by David Estes
As they ascended, Christoff held his brother’s limp body and counted his own heartbeats, for Jordo had none to count.
Christoff awoke soaked in sweat, lying in his bed in his captain’s quarters.
Someone was knocking on his door. Loudly, hammer blows that seemed to go through the door and directly into his skull, which was pounding with a headache.
He’s already gone too late the past the past the past can never change the past can only try harder save them all change the future…
The words streamed through Christoff’s head, as they always did after one of his nightmares that weren’t nightmares, but memories, a decade-old past that could never be altered.
Jordo is dead, he reminded himself, the truth steadying him, slowing the raucous pounding in his skull.
“Coming,” he said, sliding out of bed. His pristinely polished armor was laid out perfectly, ready to be donned as part of his morning routine. But this was decidedly not part of his routine, this caller hammering his door before first light.
He slung a cloak over his shoulders, unconsciously trying to smooth out the wrinkles, though there were few, as he strode to the door, pulling it open.
A woman stood at the door. He blinked. Private Sheary. Her pale cheeks were flushed pink, her dark hair frosted with snow.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he replied.
“A stream has arrived in the night. The Queen Regent asked me to fetch you.”
“Oh? Where is it from, who is it to, what does it say?” Christoff rattled off. He hoped he hadn’t missed anything pertinent. He hated having to ask more questions.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“No. And you didn’t answer my questions. A question is never an answer to a question.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Fine. I shall stand out in the cold.” She hugged herself, shivering slightly, but Christoff thought it looked rather staged.
“You’re not ‘out’, you’re in the corridor. And it’s not particularly cold, especially when compared to the actual outside.”
“So I truly can’t come in?”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Sir Metz said. Nor would I want your dirty boots on my floor. He almost said it, but his mother’s admonitions about not being rude stopped his tongue. For once.
“Because you’re my captain?”
“Is that a question?”
“Not really.”
“Good.”
“So are you coming with me to see the queen? She’s waiting.”
“Yes, but you haven’t answered my questions.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. And I don’t know. Does that cover it?”
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.” Then he shut the door.
He turned toward the washbasin, but there was another knock at the door. He opened it.
Private Sheary scowled at him. “You shut the door.”
“Yes. Our conversation was finished, was it not?”
“In. My. Face.”
It was Christoff’s turn to frown. “I’m fairly certain that’s impossible.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Now you’re just speaking nonsense. I am right here, which makes me entirely possible.”
She huffed. “You can find your own way to Lady Zelda,” she said.
“That’s true,” Christoff said, once more closing the door. Strange girl. And yet he couldn’t help but to find her incredibly appealing. More than once he’d had the strange urge to touch her hair, a thought that made him want to cut off his own hand before he tried. He shuddered once, and then went back to getting ready for the day.
“We received a stream in the middle of the night,” Lady Zelda said.
“I know, Queen Regent,” Christoff said. “Private Sheary told me.”
Private Sheary stood nearby, refusing to look at him. Strange girl, he thought again.
Lady Zelda wore a frizzy fur cape across her broad shoulders. She balanced a plate of breakfast across her knees. She wasn’t sitting on the throne, but next to it. On the floor.
Christoff tried not to stare.
Lady Zelda said, “The private also said you were quite rude to her.”
Christoff glanced at Private Sheary and her cheeks flushed.
Christoff said, “I might have been. I’m not sure. Mother always said I struggled with social niceties.”
Private Sheary’s eyes met his and he was forced to look away, but not before seeing the shadow of a smile that ghosted across her face. Something about that smile made his heart pitter-patter a little faster, a fact that bothered him. Smiles should not affect automatic bodily activity.
Zelda waved away the topic with a hand gripped around an exceptionally thick slice of buttered toast. “It’s fine. Captains should be tough with their underlings. I respect that. Back to the stream we received…”
“Where is it from, who is it to, what does it say?” Christoff asked.
Zelda chuckled, flecks of toast flying from her lips. She licked them off and bit into a hardboiled egg. Christoff’s stomach began to rumble. He was supposed to be eating breakfast now, not watching someone else eat it. “It’s from Darrin to me. More specifically, from the blacksmith woman, Fay. Do you remember her?”
“Of course.” Why wouldn’t I? he added in his head, proud of himself for keeping that thought from spilling from his lips. “Some believed she left with Tarin Sheary.”
“Yes,” Zelda said, smiling. She licked her fingers, an act that chased away Christoff’s appetite. Human saliva was something he detested. He detested a lot of things, but spittle was definitely near the top of the list. He managed to keep his expression neutral as Zelda continued, though he couldn’t stop looking at those spit-moistened fingers. “And it turns out, she did. Her stream states that Tarin Sheary is now the temporary Lord Commander at Darrin, as Lord Darrin himself has fled the castle. They are preparing for war. They expect the easterners assembled at Crow’s Nest to descend from the cliffs before the next full green moon, if not earlier.”
Christoff said nothing, waiting for her to continue. Instead, she bit into an apple, crunching loudly. He hoped the fruit had been washed. Thoroughly.
Lady Zelda placed the apple back on the plate, which meant it touched the leftover egg and toast crumbs. Christoff cringed. He hated when food touched. It wasn’t as bad as saliva, but still…
“Fay also requested any assistance we could provide,” Zelda said. “She stated that without assistance they will likely all perish during the battle.”
Christoff straightened up. Darrin needed their help? “We are early on in our training still, but I can have several of the more prepared groups leave at once. I will leave training instructions behind for everyone else, and when I return, we shall continue.”
“No,” Zelda said.
“No? I don’t understand.”
She shook her head. “While I am sympathetic to their plight, we simply can’t afford to send any men at this time. We are in the rebuilding stage and defending Castle Hill must be the priority.”
“They will all die,” Christoff said. “Including Tarin Sheary.”
Zelda closed her eyes. Reopened them slowly. There was no mistaking the look of sadness that pulled at the edges of her eyes. “These are hard times. We all must make sacrifices for the greater good. Lord Commander Sheary and his soldiers will help give us the time we need to defend ourselves. With luck, Annise will be back with our army before the easterners reach Castle Hill.”
Christoff simply could not accept that. No. Whenever he saw someone in need, someone he could save, everything else seemed to fall away and he was in that well again, was watching his brother’s fingers slip beneath the water, was watching the life drain out of his kin. Because of me. My fault, all my fault. That was why he counted the number of people he had saved. One-hundred-and-seventy-four. It wasn’t nearly enough, but he hoped one day the number would be enough to make up for the o
ne boy he couldn’t save. Jordo.
And yet his honor made it impossible for him to refuse to obey an order from the Queen Regent. Luckily, he had a plan around that. “So I cannot send any of my men to Darrin?” he asked, just to make things clear with Private Sheary as his witness.
“Correct. I’m sorry. Training will continue as planned. But I wanted you to be aware that Darrin will soon be under siege. Our eastern stronghold will surely fall, and then our enemies will march on Castle Hill. Will your soldiers be ready in time?”
“We will be ready,” he said. “I will not fail you.” Nor Darrin.
“I know,” Lady Zelda said.
Christoff spun on his heel and strode toward the exit. “Private Sheary!” he barked. “To breakfast, the day is wasting away.”
And we have a long road ahead of us if we’re going to make it to Darrin in three days.
Twenty-Nine
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Tarin Sheary
Tarin was furious. “How dare you go over my head and send a stream to Castle Hill?” he growled, eyeing the table separating him from Fay. The urge to grab the table and flip it over sang through his blood, but he tamped it down, cursing at the monster inside him to remain silent. Stay out of this!
“How dare I?” Fay shot back. “My apologies, I would hate to undermine our self-appointed Lord Commander who is too stubborn to realize when he needs help.”
“Self-appointed? I was voted in by the men!”
“They were scared half to death of you.”
“You’re the one who convinced me to stay!”
“Because I thought you would listen to reason. Castle Hill will have bodies they can send. We need more men or we’ll be annihilated.”
“I refuse to let you weaken the defenses at Castle Hill.”
“It’s already done,” Fay said.
“It’s not,” Tarin countered. “I will send a second stream right now telling them to disregard the first.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Watch me.” Tarin turned to leave the forge and head for the nearest stream, but stopped when a soldier approached. He was carrying a wet scroll between two pinched fingers, waving it dry.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“A reply from the Queen Regent,” the soldier said.
“Give it to me.” When the man held the wet parchment out, Tarin snatched it, scanning the words still drying on the paper.
He felt Fay hovering beside him. “Frozen hell,” she muttered.
“Like you said, it is done,” Tarin said, crumpling the paper and tossing it into the embers of one of the forges, watching it crackle, smoke, and then burn.
The final two sentences of the message burned simultaneously in his head.
Unfortunately, we can spare no soldiers at this time. I am truly sorry.
It was signed by Lady Zelda herself.
Thirty
The Northern Kingdom, Blackstone
Dirk Gäric
Dirk Gäric’s father, the self-declared King of the North, Lord Griswold, had ruined everything in his haste for war. And now Dirk had to be the one to pick up the pieces.
He turned away from the sparkling waters of the Bay of Bounty, wiping away the snow that had melted on his face.
(Because his father was really, truly dead.)
He hated his cousins, Annise and Archer. Hated the way the residents of Castle Hill always cheered for Archer and not him. Hated how Annise always had a quicker tongue than he, getting the last laugh whenever they traded quips. Hated that they’d wrested the crown back from his side of the family, stomping on his future with heavy steel-toed boots. (He hated that they’d killed his father, but he tried not to think about that.)
He hated the western queen, Rhea Loren, too, who had decimated their warships, killing thousands of soldiers, the entire strength of the north in one fell swoop, like a hawk hunting a nest of baby pigeons. He’d watched from his hiding spot in the bushes as that damn creature rose from the depths, cleaving bodies in two.
(He hated that he’d been too cowardly to fight, but again, he pushed that thought as far from his mind as he could. Being alive was more important than being brave.)
Yes, Dirk Gäric, in his present condition, hated a lot of things.
But that didn’t make him weak. No, on the contrary, he was stronger than he’d ever been. His father’s secret training regimen had been brutal, fueled by a diet that consisted mainly of raw egg yolks, barely cooked meat, and jugs and jugs of water. His personal trainers had been a group of combat experts known as the Brotherhood, who’d been hired by his father to guard their household and to teach Dirk to fight. He knew they were little more than sellswords, mercenaries, willing to trade their services to the highest bidder. For a while that was his father, but when they’d traveled with him to Blackstone to be a part of the Battle at Bounty, Dirk had made them a better offer. So, when he didn’t board one of the warships, neither did they.
As long as he could keep paying them in gold, they would do as he commanded.
The only problem: He was swiftly running out of coin.
Those were the thoughts swirling like snowflakes through his mind as he moved along the deserted streets of Blackstone, the westernmost city in the north.
It was eerie, this cold, empty city, once teeming with life, with vigor, soldiers marching and merchants hawking wares and scantily clad women hanging from windows trying to entice the men.
Now, Dirk could almost still feel their presence, passing through him with a chill, ghosts of a recent past, not yet having passed over into frozen hell.
He hurried on, anxious to get to his destination.
Of course, with the fall of Blackstone, there were plenty of castles ripe for the picking. Yes, at first the lords and ladies were still in residence, hunkering down with their food and wine and warm hearths, but the riots had quickly ridded them of their wealth. Those who weren’t killed by the mobs were chased from the city with barely more than the clothes on their backs. Most would likely perish on the Howling Tundra as they tried to get to Castle Hill. Those who did, by some miracle, make it to the northern capital, wouldn’t find the hospitality they expected—previous allies of Dirk’s father would likely be hung for treason.
Which was why Dirk wouldn’t be stumbling into the frozen city weak and exhausted, begging for mercy. No, he would march in with weapons and strength, reclaiming what was rightfully his.
At least that was the plan, if today went well.
Finally, he reached the meeting place: Blackguard itself, with its dark, savage walls and shadowy gate, almost like the maw of an undead beast. Once, there would’ve been mail-clad guards bearing the royal crest, who, of course, would’ve let Dirk inside without question—he was a Gäric after all. Now, however, the guards wore only black cloaks bearing no symbol, which, Dirk knew, hid all manner of weaponry. There were two of them, both members of the Brotherhood. They nodded at Dirk as he entered, dangerous gleams in their eyes.
He heard them close the gate in his wake and then fall in behind him. None would be absent from this meeting to decide their future.
The meeting was held in court, a broad windowless room adorned with enormous tapestries depicting some of the bloodiest battles in history. There were black-eyed mamoothen rampaging across a frozen wasteland, Orian bodies hanging from their tusks; there were red-clad furia spiked with arrows; there were eastern battalions crushed under enormous flaming boulders. Though Dirk had always been fascinated by the images contained within this castle, he was also scared of them. If this was what war was, he wanted no part of it, which was one of the reasons he’d avoided the disaster in the Bay of Bounty.
And I’m alive, he reminded himself, striding to the front of the room.
There the Brotherhood waited, lined up in a curving arc, like the edge of a black scythe. Though Dirk’s heart was thundering and his legs wobbled beneath him, he hid his anxiety the way he’d been taught. This was his
domain, a lordling having been taught all about political maneuvering from the time he was a young boy. He’d learned two important things: Coin spoke louder than swords, and swords gave you coin and power and women and all you could ever desire. It was something of a circle, one he could complete with a few fancy words and promises to these violent, capable men.
He opened his mouth to speak first, to set the tone for the meeting, but one of the Brotherhood cut him off, stepping forward. “Lord Gäric,” he said, “we’ve been awaiting your arrival.” It was Severon, the unofficial leader of the group. What the man lacked in beauty—his face a miasma of scars, his hair long and stringy, his eyes a strange shade of green that seemed to pierce both shadow and stone—he made up for with raw strength. He was a valuable man to have on one’s side.
Being addressed by his father’s title sent a warm thrill through Dirk’s chest, but he refused to let his excitement show on his face. “Thank you.” He began the speech he’d planned in his head. “The Brotherhood has long been an ally of my father’s, and I—”
“Ally?” the man said.
Dirk blinked. Something about the man’s tone gave him pause. It was…off…somehow. Almost mocking.
“The Brotherhood has no allies,” Severon said. “Only employers.”
Ah. A minor word-choice error, Dirk realized. He knew the importance of words. He selected his next ones more carefully. “Indeed. I would like to continue to employ you to my house. All we must agree on is the terms.”
“You mean the gold,” Severon said, a wicked gleam in those emerald eyes. “The last payment has nearly run out.”
Frozen hell. He had paid them only a week ago. Where was the gold going? There wasn’t anywhere to spend it. The only currency in Blackstone at the moment was looting and theft.
“We will require double that amount if you would like us to continue to serve you.”
“Double?” Dirk practically shrieked. He was down to less than half of what he’d paid before.
