thought..."
"This will be special tea, child," Magda grinned. "Just put in a good word for me if the courts realize it was me who poisoned them, will you?"
***
Chapter XVI
Chieftain Thar Dann
Springrock Island, The Noriel Sea
Fifteenth of Shallob, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Thar swore as he saw dozens of sloops already at anchor or drawn up on the thin gravel strand of the small island's harbor. The single spring that made the island a stopping point would barely supply so many warriors. He saw the totems of the Swift Talons, his clan's rivals, which meant that his men would have a fight on their hands.
Yet as his sloop drew closer, he didn't see warriors swarm their ships. In fact, he didn't see any movement at all. He shivered a bit, disconcerted by the stillness. His instincts told him this must be a trap of some kind.
It doesn't matter, he thought desperately, trap or no, we have to go in, otherwise we're dead anyway. With the loss of Arkavar, there were only a handful of unguarded islands for stopping over to resupply. His three raiding sloops were low on food and out of water. He and his men wouldn't survive two more days, much less the week to make landfall at the mainland.
Thar hadn't dared make landfall elsewhere. Most of the other islands were staked out by one clan or another, guarded by their spirits and shamans or by clans forced out of the north. The alliances that had formed there had driven all the smaller clans and many of the medium ones out of the good farming areas over the winter. Left with the prospect of starvation over the coming cycle, he had chosen to sail south to take what he could from the weakling southerners.
"Bring us in," Thar snarled at his helmsman, who tucked the rudder under his shoulder and brought the sloop around. His other two ships followed and Thar stared at the silent, quiet sloops as his three vessels drew into the harbor.
There were two dozen ships in all, most of them Armen sloops like his own, though a couple were of southerner make, trade ships that other Semak Armen had captured or stolen. No warriors stirred on those decks and no sounds of conversation or camp reached his ears.
There wasn't room for anyone to hide on the island. The scrubby brush and otherwise bare rock hosted no hidden valleys or shelter. The single, tiny spring bubbled down the rocks from the low cliff, pooling above the harbor in the island's only cluster of green.
"Beach us," Thar snarled, pointing at an empty stretch of gravel and his helmsman brought them right up, the light sloop rising on the rocks. His men hopped out and pulled it up out of the waves. They looked around with unease after that, but with no signs of hostility, he waved at them and they gave whoops and ran off towards the spring. They'd been drinking slimy water from the bottom of their barrels. Fresh water, even the mineral rich water of the spring, would be welcome.
Thar jumped down from the side of his vessel and followed his men at a more moderate pace. The ones who had their faces buried in the spring gave way grudgingly, but they let him go up and fill his horn. With that he stepped away and took measured sips.
Springrock had always had a harsh, mineral taste to it, and today the water seemed more bitter than he remembered. Thar grimaced at the harsh taste, but he choked it down, well aware that the slimy barrels would be brought up soon. After his men washed them out in the pool, the water certainly wouldn't taste any better.
He took another sip and it was all he could do not to spit as he saw his men squabble over the water. This was what the Iron Hawks were reduced to, squabbling over a spring on a pathetic rock. A generation ago his clan had terrified the others, second only to those under Djann Kenobus. Now he had only three ships, less than three hundred warriors. It wasn't his fault, he knew. He had challenged the last of the failed chieftains in the spring, taking leadership of the clan when he took the man's head. Thar wanted to return his clan's status, to restore their past glory... which meant he had to find success in raiding the south, enough success to buy allies and equip his warriors with better weapons to seize better land again back in the north.
The hungry women and children back in the north weighed on him, though. If he and his warriors didn't find success, they would be reduced to slaves of the other clans... or starve to death.
The reminder of starvation made his stomach twinge in hunger. Normally the island held a handful of scrubby goats, but he had seen no signs of the creatures.
His gaze went back to the empty and silent vessels in the harbor and his unease rose. Where had these other warriors gone?
Thar's stomach twinged him again, harder and sharper than hunger this time.
He turned at a scream. One of his men had dropped to his knees, his fingers digging at his stomach. The warrior screamed again and the bent over and retched blood.
Thar's eyes went wide, "Poison," he gasped. He immediately jabbed a finger down his throat and began to vomit the spring water.
"Not poison," a soft voice hissed near him. Thar finished throwing up and looked up, shocked to see a man standing where none had stood only moments earlier. He wore a dark cloak, the hood up, and carried an iron staff, the surface carved in runes. "Sorcery, though you'd be excused for thinking otherwise."
Thar spun at other screams and he saw that most of his men were down, some of them rolling on the ground clutching their stomachs, others cowering, their eyes wide. Here and there one man or another would begin to vomit blood.
Thar drew his sword and lunged at
the sorcerer, but a column of green energy struck him full in the chest. Thar dropped twitching to the ground. He couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think. His entire world was pain... and then he felt the pain grow in his stomach to overwhelm everything else.
***
Warlord Tarjak Rusk
Tarjak toed the twitching body of the Iron Hawks chieftain. "It doesn't seem a fair way to fight," he growled. Not that he really cared about fair, but the Armen Warlord would rather kill his enemies with steel or bare fist than watch them writhe on the ground. Though there is some satisfaction in that it is Iron Hawks doing the writing, he thought.
Xavien gave him a level look and Tarjak bowed his head, feeling sweat break out across his skin. He hated Xavien. The pale, skinny southern wizard was the very example of the weakness and decadence of the south.
The problem was that Xavien was also the Herald of Andoral Elhonas. The Dark Warrior had send him forth from Armak Zhul to be his voice and to lead the vanguard of his army... and Xavien had chosen Tarjak to marshal that army.
"Have your men load their bodies into their vessels," Xavien said. "Then clear away the signs they left here. The trap will be more effective with fewer signs."
Tarjak nodded. He waved a hand and a dozen of his warriors emerged from their ship, cloaked under the same mind magic that Xavien had used to hide his fleet when they attacked the southerner's raid expedition the previous cycle.
"How many more will we get, my Lord?" Tarjak asked as respectfully as he could manage.
"Of these warriors?" Xavien asked absently. He looked around, "They look strong enough, I would guess that two hundred of them will survive. Of course, the ones who die will be eaten by their fellows. More efficient that way."
Tarjak shivered a bit at that. The forbidden meat was a taboo that not even he would care to cross. Xavien had bragged about the fact that as his sorcery turned the scattered, renegade clans into Tarjak's loyal troops, they would have little need for supplies since they would eat their own dead.
He shuddered a bit as he thought about the one time he had ventured aboard one of the captured sloops. He had watched as warriors writhed in pain, dragging themselves along the deck to feast on the raw flesh of their former friends and family.
Tarjak had also seen the final product, though. Warriors who obeyed his every command. Stronger and taller than normal humans, savage and vicious, ready to kill without hesitation or remorse.
Tarjak had even fought one, insisting that he needed to see how dangerous they were. He had bested the warrior, but Xavien's creation had fought on, even with a spear buried in his guts and a dagger driven through its lung. Only when it had finally choked to death on its own blood had it stopped coming at him. Xavien cautioned him that a more serious blow would still kill one of the warriors, but that was fine with Tarjak. He didn't want invulnerable warriors. He was fine with tougher ones to send at the enemy first and to save his own warriors.
Tarjak stepped back as his men dragged away the fallen chieftain and glanced at Xavien, "Will we have enough warriors, my Lord?"
Xavien shot him a dark look and it was all that Tarjak could do not to flinch. Yet a moment later Xavien smiled, "Yes, Tarjak. You don't need to call down more of your men, just yet. The two thousand you brought and the three thousand we've taken will be enough for now. The first blow will shatter their main armies, after that the rest of your men will clean out their survivors and lay waste to anyone who dares oppose us."
Tarjak's gaze went to the south. Xavien had told him of what waited there and he smiled. Hall Prakka led one of the armies he would crush. The Usurper Duke and he had not crossed blades in many cycles. In that time, he had become a southern warlord, a fit adversary. Tarjak would enjoy crushing his army and taking his head.
***
Lady Katarina Emberhill
Seidlyce, Duchy of Masov
Twenty-third of Shallob, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Bulmor led the five men and two women into her office. She studied them all intently. At their lead was an old, grizzled man, his face seamed and scarred. Behind him, were three stocky young men who had to be brothers. Behind them was a young man, little more than a boy. He looked painfully young and Katarina dreaded the risk that he might end up dead. She already had enough blood on her hands.
The two women were both tall and muscular and unlike most of the women she'd encountered here in Masov --or in Marovingia for that matter-- they moved like trained warriors.
All of them wore armor, either ornate archaic plate from ancient times or more modern chainmail and breastplates. They all bore weapons, as well, a sure sign that Bulmor trusted them implicitly.
"Lady Katarina," Bulmor nodded, "these are the armsmen who have answered the call."
"Thank you for coming," Katarina said. "I--"
"If I wanted," the old man at the front said, "you'd be dead, right now." He had a raspy, unpleasant voice, like listening to parchment or paper being balled up.
"Excuse me?" Katarina asked.
"Your guards are crap, half of them are farmers who don't know what to look for and the other half are old soldiers who will hesitate to act," the old man said. "Your security is poor at best and your one armsman is one of the worst I ever trained."
Katarina's eyes narrowed, "He's done a servicable job so far. Who are you to say otherwise?"
Bulmor sighed, "This is Captain Ferrakan." He gestured at the older man, "He was the captain of your grandfather's armsmen until he retired to train armsmen."
The old captain spat, "Your father forced me to retire. He didn't appreciate my candor."
"I can hardly imagine why," Katarina said dryly.
The old man's back went up straight. "Your father, if he was your father, liked people telling him what he wanted to hear. If he'd listened to me, he would have divorced your mother for the shameless slut that she was, drowned that bastard Hector at birth, and cleaned up problems with the nobility himself."
Katarina's face flushed and she rose, "Are you finished insulting the dead who can't defend themselves or do you need to insult my little brother too?"
"Never met him," Ferrakan growled. He cocked his head, "I hear you avenged him?"
"I killed the men who killed him, but not the man responsible for it," Katarina snapped.
Ferrakan gave her a slight nod, as if to acknowledge a point. "Fair enough. You intend to kill Hector, then?"
"I intend to end this war and establish rule of law," Katarina said. "I also don't intend to bring the Duchy down to infighting and full scale war, which is why I plan to march on Longhaven and force a fight with Hector's main army."
Ferrakan nodded, "Willing to lose to avoid weakening the Duchy?" He grimaced, "You'll have gotten a lot of people killed for no good reason, but I suppose it beats the alternative." He nodded at Bulmor, "Very well, I'll take the job."
"Who says I want to give it to you?" Katarina snapped.
Ferrakan chuckled, "Got a bit of spine in you. But you'll want me. I'll keep you alive when no one else can. If your father had kept me on, he would still be alive."
Katarina looked at Bulmor, who gave her a nod in response. "He's probably right."
"Of course I'm right," Ferrakan snapped, "I trained you. I also told Duke Peter not to take Covle Darkbit as an armsman." He grimaced, "That's one reason he 'retired' me."
"Well," Katarina said, "If Bulmor thinks you're capable, who am I to argue?" She found him abrasive and condescending. She wasn't sure she wouldn't strangle the old man. Still, she already would prefer he get killed protecting her than someone else, so that was something anyway. "Who else do we have?"
Bulmor gestured at the next three, all three young men who looked similar enough to be brothers. "This is Bogdan, Ruslan, and Costel. They've been training the past five cycles to be armsmen." He cleared his throat, "They are my sons."
"Your sons?" Katarina blinked in surprise. She had known, vaguely, that Bulmor had been married. She had assumed that his
wife had died, he almost never mentioned her.
"Captain Ferrakan has seen to their protection and training," Bulmor said.
"They're well-trained and suitable for basic armsman duties," Ferrakan rasped. "They need more experience and seasoning before I trust them past that."
Katarina felt a flutter of uncertainty. Bulmor had already dedicated his life to protecting her. Now, it seemed, his sons would do so as well. Could she do that to them, could she put them at risk like that? What if I fail, she worried, what if I get them all killed with me?
Bogdan stepped forward, "My lady, this is what our family has done for generations. Our uncle and two of our cousins died when the Usurper killed the rest of your family. We want to serve and protect you and your family, as the rest of our family has done since ancient times." He gave a smile, "If we die, we go to our ancestors properly, having died in the service of House Emberhill."
Katarina gave him a nod, "Very well."
"This is Mihaita," Bulmor said. "He's also been trained by Captain Ferrakan. His father was Captain Zeno."
Katarina nodded as she remembered her father's chief armsman, who had presumably died at her father's side. Yet Mihiata was small, barely more than a boy. "How old are you, Mihaita?"
"Old enough to fight," the young man snapped. "You aren't the only one who fought your way out of Ember Castle."
Katarina's eyebrows went up at that.
"Hector's mercenaries killed his mother and older brother in front of him," Ferrakan rasped. "He stabbed both of them to death with is training sword and climbed down the outer wall to go get help. He's one of the most dangerous young men I've ever seen in my life."
"I see," Katarina said, taken aback.
"I'll protect you with my life," Mihaita said. "Should you fall, I'll avenge you. I'll be your sworn armsman."
"I plan to assign him to be one of your three constant escorts," Ferrakan said. "People will underestimate him because of his size, which means he'll kill them."
