Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  “We have agreed,” Sann informed him. “I ssshall have you firssst. Then, it ssshall be the red one’sss turn. If you are ssspent, fear not. We are both yoursss, every night, in turn. Thisss isss the way it ssshall be done.”

  Leo wanted to protest. He was here to lead soldiers and fight a war, not establish a schedule for bedding his servants. But he knew better than to voice such a complaint. And, as Karran dropped smoothly to her knees beside him and guided his captive hand to her unseen breast, he was immediately glad that he’d held his tongue.

  The ambrosian’s skin was warm, inviting, and responsive. And as Leo gently squeezed and heard the barely audible gasp of satisfaction that spilled from Karran’s silent lips, he quickly resigned himself to this new, unexpected fate.

  “Fine,” he muttered. Reaching out, he pressed his opposite palm to Sann’s chest in an identical fashion. Unlike Karran, the drakonid’s skin was so chilly that the hair on his forearm stood on end. “But we’re going to keep this nice and quiet, understood? This is a tent, and a damn thin one at that.”

  Sann chuckled, delicately working the buttons of his shirt with her claws. And although Leo could not quite make out the details of her smirk, it was more than a little obvious that she would do everything in her power to make him violate his own command.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Leo awoke, it was not to the sounds of the garrison coming to life, the sun brightening the sides of the tent, or even the arrival of a flustered messenger. No, what woke him was the sudden lurch of being hauled from his cot and thrust suddenly onto his feet by a grim-looking Sann. He staggered, caught her shoulder, and only just managed to remain upright.

  He nearly scolded her. But one glance at the drakonid’s grim expression glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  She didn’t answer, nor did Karran. The ambrosian huffed as she hauled a cuirass from one of the nearby trunks. Flinging it over Leo’s head, she tugged the armor down into place and yanked his arm up to begin fastening the straps near his ribs.

  “Answer me,” Leo demanded. “What’s happened?”

  Karran’s clawed fingers slipped from a leather strap. She started to sign something in hand-speech, far too swift and complex for Leo to understand. Then, with another huff, she glared at Sann and resumed her work.

  Leo followed her gaze, staring expectantly at the drakonid. Sann grimaced, baring her fangs as she considered her words.

  “A fight,” she said. “Between the elvesss. The dar—ah, Nyssssa sssaysss you mussst c-c-come and sssee. Ssspeak-k-k to them.”

  Strangely, the first detail that Leo’s freshly woken brain settled upon was not the significance of Sann’s announcement, but rather the fact that he could easily understand why she’d been reluctant to explain. That she’d managed to do so without stumbling over the words would have been impressive if the contents of her message hadn’t been so dire.

  “Why the armor?” he asked. Turning, he lifted his other arm to allow Karran access.

  Sann winced, clenching and unclenching her talons.

  “Ssshe sssaysss you mussst look-k-k the part.”

  Leo nodded, sparing Sann the need to elaborate. However, once Karran finished securing the breastplate, he’d had enough. She produced the rest of the set, all borrowed from the Ministry’s barracks, but he declined with a shake of his head.

  “I don’t need it,” he said, belting on his rapier and donning his crown. “Just stay close.”

  From the moment he stepped outside, it was easy enough to see where the fight was taking place. Every man in sight stared toward it, craning their necks to watch over tents or around corners. A few, officers by their uniforms, trotted toward the scene, diligent but unhurried. Leo followed their example, shouldering brusquely through the onlookers with Karran and Sann in tow.

  The brawl had taken place near the edge of one of the garrison’s mustering grounds and was nearly over by the time Leo arrived. Seven or eight elves lay on the ground, groaning and clutching assorted, mostly bloodless wounds. An equal number were likewise sprawled, though from their curses and the men atop them they had been subdued rather than injured. At the center of the fray, however, two figures continued to struggle. Both were unarmed but fully armored. And as Leo drew near, he was disappointed but unsurprised to discover one of the pair was a trow.

  “Massster,” Sann whispered. “Ssshall I ssstop them?”

  Leo glanced at her, taken aback by both her offer and her use of the honorific. Evidently, she’d decided to follow the example of his other guards. But before he could take her up on the offer, Nyssa leaped forward.

  He hadn’t seen her at first, though that was hardly surprising. Scores of men and elves watched the fight, either unconcerned by the outcome or stunned into passive observance. Nyssa, however, had plainly been waiting for the opportunity she now seized. Before either of the combatants could react, she clubbed the pair of them over the head with her sheathed sword. And then, before either could hope to rise, she drew it in a smooth, impossible-to-misunderstand motion.

  “Enough,” she growled. And then, turning to Leo, she bowed low. “Apologies, Your Excellency.”

  Alarm rippled through the onlookers as they noticed Leo for the first time and offered hasty bows and salutes of their own. A few of those already kneeling to restrain their comrades started to rise, thought better of it, and simply lowered their faces instead.

  Leo stepped forward, glowering. His anger was partly for show, but not entirely. He made his way to the nearest of the fallen and nudged the elf’s leg with his boot.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Senseless brawling, Your Excellency,” rumbled a voice his left. Leo turned to find Buchanan marching toward him. “Third time this week.”

  “Then why am I just now hearing about it?” Leo demanded.

  His anger must have caught the captain off guard. The man halted, stiffening slightly, and eyed the prone figures.

  “Because it hasn’t been a problem until recently,” he explained, adopting a more apologetic tone. “When Baron Lucius was here, he mostly kept the pointy ears in line. Now that he’s sailed—”

  “Is there a stockade?” Leo interrupted.

  Buchanan nodded, gesturing to a gaggle of junior officers who stepped forward carrying irons. As they began to work, he stepped closer and dropped his voice to a murmur.

  “We built one after the first fight,” he said. “But it’s already packed tight. It’s hard to train an army when you’ve got hundreds of conscripts locked up. If you ask me, it might be best to just flog ‘em and get ‘em back to barracks, but…”

  Leo nodded slowly. The notion turned his stomach, but Buchanan was probably correct. If he didn’t have some way to enforce discipline now, there was no way he’d be able to do so effectively when the war began in earnest.

  “I’ll consider it,” he said. “Find Buchold and Sophe. I want to speak with them.”

  Buchanan’s brows lifted, but he said nothing. Saluting, he turned on his heel and strolled away.

  Leo continued forward, Karran and Sann lingering at his back like shadows. Nyssa returned her sword to its scabbard as he drew near, bowing her head with a grimace.

  “Sorry I had to wake you for this,” she said.

  “I’m glad you did,” he said, shrugging. “What started it?”

  “An elf? Maybe a trow? Who knows?” She scoffed as she belted her sword back onto her hips. “It’s the same old rivalry nonsense. I hate to say it, but it might have been wise to send all the trow with Lucius.”

  Leo grunted thoughtfully but did not acknowledge her words further. Instead, he watched as the junior officers shackled the final pair of combatants and hauled them to their feet. Then, with a grim expression, he regarded the rows of nervous spectators.

  “This sort of pointless fighting is unacceptable,
” he announced in a loud, decisive voice. “And it will not be repeated. We are preparing for war, not getting drunk in some tavern. So allow me to make one thing clear. As most of you know, I have already declared than any slave who fights for me will be permanently freed once this war is won. And, while I will not go back on my word, that offer is dependent on good behavior. Crimes in camp, brawling, desertion—any of these will see you serve out a sentence prior to being freed.”

  He expected whispers, but none came. Instead, the men, elves, and trow stared at him with dull eyes. Some, perhaps, believed him but were beyond caring. Others did not expect to be freed at all. In any case, he was silent for close to a minute before the boldest of the officers barked an order, and the crowd of conscripts streamed back onto the muster field to resume their drills.

  Leo made his way back toward the tents then stopped to watch the training. The others stood near him, but there was only one whose opinion he valued at the moment.

  “What do you think of them?” he asked, nodding.

  Nyssa shrugged, clicking her tongue.

  “They’re better than nothing,” she said. At Leo’s glance, she smiled grimly. “I’d guess they’re better than whatever raw recruits Grey and others can find. Barely.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Leo watched as the officers led the men through a variety of drills. He was surprised to find that most of the exercises focused more on teaching the would-be soldiers to move in unison at the sound of a horn or shouted command. The nearest they came to combat training was gathering into a tight formation and leveling an array of mismatched spears and polearms.

  “Better than nothing,” he agreed.

  Together, they observed the training for roughly ten minutes before Buchanan returned. Buchold and Sophe were with him, both dressed in full sets of mismatched armor. The one exception was Iresh. The elf trailed behind his primarch by several paces and was dressed in a plain vest and trousers. In one hand, he carried a length of wood that had been carved to resemble a femur.

  “I’ve brought them, Your Excellency,” Buchanan announced. If the man resented being sent on so simple an errand, he didn’t give any sign of it.

  “Thank you,” Leo said softly. He eyed the elves and trow then turned back to Buchanan. “Captain, I’ve decided to wait on the floggings for now. Are there any unpleasant tasks we could assign to the prisoners instead?”

  “There are never enough latrines, sir,” Buchanan suggested. “That’s the nature of a garrison. I’ll put together a work detail, if it please you.”

  “It does, thank you,” Leo said. He turned to the elves and trow as Buchanan departed. “Come with me.”

  The stockade, as it turned out, was little more than a hastily assembled cage. And even that was a generous description. A hundred or so wooden timbers of varying heights protruded from the ground to form a sort of pen. There was no roof and a few of the vertical beams had split or leaned so much that it was only the apathy of the prisoners inside that kept them secure. Certainly, the half-dozen guards who patrolled the outside were hardly a deterrent.

  There were no individual cells, but it didn’t seem to matter. A makeshift wall divided the two halves, fashioned from discarded timbers and an assortment of other scrap wood. It barely reached waist height but Leo could find no evidence that it had been scaled. Some twenty elves lounged and muttered on one side of the wall while a dozen trow did likewise on the other.

  “Why is this necessary?” Leo asked, studying Buchold and Sophe in particular. The sound of his voice alerted the prisoners, several of whom climbed to their feet and offered exaggerated, mocking bows.

  Sophe did not react to Leo’s inquiry. Buchold, on the other hand, fidgeted and looked askance.

  “I asked you a question,” Leo said.

  Neither spoke. Instead, Iresh stepped forward, idly twirling his wooden femur.

  “It is the fate of our peoples,” the elf explained, his voice taking on a strange, whimsical tone. “In eras past, before the arrival of humans and the death of the gods, our people lived in… relative harmony. But when the Great Silence arrived, the dark ones turned on us. They blamed—”

  “Forgive me, Gwydon, perhaps I wasn’t clear,” Leo interrupted. He glanced at Iresh, eyes narrow. “I wasn’t asking for a history lesson—or speaking to you at all. I was asking Sophe and your primarch why their fellows seem incapable of living in harmony for more than a day. I know from personal experience that it is possible, and I hear that peace was maintained under Baron Lucius. So, why the difficulty now?”

  For just an instant, Iresh scowled. Then, just as quickly, his dreamy smile returned, and he resumed spinning the wood in his hand. Still, neither of the others answered.

  “Speak,” Leo growled. “Or I’ll have both of you thrown in with them.”

  “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” Buchold said. The elf must finally have realized Leo’s seriousness since he lowered his face as he spoke. “The soldiers… they don’t seem to understand what a rare opportunity you’ve provided. They see only the chance to indulge in old grievances, rather than focus on their hopes for a future.”

  “It’s hard to blame them,” Sophe grumbled. The trow did not bow like Buchold but folded his arms instead. “As far as most are concerned, this whole war is nothing but a plot to wipe them out once and for all. They think you plan to march them onto the field then sit back and watch as they’re slaughtered.”

  Leo blinked in surprise, too stunned to be angry.

  “What?” he asked, incredulous. “Why the hell—I’m going to be right there with them!”

  “We’ve tried telling them that,” Sophe said. The trow shrugged. “For all the good it’s done.”

  “Leo,” Nyssa said. She leaned forward to meet his eyes. “A word?”

  He allowed himself to be led out of earshot. It was hard to ignore the continued stares from Buchold and others, but Nyssa did not keep him waiting long.

  “I know that practicing in front of others makes you…” she began.

  “Uncomfortable?” he supplied.

  She nodded. “Yes, that. But it might actually help. If we make a point to spar where the elves and trow can see you, they may come to the conclusion that you don’t intend to abandon them.”

  “They may also come to the conclusion that they’re doomed,” he reminded her. “If the man leading them can barely hold a sword, that’s not likely to inspire much confidence.”

  “You’re not that bad,” Nyssa said, grinning ever so slightly. “Besides, these are conscripts we’re talking about. Anything short of chopping off your own hand is going to look masterful.”

  “But—” Leo groaned, abandoning his protest before it had even begun. “Fine. You’re right. Public training it is then. Just promise to be gentle with me?”

  Nyssa snorted, rolling her eyes.

  “Never,” she said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Leo groaned as he flopped onto his cot, bruised, aching, and exhausted. He was entirely aware of the dirt caking his boots but the effort required to remove them was too much at present. Yet, even without turning to look, he could see Karran and Sann creeping toward him like a pair of wolves.

  “Stop,” he grumbled, gesturing blindly in their direction. “Don’t even think about it.”

  They complied, though Sann hissed in displeasure at the refusal. Still, unhappy or not, she didn’t move as he lazily kicked off his boots and nudged them onto the floor.

  He’d sparred with Nyssa three separate times, shuffling between the various mustering grounds for maximum effect. And, to be fair, there hadn’t been a repeat of the morning’s brawl. Though how much of that peace was due to his efforts remained to be seen. In any case, he was thoroughly spent and would gladly have given up sex for a month if it meant he could slip into a warm bath at home. Unfortunately, the closest thing the garrison could manage had been an oversized cooking pot, a ladle borrowed from the same kitchen, and some l
ukewarm water from the nearby river.

  All in all, it had not been one of his most enjoyable baths.

  Nor was Leo left to savor his newfound cleanliness in peace. He’d scarcely closed his eyes, intent on drifting off before Karran or Sann could summon the disobedience to press their claim, when the tent flap opened.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Your Excellency,” said the man. To his credit, he managed to sound appropriately apologetic. “There’s been a delivery from Ansiri. And the Duchess, er, your wife has sent a letter.”

  Leo mouthed a curse and forced himself upright. “Thank you,” he said, reaching for his recently discarded boots. “I’ll be there in just a moment.”

  The command tent was somewhat less populated when Leo arrived a few minutes later. Buchanan was there, sharing some wine with Cochran the quartermaster. Nyssa was waiting for him as well, exchanging quiet words with Sophe, though both trow fell silent as he entered. They weren’t the only ones; the men bowed and grew still upon noticing him.

  “Well?” Leo asked. His numerous aches turned the word into more of a growl than he’d intended. “I hear there’s a letter for me?”

  Nyssa plucked a square of wax-sealed parchment from the table and handed it to him. She smiled gently as she did so, though Leo couldn’t tell if it was an apology for the many ruthless bruises she’d given him or for some other reason.

  Leo recognized Cirilla’s tidy handwriting as soon as he broke the seal. It was unexpectedly comforting to see it, and yet, disconcerting all the same. His wife was only a few hours away but that distance was no more surmountable than when he’d sailed to Sutherpoint. Even so, the letter made him smile.

  To His Excellency, Leo VanOrden, Duke of Ansiri and Lord of (Some) Isles, it began.

  Oh, how your absence pains me, dearest husband! My heart aches every moment you are not beside me and my body yearns for your tender embrace. I pray, hourly, that the gods will see fit to grant you a swift victory and a safe return. And—