by AC Cobble
Again, Graewald took the blow and directed it away. The series repeated itself several more times as if the captain was waiting for Raif to show any hidden skill, but when Raif did not, Graewald made him pay by ramming the pommel of his sword into the side of Raif’s helmet. Staggering, Raif held his greatsword in one hand and reached toward his head with the other, leaving his side unprotected.
Graewald bashed the youth in his steel-covered ribs with the edge of the broadsword. It wasn’t a terribly strong blow, but Raif wasn’t prepared, and he was sent flying off his feet. He landed heavily in a pile of crunching, clanging steel.
“Apologies, m’lord,” called Graewald loudly. “An amateur blow. I thought you’d be prepared for it.”
Rew cringed. It seemed the youth had forgotten everything that he’d been taught over the last several days. As Raif struggled back to his feet, using his greatsword to help push himself up, Rew saw it was only going to get worse. Through the slits of Raif’s visor, the youth’s eyes blazed with outrage at Graewald’s poorly concealed taunt. As soon as they were set again, Raif charged, swinging his greatsword like a housewife chasing a fly from a fresh-baked pie.
Rew’s eyes flicked to Baron Worgon and then back to Raif. Captain Graewald met Raif in the center of the square and swung a powerful horizontal blow. It caught Raif unguarded on his shoulder, bounced off the steel pauldron, then rang against Raif’s helmet. The youth was spun, and the captain gave him a hearty blow to his backplate for good measure.
Raif stumbled, confused and shaken. Captain Graewald advanced, raining blows on the youth, harrying him about the practice square. None of the strikes were delivered with Graewald’s full strength, but they were hard enough to keep the younger man smarting and off-balance.
“Raif is not acquitting himself well, is he?” worried Cinda, “but at least he’s still on his feet.”
Rew shook his head. “Only because Graewald wants him to be. He could have finished your brother at any time during this contest. He’s playing with him.”
Cinda frowned, but there was nothing she could say. It was clear Graewald was the superior swordsman, and while she wanted to cheer her brother, it was obvious he was a nail to Graewald’s hammer.
Raif collapsed to his knees, and Graewald stepped back. Rew saw the man’s helmet turn toward Baron Worgon. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Rew saw that Worgon was barely watching the fight. Instead, he was watching their group. Cinda? Or… no. Worgon was watching Anne. Rew turned to the sparring match. Raif had managed to rise again, though his greatsword was trembling in his hands.
“Surely a big strapping lad like you isn’t done yet?” called the captain. “When I was your age, I’d spar for hours.”
Unable to bend his pride, Raif attacked, and Graewald was waiting for him.
The captain met the blow, except instead of letting the blade slide past him, he held his steel strong and then shoved Raif away with a pointed elbow. Raif struck again and again, and Graewald failed to meet him with his own blade. Instead, he absorbed the blows on his shoulder and arm. Before a third strike, he reached up with a hand and put it on Raif’s chest. He pushed the youth back. Raif flailed, nearly flopping onto his bottom, but when he regained his feet, he charged at Graewald, sensing a weakness that was not there.
“Raif!” shouted Cinda, worried her brother might hurt the man, but Raif did not listen.
The captain held his sword low, the sharp point toward the ground. As Raif came close, the captain retreated, raising his blade to where it was waist level with the youth. With his vision obscured by his visor, Raif couldn’t see the sword, and that it was pointed just below where his breastplate ended, at his unprotected groin.
“Mother’s Blessing,” cried Rew.
Without thought, he leapt over the rope barrier, and in three long strides, he arrived in time to shove Raif off his path, sending the boy crashing onto his side.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Captain Graewald, suddenly standing straight and uninjured.
“I saw what you tried,” growled Rew.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” complained Graewald. “Just a friendly sparring match, Ranger. A friendly match, and the lad was getting the best of me! Quite an energetic pup, isn’t he? He’s worn me out.”
“Was it friendly?” asked Rew, turning to look up the short hill where Baron Worgon sat.
“Maybe the ranger cares to spar?” asked the baron loudly. “If I’m not mistaken, that young man was about to trounce my captain. Surely you’ll grant Graewald an opportunity to redeem himself?”
“No,” said Rew.
Armor rustling, Raif clambered slowly to his feet. “What was the meaning of that, Ranger? I wasn’t going to hurt the man.”
“I know,” snapped Rew.
“Step back. Let us finish,” said Raif. “I think I was finally figuring him out. Perhaps some of that training you gave us was paying off, eh? Out of the way, Rew. Let us continue.”
“No.”
Raif reached up and raised his visor. He stared at Rew in consternation, but he didn’t argue.
“The boy’s not afraid. Why are you?” asked Captain Graewald.
“I saw what you attempted, Captain,” warned Rew. “If I see something similar again, we won’t be sparring.”
“What—“ started Graewald, but he saw the look on Rew’s face, and he stopped.
“Give him a go, Captain!” shouted the baron from the hill.
“I don’t think he’s interested, m’lord,” replied Captain Graewald.
“It’s an order,” replied Baron Worgon.
Captain Graewald shrugged, and then he raised his broadsword.
Rew didn’t bother to object. Worgon had given his order, and Graewald wasn’t one to ignore a chance to fight. Instead of arguing, Rew reached over his shoulder and drew his longsword.
Before Rew had time to settle his feet, Graewald charged. Rew was unarmored and facing an armored soldier who’d spent over a decade in the baron’s service. There was no pretense it was anything other than it was, so Rew didn’t bother to hide.
He leapt at Graewald, whose eyes widened behind his visor.
Rew crashed his longsword against the side of the captain’s broadsword, shoving the blade away. Then, he kept his momentum until he was toe-to-toe with the bigger man. Graewald swung his head forward, attempting to headbutt Rew with his helmet.
Rew leaned back and then wrapped his free arm around Graewald’s, trapping the man’s wrist and his sword out of position. Rew stabbed his longsword point-down into the dirt, reached up, and gripped the rim of Graewald’s visor.
The big soldier raised his free hand, his gauntleted fist reaching blindly for Rew, unable to see because Rew’s hand was in his visor, but the ranger moved quicker. He released the captain’s arm with the broadsword and drew his hunting knife. Rew turned, keeping out of Graewald’s grasping reach, and shifted his hand to allow room before the soldier’s eyes. He put his hunting knife into the gap, the point resting on Graewald’s cheek, just a fingernail below the man’s eyeball.
Graewald froze.
“I told you I saw what you attempted,” whispered Rew, “and you should know, the next time you try and harm the lad or his sister—anyone in our party—I’m going to bury this blade in your skull. I answer to the king, Captain, and him alone. Your baron, the duke, neither of them will say a word if I have to kill you, so before you take another order from that man, think about what it will mean for you personally.”
“I’ve no choice, Ranger,” hissed the soldier. “Disobeying the baron means my death.”
“Maybe,” said Rew, “but who do you think you’ve got a better chance of getting away from, the baron or me?”
Rew shoved the soldier back and hooked a foot behind the captain’s ankle. Graewald fell flat on his back, but before he’d even struck the earth, Rew had turned, pulled his longsword from the dirt, and was pacing quickly to the rope barrier. He hopped over and we
nt straight up the hill to Baron Worgon.
“Try it again, Baron, and I’m not going to spare your man,” declared Rew.
“What are you talking about—“
Rew flipped over the table, sending the contents to the side in a shower or crashing crystal and silver. He slapped a palm into the baron’s chest, knocking the portly man over in his chair. Rew knelt beside the fallen baron, resting his hand on his longsword, putting the steel point-down in front of the baron’s face.
“When we first met in your throne room, you asked me why I was with the children,” said Rew. “I told you I’m protecting them. I know you instructed Graewald to injure the lad. Why?”
Baron Worgon’s eyes flicked over the hill, and Rew turned to follow the look. Anne was standing with Cinda and Zaine. All three had their arms crossed over their chests in nearly identical, nervous poses. Worgon said, “In war, more men and women die of disease than steel, Ranger. Common soldiers, spellcasters, even the commanders are susceptible to all manner of illness. Nobles like me have died when they did not need to. I told you I’ve heard rumors of you, and I’ve heard rumors of your empath as well. A good healer, Ranger, could be worth two or three of my best spellcasters.”
Rew snorted.
“The battle with us and Duke Eeron may be quick, but the war after will be long,” said Baron Worgon, trying to rise, but Rew held the corpulent man down, flat on his back. “I’d like the empath to join my service, but I wanted to test her skill first.”
“She’s not going to join you, Worgon,” hissed Rew. “You try and injure one of us again, you look at or even think of Anne, and I’ll kill both you and your man.” Rew put his finger on the baron’s chest, just below the billow of lace at the man’s throat. “And don’t bother with your high magic, Worgon. I’ve got a nose for it.”
Spluttering, flopping around on his back like a flipped-over turtle, Baron Worgon shrieked, “I’ve a whole flaming army marching up that road, you fool! I’m the Baron of Yarrow. These are my lands, and you’re in the middle of my army. I get what I want here, Ranger. You cannot touch me!”
Rew moved his hand up and grabbed a fistful of the baron’s lace. He tugged the portly man off the turf. “Test me, and I’ll slit your fat throat, Worgon. It’s true that you’re the baron of Yarrow, but I’m the King’s Ranger.”
13
They ate supper in awkward silence.
Rew had directly threatened Baron Worgon and Captain Graewald, but both men knew they deserved it. They’d risked Raif’s life to determine just how capable Anne was with the foolish conceit she might consider joining them. It was the sort of thing Vaeldon’s nobility did in the secure confines of their keeps, surrounded by stout walls and steel. It was the sort of thing that they rarely suffered for. Suffering was the burden of others, the commoners. But rare did not mean the same thing as never, and any noble of Vaeldon was aware their actions could come back to bite them, and when they did, they were prepared to tuck their tails like cowed dogs. Pride bowed before the need to survive.
Typically, such a comeuppance would be at the hands of a more powerful noble, but every now and then, it came from sharp steel and determination. Both Worgon and Graewald realized that Rew was capable of slaying them and that he was willing to face whatever consequences he faced for such an act. Which, the truth was, may be no consequences at all. He was the king’s agent. Against such resolve, there was nothing they could say, nothing they could do, so they did neither. Instead, they ate, and they drank.
Rew scowled across the table at the baron, who was studiously avoiding his gaze. The man was a scoundrel, but even Rew had to admit he wasn’t any worse than the rest of them. Sighing, Rew lifted his wine and took a slow sip. Not a big sip, not as much as he wanted, but enough to take the edge off, to slow his heartbeat, to still his hands that twitched, wanting to grab his sword.
Raif, it seemed, was unsure about what had happened, and the boy sat quietly, confused, his eyes darting between Worgon and Rew. During the incident, his vision had been blocked by his visor, and he hadn’t noticed Captain Graewald’s sword rising to impale him. The women had been watching the fight, but during the heat of the engagement, they weren’t experienced enough to have caught Graewald’s move. They’d all seen Rew threaten both Graewald and Worgon, though, and they’d been shocked by it. Shocked, until the baron didn’t demand Rew be locked in manacles and imprisoned. Worgon had done nothing except to call for his servants to right the table and bring a fresh selection of food and drink.
The children didn’t understand the game that was being played, but they’d seen enough to know that they didn’t understand, so they kept their lips sealed.
“The Investiture, you understand?” the baron had asked Rew once he’d stood and his servants had brushed off his clothing. “No hard feelings.”
“I meant what I said, Worgon,” Rew had replied.
The baron had waved off Captain Graewald, who’d been loitering about as if unsure whether he was supposed to continue the fight with the ranger or join him for a glass of wine. The big man had exhaled a sigh of relief when the baron offered Rew a glass. After that, Graewald had disappeared into the camp.
The party joined the baron at the newly set table, and they watched with him as his men streamed into the camp, spreading out, erecting tents, and crowding around growing fires to chase away the autumn chill. Ale barrels were rolled out to strategic points in the camp, and the men clustered around to dip their ration.
Baron Worgon’s servants appeared with thick, fur blankets for the women and the baron, but Rew and Raif declined. Night fell, and an extravagant dinner was served to them. All around their table, the sounds of joviality rose from the camping soldiers. The men, just one day outside of Yarrow, still had heads filled with empty promises of loot at the end of the road. It seemed the ale barrels were doing the trick and keeping the illusion going.
Throughout the evening and after a long period of uncomfortable silence, Worgon regaled them with tales of his youth when he was last on campaign. By his telling, it was a lot less comfortable then and a lot more dangerous, though the stories were of stamping out small rebellions or dealing with localities under his domain that had refused to pay their taxes. During the last Investiture, Worgon had been in power, but he’d been a much younger man and firmly beneath the shadow of Duke Eeron. The duke had avoided the swirling fight of succession, and the Eastern Territory had largely been uninvolved.
Rew knew that Worgon hadn’t had anything to do with the previous Investiture, which the rotund man only spoke about in hints and innuendo. It seemed to Rew that Baron Worgon had not a concern in the world. There was only one reason he would be so confident, and Rew decided in the face of the man’s odd, buoyant mood, he’d challenge him on it.
“Where is Prince Valchon?” asked Rew, breaking his silence after several hours of not speaking.
Worgon gave him a tight smile.
“You don’t know,” asked Rew, “but you believe he will assist you?”
Nodding, the baron pinched off a piece of sweetbread from his dessert plate and popped it into his mouth. Around the delicacy, he mumbled, “The prince will meet us outside of Spinesend.”
“And he’ll fight with you to topple the duke?” asked Rew.
“He won’t need to,” claimed the baron. “I have a plan. We’re going to draw Duke Eeron’s men outside of the walls where we will crush them. That spellcaster you saw at the head of his forces marching to Falvar is the duke’s strongest invoker. The duke himself is a powerful enchanter, but there’s nothing he can do to stop my own magic. The man you saw, he is the only one under Eeron’s banner with strength to deflect my spells. With him out of the way, no one can stop me.”
“If the invoker hasn’t returned to Spinesend,” remarked Rew.
Worgon shook his head, his white hair waving in the cool wind. “We’ve days yet, Ranger. The man won’t risk returning to Spinesend until he can be certain the children did not flee t
o Falvar or the lands beyond. That will take time. When he finally hears we are marching, it will be too late. The man, talented as he is, does not have the strength to portal. Only Duke Eeron has developed that skill, but he doesn’t have strength to open a portal for more than himself and one or two others. By the time they realize what is happening, it will be too late for Duke Eeron’s army.”
“The duke won’t portal to Falvar to collect his invoker?” pressed Rew.
“He won’t,” declared Worgon. “Running for help would be an admission that his bloodline is failing. You’re not of a noble house, Ranger, but you’ve been around us enough to know how horrific Duke Eeron will find that thought.”
Rew grunted and then asked, “You’ve strength to take on thousands of Duke Eeron’s men?”
“I do, but my magic is wild and unfocused,” explained Baron Worgon, twirling a half-empty wine glass. “If Duke Eeron holds his men behind the walls of the city, I cannot risk unleashing my power. There would be too much damage to the structures and the people of Spinesend. What would be the point of conquering the place if its wealth is destroyed in the process? Or worse, if Baron Fedgley is caught in the conflagration. That’s the prince’s point of view, at least, and I’m his humble servant. He’ll be there, and he will see how useful I am. Worst case, Ranger, if Duke Eeron surprises me with something unexpected, Prince Valchon will slap him down.”
“Why are you so certain that the duke will come out to meet you in the field?” probed Rew. “The walls of the city will give him an incredible advantage.”
“I told you. He’ll look weak if he does not quickly confront us,” said Worgon. “During the Investiture, there is nothing worse than looking weak. What would any of the princes think if Duke Eeron did nothing about a hostile army camped outside of his walls? What sort of ally would that make the man if he’s afraid to protect his own lands?”
Rew shrugged. In his view, there was far worse than merely looking weak, but he thought it fruitless to mention that to the baron because he did have a point about the way the nobles thought. Clearly, the man was swimming on a tide of confidence, and it would be futile arguing with him. Glancing at Raif, Rew’s lips twisted. All of them were overconfident, striding into dangers that they could not conceive.
