by Kal Spriggs
***
Lady Katarina
“So by my best estimate, that's where we set as far as personnel,” Solis said. “Master Arren and your armsman have both done an exhaustive evaluation of people, but as you can see, we're short on experienced fighters.”
“Which is why having Nakkiki bludgeon some courtesy into Benedykt's skull would be counterproductive,” Katarina said dryly, with a glance out the window at where the big islander stood patiently, awaiting her final determination. He had a stern glower on his face as he waited. Benedykt stood opposite him, though the expression on his face was rather more comical. “As much fun as it would be to see.” She knew Benedykt's type well. The man had come to her almost right after the first meeting, with boasts about his experience and how useful he could be, eager to tell her wonderful things about herself as well. Katarina didn't doubt he could be useful, but from the complaints she had already heard from the men who'd worked under him since his arrival, she doubted she wanted to position him someplace where his arrogance would poison the morale of the men working for him. She looked at Solis, “You've had him working with you doing logistics, can you use him?”
Solis shrugged, “He knows his figures and sums, which puts him above about half of the rest of the lot. He's an arrogant ass, to be certain, and not half as smart as he thinks he is. But I can use him.”
“Fights to the death set a bad precedent for future discipline,” Katarina said, with a nod at Bulmor and Gerlin. Gerlin just raised an eyebrow and shrugged, as if to say that he thought it would be just fine. Then again, she thought, Benedykt waxed eloquent about how skilled he was at rooting out potential Armen spies. It didn't take a genius to determine he meant the halfblood scout.
As if I could doubt him, at this point, Katarina thought. After Bulmor, Gerlin had been with her the longest, since the day that Lord Hector had murdered her parents and younger brother, in fact. Without his help, she would have died many times over. “Right,” she said, “Solis, I'm making you our Quartermaster and he can fill whatever role you want... so long as he doesn't have to deal too closely with others.”
He gave her a smile and a nod and she looked over at Bulmor, “How goes the reorganization in general? Are we in such dire need of experienced leaders?”
“We've skilled fighters, with experience,” Bulmor said, his voice gruff. “But some of them are not... leadership material. Men and women who can fight well enough, but they don't have the personality to focus on the big picture.” He shrugged, “We lost a good number of the ones I'd like to have made into sergeants at Southwatch, I'll admit. Josef and Aerion, especially. Some of our other casualties would have made fine sergeants too.” He shrugged, “We've a couple who might do alright, but I don't know that I trust them in those positions.”
“Who?” Samen asked. Katarina had already named him a company commander, so he clearly felt that he had enough credit to speak.
Bulmor shrugged, “Quinn for one. He's a good lad, smart, solid. As you saw with this issue with Nakkiki he's not afraid to step forward.” He shrugged again, “But he's not long term soldier material. He's been injured in every fight and nearly died at Southwatch. I'd almost say to put him in with the Quartermaster detail, but there's bad blood between him and Benedykt, now. I think if we're going to put Nakkiki on your protective detail I'll add Quinn as well, as translator.”
“I'd take him over Benedykt,” Solis said quickly.
“He wants to fight,” Katarina said. “If you pull him out of the line he'll think we don't think he's capable, which might well destroy him after losing two of his friends.”
Bulmor nodded. “Then there's Walker. Good at fighting, nobly born, definitely well-trained and viper quick.” His face went somber, “But I don't trust him. He's got secrets, the type that can bite us in the back if we put him in a position where he's forced to chose between whatever he's running from and loyalty to you and his friends... two of whom are already dead.”
Katarina nodded slowly. Walker was a bit of a puzzle, one which had bothered her since his arrival. He was, clearly, from a noble family and, just as clearly, he viewed his presence here as something of an adventure. But since Southwatch, the young man had become brooding and quiet. His brash attitude had vanished, replaced by something dark and angry. She didn't know if he blamed himself for the deaths of Aerion and Josef or if he blamed her, but either way, she didn't feel comfortable giving him a promotion just yet.
“Who else?” Katarina asked.
Bulmor shrugged, “If Nakkiki spoke the language, I'd promote him. As it is, I'm going to add him to your bodyguard detail.” He smiled a bit, “If nothing else, it will keep the others on their toes, especially when word of challenging people to the death gets out.”
Gerlin shook his head, “Of course you'd like something like that, you dinosaur.”
Bulmor shrugged, “It does have a certain finality to it.” His smile faded. “Lyle is too old, we'll have to move him to support functions when we can. Brenner hasn't recovered fully from his injury, he may never walk again. Miss Eleanor insists that she wants nothing to do with commanding a squad, much less the company you offered her...”
“Other people just slow me down,” Eleanor said serenely.
“Arren has First Company as its commander. Jasen makes a fine senior sergeant for a company. We're tapped out on skilled and intelligent and experienced people to be the squad leaders. As both Jasen and I have said, Bartek looks good enough to command the third company, but he could use a bit more experience and he hasn't seen a fight in almost ten cycles, and that a skirmish with some bandits. Maksim and Ludwik are his section leaders, but neither of them are exactly what you might call seasoned.”
“Maksim and Ludwik are both good enough at drill,” Arren said, his old voice calm. “But I agree, it's been years since they saw service, much less a fight.” Both men had served in her father's army, before Lord Hector had dismantled it, if Katarina remembered correctly.
“What about their squad leaders?” Katarina asked.
“Radomil is the only one we've really decided on,” Bulmor said. “And while he's a good enough fighter, I don't think he's ready for any more responsibility, not without some time as a squad leader to teach him to think about more than the area within an arms reach.” Katarina saw Arren nod his head at that in agreement.
“Well, then, what do we do?” Katarina asked.
“Nothing, for now,” Arren said. “Admiral Tarken said the conditions won't be ready for another month which is long enough for us to continue training and select someone to fill those slots.” He shot a glance over at Eleanor, which Katarina frowned at. Clearly the two had someone or something in mind, but she didn't know why they didn't speak their minds.
Bulmor seemed to realize that the pair had something unsaid as well. She could see her armsman stare between the two, though his mask-like expression didn't tell Katarina much, if anything about his thoughts. “Well, you're right enough,” he grunted. “We can select additional squad leaders and section leaders later.”
Katarina nodded, though she gave one last puzzled look at Eleanor, who returned it with a look of calm attentiveness that told Katarina that whatever secrets the older woman held, she wouldn't be sharing them. “All right,” Katarina said. She settled a somewhat irritated look upon Arren, always has a few secrets, doesn't he, she thought. An amusing thought went through her and she gave him a sunny smile, “Arren, you get to be the one to tell Nakkiki that he can't fight Benedykt.”
***
Commander Covle Darkbit
Lower Debber, Duchy of Masov
10th of Agmat, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering
Covle Darkbit sipped at his wine and closed his eyes for a long moment. It was imported, of course, from the Duchy of Asador. The Iron Fortress Vineyards were well known for their grapes and the exquisite poignancy that they brought to wines. This one bottle cost more than a peasant would earn in a year and it was far from their most expensive vintage
.
Covle somewhat regretted the fact that he had imprisoned the merchant supplier for that particular bottle... along with the half dozen other bottles he had already made his way through. Still, the man had refused to sell, really give, the bottles at prices that Covle could readily afford. Since the recent attention from Duke Hector focused upon the possible insurrection in the south, Covle felt it unwise to try to augment his already excellent pay with money from the taxes he sent north. That stupid girl, he thought angrily, she's making far too much of a mess, making me look the fool, no less.
At that thought, all enjoyment of the wine was lost. Half the south had heard of his failure to catch her in the Tucola Forest. Worse, in a way, was the disappearance of the Duke's Hound, Grel. The commoners and nobles alike often called him Hector's Dog, for the man did all of the Usurper Duke's worst tasks. That he had led an entire company of mounted infantry into the Ryft Peaks in pursuit of Lady Katarina had become almost common knowledge. Further rumors of some rebel camp there, as well as a steady trickle of young men and women in that direction suggested that Grel had not succeeded.
On that thought, he heard what sounded like shouts in the corridor outside his windowless basement office. A moment later, he heard a pounding on the door. Covle set his glass down and stood, hesitant to open the door to what might be an assassination attempt. The pounding stopped for a moment, and then something struck the solid wooden door with a solid thud and the central beam cracked audibly. Covle swore and swept his desk clear of bottle, crystal glass, and paperwork as he drew his sword. That door is four inches thick, of solid oak, he thought, it would take a battering ram to do that kind of damage in a single hit.
“Damn you, Covle,” a familiar, rough voice snarled from outside, “open your door and call off your guards. It's me.”
Covle lowered his sword slightly, “Grel?” He hated the way his voice broke with incredulity. The men will know now that I suspected his defeat as well, he thought angrily, which will mean they'll realize my control is slipping. That would be almost as bad as Hector realizing it, he knew.
“Who else,” Grel said. “Now open up, we need to talk. I've news that Lord Hector needs to hear and you need to hear it as well.”
Covle went to the door and activated his command mirror, shorter in range than Lord Hector's older set, but also much less expensive. Covle had ordered this one from the Duchy of Asador back when he had first taken over command of the south. Since then, he had often regretted the expense, but the security it gave him had saved his life more than once. On the other side, he saw his guard captain and the readied guards pause on their way to the door. There's eight armed men in there, he thought, yet Grel still managed to get to my door? He could admit he had selected the woman for her looks, but she had at least some reputation as a solid fighter. The tall, red-headed woman and her company had come with numerous recommendations. “Stand down, I'll handle this,” Covle said. He saw the guard captain start to argue and he snapped, “You should have brought him to me, not forced him to fight his way through.”
“But sir,” Captain Wallace said, “you don't understand! The Duke's Hound...”
“Shut up,” Covle snarled. “He's returned, just as I said he would. Now, put your men back to their posts. How many of them did he have to injure to get in?”
“Seven, my Lord,” Captain Wallace said, her voice angry. “Five men at the gates and two on his way down to your offices. Your door guards withdrew on my order.”
Covle sneered, “I see I'll have to have them and you replaced.” Cowards, he thought, if Grel were here to kill me, they would have stood by and let him do it. “Very well. Send for Captain Rasev Ironhelm, tell him I want him and his men up here. I'm sending you and your company to take his place at Zielona Gora as soon as he arrives.” It would leave the town's garrison understrength, but Covle would rather have someone he trusted to watch his back.
Covle paused to open the small shutter near the top and glance through quickly to confirm it was truly Grel before he started unlocking the door. The six locks and two heavy bars took him a moment, but he didn't regret them. If this had been an attack, it wouldn't have been the first, and those locks would buy him time to either fight or flee. I need to make certain my bolthole is still secure, he thought absently as he pulled the door open.
He kept his sword drawn and leveled at the entrance, just in case. As the other man stepped into the well-lit doorway, Covle felt his face pale, “Ancestors, man, you're covered in blood!”
“Been in a few fights,” Grel snarled. “I haven't had the time to wash over the past few weeks.”
“No,” Covle said, “You're covered in fresh blood.” Grel's armor and clothing were stained with a pattern of old, dried blood and fresh. A stream of it had run down the corners of his mouth in a fashion that suggested he'd eaten raw meat of some kind. While the blood didn't bother Covle, Grel was dripping it onto a very expensive Vendakar rug. Covle grabbed one of his satin napkins and threw it to the other man.
Grel stared at the napkin for a moment and then looked down at himself, “Huh,” he said, his voice slightly puzzled. “I think there was a deer or something... I was hungry.” He shrugged and wiped his mouth and hands, smearing the white cloth with blood and dirt, before throwing it to the floor and pressing the stained cloth into the delicate pattern of the rug beneath his muddy boot.
Covle restrained a wince and just sighed, “You had news?”
Grel nodded, “Henderson and his company were wiped out to a man, no prisoners taken. Damned rebel bastards made an alliance with the Norics.”
Covle's eyes went wide, “Shut the door, man!” He stepped past Grel to slam the door, hard enough that it bounced back open. He slammed it again and threw the two bars. “Damn it, Grel, you don't know how tense the mercenaries are down here, word like that gets out...”
“They're cowards then,” Grel said. His face twisted into a bestial expression, “Give me a few weeks with them and I'll put some spine into the ones that survive.” The harsh note in his voice made Covle shiver. Whatever he'd been through, clearly he had become even harder and more coarse. “We'll need to make them better, with what's coming.” He put an odd note on that word, as if it had some special meaning to him.
“And what is that?” Covle asked intently. Grel had left for the Ryft Peaks with an entire company of heavy cavalry, men trained to fight on foot but able to move more quickly by horseback. Henderson wasn't one of the smartest mercenaries, but he and his men had been among the hardest and most callus. Covle didn't miss the man personally, but he would mourn the loss of such a dependable unit.
“War is coming,” Grel said, his voice a mix of gloating and anger. “That damned counterfeit Katarina has more people than she should, lots of peasants, but some soldiers, probably traitorous bastards too cowardly to go north and fight the Armen, but still enough numbers to be dangerous.” Covle ignored most of what Grel snarled, beyond the fact that there were more rebels than he had expected. He already knew, thanks to Xavien, that the Lady Katarina who led the rebellion was no counterfeit and that Grel and Lord Hector had conspired to deny him his rightful payment. It didn't matter, Covle had made his own arrangement with the wizard, who had promised him Katarina and far more.
“You mentioned the Norics?” Covle asked as he went back to his desk and took a seat. He sighed at the broken bottle and crystal glass, shattered on the floor before he pulled out another glass and a second precious bottle and poured. He sipped at his wine and thought malevolently about what he would like to do with that broken glass and Grel's ugly face. He had to hide a slight smile as he thought of his arrangement with Xavien... and just how he expected to deal with Grel when the time came. A crude ending for a crude man, he thought with no small amount of glee.
Grel spat and the heavy gob of saliva and blood splattered on another carpet. “Norics, every-damned-where up there in the Ryft Peaks. We really should have done a few more patrols up that way, they were thick as
lice on a whore's...”
“We don't have the manpower,” Covle interrupted, eager to avoid any of Grel's colorful similes. “You may not be able to do the math, but you know well enough that we can't mount any punitive raids against the Noric villages without leaving some of our garrisons vulnerable.” That's even assuming we can find their villages, Covle thought darkly, they're often hidden by their shamans or demons in the most remote valleys or perched on mountainsides where assaulting them would be costly. Covle didn't care if the savages raided the odd peasant village now and again, though if they truly had some alliance with Lady Katarina... his eyes went narrow with sudden suspicion. “You are certain that they were allied with her?”
“Of course,” Grel spat again. But Covle didn't miss a note of hesitation in the other man's voice. It would be just like him, Covle knew, to make some sort of claim such as that without any evidence to back it. It could easily be that he and Henderson had stumbled into some sort of Noric ambush and Grel merely assumed it was set by Katarina. For that matter, Covle well knew that the Norics did whatever their demons and dark spirits commanded and it would be just like Xavien to make some sort of alliance with them. It isn't too hard to believe that he might have ambushed Grel if he were to interrupt his plans, Covle thought and he didn't bother to hide his smile.
“What are you smirking about?” Grel growled. “I'm not some damned floozy for you to bugger with a smile and nod.”
“No,” Covle said sharply, “You are not. You're an insubordinate ass who's made a mess of things. You have no idea what has happened in your absence... or just how much of your failures I've had to cover up from Lord Hector.” He saw Grel's face darken with anger and then some spark of self-preservation apparently kicked in and the other man just swallowed and nodded. Good, Covle thought, he has at least some self-restraint still. “You've very nearly lost your authority, Grel. Lord Hector appointed Kerrel Flamehair as a Commander of Cavalry... and as his Ducal Investigator.”
