by Garon Whited
“We’re already spotted.”
“Yes, but our only way home is over that new road, now.”
“We could go through Vathula.”
“You go through Vathula. And then to the netherworld, likely. That bitch is insane.”
“I don’t like this.”
“None of us does.”
“So, if we swing around Mochara and hit the Eastrange—”
“—Westrange.”
“Shut up. We hit the Eastrange and get the reinforcements from the Queen, then attack Mochara frontally.”
“Oh, wonderful plan. It’s sure to work this time!”
“We’ll be a force of over six thousand. That’s never been tried before. Besides, we can cut trees for rams when we get to the Eastrange.”
“If we make to the Eastrange, we can go back along that new road. We can go around Baret; they won’t sally out against a force this size.”
“And we might find that the Black Queen’s troops hold the road. What then? Fight through them?”
“I guess we’d have to go with the deal and take Mochara.”
“There’s still the question of his negotiation option. In this note, he implies that he’s holding our Princes responsible for this, not us.”
“You trust him?”
“He’s a king. Best I can tell, he only killed the people actually in his way as he went through our camp. If he wanted us dead, why are we still sitting here?”
The discussion went on like that for a while. They argued for hours. The really sticky point was consensus. With four major forces in play, nobody wanted to be the guy who took a hard-line position without being sure of his backing. No one said, “I say we attack anyway, and anyone who isn’t with me is a coward!” Instead, it was, “I think we ought to try to stick to the deal,” or “Maybe we should see if we can find another way out of this.”
There was a lot of argument, but they finally decided to wait until they could find out what sort of deal they could negotiate. After all, surprise was out of the question, now. They might as well explore all their options before making a decision. To me, that sounded like people who weren’t all that keen on risking their lives if they didn’t have to.
I like enemies to have that attitude.
Sunday, June 27th
I herded half a dozen dazhu up to the earthworks last night. The soldiers took the hint and were quick to fill them full of crossbow bolts. I figured there was no need to starve them into moving. I even conjured a small cloudburst for them; tent canvas and barrels caught drinking water.
From what I could gather by eavesdropping, the soldiers were very pleased at the generosity. The commanders didn’t like what my kindness implied.
My knights arrived this morning. We’ve made camp, posted watches, and are resting. Later this afternoon, we’ll ask the other guys to send out negotiators.
As an aside, I’ve confirmed that I can, with a few accessories, survive a sunrise or sunset in my armor. It’s like having a form-fitting coffin. There’s a little light leakage around some of the joints; that burns, but it’s not enough to be a serious problem. For a sunrise, the burns aren’t fun, but a healing spell takes care of the pain and heals the burns by late afternoon. For a sunset, the burns disappear in minutes at most. A few strips of cloth should take care of it, either way.
On the other hand, I have an oversized leather sack—my body bag—that works perfectly. I don’t like using it, even with Bronze guarding me. I much prefer being inside something solid, like a building or a mountain. But when push comes to shove, I have options.
I think the meeting went well. The city commanders sent subcommanders; the mercenaries sent their captains.
Anyone who came out of the earthworks and surrendered their arms and armor would be escorted to the mountain road. They would be provisioned for a two-day hike at the foot of the Eastrange and released, with the suggestion that they find somewhere else to enlist, since Karvalen was now engaged in war with the cities of Formia, Maran, and Tolcaren.
I didn’t say anything about what would happen if they failed to accept the terms.
One of the mercenary captains wanted to know if he could win better terms for his men through a victory in single combat. He was obviously a skilled veteran, a man who commanded a tough crew of killers by leading from the front. I was all for it, but Kelvin pointed out that kings don’t do that; they appoint a champion. So it was agreed; the mercenary captain against my champion. If the mercenary won, his men would walk home unmolested. If he lost, his men would surrender outright.
There were a few runners, some messages, and a bit of a wait. Then we had a lot of spectators on top of the earthworks and the high-ranking witnesses lined up on our side.
I could see Torvil chomping at the bit, so I let him act as champion. I seriously considered Kelvin, but Kelvin has fought for his life before. My three needed to learn what that was like. I considered Kammen, but he really enjoys fighting. Seldar wasn’t at all eager. Torvil viewed it all as a competition, though. He’s the one that I felt needed to learn it wasn’t always a game.
And I needed to know what Torvil was like after he’d done it. He’s very much the go-getter of the trio; he’s always trying to be the best at whatever he does. If he won, if he killed a man, would that change him? It might.
The two of them faced off, saluted, and went right to work. The captain—I never did learn his name—was actually very good. He was tough and experienced and fought dirty. When they started, he immediately threw a head-cut, was parried, parried Torvil’s thrust for the body. He performed a maneuver I’d never actually seen before, a sharp circling motion with the tip of his blade that allowed him to draw both their blades out of line and step in for corps-à-corps. He stepped in hard and body-checked Torvil to the ground, a clear violation of the niceties of the fencing strip, but completely acceptable here. The captain fell with him and landed on him, trying to stab through the gorget of the armor. The fancy new armor held.
Torvil was not well-trained in fencing strip protocols, either. He punched the captain in the face, left-handed. That broke the captain’s nose and stunned him enough for Torvil to bring his sword around in a large, slashing circle, as though scraping the captain off. With a normal sword, it would have been a good whack to the head. It wasn’t a normal sword. It cut through the captain’s helmet, down through the head and neck, along the spine, and out through the small of the back.
Messy. Icky. Disgusting, even, as the captain didn’t die instantly, but pumped out a lot of body fluids very rapidly. He looked surprised.
This did not go over well on the rampart. Nobody seemed inclined to start the war, but the cries and groans sounded awfully dismal. The captain’s subcommanders remained calm, however, and didn’t argue about the deal. About three hundred men took off their helmets, held them in both hands against their chests, and walked/slid down the rampart into our custody.
I remembered this. Holding your helmet like that is the local version of putting your hands in the air. It says that you’re not holding a weapon and that you’re relying on the mercy of the other guy by exposing your head. Good for them.
After disarming them and putting a watch over them, the leaders of the remaining forces retired to their compound. We started processing our prisoners and I took Torvil off some distance to have a talk. He was still covered in another man’s blood and other internal fluids. His hands were still shaking, too, so I sat him down in the tall grass and seated myself in front of him.
“Well?” I asked, quietly. “It’s different for everybody, so tell me.”
“He…” Torvil started, then paused to breathe deeply and rub his throat. He might have a bruise there, later; his voice rasped a bit. “He was trying to kill me.”
“That’s right. He was. It’s a little different from practice, isn’t it?”
“Yes. There, it’s all about who gets hit the worst.”
“That’s still a good measure,” I pointed ou
t.
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course I do. But you did very well. You stepped up; you did your duty. And you lived, which is also important. We call that ‘victory’.”
“Then why am I shaking?”
“Have you killed anyone before?”
“Yeah. A bunch of orku and galgar outside the mountain, and that invisible guy.”
“And have you fought anyone to the death before?”
Torvil was silent. I nodded.
“You looked another man in the eye and knew one of you was going to be killed. You saw the face of the man who was going to kill you, and you stopped him. It was your duty, at least until you got swords out and prepared to fight. Then it was personal—you or him. You won.”
“Is it always… do… Will I get used to it?”
“I hope not,” I told him. “I hope you understand the seriousness of what you’re doing every time you hold life and death in your hands—every time you kill a man.”
“How can I keep… how do I do what I do? How can I be a knight if I’m going to have to look another man in the eye and kill him?” he asked, sounding like a scared little boy. I didn’t blame him.
“It’s called courage.”
“It’s not about being afraid,” he said. “It’s about knowing that I’m going to kill somebody!”
“Courage isn’t a lack of fear,” I told him, mildly. “Courage is knowing exactly what might happen and choosing. Fear tells you to run, or to quit, or to do something else. Courage is the ability to choose, not just the ability to resist your fear.”
“But I’m still afraid.”
“Good. The day you aren’t afraid, you’re a fool. And the day when you give in to fear, you’re a coward.” I stood up and offered him my hand. “A knight of Karvalen is neither of those things.”
He looked at my hand for a moment, thinking. I gave him the time, standing there, waiting.
Torvil reached up and grasped my wrist. I grasped his and pulled him to his feet.
“At least,” he said, “I’ve finally found a name for my sword.”
“Oh?”
“Its name is Victory.”
“That’s a good name,” I agreed. “Being a knight… It’s harder than you thought, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You know what’s even harder?”
“No. What?” he asked. “Or do I want to know?”
“Kammen and Seldar. They haven’t done this yet. I know Kammen thinks he wants to, and that Seldar is afraid he won’t be able to bring himself to kill. They’ll have to do it, too, someday, maybe someday soon. And you won’t be able to make them understand. They’ll need you there to help them afterward. Do you think you can do that?”
Torvil straightened. His stooped posture stiffened; he squared his shoulders. His head came up until he was almost standing at attention.
“They’re my friends,” he said. That was all the answer he needed. It was all the answer I needed.
The situation in the invaders’ beachhead camp was pretty good. They acknowledged their position and agreed to leave peaceably. I thought they might; it allowed them to cross the kingdom unmolested and get to the Eastrange, where they expected reinforcements. True, they would arrive unequipped, but maybe they could get something from the Black Queen, the Empress of the Undermountains…
I thought it likely they would get butchered and eaten, but maybe I’m just cynical like that.
They came over the rampart in groups of fifty, as instructed. They carried their arms and armor over the rampart with them, set it all in a pile, and each group set off for Mochara. We sent them on their way at roughly one-hour intervals and told them to march all night and to stay spread out.
We also cautioned each man: any group of more than fifty was subject to being reduced to fifty or less without warning. They seemed to take it to heart.
At just fifty at a time, it was going to take about two days to get them all on the road. I herded a couple more dazhu into camp. I also sent word to Mochara about what was happening; Amber agreed to have provisions ready. She also thought it wise to have the city guard on alert. I agreed completely. My daughter isn’t an idiot.
That night, I made it a point to call the five remaining commanders aside.
“Gentlemen,” I said, giving them the benefit of the doubt. “I would say that I’m sorry about all this, but you wouldn’t believe me. I don’t really want a war with any of your cities.”
“Or with all three at once?” asked the guy from Tolcaren.
“Indeed. There’s going to be a massive loss of life and destruction of valuable property when I destroy them. I hate that.”
Nobody said anything. I don’t think they knew whether to believe me or not.
“What I’m trying to get at,” I said, “is that I won’t stand for this sort of thing. It was one thing when these cities tried to raid Mochara, and the kingdom in general, while I was gone. You were dealing with a kind, generous, merciful lady: the Princess of Mochara.
“Now you deal with me, the blood-drinking Lord of Night and King of Karvalen. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.”
I let that sink in for a moment and looked at them. They nodded, carefully. Yes, they had heard.
“So, here’s what’s going to happen. At the moment, I plan to destroy Formia, Maran, and Tolcaren. I may be persuaded otherwise, but that’s my current plan. I won’t conquer them; I won’t sack them. I will destroy them. If anyone wants to live there when I’m done, they will have to build a new city. Does everyone understand that?”
They did. They seemed fascinated, with that sick fascination people get when watching something horrible and gruesome play out. I think they were remembering what happened to Telen—doubtless amplified by rumor and then legend. It wasn’t long enough ago to be myth.
“What I want from you, gentlemen, is this. You will bear my message to your respective Princes. You will make sure they understand how dire their situation truly is. You will do everything in your power to convince them to give me what I want, because the alternative is destruction, absolute and thorough.”
“My lord?” asked the commander of the Maranese forces.
“Yes?”
“What is it you want? May one ask?”
“I was just coming to that. What I want is a document from your Prince. In it, he will state that he invaded my kingdom. He will then pen a formal apology under that. And, finally, he will write out his oath, swearing on his blood that, until his line shall fail, neither he nor any vassal of his will ever offer insult or injury to the Kingdom of Karvalen, its attendant provinces, or its allies.”
I smiled, deliberately grinning to show teeth. They did not like that.
“If they do as I have instructed, not only will I forgive them this attempted sneak attack and obvious declaration of war, I will offer them very favorable terms in regard to becoming allies and trading partners, to our mutual profit.
“But they should hurry. A state of war exists between us, as you know, and I’m already planning a devastating counterattack.”
“My lord?” asked the same commander.
“What is it?”
“I think I can safely say—for all of us—that we believe you to be what legend agrees is true: The greatest of the Lords of Night, returned from beyond the Veil of Shadow for vengeance on the Hand of Light. We are also grateful that you have not spread your blood among your servants, making armies of night as you once did in the long-ago.” There was nodding at all of this. “But, whatever my own feelings on the matter, my Prince will not believe you. Worse, to give such a… document to another lord… I do not think that princely pride will permit it. Not even for a profit of such gold as will doubtless be the reward.”
I nodded, slowly, realizing he might be right.
“I see your point. Thank you for mentioning it. However, I do have a suggestion.”
“Yes, lord?”
“When you return to your city and gi
ve my terms to your Prince, if he scoffs or dismisses your warning, or simply refuses, you should get your family and friends, pack up what you can carry, turn your faces to the West, and run.”
Thursday, July 1st
We started shuttling them around the Eastrange, carrying groups of soldiers in the fishing boats. They had mixed feelings about that, but what were they going to do? They were spread out too much to argue effectively. We sailed around the horn of the Eastrange, dropped them at the first spot where they could walk, and went back for more.
Yes, we provided them with two days of food and water. Good thing, too; Baret closed its gates to them and told them to start hiking. I wondered if Prince Banler’s opinion would carry any weight. He gave everyone the impression that only a moron would piss me off and that they were welcome to all the pity he could give them, as long as they didn’t stand too close to him. I’m sure that will get back to the respective Princes.
I really had no intention of destroying any of the cities in question. All I wanted was for them to consider it as a possibility. It wasn’t really on the table. Maybe that was a mistake, in retrospect. If I don’t destroy a city, people may think I’m bluffing. Then again, maybe they will come through with the alternative. I’d like to turn them into trading partners and allies rather than craters.
Meanwhile, a few of the larger boats went east to salvage what they could from the plunder left behind. The armor and weaponry might not be Karvalen steel, but they were still armor and weapons. I wasn’t going to pass that up. It’s hard to have an effective fighting force if you can’t supply them. We started out by replacing stuff I salvaged from Keria’s initial attack. Eventually, we were stuck with a pile of orku gear that nobody wanted or needed. Kavel’s thrown most of it into the mountain’s recycling bin.
I probably have the most well-equipped militia in the history of Rethven, possibly the world.
I went back to Karvalen while my knights handled prisoner transport and loot organization. Somewhere up in the Eastrange was another major force; I meant to find it. The sand table wasn’t much help, though. I decided they must still be underground. If they were still there at all, of course.
