“Got the gold?” he asked.
“Yeah,” yawned Flint.
The two big brothers had big nights as well and drunk more than some other men’s weight in wine and ale. Still, they were active enough to go and dig up Goldie’s stash. Before he’d taken Rosen’s booty back to the Keep, they had buried even more, just in case. Good thing. He’d promised the Reds a gold coin for each kill and now they were coming to collect. He paid Farirkar, but that was just the wage and not the bonus he’d promised them himself, in what seemed the heat of the moment.
Goldie sat with his dirty boots up on the rough wooden table and waited. Behind him sat a small open chest filled to the brim with small gold coins, jewelry, and assorted golden trinkets. He was so thankful that they had met Rosen.
“Let’s get started then,” he said.
The Reds knew today was payday and they had all roused their still drunk or hungover selves to come and collect their blood money. The first man to walk in was Farirkar himself. He came in looking fresh, washed and happy. He slept the night in the duchess’s own tent and looked like he’d had his first bath in his lifetime. His face was actually handsome in a fierce way now that it wasn’t covered in red war paint.
“Just checking that you’ll be able to pull this off. I like you and don’t really want my boys to skin you.” The man laughed.
“Never fear. I’ll deliver, here for your ten?” Goldie asked.
“Ten? Try sixteen,” he laughed.
“Proof?”
Goldie had been smart enough to ask for swords with scabbards and pikes rather than scalps or ears, which would have been both messy and useless.
Farirkar put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly. A fat man with a faded red face paint came staggering into the tent pant with strain, carrying an armful of weapons that he dumped on the floor with a relieved grunt.
“I’ll trust your count brother,” Goldie said and handed the Red’s leader his coins. Farirkar looked at them, glinting in his hand. Much more than he’d ever made for a day’s dishonest work and smiled. “Let’s talk afterwards. I like having you around,” he said and walked out, gripping his coins tightly in his huge fist.
Within a few hours, Goldie had bought his own armory. Over two hundred swords with scabbards, a hundred pikes, a few axes and a handful of ornate officer’s daggers. He then sent the most sober Reds out to gather the tents, pots, pans, armor, shields and anything else not nailed down, all for a small collection fee.
The chest had been reduced from overflowing to a few stray bits of gold at the empty wooden bottom. The once empty tent was piled high with goods. It looked like a dishonest Blacksmith’s mixed with a general goods stall in the market square. He put his feet on the desk again and whistled, long and low.
“That’s a lot of shit,” Stone said, half asleep in his chair.
“It is indeed. Is our friend here yet?”
“I’ll check.” Stone stood upon weary feet. Walking to the tent entrance, he showed a man inside. He was clearly a Pellosi trader and looked like the man Rosen had been in life… fat, soft and brightly colored. His clothes were fine, expensive silks and he wore a turban to escape the sun on his clearly bald head. He was tanned like all Pellosi men.
Goldie stood and shook his hand from over the table, which was scattered with the finer officer’s weapons. Ones that Goldie had been prying the rubies out of the hilts.
“Master Horak is my name. A pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so many good things,” the man said in a refined voice.
The man shook his hand lightly, looked around the tent at the assortment of goods and smiled, to himself.
“Yes, yes. Very good. We can do business. You know me. Horak has a market for all things.”
“So I’ve heard. Prices we agreed on; two for a sword, one for a pike and the rest we’ll sort out.”
Goldie sat across the table from the man for what seemed like ages. They discussed and haggled over every sword, shield, even every dent, nick and smear of blood. For every item. Horak had a reason he’d need to spend so much to get it fixed. Usually, it wasn’t sharp enough, needed cleaning or repainting to get the Twin Plains crest off.
In the end, though, Goldie had a note of credit for triple what he’d paid for the lot. He held it in his hand and almost laughed. It was so strange that so much wealth could be contained in such a small, seemingly worthless piece of scrap. The note was a small leather bound sheet. On it were the numbers of coins they agreed on and the crest of Horak printed at the top. Most importantly, his name was written at the bottom.
They both smiled as they shook hands like they had cheated the other.
“Who was he?” Flint asked.
“He sells things to people, lots of things, to people who want weapons and don’t want others to know how many they are buying or why.” Horak had agreed to come collect tomorrow. Cleary he needed a bigger wagon.
“When did you arrange that?” asked Flint.
“When we were in the city,” Goldie replied.
“How did you know we’d win?”
“If we had lost, then the least of my worries would be disappointing him,” Goldie said.
“I’ll finish up here. You boys run along,” he tossed them a coin each for their troubles.
Goldie looked up as they left and saw a short, young man enter the tent as they passed. The stranger looked around and took in the sight of it all. He wandered from the pile of swords and pikes and took one of the swords from the pile. He swung it once to test the weight and put it back. He seemed impressed with the quality.
“A more professional or well-executed looting I’ve never seen,” the man said.
He was young but held himself with the air of someone used to casually telling others what to do. Well-dressed, clearly not just involved in a battle nor the drunken aftermath. He had a noble’s rapier at his side that lay in a fine scabbard of black leather but inlaid with gold. A risky item to carry in this camp. The man’s hands were folded calmly in front of him. A Twin Plains’ man? Who knew?
“Someone always gets rich in a war. May as well be me,” said Goldie.
“Well put, Master Goldie. You’ve done quite well for yourself, and not only the profit but the battle and victory. If you weren’t involved, it may have ended very differently.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe some people wanted it to end differently,” the man said, stepping closer and resting his hand on the pommel of his rapier.
Goldie looked at him again. Who was he? Young and noble. Clearly aware of the battle. He had no mud on his fine leather shoes so he’d ridden his horse right up to the tent. Who would the Reds let pass? Goldie listened and the sounds of the camp had died completely. The only sounds were horses snorting and the random shuffling feet and occasional coughs given off by a large number of men standing still outside this tent.
“Maybe you should have let me know who your wishes. I never would act against your interests, my king.” Goldie said smoothly, bowing deeply to the young man.
The young king laughed. “A good guess? Or maybe you are the man I’ve been hearing about. My friends call me Thellas. Maybe one day you can too. I came to invite you to the Keep. I’ll be meeting with the one named Elizebetha and I’d like you along.”
“Why me?”
“Because I find other nobles incredibly boring and I thought we could talk about something much more interesting while we are there.”
“Money, conquest or power?” Goldie said.
“It’s all the same thing,” the king said and walked from his tent.
***
The one called Goldie seemed very amusing and very useful. When he first saw him sitting in his tent like a second-hand trader at a market stall, he almost laughed. So proud of himself and his minor victory and windfall. Like a king sitting on a pile of broken stones and marveling at his castle.
Still, that well-equipped Twin Plains army had just funded the man’s next two campaigns.
The king was furious that he’d missed the chance to crush them himself, but at least, it had been done for him and at no expense or loss of his men. He’d wanted to teach those proud bastards a lesson, but that was his anger talking. This was a better outcome. No noble blood on his hands and the Twin Plains brood taught a harsh lesson at the hands of some common rabble. They were so proud of their five hundred years of unbroken lineage. Now they had been put across the knee by this Northern nobody and spanked like an unruly child.
The king walked out of the tent, flanked by two silent men with shaved heads and bright red tunics of inlaid leather. They had only metal studded batons at their sides that hung on leather thongs and hit their legs as they walked. His forward guard of three hundred men were with him. The majority of his force, a good five thousand, a day or two march behind. Still, this was a good number for a reception.
He had heard so many troubling things about this Keep and its people from his father. Now he knew they must be true. How could so few defeat so many? It offended his sense of mathematics if nothing else.
He rode beside Goldie now, who had to be lent a horse because his was would just not do for this situation. The king could still make an impression when he had to. They had a few minutes before they made it to the Keep and his show would start.
“A question for you, Goldie. Your opinion, if you will?” the king asked.
Goldie just nodded.
“A king from a minor noble’s house ascends to power. He wishes to modernize; to bring order and yet at all sides has dukes of houses much older and more revered by the common man than his. Alone, each could be subdued, but together they would be unstoppable. They are also starting to murmur. How does one control these people?”
Goldie thought for a while on the answer. Then he thought of the answer the king really wanted and the one that would suit him best. It was clear what he planned. People like the Reds were always useful to men like the king and the former duke and duchess.
“It would be hard for said king to show any aggression himself, lest he anger the entire group, yet maybe said king knows people, troublemakers that could make trouble for these people and weaken them. Someone to fight them, overthrow one or two of the most vocal and said king steps in to save the rest. The king would be a hero, rather than a threat.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“Still, troublemakers need a reason to cause trouble.”
The king laughed again. “You’ll have one.”
***
Elizebetha saw the horses, the well-dressed and well-ordered soldiers, their eagle banners flying on a black field. The king himself rode high on a pale white horse with his head held high. All she felt was relief. The king’s army assembled quickly in her courtyard, a few hundred expressionless faces. She could have used them a few days ago she thought. It had been a journey through hell. The smell of battle, burnt bodies, and blood still hung over her family home, but now some order was coming to it all. He was still her king and she was glad that someone else would be making the life-breaking decisions from now on.
Elizebetha stood dressed in her finest gown, her hair back and tiara in place. She’d had no reason to dress well in years and she felt a bit like a Duchess again. She stood next to her Blackrock Guard. What was left of them. Only around fifty men in total. The Cold Death men and Dagosh were still busy cleaning the battlefield and removing any trace of it. She still had them for a week or so, but the line between employer and friend had vanished between her and Dagosh. She needed to find out what he wanted to do next.
The king stepped from his horse. A tall bald man helped him from his horse. She thought she’d seen him before.
Lady Elizebetha approached the king and bowed. “My King, so good of you to come. A welcome slice of order in my now crazy world.”
The young king smiled at her warmly. “Lady Elizebetha, you look radiate. No worse for the battle it seems.” He seemed like little more than a boy to her but held himself with a certain deep reserve.
“We have paid a deep price, but that time is passed now.” She bowed and kissed his hand.
“Well put. Should we retire inside? We have a lot to discuss,” he said.
The king brushed past her into the Keep, followed by what she assumed was his personal guard. Six or so bald men, with bright red leather tunics, led by the tallest one. They all had small tattoos of an eagle gripping something in its talons on their necks. Goldie and the rest of the entourage and assembled troops stayed behind.
Elizebetha hurried to catch up to the fast-paced king and his men. The king led her directly to her own library. She’d prepared a meal in the dining hall but clearly he had other plans. She walked through the library door, slightly flustered, the feeling of concern gathering within her. The king stood regarding her books and the six men were actively rifling through them and writing down the titles in small leather bound ledger books they all had with them.
“What’s the meaning behind this, King Thellas? If you wanted a tour. I would have gladly obliged. I’ve had a meal prepared in the dining hall.”
The young king walked forward, ignoring her niceties. The look in his eyes frightened her. There was so much suppressed rage within them. Clearly, he’d been acting for the crowd just moments ago.
“You shall not speak unless addressed or asked a question directly,” he said.
“First, under what rights do you claim this Keep and the title of Duchess?” he asked.
She was taken aback but composed herself quickly. “I’m the first-born daughter of Denfro and Jenavie, the past duke and duchess. My line is passed to the first born of any sex, not the first male,” she said.
“Your parentage is not in dispute, but rather your identity. You claim to be a woman of eighty years, yet you appear much younger than that. How is that possible?” He spat, clearly baiting her.
She was shocked. The physical appearance of her family was never mentioned. It was always left unspoken. The truth was actually very hard to explain without revealing too much of their activities.
“My family has a reputation for being youthful and long-lived. It’s a well-known fact. We are blessed,” she said back with defiance.
A man brought his ledger up to the king, who read it quickly, shaking his head in disgust.
“It’s a well-known fact that your family is a disease, a blight on the land and the world of natural order. What need do good people have to read books like, ‘The death rites of the desert wanderers’? Or worse, to write them. This one was written by your own father.”
She looked at him sharply. This wasn’t at all what she had expected. She had heard the new king was forceful, eager to make his mark and slightly obsessed with trade and order, but not that he was so rabidly against anyone different. Who were these men who seemed to be almost directing him? Their cold eyes and cruel weapons clearly only built to cause pain and broken bones.
“My father was a great man. A scholar. He travelled far and learned many things. He simply sought to share them,” she said. It was the wrong thing to say.
“A great man? A great man… my father was a great man and he was killed. I was but a child when I walked into his study to find him slain. His body looked like it had been torn apart by wolves, in a locked room no less. Now you tell me, did your father write of how that could be achieved?”
A guard who had stood by the door walked up behind her and with a well-aimed swing of his metal studded leather baton, smashed it into her unprotected kneecap. She collapsed to the ground with a cry and the sound of breaking bone. The king stood looking at her with mania in his eyes. He put his strong hands around her throat and squeezed. She felt the life leaving her as she struggled for breath. Her fingers clawing uselessly at his strong grip. He shook his head slowly and tightened further and further.
“I’ll make the world safe again,” he said as he slowly choked her to death.
Chapter Five.
Once again. Seth found himself at a crossroads. He
was stuck in what was now a very lovely prison. The sun shined brightly and the land of the dead had changed overnight, or rather over day. The sun had risen and life had risen with it. Sandy shores, grass covered hills, trees that looked like they might grow leaves and human beings who looked lost, but like people should. Still, he was stuck here and didn’t see a way out of it.
Being the son of a hunter and mother who had tended their small farm in the freezing cold, he liked this place and envisioned he could spend a happy simple life here. He felt that his role as the Druheim had ended. Still, he felt the pulling, it was like an urge he couldn’t shake. Looking at those little boats floating in the bay, he saw one. It hadn’t been taken yet; no one had touched it. It sat as if just waiting for him. He wasn’t scared of what was over there. He felt he had nothing to fear from the judgments of the gods. He had done all they had asked of him. But his companion. Seraphina clearly felt very differently than he.
“We need to get on those boats,” he said simply.
“Why would you say that? It’s like asking me to walk right into a hangman’s noose,” she said.
“But don’t you feel it, the pulling? It’s like a voice whispering in my ear.”
“I feel it, but it terrifies me. Seth, what do you think my gods would think of what I’ve done? I’ve killed so many in my life. Not enemies who came for me, but people who had things I wanted. Once I killed my language teacher because his lessons were boring and he had stale breath. What judgment can I expect other than torture and, at best, lasting death?”
“What choice have we got?” he asked.
“Any choice, any path, anything but that. We can stay here, we can journey the length of this place, we can try to find another way back home.” She started crying and held him. Her small face pressed into his chest and her tears wet his shirt.
Take My Heart...: Dark Ages - Fantasy (Dark Gods & Tainted Souls Book 3) Page 2
