Even bloodied as she was, Sylver broke into the perfect smile. “Ten times, actually.”
“No. It’s nine times.”
Sylver’s eyes caught flame. “Ten.”
God, she’s a firebrand. “Nine.”
“What about the blizzard at Noth?”
“That doesn’t count. I was barely scratched.”
“You got into a fight with one of those damned bears.”
“I would have killed it if you –” Too late. Sylver read the silent words in the other’s face.
“If I hadn’t been distracting you?”
“You know, now that you mention it, you are right. I was distracting the bear, and you came in for the deathblow.”
For a moment, a silence that wobbled towards tension. “You are such a shitty liar.” She nudged him with an elbow. “So. Ten?”
“Ten.”
“Good.” Somehow, she snuggled even closer. “You know, I like it when my man admits I’m right.”
Her laughter was the ringing of silver bells. It’s going to be a special night.
“Captain Stromgald? Captain Stromgald?” A sliver of tent-flap peeled away to allow a thin beam of daylight. “Captain, are you awake?” The messenger choked on fear as suddenly there was a very sharp sword pointing at his nose. “Um, perhaps later...”
“Hold.” Stromgald wore nothing but a tattered pair of night-clothes. When Sylver followed suit toweled – with a bare, smooth shoulder – the messenger colored so red Stromgald wondered if he would pass out from embarrassment. He’s just a kid. Wars become longer, and the soldiers become children. It was enough to vomit.
The kid’s crests named him a messenger from Ronald. As much as Stromgald wanted to make Sylver moan until they fell asleep from exhaustion, duty beckoned him forward. No, in truth he wanted to search for Robert Jekai, but Ronald had other ideas. Besides which, duty came first before personal issues. That was a hard lesson to learn, but Stromgald learned it nevertheless. If only he didn’t feel trapped.
His presence quickly became apparent. The silence squirmed of the soldiers’ awe. Stromgald suppressed a sigh. He was no hero, but reality was always at the mercy of imagination and hope. His every motion birthed a mass of rumors. Stromgald longed to vent his wrath, but it would only be adding more fuel to the fire. People hear what they want to hear.
From out of nowhere Raptor was at their side. Stromgald thought to report him elsewhere, but Raptor’s own glance stopped him. Best to have all the help we can get, Boss. Sylver arrived shortly, but the real surprise was Orson’s appearance. Should be fun, whatever it is. Whatever the reason, Stromgald felt better. Nothing like old comrades to bolster courage.
They arrived at the tent. The messenger was too quick to offer pleasantries and too slow to evade Stromgald’s hand. The greenling quivered in fear for a good half-minute before realizing that yes, he was still alive, and yes there was no pain. Gingerly the boy felt a leather bag. Even then his face was long in confusion.
“You have a home somewhere, private?”
“Uh. Uh. Uh. Y-yes. Yes sir!”
A moment of uncomfortable silence. “Well, where is it?”
“Oh. Roosua, sir. Roosua.” The boy saw the flicker of recognition in the ranger captain and saw it as yet another attack. It took five minutes to convince the messenger of his safety.
“Can you ride a horse?” A squeak. “Can you ride a horse?” A nod of the head sent the tears flying. “Good. Gather your saddlebags. Get a horse, go to the gate and get the hell out of here.”
“I-I can’t sir. Grom is on guard duty, and he never lets anyone out. Not even to leak.” A glance at Sylver tied his tongue in half-muttered apologies and excuses of his upbringing. Children, thought Stromgald. They’re just children. Quickly he scribbled a note. The wax that sealed it bore the mark of the greatest ranks of the Solvicar brotherhood. “This should get you past the guard. Just ride like hell to the nearest barge. You hear me? Go home!”
The youth, half-mad with terror, vanished into the maze of defunct bonfires. Stromgald watched him go with a weighted sigh. One kid. Expendable. There would be another one replacing him before sundown; maybe even younger. The irony of this damn circle was rotten.
“You saved him.” Sylver wrapped her arms about the other’s back; her chin resting comfortably on his shoulder. “He wasn’t ready John. He has no place on the battlefield. You did the right thing.” Stromgald craned his neck to meet her gaze. As always, her conviction was infectious. Their kiss hurried the younger soldiers faster, and gave the veteran scowls. Ancient hungers would spread like a plague if loosed so readily. Then they eyed the katana and decided acting tomorrow was a sound tactic. Stromgald strangled the despair and led his team into the quarters of their commanding officer.
Ronald’s tent was only the first example of depravity. Chair and cot was gone. In its place was a huge throne. It did not bother with lion’s heads as arm-rest or a dragon’s fire as the crown. It was a patchwork twin of gold and black and the gossamer white. There was a sharp, tangy smell to the walls. Juices. Home-grown by the feet of younger soldiers fresh from the academies, too green to think for themselves. Crafting luxury when steel should be gripped at the front-line. Then again, perhaps it was a boon after all; a soldier’s best defense was boredom.
“Captain Stromgald. It is a pleasure to see you alive and well. How goes the battle?”
Stromgald delivered the three-week adventures half-heartedly. The man before him looked like Ronald, but there was a myriad of details added to the young Solvicar. A silent authority kept Ronald stiff as a pole, and there was a gleam in the boy’s eyes, fully confident that he could kill with a twitch of the eyebrows. He had grown from a wide-eyed boy to a leader of men during the span of weeks. Whatever means he used to retain such a transformation had left him with a dark side that enjoyed pulling others by the strings of their fears.
“Come, come. You must be tired. Hey!” Raptor froze on the long-necked bottle on the decanter. “Get your filthy hands off that bottle!” Ronald snatched the bottle from the thief’s hands, cradling it like a mother to her child. “I should flog you for your insolence. Be thankful you have a purpose.”
The rangers traded glances. Everyone saw the bottle was only half-full. Apparently, the youth felt he was in some need of liquid courage. The trials of war crushed the spirit of those who made it upon their survival. Ronald seemed to have held the burden for too long. “Is that all, my lord?”
“No. No, Stromgald, it is not. I have received news. That idiot Stesoon has somehow managed to fight through the frontlines with his squadron intact.”
“How many men?”
“Nine hundred.”
Stromgald frowned. To the untrained ear a force of nine hundred might have brought thoughts of victory. In reality, nine hundred was a pittance. Still, Stromgald was relieved. We need all the help we can get.
“When are they due to arrive?”
“They won’t. The birds sent to me told Stesoon has decided to desert.”
It was an effort not to stagger, and to silence the obvious questions. “That is unlikely, milord.”
“Unlikely has nothing to do with it, Stromgald. They were at the valley two days ago, and they disappeared.”
“Maybe they were captured. Were they amid a mission in the valley?”
Now Ronald looked at the ranger as though seeing him for the first time. “You have a history with this man?”
“I do.”
“I had thought to send a squad to chase him. If he gets word of treason to willing ears we will be routed from the frontlines.”
“We will find him, milord.”
“No.” His words caught ablaze. “Do not think I am a child, Stromgald. Your history clouds your thinking. You will not do as I command.”
“My thinking is always to the cause, milord.”
“And if my command is to kill this man? Will you bring me his head if I so desire it?”
Stromgald could feel the chill worming down his team’s spines. “I follow orders to the letter, sir.” A heavy sigh escaped him. “I know this man. If there is some confusion on our alliance, I am sure I can dispel it.”
“You are certain?”
“I swear on the soul of my father, milord. He will join our cause.”
“Very well. Here.” From an inner pocket Ronald drew a tube of parchment and placed it into the ranger’s hands. “The typical message, Stromgald. Make sure he reads it immediately. Time is not on our side.”
Finding Stesoon was easy. Simply know of a man named Jie Wasu, an Eastborn hailing from a specific part of the Eastlands known for exotic wines. Through clandestine brushes of youth, know the merchant had been smuggled to the western lands in exchange for information on opium traders. On a reluctant whim, remember taking refuge in the faux-merchant’s lodgings with a certain brash youth hopelessly in love with the Eastern delicacies of wine and women.
Stromgald sighed. Jie Wasu had passed on two years ago. With no sons to carry on his work his secrets were stolen by a nameless competitor. Stesoon was an excellent warrior but lacked discipline. Once the hooks of addition got into him he was their slave. Stesoon would not abandon the sweetness of eastern culture. And there was only one man left in the whole of the Westlands that served Wasu’s drink. The Blooming Orchid. Stromgald hoped that the scene within would not be as gross as he feared. Then again, this was Stesoon. Gross would be too delicate a description.
The chorus that welcomed the party into the inn was almost deafening. Where normally flimsy-dressed girls danced to the rhythm of flute or zither, instead was a giant of a man, crowned in tangled currents of crimson hair. He was an oddity amidst men for having twice-colored hair; for his beard was black as a starless night. From the dulcet tones of a strangled cat an erotic song was given life, though its words were too disgusting to hear sober.
“Where do you know this guy, Boss?” Raptor shrank at Stromgald’s glare. This was a serious matter, and Raptor’s jocularity was an irritation. The young knifeman raised his hands in mock surrender and shuffled his way to the bar. Sylver and Orson knew enough to follow without question. This next bit would be done better with Stromgald alone.
The song ended after two minutes of bawdry laughter. It would have gone longer if Stromgald did not match the other’s gaze. The audience erupted into jeering as their famous patron disappeared into the rooms beyond...then doubled its strength when petite maidens practiced the writhing that mimicked the throes of passion. Stromgald kept the others to their stools with a flick of the brows, then slid his way through the crowd. No one noticed him, but then again, the idiots were drunk. An oliphant could walk among them without notice.
The dark corridor, lined with lanterns of snake-shape and almost invisible doors, eventually ended at a circular room wide enough for five men connected finger to finger. Flashes of bookshelves and dusty tomes brought the memories of Mykel LeKym and a brief question of welfare. Ruthlessly the ranger captain killed the thought. If he could not focus he was useless as Raptor’s dry wit. Stesoon was not a man to be played as weak.
Stesoon himself waited for Stromgald at an ivory-sculpted, crescent-shaped desk that shuddered under its bearer’s rhythmic drumming. Stromgald groaned inwardly. The drumming meant he was awake. It also meant the fool was broke. In better times those fingers would be multiplying gold by the handful.
“Stromgald.” The word was made more threatening by the deep bass grumble. “It’s been too long. How have you been?”
“Fighting a war.”
“Ah. So you know, then.”
“I know you deserted.”
“Ah, those highborn fools will say anything.”
“I’m not talking to highborn fools. I’m talking to you. What happened?”
“There was this girl.”
“Stesoon.”
“No, it’s not like that, Stromgald. Daughter of an officer. Apparently headquarters thinks I need some “official help” with my unit. I don’t tell them how to do their jobs, do I? Now I have these skinny-necked chamberlains looking over my shoulder. How the hell am I supposed to focus when these idiots are lecturing me? I tell you, Stromgald. It was far simpler in the good old days.”
“You’re not old enough to have “good old days,” Stesoon. Keep going.”
“Yeah, right. Where was I?”
“The officer’s daughter.”
“Yeah. More servant, if you ask me. Spindly little thing in clothes too big. Carried a tower of books everywhere she went. One of my boys thought to play a prank and “borrowed” some pages for the shitter. That guy’s still unconscious.”
“Does this tale have an ending, Stesoon?”
“Fine, fine. The art of story-telling is lost on you, you know that. Sad. Anyway, Isis –”
“Isis?”
“The girl, Stromgald. Aren’t you paying attention?”
Stromgald forced himself to remember that the man had once carried him on his back for a whole fortnight. It didn’t help as much as he hoped. “Okay. The girl. Isis. Go on.”
“Well, some boys got a little drink in her –”
“You mean you got her a little drunk.”
“That hurts, Stromgald. Don’t you have any faith in your old partner?”
“I have faith that you’d fuck every farmer’s daughter within five leagues if you could get away with it. Don’t play games with me, Stesoon. What happened?”
“She started talking.”
“About what?”
“Her daddy, mostly. Saying he looks fine but has a terminal disease in his balls. His balls, Stromgald. There was a doctor on the other side of the continent. Real genius, too. Just a little expensive.
“Here’s the kicker. Dear old dad wouldn’t let her go off on her own to raise some money. I don’t know what she was thinking. She’s too skinny to be a dancer and she sounds like a bullfrog in heat.”
“You lent her the money, and the next day neither she nor her father could be found.”
“Right on the money, so to speak.”
Again, Stromgald reminded himself the man before him had saved his life. It was even less effective the second time. “How much?”
“Forty gold dragons.”
Stromgald didn’t bother with the obvious question. Stesoon was infamous of squeezing a copper into gold if the moment was right. “So, you were seduced by con men. That still doesn’t tell me why you deserted.” Something told him this had to do with the “obvious” question. And he wasn’t going to like the answer.
He was right. He didn’t.
“I was doing some guarding work off the books. Some high-and-mighty scholar was selling some stuff. Really old stuff. Like Gospel old. Once I found out about their value, I hiked up my price. The guy refused and started towards the meet with his buyers. You ask me, he’s rotting in a ditch somewhere.”
“And this concerns your current predicament how?”
“Well...how was I supposed to know the idiot’s cousin was Dmitri Wargslayer?”
Wargslayer. A man infamous for his temper. Almost as much as Stesoon was infamous for greed. His temper was only superseded by his reputation of a close ally of Robert Jekai. “So you deserted to save your own life.”
“Have you seen the Wargslayer? He’s a
giant. He could kill me with a sneeze. I love my country, but I can’t do anything for it if I’m dead.”
Stromgald controlled his breathing. “I have gone through a lot for you, Stesoon. I’ve defended you. I have staked my reputation on you. Lord Ronald will excuse your crimes –”
“Wait a minute. Lord Ronald? The skinny wretch who cried over spilled milk? What happened to Lord Robert?”
“Lord Richard died, Stesoon. He died on a fool’s errand that he would have taken care were he not so trusting to divine providence. Lord Robert has...” Stromgald did not think it proper to say the man was missing. “. . . descended into a deep depression he may not recover from.”
“And that leaves Ronald. Damn.”
“Look. Lord Jekai will forgive you your crimes if you rejoin.” He gave the bigger man the scroll and the seconds to read it. “Wargslayer would not dare lay a finger on you.”
“Well the little whelp always was quick to forgive.” He rose from his seat, his back to the ranger. “Just let me get my things. Then we can start killing some bastards.”
Something was wrong. This was too easy. “Is that why your sword is not on the rack?” The flicker of hesitation was answer enough.
“I’m sorry, Stromgald.”
“No, you’re not.”
Stesoon laughed. “Yeah. I’m not.”
Stromgald remained a statute. “Money?”
“What can I say? The little wretch hates you. Always has. I’m getting lands, sigils and a Lordship, Stromgald. Can you imagine? Me, a lord.”
Once. But no more. “Pity you won’t enjoy it.”
Stesoon laughed and died in the same instant. With all the bluster he was exuding, Stesoon forgot he was facing a jord. Stromgald gestured, and the poison creepers he made to coil about the other’s boots dissolved into the ether.
I shouldn’t have done that. Poison was never a favorite of Stromgald’s. He’d only used it now because Stesoon didn’t deserve the honor of the blade. Then again, perhaps I’m not the best one to judge people. Ronald Jekai was proof enough of that. The signs of his rancor were laid out like a black wound for all to see. Stromgald saw too much of his father to believe it. I wanted to see his father in him. No more, though. No more.
Chased By War Page 47
