Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  Raptor, too, had a teacher’s duty. After those who had passed Orson’s scrutiny now came to him, where he taught how to become one with the shadows, to slip through a crack no wider than a hand-span. And when he was not teaching children to be assassins, he was doing what he did best: becoming a ghost to spy on the enemy. Often, he returned to the camp sick with ill news. The Coicro swelled with new ranks. Stromgald bore the news calmly, but within he seethed. How could such men arrive, day after day after day? It was impossible.

  Impossible is a word used by frail men. Impossible is a word used by others who cannot achieve their dreams. Impossible is an illusion of guilt to lighten the minds of those who keep the firebrand of failure deep within; its burning only sated by casting blame on others.

  Father. It was maddening how the old man was right in death. How many times had the young Stromgald stabbed his father with accusations? How many times had he hurt his father with young defiance? So many unneeded arguments. So many times that love blackened to hate. If there was but one regret in the whole of his life, Stromgald punished himself for not meeting his father one last time at his deathbed. Father died thinking I hated him. Even here, after all these years, the harsh truth brought tears to his eye.

  Watch over me, Father. I will not fail your virtues. I promise.

  As Stromgald knew all too well, morale despaired. The men tried to hide it at first with false smiles and forced cheering. Each day the veil tore away, inch by inch. They needed a victory, something to tell them they had a spark of hope, something to tell them this bloody battle was just.

  Dark gray clouds shrouded the moon when the rangers began their mission. Years of hunting taught Stromgald to track anything. The wind carried the enemy’s scent; the dirt, marked by the shuffles of many feet. Only one pair of tracks was human, he noted. The others...he didn’t want to think about the others.

  Finally, at the end of the trail, hidden in the peaks and valleys that began the Asher Mountains, the company found a crack in the canyon wall. The tracks ended there. Raptor nodded; this was the place. A flicker of fingers and the rangers split up, disappearing into the dark. It took only a moment for the ranger captain to scale the canyon wall and found himself atop a cliff overlooking a vast canyon, crawled on his belly to the edge and looked down. What he saw both excited and disturbed him.

  The canyon was aglow with the firelight of a hundred bonfires, throwing shifting shadows upon the walls. A knot of silver-cloaked men surrounded each fire, gnawing on a chicken bone or enjoying drink or curled upon a sleeping mat. Stromgald frowned as he scanned the valley’s holdings. This was most certainly the Coicro camp, bulging at the seams of the canyon. Something like familiarity clawed at Stromgald’s brain. The men, the way they walked, the way they carried themselves – he had seen it before. But what? From where?

  Crawling like a worm the ranger captain followed the trail of tents along the spine of the valley. Hour by hour they grew more exotic, simple sheepskin to hardened leather and finally silk, the last so sheer it could have been cut by a fingernail. Stromgald noted their positions, but otherwise ignored them. Gilded tents were not his concern.

  It was easy to ambush three unwitting guards; the sudden drop of a pebble led the man deep into the darkness of the mountain’s crannies. A muffled yell later, then silence. The ranger captain emerged in the silver cloak, hunching to disguise his height. The deception worked, needing only a flash of fingers to convince other Coicro he was deep in their cause. How long it would last was a thought Stromgald dared not explore.

  Then the ranger captain came up short. That man...he was just another Coicro swathed in silver cloak. But the face hiding in the cowl...It can’t possibly be...Immediately Stromgald started after.

  At first, he kept his wits about him. He was just another Coicro amidst others, keeping to solitude against the wiles of the night. But if he were indistinguishable, so was the man in which he hunted. Smooth, seamless motion became a maze of shoulders and elbows. More than one Coicro gave a snarl towards Stromgald’s silver-shrouded back.

  At the trenches, he paused. Cordoned off from the main camp, the area was ripe with the tents reserved for greater officers. And the pursued entered a tent half-again the height of a tall man, flecked with white goose-down. A very great officer, indeed. Then again, if the man was who Stromgald thought it to be, it made sense. Nothing but the best for George Tajool. If it was him and not just a trick of the mind.

  But how to get in? Stromgald’s eye swept the area before settling on the horses. Set away from the camp-fires, the ranger captain saw a thin line of space between the valley wall and the tent’s nether edge. Casually, like he had every right to be, Stromgald made his way to the horses, patting them down, rubbing their flanks. Stromgald chanced a look and found Coicro eyes focused elsewhere, then slipped into the narrow edge and made his way to the back of the tall tent. Soundlessly Stromgald made a slit in the brocade material with a dagger and waited.

  Luck was with him. The tent’s owner – he has a name, dammit! – had pinched the light of his lantern and swathed himself in his blankets. Stromgald slipped through the slit with all the silence of a jungle predator, navigated his way through the labyrinth of discarded items – another claim; he was always sort of a mess – put the dagger on the sleeper’s throat.

  The pursued stiffened immediately, though the shudder ceased at Stromgald’s rasp at his ear. “Remain silent if you wish to live.”

  “Stromgald?”

  Damn. The voice decreed the truth. But what of the face? Stromgald had to be sure. He worked his mind for a moment, and the gold hell-glow of his Weirwynd eyes emitted a pale glow in the darkened tent, and the ranger captain got his first look at the captured. “George.”

  It was him, all right. Even with the years between them, there was no mistaking the long, crusted scar running from just below the right eye all the way down to his chin. Tajool. A high-ranking member of the Solvicar. Declared dead at the Battle of Noctis; his men, the 1111th Cavalry Unit – one of the largest and professionally-trained Solvicar units – disappeared like smoke. Stromgald knew well; he’d been there. Mind full of memories, Stromgald let his knife fall from the throat. “Why, George?”

  Tajool rose, hand coming to the defense of the throat as if to convince himself of its absence. “I’m three-and-sixty years old, John. I’ve spent my life on the battlefield. And where has it gotten me? No lands to call my own. No wife to warm my bed. Not even a penny to my name.”

  “But to betray the kingdom...”

  “I’ll be a man of means, John.”

  A man of means...then Stromgald knew the question he should have realized first. His sword slipped from the sheath, and Tajool backed away despite himself. “You’re not the only one, are you George?” A moment of silence was all the answer necessary. “All of them. Your own men. The 1111th Cavalry Unit.”

  “It doesn’t matter, John. None of it matters. Not for you.” As if on cue, the sharp clicking of crossbow bolts pierced the gloom. “You’re surrounded, John. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.” Tajool took the katana – something a young, fire-headed Stromgald boasted would only happen over his cold dead body – and guided the ranger from the tent. Not surprisingly, the rest of his ranger team stood trussed up like holiday turkey. They had not come easily. Blood marked their faces, and the snarls of defiance twisted their lips, but trussed they were, with their weapons making a small hill of steel.

  Tajool made a stand amidst the captured. “It doesn’t have to be this way. It’s just me and my men. Join us. We’re on the winning side, and there’s enough money for everyone.”

  Stromgald spit. “No you won’t, George.” His voice rose to capture them all. “Why pay turncoats money when they could just kill you and keep your share?” A quick
elbow to the ribs bent the ranger double, though not enough to miss the thunderstorm on Tajool’s face.

  “You did this to yourself, John.” To the rest of the betrayers he said, “We will see how clever you are on the gallows!” Jubilant cheers all around as the rangers were bound like turkeys. It was surprising how an execution could rouse morale.

  There was little to be said of the gallows. It was a cruel, barren spot of rock, sporting a much-gnarled piece of wood. It was a terrible place to die. Stromgald felt the eyes of his companions burning him. Please John. Get us out of here. You’ve got a plan, Boss, right? Right? You better do something soon Stromgald or I’ll strangle you with my own hands. Stromgald could not bring himself to match their gazes. There’s nothing I can do. Forgive me.

  Suddenly a dull roar filled the air, a roar that every soldier knew and feared. The roar of an army charging for a melee. The rumble of a thousand feet climbing the valleys and canyons of a rocky battlefield. Arrows pelted the camp, and for once John Stromgald felt the need to whoop in victory. He finagled a knife from his captor, severed the bonds of the others, and he could see the same light in their eyes that were in his. Reinforcements. Greenling farmers. There were worse saviors to be had.

  Stromgald quickly banished the surprise. Tajool was nowhere to be found. Where are you? The answer came to him almost immediately. His personal tent. The last resort. The final curtain hiding the endless atrocities of that damned soul. Stromgald entered the inner sanctum blade-first. “It’s over, George.”

  Tajool froze over the bags he’d been stuffing, the rim glowed with the shine of many a precious bauble. “It doesn’t have to be this way, John. Just let me go.”

  “I can’t do that, George. You know I can’t.”

  “I’m not going to a dungeon, John. Not with thieves and murderers. I deserve better than that.”

  “You deserve nothing, George. Not after what you did.” Stromgald’s eyes followed Tajool’s, right to the katana on a tri-leg table. It was a whisper away from Tajool’s hand. And suddenly the light in the betrayer’s eyes made sense. “Don’t do it, George.”

  But he did. He went for the katana, and then he went towards Stromgald’s heart. But he was slow. Fat. Desperate. Stromgald planted his knife in the traitor easy as could be. In the heart, where he wouldn’t feel any pain. The ranger captain bent to retrieve his katana, and then with his free hand closed George’s stillborn eyes. Everyone has a price, he thought. Even someone as strong as George Tajool. What will mine be?

  John Stromgald left the tent. The enemy would burn where they lay, and there was a war to win. Yet for all that the question chased after him. What will mine be?

  XL

  “Are you sure this looks right?”

  “Yes milady. You look absolutely splendid.”

  Not according to the mirror. The dress was too purple, the lace too puffy, and the corset was so unbelievably tight Christina swore she heard a rib crack. Tonight was important, and a united front would go a long way towards peace. She only hoped it would be enough.

  “Knowledge is the ultimate weapon,” said wise old Karoi, hours before he died in his sleep. “You can forge a sword. You can enforce the law. Knowledge chooses the hand that wields the sword. Knowledge teaches when to obey the law. Remember that, little one. Remember.”

  Christina was six years old when Karoi died, and the words resonated throughout the years, as true today as they were all those years ago. “These rubies are rather heavy. Bring my emeralds. They go well with my eyes.”

  “As you wish milady.” It was a strange sight, some of the handmaids leaving while others stood. Stranger still that the departed left through different doorways. Whomever was watching –and they were watching; Christina had no doubt of that – would gain no spying today. Granted, the Queen didn’t know who was watching, but all it took was one dedicated ear. It was simply easier to assume the worst.

  The handmaidens that remained made her own retinue a glowing testament to those bright-eyed, dim-witted cousins that nipped at her heels throughout childhood. These handmaidens were the creatures of the former queen, and the part they played was a hereditary duty above emotion or creed. They’re the same as the cousins. They would have rebelled, just like all the others. They had to be stopped before they stopped her. Christina lost no sleep over them when they died.

  “Ruling a kingdom is not like ruling a henhouse,” said wise old Karoi. “You cannot just point at a man and expect things to be done. People bend the knee because they fear the wrath of their superiors. Fear works very well, but only to a point. A man will watch prizes passed over to another, and wonder what the difference between them is. Curiosity leads to resentment. Sooner or later, the hate will emerge.”

  Thus, the Queen’s Hands. Most times the queen could mingle amidst potential allies and charm them with hints of friendship or knighthood. But to do that was to place the Queen straight in the middle of things, making them the most vulnerable to secret plots and endless agendas. It was far better to let those who sought favor come to her instead of the reverse. The maids of the Hands were formed for that very reason, to offer those whispers of power, thus distract usurpers so that the Queen was free to charm supporters when royal presence was necessary for persuasion. The Hands was the most known secret amidst kingdoms, and yet so shrouded in rumor that no one could know a Hand from a scullery maid.

  So, Christina pinned on the snowflake earrings, fastened the wide length of emeralds about her neck, and prepared for battle.

  She smiled when Nathan met her at the foyer’s doors and frowned at the person walking with him. Timothy was lean and wiry in his soldier’s garb, as drab and lifeless as his unflinching eyes. Christina bristled. She had explained the tactics of their shared colors, but his wit fell short past the Companion’s death. By setting himself apart from the others the mysteries of his origin would be the gossip when men should be roused to battle.

  “Announcing Her Majesty Queen Zephyr, High Prince Nathan Zephyr, and...” the servant paled under the faux-Timothy’s cold eyes. Christina felt like screaming. Already the dead man was costing her dearly. “Lord-General Timothy Starborn.” The resulting wave of gossip allowed the Queen to examine the surroundings.

  The Great Hall was too damn small. There were so many people it was a wonder the walls weren’t bursting. Adding to the clutter was the banners pinned so cautiously along the walls. There were twenty-four of them, one for each House, which in turn owned a table specific to each noble’s taste and culture. In fact, the wine served was handpicked from the wine rarest to each region. It was disgusting to witness the brutish way the dignitaries slurped their cups in one gulp and expected more. With such do we defend the realm.

  The guests came like locusts, as Christina knew they would. She recognized the closest ones as Madame Leona and Elenore Dracut. The way they flapped their fans suggested a childhood spent in whorehouses. No one said that publicly, of course. Their husbands, while instantly famous and forgettable, were the heads of their famous and forgettable empires.

  “Why, it is so good to see you, My Grace.” Leona wasn’t a real madam, but she did have a whore’s talent for lying. One could barely hear the rancor beneath the words. “And the little Prince. You two make a delightful pair.”

  A better pair than you and that shriveled raisin you call a husband. Christina smiled instead and immediately fell into the compliments and suggestions of the political tug-of-war. But only Leona, Christina realized. Elenore had other ideas.

  “Where have you been hiding this dashing man?”

  It took an iron effort of will to keep the blood in her face. “I apologize for my lack of manners. This is Timothy, my brother.”

  “Your brother? Why, I never knew you had a brother. And a handsom
e one at that. You two could be twins.”

  We were. But that Timothy died twelve years ago. This one’s just a monster.

  “Why do you stay in the shadows, milord? A beauty such as you deserve to be noticed.”

  She paled under the glare of his eyes, and the ice in his words. “You are a whore. You lived on a farm until you were nine. A tribe of bandits was running from the headsman when they found your household. They killed your parents and raped your sisters before selling them to the slave auctions. You found a rich man who went by the name of the Goblin. He had a penchant for little girls. You fucked him so convincingly that he smuggled you into the household, where his father was days before his wedding. You fucked his son, planted a dagger in his back and framed the scullery maid he had replaced you with. Then you got the father drunk and fucked him. He thought it was his child you bore, and you killed him, too. Through your child, you grew up in court, where eventually she became recognized as a woman of power.” Timothy tilted his head to whisper in her ear. His eyes were glints of ice. “Her name is Olive Frank. You don’t want to play games with me, whore.”

  Elenore was paler than milk, paler than the moon. Her fingers shook and her face was long with overwhelming horror. Her big brown eyes kept blinking. With a swallow of air, she turned and marched from the chamber with a stiff back. Leona met her at the door, when a whisper shared shriveled the noblewoman as if she’d been lashed as well. Together they disappeared from the party.

  Christina watched her go, a shiver going through her. A part of her relished the fear on their faces. Knowledge was her strongest weapon, ever at her side as she blossomed to adulthood. Yes, the taste of that exquisite fear filled her like honey, and for a moment Christina was herself again.

  Until she looked down. Until she saw Nathan’s innocent face, crumpled in confusion. She wanted to drop to her knees. She wanted to hold him and hug him until the confusion evaporated into that beaming little smile so innocent it almost hurt to gaze upon. Too many eyes, though, and too many tongues. “Uncle Timothy was...Was...He was telling a story. A horror story.” Think Lansplex. Think! “He’s a...a bard! He tells stories for a living.”