“Are you certain you wish to do this? I will guard the Princess with my life, but is there not another you would trust more?”
There were those in the court who were tied to the King by blood or decades of political alliance. Surely it made more sense that he would turn to one of them as someone he could trust to protect Ragenilda while not abusing the power that she represented.
“I cannot risk her being taken to Selvarat. Even if the rest of the Kingdom falls, Esker and the northwestern provinces may yet endure,” Olafur said. “If the worst comes to it, I trust your father will protect Ragenilda until the day she is able to reclaim her inheritance.”
“That he will,” Solveig said.
She could taste the irony in the situation. For years, Lord Brynjolf and the other Barons in the northwestern borderlands had been abandoned by the King, forced to rely upon each other for protection from the border raiders. They had built up their defenses, recruited armsmen, and—with Devlin’s help—prepared themselves to defend against an invasion. Of all the provinces in Jorsk, they were the ones who were most ready for a war. And now King Olafur was forced to turn to those he had once ignored and beg them for their help.
“Swear to me that you will keep her safe,” Olafur said.
She took his right hand and clasped it between her own. “I pledge to do all in my power to deliver her safely to Esker. As Baron, my father will protect the Princess. And as a father, he will treat her as one of his own daughters.”
Which was not to say that Ragenilda would be coddled. Far from it. Instead, Brynjolf would do his best to see that Ragenilda was fit to lead a kingdom at war, or to survive in the Selvarat court, if such was to be her ultimate fate.
It was the best that the Princess could hope for. It was the best that any of them could hope for.
Twenty-three
OLUVA DREW HER HORSE ALONGSIDE DIDRIK’S as the walls of the keep came into view. “I keep looking around for the Chosen One, wondering why his litter bearers have wandered off.”
Didrik kept his silence. The same thought had occurred to him, more than once on this journey, not that he would admit it to her.
“Do you suppose the Gods are punishing us? It doesn’t seem right that we have to bluff our way into the same keep twice. Surely once was enough for a lifetime.”
Didrik nodded in reluctant agreement. He had never thought to return to this place. The previous spring, he, Devlin, and Oluva, along with a handful of others, had deceived their way into the keep and arrested the Baron Egeslic as a traitor. It seemed a lifetime ago, back when his only concerns had been ensuring Devlin’s safety and deciding whether Mikkelson and his soldiers were to be trusted.
“At least this time we won’t have to clean vomit off our boots,” she added, referring to Devlin’s impersonation of a dying man.
Her constant cheerfulness grated on his nerves. It was nearly as bad as traveling with Stephen. Well it was for her to jest and make light of their situation. She was not the one in command. Having taken the keep once by stealth, he now must do it again. And this time there was no Chosen One to lead. This time their success or failure would rest squarely on Didrik’s shoulders.
“Drop back along the lines and remind the others of their orders. They are to look bored, but alert. While we are gone, Arvid is in charge, and he is the only one to speak.”
“They know that,” she said.
“Then remind them again.”
She glared at him before giving him an irregular salute. “Yes, sir,” she said.
She slowed her horse and he could hear her speaking to the first of the riders that followed. Knowing that he could be observed from the walls of the keep, Didrik fought the urge to turn around for a final check on his company.
He knew what the watchers would see. A band of two dozen mercenaries, openly approaching the keep, with no attempt to conceal themselves. Those who accompanied him today had been chosen not so much for their fighting skills as for the fact that they fit into one of the uniforms that had been taken during their raids.
Didrik’s own tunic had been hastily cleaned and a large gash in the back sewn shut. Fortunately, the short cape of a mercenary captain covered the repair. His skin itched from the wrongness of wearing a dead man’s clothes. He hardly recognized himself. It was not just the strange garb or the fact that he had cut his warrior’s braid and instead sported the short-cropped hair of a barbarian. Those were merely the outside changes.
The man inside had changed as well. From the time he was a boy, he had wanted nothing more than to join the Guard. He had enlisted on his sixteenth birthday and quickly learned that it was not merely weapons skill that made the Guard such an effective force. It was discipline and order, held together by adherence to regulations and the long traditions of service. He had taken his lessons to heart, and he had risen from private to sergeant, then to lieutenant.
He had never imagined that he would be called on to leave Kingsholm, and the carefully ordered world of the Guard. Even when he had followed Devlin to Duncaer, he had done so as a lieutenant of the Guard, obedient to his duty as Devlin’s aide. He had never imagined he would find himself called upon to lead others in a new kind of warfare. A war without rules or command structure, where there were no customs, no regulations to fall back upon. Everything he did was new, and there was never a second chance to get things right.
It was a heavy burden to bear, and he knew he was not the only one whose outward appearance hinted at the changes that had taken place within his or her soul.
Oluva had used tanner’s dye to turn her hair and skin deep brown, and braided colorful beads in her hair. She could be taken for a savage from the Green Isles, and she had developed a casual disregard for protocol that went well with her persona as a mercenary. Others in their band had affected similar disguises. There were two trained armsmen, the tanner who had helped Oluva with her disguise, a wine seller, and a groom. The rest were farmers of one sort or another. Yet looking at them, it was impossible to tell the armsmen from the others. All bore their weapons with the ease of experience and had the hard edge that came from seeing battle. They might not understand the discipline of the Guard, and he doubted any of them could stand motionless for hours at a time as was required when one stood ceremonial guard duty. But they knew how to fight, and they were prepared to die for their cause.
Too many of them had died already, some before he had a chance to learn their names. More might die today, if his gamble proved unsuccessful. But the risks were worth it.
After glancing at Didrik’s orders, the sentries on duty allowed them to enter the keep. The band dismounted, and in rough patois Didrik ordered Arvid to see that the horses were watered and that the troops did not wander off.
Arvid gave a lazy salute and rattled off a reply. Didrik assumed it was an agreement, since of them only Arvid spoke the bastardized version of the trade tongue that was used by the mercenaries. Didrik had memorized a few phrases, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Still, it should be enough to fool a casual observer.
As the escort led him to the commander’s officer, Didrik glanced around as if casually, noticing the changes that had occurred since he had last been here. On his previous visit, this had been the Baron’s keep, serving both as the seat of his government and as a barracks for his armsmen. Now it was occupied by Selvarat troops, who had stripped aside all pretensions to gentility. Soldiers were everywhere; they had even pitched tents in the courtyard because there was no room for them within the keep. With such numbers, they must be confident that no enemy would dare approach. And it was that very confidence that would make Didrik’s plan succeed.
Familiar with the layout of the keep, he nearly turned down the corridor to where the Baron’s offices had been, only to realize at the last moment that his escort was continuing straight ahead. Fortunately, no one appeared to have noticed his misstep.
They passed the great hall, which had been converted into a barracks room, with some
soldiers standing around the perimeter, while others sat or lay on pallets strewn across the floor. It took a moment for him to realize that those who sat on the floor wore the uniforms of the Royal Army, while their guards were indeed Selvarat soldiers. They were the ones he had come to find, and yet he spared them no more than a glance before he continued onward.
At last they reached the commander of the keep. A Major in the Selvarat army, he scowled at the sight of two presumed mercenaries before reluctantly accepting the scroll that Didrik held out.
Didrik did not bother to salute. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat in a chair, his long legs stretched before him. Oluva leaned back against one wall, her arms crossed.
The Major said something in Selvarat, to which Didrik shrugged. With a muttered imprecation, he tried again in the trade tongue. “Do you know what this says?” the Major asked.
Didrik nodded. “Orders from General Bertrand. Says your hostages aren’t safe here, and wants them moved. There’s a ship waiting in the cove, will take them to Selvarat.”
The Major peered at the signature and the General’s seal, rubbing the parchment carefully between his fingers. But there would be nothing for him to find. The orders were genuine, captured from a courier. Only those sent to carry out the orders were false.
“Why would he send you?” the Major asked.
Didrik shrugged. “The General pays; we go where he says. He have hostage escape, not want have this happen again. Safer if prisoners in Selvarat.” He hesitated as he spoke, as if he were searching for unfamiliar words.
“But how do you expect to guard so many with only a small group? There are nearly three dozen hostages.”
Didrik had hoped for more. Accounts had said that there were over fifty officers being held here. Perhaps some had been transferred to other places. Or perhaps they had been killed.
“Only need two men to guard three dozen,” Didrik said. “Tie rope around necks. One fall, all fall. Simple. But General not take risks, so I have company outside, waiting to form escort.”
The Major pursed his lips in disgust, and Didrik worried that he had pushed him too far.
“I cannot countenance this,” he said. “I understand the General’s concern, but he entrusted these hostages to me. My men will take them to the waiting ship.”
“No,” Didrik said.
“Who do you think you are?” the Major barked. “You will do as I say.”
Didrik thought furiously, as he felt the opportunity slipping from his grasp. He had to find a valid reason for his refusal, yet he could not let the Major see how important taking the prisoners was to him.
“General Bertrand gave me orders too,” Didrik said at last. “Your men can be in charge of the prisoners, but we will go with them, keep General happy.”
He could see the struggle in the Major’s face, his dislike of the mercenaries warring with the ingrained obedience to orders from a superior. After all, despite the rumors of renegade mercenary bands, officially the mercenaries and the regular army were allies in this venture, serving a common leader. They still trusted each other. It was Didrik’s task to break that trust.
At last the Major sighed and nodded. “You and your band accompany the escort. But you are to take your orders from my lieutenant and not interfere in any way, understood?”
“Yes, Major, sir. Your soldiers do the work, and my band gets paid.”
Oluva chuckled, then at the Major’s glare she lazily straightened and gave her own salute.
With obvious distaste the Major gave orders that Didrik and his band were to be allowed to draw the supplies they needed from stores. They were then to wait in the courtyard while the prisoners and their escort were assembled. It was only a short two hours’ ride to the shore, so they would be able to leave shortly and complete their errand before nightfall.
Didrik and Oluva returned to the courtyard. Finding a shady spot, they played an idle game of dice while the rest of their band lounged nearby. He had never realized how hard it was to pretend to be relaxed.
He counted as a detail of three dozen soldiers was assembled to form an escort for the prisoners. It was more than he hoped for, but he and his troops would not be too badly outnumbered. And they would have the advantage of surprise.
Finally, the prisoners were brought out. Thirty-one in all, each wearing leg shackles, their hands bound with rope and then secured to a long chain. It was an efficient method of securing the prisoners, but did not fit with his plans. Didrik wandered over, and pointed out to the Captain in charge of the detail that the prisoners wouldn’t be able to manage better than a slow crawl in the heavy shackles. It would take them more than a day to make their way to the shore. Of course it didn’t matter to him if they were forced to camp out overnight.
The Captain glared at Didrik, and then retreated inside to consult with his superior. Didrik took advantage of his absence to stroll around the captives, looking for familiar faces while ostensibly checking to see how they were secured. His dealings with the army had been limited, so he was not surprised that he didn’t recognize anyone, although one woman’s eyes widened and it seemed she recognized him. Fortunately, she had the sense to keep her mouth shut.
He leaned in close, and tugged on the rope that bound her to the chain. “Wait for my signal. When we are well clear of this place, I will give the word, and I want you to fall to the ground. Take as many with you as you can, understand?” he whispered.
“Since when did you become a mercenary?”
“Never,” he answered.
He could see a thousand questions in her eyes, but he moved on, rather than draw attention to her. He repeated the rope check on four other officers, none of whom appeared to recognize him. A young ensign spat at him, for which Didrik repaid him with a causal backhand that knocked him to the ground, taking his two neighbors with him.
At least that part of the plan would work.
The Captain returned and supervised the removal of the leg shackles. Satisfied, Didrik returned to his band, ordering them to saddle their horses and prepare to leave. It was an odd procession that finally rode out of the keep. Thirty-one prisoners on foot, flanked on both sides by mounted Selvarat soldiers. Trailing the band was Didrik’s own mercenary company. The size of the force suggested that they were guarding priceless treasure.
Devlin’s irregular bands would think thrice before attacking such a large force. And the path to the shore led them over a wide plain that offered no chance for ambush. The Captain should have every reason to feel safe.
It was a slow procession, for the officers could not move swiftly, their weeks of captivity showing as their unused muscles protested the exercise. A few of them were limping, accustomed to riding rather than walking.
Didrik waited until an hour had passed before he gave Oluva the hand sign. Behind him, the mercenaries who had been riding in a ragged group gradually quickened their pace so they began to surround the rear portion of the column. Didrik rode forward, and as he caught the eye of his confederate, he nodded slowly to her. He had just reached the Selvarat captain when he heard a curse, followed by shouting.
The woman had done a splendid job, for nearly a third of the prisoners were on the ground or struggling to get up. The soldiers had drawn their horses to a halt, and looked down in disgust, while one of their lieutenants shouted orders. Several of the prisoners regained their feet, only to be brought back down as one of them stumbled.
It was the perfect moment. All eyes were on the prisoners.
Didrik laughed, drawing the Captain’s attention to him.
The Selvarat officer muttered something that was probably a curse in his native tongue.
“Wasting time,” Didrik said. He called out one of the phrases he had memorized, instructing his band to help the prisoners. Four of them dismounted, and moved over to the prisoners. They reached down, appearing to help them up, but their orders were to cut them loose from the chain. Just as the first prisoner was free, a Selvara
t soldier screamed and slipped from his horse.
Unnoticed by the soldiers, the rear contingent of Didrik’s band had loaded their crossbows, which they now unleashed with devastating effect. Before the Selvarats could recover from the surprise, Didrik’s fighters were among them, slashing at them with their swords, and driving them away from the prisoners.
Didrik plunged his dagger into the back of the Selvarat Captain. He slumped forward and his horse carried him a few paces away before he fell from the saddle. He landed on his back, driving the dagger even deeper into his lung.
Didrik whirled his horse and took aim at the nearest Selvarat. She’d had time to draw her sword and was experienced in fighting on horseback, a skill he’d never needed as a Guard. He took a glancing blow to his arm and a deeper slash in his side, while she parried each of his blows. Swiftly he changed tactics, and slashed the tendons of her horse’s foreleg. The horse screamed as it fell. Pinned under the bulk of her horse, she was an easy kill.
She was replaced by another, even as he glanced around, trying to get some sense of how the battle was going. Newly freed prisoners united to drag one soldier from his horse, overwhelming him with sheer numbers. Those prisoners they had not been able to free hunkered on the ground, wary of the flashing hooves of friend and foe alike.
There were far too many bodies on the ground, some dead, some groaning in pain from their wounds. But the Selvarats were retreating.
“Protect the prisoners,” he called in the trade tongue. “Remember we get paid for each one we bring back alive.”
From some distance he heard Oluva take up the cry.
He dispatched four of the enemy, chasing the last one some distance before finally cutting him down. He turned, looking for a new opponent, but there was only empty grassland around him. Cursing his inattention, he rode back to the knot of people still visible. A few Selvarat soldiers could be seen fleeing westward; the rest were dead. As he rejoined the band, the last wounded fighter was taken prisoner.
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