“Poor little bastard, then. Doesn’t make any difference. You’re still the most miserable fuck-up I have ever seen. It’s amazing how you ascended to leadership.”
“Shut up.”
“Are you giving me sass?” Though the tone was friendly there was a sudden flatness in the man’s eyes that spoke of cold indifference. “Don’t make me limber my belt, boy.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
“That’s no way to speak to your elders!” The length of rawhide whistled through the air to score a stinging trench from cheek to jaw. Metal orbs inserted into slices of the rawhide made it especially difficult to grasp; the orbs were laced with some sort of herbal glaze. The rawhide was quicksilver, flashing brown and gray with an odd screech. One scar led to two, two to four, to numbers forgotten. The agony blurred time, until finally the child found himself sprawled upon the ground, a gnat swallowed by the shadow of a giant.
“You are a disgrace of the family.” He twitched. Looking upward he saw the shadow twist and roil, gaining substance and shade, until the appearance matched the newfound voice.
“Father.”
“You are my curse. The oracles said you would have a great destiny. I had such high hopes.” The words pierced the nothingness of their surroundings, flooding with color. A night of the full moon. The chirp of crickets was lost amidst the heady roar of fire. “Do you know what I did?” Cold metal hissed upon a warm throat, lifting it upward. A temple sagged under the weight of its plaster bones, the crashing moan of fallen timber. A temple. The temple. The oracles’ temple. And there, its poles forming a kind of gate to the temple’s inner sanctum, were the castrated bodies of three women: one young, one old, and one ancient. The Oracles of Kala’men’soon.
“They paid the price of failure. As will you!”
The sword rang from the sheath, its blade a pillar of blazing white reflected in the light of the full moon...and then everything was gone.
Ronald jerked from slumber. Too close. With each nightmare came a slight delay, stopping the dream before its abrupt end. Little by little, the seconds added up. Ronald never seen the blade descend, not this close. Soon the nightmare would reach fruition. If you die in a dream, are you dead in truth? A familiar question. One that offered no answers.
“I can offer an answer, should you desire it.”
Ronald came to his feet in a strangled roar. Aeon, the flame-haired magician. The means of which how he had slipped unseen from his army and attend that detestable mockery of a Royal Court and back, all in one night. An ally. For now. “What babble do you speak, woman?”
“Your dreams. They have been haunting you of late, yes?”
Ronald squirmed under Aeon’s knowing smile. “It is just a dream. Every man has them.”
“Yes. But does every man survive them?”
Something in Ronald hardened. “Leave me. I’ll have none of your games.”
“As you wish.” An eyeblink and she was gone, as though she were never there.
Bitch. Any answer she might give, however willingly, would be tainted. How am I to know that she is not causing these dreams? Any Weirwynd capable of her feats surely had some mastery in realms beyond the mortal coil. It was a simple plan, one that scratched his pride somewhat fierce.
To shrug off the unease Jekai strolled along the battlefields, where veteran warriors taught green youths how to defend themselves. Or to use them for target practice. Whatever mood struck the teachers. Ronald watched the group from a distance, waiting. When finally the person he sought started down a nearby path, young Jekai snatched him into shadow.
“Whatza doing...unhand me brute...” Ronald gawked at the other’s breath. The man had to have been drinking whiskey into the wee hours of the dawn to have the liquor cling to his teeth like that. This could be a problem. Hiding the drunken fool in a place where no one would find him, Ronald slipped into the warm ring of a camp-fire. Again the young Jekai felt disgust. The ease of stealth was parallel to the incompetence of its soldiers. They might as well have painted bulls-eye targets on their asses, so loud and crude were their belches. The chef was slightly aware of an intruder in his domain, but his advanced age convinced him it was but a trick of the mind.
Once Ronald had the items on hand – wine with an adequate supply of salt – he began the silent trek back to the edge of the encampment. The drunk was snoring lightly; Ronald allowed himself a smile as he poured the salt into the wine. This would kick him in the ass, for sure.
It did. The drunk lurched upright, hacking and wheezing at the disgusting salt so forcefully swallowed. The expelling cleaned up the hangover. “You bastard. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Waking you up, Sir Clastor.”
“Don’t sir me boy. I was having this beautiful dream in a harem.” Blasted sober, Clastor’s eyes latched upon Ronald’s face like a steel trap, hunting for weakness.
Ronald returned the stare, all the while doubting if this man was the right candidate he needed. The swordsman was not of his father’s circle. Even though he faced six men without a wound in return, he was still within the shadow of his master, the fabled Robert de Channouse. The years after the mentor’s death did not thin that shadow, and Clastor knew it. It was the reason why Ronald saw the greed light up the other’s eyes at the small pouch of coins dumped into his gnarled hands. “I need a victory. In front of the men. I need to show them I am not a child.”
“You want to fix the battle.” Without breaking his gaze, the pouch of coin jumped and jingled. “I need more...persuasion for a stunt like this.”
This drunken boatswain dares to challenge me? With an effort, he forced the rage back into the knot in his stomach. “Here.” A cloak-pin in the shape of a deer’s head, an heirloom for generations beyond number, took its place aside the buttery pouch. The faux-swordsman bit the pin before slipping it within the purse. “Very well. You’ll have your duel. When would you have it?”
“After breakfast. I want everyone to know what is going on.” An idea sparked. “I will have it whispered that my absence was spent with you, training. Do not patronize me, or play the fool. It must seem real.”
“I have been using a sword before you were a seed of your father’s manhood. Do not barter with me like a fool.”
“Very well, then. At morning.”
“At morning.” Smiling at his anticipated victory, Ronald stole back to his tent. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow. Then everybody would see he was his own man.
Rationalism came to him upon waking. Oh, the little plan wasn’t altered in the slightest. Ronald knew all too well he needed to keep his emotions on a tight leash. There were already too many of his father’s campaigners around, too many that saw him as a child. They might prattle on congratulations and well-wishes, but they could not hide their true feelings. Ronald Jekai didn’t have the stuff to be a leader. He had to make himself less a boy in their eyes and more a man. The coming swordplay was a simple farce; elevating himself would be the true trial.
So Ronald burned all boyishness away at the training yard. The boiled leather he wore was the twin of the men, save for the nicks and scrapes of battle-badges. At first Ronald thought to include such on his raiment, but the memories of “generals” persuaded him otherwise. Such officers were living, breathing shams. They won their medals through coincidence and play-acting. Ronald would get spits and glares rather than respect and authority. Thus, his jerkin was as smooth as the day it came from the tanning vats.
“Sir? Are you lost?”
Ronald frowned. Clastor was nowhere in sight, and sweat began to bead down his back. Curious eyes began to linger on him. Curious would grow to confusion, and confusion would strengthen Ronald’s weakness in the eyes o
f the men. What was Clastor thinking with this little stunt? I’m going to –
“Lord Jekai?”
Ronald blinked, and for a brief instant believed that perhaps his father had recovered from his despair. It was only after a full spin of the yard – and a ducking of the head to hide his reddened cheeks from the wary eyes surrounding him – that he noticed the youngling for the first time. And the small scroll he carried in his even tinier hands.
First things first boy, Clastor’s scrawl was undeniable. Defeat my apprentices. Then you get to face me.
Anger boiled in Ronald’s veins. The lecherous piece of slime thought he cradled the world in his palms? By some twisted thinking, he thought himself the author of this little enterprise? Clastor emerged from a tent and took a place on one of the many benches bordering the perimeter. By all accounts he looked strangled from last night’s drinking, but there was a glint in the eye for one who knew what signs to look for, and Ronald knew them all. Boiled? Now the anger set the blood afire.
“Sir? Would you give me the honor of a duel?”
You? The small boy was Clastor’s apprentice? He glanced at Clastor and ground his teeth at the other man’s smug nod. A child. I’m fighting a child.
“Milord? A duel?”
Teeth grinding, Ronald nodded. They swapped out their steel for wooden practice blades, walked the necessary distance to the training circle, took up defensive positions, and burst into action. Avalanche Roars Down the Mountain. The Viper Stabs the Ankle. Dragon Sweeps Its Tail. Ronald danced away from the opening attacks, though the Viper left him dealing all his weight of the back leg, leaving him exposed to the Dragon’s Tail. Ronald evaded the attack by mere inches.
The bastard’s playing games. Ronald did not need to glance past the acolyte to know his master’s beaming face, nor the disdain of the other soldiers surrounding him. There was only one course of action. Attack.
Baiting the Trap. Blurred Quicksilver. Hornets Swarm from The Sides. Ronald’s blade hammered the acolyte’s sides, going back and forth so quickly that the nameless soldier spent precious minutes twisting his wrists from side to side to take the brunt of the force.
Stabbing the Heart.
Ronald smiled. It was the opportunity he needed. He watched as the acolyte’s face beam at the presence of a gap in the former’s defense. The wooden sword plunged through the gap straight at the heart...which was why the acolyte found himself over-extended when Ronald twisted away and came back with a heavy blow at the acolyte’s forearm. Ronald’s smile widened when the wooden blade fell from numbed fingers; widened even further when two other squires dragged the crumpled apprentice away.
What? Ronald wanted to scream to the crowd. Wanted it, needed it, but the words would cause more trouble than they were worth. Did you think the great Robert Jekai would neglect his child of an education? The exhilaration was marred only with regret. He had revealed his secret too soon. It would have come to light eventually; still a secret held much power. Oh well. Ronald decided to curtail this revelation with the second acolyte Clastor sent out. And the third. And the fourth. By the time Clastor joined the melee a thousand throats chanted his name.
Ronald. Jekai. Like lightning rolling from thunder. Ronald. Jekai.
Ronald. Jekai.
Ronald! Jekai!
Ronald! Jekai!
Clastor made a good show. Their steel sang a rhythmic chime of sword against sword. Sparks sprayed from the kiss of steel against steel. They danced around the dead cairn, forward and back, back and forward, giving no quarter.
Bird’s Nest Teeters on Weak Branch. Grumpy Dragon Rises from Slumber. Fly Ensnared by Spider’s Web.
Ronald almost laughed. This was far too easy. Balancing China Plates. Thunder of Horse-Hooves. Twig Snaps Underfoot.
Harder now. Quicker. Deer Bisected by Arrow. Butcher Licks His Blade. Sunlight Banishes the Shadow.
Harder still. The battle could not be too easy, lest for suspicion. Ronald matched the other’s techniques. Fangs of The Rose. Asp Strikes Like Lightning. Rage of Hungry Predators.
Face smooth of all emotion, Clastor began to push forward. Frenzy of A Rabid Wolf. Cutting the Jaguar’s Laugh. Night Comes to Slay the Sun.
Every little motion was a heartbeat quicker. The heartbeat became a flicker, then quicksilver. Bit by bit Ronald fell back to defense. The blades locked with a clack of wood on wood. The men waged war, not with the struggle of breaking the hold, as one might think. No. They dueled with their eyes. Their hearts. Their souls.
Ronald fought the urge to pant, dancing around so that no one could see the apple-red of his cheeks. “What do you think you are doing?”
Clastor’s eyes became narrowed slits, with curving lips open to bellow a dry chuckle. “I require...more compensation for this mummer’s farce.” Plumes of dust rose from the scudding of boots, joined by the scrape of leather against dirt. Each man fought to break the rhythm the other held.
“You are insane. Have you forgotten your loyalties?” Snake Swallows the Sparrow.
“I was loyal to your father. You are a mere imitation who must skulk the shadows to attain the men you are leading.” Bear Lashes Out with Talons.
Ronald barely brought his steel to defense. Clastor’s Silverfish Mocks the Bear spun from the Vicar’s steel when Ronald changed the last of the Talons into Hammer Upon the Anvil. Snicker-snap, and the leather tunic fell in twin pieces to rest upon the ground; the small line of blood was a poisonous flame scratching at the ribs. An inch further, and the chaplain would be whittling a fresh coffin.
With a grim smile on his face, Clastor pressed the attack. Hornet Stings the Eye. Roar of The Wyvern. Circle of Ravens.
It was all Ronald could do to defend himself. Ant Scurries from Anteater. Whimper of The Pup. Child’s Buttered Fingers.
Every attempt was parried, only for Clastor’s blade to spring from nowhere to kiss at jaw and forearm and legs. The bastard returned to the wounds, once shallow, now deeper with every slice. The Vicar was a mural of bleeding gold. Damn you, you smug bastard. Another clumsy parry, but it was enough for Ronald to slip into the other’s defenses. One tap to ribs, sword-hand and a crack so fierce across the jaw the practice sword shattered against the pliable flesh. Savage joy thrilled through Ronald’s blood as the other crumpled to the ground, laboring to stand and not sway about like a scarecrow caught in the wind. The encampment cheered as the sword-master gave a formal bow. The crowd’s jubilation was thunder rolling across the camp; thus they assumed it was congratulations that Clastor whispered into his opponent’s ear.
“Ten pieces of gold. No,” Clastor stroked a jaw already beginning to blacken. “Make it fifteen.”
Ronald slipped his way through the crowd. The other Vicars were too drunk with astonishment to pay any attention to their faux-leader. They all loved Clastor. First Richard, then Clastor. How long was it going to take? How long until men would see him separate from his father’s shadow? Father could shit on the Queen’s lap and he wouldn’t even touch a jail cell. Jail. That’s exactly how Ronald felt: a prison of impossible expectations, forever small next to the giants of his heritage. Clastor. Gold did not stretch so far as it once did.
As though summoned Clastor ducked under the tent flaps. “You have the gold?”
“Yes I do.” Ronald took a short swig of brandy. “Remarkable. One of my father’s favorites. 1863 Redden. From the Nailati vineyards itself.”
Clastor’s mouth watered. Wine was in short supply, and when it was not the merchants only had sour, cheap wine that boiled the stomach. Ronald emptied his glass and filled two more mugs. “Of course, you understand, I do not have the gold on me. But here.” The pin that fastened his cloak was tossed to Clastor’s hand. “Th
at should cover the first five gold pieces, will it not?”
“Yes. Yes, it would.” A sip of brandy, rolling it about the mouth, peeling away the soft warmth, sending sweet fire racing along the veins. “In the meantime, I would prefer better conditions. No more sleeping in ditches. I get bedding and tent, same as you. I want to be far away from the front lines. I don’t even want to hear horse-hooves.”
Ronald grunted. “I would have half of that, were I capable. But you are Clastor. If you squirrel away from the battles, people will talk. You are a symbol, and symbols are better seen than puzzled. Besides, you do not want to be thought a coward by your own faction, do you?”
Clastor snorted. “Almost I see it. Your father had a glib tongue, as well. You are correct. We are paired in this condition. I will join the battle only if you announce me your right-hand man the morning after. Is that acceptable?”
“Acceptable? Come now, Clastor. We both know I have no choice in the matter, anyhow.”
“Smart. Just like your father.” He downed the last of the brandy in one gulp, knuckled his heart in goodbye and disappeared amidst the camp of holy-men. Ronald finished his own drink, letting the brandy tingle his blood. Almost in a dozen places had he feared the ruse would fail. He had to ground the nervousness to heel the entire time. And Clastor did not know the ruse put upon him, now, until it was too late. Many times in his youth, the tragedies spoke of that line. Until it was too late. Yes; this matter mirrored the stories exactly. Until it was too late.
Ronald allowed himself a slight chuckle before retiring. Come the morrow there would be quite the show to watch.
XLV
The Coicro wobbled drunkenly for a few steps, its mouth open in disbelief. Words were lost in the torrent of blood that spilled from his throat. Only when the Coicro dropped to its knees, and then to the ground, did Stromgald see the foot-long knife buried in his back. Sylver, her body a bloody sheen, made a full five steps before shaking. Stromgald rushed to catch her, swept her legs to the crook of his elbow. “You saved my life.”
Chased By War Page 46
