"Sir," Paulo saluted once more and dashed up the rickety ladder, being needlessly careful to not fall over the edge into the forest spires below.
The General grabbed the last guard, who was still standing over the dead man's body, nudging it with his foot. "Do not let the man linger. Build a pyre and quickly. There is enough foul energy in the air, we need not add more to it."
Marciano looked down upon his attire and groaned. A battle like this would require suiting up, and thanks to a few blissful years of letting himself grow fat on spoils, the damn thing barely fit anymore. Sighing, he headed to his rooms, grabbing every soldier he passed and ordering them to spread the word, "Tonight we ride to kill a queen."
Being of the Empire, the Baron thought it the height of decorum to offer his own room to the General. The General tried to hold back a groan when he was shown to the place where statues went to die. Every open space was full of small rotund babies shooting other rotund babies with far too curly arrows. Corners contained images of both Argur and Scepticar. The former in her robes, holding her heart out to the viewer, while the latter was shielding the eye of fate in his hand. You bring whichever out depending upon which in-law happened to be visiting, so to speak.
And for a final touch, where finished oaken and mahogany wood would have sufficed, the Baron coated every inch in gold leaf. It was like stepping inside a glinting bar of gold burning behind your eyelid that was also inhabited by frozen gods. It was true what they say, money cannot buy common sense.
Marciano was strangely happy he need not risk a week of nightmares from attempting to sleep in the bed flanked by four golden bears carved from the bed frame. He pulled his tunic off his sweating body, the frost turning to dew and clinging to his scarred hide.
"Boy!" he called out, catching a glimpse of the old man in the gilded mirror. Marciano couldn't remember when his father agreed to this final march, as a weathered grey haired man of fifty stared back at him. No, it was fifty-one now, wasn't it? Birthdays were never something he celebrated much, measuring his life by surviving another campaign and returning to his home.
He delicately touched a scar across right of his chest, long since whitened out and faded against his olive skin. "I said boy, I know you are here!"
Just as the General was about to toss down his shirt, a tuft of straw poked up from around the corner. It was followed by a grummy face that appeared as if it'd been drug through chocolate. He lost his most faithful and trusted Squire on his last push to try and take the Southern Pass. The squat man with a small pair of spectacles pinched upon his nose even while bathing, had been as constant as the wind for Marciano.
When he fell to an enemy's stone, Marciano thought he'd never recover and declared himself retired. The Emperor could stew over it all he liked, but it was Marciano who had the love of the men, not the crazed man flocked by silent priests in the broken ivory tower. Even as Vasska all but begged for Marciano to return, brought up the destiny for all of Arda, and tried to drag the General's long waned religion into it, nothing worked. None until they got to his wife. She happily kissed her husband goodbye, and even his children seemed pleased that their father was heading off to save the world from magic. All except for little Imelda. She clung greedily to his neck from the moment he set foot back home vowing to never leave her, until a year and a half later when she found him packing his armor.
They didn't find the girl for almost a night, and Marciano was sick with a fear he'd never felt despite his decades facing down the other end of a sword. Eventually, one of the hounds led him to a small crumple of fabric tucked beneath an old tree's roots, snoring soundly. By the time she awoke, her father was already at the door. With tears as big as her fingertips, she watched him leave her one last time.
He whispered to her in the night, promised he would come back to her as soon as he was done. And he'd bring her the best present he could find, some real Ostero snow. The stuff so white it had to have fallen from a frost giant's hair. Her response was a small break in her sleeping breath.
"Wotcha want, sir?" the new squire broke through his maudlin thoughts.
And now I am saddled with this moron and facing a fight with an already entrenched enemy. It might be a few more months than he wanted before he could bring Imelda that snow after all.
"Suit me up, we ride into battle."
"We?" the boy's pipes squeaked. He'd been culled from one of the passing carts full to the brim with urchins who were hoping to try their luck at honest work.
"No, not you. Me and my men."
"Right, right. So I'll go and get that metal stuff then."
As the boy worked his fingers, trying to lace straps into each other and untie knots he wasn't supposed to tie in the first place, Marciano's right hand man walked in, already brandishing his polished chest. The three rings glowed under Lanza's arm.
"The men have mostly saddled all the horses. The locals are giving them headaches, but so far I don't think anyone's been killed."
"The night is young," Marciano muttered to himself as his squire tried to put his greaves on backwards.
"Do you plan to take the road? If we're looking at an ambush perhaps sending the scouts ahead would be wiser."
Marciano sucked his weight in to help speed the lad along and said in a slightly higher tone, "Their men will be exhausted from the fight. They weren't expecting anyone to escape the attack, so any reinforcements will catch them off guard."
Lanza threaded his fingers with his beard, braided twice along the sides because it kept him busy while waiting for reports, "But the sounds of an army will give them time to prepare and, ah..." He caught the plans of the General, "you intend to send the other half from the rear."
Marciano smiled lightly, "It's a flat land, marshy to the north but still passable by a few horses and our best men. Gather the twenty or so elite, I want you to lead them."
Lanza's eyebrows met, "Shouldn't it be you, my lord?"
"No, I want them to see me. See the man who is bringing death to them. I want that panic at the crest that took their little scrap of land once and that will do it again." The squire stepped back from his master, surveying his handy work.
Marciano walked forward and grabbed his friend's arm, "And do not start with the 'Lord' business, Lans. 'Lords' are for able-bodied servant girls and ass-licking social climbers," he smiled warmly despite the frozen night awaiting him, "Last I remembered you did not fill out a dress well."
Lanza laughed, "You'll never let me live down that Soulday."
Marciano smiled and let go of his friend's hand. He shifted his gauntlets properly around while taking the brisk walk to the stables where he found his horse, Peter, already saddled. Most Generals would give their warhorses terrifying names, things to conjure up images of fire and pestilence and many hoof prints on your recently clean floors. Peter chewed happily at his hay and nuzzled his master. The bay had been through about as many battles as Marciano himself, but didn't seem to hold his master accountable for the lack of being put out to stud.
The fellow soldiers still suiting up in the rush saluted their General as he rose into his saddle and pulled the reins out to the assembled crowd. Nearly 150 strong men were mostly dressed and set upon their mounts with grim faces. Word of mouth was a terrible motivator. Most had probably heard that a giantic queen bee had swept up and spirited away the town or something.
Putting on his best "General voice" Marciano called to the assembled crowd, "Tonight the barbarians issued a challenge to the arm of the Empire. They decided they no longer need fear us or love us. Tonight we aim to prove them false."
He reared his horse up and broke into a cantor for the open gate. It wasn't one of his better ones but still far more commanding than the Greatest Hero speech they'd heard earlier that night. The soldiers broke into a line, following two abreast through the gate.
Just as Marciano passed onto the forest road he thought to himself, "I hope Gian finishes with that pointless business I sent him on soon." Eit
her way, the boy was a master tracker. He'd catch up in his own time.
The General spurred Peter into a gallop. There would be blood tonight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Winter winds, now in full frost biting swing, clung to the fresh skirts wrapped around Ciara's ankles. "Pull!" she shouted, only her smoky breath visible beneath a hood of furs.
"I bloody well am pulling!" Chance said, his grip growing slick in that conundrum of icy sweat.
"What? Did ya want pull or push?" Chase asked, his head poking around behind the wedged caravan's wheel.
"You push," she said extending an uncovered hand to Chase, then called to Chance, "And you pull."
Chance dropped the rope and tried to spit on his hands, but the saliva froze to goobery ice before it landed. Sighing, he picked up the rope once more and gave haul.
A sheepish head rose from inside the caravan's window. He didn't mean to steer the thing into the snow bank the other three expertly avoided but there'd been a fly. He insisted upon it even after the others calmly pointed out that in the dead of winter the only living insect was the moronic historian who just drove head first into an avalanche of snow. But that may not be true for long.
"Are you still inside, Dean Dean?" Ciara yelled to the head.
Dean Dean panicked, his breath fogging up the grey glass, and vanished back inside. The other historians hadn't been much help, most pointing to their stacks of mounting research. Some claimed that exam time was coming up and they needed to prepare,24 and most inexpertly hid behind crates in the hope the girl wouldn't notice them. Only Chase and Chance, who were finally fully-fledged associate professors now, volunteered to help (but neither were on the tenure track if they kept agreeing to things they needn't do).
"Cia, we're going to have to dig more of the wheel out," a voice called from beneath the carriage's underbelly.
In the passing pair of months, Aldrin grew more adventurous, shaking off his scholarly duties to stride about in the heavy falling snows carrying about a hammer until someone pointed him at a nail. It was probably all that Ostero blood, but he seemed to come alive in the wintry weather that refused to let up.
Cia, who shuddered at the easy shortening her name took, walked to the front of the carriage where Chase was still leaning heavily into the un-moveable wheel. Picking up one of the shovels tossed haphazardly into the bank, she sat down then leaned back in the snow. With her heels, she pushed herself under the carriage. A cold pair of boots blocked her path. Aldrin had managed to stretch himself on his stomach and was half way into the snow pile. Only parts of his legs were visible, swaddled in enough fur to give him the appearance of the satyrs of old. The fact his boots were so poorly made he often slipped them on the wrong foot half the time completed the cloven look.
Ciara stared up at what she suspected the inside of a giant clock looked like. Aldrin tore the under panels off to try and unclog the axle and some other stuff he babbled to himself about. He scattered a few extra pieces across the ground to pick up after the carriage was moving again. A hand dropped out of the snow bank and smacked into her furry head. "Sorry," the prince mumbled, his mind off on its own.
Ciara passed the shovel to him and the hand vanished back into the bank. She only had enough time to slide out as the prince moved down from his snow fort towards the still wedged wheel. Standing, she tried to shake some of the snow off her back like a dog out of a bath. Chase patted her back to help, but it was already seeping into her skin.
It was going to take a few mugs of spiced whatever alcohol they still carried to shake off this growing chill in her bones. Assuming they got moving before spring set in. Deep below, a few grunts matched the scraping sound of iron clanging against iron. Ciara wondered where Aldrin was putting all the snow he dug out, though there was a good chance he was eating it.
"Ah!" the shovel flew out from under the carriage and a pair of unclothed hands gripped the sides. The familiar visage appeared, as flushed about the cheeks and forehead as a girl dreaming of her first crush while a long drip of snot coated under his nose. Trying to be more presentable, Aldrin swiped his face, leaving a trail of snow embedded in the smattering of cracker dust lip hair in his wake.
"Should be ready to go now," he said, holding out a hand. Ciara grabbed it and pulled him out, his body leaving a widening divot in the snow. He stood, trying to shake the snow clinging to his sweaty brow and hair. The red robes he disguised himself in since the castle barely reached past his calves anymore. A small patch of increasingly hairy ankle flashed the frozen world.
As Aldrin dug snow out of his ears, Ciara counted out to the brothers. "Okay on my signal you p...do what I told you to do before. One, two, now!"
Together Chance and Chase yanked and pushed, pulled and leaned until first one wheel, then another finally found traction. Gaining enough momentum, the third finally sided with its fellows, dragging the fourth along against its will.
The other historians huddled around their own windows watching the progress cheered as the caravan rolled out of the snow bank and down the small hill. "Stop pushing!" Ciara shouted as the carriage started to make a break for the second snow bank on the other side of the road.
Nodding, Chase grabbed the now turning wheel, putting the breaks upon the errant caravan while Chance keep tugging uselessly upon the rope. Aldrin laughed, still shaking his head heavy with ice in the hopes it would help. "Grog?"
Ciara jumped up and down on her frozen feet, nodding to him. "Later we turn that thing so it can actually go down the road," she said to the brothers circling it like vultures, "For now we warm up lest anyone catch their death."
"I tried to catch my death once but he refused to wait for me," Chase said.
"Uh, right," Ciara agreed nonchalantly. Half the time the brothers spoke in riddles, the other half made no sense at all. Stuffing her fingers deep into her sleeves, she made for Medwin's caravan, Aldrin nipping at her heels.
Medwin was already over pouring a trio of glasses with enough of the good stuff to give Aldrin the giggles for a week. Ciara stripped off her fur coat, moth eaten and older than her mother's mother, but a welcome addition to her shivering skin. Ever since the first snowstorm she lived inside the overcoat she traded Aldrin's shirt for what felt decades ago. Layers were about the only defense one had against the brutal winds the caravans faced as they crawled north.
"It sounds as though you were successful," Medwin said, calmly passing a mug to his reader.
Ciara, in kind, passed it to Aldrin, who was digging snow out of his boots with his fingers and tossing it back out the door. He spun around and smiled at her, his soggy hair dribbling down his face as it melted. She smiled back and pushed the mug into him, he barely noticed the added warmth.
Her fingers screamed in pain as life flowed back into them, warmth thawing the ice crystals forming in her blood. But she ignored it and happily accepted the other warm mug, "There wasn't too much trouble. Assuming we can keep Dean from steering again, we should make for Breckenridge before nightfall."
"But keep a safe distance," Medwin intoned.
"Yes, Sir," Ciara said, sadly. They hadn't seen a single piece of black armor in nearly six weeks during their flight, but the Chancellor still insisted they keep as far from civilization as possible. Only Kaltar and a few of the other robes who stayed in the green closet would make the occasional trip into a town to secure some supplies, maybe tell a mind numbing tale about how the water levels in the area used to contain a 0.05% metal impurity, scoop up the coins tossed their way to get them to shut up, and try to slink back to the caravans without being followed.
On top of the bags of oats, ink and vellum, they also came with rumors. The east was burning, or so locals camped out in front of a roaring fire with nothing more to do than talk about burning towns claimed. Some said it was the Empire, alighting every town they passed to display what happened to those who threatened their rule. Others that it was the Ostero Queen, spurned by vengeance for her husband and wiping out
all of the Empire's Arda. A few of the creative ones tried to convince everyone else it was a dragon but that got a "Sit down George, yer drinkin' too much again."
Aldrin took a long draw of the brew, a secret mix of everything in the liquor cabinet with a sprig of dried mint. "The main crank shaft could use a good lubing and the chains on the axle are beginning to rust."
Ciara shrugged, clanking the spoon in her mug. Medwin, about as mechanically minded as a dryad commune, nodded along to the boys machinations, "I shall inform Chase and Chance to pick up some, um 'chain lube.'"
The giggle in Aldrin's throat died with another splash of grog. It wasn't quite the same as what they had at castle Ostero, that was like putting a hot poker in your mouth while someone kicked you in the stomach. A real family drink. But it still reminded him of home, his younger days vanishing into snow banks that could drift so high you'd only need a small step stool to scale some castle walls.
Ciara glanced at the boy's winter attire. He favored the same overcoat, not buttoned up, and the single robe all the other historians wore two or three of, on top of their scarves, mittens, and shawls wrapped manly around their shoulders. By all rights he should be a prince-sicle, but he smiled as if he was having the time of his life wading knee deep into snow and rolling in it.
"You must be part arctic bear," she muttered.
"They say Ostero blood runs hot," Aldrin confessed, "If'n you talk to my Uncle he'd tell you it's because our ancestors drank the blood of the dragon. If you talked to my other Uncle it's because they drank something else." He'd have blushed there if his cheeks weren't still flushed from his dragon blood trying to keep him alive.
"I freeze if I even look at a north wind," Ciara confessed.
"Oh, is that from..." Aldrin pointed to her skin, still glistening from the icy exertion.
She said overtly loud, "My mother, my very Ardan mother, would spend all of winter draped in five different coats in front of the kitchen fires. It was my father who'd perch upon the parapets as the winds rattled the stones, watching the forests. Or trying to get away from the teenagers roaming the castle halls," she admitted.
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