Dick tapped his lips, pretending to think for longer than necessary, torturing Bolek. The baan sat in a small wooden chair at his side, having to stare up at an uncomfortable angle. “I have had troubling reports of Korav bandits roaming the countryside.”
The baan squirmed. All around, servants—all men for some odd reason—were bringing plate after plate of lean lamb, boar and slightly rank cabbage, trying to feed Dick’s retinue. He had brought along the ritter and the reeve with him, half a dozen officers, and roughly fifty well-armed knights. The rest of the army camped outside Marbar, guns trained on its houses and temples.
“The winter always flushes them from their hiding places in the hills. They come raiding the valleys and steads.” The baan wasn’t trying to deny it. Dick was almost too bored. “I would enforce patrols on the roads, alas my armies were wiped in the war last year.”
Dick glanced at the retainers. Some of them looked distinctly warrior-like, with polished armors and wicked blades. They must have their own private forces, probably too busy fighting each other. Or helping the Koravs.
“You will have to try harder, Baan,” Dick warned him.
He wished he had more information about the situation in Salabia, but Gotelieb wouldn’t share his secrets. He was certain the reeve knew much more, and that Father’s Builders were everywhere, spying, writing back to Eisenstar. He was left out, and that rankled him, because he was forced to listen to the likes of Bolek. But the reeve claimed it didn’t matter what either one of them said. The presence of the Monrich army was the deciding factor. It would remind the baan of the oath to King Ulaf, and the fact it had saved his neck last year.
Still, Dick glanced at the reeve, who was nonchalantly busy stripping red meat off a bone. The Drechknight sensed the gaze and looked up, and gave the tiniest of nods. His scouts had not encountered any armed bands in the forests. The little group that had attacked Challe might have just been an isolated pocket of survivors from the war.
But Dick refused to accept it.
This war business is depressing. Boring. I thought I would be slaying enemies. I thought I would bring fury and terror to my foes. Instead, I must listen to this weasel, and now he’s complaining how it’s my fault he doesn’t have enough soldiers to stop bandits.
He had to prove himself. Otherwise, Father would never trust him again. He had to do something that would make the slug remember he must never cross him. Only the reeve wouldn’t let him burn any villages.
Something was warming his cheek. A drilling, intense heat. Dick almost felt a need to scratch himself, and then he saw baan’s youngest son glaring balefully at him, almost challenging him. The boy’s wormy excuse of a father was oblivious, craning his neck up and back toward the throne.
Constable Quentin had taken Bolek’s two elder sons back to Monrich, and they were now hostages in Weissgau, in a damp little castle somewhere, bothering sheep and retarded herdsmen. He had left the third one at the baan’s side.
An impudent little rascal. Dick could almost admire the foolish boy for his bravado. Like Bolek, the boy was working hard growing his mustache, but it was just a smear of coal above his lip.
The baan stroked his long hair behind his ears. “We are honored by your presence, Your Royal Highness. I would like to present you with some fine Salabian craftsmanship, if I may?”
Dick blinked slowly. “Yes.”
Frantic hand gestures. Elaborately dressed castle servants started walking in, carrying plates of glazed pottery, each pausing a moment in front of the dais to show off the particular design on a platter or urn. It was a well-staged attempt to please him, Dick had to admit. The Salabians were known for glass making and earthenware, and their castles had big windows with beautiful colored panes. Light from above the throne seat fell just the right way on the servants and the gifts, making them gleam and shine like a rainbow.
“A small token, Your Royal Highness. The times are dire, and the coffers low, but I ordered our artisans to make the best for you.”
Dick nodded idly.
“Our masters use more than a dozen different types of clay and a hundred pigments to make pottery. And our kilns burn with the hottest fires.”
Dick yawned.
“I have also ordered your army to be provisioned with pet monkeys and a hundred goats, Your Royal Highness, so that you may have fresh milk every morning and entertainment in the evening.”
Dick stretched – and then scratched his groin. The sequined suede breeches were dashing but not very comfortable.
“Urns, for your pomades and creams and spices, so they keep fresh on your journey. It is regretful that war brings you to our doorstep, but with the Saint’s blessings, you should not want for anything during the campaign.”
Dick rubbed his forehead. The pottery was not going to stop the Koravs.
“I wish I had troops to spare, but I cannot even man the walls of my castle—”
Dick shook his head. He didn’t want any Salabian backstabbers following him to Korav. No matter what Old Fart thought and how he treated his enemies-turned-friends, Dick would not have a thousand pragmatic and vengeful Salabian spearmen suddenly charge into his flanks while his knights were busy burning Korav outposts and villages.
Of course, the reeve and the ritter strongly believed Dick should let the slug prove his newfound loyalty, but on this matter, at least, he had the final word. The pottery ought to be enough. If anything, the baan should be busy maintaining peace in the palatine.
“Your Royal Highness, I have also raised the taxes in all the cities so that…”
It went on for a while. Dick bode his time with the utmost patience.
Then, there was silence, and the whining and petty gifts were gone. Dick perked up in the throne seat.
“With your permission, Your Royal Highness, the entertainment?” Bolek said slimily.
Dick was getting desperately bored with the toadying. He was looking for a distraction—anything—and he was having none of that with the ugly retainers and their sorry looks. Perhaps he would even see a woman for a change. While the smaller towns were quite forthcoming with their hospitality and buxom if somewhat hairy women, he hadn’t seen any at the castle. He wondered what Salabian ladies were like. He had never met any.
Dick waved a hand in as dismissive a fashion as he could muster. “Yes, yes.”
The slug stood up, smoothed his robe and clapped his hands, the gesture spoiled by too many thick ruby rings. He muttered something in his native language.
I should be surprised that he actually speaks Monrich, Dick thought. He waited for the entertainers to enter the hall.
He had not expected any women, so it was a pleasant surprise when three of them walked in.
But the bear cubs definitely sparked his attention.
His men were all reacting to the presence of the furry animals and their female owners. The quiet conversation between the soldiers died away. Even the Salabian noblemen lost their joint effort at being miserable, and diverted their focus toward the entertainers.
“You will like this, Your Royal Highness,” the slug chirped.
Dick watched with morbid fascination as the women, none too attractive, rolled out chains and let the cubs roam the space just below the throne. Then, producing thin switches from behind their belts, they started lashing at the bears. The animals began wailing and rearing, trying to dodge the whipping, and soon enough, they were dancing, a badly orchestrated, noisy display without any harmony or tune.
That did not stop Bolek from roaring with laughter, and most of his noblemen seemed thoroughly enthused. Except the son, who was still staring at Dick.
What kind of nonsense is this? Dick wondered. They could have at least used music.
Bolek had fallen out of his chair, and was spitting, red-faced.
I guess Constable Quentin should have spent more time cleansing the palatine, Dick thought sourly. He wasn’t one to dismiss any form of fun, if it involved dancing, singing and drinking, but
this was just obscene. He felt no particular sympathy for the little bears. The discorded bawling was grinding on his nerves.
“Baan!” he shouted.
Bolek sobered up quickly, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Your Royal Highness?”
“What do you call this delight?”
“We call it the Song of the Mutes, Your Royal Highness,” Bolek said in a hoarse voice.
Dick frowned. “Why don’t you use mute people then?”
The baan was serious for a moment, contemplating, then he collapsed in shrill laughter.
Dick had to admit it was a little funny. He looked at the bear cubs and the ugly handlers. Yes, there was charm in the grotesque. He should have drunk more wine, but Salabian vintage was too bitter, and it made his tongue curl.
He chuckled once.
Bolek’s son was still staring.
Dick raised his hand.
The baan scrambled up from the floor, dusting himself off. “Silence! His Royal Highness wishes to speak!”
The bear cubs were having none of it.
“Out, out! Quick!”
Apart from the rank smell of animal, sweat and bad wine, the throne hall was quiet again. Dick’s head was starting to hurt. He fidgeted, restless. He had never been keen on nature, but the army camp suddenly felt inviting.
There was one more thing to settle.
“What is your name?” he asked Bolek’s son.
The princeling didn’t lower his hateful gaze. “Zbigniew, Your Highness.”
“Royal Highness!” Bolek hissed.
“Are you a warrior?” Dick pressed.
“I am an excellent swordsman, Your Royal Highness.”
Dick smiled. There was a challenge right there. “Bolek, I have been thinking. Your son would find Loblank an interesting place. The Drechknights maintain several schools in the city, and Zbigniew could hone his skills with a blade there.”
The baan paled. “But Your Royal Highness, my other sons—”
Dick cut him off with a finger. He blanched when he realized he had just imitated Father. “How old are you, Zbigniew?”
“Sixteen, Your Royal Highness.”
“You will accompany me to Korav, and then ride with me back to Ostland.”
The son didn’t look that smug anymore. He might even look a little afraid, Dick thought.
“Your Royal Highness,” Reeve Gotelieb spoke above his plate. “Perhaps we should let the king decide—”
“It is decided,” Dick snapped. The Warden of the East had decided.
A thick, oppressive silence gripped the hall. Everyone knew what Dick’s words meant. Another hostage. Another slight of honor for the baan. More trouble, perhaps. But Dick didn’t share their sentiment. He had grown in his father’s shadow for long enough to know true contempt, and if anyone ever was going to make Salabia rebel against Monrich, it was Zbigniew not Bolek.
“I shall depart now,” Dick announced, feeling pleased.
No one argued. They could sense true power and authority.
He was, day after day, becoming so much more of a king, in truth if not in name.
CHAPTER 17
You Shall Never Doubt Me
“Find honorable men, question their manhood, and watch them lose their senses.”
—VILSTROM, FAMOUS MILITARY STRATEGIST, 2ND CENTURY
19th Day of the Month of the Cornel
Dick always wanted to be surrounded by his loved ones on the anniversary of the day his mother brought him into the world. But since Volkard’s finest were far away in Monrich, he was mildly content to suffer the forced flattery and cheap gifts of his entourage. A second year in a row, without a real palace party. It was outrageous.
Deep down, he felt a little sad. He wished he had Crispin with him—and Eva. Even his sister would have been a welcome departure from the rank, bearded lot that followed him into Korav. Every time he saw the insolent, petulant face of the Salabian baan’s son, Dick felt like punching him hard to the ground. Only, the reeve and the ritter kept reminding him that he still wasn’t the king, that he couldn’t do what he wanted.
Luckily, the charade of a celebration was over just after early morning.
They had a battle ahead of them.
Gotelieb’s scouts reported sighting a small but well-armed Korav army just outside Zgrob. Whether the force had been mustered to counter his presence, or the Korav baan was getting ready for war didn’t really matter. Dick intended to crush the foe, burn the capital, and head back to Ostland victorious.
Naturally, the reeve and the ritter disagreed.
They thought Dick should give the enemy a chance to surrender.
If Old Fart was here, they wouldn’t even dare think of countering his decision. But they will do anything to undermine me.
“Are your troops ready?” Dick asked, weary of the arguments.
Gotelieb tapped his helmet angrily. “Yes, they are, My Prince. A two-pronged attack, with artillery covering the left flank from the hilltop. The regular troops will lay down arquebus fire toward the forest, to prevent any ambush or retreat. However, I believe—”
“Thank you, Reeve.”
Finally, Dietrich could prove his military genius. After several boring eightdays spent riding, intimidating peasants, he burned for real violence. He wanted to see the Koravs defeated and humiliated. He wanted to make sure there would be no incursions into Ostland for the next decade. And of course, he would prove to Father that he was just as competent and skilled as Constable Quentin. Maybe even more so.
The reeve cleared his throat. “Your Highness, we have encountered no resistance so far. No brigands, no rebel armies. The Koravs do not seem keen on challenging you. If anything, it would appear they are desperately trying to avoid any confrontation. From what my spies could learn from the small folk in the villages, the last war almost broke the nation. They are poor and weak. The band that attacked Challe must be renegades and deserters. If they spend another winter hiding in the mountains, they will all starve.”
Or grow stronger, Dick thought.
Standing to the left, the ritter was pulling straps on his sword arm bracer. “The Salabians are also quite peaceful. You have already demonstrated your might, and taking the baan’s son hostage will make him think twice before allying himself with the Koravs ever again. Besides, it is bad luck to wage war on your birth day.”
Dick frowned. “Has my father ever campaigned on his birth days?”
They both reluctantly nodded.
“And what do you think he would do if he was camped here, outside the enemy’s city?”
The Drechknight lowered the visor on his helmet. “He would fight, My Prince.”
Dick grinned. “And so will we.”
Gotelieb’s eyes flared inside the narrow slit. Dick could easily guess all the emotions behind that glare. But for all the contempt the reeve had for him, it paled in contrast to the man’s need to prove his honor and valor. If Prince Fatty could summon courage to wage war in a far land, there was no way a respected Drechknight could back down. He had the authority to overrule Dick’s decision, but that would make him a coward.
Find honorable men, question their manhood, and watch them lose their senses. It was rare for Dick to remember anything from the books he’d been forced to read in his youth, but this one stood out as a rare gem.
“Let us destroy them then.” Dick raised his arm and fired his pistol.
His army responded by moving toward Zgrob. A well-oiled, silent war machine. No cheers, no unnecessary noise, just simple, clean efficiency. The Drechknights lead in a wedge-shaped charge, men armed with riding pistols and lances. The infantry followed in a close formation behind. On the command hill where Dick stood, the air was getting thick with the acrid smoke of slow-burning cord. The cannon were trained at the enemy, and waited for the signal to unleash death.
Dick almost wanted to be in the thick of it, but frontal assaults were messy. Not his style. Besides, he was too valuable to risk
in this kind of engagement. When not a hostage or at risk of being sent to fuck camels in the Black Desert, he preferred to watch war unfold from a safe distance.
Still, he was surprised by the excitement he felt.
Is this a kingly thing, he wondered.
His four incompetent squires did their best to look restless and annoyed for being left out of the battle.
Useless fools. Crispin would have struck a tune, or found something funny to do.
The Korav put up an almost depressing defense. Their ranks were too sparse, they moved way too slowly to counter the Drechknights. It was as if they wanted to lose. Dick shook his head.
“Artillery,” he said wearily.
The long-barreled culverins barked a rapid salvo, shaking the hill top. Dick sneezed as the smoke snaked into his nostrils. In the distance, spouts of dirt marked the spots where the shot landed. The first volley had hit too far to the left, but that was enough to disrupt the enemy formation. Meanwhile, the knights were coming closer, the ground firm and dry.
The second volley made Dick wince, but then he grinned as the cannon balls slammed into the fore ranks of the Korav infantry. But now, both sides were firing their pistols and arquebuses, and it was hard to see the battlefield. The Loblank garrison was slowly, steadily encircling the enemy, moving toward the forest. Just as expected, a contingent force had emerged from the woods, but they were easily repelled.
Too easy, Dick thought. He remembered the engagement between the Fearless Brigade and the Tufamid near Angoma. That had been a proper fight. This was someone trying to pretend they didn’t understand war.
They can’t be that incompetent. Otherwise the Constable would have easily defeated them. “I have a bad feeling,” he spoke out loud. He frowned. He looked around. The cannon smoke made the world look ghostly and foggy.
If I were a wormy, cowardly Korav baan desperately trying to save my own skin, how would I stage a fight? Gotelieb’s scouts had reported no enemy anywhere. But…maybe they had been looking for the wrong kind of threat?
Woes and Hose Page 11
