Legacy of Ash

by Matthew Ward

  The icularis arrived in Maiden’s Hollow as the sun made a majestic descent beneath the western hills. The Hadari emissaries made no attempt to conceal their black, dag-necked silken robes, nor the sallow features so common to their kind. The gathered wolf’s-heads parted warily, clearing a path to Drakos Crovan.

  “We seek the Wolf King,” intoned the tallest icularis.

  Crovan shared a glance with Gavamor and Drenn – the only members of the Vagabond Council still loyal – and offered a shallow bow, his own expression no less wary than those of the icularis. “You have found him.”

  The icularis returned the bow. The three were curiously alike, with stiff-necked manner and watchful eyes. “We thank you for your hospitality,” replied the tallest. “Such as it has been.”

  Crovan caught the sidelong gaze at the escort who had brought the icularis into the hollow. An escort now laden with belted swords, recurved short bows and bristling quivers.

  He waved. “Return their weapons.”

  The wolf’s-heads did as bidden and the icularis lost themselves in the process of rearmament. When they had done, their leader offered a nod. “My thanks.”

  Crovan shrugged. “My folk have learned to take precautions.”

  “As is understandable.” The icularis waved the apology aside. “My name is Haldrane. I carry warmest greetings from his majesty, Kai Saran.”

  “And I’m pleased to receive—”

  “Greetings, and instruction.”

  Crovan bristled. “If he has a request, I’ll be happy to entertain it.”

  A wolfish smile touched Haldrane’s lip. “Very well. His majesty expects to bring battle upon your oppressors at the first light of dawn. And he requests your every support.”

  “Of course.” He turned to Vorn, who stood silent in the dappled shadow of a dancer’s statue. “Fetch Kerril.”

  Vorn nodded and slunk away.

  “Kerril has many spies in the Tressian ranks,” Crovan went on. “He’ll share all he has learned.”

  Haldrane’s teeth gleamed. “Ah. You misunderstand. His majesty does not come to you seeking stories, or rumour, but blades.”

  Gavamor shared an uneasy glance with Silda Drenn. “You want us to fight with you?”

  “That is his majesty’s request.”

  “Can the mighty Hadari Empire not manage the Republic’s leavings?” asked Drenn.

  “Silda!” snapped Crovan. “I apologise for her tone . . . but she deserves an answer.”

  “The Hadari Empire is capable of many things. This request concerns not our need, but yours.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We are not bringers of charity, or breakers of chains. We stand with those who stand with us. A seat at the Golden Court is earned, not given.”

  Haldrane’s tone remained respectful, even friendly. Even so, Crovan didn’t miss the threat in his eyes. Anliss had been right. Princes were all promises until they had what they desired. “What if we refuse?”

  “His majesty is a forgiving soul. I am not.” Silk whispered as Haldrane stepped closer. “Were you to betray his trust, my recommendation would be to raze every cot and field between here and the border. To sow every scrap of soil with salt.”

  Drenn leapt to her feet, her sword scraping from its scabbard. “Might find that hard without a head!”

  Uproar overtook the hollow as a hundred voices vied for dominance. Steel glinted as Drenn’s followers readied blades or set arrows to bowstrings.

  The icularis made no move to draw their own weapons. Haldrane’s gaze bored into Crovan throughout, oblivious to the commotion.

  “Were I not to return . . .” A raised voice was his only concession to the clamour. “. . . then the burden of advice would fall upon another. His counsel would be no different. He might even levy a heavier coin for the discourtesy of my murder. Your children, perhaps. I’m sure, in time, they would embrace the loyalty you reject.”

  Crovan gritted his teeth. “You ask us to fight our countrymen.”

  “You have fought them for years on end,” Haldrane snapped. “You make distinction among your own kind only when it pleases you. Or does the Wolf King not remember his time under arms in the Council’s service? Does he believe we have not noted his haemorrhaging support? You promised us unity, majesty.”

  Crovan saw now that this had always been the shadowthorns’ intent. It wasn’t what he wanted – what he’d planned for. Perhaps he should have let Josiri have his way. “Do you have any further requests?”

  Haldrane spread his hands, his manner suddenly that of a supplicant, not an extortionist. “You need offer no answer today. By your actions on the field we shall know your heart.”

  The icularis strode out of the hollow. No one moved to stop them. All stood transfixed. Only when the last whisper of black robes had vanished into the trees did Silda Drenn throw down her sword with a cry of disgust.

  “Raven’s Eyes, Crovan! You a wolf or a scared pup?”

  “And you’ve a better idea, I suppose?” Crovan growled.

  “I won’t do it.” Gavamor toyed with the lion amulet about his neck. “I’ve no love for the northwealders, but I won’t fight Halvor, Merrik and the rest. They’re our people, for Lumestra’s sake!”

  Crovan closed his eyes. Answers came easier in the dark. Perhaps this one would also. There it was. The truth the light had hidden. That Gavamor, Drenn and the others were weak. More scared than he. That’s why he led, and they followed. He need only stay strong a while longer. After all, everything would change at dawn.

  He let the confidence of the dark fill him. Embraced the solace it offered as he had when facing down Josiri in this very place. The solace of that long night in the gloom of Skazit Maze.

  “You will fight them!” He spread his arms and turned a slow circle so that none could miss the determination in his face. “You’ll all fight them! Otherwise we’ll be left with nothing. A sacrifice must be made.”

  “But our own kind.” Gavamor spat into the dirt. “These are our friends. Even our family.”

  “They chose their path. Or do you propose we fight with Viktor Akadra, as Josiri wanted? The man who slew our beloved Phoenix? Who now defiles her memory just as he surely does her daughter? If we want to be free of the Council, this is the only way. If I’m wrong, then you need only strike me down. Another can make the choice.”

  Crovan let his arms drop. His gaze fell on Gavamor and on Drenn. On their lieutenants and his. All looked away.

  “That’s what I thought. Gather everyone you can. Everything changes, come the dawn.”

  Despite his earlier words, Viktor felt no great hope for the coming dawn. He’d no fear of the battle itself, save that which only fools lacked once beneath its shadow.

  Nor did the disparity in troops alone cause him concern, for he’d many times achieved more with far less. But as he gazed around the campfire at the captains under his command, he felt the unevenness of the coming battle more than ever. Too many old faces, and too many young ones. Some in familiar uniform, others in little more than rags.

  Some he knew. Tavor Lavirn of the Knights of Essamere. A competent commander by reputation, but Viktor would have given anything to have Roslava Orova at his side – or Kasamor Kiradin, returned from death to crack a joke and make light of the slaughter to come.

  Lieutenant Dregar, who’d rescued a half-company from being trapped inside Kreska. And Revekah Halvor, of course. Her eyes had lost little hostility, but she’d not yet tried to stick a knife in his craw, so there was that.

  Others, Viktor recognised from reputation alone. Jesver Merrik, the Terror of Kellin Valley. A fair price to be claimed for his head alone, and more for his men. Captain Kalla Masnar, who until two days earlier had served as military reeve at the inland port at Ardva. She’d brought near on two hundred blades with her – a motley mix of sailors, pavissionaires and tail-coated marines. An adventure-seeker, or a loyal soldier? Viktor supposed he’d find out.

  Bu
t still, there were too many he didn’t recognise at all – the Thrakkian twins among them. And too many who were prone to argument more than action.

  “Raven’s Eyes!” bellowed Kurkas. “Will you close your bloody mouths and listen?”

  The din ebbed, though slower than Viktor would have liked.

  “Thank you, captain.”

  “A pleasure, sir.”

  Viktor waited a moment before pressing on. His shadow, never at its most diffident when presented with conflict, coiled eagerly about his heart, longing to be set free.

  “As I was saying, we cannot afford to be scattered. If we fight together, we win. If not . . . Then we’ll all feel foolish when called to account by the Raven, won’t we?”

  Laughter rippled about the fireside. No one laughed easier than a body fearing death.

  “They want Eskavord. The only way is through us. This is about pride. Prince Saran needs to prove himself. He’ll come, we’ll hold him. And if they don’t break apart on our shields, they’ll scatter when Governor Yanda marches from Kreska.”

  He’d no idea if that was true, or even possible. But better a fool’s hope than a savant’s despair. Even a sliver of daylight made a difference in the dark.

  “Where do you want my phoenixes?” asked Halvor.

  Viktor tapped at the diagram he’d scraped in the ash with a stick and indicated the positions of the two hastily erected palisade mounds, one to the north of the battlefield and the other to the south. The Katya and Kevor redoubts, named for the duke and duchess of old. Thin defences intended as fortifications from which the army’s few pavissionaires would fire.

  “The centre. Between the redoubts. I’ll be there with my own Phoenix . . .” He shared a glance with Calenne, who sat opposite. “. . . and the bulk of our new recruits. We’ve a few old soldiers among them, but I can think of no one better to make certain their efforts are wisely spent.”

  Halvor nodded. “Don’t worry. My lads and lasses know what we’re fighting for. We’ll let old business lie until we’ve the luxury of . . . conversation.”

  More laughter sounded, not all of it friendly. Viktor nodded. “Good enough. Kurkas?”

  “Sah!”

  “You’ll have the southern flank. Take the hearthguard, and what we have of the 14th.”

  Kurkas frowned, as Viktor had known he would. “All things being equal, I’d rather be at your side. Won’t hear the last of it if you catch a shadowthorn spear in the throat.”

  “And I need a steady hand and seasoned soldiers to the south. I promise not to embarrass you by dying foolishly.”

  The frown smoothed away. “Appreciate that, sir. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  “You’ll be the first to hear. Captain Masnar, you’ll have the north. Ground’s too broken there for shield walls or cataphracts. It’ll be bloody. Master Merrik, I imagine you’ll find it to your liking.”

  “Do you indeed?” Merrik drawled. “We’ll see.”

  “Splitting us up?” asked Halvor. “Worried we can’t be trusted together?”

  “If I thought that, you’d not be here. Lord Lavirn? You have the reserve, and what little cavalry we have. We haven’t the knights to match them on the charge, so you’re a counterblow unless I send word otherwise.”

  The list went on. Viktor took care to acknowledge each of the captains about the fire. To spare them a word and remind them of their purpose. Too soon, it was done – a reminder of how thin the lines would be come the morrow.

  “If there are any more questions, now’s the time.”

  “No questions, Lord Akadra,” said Calenne. “But I’d like to say something.”

  He dipped his head. “Of course.”

  Her eyelids flickered, but so briefly that Viktor was certain everyone else missed her hesitation. Then she stood, her armour bright orange in the firelight as the folds of her cloak fell open.

  “Fifteen years ago, my mother made the legend of the Phoenix into a symbol of hope. I won’t pretend that we’re all here for the same reason.” Her voice quickened as she spoke, as it had in the marketplace the day before. “Some of us are fighting for family. Others for duty, or out of pride. And I suspect more than a few because of coin.”

  Kurkas’ soft chuckle faded as Viktor’s gaze fell on him. Viktor knew, as he hoped the others did not, how desperately nervous Calenne had been of this speech. She’d fretted over every word and phrase. Viktor had offered to take the burden instead. She’d refused. The Phoenix had brought them together. It was her voice they needed to hear.

  “I don’t know what comes after tomorrow,” Calenne pressed on. “Lord Akadra believes that we can put our unhappy history behind us. That northwealders and south can consider themselves kin once more. I don’t know that I agree. But it doesn’t matter, because we are kin, if only for tomorrow. If only because we share an enemy who neither of us can defeat alone. Beyond that, we’ll see. But first, we have to win.”

  Halvor closed her eyes, lost in treasured memory. Calenne drew her sword. She’d chosen the blade with care, and with the benefit of Viktor’s advice. It was lighter and slenderer than most, to suit an arm untempered by battle. It shone like silver beneath the moon, and the stylised golden wings of its hilt blazed like fire.

  “I have put old wounds behind me. Whether you fight for family, for duty, for pride – or even for coin – I ask you all to do the same. And when Kai Saran is dead, and his army scattered? Maybe that kinship will last.”

  She reversed the sword – holding it by the blade as Viktor had tutored her – and extended the pommel above the dying fire in salute. The old salute that predated Konor Belenzo. That came even before the kings of old from whose line Malatriant had sprung. An offering of service. Of protection. A soldier’s duty, and a noble’s responsibility.

  Rising, he drew his longsword to mirror Calenne’s and set its pommel touching hers. The blade felt tiny in his hands, but it would have made poor theatre to accidentally decapitate one of the captains with his claymore.

  Halvor followed suit. The wobble to her lip told Viktor he had chosen well. Some traditions were stronger than steel. Kurkas’ battered sword joined the circle. Then Lavirn’s. Then Masnar’s. Then the hooked blades of the twins’ axes. On and on, until a ring of unbroken steel topped the flame.

  Viktor met Calenne’s gaze once more. The nervousness was still there, but pride held it at bay. She even managed a smile.

  “Lumestra shine for us all,” she said.

  Thirty-Five

  The constabulary patrol clomped on, their rhythm tightening as they passed Swanholt. Rosa pressed deeper into the alley’s shadows and stifled a smile. Folk always raised their efforts around an Akadra. Especially Viktor. Why, back at their first meeting – she a squire fresh from the chapterhouse of Essamere, and he the commander of the 7th – there had been . . . something . . . about him that had made her want to do better. To be better.

  Though it hurt to recall, she’d been a terrible officer. Too sure of herself. Too ready to scorn advice. And then there had been that dreadful day out past the village of Rackan. A dozen dead – the sergeant who’d warned her of the ambush among them. Others had wanted to send her back to the chapterhouse. Viktor alone had argued for her. What she’d made of herself since, she owed to him.

  And now she was about to betray him.

  “Didn’t think you were the type for an illicit alleyway rendezvous.” Sevaka’s breath brushed warm against her neck. “But I’m not wholly against the idea.”

  Rosa winced. Too lost in thought to hear her coming? That didn’t bode well for the night’s labours. “Didn’t know the navy taught sneaking about.”

  She sniffed. “We’re not all club-footed webbies. Learned this in the city, flitting from bedchamber to bedchamber.”

  “I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

  “I’m sure I’m not going to tell you.” She folded her arms. “Well? What’s all this about?”

  Rosa hesitated, but the time for
doubts was long in the past. “I was thinking about what you said. About proof.”

  “Okay . . .” She stared past Rosa’s shoulder to Swanholt. “Your ‘fellow knight’ with feathered wings? You meant Viktor?”

  “Yes.”

  Sevaka massaged her brow. “And the proof. This is happening now.”

  “Viktor’s still away in the Southshires. His father’s . . .”

  “His father’s at Freemont. I know.”

  “. . . so the house is as empty as it’s likely to get.”

  “Empty? You call a dozen servants and fifty hearthguards empty?”

  Rosa folded her arms. “Does Hadon strike you as the sort that gives his staff free run of the mansion while he’s away?”

  “Not now you mention it.” Sevaka shrugged her defeat and looked Rosa up and down. “That’s why you’re dressed up like a vranakin?”

  “If I get caught, it needs to be about me, and only me. I won’t drag my chapterhouse into dishonour.”

  “But you’ll drag me along?” Sevaka asked deadpan. “Should I be flattered?”

  “You’re not coming inside. You’re the feint . . . the distraction.”

  “I know what feint means, thank you very much.” Her eyes narrowed. “How am I being distracting, exactly?”

  “See that?” Rosa pointed towards Swanholt’s darkened west wing. “Those are Viktor’s rooms. He and his father don’t care for each other’s company.”

  “I had heard.”

  “This is the closest point of approach through the grounds. I can handle the wall . . .”

  “A six-foot wall topped by a four-foot railing? I don’t like your chances. ’less you’ve a pair of wings yourself.”

  Rosa scowled. The last thing she wanted was a discussion about why she felt confident of an impossible jump. “Like I said, I can handle the wall, I’d like the patrols looking the other way. That’s where you come in. Head around the far side, make a bit of noise.”

  “Like what, exactly?”

  She shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t know. Sing Deverett’s Requiem for all I care. Bellow a shanty and throw rocks at the railing. Don’t tell me you never did something like this as a child?”