The Cor Chronicles: Volume 02 - Fire and Steel

by Martin V. Parece II

  Palius liked Sergeant Holt, and he had used the grizzled veteran for a large variety of tasks over the years. He was a pragmatic old soldier, well past the age that most fighting men hung their sword upon the mantle and told their grandchildren great tales of their exploits. Long ago, he had realized that Palius’ only concern was for the safety and security of Aquis and its queen, and as such, the then young soldier had made himself available to Palius’ every need.

  Holt had done it all in the service of Her Majesty and more in the service of Palius, from guarding the queen Herself to hunting down bandits in the Aquis countryside. He had sailed the Narrow Sea for six months as Aquis helped Roka defeat a pirate flotilla that pillaged the trading lanes. He had even helped put down a rebellion on the western side of the nation, summarily executing over fifty men who had murdered a local priest and burned his temple to the ground. Palius assigned that particular task to him, and the entire affair had never reached the ears of Queen Erella. It was Holt who most brutally and efficiently tortured the user of the Loszian mirror that Palius now possessed.

  It easily took Holt a half hour to arrive at Palius’ chambers, and the dying old man was most aware of the passage of time. A year ago, he would not have noticed due to that peculiar perception that time seemed pass more quickly as one ages. However, now he was dying, and every minute, every second seemed more important than a great sack full of gold coins. He would have given anything to go back and tell himself how important time was, to make every moment count as if it were his last. His life could have been something else entirely, could have been so different.

  The old soldier trudged into Palius’ rooms, having pushed the door open and entered with no announcement. He clinked as he walked a steady pace, no doubt set by years as a soldier marching from place to place. Holt’s face had been tanned like leather from years of the sun and elements with eyes that had been closed from exposure and were yet sharp as a hawk. He shaved occasionally enough to avoid growing a full beard, giving him a constantly stubbled appearance. As opposed to the plate armor worn by the younger soldiers, Holt always wore a full suit of gray chain mail and hard brown leather boots. Attached to the back of the shirt, a chain cowl covered his once black hair now grayed to match his armor. Everything about Holt shouted practical and uncompromising efficiency, including the unadorned sheathe that carried his double edged longsword with its plain steel guard.

  “My Lord,” Holt said in his distinct gravelly voice, “I came as soon as I was able.”

  “I understand you have duties beyond my needs,” Palius replied, wheezing from his bed.

  “My duty is whatever Aquis demands, sir. What does my home require of me?”

  “Ever loyal Holt, Aquis faces a grave danger from within, and I must take action beyond the usual channels,” Palius said. “Unfortunately, my failing health prevents me from contacting those I need to handle the problem. I’m afraid I may not be able to breathe much longer, and a walk across the city would speed my breathe away from me.”

  “I understand. It would be my honor to serve you as always. Where do you need me to go lord?” Holt asked.

  “There is a man who lives in the city, not far from here. His name is Marek, and he lives in the part of Byrverus past the rich estates and private villas.”

  Holt nodded several times as Palius spoke. “I’ve been around lord. I know who he is and where to find him, but I believe it’s his brother that you truly need.”

  “Indeed, but Marek’s brother could never come here or anywhere even near the palace. On this matter, I will deal with Marek, and he will have to deal with Larnd. And I’ll need your help Holt.”

  “Of course lord,” Holt said, and then he simply listened.

  22.

  Sergeant Holt dreamt, and he knew it, for these events had happened over twenty years ago. He was still an old man, a worn old soldier over sixty years of age, but when this actually happened, he had been middle aged. It always disturbed him that of all the things he had done in life it was this dream, this memory, that stayed with him and haunted him every time Lord Palius needed something of him. He never appeared in this dream as he was at the time of its events, but as he appeared at the time he had the dream.

  It had been three weeks since Palius called for Holt, and they had discussed what happened in hushed tones behind closed doors. A village near the far western edge of Aquis had fallen into revolt against the crown and therefore the priesthood. Palius had heard of it weeks ago, rumblings of discontent among the commoners there, and that they had ceased tithing. When the local priest warned them of their actions and even went so far as to impose an additional tax on those who would not tithe, things turned ugly. The small handful of soldiers the priest had at his disposal was overrun by an organized mob mostly wielding farm tools as weapons. The farmers burst into the temple and brutally beat the priest to death to the point that he was wholly unrecognizable. Five soldiers were killed and the sixth sent to Byrverus with a message, a message that Palius intercepted so that Queen Erella would never hear of it. Palius loved his queen more than anyone, but he knew she was too benevolent a person and incapable of the unpleasantness that must be done.

  Palius image never changed in Holt’s dream memory, always appearing as he did those years ago. He was thin and fit with a straight, tall back that had not yet hunched over from age and weight. Palius had a full head of hair that only just began turning from near black to white, and his full white beard was gone in place of a trimmed goatee that matched his hair. One thing always remained the same however - Palius’ face was always drawn and exhausted, with dark rings under his eyes on a face that was not yet lined from age.

  The queen’s advisor explained to Holt that the situation must be handled and handled properly, that no hint of rebellion or challenge to the order of things could survive. Those responsible must disappear entirely, so their dangerous actions and thoughts do not spread elsewhere in Aquis. It would weaken the Shining West for decades, and Aquis would no longer be able to protect its people from the horrors of the Loszian Empire.

  “Yes lord,” Holt had said. “I’ll take a group of men I trust. We’ll handle this.”

  “No,” Palius said a little more forcefully than he had planned. He again hushed his voice to a whisper. “It must be you alone, Holt. If you take more soldiers, even a small force, it will be apparent to all that a battle occurred. There will be too much evidence, too much proof that the queen put them down forcibly.”

  “Lord, how might I defeat at least two score men, farmers perhaps, but men none the less.”

  “Holt,” Palius said, placing a less than reassuring hand on the soldier’s shoulder, “I have faith in you.”

  “Garod help me,” Holt mumbled as his eyes sank to Palius’ white slippered feet.

  “He will, Holt. For everything you do, you do for Him and Aquis.”

  Holt left Byrverus immediately and traveled west by horse to the city of Harus. The journey required a solid ten days of him, even at the steady pace he kept, and he had worked out his plan in the meantime. Palius had given him ample gold as well as blanket authorization to commandeer whatever resources he needed. Once in Harus, Holt acquired a small wagon, which he loaded with two barrels of whale oil, two steel chains, two heavy locks and a small barrel of white glue made from some kind of fish organ. The vendor claimed it to be the best - sticky and very fast to dry. He also bought a couple large brushes meant for staining furniture, a torch and some flint before setting off again.

  He’d detached the wagon in a small grove not far from the village, a few miles at most, and rode the horse the rest of the way. Holt wore his armor as proof of his position in the queen’s palace, but he left his weapons behind in the wagon. He wanted no cause for the villagers to attack. As he entered the village from the east, he found it oddly deserted. He rode in slowly, cautiously, with his sharp eyes and ears open for any movement or sign of danger. Doors to small houses were left open in the breeze, and there were
none of the sounds of a village about him. No farm animals snorted, clucked or bayed, nor did he hear children’s laughter or shouting parents. He rode for the temple, easily distinguished as the largest edifice among the quaint collection of buildings and painted white to match the great temples of the cities.

  Holt approached the white building from the side, as its main doors faced south through the village center. He slowly rode around to the front and the main street, such as it was, a growing sense of uneasiness growing in his gut. Someone watched him, he was sure, and his suspicions were confirmed as he saw three men slinking between the small houses and shops to come up behind his horse. He watched them carefully with one eye, very aware that they were about to cut him off from the way back to his wagon. The men wore clothes of peasants and farmers, and they each carried a tool turned weapon - pick, pitchfork and hoe.

  “What do you here?” shouted a voice.

  Holt stopped his horse and turned his attention forward. Standing in an open doorway to one of the apparently deserted homes stood a large man, easily over six feet and muscled to be as strong as iron. He had extraordinarily fair skin and strawberry hair not seen among Westerners, which was parted down the middle and combed to each side, to fall almost to his shoulders. He had a broad, clean shaven face with a jutting forehead and wide features, giving the illusion of stupidity and barbarism, and Holt suspected that at least the latter was accurate. Holt eyed the proper sword that hung across the man’s back. It was a large weapon held in a sling of sorts with no sheathe or scabbard, the blade of which was longer than Holt’s own, and the hilt looked as if it could be used either one or two handed. It was a bastard sword, the weapon of a Northman.

  “I said what do you here!” shouted the red haired man; this time, it was a statement and not a question. His voice was deep and strong.

  “I’m here to talk,” Holt said evenly, careful to make his voice heard but still sound passive. He was distinctly aware that the farmers had finally blocked the way back.

  “Talk! Talk is for lovers!” the Northman retorted with a laugh. “Leave now and tell your queen we are free!”

  “I am here only to discuss your grievances and end the bloodshed. You see that I’m alone and unarmed,” Holt reasoned, and he held his open palms into the air for all those watching to see. More men began to slowly filter from the surrounding buildings, and he knew he had their attention. “You wish to be free of the queen’s rule and the laws of Aquis. Very well, I am here to offer you that freedom in peace.”

  “And how would you do that, dog?” boomed the Northman.

  “Let’s meet in peace here in the temple at noon tomorrow, and I will present the queen’s offer. You need only listen to me, and then you may kill me if you wish. I’ll die having done my duty, but I don’t think that’ll happen,” Holt replied.

  “I lead here,” the Northman said with arrogance. “I will meet with you now.”

  “No. I will meet with all of your people tomorrow. At noon.”

  “Why?” asked the red haired man, his head tilting slightly in suspicion.

  “Because its about freedom. Your people joined you for freedom from Queen Erella, did they not? Then they all deserve the freedom of hearing what She offers.”

  The Northman looked about the gathered people and knew he had lost. Several dozen had come out of hiding to listen to the soldier’s words, and many whispered enthusiastically amongst themselves, while others nodded. He had raised this rabble with talks of freedom and had now lost control of them due to the same words coming from the mouth of a soldier of Aquis. He sighed deeply.

  “Very well. We will meet you at noon tomorrow,” he said, turning back into his home and slamming the door.

  Holt turned his horse and rode back the way he had come, the three armed farmers parting to allow him passage. Once out of the village, he rode swiftly a rather circuitous path back to the grove hiding his wagon. Once there, he removed his armor and waited patiently. When the Northman crept, sword ready, into the grove just after nightfall, Holt neatly skewered the man with two arrows to the chest. The man lay dying, gasping for breath as blood filled his lungs when Holt severed his head from his body.

  Holt managed only a few hours of sleep, and he felt exhausted and ragged when the morning sun lit up his world. He wasted little time in breakfasting and donning his chainmail. He rode into the village well before midday, having left his wagon behind holding the body of a red haired man that now collected flies. He was the first to the temple, and he tied his horse to a fence nearby and went in to wait.

  The people began to arrive just before noon, slowly filtering in and then arriving in groups. Holt counted nearly forty, and more still straggled in one or two at a time. The absence of their leader did not go unnoticed, and some left to search for him. Many implored Holt to talk, to present the queen’s offer, but Holt curtly refused, saying, “I will when everyone is present. I’ll not have Her words repeated second hand.” The search for the Northman turned up nothing, and the people began to whisper that perhaps he had deserted them. Finally Holt stood up before the assembly.

  “Outside of the Northman, is everyone here?” he asked, and the searching glances, nods and whispered comments answered his question. “Very well, one moment as I must retrieve something from my saddle bag. I believe you will all be most relieved.”

  Holt strode up the center aisle and pushed his way out of the temple’s front doors. Once outside, he sprinted to his horse and removed the items he needed to finish his mission. He returned to the doors just as a farmer opened them that just yesterday menacingly brandished a pitchfork. The man looked over the chain, flint and torch in Holt’s arms, and his eyes widened in understanding just as Holt planted a swift and heavy kick into his groin. The man doubled over and fell to the ground moaning as the assembled people stood at once in surprise, and Holt quickly dropped his load and roughly threw the man back inside. He slammed the doors shut and wrapped the chain around the pulls as tightly as he could. Just as the people inside began to pull and push at the doors, he slid the lock home through several of the chain’s links.

  He walked around the perimeter of Garod’s temple, torch in hand and setting small loose brush aflame. He had spent the previous night placing random and inconspicuous enough debris right up against the temple’s exterior walls and then dousing it and the walls in the whale oil, which was expensive but highly effective. Holt had also crept inside and painted whale oil on the inside walls, rafters and in rows across the floor. The loose brush caught immediately, and flames climbed the walls almost before he could blink. It was mere minutes before the flames spread inside, and he heard the cries and screams of those trapped inside, mostly men but not all. They realized too late that the rear doors were already chained shut, and all of the lower windows were shuttered and sealed tightly with Holt’s glue.

  A few found a way to reach one of the upper windows, easily twenty feet above the ground. They thought they could escape by bursting through and falling to the ground. They discovered they were wrong as the first man received an arrow to the chest and fell back into the temple; a lifelong soldier, Holt was a skilled marksman. He had brought two full quivers and consistently hit his marks. One man was actually lucky enough to drop to the ground, having stayed low to avoid Holt’s arrows, but there was an awful wet snapping sound when he landed next to the blazing temple. This one Holt approached and ran through with his longsword.

  Holt silently begged Garod for forgiveness as he retreated from the heat. He no longer heard a clamor from inside, and as he watched thick black smoke pour from the broken windows, he knew no more would attempt escape. He heard a soft tread of running feet and turned to see a small girl, no more than seven or eight, running south through the village away from the burning temple. Swearing softly, Holt notched and arrow and drew back his bowstring.

  * * *

  Holt awoke from his dream calmly, almost begrudging that he lived another day to serve Aquis. For years, he had
woken up in a fright, sweating profusely and sometimes even shouting as he did so, but now he had become so used to his nightmare, his memory, that it was just a matter of course. As he sat up and considered the rising sun with squinting red eyes, Holt knew that he hated Palius. In fact, he hated himself and everything he had done over the years. His one comfort was that he had done it all for Queen Erella, and Garod would forgive him the multitude of sins when it was his time to be judged.

  He couldn’t even remember the village’s name.

  Holt pushed himself out of the bed in which he’d slept and stretched, feeling several twinges and cramps begin to work themselves out. Whether they were from his steadily advancing age or from having slept in a strange bed he did not know and nor did he care. He dressed himself in a simple, light wool tunic and breeches and belted his sword about his waist while staring at the new armor he’d bought in Byrverus. It was plain and unadorned steel plate - a hauberk and legguards. Holt had left his real armor behind in the barracks so as to avoid anyone connecting this operation with the queen. He went down into the noisy lower level of the inn to eat and see if Marek had yet arisen.

  He found the lean, wiry man in the common room with his back in a corner eating as he watched the door to the inn. Also on the table was a second plate, this one still stocked with fried pork sausage, eggs and a hunk of bread. Holt sat across from his murdering companion and systematically began clearing his plate. He wasn’t really hungry, but he had learned long ago to eat when food was available.

  “I went ahead and ordered you breakfast Sergeant.”

  “How many times I have to tell you?” Holt asked in his gravelly voice without looking up from his food. “I’m just Holt for now. How close are we to being ready?”