Toric's Dagger: Book One of The Weapon Takers Saga

by Jamie Edmundson

  ‘You must be Bernard,’ said Moneva to a man serving behind the bar. He was wearing a green beret, tastefully decorated with two feathers. ‘I love your hat!’

  Bernard beamed at the compliment, and was an attentive host, getting their orders in quickly and making sure that he found them seats.

  ‘Theodoric!’ he exclaimed to a man occupying a table with only one companion. ‘I’ve brought you some interesting conversation while you have your lunch!’

  ‘Ah! Sit down, grab a chair, that’s right,’ said Theodoric welcomingly. Bernard made sure that his guests were all seated before rushing off back to the bar.

  As they waited, Herin struck up a conversation with Theodoric, a lean man who introduced himself as a linen merchant from the duchy of Thesse.

  ‘I’m waiting on a final sale, and then I’m back home,’ he said, perhaps by way of explanation as to why he was sitting in the inn at midday already a little worse for wear. He was sitting with what Belwynn assumed to be his assistant, a large man about the size of Clarin, who was gawping at a spider in the corner of the inn, apparently oblivious to the conversation going on around him. Belwynn also assumed that Theodoric paid his assistant criminal wages, that his assistant probably did not know or care, and that both were fairly happy with the arrangement, except that Theodoric naturally craved a bit of conversation from time to time.

  ‘Has business been bad?’ enquired Herin.

  ‘Business is never bad if you have a brain in your skull,’ answered Theodoric, and proceeded to flap his forefinger in thin air a few inches from his ear, which everyone understood to be an attempt to tap the part of his anatomy he had been referring to. ‘I’ll tell you this, though.’ Theodoric’s voice lowered to what he believed to be a conspiratorial whisper, ‘when I come back, I won’t be bringing linen.’

  There followed an uncomfortable pause, until Herin realised he was supposed to respond. ‘What will you be bringing?’ he reluctantly asked.

  ‘Weapons. Swords, armour, bows, arrows. They’re all cheap in Thesse, nobody wants ‘em there, you see. But here in Coldeberg, of course, demand is sky high.’

  Herin made a face at Rabigar, who was listening attentively.

  ‘Why is that?’ Herin asked.

  Theodoric frowned at Herin, made an attempt to focus on him but then gave up. ‘Are you new here or something?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, well then, you haven’t heard.’

  Another uncomfortable pause. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s been going on for a few days now, you know, rumours at first, but then you get the more official announcements, until the day before yesterday there was a formal ceremony in Coldeberg Cathedral. A duke isn’t good enough for Barissia anymore, oh no, if us Thessians have a duke, then these Barissians can’t possibly settle for a mere duke themselves, can they? So Duke Emeric is now no more—long live King Emeric! Unbelievable! These Barissians.’ Theodoric shook his head at the Barissians. ‘Of course, you know what this means now, don’t you?’

  Herin and the others shared astonished looks at the news. Theodoric, however, was still expecting an answer, so Herin shrugged his shoulders at him.

  Theodoric shook his head again, this time at Herin’s apparent slowness. ‘It means war! When Emperor Baldwin hears about this he’s going to march his army straight at these Barissians. That’s why there’s all these soldiers around and that’s why demand for weapons is so high. These Barissians are preparing for war! Unbelievable!’

  Herin had a foul expression on his face and proceeded to interrogate Theodoric about the best place in the city to pick up a quality sword to replace the one he had lost. Everyone else, meanwhile, huddled together to discuss the news.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Soren. ‘Gervase Salvinus, a Barissian, steals Toric’s Dagger. Emeric of Barissia declares himself king. And behind it all I see Ishari at work. I don’t know how yet, but it’s all linked together somehow. We need to spend this afternoon gathering information.’ Soren looked at Dirk. ‘What do you know of Emeric?’

  Dirk shrugged. ‘Arrogant, ambitious...but not stupid. He wouldn’t attempt anything like this without knowing that he had support from someone else. I guess that Ishari and Haskany are the most likely candidates.’

  ‘Pentas mentioned trouble in Persala,’ Belwynn reminded everyone. ‘This could extend beyond the Empire.’

  Soren nodded. ‘Right. I suggest we go about our business in ones and twos to attract as little attention as possible and meet back here this evening. I’ve got something I need to do on my own.’

  Belwynn felt a little taken aback by the abrupt statement, but chose not to pry. ‘I’ve got something I need to get as well. Clarin? Will you come with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, we need rations getting...Moneva and I will do that,’ volunteered Gyrmund, but if Moneva was surprised by the announcement, she didn’t show it.

  ‘I’ll go with Herin to get his sword,’ said Kaved.

  ‘Right,’ began Soren, ‘if you three don’t need anything, it might be best for you to stay put and look after our gear. The more of us who go out there, the more chance we have of finding trouble.’

  Soren’s implied message was that a Krykker and the two founding members of a strange new religious sect might attract more trouble than was average.

  ‘Well, I’d like to get some clothes, and I might be able to get in touch with some contacts in the city,’ replied Dirk. ‘I don’t mind picking up anything for anyone else, though.’

  With that agreed, eight of the group made their way into the streets of Coldeberg, leaving Rabigar and Elana behind at The Boot and Saddle.

  XII

  Trimming the Fat

  Edgar sat on Oslac of Halsham’s bed, awaiting news. A messenger from Cerdda of North Magnia had arrived at the town, and was currently meeting with Wilchard before the news was brought to Edgar.

  Edgar, of course, had been ill since yesterday morning. Officially ill, that is. Unofficially, he was feeling great.

  To buy himself and Cerdda time, Edgar had decided to suddenly fall ill. Oslac, at whose house Edgar was staying, rushed to find Ealdnoth. Ealdnoth immediately diagnosed the illness. It was a rare illness that no-one else had heard of before, it had a long and unpronounceable name, and worst of all, it was extremely contagious.

  Rumours flew around the camp, many suggesting foul play on the part of the North Magnians. The campaign was halted in its tracks just as conflict with the old enemy seemed imminent. Edgar was confined to his room; only Ealdnoth and his two bodyguards daring to stay with him. Leofwin and Brictwin took turns keeping guard outside; the other sleeping with their prince in the room. The loyalty of the two men was commended by many, though the commending was carried out at a healthy distance. Edgar’s room was given a wide berth. Many sympathised with Oslac over the disruption caused to his house and the fact that Edgar had dined with him and his young family the night prior to the illness taking hold. Many gave Oslac and his family a wide berth, too.

  Ealdnoth let it be known that Edgar had asked for Wilchard to take charge of the army during his illness. For some reason, Wilchard had never been so popular. Many a grand nobleman of South Magnia took time from their busy schedule to speak personally to Wilchard, to praise him on the fine job he had done for his king over recent years and to remark on how well he handled the onerous duties of managing the army. They even confided to him their own fears for Prince Edgar’s health, and what might befall the kingdom should he tragically succumb to his terrible illness. Edgar had no heirs, and there was no obvious successor to the throne. Many a grand nobleman gave Wilchard their own opinions as to who would be best placed to take over the leadership of the kingdom in such a grave situation. Wilchard listened politely and passed on everything he heard to Edgar. Edgar wondered if he shou
ld be ill more often.

  All in all, the ruse had worked very well. Harbyrt the Fat had doubtless heard about the fate of his prince. He and his following had still not joined up with the royal army. Edgar knew that Harbyrt’s scheming mind would be working overtime. If Edgar did die now, it would be the perfect opportunity for him to declare his independence. South Magnia would be in chaos and there would be no one to stand in his way.

  Of course, what Harbyrt didn’t know was that Edgar was feeling fine and biding his time until he was ready to confront his wayward vassal in person.

  There was a knock at the door. Brictwin stood up from his prone position on the floor, where he had been catching up on some sleep, and Edgar shouted for his visitors to enter. Leofwin opened the door from the outside, let in Wilchard and Ealdnoth, and closed it again.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Edgar, motioning to Oslac’s bed, upon which his councillors duly perched.

  ‘Important developments,’ began Wilchard with little preamble. ‘Last night Ashere, Prince Cerdda’s younger brother, led a surprise attack on Earl Sherlin. Apparently, it came completely out of the blue and was a complete success. Sherlin was captured, and before his men knew anything about it, Ashere had delivered him up to his brother to stand trial on charges of treason. Cerdda has raised a small army and is currently located just a few miles north of the border. He sends apologies for not advising you of Ashere’s attack, but because it was a risky venture, he preferred to wait on its result and then report to us on the current situation. He advises you to strike at Harbyrt soon. There is probably a fair chance that he knows nothing of these events yet.’

  Edgar had to stand up with excitement. ‘Yes. We move now and we move fast. Wilchard, I’m suddenly feeling a lot better, and feel good enough to resume command of the army. We leave within the hour. If anyone feels that their men cannot be mobilised before then, they will have to stay at Halsham.’

  As it turned out, with a little grumbling aside, all of Edgar’s commanders had their troops ready on time. His recovery was seen by many as a sign of Toric’s blessing on the campaign. The story was that Edgar wished to link up with Harbyrt in order to share information and combine forces before pushing into North Magnia. More than one lord openly complained about the lack of any action from Harbyrt so far. Edgar agreed that his Marshal had questions to answer, and was happy to see that he was likely to enjoy some support from his nobility in bringing the man to task.

  It was only a few miles from Halsham to Harbyrt’s castle at Granstow, the largest of half a dozen strongholds in the northern marches which were in his keeping.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time it came into view. Well-positioned on a hill overlooking the surrounding territory, Granstow was one of the largest border castles which had been built during the years of civil war. Nonetheless, it was designed to be effective rather than grand-looking. The regular garrison would only be about fifty strong, though that in itself was a considerable expense on food and wages. It could hold considerably more people when necessary. The central keep, perched high on an earth mound, was stone-built, but the rest of the fortifications were constructed from wood from the local area. It couldn’t hold out against a determined army forever, but that wasn’t the point. Granstow was part of a network of fortifications along the border to deter raiders from North Magnia. Should they be faced with a full-scale invasion, the garrisons’ job was to disrupt the enemy and hold out until relieved.

  Edgar decided to pitch his army’s camp a mile away from the castle. It left something of a no-man’s land between the two forces. The prince wanted Harbyrt to be the one to cross it.

  It was some time before a messenger from Harbyrt arrived. The messenger turned out to be Kenward, officially royal sheriff of the region, but in reality securely in Harbyrt’s pocket. He was a man about the age Edgar’s father would have been: bushy, grey hair topping a large-featured, flat face that Edgar didn’t like very much. Kenward was taken to Edgar’s tent to talk with the Prince.

  ‘Greetings, Your Highness,’ began Kenward, ‘we did not expect your visit, I am afraid, but arrangements have been made at the castle for your entourage to stay.’

  ‘You did not expect my visit, Kenward?’ enquired Edgar in a quiet voice, yet its tone hinted of anger and contempt. ‘In time of war with the Northerners I would hope my marshal and sheriff would expect to be involved a little.’

  Kenward inclined his head at the prince’s response but offered no apology. ‘Of course, both Marshal Harbyrt and myself have been busy, stockpiling and garrisoning our strongholds and raising our soldiers. I am merely explaining that we did not receive notice of your plans to march the army here...in fact, the last message we received was that Your Highness was gravely ill.’

  Edgar didn’t like the sheriff’s words, demeanour, or his tone of voice, and felt like smashing a gauntleted fist into his face, but he controlled his emotions. After all, this man wasn’t the target today. ‘Yes, well, I thank you for asking after my health, sheriff. I am in fact fully recovered and feel no need to impose on Harbyrt at Granstow when I can spend the night here amongst my soldiers. I would, however, very much like to speak with Harbyrt regarding the forthcoming campaign, and would be grateful if you could fetch him for me.’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ replied Kenward, doing his best to hide his discomfort. ‘Do you intend to strike at the enemy tomorrow, Your Highness?’

  ‘You will understand, Kenward, if I keep my plans to myself and my trusted councillors for the time being. It would be a blow if they were to find their way into enemy hands.’

  ‘Of course, Your Highness,’ repeated the sheriff, before bowing and leaving the tent.

  Satisfied with his strategy, Edgar called a meeting of the Royal Council. The Council was a vague body of advisers to the Prince, selected by Edgar himself from those in attendance on him. Since many of the most powerful men in the kingdom were present with their retinues in the army, it was difficult for Edgar to keep the council manageable in size without putting people’s noses out of joint. Thus, along with loyal supporters like Wilchard, Ealdnoth and Farred, this meeting also involved men whom Edgar had been obliged to invite. Otha of Rystham, probably Edgar’s wealthiest vassal, was there along with his brother Wulfgar, High Priest of Toric. Aescmar, the bulk of whose lands were held by the Magnian coast in order that he co-ordinate the kingdom’s naval defences, was also present. He was a man who kept himself to himself, happy not to interfere with Edgar’s plans if Edgar did not interfere with his. He seemed to take his responsibilities seriously, though, and Edgar had no quarrel with him.

  Harbyrt took his time to get from his castle to the camp. No doubt his lack of haste was a reminder to his Prince that he would not be treated like a wayward lackey. The facts of the matter were, however, that the Marshal could offer little resistance to Edgar when he had the kingdom’s army with him, and wasting time now just served to irritate his peers, who were also waiting for him to arrive before the Council started.

  When Harbyrt eventually did arrive with a small entourage, he was immediately taken to the royal tent. Edgar had ordered that no refreshments were to be offered beforehand in the hope that Harbyrt would arrive in a foul mood. The man was no fool, however, and when Leofwin and Brictwin stepped aside to let him manoeuvre his bulk inside, he immediately bowed to his Prince and clasped hands with the others present, as if nothing was amiss. Farred’s face was the only one he did not recognise, and when introduced, he made a jest about Steppe tribesmen attending Royal Council in an obvious attempt to reduce the standing of someone he correctly guessed to be a royal loyalist. The dangers of councils, as Edgar and his father before him had found out, was the tendency of the nobility to stick together as a group to defend their own rights and privileges, and to see the prince as something of a threat to these.

  ‘I have called this meeting,’ began Edgar, ‘in
order that we discuss our plans for the next phase of this campaign.’

  Wilchard, on cue, was the first to respond to this announcement. ‘First I feel I must speak my mind on some aspects of the campaign so far. It is my opinion that, in the grave situation in which we find ourselves, the support of Harbyrt as Marshal of the North has been totally inadequate.’

  ‘How dare you pass judgement on me?’ Harbyrt stared around the tent in incredulity, looking for support, his face and neck mottled with red blotches as his anger boiled over. ‘You’re nothing but an upstart royal boot polisher, you piece of fungus!’ Harbyrt roared at the chief steward, spittle shooting in Wilchard’s direction.

  Edgar surveyed the assembly. Normally, Harbyrt’s bluster would have been enough to see off the attack from Wilchard. Wilchard was not from a great noble family, and many of those present did resent the power he wielded in the kingdom, whereas Harbyrt was one of them, and therefore should be defended at all costs. These were not normal times, however. This was time of war, and self-survival was of vital importance. Wilchard had shown himself to be an able commander; he oversaw the army logistics and had made sure it was fed and well supplied. He had kept the peace in an army which seemed to have as many officers as soldiers with a mixture of discipline and diplomacy. Harbyrt, on the other hand, a man who was supposed to be a key leader in times of war, had not figured at all, and was resented for this. Edgar’s Council, therefore, was not sure who to side with and looked to their Prince for a decision.

  ‘I think we should hear Wilchard out, Harbyrt, and then you may defend yourself.’