by Bruce Blake
“We have only taken one fortress. There is a kingdom yet to conquer. If Therrador is dethroned too quickly, the people will not submit to my control. He must put the knife in his own heart.”
“Our control,” Perdaro corrected.
“Yes, yes. Our control.”
She waved her hand at him and looked back to the window, wistful. She liked nothing better than the feel of wind in her hair and soil beneath her feet; a tent was usually the most she could stand. She’d felt such since childhood. How she longed to get up off the bed and rush into the night, to let the darkness embrace her, to dive into the cold water of the Sea of Linghala. That’s what freedom felt like.
“You should have told me you abducted Graymon.”
His words pulled her out of the cold autumn night and back into the bedchamber.
“What?”
“I said, ‘you should have told me you took Graymon’.”
She shook her head. “Why? The less you know of what I am doing, the easier it is for you to keep it from Therrador.”
“I wouldn’t betray you.”
She heard his offended expression in the tone of his voice. Part of her wanted to smack it from him, remind him who she was and that he shouldn’t be so comfortable, so expectant, but she held herself in check. She had further need of the Voice of the People.
“I learned long ago the best way to keep from being betrayed is not to share your plans.” She smiled a fake, sickly-feeling sweet smile. It was enough for him and the stern look melted away like ice on the first day of spring. “Do not take it personally, love.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. His breath sighed out through his lips and past her ear, stirring her hair. Hanh Perdaro was still fit enough and handsome enough for many women to find such a breath stimulating, but not the Archon. Her heart, her soul, belonged elsewhere, to no man on the earth. She did these things because they were the best way to get what she wanted from a man.
Make them stupid and they will do your will.
Perdaro lay back, head on the pillow, and she pulled the duvet off him, exposing his lithe body and the touch of gray hair on his chest. In one graceful movement, she swung herself onto him, straddling his hips. His expression went from taut, to surprised, to relaxed. A pressure grew between his legs, pushing against her, and she made herself smile at him and giggle like one of those women men didn’t fear. She wiggled her ass against the pressure until it slid inside her and the tautness returned to his face. He closed his eyes. She stared at him as she rocked back and forth, stealing his brains and his loyalty even as she loathed both him and the act.
One day soon, he’d have served his purpose. When the day came, she’d finally stop pretending and show him how she really felt. She smiled and closed her eyes, taking herself back to the cold sea as she waited for him to finish, then she would climb off, go to sleep, and dream of her empire.
Chapter Fifteen
The day had been very much like this one: clear and cool, the colors of autumn hanging from the trees and the taste of winter threatening on the wind. They weren’t at the Isthmus Fortress that day as Therrador was today. That day six years ago, he’d been camped with his troops in a muddy clearing at the foot of the mountains bordering Erechania and Estycia.
One of the mountain tribes had been sacking villages, killing good Erechanian citizens and plundering good Erechanian crops in the process. Braymon insisted Therrador lead the party to put the raiders down because his presence would show the king cared equally for his entire kingdom, no matter how remote. Therrador didn’t ask if he sent him with Seerna so close to giving birth because he forgot or because it didn’t matter to him. Either answer would have equated to the same thing: he didn’t care.
On that day, Therrador led one of the scouting parties himself. They found a couple of abandoned short-term camps, their burned out fires long dead, and nothing else. Twilight painted pinks and oranges across the tops of the mountains as he led his soldiers back to camp, the colors calming some of the frustration of a fruitless ride and his annoyance that his king had sent him. When he found Sir Matte Eliden awaiting his return, he knew something must be amiss.
“Therrador, my Lord,” Sir Matte panted as he jogged to Therrador’s horse. “There’s been a messenger.”
Therrador looked down into the man’s watery blue eyes. Reading Sir Matte’s mood in his eyes was difficult because he constantly looked on the verge of tears, but the hard line of his lips showing through his meticulously trimmed salt and pepper beard told the king’s advisor that the knight had something urgent that required Therrador’s attention.
“What is it, man? Don’t keep me in suspense.” Therrador slid off his horse and handed the reins to the groom who came up behind Sir Matte. As the lad led the animal away, Therrador put his hand on the knight’s shoulder and steered him toward his tent. “What would make a man of your years run about camp like he was out to have his heart burst?”
Sir Matte shook his head. “The messenger waits for you by your tent, my Lord. He wouldn’t speak his message to myself or anyone else. He said his words were only for you.”
Wouldn’t tell?
Therrador’s chest cinched about his heart, but he kept his face plain, his pace steady. If the messenger wouldn’t tell any but himself, then things were terribly wrong.
Has something happened to Braymon?
Looking back six years later, the irony that he thought first of the king struck Therrador. He had nary a thought of Seerna until reading her name on the damned parchment. He hated himself for it sometimes, but it spoke of what he lived his life for then.
The messenger waiting outside his tent had seen perhaps seventeen years, certainly no more. His jaw was set, determined to deliver likely the first message of any importance with which he’d been entrusted, but fear and uncertainty shone in his eyes. As Therrador approached, the boy straightened and saluted by thumping his fist against his chest hard enough to make himself flinch. Therrador didn’t return the formality, instead waving the youth into his pavilion.
Curiosity and anxiety fluttered in Therrador’s gut. Everything-the manner of the messenger’s arrival, Sir Matte coming to Therrador himself, the look in the boy's eyes-all pointed to news of the worst kind.
“Make sure no one disturbs us,” Therrador said over his shoulder.
He caught a glimpse of Sir Matte nodding as the tent flap fell into place, then he faced the young messenger. The boy seemed to tremble but, to his credit, his expression remained firm and resolved despite the look in his eyes.
“Sit.” Therrador indicated a stool beside the central fire pit where a blaze already flickered in the brazier. He pulled another stool from beside the bed and set it across from the boy. “What’s so desperate our king couldn’t wait for my return?”
“I don’t know, my Lord.” Without sitting, the boy fumbled a leather tube from his belt, opened the top and slid a rolled parchment out of it. “I wasn’t told what the message is, only that it’s for my lord’s eyes alone and it’s of the utmost importance.”
“Is this your first mission, son?”
Therrador took the scroll offered by the messenger and rolled it in his fingers. A spot of blue wax emblazoned with the royal seal held it closed.
From Braymon himself. He must be all right.
“No, Lord Therrador. Not my first.”
Therrador smiled. “Your first outside the city?” If he dragged out the reading of the scroll, perhaps whatever it contained would no longer be real. Maybe the words written upon it would disappear and whatever happened would go back to the way it had always been.
The messenger hung his head, embarrassed. “Yes, my Lord. It’s my first trip outside Achtindel.” He snickered to himself. “I’m lucky I found you.”
“I have a feeling I’m not so lucky you found me.” Therrador tapped the parchment scroll on his knee while the messenger watched. “You’re dismissed. Thank you for your efforts.”
Th
e boy saluted again, this time with less zest, and turned abruptly. Therrador returned the salute halfheartedly and watched the messenger leave the tent. When the flap settled into place, he looked down at the scroll in his hand. Whatever news it contained was at least a week old-it would have taken that long or more for its carrier to reach the frontier, more if he didn’t locate the camp immediately.
Therrador moved to the chair by his cot and contemplated the message. He rubbed the wax seal with his thumb, felt the outline of the tiger’s head emblem signifying the message was written by Braymon’s hand; thoughts swirled through his mind. If the message was of a military nature, it would have been given to Sir Matte in Therrador’s absence. If it contained news of ill befalling the king, it would be someone else’s mark in the wax-Sir Alton Sienhin’s or perhaps the healer’s. Therrador shook his head and sighed. Nothing to do but open it and find out.
He slid his thumb under the wax, broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Even before he began reading, one word jumped off the page, grabbing his attention and freezing his breath in his lungs.
Seerna.
He scanned the looping letters of Braymon’s hand, taking in the meaning without resting overlong on any one of them.
Regret to inform you…
…died in child birth.
The baby survived, physicians are attending him.
…her last wish was to name him Graymon.
It said more: expressions of regret, offers of assistance. At the end of the message, Braymon encouraged him to continue his duties at the foot of the mountains, ensured him the babe would be cared for until his return.
Therrador lowered the parchment, allowing it to dangle from his fingers, and stared straight ahead at the plain canvas tent wall. Numbness started in his fingers and toes; the lack of sensation crawled up his arms and legs. It spread through his chest, to his head, creating a swirling throb threatening to pop his skull like an over-filled wine skin. He let out a shuddering breath in an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable feeling along with the air from his lungs, but it didn’t leave him. Instead, it clamped his teeth tight and curled his fingers into fists, crumpling the parchment.
He stared at his boots, at the ground under his feet. His vision blurred as tears came to his eyes. One slid down his nose, hanging from the tip before plummeting to the dirt between his boots. He stared at it a second before anger exploded in him. Therrador stood suddenly and hurled the crumpled parchment against the wall of the tent.
“Braymon,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
This was the king’s fault. If he hadn’t sent him away to suppress the tribal uprising, he’d have been there for his wife. If he’d stayed in Achtindel, she might still be alive, or at least he’d have had another month to show her how much he loved her.
His thoughts turned to the baby. His son. Alive and well and taken care of.
And named after the king.
Therrador stared at the tent wall and the crumpled parchment lying on the ground for a long time, every muscle in his body taut and strained, the cords in his neck standing out. The world dimmed and brightened as waves of emotion broke over him like the ocean slamming against the rocky shore. Anger, sadness, longing, hatred. His breath came in short bursts through his nose. His fists quivered at his sides, his anger contained in them with no place to go. How long he stood in that spot fighting the urge to jump on a horse and ride for the capital, he didn’t know. The next thing he remembered was Sir Matte’s voice calling him. He might have been calling for an hour, for all Therrador knew.
“My Lord,” the old knight called, the canvas tent wall muting his voice. “My Lord?”
Therrador shook his head, re-focused his eyes.
“What is it?” he growled.
The last thing he wanted right now was to tell Matte what happened. The last thing he wanted was to face another human being.
“The second search party has returned.” Sir Matte paused and, when Therrador gave no response, he continued. “They have a prisoner.”
The knight’s words made Therrador’s eyes widen.
A prisoner. Someone who can help my time here end.
Therrador burst through the tent flap into a night he hadn’t realized had fallen. Cook fires lit the camp, but no soldiers sat by them. Everyone was gathered around the central fire where the prisoner stood, hands bound behind his back, a rope tethering him to the saddle of a horse.
“My Lord, the…”
Without a word, Therrador pushed past Sir Matte and headed for the man encircled by soldiers taunting him with threats of violence. His unkempt hair and matted beard identified him as a member of one of the mountain tribes.
The man stood steadfast, the bonfire’s flames reflected in his dark eyes as he stared into the night, refusing to meet the gaze of any of the soldiers. Had he been in a different state, Therrador might have admired the way he showed no fear. Unfortunately for the prisoner, he wasn’t.
Sir Matte called out words that Therrador didn’t hear and the circle of soldiers parted, allowing their leader to walk directly to the prisoner. A few of the soldiers saluted Therrador; he ignored them, his attention directed to the tribesman, his way home to his new child. The man’s eyes flickered to Therrador, but their gazes met for only a second before Therrador’s fist smashed into his face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose; he collapsed to his knees but didn’t cry out. Therrador stood over him, seething with anger and hatred.
“Untie him,” he said.
At first, no one moved. The group of soldiers stared, none of them jumping to do his bidding. Therrador’s anger increased.
“Release him from the horse,” he yelled and the three men closest to the steed all moved at once. The tribesman looked up at Therrador, blood streaming down his chin from his broken nose, but he didn’t speak.
Beg for mercy. Beg for your worthless life.
With the knots undone, Therrador grabbed the tribesman by the front of his grubby doeskin shirt and pulled him to his feet. The man stared, unflinching, seemingly fearless.
For now.
“Where’s your camp?” Therrador shook the man but received no response. “How many in your raiding party?”
Sir Matte appeared at Therrador’s shoulder. “My Lord, not all mountain men speak our language.”
“He speaks it,” Therrador barked at the knight and Sir Matte backed away. “You have to speak it so you can tell your victims to beg for mercy, don’t you?”
The man smiled, blood streaked on his yellowed teeth. Therrador slammed his forehead against the man’s face provoking a pained yelp.
“Where’s your camp?”
“You kill me before I tell,” the mountain man said and spat blood on Therrador’s leather breast piece.
The circle of soldiers pushed closer about them but their leader held them back with a gesture.
“You’ll tell,” Therrador whispered, “then you’ll beg me to kill you.”
Therrador rammed his knee into the prisoner’s groin and, as the man doubled over off balance, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him closer to the fire. The group of soldiers followed closely. Therrador threw the man face down in the dirt a foot from the flames and pressed his knee into the small of his back.
“Where’s the camp?”
“No tell.”
Therrador drove the man’s face into the dirt, grinding it against the ground. He came away sputtering, spitting a concoction of blood and soil from his lips.
“How many in your raiding party?”
The man shook his head. “No tell.”
Gathering fistfuls of the prisoner’s shirt, Therrador dragged him forward six inches and settled on his back again. When he struggled to pull his face away from the flames, the king’s advisor grabbed the man’s greasy hair and forced his nose closer. The heat scalded Therrador’s fingers; the smell of smoldering hair wafted to his nostrils.
“Where’s your camp?” Therrador growled through clenc
hed teeth.
The man shook his head, his beard stirring up dust. Therrador grabbed his shirt again when Sir Matte put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. The king’s advisor looked at his long-time friend, barely recognizing him through a veil of hatred and anger.
“Therrador, my Lord, there are other ways,” he said low enough to keep the other men from hearing. “Don’t do this.”
Therrador glared at him. Fifteen years before, they fought side by side to win Braymon his crown-Matte had practically been a father to him. For a moment, he considered relenting, but the thought of Braymon stirred him.
Braymon the faithless.
“Get your hand off me.”
Matte must have seen the degree of Therrador’s rage, heard it in his tone. He removed his hand from his friend’s shoulder and backed away, head shaking. When he reached the circle of soldiers, he turned and left. Therrador returned his attention to the prisoner, bunching the doeskin shirt in his hands.
“Tell me.”
“Never.”
Therrador jerked the man forward a foot-and-a-half and the screaming started immediately. His hair and beard melted with a sickly smell, his flesh sizzled. Behind Therrador, the soldiers cheered. The man yowled. Through the tumult, Therrador almost missed the tribesman begging for mercy. He pulled him out of the flames and stared into the man’s smoking, ruined face.
“I tell,” he whispered before the pain caused him to lose consciousness.
***
Therrador stood in the middle of the encampment, blood dripping from the tip of his sword, the autumn breeze swirling smoke over his head. Flames engulfed the shelters of branches and makeshift tents, and Erechanian soldiers heaved bodies of tribesmen-some of them still groaning-onto the fires. Screams filled the air, silenced a moment later by sword or spear. The twenty-five tribesmen were no match for the forty trained fighting men with which Therrador surprised them. All of them lay dead or dying. Two soldiers strode past Therrador, a dead mountain man dangling by arms and legs between them.
