Three of Swords

by Michael Jason Brandt

  At midday, they stopped for a brief rest. He needed the break more than he cared to admit, and was relieved that she made no protest. The horse seemed to be the most grateful of all.

  Yohan ate a handful of snow, hoping the stomach pain would go away for a time. Then he turned to her. “Let me see the wound.”

  She shook her head. “Not necessary.”

  “Aye, it is. If it gets infected—”

  “It’s not. I already looked.” Her tone brooked no argument, and he assumed modesty motivated her decision. Not that he minded one less responsibility.

  She was staring ahead, down the descending trail toward the treacherous-looking gorge they were about to enter. Clearly, the wound was not bothering her unduly. Yohan had no idea how she accomplished such invulnerability.

  He looked at Ofero, sagging even without the burden of a rider. “I’m worried about the horse.”

  She nodded, not looking at it. “So am I. He’s starving.”

  “Aye.” It might have been better if Karlo had never gone back for him. At least then I might have one companion worth talking to. How I miss his ceaseless babble.

  A stillness of wind and sound had fallen over them. He became aware of it, glanced at her, and saw her look away. She stood up, somewhat stiffly, unable to ignore the injury entirely. “Let’s get moving.”

  By early sundown, as they neared the bottom of the canyon, she was spending far more time off the destrier than on. This, too, was clearly taking its toll. Yohan saw her stumble once, but catch herself before he could react. He considered calling another break, but knew her pride would balk at the implication. He weighed the possible advantages of stopping against the likelihood of getting into an argument with her, and said nothing.

  They heard more growling with the slow approach of night. She did not comment about the encroaching darkness—had not, in fact, said a word for more than an hour—but Yohan forced his worried and exhausted mind to remain vigilant. His gaze traced along the perimeter of the ridges around, and saw innumerable cracks and crevices from which an ambushing animal might spring. At the same time, he inspected each new valley for a good place to camp. And ever since they started out he had been keeping an eye on the sky, looking for any hint of one of the sudden storms these mountains were known for. The constant surveillance was mentally tiring, but years of scouting and patrolling had taught him techniques to stay sharp. Shelter, weather, danger. Shelter, weather, danger. Around and around his eyes traveled, looking everywhere but beside him.

  Therefore he was caught by surprise when she suddenly stopped, and later wondered how long she had shown indications that he should have noticed. As she wobbled in place, Yohan stared at her in curiosity. “Princess?”

  Then she bent over and vomited on the ground. He reached out, too slow to stop her from collapsing. The horse whinnied its concern, and Yohan went to his knees, rolling her onto her back, staring down into vacuous eyes. Then he noticed a large red stain soaking through her tunic. The blood was not all fresh. He wondered how she had kept it hidden, cursing his own stupid obliviousness.

  He lifted the tunic, smelling the infection even before seeing the swelling and disgorged pus.

  Another change of plans.

  Not far away was the faintest stretch of an overhang that would make a decent foundation to a shelter. Moments ago he had dismissed this as too small, but a sense of urgency changed his priorities, and any port would do in a storm. He could use some valley scrub to fashion a lean-to for her, then worry about himself and the destrier afterward. Yohan moved quickly, trying to make use of what little light remained before the onset of complete darkness. The growing clouds in the sky signaled that moonlight would be unreliable.

  The feverish pace took a lot out of him, and as the burst of adrenaline faded, exhaustion permeated his limbs, his back, and his mind. Once the princess was under the rudimentary cover, the fur blanket covering her trembling body, Yohan allowed himself to sit and catch his breath. He knew a fire was needed, but first more wood would have to be collected. He could get started on that after he closed his eyes for a second.

  Yohan awoke to the feel of something soft pressing his cheek. Assuming it was the pleasant touch of a woman, he turned closer. Something wet and gross slathered his face, and he opened his eyes to the unwelcome stare of Ofero, nudging him back to consciousness.

  Yohan did not know how long he had slept, but the sky remained dark without the hint of a sunrise behind the mountains. Falling asleep despite the magnitude of cold and hunger evidenced just how tired he truly had been. And still was. He was barely able to pull himself up despite the desperate knowledge that life depended on it.

  “Inexcusable,” he said aloud—a deserved admonition. He did not like relying on others, particularly for life and death, and particularly not this other. Not now.

  He began to organize his tasks into immediate and future. First came gathering wood for the fire, then cleaning her wound, then expanding the shelter to make room for two, and only then thinking of a plan to get food. He had a notion already, but put off worrying about that for the time being. First things came first.

  Having already cleared the area for the lean-to, Yohan wandered farther afield to gather all he could find. Not knowing how long it would be before she recovered enough to resume their trek—if she recovered at all—he intended to prepare for the long haul. He considered himself fortunate at the discovery of two recently dead trees from which to stockpile a supply of wood. He set aside a small piece that was too insubstantial to be of use for fuel but just right for something else his mind was plotting. Something to while away the long boredom that was certain to set in waiting for her to live or die.

  The wood brought a momentary sense of relief, but he was reminded of the countless other dangers that remained. Growls—not far away, yet their sources invisible in the darkness—compelled him back to camp prematurely. It would not do to return with a tenday’s worth of firewood only to find the princess’ throat ripped out or body missing. Part of him hoped an animal would attack, for a single kill would solve the food crisis in the short-term. On the other hand, Yohan was beginning to feel so weak that he doubted he could fight off anything large and aggressive enough to make the attempt.

  Beasts were not his greatest fear, however. For that, he glanced incessantly at the discomfiting night sky.

  As if to accentuate his growing sense of helplessness, his stomach began to rumble cruelly. The thought of filling it with more snow made him feel sick, and in any case he knew the insubstantial mouthfuls would do no more than briefly arrest the returning pangs.

  The princess mumbled something indistinct. Hopeful that she was awake, if only to share in his desperation, Yohan looked over at the recumbent form. She continued mumbling, but her eyes remained closed, and her words made no sense. She was in a state of delirium. That was a bad sign indeed.

  Ofero nuzzled his nose against Yohan’s cheek again. This time he hazarded to reach out and scratch it. “I know. It doesn’t look good.” He continued to stare straight ahead. He would get back to her wound and his shelter in a minute. For now this soldier needed a moment to sit and rest.

  The faintest wisps of light illuminated the snowfall that had started during the night and increased with the coming dawn. As the rising sun revealed an unbroken haze of clouds as far as he could see, Yohan began to give up hope that this would be another brief shower. He watched it come down, mesmerized that something so peaceful could be so deadly.

  Chapter Five

  Asturia

  PRINCE NICOLAS watched as the standard-bearer planted the banner in the hard ground, where it hung still in the unmoving air. Its design showed the familiar white mountain on an indigo background, contained within the outline of a tall shield. This was the flag of the Threeshields, the cavalry company of which Nico now found himself in charge.

  He made his rounds of the bivouac, sharing a few words with each soldier under his command. Nearly a tenday had p
assed since they departed Neublusten, and he was still learning some of their names. Nico wanted to know each of the thirty-two men and women better by the time they reached Cormona, two days hence.

  As part of the usual routine, the unit had stopped riding at sunset, then broke into their preassigned roles. Some collected all the horses—mounts, spares, and supply—for feeding and securing. This last task consisted of loosely binding them to ad-hoc posts hammered into the rocky earth. In the morn, these same posts would be uprooted and packed away for reuse the following eve.

  Others hammered down personal tents for the officers, Nico and Captain Bayard. These tents were barely large enough to accommodate a single bedroll, chest, portable desk, and two folding chairs. Besides what he carried on his body, these items were Nico’s only possessions on the campaign. The notion was surprisingly liberating, a sense of freedom that came from traveling light, to say nothing of being away from the repressive routine of the castle. Indeed, Nico was about as content as he could remember, although part of this feeling unquestionably stemmed from the lingering pride that followed his accession to the Order of Swordthanes.

  A rotating team of troopers was responsible for cooking and distributing supper, a task treated with as much importance as a battle. Nico had heard the expression that an army rode on its stomach; now he witnessed that axiom first-hand.

  Without tables or chairs, the soldiers ate standing or sitting on the ground, mostly in groups of twos and threes. No one besides Captain Bayard ever ate alone. Even Renard had attached himself to a group of older soldiers, possibly ones he remembered training. How strange that must be for them, Nico thought in amusement.

  He himself ate while moving between these groups, a tin of beans in one hand and the multipurpose utensil that functioned as spoon, fork, and knife in the other. A few months of this and he might easily forget the etiquette of his father’s table. The thought was not particularly displeasing.

  Some of those who had finished their meal gathered to play cards. These games were a common practice repeated nearly every day of their journey, and a part of Nico wished he could join them. Despite the harsh words that occasionally erupted at an unexpected loss of coin, the activity served as a useful means to build camaraderie between brothers and sisters in arms. He took pleasure in seeing the unit under his command functioning as a whole. Morale was good, and that went a long way in his mind.

  The company was a larger contingent than he had ever imagined leading, and the thought that his father had the faith to give him such responsibility filled him with more pride than it ought. By no means was this the most prestigious outfit in the Akenberg army, yet even learning that its numbers had recently swelled with unproven recruits had not dampened his optimism. Perhaps the Proving really had generated as much respect from his family as it had within himself.

  Nico had questioned why a full company was needed to escort one young lady and her servants. When pressed, his father had pointed out the need for the Asturians to see the proper show of respect. But the question clearly made Hermann snappish—he was a man unaccustomed to having decisions challenged—so Nico allowed the matter to drop.

  At least the soldiers seemed to accept him. That had been a concern, for his rank and responsibility had come abruptly, and arguably without merit. He understood his father’s rationale, considering the importance of appearances in this mission. All had been made clear on that day of the Proving, when the king had summoned and informed him of this task. But Nico had spent the first few days afterward worried about fitting in with the cavalry detachment with whom he was about to spend several months. He had never paid much attention to the military way of life, and expected to stand out in embarrassing fashion. His concerns had not abated when he shared them with Renard, who dismissed all worries with a surly chuckle. “Be yourself, and you’ll be fine, Boy,” was all that passed for advice from his so-called adviser.

  Nico was particularly sensitive to the reaction of Captain Bayard, a middle-aged veteran who ostensibly now reported to the new commander, but in actuality continued to run the company in every practical way. During their first substantive discussion, Nico had made it clear that he would not interfere with the company’s management but for exceptional circumstances. For now, he desired only to watch and learn. Aware of being the youngest of them all, he felt compelled to conform to their expectations rather than the other way around.

  For his part, Bayard had made certain to include Nico in all the important decision-making, even when it was nothing more than explaining standard procedures. These briefings were infinitely valuable in helping the new commander understand how an officer thought and behaved.

  Each time Nico interacted with the common soldiers, they greeted him with smiles and friendly banter. A good sign, yet Nico wondered how much was due to rank and privilege. He would not be terribly surprised to discover that they spoke of his youth and inexperience among themselves. After all, did not every soldier grumble about their superiors?

  And then there was the other factor. Nico wondered what effect his status as Swordthane had on them. As a privileged child, Nico had grown up admiring the order above all other things, but did that same respect apply to everyone? He had survived a single contest in a proving ring, but many of these men and women had survived on the battlefield, which put his own trial into perspective.

  For that matter, he had slain one of their fellow soldiers in the Proving. Some of them may have known Dolen, or even been his friend. Was it not possible they resented Nico for that?

  Still, none of the Threeshields had given him any obvious reason to doubt their sincerity, and his concerns slowly slipped away. More and more often, he found himself seeking their company for sheer enjoyment. A genuine fondness for them was building, even though Nico realized he would always need to maintain a professional distance. He was an officer, after all, and was expected to punish them as required. Or—remote though the prospect seemed—lead them to their deaths in combat. It would not do to get too close.

  Thus with mixed feelings Nico currently sought out two of his favorites, Mip and Pim. Or rather, Mip was a favorite; Pim had not the same gregarious personality as his twin. The two had been born fieldthralls on an estate far from the Akenberg capital, but their recognizable skills led to being conscripted at a young age. Traditionally, imperial cavalry comprised the scions of families wealthy enough to provide mounts and equipment as befitted the elite fighting force of every province. But in Akenberg, King Hermann had opened the branch by instituting a policy of promoting anyone who displayed exceptional ability in horsemanship and fighting. Nico thought it one of his father’s best innovations.

  He found the brothers in conversation with Driscol, one of the gloomier members of the company. Nico listened in quietly, hoping their discussion would occupy his thoughts for a time. A distraction would be welcome, for his anxieties had increased with every mile they traveled nearer their destination.

  Unfortunately, the three men seemed to be losing interest in their topic. The back and forth quickly faded, and he detected a hint of embarrassment on Pim’s face. It dawned on Nico that they most likely had been discussing him, causing a swell of regret. Rather than diminishing his misgivings, this visit was having the reverse effect. He should have known true camaraderie would take time, if it came at all.

  Then Mip cleared the air with a cheerful smile. “We were just talking about you, Commander.”

  Nico raised an eyebrow. “So I gathered. Although I can’t imagine why.”

  Mip laughed. “You’re too humble by half, My Prince. That is to say, Commander. That is to say, Swordthane.” His grin was mocking, but the prince did not mind. It was actually refreshing to be treated as any other soldier might be, for a change.

  “We were hoping to get that story sometime, Commander,” Pim added, eager to interrupt his brother before something completely inappropriate slipped out. “Your Proving, that is…if the telling pleases you.”

  Nico
considered. “I’ll make a trade. You share the story behind the name Threeshields and I’ll tell you about my Proving.”

  “There isn’t much to that,” Mip said. “We’re Threeshields because that’s how many each trooper goes through in battle before meeting his end. Or so the legend goes.” He laughed. “An underestimation, if you ask me. Now, it’s your—”

  “Mip!” a voice called. “Join us.”

  The players were inviting the popular twin to the card game, Nico realized. As the glue that held this small group together, his departure would bring a premature end to the exchange just as it was disappointingly close to serving its purpose.

  Then Mip surprised Nico with an invitation. “Why don’t you join us, Commander?”

  The refusal was instinctive. “Perhaps next time.”

  “What, you have other plans?” Mip grinned. He always seemed to be grinning. Little wonder he was so well-liked. “Come on, there are no other nobles about. Here, we’re all soldiers.”

  Still Nico hesitated, wondering whether his presence would be resented by the others. But he hesitated too long, as the soldier took him by the elbow and guided him to a seat in the circle.

  “Brothers, look who I brought.”

  “Make room for the commander, there,” said Hager, an older veteran Nico often saw with Renard. A quick shuffling of movement afforded Nico the opportunity to see who else he was joining. He found himself flanked by Mip and Hager, looking across at Manus and Captain Bayard. Seeing this last came as both a surprise and relief. Nico was not the only officer present, and so felt less like an intruder.

  Manus, a man most known for the wicked scar disfiguring his cheek, shuffled a deck of cards. “What’s the game?” Nico asked.