Kingdoms and Chaos (King's Dark Tidings Book 4)

by Kel Kade

  “But he obviously did not—”

  “Perhaps he asked too many questions,” Kai snapped. “Leave it be, Lord Malcius. No good can come of dredging up his past.”

  “You mean Rez—”

  “You and Brandt will start clearing the area for a fire pit. Unlike your little fiasco on the beach in Port Manai, this will require some forethought. We do not wish to burn down the field with us in it.”

  “But the soldiers can—”

  “Stop arguing. You are not lords in a plush estate. You are mercenaries. Act like it.”

  Since Farson had gone south, Rezkin headed east and then turned north. The scent of horses and unwashed bodies reached his nose as he pressed through the grasses, some of which were taller than he. Quickening his pace, he turned back toward the road. After a cautious circuit of the group, he moved to crouch within the brush at the side of the road. It was a noisy bunch of twenty-seven rough-looking men with an assortment of mismatched weapons and armor. Each wore about his waist a black sash bearing a white crescent moon at one end. Only five of the men led horses, and all but one of the mounts were loaded with equipment. Several casks and trunks were piled into a rickety mule-drawn wagon from which the company’s standard flew atop a tall pole. A few boisterous fellows trod at the front, setting the pace, while the rest dragged their feet behind. Some wore bandages, and the lone rider appeared as if he might not see the dawn.

  Rezkin waited for the company to pass and then skirted back the way he had come. Upon arrival at the camp, he silently approached Farson from the rear. The striker turned too late. If Rezkin had intended it, the striker would have been dead. Farson graced him with a scowl, and Rezkin replied with a grin. The effort was rewarded by Farson’s obvious disconcert. Rezkin could not remember ever smiling at Farson, outside of an act.

  “Find Kai,” he said.

  Without question, Farson shouldered his bow and vanished into the grass.

  Rezkin surveyed the camp and was fairly satisfied with their progress. A broad patch on the side of the road had been stamped down, and the group was huddled around a pit that had been cleared for the fire. An unoccupied perimeter separated them from the tall grasses, although it was still too narrow for Rezkin’s comfort. They would have at least a few seconds’ warning before an ambush, assuming their assailants were not carrying crossbows. Brandt crouched over the pit attempting to light the fire, and Jimson and Millins plucked a couple of unidentifiable fowl, while Yserria hovered at the far perimeter with the appearance of keeping watch. Wesson was, with crossed legs, weaving his fingers through the air over a palm-sized lump on the ground as Minder Finwy watched.

  Wesson glanced up as Rezkin neared. “Can you feel it?” he asked.

  “Only since entering the circle,” Rezkin said.

  “You are a mage?” Finwy said, genuinely surprised.

  “No,” said Rezkin.

  Wesson glanced at him dubiously but did not comment. Instead, he said, “I have been working on narrowing my vimara bleed.” He dangled an object in the air that looked like a black stone carved into an intricate knot. Tiny runes were marked along each curve, and a smaller red stone was set in the center. The object hung from a leather lace strung through a hole in the knot. “This amulet should help. You are particularly sensitive to it.” He raised his head and narrowed his eyes at Rezkin. “I wonder if you use a method similar to the Purifiers …” Without finishing the thought, he went back to his ministrations.

  When Farson and Kai arrived several minutes later, Rezkin said, “We will have company soon. Mercenaries are heading our way from the north.”

  “Trouble?” said Kai.

  Rezkin said, “They have injured and may wish to avoid conflict. That being said, we will implement the plan.” He looked to Brandt and Malcius. “Remember, do not speak. If you must, keep it short and slur your words. Neither of you sound like mercs.” He paused, giving them a once-over. “And slouch.”

  “Got it. Pretend we jus’ returned from a bender,” Brandt mumbled. Malcius punched Brandt in the arm. “What? Palis would have laughed.”

  “Shut up,” Malcius grumbled, but his expression softened at the thought.

  Rezkin shook his head. “If you must, but stop smiling. You have a terrible hangover.”

  “Well, that shucks,” Brandt said in his best drunkenese, eliciting a genuine smile from Malcius. The expression abruptly vanished behind a scowl directed at Yserria before he went back to poking at the ground with a twig.

  “What about you?” he muttered. “You do not sound like a merc either.”

  “I am capable,” Rezkin said as the sounds of the troop finally reached his ears. He checked his longsword that was strapped to his back, shifted the shortsword at his hip, and then plopped down on the ground practically on top of Wesson.

  The mage looked up in alarm. “Wha-what are you doing?”

  Rezkin drew the hood of his worn brown cloak over his head and sprawled out on the flattened grass as he lounged against Wesson’s side. “Yer too purdy to be on yer own, boy,” he said in Ashaiian with a heavy Gendishen accent. “If one of us don’t claim ya, one of them will. Best it be me.”

  “B-b-but Yserria! I mean, she is a woman! Why do you not claim her?”

  “Yserria’ll put ’em in their place. You can’t or ye’ll expose yerself as a demon-bound afflicted, and then we’ll have to kill ’em all.”

  “Wait. You would kill them? But, they have done nothing to us. We could find another way. I could—”

  “Can’t have no rumors gettin’ ’round, Wes. You show ’em, we kill ’em.”

  Wesson was visibly upset, and Finwy pursed his lips in disapproval. The others said nothing as they shared a surprised and uncomfortable silence. The strikers and soldiers, who were trained for combat, did not appear to share their distaste for the brutality of war—or at least accepted it as necessary. Farson dashed into the grass while Kai, Millins, and Jimson moved to intercept the incoming company at the road. The others stared at Rezkin as if he had just grown a second head, and he supposed he had, in a manner of speaking. Wesson quickly hid the amulet he had been enchanting and then sat stiffly under Rezkin’s weight. The clink of armor, creak of wood, and snorts of men and horses were nearly upon them when a small, furry creature darted out of the grass to roll in the mat and dirt at Rezkin’s feet.

  He spied the beast curiously, and Malcius blurted, “Is that your cat?”

  “I s’pose …” Rezkin drawled.

  “I do not remember it being in the dinghy when we rowed ashore.”

  “Nor do I,” said Wesson, “and we have not seen it all day.”

  Rezkin shrugged. “Cats be mysterious. Quiet now or the jig’ll be up as soon they get here.”

  As the troupe came into view, Kai called out in a traditional Gendishen greeting. “Hail to the travelers. May we meet and part in peace.”

  Given the Gendishen penchant for violence, Rezkin thought it sounded more like a plea. The mercenaries plodded to a halt, and the lead man, a black-haired, hefty fellow with dark eyes and a braid dangling from his chin, spat off to the side.

  “Peace? You don’t look the sort is lookin’ fer peace.”

  Kai grinned and shook with a hearty laugh. “We ain’t lookin’ fer trouble neither—not ’til there’s silver and gold weighin’ down our purses.”

  “Then we’re of a like mind.” The man surveyed the group and added, “You lot ain’t much to look at. About eight of you, not including’ the priest? You got some hidden in the grass?”

  Kai mirthlessly chuckled. “What we be lackin’ in numbers, we’re makin’ up fer in skill.”

  The leader said, “Ha! Next, you’ll be tellin’ us yer all swordmasters.” His men burst into uproarious laughter, slapping their armor and jeering.

  “And ya got two women!” shouted another fellow who was missing a few teeth.

  “That one’s a lad,” Kai said with a nod toward Wesson, whose face was flushed. “You prob’ly don�
�t wanna be challengin’ his friend there.” With a nod toward Yserria, he said, “That one’s a lass, though, and I’d wager she’ll lay any one of you out.”

  The men laughed and a few stepped closer to get a better look at the tall, red-headed beauty. She set her stance and patted her sword hilt. Her distaste for the men was obvious by her determined expression. She lifted her chin in defiance and spoke in Leréshi. “Presh tuar duevinua.”

  Rezkin snorted and remarked, “Duarvashkatin conjuhotu.”

  Yserria looked at him with surprise and grinned.

  The black-haired mercenary hawked a glob of phlegm at Rezkin’s feet. “A Leréshi, then? The lassies don’t often carry the swords, but I’ll not be messin’ with one who does. Which of you has she claimed?”

  “He’s dead,” said Kai.

  “That’s fitting,” the man muttered. Seemingly satisfied, he waved back toward his men. “Kingdom pays more fer large companies. If yer as good as you say, you’d be best signin’ with us. We’ll all get more at the end.”

  Kai grinned again. “Aye, but the fewer of us is at the end, the more we all get?”

  The man scowled furiously. “We don’t stand fer traitors.”

  “Maybe not, but ain’t none of us is really one of you, eh? You get a bigger contract fer the extra swords and then stab us in the back.”

  The mercenary leader said, “He that wears the crescent be the crescent.”

  The other mercenaries nodded and barked their agreement.

  “Seems a better deal,” replied Kai. “Mayhap we’ll march together. See if we can come to an agreement.”

  The man grunted. “We’ll get yer measure.” Then, he turned and waved his hand in the air as he began barking orders to his men.

  The mercenaries set their camp on the opposite side of the road. They had little in the way of comforts, but they made due with their wagons and battered gear. About an hour after sundown, Rezkin stumbled into their camp carrying a jug of ale he had snagged from their supplies. His arm was slung over Wesson’s shoulders, and Wesson looked as if he would crawl into a hole and die.

  “What do you want?” said one mercenary whose hair had thinned by half, the remaining strands hanging past his shoulders. “No one invited you to our camp, and ain’t no one gonna be givin’ you their drink. You get back to yer side of the road afore we make sure you can’t come back.”

  “See?” Rezkin said in Gendishen as he slammed the jug into Wesson’s chest. Then he thrust it back into the air with a slosh. “I tol’ ya they’d be interested in a story.”

  “I really don’t think they are,” Wesson muttered in the same tongue.

  The black-haired leader rounded the fire. “I know yer kind—saw you earlier, lazin’ about with your pretty boy while the others worked. You prob’ly think you should get the same take as us is workin’ hard, don’t ya?”

  Rezkin laughed and pushed Wesson to the ground. Wesson scowled up at him, his frustration genuine. Then, he ducked his head and played the part of the cowed young man with no choice but submission. He was ashamed to admit that it was not so far from the truth. He had never tried his power against Rezkin and wondered if it would be as ineffectual as the power wielded by the other mages. Rezkin tumbled gracelessly to the ground beside him, nearly losing the contents of the jug in the process.

  “They don’t want me doin’ none of that. I gotta stay rested, ya see? In case any of you decide to make trouble.”

  The men burst into laughter, but the leader was having none of it. “You had best be able to put your sword where yer mouth is.”

  Rezkin laughed boisterously, slapping his knee. “If I did that, I’d not be talkin’ no more, would I?”

  “We’d all be better off,” said the mercenary leader. He turned to Wesson. “And you? What good are you? Yer too puny to lift a blade, and I doubt you got a scar on ya.”

  Wesson was saved from answering when Rezkin jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “He polishes my weapons.”

  The men snickered and groaned as Wesson’s face heated. He decided that whenever they were away from the mercenaries, he was going to give Rezkin a piece of his mind—even if it killed him.

  Turning back to Rezkin, the leader said, “What’s this story yer talkin’ ’bout?”

  “First, Boss, what be yer name?” said Rezkin as if the alcohol were taking its full effect. Even Wesson was inclined to wonder if he had truly been drinking.

  “The name’s Orin, commander of the White Crescents.”

  Rezkin said, “Commander, eh? Army man? What kinda name is White Crescents? Don’t sound like no merc comp’ny to me. Blood Moon, maybe, or Black Eclipse, but White Crescents?”

  Orin kicked Rezkin in the side and then grabbed his chest plate. With a hard yank, the mercenary leader lifted Rezkin toward his face. He then leaned over them both, and Wesson could smell the man’s putrid breath as he said, “On the night of an eclipse, the white crescent is the last vestige of light ya see before all goes dark, and it’s the first ya see if yer lucky to see the light again. It’s what they calls a metaphor. It’s fer battle, fer life.”

  Rezkin stared at the mercenary for entirely too long and then burst into laughter. He shoved the man back with surprising force. “How poetic. Now let’s get to the story.”

  Orin waved off the men who had jumped to defend their leader, or perhaps just his pride. “What story is it yer tellin’?”

  “What?” said Rezkin, blinking up at the man as if he couldn’t see through the ale drowning his mind. “No. Can’t say as I’ve got no stories worth tellin’. I’s wantin’ to hear yers. Why are half yer men injured and one looks to be makin’ a deal with the Maker? The way I sees it, y'all must’ve been the victors, seein’ as how yer still alive. I ain’t heard about no battles, though.”

  With a wave toward his men and a grumble, Orin sat down on a saddle draped across a mound of grass. He pulled a knob of crass root from a pouch at his waist, gnawed on the stalk a moment, and then shoved the whole thing into his cheek before answering.

  “Weren’t no battle of men. Was the drauglics—come down from the mountains, I suppose.”

  “Drauglics?” barked Rezkin. “I ain’t buyin’ it. We ain’t nowhere near the mountains, and ain’t no one ever seen one on the plains.”

  “Can’t say as I blame ya,” said Orin. “I wouldn’t neither but for the rumors. You must’ve heard ‘em. Been goin’ round for months. Drauglic sightings, peasants in the outlands disappearin’. Some say they been findin’ pieces of people—eaten they say—slaughtered. I didn’t believe none of it myself—least not ’till we was attacked. A day and a half ago to the north. We was huntin’ fer game not far from the trade route when they just appeared outta nowhere. We counted about twenty bodies at the end but don’t know how many done run off. Took us by surprise, nasty suckers. Before the attack, our company was forty-two with as many horses.”

  “So they was after the horses,” Rezkin said.

  Orin motioned for one of his men to chuck another log onto the fire and said, “I don’t think they cared if they got man or horse, only the horses didn’t have swords.”

  “And the drauglics? What’d they have?”

  “Crude weapons and farm tools, mostly—a few swords and knives they prob’ly took off their victims.”

  “Drauglics carry weapons?” said Wesson “I thought they were small, primitive creatures.”

  “So he can speak,” said Orin with a chuckle, but his humor faded quickly. “These weren’t small things. They was nearly as big as a man … well, a small man, maybe. They wield weapons, but I hear they ain’t smart enough to forge metal. They make their weapons from sticks and stones, and some of ’em got wood or leather armor. The better stuff is what they find or steal. They looked kinda like men from a distance, but they was lizards—got purple and orange scales over parts of their flesh.”

  “They sound awful,” said Wesson.

  “Don’t you worry ’bout it, boy. Yer friend there seems
to think he can take on an army!” He and his men laughed and jeered.

  Rezkin rose unsteadily, motioning for Wesson to stand. He leaned heavily on Wesson’s shoulder as he said, “Only thing I’m plannin’ to take on is this here ale.”

  Orin grunted. “Seems to me you’ve had enough, but at least you’ll be rested if we decide to attack ya. Maybe even you’ll kill a few of us, eh?”

  “Sure, and the purple lizard men, too,” Rezkin said with a drunken gurgle.

  When they got back to the camp, Rezkin slumped to the ground in front of the fire and called loudly for Malcius to dish up the grub. Having already removed much of his armor, Malcius shuffled forward, leaving his sword with his pack. Rezkin grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him back, causing him to trip and tumble into Millins who was trying to sleep before taking his turn as lookout.

  “What was that for?” Malcius hollered, his anger getting the better of him.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Rezkin said, switching to the highly accented Ashaiian trade dialect. “You leave yer sword unattended, and it won’t be tendin’ you when ya need it. I don’t care whether your pissin’ or bathin’, you keep that blade on you always.”

  “Like he bathes,” Brandt said with a snort, dutifully playing his role of debaucherous mercenary.

  Malcius’s response died on his lips when he saw Brandt’s gaze flick to a place beyond the firelight. A movement in the dark, the crunch of a footfall, and the jingle of buckles betrayed the mercenary hovering at the road.

  Attempting to mimic Rezkin’s style of speech, Malcius said, “I don’t need to, seein’ as how, unlike you, I don’t go rollin’ about with swine.” Rezkin, Kai, and Brandt burst into laughter.

  Yserria huffed, and the trade dialect so common in Skutton rolled off her tongue like liquid silk. “You’re all swine, and if ya don’t lay off the ale, you’ll be spitted like swine, too.”

  Malcius cinched his sword belt with an angry tug and said, “You’d best hope that don’t happen since none of us’d be around to save you this time.”

  Yserria squared her shoulders. “No, I can see that honor don’t run in the family. You forget that I don’t need your help.”