The Lost Reavers

by Mike Truk

  “Brother,” he said, voice stiff as if the familial title were but a variation on court formalities. “Thank you for attending my summons.”

  “Of course,” said Hugh, glancing sidelong at Anastasia. Her face betrayed nothing. “I am, as always, at your disposal. How can I help?”

  The words were ridiculous in his own ears. How could Hugh the Souse be of any help to Duke Annaro Stasiek, one of the most powerful and feared barons in all of Mendev, a pillar of the empire and supporter of the emperor? Hugh wanted to wince at the charade, break the tension with some self-deprecating jest, but his brother’s gravid air forbade all such improprieties.

  “You astutely asked if we are at war. The answer, as I said, is no. Though perhaps not for much longer. The situation in Fraczek has grown fraught. Duke Fracz is dead.”

  The news hit Hugh like a fist to the chest. “The old bastard is finally dead? I’d started to think him immortal. He had no sons. Who stands to inherit?”

  Anastasia bestirred herself. She was tall, elegant, refined, her black hair pulled back into a chignon. An aquiline nose, finely arched brows over dark eyes, high cheekbones, and enough poise to make even Annaro’s minimalist slate blue and gold uniform look stylish. “There are three contenders, Sir Hugh.” Her voice was husky, composed. “Whether they will all press their claims remains to be seen. A cousin from the father’s line, an uncle by way of the duke’s mother, and Baron Gryk, who claims to be of direct descent from Emperor Konstanty the Second.”

  “Konstanty’s own son gave up the claim a century ago,” Hugh said. “Gryk has no claim, direct descendent or not.”

  “Come, Hugh.” Annaro’s smile was pitying. “You know this all a matter of power and politics. If enough powerful men in the Fraczek find it expedient to nominate Gryk, then his claim will be revived.”

  “True enough.” Hugh rubbed his thumb ruefully over the bridge of his nose. “How does this effect us?”

  “Thus far, it doesn’t. But with our duchies being neighbors, the ripples of this conflict shall surely radiate out to us. With their central authority missing, rogue agents along their border may seek to revive old grudges. We must shore up our defenses, secure our borders, and prepare for any eventuality.”

  Hugh raised his chin. “I’m yours to command, brother. After what happened, I’ll… of course, I’ll do anything you deem necessary. But…” His words failed him, throat tightening mercilessly. Don’t ask me to command any men.

  His brother stared down at the map, choosing not to witness his moment of weakness. “I need you to go to Erro, on our far northeastern border. It is a small village but situated just below an important mountain pass that leads into Fraczek, making it of possible military consequence.”

  Hugh leaned over the map, mystified by the name, and stared at the small black dot his brother was pointing out. Remote as one could get, in the very hinterlands of their territory. Hugh had never even heard of the place.

  “Erro?” he asked, looking up. “How many souls?”

  Anastasia widened her stance just a fraction, hands still linked behind her back. “The last census was held thirty years ago. At that time two hundred men, women, and children were reported to live there.”

  Two hundred. That wasn’t a village. That was a fucking hamlet.

  Hugh struggled to keep his face composed. “And I am to do what, exactly?”

  “There was an old fort there,” said his brother, “built by our great grandfather during the War of Seven Farthings. It is no doubt a ruin at this point, but I wish the site evaluated and, if the expense isn’t too prohibitive, rebuilt. You are to remind the people of Erro as to whom they owe their allegiance, and update the census so that we may better evaluate the accuracy of the tax rolls. The land across the mountains belong to Baron Niestor, a veteran of our own Six Month War, and distant relative of the late duke. More importantly, his family once owned Erro and its environs, though that was centuries ago. I don’t want him thinking he can use this time of instability to recover what he might still think of rightfully his.”

  Hugh nodded stiffly. Update the census and tax roll. Rebuild a fort. Out in the middle of fucking nowhere. His brother was taking him off the board. Removing him from play. Why? What else was going on that Hugh couldn’t sense? Why bother with him now after all these years?

  Annaro’s expression was inscrutable. As lifelike as the marble bust of grandfather that stood on a plinth to the desk’s side.

  “Of course, brother.” Hugh managed to choke the words out without sounding excessively bitter. “As you command.”

  His thoughts swirled like leaves before a dust devil. Did he suspect him of treachery? Impossible. Had word reached him overnight of his troubles with the Mink? Now that was a possibility. Would he react by simply banishing him?

  All too likely.

  A simple and effective means of removing an embarrassment from his front door. For years he’d ignored Hugh as he wenched and drank his way to oblivion, but perhaps the Mink represented an escalation he could no longer ignore.

  Hugh corralled his thoughts. “What resources can I avail myself of before heading north? That’s troubled country. Reports of the banditry have reached even the Rusałka.”

  Annaro turned away, taking up a scroll and opening it to scan the contents. Hugh had agreed; that was probably all that he cared for. His agile mind was already moving onto other concerns. “You are to travel light and fast so as to not draw attention. Yes, the land to the north suffers under the predations of lawless brigands, but they are not your concern. Slip past them as best you can, and I shall deal with them in due time.”

  Light and fast. Code for bare minimum.

  “Very well. But to represent the dignity of our family, I’ll need some manner of escort.”

  “Yes, yes, agreed.” He set the scroll down and took up another, breaking its seal with brisk efficiency. “Select two members of the castle guard to accompany you north. That should be sufficient.” He paused and looked at Hugh over the top of the scroll. “Surely you can manage the rest?”

  Hugh forced a polite smile. “Of course. Thank you, brother. You are most generous. Two members of the castle guard. Understood.”

  Annaro frowned. “Don’t upset me with your choices.”

  Mystified, Hugh gave a half bow. “Of course not, brother. Why would I wish to do that?”

  “Why indeed? My patience is not inexhaustible. Do not make me regret giving you this opportunity.”

  “And what an opportunity it is. I shall make the most of it, and send back daily reports.” Hugh’s smile was razor sharp. “Consider Erro already civilized and returned to the fold.”

  Annaro’s smile was perfunctory. “Very well. I wish you fortune. Thank you, brother. I expect you to stay there through the winter to truly demonstrate our family’s resolve. Knowing this, I can now rest easy on this matter.”

  Through the winter? That was - what - seven months? Seven months! In a remote town of two hundred? They’d not have enough ale or women to last him a week, much less seven bleeding months!

  Hugh forced a stiff bow, numb with shock, his dreams of traveling to far and distant lands dying before his eyes. Before he could say something he’d regret he turned and left Annaro’s chambers, only to slow and stop as the doors closed behind him. The Stasiek northern frontier. Despite his brother’s assurances, it was a brutal land famous for the fierce warriors the dukes of Stasiek historically recruited into their armies, and whom Annaro in turn had used five years ago to fight his Six Months War. Warriors whom Annaro had summarily dismissed after signing a truce with Duke Fracz, and who had turned to raiding and pillaging in their fury over not being paid their outstanding gold.

  Hugh sighed. Gold, he knew, which his brother hadn’t had, and which the truce had afforded him the pretext of not having to pay. What a mess.

  Still, the north was a land of stark beauty, of towering mountains, of deep, old forests in whose depths mythic creatures were still suppo
sed to dwell, where the old ways and even the Thavma were supposed to yet linger. A naturalist might relish such an assignment, but to Hugh…?

  Erro. With minimal funds, two guards, and seven months - minimum - of banishment to the troubled hinterlands of Stasiek.

  Hugh sighed, marched down the hall, down the stairwell, back to his room. There was still a case of wine down there, after all. And where else would he go?

  Closing his door behind him, he swiped up a bottle, drew the cork, and moved back to the window before which he’d stood before. This time he didn’t see Stasiek stretched out before him. Instead, he stood steeped in his own misery, replaying his brother’s words, analyzing his tone and expression. How could he get out of this? He’d wanted oblivion, yes, but one of his own choosing; not a forgotten hamlet where he’d have to play resented bureaucrat.

  By the gods, Fortuna was a fickle mistress. To have fallen so low. Somehow being a reprobate at the Rusałka still felt a step above being his brother’s census taker and tax collector. Hugh grimaced and took a powerful slug from the bottle.

  What if he simply leaped on Blue’s back and rode for the southern border? A week’s hard riding would get him out of Mendev altogether. With a little luck he could avoid whomever his brother sent after him. No doubt Morwyn and Anastasia.

  The thought died. There was no way he could evade them both. Which would lead to an inevitable confrontation, during which he’d have to decide whether to kill them or acquiesce to being brought back in.

  And… he wasn’t so far gone that he’d choose oblivion if the cost meant murdering his brother’s castle guard.

  The thrice cursed Hanged God take it and shove it up Fortuna’s ass.

  Hugh finished the bottle and tossed it aside. Glass shattered. He walked back to the door, took up the case, and set it on his writing desk. Two bottles left. Could he ride to Erro in a cart, one laden with nothing but wine?

  He pulled the next cork. A wave of fatigue finally washed over him. The hours spent with the courtesan - what had been her name? - followed by killing the Mink and his men, the subsequent drinking and revelry, the ride here, the four or so bottles of wine, and now this dispiriting news - it was finally catching up with him.

  Hugh tapped the neck of the bottle against the wall. A thought occurred to him. Morwyn and Anastasia were technically part of his brother’s castle guard. They both wore the blue and gold, after all.

  Huh.

  He pulled the cork, looked around, and saw where the servant had left the goblet. Slowly poured himself a glass, then sat and leaned back in the leather-bound chair.

  Don’t upset me with your choices.

  So that’s what his brother had realized. His mind leaping ahead of Hugh’s and foreseeing his own mistake. But he’d doubled down on the permission, trusting in Hugh’s own sense of decorum and propriety to keep his requests in check.

  Screw Annaro.

  Opening a drawer, he pulled forth a sheaf of yellowed parchment, an old quill, and a bottle of dried-out ink. A few moments work stabbing at the gooey tar at the bottom, a few drops of wine, and the ink was serviceable once more, if oddly colored.

  Hugh sharpened the quill with vindictive relish. Dipped the tip in the purple ink, and after a moment’s hesitation, wrote out the first words at the top of the page:

  Captain Morwyn Vostiev: greetings.

  Chapter Three

  Hugh was opening the last bottle, leaning back on the rear two legs of his chair, boots crossed up on the table, when his door slammed open hard enough to bounce off the wall and back into Morwyn’s outstretched palm.

  “Welcome, Captain. You’re just in time. I was about to finish this off by myself.”

  Morwyn strode across the room as he pulled out the cork and kicked out the rear leg of Hugh’s chair. He crashed to the floor, bottle held aloft, but managed to only spill a little.

  Sitting up, Hugh turned to glare at her. “Careful! There’s a beverage here.”

  In response Morwyn drew a hunting knife from a sheath strapped to her thigh and placed its tip under his chin. She leaned down so that her eyes were but a few inches from his own, and in his state of inebriation and exhaustion he reflected on how amazing they were instead of the death they promised.

  “You are wasting my time with this foolish request,” she hissed. “I’d rather march into the Ashen Garden than follow you to Ebro -”

  “Erro,” said Hugh, then winced as she lifted the blade a fraction of an inch, forcing his chin up.

  “Whatever. Recant your damn order and I’ll not slit your throat.”

  Carefully, Hugh reached up and pressed her blade away. Lifted the bottle to his lips and took a swig. “I’m afraid I’m acting within my legal bounds and with my brother’s blessing. He explicitly said I could select two members of his castle guard. Which, I believe, you technically are. So. Given how important he believes this mission to be - otherwise why else would he be sending me? - I’m going to need the best. And while your personality is just shy of being abrasive, nobody can deny your ability with the blade. So.” He grinned at her. “Welcome to the team?”

  Morwyn let out a cry of fury, spun on the ball of her foot, her other leg whipping around in a tight circle, heel honing in on his jaw with such precision and speed that he was barely able to lift his forearm and block the blow before she demolished his face.

  “That’s no way to treat your commanding -”

  She wasn’t done. She brought her knee nearly to her chin before stomping down on his head.

  Or tried to. Hugh rolled aside, the blow missing by a hair’s breadth, and came up on his feet, arms spread wide. “Morwyn, look, this isn’t how -”

  She came in fast and hard. Somewhere along the line she’d sheathed her blade, but that wasn’t a comforting thought. Hugh’d prefer to face down a charging boar with his bare hands than deal with a frontal assault from the captain of Annaro’s guard. She kept her arms in close, arms bent and locked, and unleashed a barrage of elbows and tight uppercuts, a flurry that drove him stumbling back, doing his best to take the blows on his forearms.

  So fast. Six, seven punches in a couple of seconds, hard enough to numb his arms, a couple slipping by his guard and cracking into his ribs, hard enough to nearly break bone despite the heavy layering of muscle he now carried.

  Because the last time he’d fought her he’d been but eighteen and a wiry youth who was taller than he was strong; he’d called Morwyn out, demanding she agree to serve him instead of his brother if he could best her in combat.

  Every warrior and veteran in the combat yard had paled as he’d made his challenge, and Morwyn, in the process of ignoring him and walking away, had slowed, stopped, and then looked at him over her shoulder with a gaze that had stilled his heart.

  She’d then proceeded to methodically take him apart. It was a near clinical demolition. She’d worked him over for three minutes, humiliating him before the crowd, till he couldn’t push himself off the blood-splattered cobbles. He’d nearly lost his vision in his left eye; she broke his left arm, dislocated his right shoulder, and he’d pissed blood for two weeks thereafter.

  And she’d only been sixteen.

  Hugh never pressed her again on her loyalty, nor challenged her to a fight.

  But that had been ten years ago. He’d grown another four inches since then, added almost a hundred pounds of muscle while losing what little fat he’d carried. Had trained so fiercely, so hard, that he’d risen through the ranks of the Stasiek’s officer corps and been selected by the Mendevian Lost Reavers themselves to join their illustrious ranks. Had turned his back on Stasiek, assured that his future was resplendent with glory and illimitable conquests - until the debacle at Goat’s Wood.

  Her initial assault might have dropped him ten years ago. But now it just made him smile.

  “That all you got, Captain?” He leaned back against the wall, took a swig of wine as she stepped away, glaring at him. “I thought you could hit harder than that.” />
  A low growl sounded in the depths of her throat, a sound that wouldn’t have been amiss coming from a wolf, and she leaped at him, her whole body streamlining behind her knee which exploded to the fore, clearing the three yards between them in a sudden attack that blasted through his raised arms to crack him straight in the sternum, knocking him into the wall with enough force to cause him to bounce back.

  And straight into a brutal uppercut to his solar plexus, a chop from her shin across his thigh, the blow so precise and hard it caused his muscle to snarl up in pain. Three or four elbows in quick succession to his ribs, a stomp on his foot and then she spun around, faster than thought, and unleashed a backhand that came at him from a world away and collided across his jaw like a comet careening into the face of a mountain.

  Lights flared in his vision and Hugh staggered to the side. Blinked away the spots, righted himself, and saw Morwyn glaring at him, fists still raised.

  “Rescind the order,” she said.

  Hugh wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. It came away bloody. He shook out his leg, easing away the pain. Took a deep breath and rose to his considerable height. Grinned at her. “No.”

  “The duke confirmed that it’s a legitimate order. He’ll not cancel it.” She rolled her head about her neck, eliciting a series of pops. “But he gave me permission to be as persuasive as I want in changing your mind. And believe me, Hugh. I’m willing to go to great lengths to persuade you.”

  Hugh realized he was still holding the bottle. He’d spilled some across his front while defending, but enough wine was left to make him glad he’d held on. “I’d expect nothing less, Morwyn. But fair warning. I’m not the boy you thrashed so long ago in the bailey.”