Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  “Good to see you too, Kerrel.” Hector sighed. He looked past her, and gestured at his bodyguards to step outside. Not that it would matter, he had the feeling that the discussion would be loud enough for much of the camp to hear. “I have no choice. To fund the campaign here, I must have a secure rear area. The mountain nobles and peasants alike have rebelled against their legitimate Dukes before, much less one who only recently killed off the Ducal family.”

  “He's burning entire villages,” She shook her head, “He's not just enforcing your rule, he's massacring women and children. He's as much a savage as the Armen.”

  Hector shook his head, “You may see it that way, but he's a necessary evil.” He pushed his plate across the camp table towards her, “Have you had anything to eat, yet?”

  She grimaced at him, “You really don't understand it, Hector. You see everything from the perspective of ending the threat of the Armen... but you may well destroy your Duchy in the process.”

  “Fine words from someone who hasn't had their lands raided by the Armen every cycle for the past thousand,” Hector snapped. He stood, and looked down at Kerrel. “Your people and lands have natural barriers, and the lower duchies to protect them from that threat.”

  “You're right,” Kerrel said, “But my people know civil war, that's all we've known for almost five centuries. And that's where you're headed. I agree, the threat of the Armen must be faced, but your lands are at the very edge of rebellion and men like Grel and Covle just make things worse.”

  “I have few men I can trust as much as Covle and he's got Rasev to keep Grel in check,” Hector said. “If Rasev believes he has no option but to resort to terror to keep order, then I am not going to remove him. He's got decades of experience, I trust no one better to occupy the southern provinces.”

  “Occupation!” Kerrel shouted. “You're talking about your own people, not Armen or Norics. Can't you see where this is headed?”

  “I have no choice!” Hector roared back, his patience at an end. Regardless of their relationship, he would not be lectured by a mercenary captain. “The stupid peasants and the selfish noblemen leave me with none! They won't accept the necessity of the taxes, they grumble about tradition and custom. And before you speak of their knowledge, half of them hate you just as much as Grel. Murderous dog or not, at least he's a man. Do you know how it chafes them that I have dealings a woman warrior and her company of foreign mercenaries?”

  “So they're idiots, that doesn't mean they can't cause you a lot of problems if you continue to treat them like petulant children,” Kerrel said.

  Hector stepped around his camp table. “The noblemen act like petulant children. When I threatened all of them with death if they supported the Duke, they sulked and asked for bribes. When I taxed them for their own defense, they whined and grumbled. And when I demand they keep order, they squat in their keeps and houses and complain.”

  “So you had Grel sent south to murder the rightful heir?” Kerrel asked. Thankfully, she kept her voice quiet enough that it wouldn't carry.

  “That was unfortunate.” Hector said, he forced himself to lower his voice. “I'd planned to bargain in good faith, perhaps make some compromises to appease the common folk. But the campaign has worsened and word from my spies suggest that the Armen will come south in force and even with Boir's naval expedition, I'll need everything I have on the front lines. I could not afford to fritter away time with the girl, and from what my spies say, she had too strong a will to be bullied or accept a token gesture. Unfortunate that she had to die, but I had to make the best of the situation.”

  “Has Covle told you that Grel failed?” Kerrel said, her voice soft, pitched so as to barely reach his ears.

  “ What?” Hector asked. He felt his stomach twist. He said Grel felt certain that she died in the inn... has Covle finally betrayed me? “Her guards were there, my spies said she planned to rest there for for a few days.”

  “And I've an... informant who tells me that she is very much alive.” Kerrel said. “And though Covle didn't think it overly important, one of the captured villagers he ordered executed was helped to escape just yesterday and four of his guards died in the process.”

  Hector let out a deep breath, “How much do you trust your informant, and did he have any details to give you?” He didn't give much credit to the survival of a single prisoner. He'd authorized Covle to give them the Traitors Death. The timing meant that the prisoner would probably be half dead anyway. In the unlikely event the prisoner survived, he'd probably be little better than a cripple.

  Kerrel shrugged. “He's proven correct before. I've no means to check his information, not with the distance involved. Also, he didn't give me details, he passed it by Message Stone.”

  “Then it's not confirmed.” Hector shrugged. “I wouldn't put it past some ambitious nobleman to dress up some peasant girl and call her Katarina. No one here in the Duchy has seen her since I took power. They could run a bluff and try to instigate some uprising; if things go badly, they just reveal the imposter and declare themselves the unfortunate tools of a con-artist.” Hector nodded, “It's what I would do, in their situation.” He saw the doubt on her face, “Look, you said yourself, Grel killed everyone in the village, how could the girl have escaped both him and you?”

  Kerrel's green eyes flashed, “Don't include me in that massacre. If my men had found the girl, we'd have brought her here alive. I understand your purpose, but I draw the line at such butchery. As it was, I wish I hadn't turned my prisoners over to Covle Darkbit.”

  Hector snorted, “Oh, come now. Three men executed to clear the whole thing over? I admit, it wasn't fair to them, but Grel got out of hand with the village anyway. Covle did the best he could to tie up all the loose ends.”

  “You're a bastard, Hector, especially if you see any good in that situation,” Kerrel said. She narrowed her eyes, “You just don't see anything beyond the threat of the Armen, do you?”

  Hector ground his teeth together. “And you don't see anything besides the past that makes you an exile from your homeland. The Armen must be defeated, their lands occupied, and their shamans and holy men executed. I've seen the aftermath of their raids too many times. I've seen the slave women they keep in breeding pits, I've smelled the stink of their slave yards where they keep people like cattle. The Armen are an abomination and I will do everything in my power to exterminate them.”

  Kerrel drew back, shock on her face. “If you really believe that you'll burn this land to the ground around you and do their job for them!”

  Hector kicked his camp table over. The untouched breakfast tumbled to the tent floor. “Then let it burn! You think you know so much, you think you have the right to lecture me on morality? Last I saw, you still accepted my coin and you still followed my orders. If my actions so disgust you, then consider yourself dismissed.”

  “I follow you because of the potential I see in you,” Kerrel said. He could see the anguish on her face, but her green eyes blazed with determination. “Ancestors know, you've accomplished so much.” She reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, “You could be so much more!”

  Hector shook her off. “Get out.”

  She stepped back and Hector felt a pang as he saw an emotionless mask drop over her normally expressive face. “Very well, my Lord. I will withdraw to my company's camp.” Her green eyes were shadowed and her red hair seemed to darken as well.

  He almost wanted to apologize. She hasn't seen the Armen, hasn't seen their vast capability for horror. “Once your men recuperate from the ride, notify my adjunct, he'll cut orders for your company. If you so disagree with things in the south, I'll have you assigned to the front. The army ships out for the Lonely Isle in a week.”

  ***

  Chapter Three

  Aerion

  Tucola Forest, Barony of Zielona Gora, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Second of Silnak, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Aerion awoke, and for a moment, the lack of p
ain made him wonder if he'd died. He sat up and his body responded without the agony he expected. He felt weak, but not exhausted and he wondered at that. Aerion found a clay plate and cup near the straw pallet and almost before he realized it, he'd already dug into the small measure of stew on the plate.

  “I see you feel better,” a voice said from nearby.

  Aerion looked up, wooden spoon midway between plate and mouth. He set both down somewhat sheepishly. The old man sat nearby. His patchwork clothing seemed even worse for wear than the first time he'd seen him. His battered staff leaned against a rock. “Sorry, sir. I didn't see you there.”

  “No need to apologize,” the old man said, his voice gentle. “And call me Arren. Or Master Arren if you must, but only behind my back, as it makes me feel old.”

  “Yes, sir... Arren.” Aerion flushed.

  “Don't worry about it, boy.” The old man gestured at the plate. “And please, eat. The healing I did on you used up what remained of your body's reserves. Eat a bit more slowly, though, I wouldn't want you to choke.”

  “Thanks,” Aerion said, even as he picked up the plate and spoon again. The memories of the night before came back to him in a rush. He froze again at one revelation in particular, “Is it true... is she really Lady Katarina, Duke Peter's heir?” The thought made him feel conflicted. On the one hand, she'd saved him... on the other, she was, indirectly, responsible for the destruction of his village.

  The old man turned his head to look outside, “Yes. It's true. She's more her mother's daughter, though I think.”

  “You knew Duke Peter?” Aerion asked. The idea of the old man in his ragged cloak in the Duke's court seemed absurd.

  “Briefly, I knew his wife, Lady Alexia better, though I only knew her a short time,” The old man sighed, “I was much younger then, of course.”

  The old man's long white beard seemed to belie that, Aerion smiled a bit that of the old man thought himself young. “Hector seized power only five cycles ago, Lady Katarina is not yet ten, it couldn't have been that long ago,” Aerion said.

  “I look that old, do I?” Master Arren asked. Aerion shrugged. “Well, I suppose I do.” The old man said. He muttered to himself in a tone that Aerion barely caught, “For good reason.”

  “What was that?” Aerion asked.

  Master Arren shrugged, “Nothing, boy. Have I congratulated you on your quick recovery yet?” His voice was thready, but had an underlying strength, a tone that made Aerion listen more closely.

  “No,” Aerion said. “But thank you sir – Arren – really I'm amazed at how good I feel.” In his mind, Aerion revisited his punishment and he shuddered at the memory. For a moment he smelled again the stink of his own sweat mixed with rotting blood. He felt again the flies that crawled over his skin and tried to enter his mouth as he hung as an example. Aerion wiped away sweat that appeared on his brow.

  The old man did not appear to notice Aerion's brief flashback. He shrugged, “It was nothing. You've a strong body and a determined spirit and you should be thankful for that. You would never have survived to reach our camp otherwise. I've seen many a man with lesser injuries die because their bodies succumbed or their spirits weakened.”

  Aerion flushed and looked down at his plate. He saw that he had cleaned the stew from the plate and drank all the water. Before he could ask for more, Arren passed over his own plate, “Here you are, boy, I figured you'd need a second serving.” He cocked his head, which caused his floppy brimmed hat to joggle. “You're a big lad... your accent puts you from the western range, maybe out by Watkowa?”

  Aerion nodded, “Watkowa Village.”

  “Indeed... a Starborn village, isn't it?”

  Aerion paused in his eating. He felt his eyes prickle, and the stew suddenly tasted like ashes in his mouth. “It was.”

  “Ah.” Arren sighed, “Who was it? One of Hector's captains or Noric raiders?”

  Aerion's hands clenched. He didn't hear the wooden spoon crack in his hand. “Hector's Dog, Grel.” In his mind he saw the village in flames once more.

  “The Hound?” Arren didn't seem surprised, “I'm sorry. The folk there were clever, as I remember, surely some of them survived.”

  Aerion could not force himself to look up, “We had no warning. And... no one expected such violence. There was no reason for it.” He stared down at the cracked wooden splinters of the spoon in his hand. “Ah, sorry.”

  Arren passed over his own spoon. “No need to be sorry, Aerion. And I know what you feel. I wish I could say that the pain eases, but it never really goes away.” The old man sighed, “So, if you're from Watkowa Village, did you by chance know a girl by the name of Eleanor?”

  Aerion jerked in surprise. “Yes, that was my mother's name.”

  “She died?” Master Arren asked. His old voice seemed sharper, more attentive than before. Aerion looked up and saw the old man's brown eyes seemed intent, as if the question had some importance to him.

  Aerion nodded slowly, “She must have. The bastards set the inn on fire, she was inside at the time.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that, she was a good woman, strong and stubborn, but a good woman. You're her son?” Master Arren asked, then slowly he nodded, “Yes, you've her coloring, I see that now. And I can see where you get your stubborn spirit. Though you're a big lad.”

  “You knew my mother?” Aerion felt a shock at that. His village was home, yet it seemed so distant and it seemed strange to find someone who knew such things about his home.

  “I know a few people,” the old man shrugged. “I stayed at Watkowa Village... oh, a few cycles ago.”

  Aerion frowned, “I don't remember you.”

  “Well, I was in a hurry at the time. And I may have had reason to keep out of sight the couple days I stayed there,” The old man shrugged, “Some slight misunderstanding about the ownership of some expensive items.” He frowned, “Though I don't remember Eleanor saying she had a son.”

  “Well, it's not something you normally ask a tavern maid,” Aerion said.

  “Still it might have come up.” He stared at Aerion, “You've a fair bit of muscle, and a blacksmith's calluses, were you apprenticed to old Taggart?”

  “Yes, when I was a boy, almost... five cycles ago.” Aerion said. He frowned, “Hey, maybe that's why we never met, the timing's about right for when I started working with Master Taggart.”

  Arren seemed to ponder that. He absently took a dried apple out of a pocket under a cloak and took a bite. “That doesn't make sense...”

  “Why not?” Aerion asked.

  Arren shrugged, “Never mind. So how was Master Taggart?”

  “He died, last winter,” Aerion said and the pain of that memory made the more recent loss of his village hurt even worse. “Caught a cough, couldn't shake it... we hadn't the money to send for a decent healer.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Arren said solemnly. “He was a good man, a bit too serious at times, but a good man.”

  Aerion nodded, “How do you know so much about Watkowa?”

  Master Arren shrugged, “I know a few things. I travel a great deal and I make a habit to learn about the people in the places I travel.”

  Aerion finished the rest of his stew in silence. It seemed incredible to meet someone who knew his mother and knew so much about his village. He looked up, just as a grinning face loomed above him.

  “Dragon's bane!” Aerion jerked back. He felt his heart race, and he barely restrained an urge to strike out at the man.

  “Ah, don't let Agram startle you,” Master Arren said. “He tends to wander the camp and the forest too. He's harmless, and mostly helpful.”

  The grinning hunchback took both clay plates and the intact spoon and shuffled away. He paused near Master Arren and made a grunting noise. The old man sighed, and passed him a small paper-wrapped item, “Only one, too much isn't good for you Agram.”

  The simpleton grunted happily and popped the item into his mouth, paper and all. Aerion felt a surge of pity
for the man, though something about him still unsettled him. “Where did he come from?” Aerion asked.

  Master Arren waited for Agram to shuffle away before he responded, “I think he's lived in the forest for cycles. We made camp here in the ravine and he just wandered in one day. Only thing he ever says besides grunts is Agram, so we call him that.” He sighed, “Half of the camp have made up stories to explain him.”

  Aerion nodded, yet as he watched the hunchback shuffle away, he saw Agram look over his shoulder once. The look on his face seemed sinister somehow.

  “Well, if you feel up to it, your companions have asked to speak to the others. If I didn't know better, I'd guess they planned to start a rebellion with my little band.” The old man smiled a bit, “And I have the feeling you'd hate to miss out on that bit of adventure, eh?”

  Aerion felt a fire kindle in his stomach. Whatever his conflicted feelings about Lady Katarina, he felt no conflict when it came to the Usurper and his men, “No, I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  ***

  Lady Katarina

  “Thank you all, both for the welcome, and for listening to what we have to say.” Katarina said. She'd stayed awake most of the night. She'd tried to find the right words, to appeal to the hopes of these men and to find a way to tell them how much she respected their goals.

  When it came down to it, she threw all her ideas away when she saw the seventeen of them gathered in the outlaw camp. High minded ideals, promises of reward, and all the rest meant nothing. If these men would risk their lives for her, she owed them sincerity from the very start.

  “I am sure you've all heard that I am Lady Katarina, daughter to the murdered Duke Peter. I fled the Duchy five cycles ago when he sent assassins after my entire family. What you may not have heard, yet, is that I returned with an offer of reconciliation from Lord Hector. He offered to compromise, maybe even to reinstate the Council of Lords and to acknowledge me as the rightful Duchess.”