Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1)

by George Hatt

  “Captain, if I have failed, I apologize and will resign my commission,” Dzarageth said.

  “Lieutenant, you did what I expect my officers to do—evaluate the situation, make a decision and act on it. It wasn’t the one I would have made, but I’m not out there leading the cavalry every day. That’s what I pay you for.”

  “Yes, Captain. Thank you.”

  “I do want an answer my question, though. Think about it, and be ready to dazzle the rest of the command staff with your strategic acumen. We have a long night of planning ahead of us.”

  Alcuin and Dzarageth rode to the great hall, dismounted, and walked in past the tired and dirty guards while men from the Quartermaster Platoon took their horses. Zgard Ad-Din and the Chaplain were waiting in the for Alcuin to arrive.

  “Have all of the men had a chance to eat?” Alcuin asked.

  “They have,” the executive officer said.

  “Then let the command staff have their chow, as well,” Alcuin said. “I’ll take mine and a plate for Captain Basilio. He and I will have a quick talk before we convene. We will meet here in an hour so we can figure out how to get ourselves out of this mess.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Alcuin took two plates of sausage, spiced beans and bread into the room confining Basilio. The guards opened the door for their captain, and he sat in the lone chair in the room. Basilio sat up in his cot and sullenly accepted the plate of food from Alcuin. They ate in silence for a few moments, sharing in the ravenous hunger that came to them both with the smell of the food.

  “Marek won’t give you a clipped penny for my freedom,” Basilio finally said, then set the wooden plate down on the floor. “He gives as much of a damn about me and my men as you do.”

  “Then you are indeed in a tight spot,” Alcuin said. “You betrayed your lords in Brynn, and now your new masters in Relfast won’t have anything to do with you. Your men are protected only by the tender mercies of the vicious mercenaries who have captured them. What to do, Captain Basilio? What to do?”

  The prisoner was silent for a moment, then gave Alcuin a haggard but defiant look. “Kill us, and be done with it. Add ours to the blood of the thousands and thousands and thousands who have had theirs spilled to satisfy the greed of the nobility. The blood of innocents cries out to the sky, and whatever gods there are who give a fuck about justice will surely hear and let us have our vengeance.”

  Alcuin nodded. “Spoken like a true rebel in the making. And you’re correct. Immediate execution, I’m afraid, is one of your only two options, because we simply don’t have the time or resources to herd a bunch of prisoners around with us.”

  Alcuin placed his hand on Basilio’s shoulder. “The other option I have offered your men, and I offer you now, is to join the Black Swan Company as auxiliaries to fill my ranks which you tough sons ‘a bitches depleted today. Prove yourselves with us in one battle, and you’ll be offered probationary membership in the Mercenaries Guild. After six months of satisfactory performance, those men who are still with us will enjoy all of the privileges and protections offered members of the Guild. You will, of course, have no leadership responsibilities, and your men will be so evenly scattered throughout the company that it will be impossible for you to talk them into any mischief.”

  “And after the six months are up?” Basilio asked warily.

  “Then you’ll be free to contract with this company, or any other affiliated with the Mercenaries Guild,” Alcuin said. “Or leave our service, organize a rebellion, and come at us with all the fury you can muster. I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to think it over. Most of your men have already taken me up on the offer. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Wait!”

  Alcuin stopped. “Yes?”

  “You would really let me go after I’ve seen how you fight and organize your company, knowing full well that you could face me on the battlefield again?”

  “What the hell do you think I do for a living?” Alcuin asked. “We don’t get paid if there isn’t someone, somewhere, for us to fight. I’m too ornery and lazy to do real work. So I fight little, pointless wars for money.”

  Basilio looked down at the plate between his feet, then straightened his back and looked Alcuin in the eye. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good,” the Captain said. “The guards will see you to your new squad.”

  Alcuin walked back to the command post and found, along with his command staff, the new liaison to the Courtesans Guild. The Captain sighed heavily before asking his staff, “With all due respect to Lady Jasmine, how in the 23 hells did she get in here?”

  “She gave us the Word,” said Zgard Ad-Din.

  “I have a message to deliver to you, Captain, and I shall be on my way,” Jasmine said with a curtsy. She handed Alcuin a sealed letter, smiled sweetly to the officers, and left.

  Alcuin opened the letter, glanced at the text, and sat down at the field desk. “Everyone below the rank of lieutenant, out.”

  Five runners and assistants left, the last one shutting the door behind him.

  “You,” Alcuin said to the man before the door was pulled all the way shut. “Stand guard. Nobody comes in here until I say so. Got it?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “I mean bloody damn nobody. Period. For any reason.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  The solider pulled the door shut. Only Alcuin’s key staff remained—Zgard Ad-Din, the Chaplain, Dzarageth, the infantry commander Clymar, and Urs Hapek, the Quartermaster, remained. Alcuin fished a chain around his neck from under his cuirass, pulling it and the single key attached over his head. He unlocked a small chest under the field desk and retrieved an Imperial code book.

  “Well fuck me,” he muttered after deciphering the message. Alcuin set the code book down on the desk and looked up at his commanders. “We’re going receive an offer from Betina of Relfast to buy out our contract—and we have instructions from the Emperor himself to accept it.”

  “Mahurin’s balls,” the Chaplain whispered. “This is big.”

  “Our days masquerading as Guild mercenaries are now over,” Zgard Ad-Din said flatly.

  “We’ll be pariahs tomorrow, and only a select few in the Imperial hierarchy will know that we’re anything more than rat bastards who reneged on a contract,” Alcuin said. He held the message over a candle, let it catch fire, and dropped it in an iron saucer on the table. “Inform your men that we’re being bought out. Their pay’s now doubled for this job, but they can kiss their Guild membership goodbye. Tell them that they will never be part of anything other than the Black Swan Company as long as they’re in this business. Make that very clear to them.”

  Alcuin stood up. “Gentlemen, we are about to ask more trust of our men than we ever have before. Whatever charisma you have, whatever allegiance you’ve earned from your troops, I need it all from you now. The Emperor is sending us on a dangerous road.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Marek

  The twin moons above Fentress cast their red and white light down on Marek and the survivors of his detachment. He was just as exhausted, hungry and afraid as his men. They slept under the stars without any campfires to give them away, lest pursuers find and ambush them in the night.

  Marek suspected that he was even more afraid than his followers were. In their haste to disengage from the Swans, had he led them off course? How far back was the pursuit? Would the Swans fall upon them before they rejoined the rest of the army?

  If his men were asking such questions, they were keeping them to themselves. There had been not a grumble, not a surly remark from any of the haughty noblemen since they fled the battle with less 150 men.

  Marek stared at the crescent of Taer while his men quietly ate their rations of dried meat or wrapped themselves in blankets on the grassy turf. The horses, hobbled, grazed and snorted and farted in the still night.

  The men had not rebelled or complained, Marek reminded himself, because they had succeeded in
their mission to draw the Black Swan Company into a pitched battle with the militia in Berengal. They had hit the Swans, fled, turned about, hit them again, harassing them mercilessly until the Black Swans assaulted the town.

  Then Marek and his riders left Berengal to its own devices. The plan had worked well enough, but the cost was high. A hundred-and-a-half men were killed, wounded or left afoot. And if the town had surrendered rather than fought…well, Marek thought, he would find out the hard way if he would live long enough to ever become a duke.

  Marek walked quietly among his resting men. It was too late to doubt himself now. But now was a good time to ask himself whether his plan had been borne of tactical reasoning or pure bloodlust.

  Is there a difference?

  Yes, of course there is a difference, he reminded himself. And he would have to learn that difference if he were to every be more than some spoiled duchess’ ward heeler.

  Marek smiled. It was the first time in weeks he had thought about his political aspirations. He had, after all, been too consumed with the fine details of leading an invasion to think about anything else.

  He was tired and hungry, and was beginning to lose his nerve. That is where all of the self-doubt was coming from, Marek concluded, nothing more. His father, Lord Adricard, had been a firm believer in “early to bed, early to rise” and insisted the house mistresses enforce the children’s nap time. Young Marek had resisted with all his childish strength and cunning. Now, though—what he wouldn’t give for more time to nap.

  But not yet. Marek quietly walked among his resting vassals, murmured words of encouragement to those who were awake, and checked on those pulling guard and picket duty.

  “How do you fare?” Marek quietly asked Jordred, a knight manning the outer pickets.

  “Reasonably well, Lord Marek,” the knight answered in the same, low tone. “My sword arm’s a bit pulled from thrashing Grantham’s mercenaries, I haven’t taken my armor off in days, and my horse has a running sore that I don’t know what to do with.”

  “Somehow the minstrels leave out those glorious details when they sing of great warriors’ exploits,” Marek said.

  “Indeed, Lord. I suppose they don’t want to offend those of our estate who haven’t the grit nor the balls for real combat.”

  “And here I thought the omissions were to preserve the scansion,” Marek said. “I’ll ask a minstrel when we get back to civilized country. How goes your manor?”

  “My accountant tells me revenues are down and expenses are—Lord, do you hear?”

  Marek drew his sword.

  “Halt! Who goes?” Jordred challenged the rider approaching them.

  “I am Remus, a squire of Findar Hall, come to find Lord Marek and his detachment,” the rider said.

  Marek sheathed his blade. “I am he. What news do you bring?”

  “My lord,” Remus saluted, “you are less than 15 miles from the rest of the army. Word has reached us that you engaged the Black Swan Company at Berengal, and Lord Aramand set us to march.”

  “What of Lord Gaston’s men?”

  “They ride with us as well,” Remus said.

  “Splendid. Find a comfortable bit of turf to sleep on and rest while you may. Tomorrow, you’ll lead us toward our compatriots.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Marek continued his rounds and making smalltalk with the pickets surrounding the primitive camp. Tomorrow, he would link up with the rest of his army and finish off the Black Swan Company. Then they would turn their attention to the mustered soldiery hiding at Oak Ridge.

  Every day that he bothered to think about it, Marek was glad he had defied his father’s efforts to cloister him in the priesthood. No power that could not move the heavens and boil the seas away was sufficient to transform his lustful, wicked soul into the stuff of the clergy. Mahurin knew it, if he existed; his father knew it, and Marek most of all knew it. But it was when his gambles on the battlefield paid off that the nobleman was most grateful he had escaped the embroidered shackles of the cloth and miter.

  Marek smiled at the twin moons. He was free to fuck and fight and drink and outfox his enemies on his way either to an early grave or immortal glory. On some nights, and even a few times during the day, he let himself believe he was destined for the latter.

  Kyntha and Taern, Marek thought. You rule the sky when Mahurin is dragging the sun around the other side of the world. Someday I will mount the heavens to duel Taern to the death and fuck Kyntha into sweaty, panting submission. Then I will rule the night while Mahurin is below the horizon.

  The blasphemy of those thoughts would have shocked Marek when he was younger and still believed in Mahurin, but no more. He had years ago shed too much blood and asked too many existential questions to have faith in anything but his blade, his men and his wits.

  Marek spent the next evening not in the grass under the stars, but in his tent. He and his detachment had found the army late that morning, then led the march toward Berengal. The assembled forces were now camped within striking distance of the town.

  A page scrubbed Marek’s armor as he, Gaston and Aramand drank mead and discussed the next day’s maneuvers in the command tent.

  “Dispatches, Lord Marek,” his squire announced as he entered the tent and handed him a sheaf folded, sealed papers.

  “Hmm,” he said while sifting through them. “Seems the Black Swans are holding Rufus ransom.” He tossed the paper aside.

  “What are their terms?” Gaston asked.

  “Who cares? We’ll rescue him after we break the Swans. Or not, as the case may be.”

  Marek read the rest of the dispatches: news of troop movements and political maneuverings, a bull from the Primus denouncing the violence, reports on production and grain shipments. Marek smirked and snorted as he read the dispatches and tossed them one by one on the field desk in a small pile.

  The last one seized his attention.

  “I hate to think how much this cost Duchess Betina,” Marek said after he finished the dispatch. He shook his head and handed the paper to Gaston.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, taking the dispatch and reading it himself.

  “What is it, lords?” Aramand asked.

  “She’s hired the Swans out from under Grantham,” Marek said. “They’re ours now, to do with what we please. And as if that weren’t enough, the Duchess has also hired the Battle Hags for us. Just to be certain, I’m sure.”

  “Wonderful!” Aramand said. “We’ll have enough warriors to storm Oak Ridge outright. Then the door to Brynn will swing wide open for us.”

  “Assuming our new allies in Berengal haven’t wrecked the Swans already,” Gaston said.

  Marek rubbed the stubble on his jawline and chin, nodded, then turned to leave the tent.

  “This certainly changes our circumstances,” he said. “I’m off to take a shit and think this through.”

  “This means we’ll get Lord Rufus back,” Aramand said.

  “Yes,” Marek said. “That’s splendid. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Barryn

  Barryn and Delton pushed a cart full of burned timbers and dusty rubble toward a great pile in what used to be a market square. The once-busy public space was now a depot for scavenged building materials and rip-rap destined for the outer defensive works of the town. As quickly as the two crossbowmen dumped a load of rubble in the square, other mercenaries pushed another cart full of material out toward the earthen wall.

  Other work gangs built emplacements jutting out of the crude fortification for the company’s artillery pieces and shored up the palisades atop the berm surrounding the town.

  “Is this how you imagined the life of a knight, Good Sir Delton?” Barryn asked his squad mate as they chucked debris from the cart and onto the pile. He was beginning to warm to the husky mercenary, and they ribbed each other while they labored with the rubble. “Carting trash out of the road seems below your station.”

&nb
sp; Delton helped Barryn pull a heavy length of wood out of the cart. “You can have it, Snowflake. I’d just as soon go back to lugging rocks around the farm and not have to worry about getting hacked to death for my trouble.”

  “Soldiering must pay better than farming, I imagine,” Barryn said.

  “It does that,” Delton said. “And folks take soldiers more seriously than they do farmers, that’s for sure. So what do barbarians do for a living?”

  Barryn tensed at the slur, but he knew Delton meant no harm by it. “We call ourselves heathen, not barbarians. That’s an insult that castle dwellers hurl at us when they’re too afraid to fling a spear.”

  “I’m sorry, Snowflake. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just what we call you people. So what do you do?”

  Barryn grinned mischievously. “We eat babies and fuck our sisters.”

  “Ha! That actually sounds kind of fun.”

  “Not as much fun as fucking your sister.”

  “At least the goats are safe,” Delton said. He reached into the cart, then recoiled with a curse.

  “What is it?” Barryn asked and ran to Delton’s side to see.

  “Are those little burned up ribs in there?”

  Barryn sifted through the dirt and rocks in the bottom of the cart. “Gods. I think it’s a child. What’s left of him.”

  Delton snatched a shovel out of one end of the cart and heaved the tiny ribcage and a spadeful of dirt onto the pile as if he were flinging a dead animal off of the steps of a farmhouse, then hurled the shovel at the pile.

  Barryn pretended that he didn’t see Delton tearing up.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this shit, Snowflake,” Delton said. “Everywhere we go, there’s dead carcasses and body parts. If we aren’t digging them up or tripping over them, we’re lopping ‘em off of people while they’re still alive.”