by Kal Spriggs
Kerrel dropped back in her group to ride along side them. She spoke in a low voice to them, “I will see what I can do to get you a fair trial. Grel's actions were abominable, I'll admit. I will bring his actions to the attention of Lord Hector.”
“He destroyed our village,” the oldest of the men said. “I saw his men rape my daughter and cut her throat to silence her screams. Will he and his men pay for their crimes?”
Kerrel looked away from the anger in the old man's eyes. “I don't know,” she said, her voice soft. She had seen horrible things in her cycles as a mercenary, but the savagery that Grel's men showed still made her sick to her stomach.
“What can we expect?” the other man asked.
“The Baron of Zielona Gora is a young man and he follows what Lord Hector's senior commander says. I know the man, I'll speak with Captain Ironhelm, tell him that Grel's actions went beyond the limits.” She tried not to think about Grel's authority, and what might happen if he had already sent a messenger to Covle Darkbit. The bastard may have even ordered Grel to do what he did, she thought.
“You aren't like the other mercenaries,” the youngest said. “Why do you serve Lord Hector?” The tone of his voice suggested he genuinely couldn't understand. Then again, he hasn't met Hector, Kerrel thought.
“He pays well,” Kerrel said, after a moment's thought. “And he wants to protect these lands from the Armen.” She left unsaid the many other reasons, but that was none of the boy's business.
“The Usurper pays you with taxes that cripple us and you mercenaries are more threat to us than any Armen,” the oldest man said and he spat on the road in front of her horse. “You're no different than the others, you just try to appease your conscience.”
Kerrel felt her face flush, “Things aren't as clear cut as you think. And I'll thank you to remember that I saved your lives.” She put spurs to Nightwhisper and went back up to the front of her column. They don't understand what pressures and strain Hector suffers, at the cost that lies in every decision he makes, she thought.
Baran, her second in command, saw the expression on her face. “Thought they'd be grateful?” He rubbed at his blonde muttonchops and then wiped the sweat off his bald head. His lean, whip-thin body sat astride his horse as if he were born to the saddle.
“I thought they might at least be civil,” Kerrel said. She grimaced, “Though if I'd seen what they did, I would feel the same.” As if he picked up some of her emotional turmoil, Nightwhisper tossed his head.
“You've killed anyone who hurt your family, Kerrel, that's why you're here,” Baran said. “You haven't the temper to live a life of peace and that's why we follow you.” He gave a harsh, humorless laugh, “Though I don't know how you kept from killing that bastard Grel when we came across his work.”
“Him being flat on his back with the young one standing over him...” Kerrel shook her head. “I wish I'd let the boy kill him. Hector values his Hound too much, though and I have my suspicions about what he sent Grel south to do.”
“I've none at all,” Baran said, his voice low. “No reason to send the Hound to greet the exiled heir to Duke Peter. Grel is a thug and a killer, nothing more. And now that Lady Katarina is dead... well, the Usurper has no threat to his reign.”
Kerrel nodded. She opened her mouth to respond when she saw a small band of riders come from the gates ahead. At their head rode a pair of men in Lord Hector's colors. The yellow and black hawks on their tunics stood out starkly. Kerrel bit back a curse at the sight of the one on the left, whose silken surcoat showed the finest tailoring. “Covle Darkbit's here.”
“At least he has Rasev Ironhelm, which means that Covle won't be able to hang us for betraying Hector,” Baran said. He glanced back at the prisoners. “If Covle's here, there's no way they'll be released. You may have given them more mercy if we killed them.”
Kerrel glanced over her shoulder. She felt a sudden impulse to ride back, cut the men free from the ropes that held their arms and order them to run. She buried that impulse, though, she owed these men nothing. She had given Hector her loyalty. She had taken his coin and followed his banner. She would follow his commands and those of his commanders... even if she hated herself for it.
She reigned in her horse as the riders came to a stop only a few yards distant. “Ah, Captain Flamehair, I see you have brought some prisoners from the bandits that the Hound fought.” Covle Darkbit spoke pleasantly, with a cultured affection to his voice that grated on Kerrel's ears. Nightwhisper picked up some of her dislike, apparently, and his ears flattened.
“I brought these men from the village, but they're no bandits,” Kerrel said, her voice sharp. “Grel put the whole village to the torch, and his men raped and looted–”
“I suggest you silence yourself before I find it necessary to remember that Grel's messenger reported you threatened him in the course of his duties,” Covle said. The tall, muscular man flicked away a speck of dust off his surcoat. He glanced over at Rasev, “Captain Ironhelm vouched for your service and loyalty and we all know that Lord Hector holds you in high... respect.” Covle managed a disgusting smirk at the end of his statement. “It would be a shame for me to have to explain why I had to execute you for banditry or even insurrection.”
Kerrel fought back the urge to draw her saber. Rasev caught her eyes and shook his head slightly and she saw him make a slight gesture towards the city. Kerrel looked in that direction, in time to see a pair of companies form up outside the gate. She felt certain that they had orders to serve as a welcoming party for her and Grel's men. They would serve equally as well as their executioners, especially with Grel's company formed up behind her own men.
Kerrel's eyes narrowed, “I will turn the prisoners over to the Baron of Zielona Gora for trial. However, I will protest to Lord Hector about this, Darkbit. The Hound could have done his mission without this level of bloodshed.”
Covle shrugged, “Between us, I agree. But it is my job to make certain that the south does not erupt in rebellion and this kind of thing has the potential for that. Your three prisoners will receive a proper trial by the Baron of Zielona Gora himself, after which they'll be found guilty and they'll receive the punishment that Lord Hector has authorized for insurrection and treason.”
Kerrel's face paled. “Surely you don't mean...”
“They'll get the Traitor's Death,” Rasev said, his voice harsh. “Next time, just let Grel's men kill them, it would be a mercy.”
***
Lady Katarina
Zielona Gora, Zielona Gora Barony of the Duchy of Masov
Fifteenth of Silnak, cycle 999 Post Sundering
“There's something wrong,” Bulmor said, his gruff voice pitched low, as he followed Gerlin. “The crowd is too uneasy.”
“The Barony's occupied by Hector's mercenaries and run by one of his lackeys and the last Baron's lack-wit son.” Gerlin said. “Hector had the last Baron executed and his other boy's either dead or in hiding. Of course the crowd's uneasy.” Despite his calm words, his blue eyes scanned through the crowd, alert for dangers. “Perhaps you and the Lady should withdraw.”
Katarina gave him a sharp glare. “No. We are safest as a group, at least until we know what happened back at the village.” She glanced around, “Failing that, we contact Hector's local commander and notify him of his duty to protect us.”
“Assuming they didn't burn down the village themselves,” Gerlin said. “If not for that storm...”
Katarina shook her head. She understood the... determination of Hector. The bastard didn't hesitate to kill little Peter or my parents, and only Bulmor saved me that night. She shuddered again at the memory of the assassin as he came out of her brother's room, sword bloody. “Even he can't be stupid enough to invite me back and then try to kill me. No one would ever trust his word again. On top of that, my uncle, General Menaos, wouldn't tolerate it.”
Neither Gerlin or Bulmor had an answer to that. They continued through the crowd, until they stumbled in
to an open area near the edge of the town square. The smell hit Katarina first. A gutter reek, of rotten garbage and human waste. Beneath that was a stink of rotten meat. “Andoral's Black Balls,” Gerlin swore.
Three men hung by their arms from posts set into the ground. Their bodies wept blood, where they weren't covered in garbage, swollen welts, and flies. A pair of Hector's mercenaries stood guard over the tortured men, though from the bloodied whip one of them had just uncoiled, they served the role of tormenter as well.
“Excuse me, Milord,” Gerlin stooped a bit and adopted a servile expression. “What manner of evil men are these? Clearly they did a terrible crime to deserve such punishment.”
The man with the whip paused, arm raised. “Where you coming from that you haven't heard the news?”
“We just arrived from the North, milady is headed to her betrothal.” Gerlin said. “If there's bandits or something here in the south...”
Katarina opened her mouth, about to correct him, when the guard gave a coarse laugh. “Oh, not any more. I dare say the roads will be very safe now.” He shook his head, “These three bandits are all that survived Captain Grel's boys justice. But they're blasted traitors, killed the Lady Katarina and her escort as they came up to meet with Lord Hector.”
“The Lady Katarina is dead?” Katarina felt a hollow in her gut.
The other guard shrugged, “That's what Captain Grel said and the young Baron of Zielona Gora said that these traitors will serve as a display for any who think banditry or treason will prosper. It's a right shame the girl died, but we all knew Lord Hector just brought her up here to give her approval to his reign.”
Katarina opened her mouth, ready to spit out a denial. Bulmor's hand clamped on her arm in warning. She saw him shake his head. Gerlin continued speaking with the two guards. She heard him ask questions about the road south. Katarina looked at the three tortured men. Two of them hung limp, barely breathing. The middle one had managed to get his feet under him. With horror, Katarina realized that besides the beatings, each of the men had their right eyes removed. The man caught her gaze with his remaining eye. To her shock, he straightened, he pealed back his cracked lips. “They're liars. That bastard Grel attacked the village, he killed–”
“Shut up, you!” The guard with the whip let it fly. The man grunted in pain as it caught him across his back. The guard swung the whip twice more.
Katarina started to step forward, but Bulmor's iron grip remained on her arm and held her fast. He leaned in to speak into her ear. “No, my Lady, I'll not let you throw your life away.”
She clenched her fists. A part of her felt her gorge rise. The rest of her boiled in a fury that she could only barely contain. Despite Bulmor's words, she knew that if they acted quickly enough, they could kill the guards, save the men, and ride out of town. In her mind she saw herself in a perfect lunge, sword outstretched to run the nearest guard through.
“Ah, my Lady probably shouldn't see such things, she will be unable to travel now.” Gerlin stepped back as if to shield her from the sight. He subtly placed himself between her and the guards in the process.
Between Bulmor and Gerlin, they managed to back her into the crowd. She bit back a curse as she watched the one guard with a whip start striking the other two men as well as the one who spoke. “You can't let them do this.” Katarina felt hot tears of rage burn down her cheeks as the two guards continued their torment.
“Look at the crowd,” Gerlin said, his voice low.
Katarina tore her gaze away from the scene of torture. The town square had hundreds of people, many dressed in little better than rags. The entire crowd seemed to twitch in response to each whip stroke, but none so much as glanced in the direction of the prisoners. They maintained a bubble of separation, none approached as close as Katarina and her companions still stood.
Bulmor jerked his chin towards three mercenaries nearby, “Additional guards, there,” He nodded towards another cluster of armed men, “And over there. Anyone who causes trouble gets more than they bargained for. Anything short of a full riot those men can handle, and even then they can kill the prisoners and withdraw.”
Katarina forced herself to unclench her fists. “A trap?”
Bulmor shrugged, “Could be, might just be protection, making sure that none of these prisoners get the chance to spread their story.”
“We're attracting too much attention,” Gerlin said. The half-blood scout glanced around at the people in the square, as if certain assassins would appear soon. “I know an inn, someplace we can rest and not likely to receive any of Hector's agents.”
Katarina jerked at a cry of pain from one of the men. She glanced over and saw that all three had gone limp, blood ran in a steady drip from their wounds. She pinched her eyes closed and forced the surge memories back. She could not afford a panic attack, not here, not now. “Let's go to the inn,” Katarina said.
***
“We cannot let this stand,” Katarina snapped as she paced the narrow confines of the tiny room Gerlin had rented.
Gerlin grimaced, “We haven’t much choice. Hector has declared you dead. But for that storm, he would be right. Our best option is now to return to Marovingia. Perhaps with the backing of their Duke something can be accomplished.”
“Something can be accomplished?” Katarina demanded. “What of that slaughtered village? What of the bones of children we saw there? Of the poor bastards dying in the town square?” She waved at their surroundings, “Look at this place, it used to be a prosperous inn. Hector is destroying the Duchy. You must agree that we need to do something!” The low ceiling, dark dank room, and thin straw pallets spoke more eloquently of the poverty than the greedy look the innkeeper had given Gerlin’s proffered coins.
Bulmor's gruff voice answered. “Milady, Hector has declared you dead.”
“So?” Katarina said. “I'm alive and I can prove that well enough. If I speak the truth loud enough, people will have to listen.”
Gerlin spoke, and the wry twist to his lips showed what he thought of the truth, “He cannot afford to allow you to live, not now. He’ll declare you an imposter if you surface alive. If Grel's men catch us, they’ll have orders to kill us. Even if they don’t, even one of his common mercenaries will realize the importance of your death. Otherwise, it will prove his treachery, and the extent of his true idea of reconciliation.”
Katarina looked away from the eyes of her companions. “This isn't how this should have gone. I came to end this, dammit! He assured the Marovingian Duke that I'd be safe!”
Gerlin gave a grimace, “To the Usurper, this is an end. I don't know why he made the offer in the first place, but it's clear he and his men have no intention to follow through. Our best bet is to go right back out and head to Marovingia. Once we get back there you'll have a position of strength.”
Katarina sighed. For a moment, the idea of returning tempted her. Leave Hector and his mercenaries the wreckage of her father’s lands. She knew anything she might try at this point would only worsen the lot of many of the people in the Duchy.
Worst would be a civil war, she knew. Down that road lay chaos like the Duchy of Asador’s four hundred and fifty cycles of ongoing civil war. With the Armen raiders on the borders, half the Duchy would burn before anyone could restore order.
Katarina frowned, the question then becomes whether Hector will leave enough for the Armen to have anything to burn?
As if to punctuate Hector’s misrule, a stray draft wafted the reek from the streets. Katarina wrinkled her nose at the stench, a mixture of sewage, garbage, and too many people stuffed into too small an area.
“The Duchy cannot survive much more of this,” Katarina said. She waved an arm at the shuttered window. “Disease is already killing hundreds. How long before they get a plague here?” Bulmor remained silent, but she saw his mask crack slightly.
Gerlin shrugged, “It’s the way of cities, Milady, especially when they don’t follow the Starborn Codes.”
“Not this kind of squalor, Gerlin. I’ve read of better kept streets by cities under siege, much less citizens with more life in their faces,” Katarina said. A new course of action began to unfold in her mind. She would need as much groundwork prepared as possible to convince her bodyguards.
Gerlin ran one hand over his shaven head. “You have a point there, my Lady.” He nudged the clay cup of watered gruel in front of him, “I’ve eaten better in the poorest Armen encampment. I’ve seen Armen slaves with better attitudes for that matter.”
Bulmor’s iron mask cracked for a moment. He had not seen his homeland, or his wife and sons, since before his flight with Katarina, she knew. The sight of the crushing despair and total poverty in Zielona Gora obviously gave him great concern for his own family. “Times are tough,” he grudgingly admitted.
“Perhaps the time has come to think of alternatives,” Katarina said.
“Alternatives?” From Bulmor the single word held numerous undertones.
“And the famed armsman's paranoia kicks in,” Gerlin chuckled. “You know where your paranoia will get you?” Gerlin asked. .
“A long life,” Bulmor answered.
Gerlin frowned, “True. But you won't have nearly as much fun as I will.”
Katarina flushed slightly; from the byplay, it was clear that neither of them took her seriously, “Look, it is clear that something must be done.”
“Yes, you need to go back to Marovingia,” Bulmor and Gerlin said at the same time. They both gave one another a look of surprise. Clearly it unsettled them both to agree on anything.
