by R. S. Ford
‘That’s not surprising for a farm girl, I suppose,’ he finished. When she did not answer, Randal continued to stare.
‘You’re a monster,’ whispered Livia, before she could even consider that it might be a bad idea to insult her captor.
‘Many people in the duchy are saying the same thing about you.’ She saw the hint of a smile play on Randal’s face through the shadow. ‘Have you seen Cal Redfen recently? Only a witch could do that to a strapping young lad in his prime.’
Livia felt a wrenching pain in her gut. She had never meant to hurt Cal. She didn’t even know how she had done it, but the guilt stung.
‘I never meant—’
‘Save it,’ whispered Randal. ‘It won’t help you.’
‘Just like it didn’t help Ben?’ she spat. If she had intended to move Randal with her words it didn’t do the trick.
‘That was unfortunate. I wish I could have avoided that but Ben would have shouted from the rooftops that you’d been taken. If word of what you’d done reached King Stellan he might well have wanted you for himself. Gothelm can’t have that. Ben just had to go.’ Randal glanced into the embers of the fireplace, as though they showed him a picture of a past he could never reach. ‘He was good to me, old Ben. After my father died he did his best to look in on us. If things had been different he and my mother might have wed. I might have been his son.’ He looked back at Livia. ‘But things aren’t different. Things are as they are. I am fatherless. Ben is dead. And you will face Duke Gothelm’s judgement.’
Livia hunkered down in the silence, fighting back her tears. She was determined not to show him any further weakness but she felt like she might break at any moment.
‘I used to see you often at Bardum Market when we were children,’ Randal continued. ‘I doubt you even noticed me. You were always smiling. Always ready with a kind word. All the old hens making a fuss of the orphan girl. Where are your hens now, Livia Harrow? No one cares for you and no one is coming to help.’
She was about to snap back at him. To tell him she didn’t remember him. To tell him she had no idea who he was and would never have noticed such a snivelling toad, when one of the tallymen stirred.
Randal stood. ‘On your feet,’ he said, his voice filling the room.
Without complaint the tallymen stirred, each silently rising, stretching, and gathering his bedroll. Without another word the door to the cottage was opened and they began to file out. One of them grabbed the rope that bound Livia’s wrists and pulled her to her feet.
As she was dragged outside she could feel Randal’s eyes on her. In the cold of the morning, as she was pulled along the muddy road to her fate, she wondered how many times those eyes had regarded her while she walked the fayre at Bardum Market.
Whatever the answer, she was not in Bardum Market now.
She doubted she would ever see it again.
* * *
For centuries the three great kingdoms of the Suderfeld had been at war. A succession of warrior kings rose and fell as the lands were riven with strife. The rulers of Canbria, Arethusa and Eldreth were at once noble and merciless – their codes of chivalry as widely respected as their ruthlessness was feared.
With their Crown Sorcerers at their sides – twisted and venal to a man – there looked to be no end to the conflict. For as each king rose and fell their advisors and puppet-masters would still be lurking, ready to pick up the pieces and perpetuate the never-ending war of attrition.
This might have gone on endlessly had the Fall not come and snatched power from every sorcerer in the Three Kingdoms. With their magic gone the glamour they had placed upon their kings vanished. Those that did not flee were slaughtered – strung up as an example to any who might try and usurp power from the rightful rulers of the Suderfeld.
Though antipathy still reigned amidst the Three Kingdoms, it was soon overcome by a common enemy. From across the Crooked Jaw rose the Mercenary Barons, their fear of Suderfeld gone after the demise of the Crown Sorcerers.
They came as a great horde, united under a dozen banners, bent on seizing the rich lands of the Suderfeld and slaughtering its rightful rulers. The Three Kingdoms had to unite or die to face this new threat and quickly drew up the Treaty of Iron – an accord that would seal their alliance and allow them to face the Mercenary Barons as a unified force.
The Mercenary War was a brief one. The invading forces were sent scurrying back over the Crooked Jaw where they licked their wounds and thought long on their folly. When the war was over, the Treaty of Iron was honoured by the rulers of the Three Kingdoms.
Harald of Canbria, Craggen of Arethusa and Leonfric of Eldreth became friends over the intervening years, raising their sons in the noble tradition and guaranteeing peace through an annual tourney, where any rivalries or disputes could be resolved on the field in a battle to first blood.
It was on the night of one such tourney that the champion to Leonfric of Eldreth was said to have poisoned his rival, the champion of Canbria, to dull his senses for the following day’s match. Some say the dose was too high. Others say that the champion of Arethusa had also poisoned the knight of Canbria and the combined cocktail was too much for the man’s heart. Either way, upon finding his champion dead Harald declared the Treaty of Iron void.
Without the treaty binding their realms, the kings of the Suderfeld soon regressed to their baser instincts. Their wars began anew. A conflict that would outlive Harald, Leonfric and Craggen and pass down to their sons. A war that seemingly had no end…
– A Treatise of the Suderfeld Wars,
Brother Hephestus Baal,
Third Penitent of Halbor the Wise
* * *
17
Canbria, 105 years after the Fall
IT was a dingy inn. Not quite the worst Josten had been in over the years but somewhere close. The dim candlelight revealed the filth surrounding them, a thick layer of dust and grease that seemed to cover everything – even the old man asleep with his head in his arms at one table. Maybe the guttering candles made this place look more of a shithole than it was. Maybe in daylight it could be considered quaint.
As he spied a rat run beneath a nearby bench Josten realised he couldn’t blame the candles.
‘What a fucking shithole,’ said Mullen, loudly so all could hear.
Josten couldn’t argue. This place was an insult to shit.
‘Well? What are you having?’
Mullen’s frown of disdain turned into a welcoming smile as he turned to the serving girl who stood behind them. She was every bit as greasy and careworn as the inn, but that didn’t stop Mullen.
‘Two flagons, my dear,’ he said with his massive horse-faced smile. ‘And is that chicken I can smell roasting somewhere, my beauty?’
‘Two coppers a flagon. Three coppers a chicken,’ she answered, seemingly impervious to Mullen’s charms. Not that Josten was surprised – most women were impregnable to his friend’s advances, unless Mullen was paying for it.
‘The two flagons will do then,’ Mullen replied. Chicken was out of their budget.
‘Coins,’ she said, holding out her hand wearily.
Mullen looked like he was about to argue the price then thought better of it, fishing in his coinpurse for the money before depositing it in her outstretched hand. She looked at Mullen like he’d just pissed on her palm, before turning and stomping off without another word.
‘She’s desperate to fuck me,’ said Mullen.
Josten couldn’t even be bothered asking where he’d got that impression, he was too busy wondering how his life had come to this. He was cold, filthy and they could only afford ale instead of chicken. They were warriors in a kingdom riven by war and couldn’t find anyone to pay them for their services. Over the years they’d both managed to kill, betray or abandon their way to being the most unpopular mercenaries in all the Suderfeld. Anyone would be desperate to employ them now. But then, these were desperate times.
‘If I were you I’d concentra
te on finding work for the weapon people might want you to use, rather than the useless one hanging between your thighs,’ said Josten, only half-joking.
‘It wasn’t me who fucked Duke Harlaw’s wife,’ Mullen shot back.
Josten couldn’t argue; this was his fault and he knew it. Under Duke Harlaw they had both lived a blessed existence. Josten’s desire had ruined all that and Mullen’s loyalty meant he was now knee-deep in the same mire. For the thousandth time since they’d fled Ravensbrooke he made sure Josten knew it.
He could only hope things would pick up, but in the five years since Josten had escaped execution, times had got harder. They’d both been forced to take work where they could with the foulest mercenary bands in all the Three Kingdoms of the Suderfeld. Josten had a lot of regrets, and dragging his friend down with him was up there among them. He could only take solace in the fact the fighting was escalating. Surely they’d find work soon.
‘Two flagons,’ said the serving maid, banging the drinks on their table. The ale was frothy with what looked like a layer of scum riding at the top. Still Mullen beamed up at her.
‘Thank you kindly,’ he said as she walked away and he took a long draught. ‘She definitely wants to fuck me.’ He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
Josten contemplated his own flagon for the longest time. Then the door to the inn opened before he could put the drink to his lips.
Four men walked in, two of whom he recognised. They were dishevelled from the road but keen of eye, glancing warily around the inn looking for signs of trouble. Their eyes fell on Josten and Mullen. They knew that if there was trouble to be had, then Josten or Mullen was where they’d find it.
The one at the front gave a nod of recognition. Thierry Chulders was well known throughout Canbria. Rumour was he’d been a Mercenary Baron in his day but had fallen on hard times. Whatever the truth, he fought hard in battle and was never short of work. He was a man to be respected, if not liked.
The next two Josten had never seen before, but the one at the back made him sigh deeply.
‘Fucking Beckan,’ Mullen said under his breath. This time he was quiet enough that only Josten heard him.
Dirty Beckan they called him. A bastard if ever there was one, but a hard bastard who carried a big axe. He was also connected, having fought for almost every mercenary crew in the Three Kingdoms. Not a man to be messed with.
‘Cade!’ Beckan shouted across the empty inn. ‘And Mullen, of course. Where there’s one there’s always the other. Just like horse shit and the stink it brings.’
He spoke through the gap where his front teeth should have been and Josten only wished he could find the man who’d knocked them out and buy him a barrel of ale.
Chulders and the other two took a table and waited for the serving girl, but Beckan continued to look on, leering across the inn like he was on heat and they were the tastiest whores he’d ever seen.
‘What you two doing here anyway?’ asked the big man. ‘Still looking for a company to take you on? Like anyone’s gonna want two washed-up old fucks.’
Mullen reached down ever so slowly for that axe he always kept at his side nowadays, but Josten gave him the don’t do anything stupid glance.
‘Sit down, Beckan,’ Chulders said.
Beckan kept smiling like an inbred before moving to sit with his three companions.
‘Don’t even start to tell me he’s not worth the hassle,’ said Mullen.
Josten was about to do just that when Beckan leaned back on his chair for one last dig.
‘Killed any fucking babies this week, Cade?’
This time it was Mullen’s turn to give an expectant look. Josten just stared back, easily reading his friend’s intent. Any move he wanted to make and Mullen would back him. But two against four wasn’t fair odds in anyone’s book.
They went back to their ales in silence. The first swig was bitter to Josten’s lips but it didn’t taste as bad as it looked. By the time he was halfway down the tankard he’d got the taste for it, but before they could order any more, Thierry Chulders moved from his table and came towards them. Mullen was his usual wary self but Josten knew they were in no danger from Chulders, as long as they weren’t facing one another on the battlefield.
‘Gentlemen,’ Chulders said, taking a seat at their table. ‘I see business could be better.’ He looked both men up and down with a wry grin.
‘Business is fine,’ Mullen replied. It was obvious to all three of them that was a lie.
Chulders signalled to the serving girl that he wanted another drink and she gave him a disinterested nod.
‘It’s just that we’re headed east to Tarrandale. To fight for King Ozric. He has the best chance to win this thing and he’s also the richest patron in the Three Kingdoms. Men like you would be valued assets to any company. I’d like that to be my company.’
‘No thanks,’ said Josten. He didn’t need time to think on it.
‘We’re choosy about the company we keep,’ added Mullen, glancing over towards Beckan, who was noisily talking of past deeds to the two men he sat with. Neither of them looked particularly interested, but neither did they tell him to be quiet.
Chulders leaned in close. ‘We all know that’s not true,’ he said. ‘We all know the company you’ve kept. The things you’ve… been involved in.’
Josten wanted to argue that one but he knew Chulders was right. He might be no baby killer but he’d run with men who were. And who’d done much worse.
‘The War of Three Crowns is almost over,’ Chulders continued. ‘Anyone not fighting for Ozric will be on the losing side. Where else will you go? Across the Crooked Jaw? The Mercenary Barons are a spent force; you won’t find riches there. Or you could always head north. I hear the death cults are looking for good men but you might have to sell them your soul before you get any coin in your pocket.’
‘We’ll work something out,’ said Josten.
Chulders shrugged. ‘Well, work something fast. It looks like you both need the money.’
It was a decent offer, and one Josten was close to accepting. Instead, he said nothing.
With a nod, Chulders stood and returned to sit with his companions.
‘You know he’s right,’ said Mullen.
‘He is. But do you want to run with him and men like Beckan? We’ve done enough pillage. We’re fighting men, not murderers.’
Mullen snorted. ‘We used to be fighting men, and well respected ones. Now we’re mercenaries, in case you’d forgotten. And Ozric’s gold is as good as anyone’s.’
Josten fixed his friend in a serious gaze. ‘The Battle of Han Tor? The Massacre of the Calamites? King Ozric is far worse than the others. And Chulders is talking out of his arse. There’s no guarantee he’ll win this war.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘I’m working on it,’ said Josten before draining his tankard. ‘And sitting around here’s not going to solve the situation.’
He stood, grabbing his gear, and Mullen followed his lead. The ale had gone straight to his head as he made his way to the door, and when Beckan walked in from taking a piss outside he felt all the anger and frustration build.
Just ignore it, he told himself, not worth the hassle.
Mullen was behind him; he didn’t need to worry about anyone watching his back. All he had to worry about was—
‘Off to find some more babies to fucking kill?’
The words weren’t even out of Beckan’s mouth before Josten had reached for the knife he kept hidden at the small of his back. It was out of its sheath and buried to the hilt in Beckan’s guts before Josten could even think it was a bad idea. He pushed Beckan back against the wall and blood spilled from the mercenary’s mouth instead of more bullshit.
‘No,’ Josten said through gritted teeth, looking into Beckan’s dying eyes. ‘I haven’t killed any babies today. But I have killed one cunt.’
He could hear chairs scraping on wood behind him but couldn’t bri
ng himself to tear his eyes away from Beckan’s, taking that unique pleasure you could only get from watching a man die and knowing you’d been the one to kill him.
‘Ain’t no more trouble lest you want it,’ he heard Mullen say behind him.
Beckan’s life ebbed and Josten pulled out the knife, letting the big mercenary slide to the floor, his eyes still pleading. He turned to see Mullen standing with his axe in his hands. Chulders and his two were also standing, weapons drawn.
‘We’re gonna walk out,’ Josten said. ‘You gonna try and stop us?’
Chulders thought on it a moment, then shook his head, lowering his blade.
‘I reckon not,’ he said.
Mullen and Josten backed out of the inn. Once outside they moved as quickly as they could down the street without running.
‘And they say I’m the one without any brains,’ said Mullen, when they were far enough to slow to a walk. ‘As if enough people don’t want us dead already.’
Josten could only shrug. ‘What’s a few more in the queue?’
Mullen looked at him, raising that bushy eyebrow of his. Then they both laughed so loud anyone passing must have thought them mad.
18
THE rain had turned Ballenheim into a mud-spattered mess. Everything was brown and black, and dour like the town’s mood.
‘What did we come to this craphole for?’ said Mullen. Josten gritted his teeth against telling him to shut the fuck up. It had been his idea to come here after all. Back when King Stellan had been putting down Carnus Bollem’s rebellion this had been a main hub for mercenaries to come and trade their services. Now it looked like the only thing traded here was horseshit and cabbages.
They hunkered under an awning that looked out onto the dead street. No one had come and told them to piss off, so for now it was theirs.
‘We’ll move on when we know which direction to move in. Do you want to spend another week walking the bloody hills?’
