For a while at least.
He would lead the troops, march through Salabian cities and quell any thoughts of rebellion, burn several towns in Korav, and go back victorious, just in time to find Crispin return to Ostfort, with Eva as his secret charge. She would be pleased to have escaped the dreaded halls of Eisenstar, impressed by his deeds, mellowed by his benevolence, and he could spend the rest of his wardenship with her at his side.
Eva would be happy. She would smile at him, and they would spend their days in bed, or walking in the forest, or…mostly in bed. And he would…
The small matter of siring a child with Amadea remained. But he would sort that later.
Opportunity will present itself. Just like it did with Angoma.
All the pieces aligned perfectly. It was the smart thing to do.
“As soon as my hand is fully healed, we will depart. I want five thousand troops to ride, half knights and half light cavalry. I also want patrols in every village from here to Loblank.”
“Your Royal Highness,” Enduria spoke. “You might want to postpone your departure until after the Saint’s Awakening. The people would expect you to attend the ceremonies, and you should lead the dawn prayer. Unfortunately, you arrived too late to Ostfort to participate in the Spring Festival, which makes it even more imperative for you to be present. People expect it. The small folk have had a troubling year, and they need hope and guidance.”
Dick rolled his eyes. Prayer? He thought he had escaped that tribulation. But her face was stern, and he knew nothing good would come from countering her. Dire is the duty of the warden. “Very well.”
Reeve Gotelieb was still looking at him in a funny way. Dick had seen that kind of face before hundreds of times, on friend and foe, often just before firing a lethal shot between their eyes. The look of mockery. The reeve did not believe Dietrich could lead a campaign. He was expecting him to fail.
I will show him. I will show them all. But I must act fast. Word of my deeds will undoubtedly fly to Eisenstar and reach Voytech. The Right Man could choose to oppose me, just to spite me.
Which was why it was imperative he made sure Reeve Gotelieb did not oppose him.
“Your thoughts, Reeve?”
The Drechknight straightened, surprised. He brushed back his hair in annoyance. “The campaign to the southeast may leave our north front exposed.”
“But we surely will have sufficient troops to protect the border?”
“Yes, but—”
“I must ask you for your help. Can you assist me in drawing the perfect battle plan?”
Gotelieb sniffed. “Battle? We do not—”
“Surely you do not find a rabble of Korav bandits intimidating? The Drechknights are up to this task, are they not?”
“Yes, but—”
“We do need to establish our authority. The peace in Salabia is at stake.”
“Yes, but—”
“We can bolster the northern defenses by conscripting from the local towns. We need not deplete the fort garrison. We will begin our campaign with just your banners, and then link up with the battalions in Loblank.”
“That might—”
“And then, we can—”
“Let me finish!” the reeve snapped.
Livid silence descended on the meeting room. Dick remained perfectly still, although his fingers itched, part from the injury, part from the insult.
The Drechknight composed himself. “My apologies, Your Royal Highness.”
There will come a day when you won’t dare disrespect me even in your dreams. It’s all Old Fart’s fault. He let them scorn me. He tarnished my reputation. “Think nothing of it. We are military men discussing war matters. Passion is expected. I do believe there is common sense in my idea. However, I would need you to clarify the finer details.”
Gotelieb nodded slowly, almost respectfully.
Like a king, I am—
“Have you asked the king for—” Ritter Heimo subsided under Dick’s withering stare.
“My father appointed me the Warden of the East. If you ever doubt my or his authority again, I shall replace you with someone more loyal to the throne.” He was almost getting carried away with his own charm and power. He stabbed the Drechknight with a dark look, too. “My idea, Reeve?”
Gotelieb looked away. “I shall draw the plans, My Prince.”
Dick beamed. He clapped loudly, startling the herzog. That sad fuck should be gone to Loblank in just a few days, and Dick hoped never to see his sullen face again. “Excellent.” My leadership shows. They succumb to my authority. It’s working. I am more than ready to hold the Monrich throne. “In that case, this meeting is adjourned.”
Arnie waited by the door, his sparkling new buckskin boots shining. He was holding a large bundle of straps and belts tucked under his arm. “Your Royal Highness.”
“The new boots?” Dick pointed.
“Amazing, Your Royal Highness. And no more smell.”
Dick blinked. That’s what you think. But it sure was better than that goat stink earlier. “And the harness?”
“As requested, Your Royal Harness. The tanner has completed the first example and asked you to measure it. He will adjust the size to fit you exactly. It’s designed to fit under jackets and light coats.”
Dick lifted the contraption, examining its elaborate shape. A ten-pistol holster that could be concealed under a dapper doublet. No assassin would ever catch him unawares again.
CHAPTER 15
A Thousand Korav Killers
“The righteous have nothing to fear. They have long perished from this world.”
—GUSTAF THE CYNIC, BANISHED FROM WANHEBIA FOR HIS HATEFUL SPEECHES, CIRCA YEAR 570-606
9th Day of the Month of the Cornel
Salabia was a ghastly place.
It was the perfect country for those who loathed bright skies. Most of the time, damp and chilly mornings greeted them with a steady downpour that would sometimes abate for a few moments before becoming solid sheets of rain. When it didn’t piss from above, there was mist and drizzle and a fog so wet that it left their clothes just as drenched as any self-respecting storm. There would always be something to spoil Dick’s mood.
For more than an eightday now, he hadn’t seen a patch of blue or more than a blush of a sickly sun trying to penetrate the clouds. They traveled slowly, and their baggage train lagged days behind, lodged firmly in mud. A dozen horses had died from exhaustion trying to pull free from the slippery mire, and another dozen had to be killed to spare them the misery of a slow, cold death. Twice as many animals had been lamed by treacherous roads and bogs, and an equal number of soldiers had fallen and broken their wrists or ankles. They hadn’t fought a single enemy, but the number of casualties was growing by the hour.
When they had left Ostfort, Dick had imagined a majestic procession of knights and their retainers, proud warriors and merry faces, clean uniforms and good fortune. He had not expected swaths of somber, unfriendly forest, one wreath of boring hills after another, empty, deserted villages, narrow passes, hard ground rather than soft beds, and food that he wouldn’t even give to Mutt. The banners had no bards or minstrels, the whores accompanying the Loblank garrison were all homely, and the one time Dick had played cards with the troops, they all tried to cheat him.
Ritter Heimo called this an unlucky journey. Reeve Gotelieb called this honest soldiering.
Dick called this King Ulaf’s Fault, and he hated Old Fart all the more for it.
He was miserable. He missed Crispin.
But he knew he had to prove himself. Which was why he had left Arnie Badfoot in Ostfort and ridden only with four squires as his help. He would have preferred Crispin’s able, precise manner and efficiency, but he had to do with the young, incompetent boys trying to earn their worth in the garrison ranks. Dick had asked the reeve to spare him some of his men, but the Drechknight had refused, claiming it was beneath their honor to attend to someone who wasn’t one of the order, no matter how hi
gh or noble he might be.
Bastard.
Hopefully, the Saint be willing, by now, Crispin had returned to the castle, with Eva as his secret guest. Dick wished his manservant had returned earlier, and he had even delayed the start of the campaign for several days, hoping to see Crispin—and Eva—in the fort’s corridors. Alas, he was forced to depart without any news about the girl.
He missed her, too.
The food was just as horrible as everything else, the company cook as incompetent as the squires. Dick hated riding for long hours, his buttocks raw and chafed from damp leather and sweat and incessant bouncing. He hated the stench of unwashed bodies, he hated the simple furnishings of his tent. It only had two linings of silks, and even with a coal stove in the center of it, the nights were miserable. The bed was stuffed with prickly feathers, and the quilt chafed after being exposed to rain, and the wine didn’t taste as grand without all the spices he liked.
It was dreadful.
To be fair, Ostland wasn’t much better. If not for the damp, miserable weather, he wouldn’t have known this was Salabia. He wasn’t quite sure how far they had ridden into Father’s newest palatine until the reeve told him the official demarcation between Monrich and Salabia was a line of white-rock cliffs burrowed deep into the hill range they had crossed some days earlier.
Then, almost like the sun bursting through clouds, a town painted itself in their path. A valley, full of houses, chimneys, and long, narrow fields, dappled with ponds of rainwater. Above the sound of hoofs, coughs, farts, and soft rain, there was the sound of a rushing river behind one of the ridges. Snow still clung to one of the slopes of a steep ridge to the north.
There! His first target.
“What place is that?” Dick asked, stretching in the saddle, feeling eager.
The ritter clearer his throat. “We don’t know, Your Royal Highness. We should wait for the scouts to return.”
Dick glanced at the rolling hills and scattered dots of outriders making slow progress through deep, wet grass and mud. It would take them hours to join the column, and the day was half gone.
“We shouldn’t. It just gives the enemy more time to prepare. We should roll up cannon and open fire. A dozen culverines, and then—”
“My Prince,” Gotelieb interjected. “What enemy?”
Dick frowned. “In that town. There.”
“Those are Salabians. They are not our enemies. They are your father’s subjects.”
“They might be harboring Korav bandits.”
The reeve smiled dryly. “Which is why we ought to wait for a report from the van force.”
Dick slapped the bridle with the reins. “What about the Koravs?”
“We shall definitely make sure that threat is eliminated. Once we cross Salabia. Your presence here should remind the local folk there’s a strong and vigilant warden in Ostfort, and that he will not take lightly to any signs of uprising or revolt against the Monrich king. They are wary and resentful, but they are peaceful. Torching their homes is surely going to make them rebel. A strong presence, but no violence, My Prince.”
Dick sighed. After days of wet torture in a saddle, he was itching to prove his military genius. But the reeve was spoiling his plans. Worst of all, Dick had no idea what kind of vile news the man reported back to Eisenstar. The Drechknights had their own flizzards, and they sent missives almost daily. What did Father know? Did he object to Dick’s plans? If he did, he hadn’t tried to stop him. Apart from that one reminder to bed Amadea, Old Fart hadn’t meddled in his affairs.
That frightened him.
But maybe I am doing a great job? And Father is proud of me?
The bastard was probably too busy scheming elsewhere.
“What do you recommend we do?”
The reeve folded his gloved arms on the pommel. “Parade through towns and cities, collect taxes, hear out a case or two and rule justice, make the mayors entertain you in their mansions. Buy supplies from the remaining winter stocks. That will give the sense of order and respect for the throne, My Prince.”
“What about the attacks we discussed!”
“In Korav, My Prince. Not before that.”
Dick sniffed. He had wasted days of his life riding in this miserable weather, and now the reeve was going to make him look like a fool. The Salabians needed to fear Monrich. They had to pay for testing the king’s resolve the previous year. Being friendly was going to make them think the realm was weak. “No. I want this town burned to the ground, for harboring Korav brigands.”
“I cannot give that order, My Prince.”
“I am ordering you!”
Gotelieb shrugged. “And I have my own orders from the hochmaster, My Prince.”
Dick stared, feeling betrayed. Old Fart always found a way to foil his ambitions. He hated him so much.
With gritted teeth, he waited on the hilltop, watching the town chimneys spit smoke into the rainy mist. The scouts were coming back, and riding alongside them was a small group of riders with brown uniforms. Dick frowned.
“The people of Domsal extend their welcome to the Monrich throne,” the lead scout announced as he approached, looking at the reeve. Bastard.
Dick wasn’t pleased. “Why are they being so welcoming?”
Gotelieb nudged his horse forward, stepping into Dick’s view. “Because they can count, and they can clearly see an overwhelming force capable of razing their town within minutes, My Prince.” Dick didn’t appreciate the condescending, tutor-like tone. But the reeve was already busy debriefing the scout. “Have you told them who we are?”
“Not at first, no, Sir. We wanted to see whether they expected any other army, or if they harbor loyalty for the enemies of the crown. The magistrate did warn me that Domsal is under the protection of King Ulaf, so he might have favorable views toward us. After I assured him we mean no harm, the magistrate invited the commanders and any noble men to his home.”
The reeve rubbed his upper lip. “So, he did not try to surrender? Or hail you as allies?”
“No, Sir.”
Dick wasn’t really sure what the Drechknight meant by that. He hated being left out, but no amount of prodding would make the reeve divulge his methods and orders. Saying anything would just make Dick look pitiful, and he didn’t want to lose the honor he had earned with the troops in the last month.
“General mood?”
“Tense but jovial enough, Sir.”
“Food supplies?”
“Decent, Sir.”
“Anything out of ordinary?”
“My men scoured the woods. Not even a lone hunter with a grudge in his eyes, Sir.”
Gotelieb doffed his gloves. “My Prince, it would seem the town is friendly. You shall still need a sizable escort, but we do not expect any treachery. We shall still have the garrisons deployed in the hills, just in case.”
Dick was confused. “Wait, what if the magister didn’t…you might have ordered an attack after all?”
The reeve ignored the question. “What else, Felix?”
The scout smiled. “We might be in luck, Sir. The town’s inn has some rather lovely maids.”
Dick perked up and realized the words were directed at him. There are some decent men among these knights after all. “Maids?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.”
“Plump, buxom maids?”
“Some of them, Your Royal Highness.”
“How many?”
“Four or five—”
Dick clapped. “Excellent, then. Let us ride into Domsal. Peacefully.”
“Before we go, My Prince, there are some matters of protocol we should—”
But Dick wasn’t listening, he was already leading the horse down the muddy slope. He didn’t care if there were a thousand Korav killers in Domsal, he was going to get laid and nothing short of the Saint’s wrath was going to stop him.
CHAPTER 16
In the Hall of the Mountain King
“Keep your enemies at your side a
nd your friends in your heart.”
—SALO THE EUNICH, ENISSIAN DIPLOMAT, 4TH CENTURY
15th Day of the Month of the Cornel
Baan Bolek was a distinctly wormy man. The only impressive thing about him was his long, shiny mustache. Dick wondered if he should try growing such hair, and whether it would spark a new craze with the young nobles back at the Monrich court.
Apart from that, Bolek was a slug.
Dick had seen defeated people before. Being son to King Ulaf II had given him enough opportunity to meet humbled, ruined, humiliated rulers, diplomats, and negotiators paraded in front of his father, with their tail tucked between their legs, their heads bowed. He had seen fear, confusion and contempt on their faces. He had seen resolution, hatred, and despair. Never before had he glimpsed such a complete look of appeasement and servitude on a formal enemy.
Baan Bolek wasn’t just someone who had been bested in combat by his father’s forces.
He was the staunchest, most ardent believer of making sure Old Fart was happy about it.
Seated in the baan’s throne chair, kept empty since his defeat and only given to the royal blood of Monrich, Dick watched the worm trying to ingratiate himself, spewing lie after lie, promising things, nodding feverishly at every little gesture or word.
Shame the sentiment did not extend beyond the baan’s inner circle of followers, because there would be no need for an army to keep the king’s peace, then. The faces of the baan’s noble retainers, those who had survived the battle with Constable Quentin, sizzled with impotent rage and hate. The Salabians were a small but proud people, and they did not tolerate Dick in their midst.
However, they said nothing nor did anything that would besmirch his honor and provoke Old Fart to retaliate. The Salabians were utterly peaceful, frightened, watching the columns of armed knights rumble through their towns with quiet hopelessness. In Marbar, the seat of the realm, the baan had organized a meager but cheerful welcome for the conquerors, and he had been entertaining them in his castle for the past day.
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