Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  In a room near the top of one of these towers, the one with a wolf’s head centered on a deep orange background, Kyden Verros leaned over a map of the island. Next to it was another of Parthusal. Figurines stood at various locations on the maps. With him were his executive officer, Master Florren, the master-of-training, Master Phen, and the master-of-the-rolls, Master Allon. Three senior wardens stood behind them. These men were the regiment’s senior officers currently on the island, except for the two troop commanders who remained with their men. Kyden Verros’s aide, a half-warden named Ovyne, sat at a desk nearby capturing the details of the meeting on paper.

  “As soon as I felt Hearst’s death, I gave the order to move. Warden Dolan’s troop is at fifty percent strength, since he has a half-troop detached to Arms-master Roshan in Parthusal. His remaining half-troop is here,” the executive officer, a gaunt-faced man with a square jaw, gray at his temples, and a receding hairline, pointed to a figurine with a narrow baton, “spread out to cover the island’s dock and the two small beaches on the southwest side.

  “Warden Hoeple’s troop is also split in half, with a half-troop on the wall, concentrated on each side of the Owl’s tower,” he tapped each side of a marker on the map, “and the other half-troop is in a training hall not far from the Owl’s main entry.” He tapped the final location and stood back. “Even if Master Iwynd and the boy make it past Master Roshan, there’s no way for them to reach the Owl’s tower, and we will move on the old Owl as soon as we have Iwynd and the boy in our possession.”

  “Good. Any trouble with Hound or Bloodhammer?”

  “None, sir. At least not after I explained that Master Iwynd had killed Master Hearst and we were simply there to prevent him from returning to his regiment. They are watching us closely, but neither will interfere unless the council tells them otherwise. The Ironstrikers will stay out of our way, and it’s fifty-fifty on whether the Stonebreakers come to the old Owl’s rescue. Their ties run deep.”

  “Wait,” Master Allon said. “When was Hearst promoted to master? I didn’t vote on it, and it certainly wasn’t approved by the council.” The master-of-the-rolls puffed out his chest when the others looked at him, but all he succeeded in doing was highlighting his weight. Where the other officers in the room were crisp and disciplined in their appearance, Master Allon was unkempt. His robe was slightly wrinkled, and his white mustache and goatee too long, with hair hanging over his mouth so that the ends were between his lips. It made the man look like a goat when he spoke.

  In his prime, Kyden Verros knew Allon to be a formidable soldier, and his loyalty to the regiment was without question. Twenty years ago Allon had been made a master after crushing a rebellion in Thae before it turned into a full-blown revolt. He’d left a trail of bodies dangling across the Free Cities of Thae and replaced a dozen landowners before the people had finally acquiesced. The years away from the mainland as master-of-the-rolls, however, had made Allon’s body and mind soft. Verros could tolerate that. It was the softening of his spirit that bothered him, but he had plans to remedy the condition.

  “I promoted him, Master Allon—posthumously. It’s about time the regiments took back some of their authorities from the council.”

  “Well, even if you get the other kydens to agree, it still requires a vote from us.” He looked at the two masters beside him, but neither was unwise enough to complain about power already lost.

  Kyden Verros sighed. Master Allon didn’t see it—he’d always been too confined by rules. Rules, though, could be changed. “We are at war, Master Allon. I won’t waste time holding votes on routine issues that are clearly command decisions. But I am glad you broached the subject. I’m making several changes to simplify the way the regiment operates. There will be no more votes by the masters on anything. I, and I alone, command the regiment.” He nodded to the senior wardens. Two of them drew their swords. His aide stopped writing, his hand frozen over the paper.

  “Do you take issue with that?” He almost wished the man would disagree. He’d be forced to kill him, but it would be nice to see some of Allon’s former spirit return before he died.

  Master Allon hesitated for less than a heartbeat. He was languid, but he wasn’t stupid. “I obey, my Kyden.”

  “Good, because I am sending you to take command of a special expedition at North Keep. I want you to probe the Esharii tribes to determine their current strength and to find out what they are up to after the recent attack at the outpost in Hath.” Fighting the Esharii would bring Master Allon’s former spirit back . . . or get him killed. Either way, the issue of his weakness would be solved. Most likely, he would get a lot of soldiers killed with poor decisions before the problem was resolved. He sighed. He’d need to send a note to the master at North Keep with instructions to limit the damage. “You leave tomorrow. I want the names of three wardens you recommend to replace you as master-of-the-rolls before you depart.”

  Master Allon’s eyes grew round, and he looked from one cold face to the next. He had no friends or allies here. He was weak, and his penchant for sticking to the absolute truth of Draegoran law had alienated many of them. To his credit, he adjusted his belt and pulled himself up straight. His heels snapped together, and his fist thumped over his chest in salute. “Yes, my Kyden.”

  With a nod from Kyden Verros, the senior wardens sheathed their blades.

  The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Enter!” Master Phen called.

  A young armsman entered, breathing hard from running up the stairs of the tower. He saluted between gasping breaths. “Your pardon, Kyden Verros . . . Kyden Blane has ordered you to attend an immediate session of the council.”

  “Took him long enough,” Master Florren said with a chuckle.

  “Your pardon, gentlemen. I must go and ‘explain my actions’ to my peers once more. They won’t be so smug when I bring charges against Master Iwynd and Kyden Thalle for killing Master Hearst.” He smiled. “Master Roshan had better not kill Iwynd. If he does, you’ll have company on your mission, Master Allon.”

  Kyden Verros stopped in the doorway. He should say something more. It was never good to leave his senior officers with threats and vague worries eating at their thoughts.

  “Gentlemen, once I challenge and kill Kyden Thalle, our forces will move against the remaining Owls, and once they are no more, the Stonebreakers and the end of the council will be our next targets. Our regiment will take control of this island and all the lands of the Covenant, and we will teach the landowners the fear and respect their grandfathers held when they heard the word Draegoran. Make sure our men are ready. I will not tolerate failure from anyone, and those who serve the regiment with distinction will receive their due rewards. Those who do not,” he looked pointedly at Master Allon, “will be removed.”

  Chapter 42

  Master Iwynd let out a deep breath and leaped up from the spool. “Engvale has returned,” he said, hurrying to pull the crossbeam from the door. The relief on his face and the speed at which he flung the door open contradicted his normally calm exterior. Riam supposed that waiting and doing nothing were not things a master did very well.

  The small-framed shop owner slipped inside.

  Master Iwynd put a hand on his shoulder. “All is ready?”

  “Sir, the ship is set. They are securing it to the towboat as we speak.” He looked to the floor, not meeting Iwynd’s gaze. “Forgive me for saying this, but you will not make it. There is a taulin from the Wolf Regiment at the entrance to the Scissor Docks, and they do not appear to be leaving anytime soon.”

  Master Iwynd didn’t hesitate. “It is not your fault, Engvale. You’ve done well, but I have one more task for you. I need you to take the boy to the ship. My presence will attract the Wolves like blood among sharks, but they won’t look twice at Engvale the net mender and his apprentice making a delivery.”

  Riam didn’t
like it. Every time he was separated from those he trusted, terrible things happened. Unfortunately, he had no say in what Master Iwynd commanded, and even if the old Draegoran would listen to him, he had no other ideas to offer. “But how will you get to the ship?”

  “You worry about playing the apprentice, boy, and let me worry about that.”

  Engvale’s head bobbed up and down while he eyed Riam up and down. “You match Harran’s build and hair color well enough, but you’ll need to lose the sandals. Mine go without unless they are wearing their Tenth Day clothes. I’ll get one of Harran’s shirts.” He ran up the stairs to the second level.

  Is the world against me? He’d worn the new clothes—clothes he’d earned and paid for himself—less than a day, and already he was back to going barefoot and his breeches ruined. He pulled a sandal off and flung it into a corner. Things would change once they reached wherever they were going. He had to believe that. Master Iwynd wasn’t Gairen, but he seemed a decent man. He was risking himself to help, and even if he’d been ordered to do it, that still counted for something. Of course, if Master Iwynd was telling the truth, Gairen wasn’t any better and had only been using him as well. He threw the second sandal harder after the first. Faen take Master Iwynd for spoiling something else I believe in.

  Master Iwynd pinched at his bottom lip and his hand tapped the hilt of his longknife. His brow creased as he watched Riam.

  Whatever the motives behind Master Iwynd’s actions, he worked to make things right. Was it fair to ask for more than that? Riam froze at the thought. Did any of the reasons really matter, so long as they accomplished what was right? He shook his head. There was something flawed in that way of thinking, but he couldn’t place his finger on it. The reason people did things mattered just as much as their actions.

  Master Iwynd let go of his lip and tousled Riam’s hair—an awkward gesture, and certainly unexpected from the callous old Draegoran. “Ease up on all the worrying. We’ll get you out of Parthusal and things will be better—maybe not easier, but better.”

  Engvale returned and tossed a tan shirt at Riam. He pointed to a net that ran the length of the wall. “We’ll take that one. It’s bulky enough to hide your face with it on your shoulder, but not so heavy that the two of us can’t carry it. It was made for the shallows, but the Wolves won’t know the difference.”

  “You’ll need to hide Hearst’s sword somehow,” Iwynd said. “I want the boy to keep it with him.”

  Engvale frowned, but a simple net mender did not argue with a Draegoran. He moved quickly, searching the shop until he found a few barrel staves and an old piece of canvas. He wrapped the sword and staves together to disguise the shape and tied the bundle with rope. “That will do.”

  By this time, Riam had the shirt on. It was plain and coarse, but it was clean.

  “Let’s go.” Engvale handed the parcel to Riam and grabbed the front of the net. Riam tucked it under his arm and grabbed the back.

  Master Iwynd opened the door for them, and without a word, they were moving. The door to the shop closed with an ominous thud.

  The net wasn’t heavy, but the way it dangled around Riam’s feet forced him to shuffle along the stone street to keep from tripping. About the time he finally had the rhythm for it, they were at the entrance to the Scissor Docks. One look at the docks explained the name. Two long, wooden piers stretched out like the open end of a pair of scissors. They were wide enough that several small wagons traveled up and down their lengths, delivering and receiving goods. Here and there, booms swung nets and pallets to and from the ships. The piers weren’t as busy as the street, but they were far from empty.

  The Wolves stood at the mouth of the docks, spread out like rocks against the slow current of people eddying around them. No one could enter without moving past one of them. After so much time with Iwynd and Gairen, the Draegorans looked far less intimidating than the taulin on the plains. He had no doubts about their ability, though. With the power in their swords, those five could handle fifty men in the blink of an eye if they needed to.

  “Who’s the boy?” a female Draegoran said. She had short hair, nearly shaved, and it was obvious she led by the number of glyphs adorning her skin. Like the others, the fierce head of a wolf stared out from the left side of her neck.

  “My apprentice.”

  “You have proof?” she asked.

  A second Draegoran made his way over to them. “How long has he been your apprentice?” He was much younger than the woman, and he’d probably never used a razor on his chin in his life. If he had, he hadn’t been using it for very long. There was, however, a coiled tension in his movements, like a snake prepared to strike. His youth would make him no less dangerous.

  “He’s worked in my shop for nearly two years. Don’t know how I can prove it.”

  “Anyone nearby who can vouch for him?” the female asked.

  “Every shop along the docks knows him. Go ask any one of them about Harran. You’ll get an earful on how he shamelessly chases their daughters. But if you will forgive me, I am late. This net must be on The Perseverer before she sails, or I don’t get paid.”

  The female Draegoran squinted while she examined Riam. “What happened to his eyes?”

  While it’d been several days since Pekol’s beating, Riam’s eyes remained discolored and dark. He tried to look uncaring that at any moment the Wolves were going to figure out the truth and drag him away. “Not my fault if a girl is promised but still wants to flirt with me,” he said, hoping his face didn’t turn red.

  The female Draegoran arched an eyebrow.

  “Her mother thought otherwise,” Engvale said.

  Both Draegorans laughed.

  “I was only flirting.” Inside he wanted to protest the false words. He’d never flirted with a girl in his life—well, not unless Loral counted. But that hadn’t been flirting, had it? He’d certainly liked spending time with her, at least until she’d blabbed his secrets to Tannon and gotten him thrown from the barge. He certainly missed her far more than he was angry with her—especially the way she’d pressed against him for warmth while sleeping. He felt his face flush.

  “We have a saying where I was born in Thae, ‘What the daughter does, the mother did.’ This is what makes them so protective.” The young Wolf winked at Riam.

  “We have another a saying where I am from,” the female said, glaring at her subordinate. “‘An undutiful boy will prove an unmanageable husband.’ He should honor and respect her commitments without having to be chased away like a thief.”

  Riam stiffened at the reference. He was no thief, even if he’d served as a churp for being marked as one.

  “Sir, Ma’am, if you please. I must deliver the net.” Engvale said. “The ship will depart at any moment.”

  The female taulin leader turned to Engvale as if she’d forgotten him. “Ah, yes. You can go, but the boy stays here.”

  “But I must get the net to the ship.”

  “Drag it, or go and get someone from the ship to help. Either way, he doesn’t leave my sight. While I believe you, net mender, I’m not taking any chances—not with my arms-master in charge.”

  Engvale looked from one Draegoran to the other, as if to protest, but held his tongue. Nothing could be done that wouldn’t seem suspicious.

  “Go ahead, sir,” Riam said. He dropped his end of the net but kept the package with Hearst’s sword. “I’ll hold this until you return.” He moved as slowly as his nerves would allow to the edge of the pier and climbed to a seat on the first pylon. Even though calm on the outside, his heart pounded in his chest. What am I doing? Instead of getting away from the Wolves, he was plopped down in the middle of them.

  Engvale looked around helplessly. Riam gave him a shrug. Seeing there was nothing more he could do, he began dragging the net down the left pier.

  People came and went under the Draegorans’ watc
hful eyes while Riam waited. All it would take would be for one of the Draegorans to ask someone passing that knew Engvale’s apprentice and he would be discovered. Apparently, their conversation had been convincing, because the Draegorans largely ignored him, only glancing back occasionally to be sure he was still there.

  He’d been sitting there for a quarter of a glass when the young Draegoran shouted. “There!”

  Riam searched the crowd for the reason behind the man’s outburst, and there, eight or nine shops down the street, stood Master Iwynd. He stood at a corner talking to a boy that matched Riam’s height. Who is that?

  “Mandal, you stay here and watch the Scissors.” The female Draegoran drew a thick, curved saber. “The rest of you with me.”

  The others drew their weapons and followed. They did not run, but they moved with steady purpose. The crowd spread out wide of the advancing Wolves, opening a path to Master Iwynd.

  The Wolf left behind—the young one who looked like he’d never shaved before—edged away from the entrance to the Scissor Docks with his hand closed tightly over the hilt of his sword. He watched his fellow Wolves, obviously eager to be part of any action. He never so much as glanced back at Riam.

  If Riam was quiet, he doubted the Draegoran would remember he was there.

  As soon as the other Wolves were halfway to Master Iwynd, the unknown youth sprinted away and disappeared around a building. Master Iwynd drew his longknife and turned on the advancing Wolves.

  Riam was off his perch and had to catch himself, or he would have been standing next to the young Draegoran for a better look. While he knew Master Iwynd was good, Riam wasn’t sure how he would fare against four opponents. Especially when those opponents held blades double the length of his knife.