by Chogan Swan
Looking at the cups on the table, the commander's face twitched with what might have been amusement or suspicion then he switched his gaze to Balaak. But, of course, nothing would be read there.
“Choose your refreshment, Commander,” said Balaak, his voice low and smooth, “the one on the right is, perhaps, more strongly spiced.”
“Thank you,” replied the commander, reaching for the cup on his left. “I find too much spice troubles my stomach.”
“When you are older, you may find that without spice you taste nothing at all,” said the necromancer, reaching for the other. As he expected, the commander took the mug with his right hand. Balaak used his left and—careful not to let the wine slop up to the rim—took a sip from the untreated side. The commander, warming his hands on the mug, also took a sip, after seeing that Balaak drank.
The necromancer smiled behind his cup.
“You are a cautious man, Commander. I admire that. It is a valuable trait in a military man. I have been watching you and I have seen many traits that could be valuable to me.” The necromancer paused and took another careful sip from his cup.
“By the way, Commander, if you are to be valuable to me, perhaps I should know your name. In general, I don't bother with such details from a commander, but I have a much higher post in mind for you.”
“Kilan, sir,” replied the commander.
Balaak stiffened; the name startled him, but he had no idea why. The name held no significance for him. Nonetheless, a shiver had gone through him. No doubt, it was just the damned cold and fog.
“Well, Kilan, as I was saying, a man with your talents for command would be valuable to me. The auxiliary troops we've picked up along the way are, at present, not much of an asset. Their discipline is lax. I need to appoint someone who can whip them into shape in a month, and I do not have the time to do it myself.”
Balaak put down his cup and rubbed his hands together; they made a rustling sound like a snake shedding its old skin. “But I am like you, Kilan, a cautious man, and I am not in a position to trust anyone too far. So I cannot give you power without a guarantee.”
Kilan cleared his throat. “I am not sure what sort of guarantee you mean, sir.”
Balaak waved his hand. “It is nothing out of the ordinary. Commander, have you ever executed a man who disobeyed orders?”
“Of course.”
Balaak smiled. “The guarantee I speak of is the same. If you were to disobey my directives, your life would be forfeit. But, since I am a cautious man, I make certain there is no way to flee from my punishment.”
“I don't understand, sir,” said Kilan.
Balaak stood and went to a small, locked box on a stand by his bed. He brought out a bottle of amber liquid and put it on the table. “You will need a small sip of this in about an hour. A sip before sleep each night and one in the morning will make sure you feel no ill effects. If you neglect to drink, you will find yourself quite weak the next day, and scarce able to move on the second. The third day, you won’t move at all, unless someone pours this down your throat. The fourth day you will be dead. I suggest you don't skip any doses. The symptoms take time to go away, especially after the fourth day.”
A cold ghost of a smile flickered across Balaak's face. “At such time as we are ready to part company on good terms, I will provide you with the permanent antidote. In the meantime, I am assured of loyalty, and I know already you can do a competent job.”
Kilan put down the cup and leaned forward to grip the table. Balaak stilled his breath; this was the crucial point. Now that the man realized he was poisoned, his panic might cause any type of behavior.
But Kilan only took a deep breath and pocketed the amber bottle. “Power always comes with a price. It seems I've paid it early. I will have a free hand with the auxiliaries?”
“Of course, General Kilan, I trust you without reservation,” said Balaak. The gloating smile did not appear on his face, but it was in his voice.
“Is that all then, sir?”
“For now. Do not disappoint me, Kilan, and the rewards will be great. A messenger will deliver your staff of rank and seal for written orders later tonight. Do you need a scribe?”
“Few of my officers can read, sir, but if you need to send me missives, I can do well enough in Kergish script.”
The necromancer rubbed his lips. Kergish script was the common lettering in the north, but it bespoke the rudiments of an education. Perhaps this man was something other than a mercenary chief once, but that was of no consequence. All that mattered was his ability to do the tasks assigned. “Until later then,” said Balaak.
Kilan fastened his cloak, took his sword from the guard and headed back to his tents.
Balaak tossed the mugs into the fire, the poison would burn off, and someone could clean them later.
He called for the sergeant and ordered him to bring in the tardy messenger. When they returned, the messenger needed support from two of the sergeant's underlings. Balaak examined the messenger.
“I count twelve marks, Sergeant. Do you not recall I mentioned a different number?”
The sergeant moved his mouth, but no sound came out. Balaak sneered. The Sergeant, excited during the whipping, had forgotten to count. Balaak shook his head in disgust.
“Since you take it upon yourself to give as many lashes as you wish, I will give him a whip and he can return the favor. Since you used the lash on his legs and severed muscle tissue, he is no longer useful as a messenger. You will exchange positions and start by carrying a message to commander Borutam. If you run fast, you should be there by dawn. Tell him to strike off two of your fingers and return with a report from him with his seal on it by noon.”
The sergeant whimpered. Twice the weight of the slight messenger, he was not, in any sense, a runner. But he turned and lumbered off toward the north at the best pace he could make… to have his fingers removed. Borutam was twenty-six miles away. The distance was calculated so the run might not kill him. If he was not back on time, Balaak would have the messenger whip him to death. The sergeant knew better than to try to escape. It was better to be tortured to death than to have a baal set on your path when you were already marked. Balaak wondered if he would just kill himself once outside the camp, but he doubted the man was that intelligent.
Balaak pulled another bottle of wine from the chest. Once giving punishment was a pleasure too. Now he did it to eliminate the irritation of dealing with the incompetence of his slaves.
Though he never thought about it, he wouldn't have been able to remember the last time he enjoyed anything.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
In his own tent, General Kilan contemplated the amber bottle. A wasting disability of the sort the necromancer described might be a germ strain. The necromancer did have medical training from Evelon. He had proven that in the past...
Kilan suspected the wine might be poisoned, but he'd no alternative, knowing Balaak's cold wrath. Not to drink would have been fatal whereas drinking was just a hazard.
He shuddered in revulsion, allowing himself to feel what he had fought so hard to suppress in the tent. It had been difficult. The stench of evil from the necromancer was so strong he'd almost lost control. The urge to grab his sword and wipe out the desecration of the necromancer's existence had almost overpowered him.
Kilan focused on his current problem, shaking his head. This amber fluid might be a means of keeping the germs from attacking his system. Without it, the sickness would start to spread. On the other hand, this fluid could be an addicting poison that would kill him by its absence. He knew of a dozen such substances, and he was sure the necromancer knew of many more.
Perhaps there was no poison at all... yet... and he would only be vulnerable if he drank the ‘antidote’, but that was haphazard for Balaak. He would want to witness the actual poisoning, not leave it up to manipulation. No, he was sure the poison had been in the wine. How the necromancer avoided poisoning himself came to him as he replayed
the scene in his mind: himself drinking from the mug right-handed, the necromancer left-handed. The lip of the cup was poisoned, not the wine.
One thing he did have on his side—he did not react to illness and poison the way most men did. He'd inherited a rugged and active constitution, and he believed in the power of prayer. But lately, he'd been having struggles of faith.... He might have a miserable night while his body fought whatever plague he'd been dosed with. In addition, there was no guarantee he'd survive, and he needed to live. Now there was hope for his goal. Perhaps it would be best to take the doses. Balaak's plots were deep and multi-layered; it could be the doses included side effects the necromancer might think desirable. If this were so, what would they be, and how could he find out, so he could pretend to have them?
He sighed—so many factors to weigh. In the final analysis, he knew he should not risk the necromancer's antidote.
Balaak wouldn't know enough about his habits to make any final judgments on the effects of his potion. He would think any discrepancies were just a variant. He pocketed the flask; if it became obvious he’d die without the dose, he’d need to take it regardless. Death was a luxury he couldn't afford. His jaw clenched as he lay on his cot to wait and pray.
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
Mitkai fingered the hilt of his sword.
The tent was dim, compared to the bright day outside, but his eyes searched the four commanders seated at the table. General Kilan's message said to be prepared for trouble at this first staff meeting. Mitkai—the general's aide and bodyguard—tried to guess which of them might start it. Would it be the towering Russ warchief whose dark eyes smoldered inside his fur hood or the red-haired mercenary with the broad shoulders and the quick moving eyes?
Of the four, they were the most dangerous, but they were smart enough to be cautious on unfamiliar ground.
The third regiment commander, Margai—Baronet Margai, to be precise—was another matter. He was a moody sort with occasional fits of temper. He’d been a noble of landed status in the south before earning a spot on A'sool's political black list. Mitkai figured him as the most probable threat. Mitkai classified the fourth commander—Lord Fanallan—as a nuisance.
The fourth auxiliaries, the least disciplined, was a melting-pot unit comprised of the individuals who joined the army as it moved south. The colonel's concern with eating well and looking gallant in his gold-plated armor and plumed helm kept him from worrying too much about such minor matters. At the moment, he was inspecting the hinge of his helm's cheek guard while checking the graceful waves of his blond hair in the polished mirror-finish.
They'd been sitting for a quarter of an hour when General Kilan entered, wearing the red robe of his new rank.
“Attention,” barked Mitkai. The commanders rose to their feet.
The general looked them over. His eyes were shot-through with red, and his face was haggard. Mitkai was shocked; yesterday Kilan had been in perfect health. Nevertheless, Mitkai could sense he was still in control, like a winter wolf—weary but cold and lethal. Mitkai had pledged service three years ago to Kilan when he was a mere wandering warrior, the only man ever to best Mitkai in combat since his youth. Mitkai had seen enough since to know it wasn’t luck. Kilan went to the table and sat at its head, motioning the others to sit as well.
The warchief and the mercenary sat on the edge of their seats. Margai slouched. Fanallan crossed his legs.
“Gentlemen,” said General Kilan. “Last night, Balaak appointed me commander of the auxiliary forces. His orders were to instill military discipline... He has noted a lack of it.” Kilan paused, letting a long silence fill the tent.
Fanallan ran his fingers through his helmet plume. “As an experienced campaigner, I would be happy to offer my advice and assistance. I'm sure—working together—we can whip this rabble into shape....” His voice, starting with enthusiasm, ran down.
Kilan ignored him, not even turning his head
The silence hung on for a moment more before he spoke. “I am sure you are all aware of the consequences of disappointing Balaak. If one of you should stand in the way of my task, it will put me in the position of having to kill you for putting my life at risk.”
Margai chuckled. “General, with all respect, the men under my command have been with me years before we joined this campaign. I don't expect you would be able to manage them without my aid—”
Mitkai—knowing what to expect—suspected he saw more of what happened than the seated commanders, but even he found Kilan's lunge across the table blurred. Kilan pinned Margai's hand on the table. The general's dagger pressed tight to the back of Margai's hand, trapping it between the table and the point. A trickle of blood ran from Margai's knuckles onto the table.
Kilan's voice was harsh, “I'm sure they are reasonable men. If you are not alive to give them orders, they will take orders from anyone I designate. I compare your position with that of your hand. I trust I make myself clear.”
He raised the dagger and drove it into the table between Margai's outstretched fingers. “Do not fool yourselves,” he said in a low voice. “All of you may be valuable to me, but no one is indispensable.”
He sat again, watching the men at the table. Margai, expressionless, pulled a linen kerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. The Russ showed a trace of a wolfish grin then sat back, impassive. The mercenary stroked his grizzled chin. Lord Fanallan was pale, shocked.
Kilan spoke again, “Today, I will send one of my aides to each of your camps. They will be stationed there until further notice. You will have messengers made available to them so they can report to me.”
Fanallan jumped to his feet, his face red, twisting with outrage. “You… you can't treat me like this,” he sputtered. “I won't have anyone in my camp spying on me. I have connections in the north and I will not be pushed around like a common—.”
Kilan twitched a forefinger. At the signal, Mitkai stepped forward, sliding his blade free. He drove the butt of the hilt into the base of Fanallan's spine. With a cry, Fanallan fell in a loose heap.
Kilan looked at him, face impassive. “You are relieved of command.” He nodded to Mitkai, who grasped Fanallan by the collar and hauled him to the door. Two guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out, his gilded boots dragging limp snake-trails in the dirt.
Kilan kept his eyes on the three remaining commanders. “As I was saying, my aides should have messengers available to them anytime they wish. They are not under your command, but they will not interfere with your command either. That will be clear to them.”
Kilan sat forward, taking them into his confidence. “I have watched you three. You are all competent soldiers and leaders, but—until we can make the auxiliaries an organized fighting unit—we are at great risk. I don't need to tell you that Tyr-Goth uses auxiliaries as shock troops. If we don't pull together and become a unified force, we won't be spending the wages Balaak pays us. He'll be picking it from between our bones.”
Kilan stood.
The commanders jumped to attention.
“I will be overseeing the fourth regiment now. Any messages for me should go there. Captain Mitkai will fill my position as commander in the fifth regiment. Questions?”
He scanned each of their faces, getting from each a quick shake of the head. “Good, I will see each of you to go over drills to run after each day's march.”
Kilan turned to the Russ. “Commander Coran.”
“Yes, sir?” said Coran, in the harsh accent of the horse-tribes.
“I will meet with you first. The rest of you are dismissed.”
~~~~~~~~~~{}~~~~~~~~~~
The sky was grey all around. It had been that color for three weeks. Even before the five auxiliary regiments were put under one command. The man in the brown sergeant's cloak took a long look at the foothills behind them, where Balaak's regulars were camped.
Sergeant Tom Waterman was a hard man. His platoon of fourth regiment recruits discovered this—the hard way
. He was short and blocky. His forearms and hands were thick and gnarled like trees that grow on high windy hills from years spent handling heavy boats in swift currents.
Waterman came from a long line of riverdogs, men and women who sailed and poled goods in sleek cargo carriers from the ports on the rivers to the ports on the sea. Waterman had owned several boats, and a thriving business. But now, because he’d trusted his brother with the accounts, his credit and the sale of all his boats still hadn’t covered his debts. But his brother—wherever he was—had done well by the business. After tallying the debts, Waterman figured his brother's embezzling garnered triple the total worth of the business. You had to admire that kind of profit. So now, he was left with a job he hated and, oddly enough, that made him better at it.
“Sergeant Waterman, sir?” said today's acting corporal, a thin, nervous 'ex'-thief. “The platoon is ready to begin the drill.”
Waterman looked over his shoulder. His sharp glance made the corporal flinch as it moved past him. The platoon, lined up beside the tents, shivered as the chill wind whipped sand and grit through the scraggly tufts of wiregrass into their unprotected faces.
Waterman tucked the scribbled tally of weapons and equipment he'd been meaning to examine into his cuirass and went to supervise the drill. They were running through various battlefield tactics: setting spears for defense against infantry and cavalry charges, advancing and retreating in formation with spears at ready and so forth. Waterman would have expected more guerrilla tactics and fighting from cover drills considering where they were supposed to be going, but he didn't make policy.
Besides that, these orders were from Kilan—General Kilan—he corrected himself. In the three hard campaigns of Waterman's experience, if Kilan had ever made a tactical error, Waterman hadn't noticed it.
Waterman called the advance and put the platoon through its paces. Though he’d never admit it in front of them, overall he was satisfied with their progress—considering what poor material there was to work with. His first day with the platoon he'd demoted eight men and cut off the earlobe of the first man who'd spoken to him with a trace of insubordination. So far, he hadn't killed anyone, but he'd dented a few skulls.
