Wide open spaces greeted him as he entered, stretching outward in a branching array of open-ended chambers. Each chamber he assigned to contain a specific kind of items: one room for paintings, one for antiques, one for maps, one for books, and so on. In truth Mykel could barely remember a time when he glanced at the items save for the books. They were there to assuage Lady Fenrir of his mental well-being. According to their divine wisdom, Mykel was, in fact, developing just a normal boy should.
The current chamber was what he called the Main Room, where he kept his favorite items and slept. There was his old bed, the one he had broken three years before from a particularly violent nightmare. He couldn’t very well go to his step-father for aid, so he requested three servants to drag a bed, mattress and all, down to the room for him, and then swore them to silence so they wouldn’t reveal anything. That was a problem. I feared Father would come around the corner any minute.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Mykel LeKym turned about and came face-to-face with Mykel Fenrir. “I should be asking you the same thing.”
“Me? Why me? This is my room! Get out of here!” He tensed like a tiger about to spring. He didn’t, though. LeKym knew he wouldn’t. “What are you waiting for? Go!”
“I’m supposed to come get you.” LeKym said dryly.
Fenrir snorted. “Tell them you can’t find me.” His face wrinkled as he came to the obvious. “Hey, how did you find me? No one knows about this place!”
It was true. Save for the servants sworn to silence, no one knew this chamber existed. It was his secret, found in a passing flight to flee yet another boring family excavation of nameless cousins. His stepparents just thought he fell asleep studying. What they didn’t know didn’t hurt them; in fact, it helped him immensely. “I have my sources.”
“I am sure. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“No, you won’t.”
Fenrir blinked. “What?”
“You’re lying. You won’t come up. You’ll just wait here and hope they forget about you.” Which people usually did. It was amazing what was foremost on peoples’ minds.
“Let them come. I don’t care.”
“Fa...I mean your father will just get soldiers to search for you. Next time you come up for food he’ll be a thunderstorm. You don’t want that, do you?” Somewhere within he did want it, he knew. Anything to deny what smacked too much of his surrender. Even to think it was to state the weakness already evident in that dead anvil of an arm. “Why attract trouble to you when there is no need?”
“What do you care? What do you know?” Fenrir growled, daring, daring.
“I know that being stubborn won’t work forever.” Nothing worked forever. Use the same tactic over and over and the enemy began to see a flaw of predictability. You had to change tactics, save old tactics, give them time so their effect would be almost new. “I know that drawing attention will only keep them close. You want them close? You want them over your shoulder every hour, every day? You’ve got to compromise.” Compromise, too, was a sign of giving way to their intentions, but it had to be done. Sometimes you had to give the enemy something to keep him distracted. “You have to try doing what they want.”
“What they want? Are you blind?” He flailed the dead arm like a limp fish. “What they want is impossible! I can’t be a knight, or a lord, or a swordsman, or an archer or anything! The nobles don’t give prestige to my kind, okay? I can’t be anything!”
LeKym nodded slowly. Free in the night his mind committed itself to dwell upon thoughts such as those, thoughts that were better left alone. They had hounded him from many a night’s sleep, alone in the dark. They still did, sometimes. “Look. Power comes in many different forms. Getting people to obey your orders is one route. There are others.”
“Oh? And how do you suppose I attain this “other” power?”
LeKym squatted to face Fenrir and took a very deep breath, preparing what he was going to say. What can I be? He knew what Fenrir was going to become if the boy heeded his words. Me. There was no other way.
“Listen. Try saying no to your mother for things you don’t want, and suggest something you know she won’t get.”
“That’s stupid.” Fenrir said. “If it’s something I know she won’t get then why bother at all?”
“You tell her you don’t want vegetables, but she gives it to you anyway, doesn’t she?” Careful. Can’t tell him everything. I learned by myself, he must learn by himself.
Fenrir opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it as a light came on in his eyes. He sees it, LeKym knew. He sees the seeds. He’s figuring out how to plant seeds, goddamn him.
“Why are you telling me this? Who are you?”
“I’m...” LeKym clamped his teeth on the truth. Fenrir had enough of that for today. Besides, if everything were told to him he would not think to experiment, to expand his seed-planting skills. “I’m nobody.” And he turned and walked out of his childhood, hating himself and the need of his instructions. There was no other way. A cripple cannot live without dependence. When the time came to leave, Mykel was stewing in his own juices that even a snowflake could raise his wrath.
Shayna met him at a hallway. Belted at the waist was a rapier, probably absconded from the manor’s armory. She almost looked like herself again. Certainly, she sounded like it. “How are you today?”
Not today, Shayna. Please not today. “Fine.” He certainly did not look it. His face was haggard and grumpy; obviously he’d spent the night without sleep. “When do they start moving? I’ll be damned glad to get out of here.”
“Why do you say that? I have not better housed in ages. The Fenrirs are perfect hosts.” Mykel growled something unintelligible, but she went on. “The children are angels. Well, perhaps not Mykel, but he is the younger brother. He will—”
“He is not the younger brother!” Mykel roared. All the horses neighed and danced away from him; there was a circle of space a foot wide between them and the rest of the caravan. “He is not the little brother,” he repeated through clenched teeth. Slowly he realized everyone was looking at them, quietly, at him in particular. Their eyes held a weighing light of authority that whispered of disappointment. Mykel growled, and then put himself back together. “He isn’t,” he said plainly.
“I believe you.” Shayna said softly. Still, he could see the question itching at her: Why?
Hours after the guests left, Mykel Fenrir was in the dining room, still not hungry. Perhaps it was the schooling of his mother’s ministrations, perhaps it was the medicines those stupid doctors were shoving down his throat. Whatever the case his stomach felt bloated with the airy space of eaten food long before the plate was empty. It was just the way things were.
And as always, Mother did not see it that way. “You hardly ate.”
Surprise, surprise. “Yes, Mother. I did not want the green beans.”
“I know you do not like them, but –”
“It is not that I don’t like them, Mother. I am not hungry.”
“Are you sure? The cooks can make more. I can make some, if you don’t like their cooking.”
“No, Mother.” Mentally he shook his head. Why couldn’t she just understand and leave him alone? It was like talking in another language with her. She said one thing and meant another...Something like a sunburst sparked in his mind, a notion half-understood beginning to crystallize. “I do not want the green beans, but I could go for some lamb legs.”
Mother, as expected, frowned. “Dear, you know the sheep are kept for winter storms. We can’t just have them whenever we want.”
“I know that.” It was true. Winter storms were frequent in these parts, beating down crops with snowy h
ammers. It was the reason why lamb was so rare in these parts at wintertime...and so expensive. “Do not worry about it. I will be fine.”
“Okay.” Mother smiled sadly. “I have to go consult with the cooks for the winter stock. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Yes.” He breathed tightly when she left. Finally. Fenrir loved her very, very much, but like many boys he had little experience in expressing it. It was a subtle bond between the two, a notion of kinship and understanding...one that was being mightily strained by her needless requests. You’d think I was a skeleton by her fretting. The entire thing was crazy.
In any case it mattered not. That man...he in a red longcoat and fedora...was wrong. Obviously. Mother did not listen to him before, why would she listen to him now? He was stupid for even trying...he trailed off and gaped.
Mother came into the room with a steaming silver plate cradled in her hands. In that plate were three strips of lamb leg. “Here,” Mother said, putting it before him. “Promise me you’ll eat this.”
“Y-Yeah.” Fenrir stuttered, thunderstruck. “Th-thank you.”
“Just eat it.” Mother said as she left the room. “Make me happy.”
So, Mykel was left alone in the dining room with the meal he knew would never get but somehow had, and had an epiphany. Paths of thought that were always there but never noticed bloomed in his mind, connecting cause to effect, action to reaction, object to object, why to how. He forked a strip of steaming lamb, blew on it, and gingerly tasted it. It was good. The best he’d ever tasted, actually. Must have been from the rarest lamb.
Mykel Fenrir considered what just happened to him and smiled. He understood.
This...this had definite possibilities.
XXXIX
The frontline was a maelstrom of chaos. Arrows rained down upon the poorly defended hills that were the day’s battleground. Swords flashed red as if the steel was still hot from the forging. For those deep in the throes of battle the world had narrowed down to the enemy, rising and falling beneath bloodied steel.
John Stromgald was one of those working like an automaton. He danced through the flood of silver cloaks, ripping, slashing, countering. Soldiers who faced him saw an adamantine will, and they shrank in fear as they died.
Eventually Stromgald saw the members of his unit. Orson was smiling as he tore through the battle with his twin swords. Raptor bore few scars on his face, but for every bead of scarlet his knives stank of blood tenfold. Sylver held back twin sides of Coicro with her whirling blades. And still they came, as they always did these days.
Ten days. Ten days since Robert Jekai was snatched from his tent like a babe from the cradle. Ten days of searching every nook and cranny in a hundred leagues. Ten days since Ronald Jekai took control of the army. A lesser man might see a conspiracy, but Stromgald refused to participate in such slander. There was no room for such in war.
There were more pressing matters to contend with. The Solvicars had sent legions to the secret battle. The hills were overflowing with them. Yet they made little difference. No matter how many Vicars streamed to the front, the Coicro had double their number. The rangers were fighting an uphill battle. A few days more, and the Coicro would overtake them. If only there was another way. Huh?
The Coicro were pulling back. Soldiers in the field watched they retreat and cheered their victory. Stromgald felt no need to celebrate. There was no real reason to pull back. The Solvicar army was beat back at every pass, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. A push and the ranger army would break into a thousand pieces. Why? The only reason Stromgald could think was that the Coicro leader liked to play cat-and-mouse, and that seemed too simple to his ears.
Stromgald was about to turn away when a glint on the horizon caught his eye. Screwing tight the spy-glass at his side the ranger captain focused upon that glint, and clamped his teeth on an oath. “Everyone! Arm the catapults!” The first whistle came arcing through the air, with a thin red slit trailing in its wake. “Brace yourself for impact!”
The ground vomited a deluge of mud and grime from the missile’s kiss. Instantly Stromgald shifted the mud through his shiisaa by minute degrees so that the bulk of the grime missed the intended targets. The exercise devoted so much of the ranger’s concentration that he failed to realize Raptor at his side until the threat passed. Raptor’s face was haggard, his hair tossed about by a strong wind, but the grin he wore told of a man in recent victory. “Well?” Stromgald asked.
“It’s done, Boss. I managed to light them all up. They never saw it coming.”
Stromgald nodded, a smile curving his jaws as he went again to the spy-glass. Little changed, save for now the horizon was alight with the reds and golds of flame. Its flaring roar drove all men near it in a frenzy to escape. In the distance Stromgald could hear the ring of a gong, beating its warning of destruction. He almost laughed aloud. A turn of luck even in this dark hour. Incredible.
Stromgald turned and descended into the bunker where the myriad of soldiers retreated. Farmers all, they bore the dust-slick skin that marked their profession. The cavernous bunker stretched onward to include the three hundred. More than a few were boys barely out from behind their mother’s skirts. Stromgald forced a smile. He was their only hope left.
“Captain?” Suddenly there was a man aside him where there had been mere shadow a breath before. Philip was his name, and aside from Stromgald, the closest thing this rag-tag army had for a leader. “I’ve had the men stockpile the shelters in the Divide. We have enough for two weeks’ worth.”
The Divide was what the villagers called the rising mountain walls behind the village, so pressed tight that a man could barely squeeze through the path, and sideways to boot. The men could retreat if they so wished, and the enemy could do naught but attack the line as it disappeared into the dark, one by one. It was an easy position to guard, and the only reason the farmers were not yet slaughtered.
“How many causalities, Philip?”
“Ten, Captain. Two in the medical ward. They’ll be bed-ridden for a couple of days.”
Stromgald winced at the number. Even twelve men was a serious blow. “The men are waiting at the training room, Captain.”
“Tell them I will be there shortly.”
Stromgald darted through a blanketed hollow in the wall before any other questions were asked. Within he joined his rangers on various chairs. Before he could utter a word, a young boy dashed into the room, cradling a white raven like a babe. Gently he laid the raven atop Stromgald’s desk and dashed out again, the ruffling of the blanket the only evidence of his being there. Sighing Stromgald unpinned the vellum, rolled it out and read it. “No. No, damn it.” He was tempted to crush the vellum in his fist, but that would not help matters any. “Headquarters will be sending twelve platoons to aid us. They will be here in two months.”
“Two months?” Raptor echoed. “What do they expect us to do? Pull a victory out of our asses?”
“I doubt the farmers will last the week, if not two.” Orson’s fingers itched, as though to clench the swords at his back. “I know a place in Arsuna. We could hide there until matters are at rest.”
Sylver’s face grew a deep red. “You would have us flee and leave innocent people to death?”
“Do not judge me, girl. They are going to die anyway. We need not suffer the same fate.”
“I don’t like it,” added Raptor.
Sylver’s glare raked all of them. “John. Do something. Tell them they are wrong.”
“They are not wrong.” Stromgald said slowly. “Most like they will die, and us if we tarry here.” Rising from the chair he looked as old as he felt, scars running white creases in the face. “If this is to be my final battle, then I will face it alone. None of you
need to risk yourself.”
Raptor suddenly looked abash. “Damn it, Boss. Why do you have to pull the guilt on us?”
“I pull out nothing. I cannot abandon people at my convenience. It is your choice to stay or leave. I will not stop you.” Sylver’s eyes already shone with pride. She would follow him, be it hell or high water.
“Then I guess I’ll be coming too. Can’t let you have all the fun.” A brief laugh, then all eyes locked upon Orson’s smoldering form.
“You’re a fool.” Orson snapped. “They are peasants! Farmers! Who cares about them? There are a thousand others like them. I fight demons, Versi! I am not a damn hero in some fairy tale.” For a moment Orson growled under the team’s piercing glares. “Fine. I will play out this farce. But only once.”
Stromgald nodded. He knew there were lines now crossed that could never be mended. Orson had always swayed on the knife’s edge of loyalty. Sooner or later he would fall. But until that time Stromgald had to make the best use of him. That thought disturbed him even more. We are all pawns.
The next few days were busy. Though the river that separated the Coicro from farmer was a lofty defense; Stromgald and the others went to work on improving it. Pits were dug and filled with long wooden stakes. Caltrops were sprinkled in the space between the pits. Hide bows with flaming arrows were set on the hills’ high flanks. Anything and everything the rangers knew of the art of war, they deployed.
Some rangers had specific tasks. To Orson fell the incredible task of teaching boys and men the way of the blade. There was intensity to his eyes, as if he were trying to make them masters of steel within a single day. Stromgald wished it not to be so, but war demanded children to grow up quickly. Perhaps too quickly.
Chased By War Page 39
