by A. C. Cobble
If it wasn’t the Coldlands folk who’d removed the sorcerous artifacts…
McCready hurried out the door and saw Sanderford finally returning with his pack.
“Forget it, man,” he said. “Clear out the wounded, douse every one of these buildings in oil. Use all that we have, don’t keep any in reserve. In the next half turn of the clock, I want this place burned to cinders.”
“The wounded…”
“Did I not make myself clear?”
“They’re not ready to walk,” grumbled Sanderford. “If we move them now, sir, a few of the wounded might not—”
“Do it now,” snapped McCready. “I’ll pour the oil and light this structure myself.”
Sanderford gaped at him.
“Run, man,” shouted McCready. He spun and called to all of his men who were moving about the village. “In half a turn of the clock, this place needs to be destroyed. Do it quick, but thorough. After that, we’re headed back to the main encampment. The commander needs to know…”
“Know what?” questioned Sanderford.
McCready glanced over his shoulder at the hut behind him. Grimacing, he turned back to his men. “Work fast and you’ll earn yourself a break back in the camp. I’ll see to the ale and ensure you get time with the camp girls.”
Sanderford frowned suspiciously, but the other men hurried back to work. For a week they’d been tromping through the frozen woods, killing Coldlands folk and burning their villages. A trip to the main encampment and a chance to forget what they were doing in ale and soft flesh was the best news they could hope for. Not so, Sanderford.
McCready met the man’s gaze but didn’t offer further explanation. He couldn’t. Commander Wellesley said they sailed to the Coldlands to enact vengeance for what happened in Northundon, but McCready knew enough to see the message behind their orders. Knew enough to see it, and not ask about it. The destruction was not merely some mad retribution, it was to eradicate all remnants of sorcerous knowledge. Knowledge, that if he had to guess, had been taken from the hut behind him. Taken from the dead woman whom he surmised was a Coldlands sorcerer. Taken by the only other group that was roaming these woods. He had to get back and report to the commander.
6
The Prophet II
“Have you been practicing?” Thotham asked.
Samantha jumped, yanking a dagger from the sheath at her belt as she turned. “How long have you been standing there?”
He smiled coyly. “Long enough.”
She grunted, her face flushed. She turned and snatched an item off the table before his quick eyes could see it.
He frowned, wondering what she’d been doing just before he arrived. He wondered, but he did not ask. He’d learned the girl shared her secrets when she wanted to, not when he did. At fifteen winters, Samantha had developed an independent streak. It gave him confidence she could handle herself when he left on his assignments, but it also gave him a bit of concern. At one point, he’d thought there was only so much trouble that even a girl like her was capable to getting into on the isolated farm. Now, he wasn’t sure.
“Hopefully you’ve been practicing,” he said, letting it drop, and gesturing to the apparatus set up in the barn. “Let me see it.”
Without looking back at him, she picked up two additional daggers off the table near the doorway. Then, she charged.
She leapt over a knee-high rope and slashed with the dagger in her right hand. The short blade thunked heavily against a support post in the center of a hand-wide splash of paint. The target was gouged and pitted from previous strikes, and she left her blade there as she dropped to her haunches and spun, kicking out with one leg and knocking the legs from under a stool. Tucking into a roll, she tumbled beneath another rope and then leapt into the air as she stood, catching a hook that hung down from the ceiling.
Pulling herself up, she kicked high above her head. A frying pan rang when her boots struck it. She dropped, cartwheeled over a rake handle wedged in her path, and swept two daggers from her belt, assaulting a tattered and torn sack stuffed with straw.
She slithered in between two rocks suspended from ropes, disturbing neither, and tossed one of the daggers across the room. The sharp tip sank into the outline of a menacing shape. She drew another blade without pausing. Darting, spinning, jumping, and tumbling, she continued through the obstacle course, lashing out at imaginary enemies.
Strength, agility, and ruthlessness. That’s what the obstacle course was designed to teach. He’d spent weeks setting it up initially, and periodically he would adjust the barriers and the targets without telling her, making her address the changes as she moved through the course.
It was clear she’d been working hard on the current configuration while he’d been gone. As he watched, she spun into the air, placing a booted foot against the far wall where a poorly fitted log stuck out. She used it to launch herself high into the air. She reached above her head to strike a chipped and scarred log that hung from the ceiling on a rope.
He’d intended her to toss a dagger at it, but the modification brought a smile to his face. Fighting smart was just as important as fighting hard. She landed lightly — as lightly as only a girl of fifteen winters could — and stood up straight, beaming at him.
He favored her with a small bow and stated, “You’ve been practicing.”
Weaving through the obstacles, she asked him, “How was your trip?”
“It was good.”
“Successful?” she asked.
“There is no sorcery in Swinpool,” he replied. “Not even an attempt to pretend. It turns out several groups of sailors get together at night on the full moon. They put on masks, play music, and then drunkenly dance around a bonfire on the beach. I suppose to the paranoid, it appeared as if they were conducting some ritual. As the night progressed, I will admit some of their antics seemed rather dangerous, but it is not the type of danger we’re interested in.”
She frowned at him.
“It was a successful mission because there was nothing to worry about,” he added. “Our role is to eliminate the threat of dark magic. If there is none, then we’ve accomplished what we’re tasked with.”
“You haven’t uncovered a nest of sorcerers in over a year,” she complained. “Ever since the Coldlands were forced back from Northundon, we’ve found fewer and fewer practitioners. Do you know the priests in the Church are saying that sorcery is gone, permanently eradicated from Enhover? With no signs in a year, few are inclined to argue. I’m not inclined to argue.”
He grinned. “We are doing our job, then, aren’t we?”
“What need does the Church have for us if there is no more sorcery?”
“Despite what the priests say, there will always be sorcery, Samantha,” he assured. He saw her frown. “As long as there is death, there will be sorcery. The spirits of life have long gone dormant in this land, but people still die. They die and their souls pierce the barrier on the way to the underworld. As long as the underworld exists, as long as souls continue to grind on the wheel, there will be sorcerers attempting to contact them. The knowledge of the rites may be lost for a time, but it is still there. We should celebrate today because we have won a battle, but the war is not over. It is never over. We will see sorcery again, girl, and that is why you must be ready.”
“Your prophecy again?” she complained. “How is it that you’re aware of this terrible potential, but no one else is?”
“Because no one else believes in prophecy,” he admitted. “Think about it this way if it helps, if I am wrong, then you ought to start learning how to tend those fields outside. Which would you rather be doing, hoeing or fighting?”
She snorted.
“I got something for you while I was gone,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, placing her daggers back onto the table — except for the three she kept strapped to her body.
“Fetch me that frying pan,” he said. “I got fresh meat as well. As I cook dinner,
I’ll show you what I have.”
Once she’d climbed up onto the rafter and collected the cookware from where it had been hanging as part of the obstacle course, they moved inside. Before he began making preparations for dinner, he set a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table.
She opened it, flipping back the linen with little caution, and then staring open-mouthed at the contents. “What are these?”
“Gifts from a friend,” he told her. “He was recently in the Darklands and he brought them back. They are yours.”
She started down at the matched pair of shinning kris daggers. She picked one up, feeling the heft, and then running a finger along the razor-sharp, sinuous edge. She sat it back down, leaning close to peer closely at the gleaming steel. “There is script on here, what does it mean?”
“It means it is time to begin the next stage of your training,” he answered. “Jumping, fighting, it is part of what we do. Studying, thinking, is also part of what we do. You must understand the signs of true sorcery, and what is merely play acting. You need the knowledge to decipher script like that— the language of the Darklands — and the wisdom to make use of what it tells you. In short, girl, it is time we moved into the city. It is time for you to open the books.”
“Move?” she gasped.
“I’ve arranged for an apartment in Westundon where you will stay,” he explained. “I will be nearby.”
“We will not live together?”
“Not anymore, Samantha. You must learn to survive on your own, and this is the beginning. Do not fear, though, I am still your mentor and I will walk you down this new path. Under my tutelage, you will learn to read Darklands’ script, you will become familiar with the materials and apparatus involved in sorcery, and you will understand the symbols and rituals in which they are used. You will become a scholar, specializing in a dark and unique subject.”
“I’m to stop combat training?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
“No, Samantha,” he said, a grim smile on his face. “You will continue to learn to fight. The difference is, you will begin to understand when to do it.”
7
The Prince III
“I’m told you were involved in a brawl,” he said from the doorway.
His son mumbled something unintelligible.
“Oliver, if you’re going to grouse at me, come out and do it where I can see you.”
A head poked out of the blankets and his son had the decency to look contrite. He also looked a little green, and a dark purple bruise was spreading from around his eye. Other than that, though, the boy looked fit and healthy. In the months since they’d seen each other, Oliver’s sword masters were evidently finding some time with him, even if none of the other tutors seemed able to pin the young man down. At sixteen winters, he’d developed a reputation as untamable. It was well-earned.
“It doesn’t look like you won the brawl,” Edward observed, walking farther into the room. “Perhaps you should put some ice on that?”
Sitting up, Oliver poked around his eye socket, wincing as he touched the swelling. “I didn’t win, no, but the man was twice my size.”
“Why did you brawl with him, then?” wondered the king, looking over his youngest son’s room. He shook his head at the clothing strewn across the floor. He’d have someone speak with the maids and have Shackles assign his son a proper valet. It didn’t matter how hungover the boy was, it wouldn’t do letting him live in such a state, it wasn’t befitting a royal. Of course, the last valet had been run off within the first month, but surely there was a man somewhere in Southundon who could be of service.
“I didn’t brawl with him,” grumbled Oliver, dropping his hand to his silk blankets. “He started the fight. Hit me here in the eye before I even knew what was happening.”
“He hit you first, did he?” wondered Edward. “And then what happened?”
“I jumped up and hit him back,” said Oliver. “I know I shouldn’t have, Father. I know… I did it without thinking. I’m not feeling well, so I’d appreciate if you can spare me the lecture. I understand it’s not proper, that brawling at the tracks isn’t befitting a royal. I know it is not what we Wellesleys do.”
“It is not,” agreed the king. He asked curiously, “How did it go after you struck the man back?”
“We traded a few blows and then we were pulled apart,” claimed Oliver. “I was shuffled off into a carriage and I’m not quite sure what happened to the other man, or who he was, for that matter. The attendants at the tracks are quick to interrupt any fisticuffs.”
“Unlike the wine cafes of Finavia?” inquired Edward.
Oliver winced.
“Yes, I heard about that incident,” said the king, shaking his head. “I know why you returned home. Finavia’s envoy was quite distraught, Oliver, and of course the Pierre de Bussy was livid. I imagine last night’s episode will provide a bigger headache, though. I can ignore what happens on the continent, but not in our capital. We’ve already received inquiries about your health from peers who witnessed the altercation. Rumor-mongering fools, but…”
Oliver’s face grew dark, but he didn’t respond. The boy was able to bite his tongue, it seemed. That at least was a positive change.
“Come on, then, let’s get you dressed,” said Edward. “We have the Spring Ball this evening, and I’m sure your eye will draw the young ladies of the court like bears to honey. They love a man who is a bit of a rogue. But before this evening, I’d like you to go down to the judiciary and attend the sentencing of the man you fought last night.”
“Sentencing?” wondered Oliver, sliding his legs out from under the sheets. “They found the man?”
“They detained him at the tracks and imprisoned him. He struck a member of the royal family, after all,” remarked Edward. “That’s a capital crime. Given the altercation took place in such a public location, I am certain the investigators will have no problems assembling the evidence for a quick sentencing. I’m told the man’s young wife was the only one stood up for him as they were dragging him away. The rest of the crowd readily confirmed what occurred.”
“A-a capital crime,” stammered Oliver. “Does that mean…”
“It means he will be hung,” said Edward calmly. He walked to the tall windows of his son’s bedchamber and pulled back the curtain, peering down below. Oliver’s room was situated high on the side of the palace, far above any balconies, handholds, or vegetation that the boy could use to scale down and escape when he was supposed to be in bed. He’d still managed it, somehow. Eventually, both the king and the boy’s tutors had given up on containing him. They’d found it less risky to let the young royal stroll out the front door. He could survive a scuffle at the tracks, but a fall from the window would kill even the son of the king.
“But we both fought,” cried Oliver, scrambling out of the bed. “Father, the man swung first, but only because I… I made some comments to his wife. I was a boor, Father, and I decline to press charges. He and I settled our differences with a few blows. I’m sure he’ll be as happy to forget it as I am.”
“It’s not your choice,” replied Edward. “Enhover thrives because of our rule of law — no man is above it. You saw your sixteenth winter a few moons ago. You’re an adult now, and you should understand how this works. If a man strikes you, the punishment is clear. It has been the law of our land for centuries.”
“It makes no sense,” complained Oliver. “We both fought. If neither of us intends to further the matter, why can it not be forgotten?”
“Because it is a capital offense, son,” explained Edward.
“The man should not be sentenced to death,” cried Oliver. “You must do something, Father. I am as responsible for the altercation as he was.”
“He is a commoner and he struck a duke,” replied Edward. “I understand you feel some sense of responsibility, but Oliver, a crime is a crime. If you want to avoid such situations in the future, I suggest you do not say whatever it was that you said to the man
’s wife. You are the Duke of Northundon, son, act like it or live with the consequences.”
“A duke,” said Oliver with a grimace. “A duke of ghosts and ruins.”
“A duke all the same,” replied Edward. “We could remove the title, if you want. I could grant you some other domain or find you gainful employment elsewhere. I don’t think you want that, though, do you? Do you want me to assign a life for you, or would you prefer to find your own path?”
Oliver frowned at him.
“I am not a sentimental man, but I’m not averse to honoring our past. Your mother was from Northundon and was killed when the Coldlands attacked there,” reminded the king. “I know how that affected you, Oliver. I know why you do the things that you do, why you turn your back on your responsibilities. I also know that of all of my sons, you are the most like me. You have vision, when you’re not drunk in some ale sink. The potential is there, my boy. You have the potential to take our family and Enhover to new places. Your brothers will never understand. They are content to rule what they have been given. You are the one who will color the map in Enhoverian blue. That is why you are still a duke of… what did you say, a duke of ghosts and ruins? When you are ready to be done with your carousing and foolishness, you can be more. The opportunities are there for you, Oliver, but you will decide what you want to do with them.”
Standing in only his small clothes, Oliver shifted uncomfortably. “What-what does that have to do with last night?”
“The law states that the man you brawled with will be executed,” declared the king. “The path of justice is straight and clear, at least in this case. The man will surely be executed by sunset if nothing is done to change the course. Sometimes, the scales of justice require balance. You can be that balance.”
