Duke of Minds (Master of Monsters Book 4)

by Stephen L. Hadley

  “Gods,” she said. “A fucking ladle?”

  Try as he might, there was no holding back his laughter. Leo didn’t stand a chance.

  ***

  Compared to his first few nights at the Garrison, Leo found the week that followed was practically a relaxing dream. He retired when it suited him, woke as late as Nyssa would allow, and spent the bulk of his days sparring, watching the army train, and discussing the intricacies of strategy with Buchanan and the other staff officers.

  True to Iresh’s word, there were no repeats of the earlier violence. There were ordinary fights, of course, but they rarely spread beyond two participants. And unlike before, they were exclusively between elves or trow, never mixed. And although those involved were invariably dragged off to the stockade, Leo did not feel the need to make good on his pledge of further consequences.

  Sann, too, despite her displeasure upon finding Leo tangled up in Nyssa’s limbs, quickly forgot all about the perceived betrayal. Indeed, she seemed to take to her new role as his personal courier with enthusiasm, making the flight between Ansiri and the garrison as often as he allowed. And even, on occasion, when he did not.

  He disciplined her for the latter trips. Though, if her wriggling and energized hissing were to be trusted, his attempts at correction were somewhat less effective than intended. Nevertheless, he persisted. And it was during one such attempt that Nyssa burst into the tent, her gray-tinted face so pale it was nearly ashen.

  “Leo!” she exclaimed. “Buchanan needs you! There’s—”

  She halted mid-sentence, her brow furrowing as she realized exactly how Leo had been occupied upon her arrival.

  Sighing, he tossed aside his wooden switch and stooped to unfasten the belts that secured Sann atop the trunk. She gave a hissing purr as he released her. Then, stretching her wings and limbs in unison, she wiped the dampness from her thighs and seated herself on the same trunk that had formerly bound her.

  “Yes?” Leo prompted.

  Nyssa shook herself and recovered quickly.

  “Holmes’ guards spotted a merchant caravan heading south on the main road,” she said. “They intercepted it and brought them here. It sounds like they spotted one of the armies headed this way.”

  Leo nodded, snatching up his crown and rapier from the cot where they lay. He followed Nyssa from the tent, trailed by an ever-curious Sann and quickly joined by a smiling, if somewhat indignant Karran. Together, the four of them made their way to the command tent.

  It was easy to discern the caravaneer since the middle-aged man was the only one not wearing a uniform. He sat in one of the tent’s simple chairs, his back to the tables of hastily covered maps and parchment, and sipped a glass of wine with a wary, slightly perplexed smile. Despite how out of place he looked, the man rose when he spotted Leo.

  “Yer Grace,” he said. “It’s an honor. How can I be o’ service?”

  Several of the officers nearest the man bristled, but Leo quickly soothed them with a gesture.

  “Leave it be. How could he know?” he said. Then, turning back to the caravaneer, he smiled thinly. “You can help by sharing some information. You’re bound for Ansiri, yes? Where are you coming from?”

  “All over, t’ tell ye the truth. We left Marshton ‘bout a fortnight back, but rolled through a couple o’ hamlets after that.” The man trailed off, glancing around at the men watching him. He was clearly uneasy. “Err, forgive me, Yer Grace. I can’t say why, but I feel like a bit o’ mutton thrown t’ dogs. Is aught well? No pox about, tis there?”

  “No pox that I’ve seen, good fellow,” Leo assured him. He nodded at one of the men nearest the caravaneer. “I expect these hounds are growling because I’m the Duke, not a count. Not that I would expect you to have heard. It’s a rather… recent development.”

  “Ah. My apologies, Yer Excellency.” To his credit, the merchant appeared more relieved than humbled. He relaxed visibly and took another sip of his wine. “That explains a lot. On account o’ yer camping here, I wager some folk ain’t takin’ kindly t’ the news.”

  “Quite,” Leo said. He dragged a chair opposite the man and sat. “What’s your name?”

  “Carter, Yer Excellency. Though only m’wife calls me ‘at. Most folk just call me Cart.”

  “Cart,” Leo said. “I hear you spotted soldiers on your way here. Can you tell me about them? Their numbers, condition, any nobles who might’ve been with them? That sort of thing.”

  “Aye,” Carter said. The man leaned forward in his chair, face darkening. The anger in his voice was so thick that it drove aside all but the faintest hints of his accent. “I’ll tell you everything I know about those bastards, Yer Grace, gods damn them all. Count Bordeau it was. He an’ his men took fully half o’ our goods fer their rations. Wheat and barley, mostly. Had t’ eat most o’ the rest just to make it this far south. We’ll be lucky t’ make it through next winter with what’s left. Not much demand fer herbs an’ tallow.”

  “You’ll make it,” Leo said. He glanced up, found Cochran, and addressed the quartermaster directly. “Look through the caravan’s stock. Buy anything we can use, and be sure to give them a good price. If we’re short on coin, find something worthwhile to trade. Be generous. And give them a sack or two of barley for the road. Wouldn’t want them to starve while sitting in the market.”

  Carter whirled to look at Cochran, his eyes widening as the quartermaster departed. Then, turning back, he bowed low in his seat.

  “Thank ye, Yer Excellency,” he said. “I’ve no words fer…”

  “What about Count Bordeau and his men?” Leo asked. “Do you have any words for them?”

  “Aye,” Carter confirmed. He straightened, his grateful smile turning malicious. “Aye, Yer Excellency. Loads o’ them.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Make sure the scouts don’t roam too far afield,” Leo said, glancing between Buchold and Buchanan. It was hard to focus with all the chaos, but he did his best. Despite those efforts, he could scarcely meet their eyes for all the men that passed between them, ferrying loads to the wagons and hauling disassembled tents. “No more than a day’s march from the main body. We need information, but it won’t do us any good if Bordeau has time to redeploy before we arrive.”

  “I’ll handle it, Master,” Buchold announced. He bowed to Leo and nearly bashed his head on a carried chair, then nodded to Buchanan and departed.

  The captain watched the primarch go then passed through the river of servants to stand at Leo’s side.

  “Are you sure this is the best course of action, Your Excellency?” he asked.

  “No,” Leo admitted. His frankness brought a grim smile to Buchanan’s face, which he returned before continuing. “But it’s the least risky one. If Bordeau plans to march on Ansiri within a week then we can be certain the other counts are with him—or near enough. From what I’ve seen, he’s not the ambitious sort. Not ambitious enough to risk attacking alone, at least.”

  “We could wait for them to arrive,” Buchanan suggested. “A week would give us time to prepare. To fortify our position rather than exhaust the men through marching.”

  “Fortifying is pointless,” Leo said, shaking his head. “We’re only a few hours from Ansiri. They could simply go around us, take the Ministry, and win the war without losing a single man. And it’s not as if there are city walls we could hide behind. It would take a solid year to build anything sturdier than a palisade.”

  “Talk about a bloody oversight.” Sighing, Buchanan folded his arms and turned to survey the work. “Apologies, Your Excellency. You’re right, of course. I just can’t shake the feeling that we’re playing into their hands.”

  “I know,” Leo said. His voice was a low growl. “Believe me, I know. But this is the best chance we’re going to get. If we can surprise Bordeau’s army before he’s ready for us, it’ll give us the chance to tilt the overall numbers in our favor. Plus, an early victory, even a small one,
would do wonders for morale.”

  “And if we lose?” Buchanan asked. The man’s voice was quiet, so quiet that Leo deduced his meaning more from his tone than from hearing the words themselves.

  “Then we lose,” he said. “Though frankly, I can’t imagine how it could happen so quickly. If the counts have united by the time we arrive then we’ll try to outmaneuver them, harass their lines when we can, and bide our time until we find favorable terrain. But if it’s just one or two of them, well, if we can’t defeat that many with a larger force, then we hardly stood a chance to begin with.”

  Buchanan said nothing. He didn’t nod or grimace or do anything else that Leo might have expected of him. Instead, he observed the men working for a long moment, then bowed to Leo and went without a word.

  Leo frowned as he watched the man leave. Something about Buchanan’s behavior felt off though he couldn’t quite identify what had prompted the change. Nor was he given much time to dwell on it. The man had scarcely gone when a handful of men began tugging the command tent’s stakes from the soil and the structure wagged dangerously overhead. And so, shaking himself from his thoughts, he beat a hasty exit.

  It wasn’t long before Nyssa found him. She was chatting with Sophe, who’d accompanied her, and both trow nodded smoothly in acknowledgement as they reached his side.

  “Yes?” Leo asked.

  The trow exchanged glances. And, at a subtle nod from Nyssa, the male stepped forward.

  “Excellency,” Sophe murmured. Though the trow’s sullenness had not diminished in the week or so that Leo had known him, he had proven himself willing to converse. “I understand you’ve assigned scouts?”

  Leo inclined his head. Though he had some notion of what the trow primarch was about to ask of him, Sophe’s question represented the most words Leo had heard from the male’s lips since arriving. Much as he wanted to poke fun, he knew better.

  “I did,” he said. “They’ll be deploying in waves, fifty or so at a time.”

  “With your permission,” Sophe said. “I’d like to include trow among them.”

  “Oh?” This time, after glancing at Nyssa, Leo cocked his head. “Why should I do that?”

  He half-expected the trow to bristle or scowl, but Sophe did neither. If anything, the primarch’s posture seemed to grow more formal.

  “To avoid the impression of inequality,” Sophe explained. “I realize that this is a dangerous duty, compared to simply marching and making camp. But for many of us, it also represents the first taste of the freedom you’ve promised. If you do not include trow among the scouts, some will see this as a deliberate slight or—”

  “Enough,” Leo interrupted, sighing. “You’ve made your point, Sophe. Very well. I’ll have Nyssa inform Buchold that there will be trow joining as well—perhaps a half-dozen per deployment? No doubt he’ll want to assign them to a flank, but I’ll leave such determinations to him. Was there anything else?”

  The trow’s eyes widened ever so slightly. There was a brief moment of hesitation, wherein he appeared to be searching for the correct words. Then, rather than speak, Sophe simply bowed and retreated with graceful steps backward.

  Nyssa waited until they were alone. Or, at least, as alone as they could be in the center of a busy, partially disassembled camp.

  “Do you really think we’re ready?” she asked. She touched him lightly on the arm, making it clear that she would have slid hers around his if they hadn’t been in public.

  Leo shrugged. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But neither are the counts. This whole affair is nothing but guesswork for everyone involved. I just hope we can break their will and settle things before it turns into some decade-long siege.”

  “A decade?” Nyssa echoed. She chuckled dryly and prodded his sleeve with a finger. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “You’re not the one with a drakonid and an ambrosian trying to wring you dry every night. I wouldn’t last six months, much less a decade!”

  Nyssa snorted and made a show of wiping her finger as if it were infected.

  “You’re the one who brought them,” she reminded him. “That makes them your problem, Your Excellency.”

  She was right, of course, though Leo would have been lying if he said her teasing reply made him feel any better. There were so many decisions to be made, large and small, and ten times as many men and elves waiting on him to make them. It would have been nice if, just once, he could let somebody else handle a single problem.

  Unfortunately, he could not.

  It took the rest of the morning and an hour into the afternoon before the garrison was fully disassembled and on the road. The delays frustrated him and not just because he was impatient to be underway. But, as the quartermaster had reminded him, most of the sluggishness was due to how long the army had been encamped.

  “They’ll make better time tomorrow,” Cochran assured him.

  Personally, Leo had his doubts. But he accepted the man’s words with a gracious nod.

  Despite their slow start, however, Leo was pleasantly surprised by the brisk, disciplined pace set by the officers. The conscripts traveled in detachments of fifty or one hundred, depending on the type of arms they carried. And although there was some audible grumbling over the decision to eat as they marched, that rebelliousness did not carry over to the execution of orders. The men, elves, and trow walked in near-perfect unison, traveling the main road in columns five-deep and accompanied by the sounds of drums, chants, and moderating commands.

  Where the various battalions and regiments traveled swiftly, however, the wagons and auxiliaries did not. The excuses offered for the delays were plentiful. But with each new justification Leo heard, the more he felt his patience wearing thin. Yes, the wagons comprising their support and supply lines were overburdened with rations and equipment. No, there were not enough riding beasts to adequately haul them. And yes, there were few individuals in the entire army who possessed more than a passing familiarity with the handling of such beasts.

  All in all, they’d traveled less than two leagues by the time dusk arrived and Leo reluctantly ordered a halt to the marching. His sour mood was not lost on those around him, either. Karran, Sann, and Nyssa understood and endured it, naturally. But the rest of his officers, even Buchanan, held themselves at as much of a distance as duty and propriety would allow as burdens were laid down and tents hastily erected.

  Leo watched coldly as the work progressed. Then, as the last of the command tent’s stakes were hammered deep, he turned and touched Nyssa lightly on the shoulder.

  “Find Cochran,” he said, nodding to the gently sloping, southern hill where the tail end of the wagon convoy could be seen by the last of the fading sunlight. “I want to speak with him.”

  It was fully dark by the time Cochran arrived. And even by candlelight, it was obvious that the quartermaster was every bit as frustrated as Leo himself.

  “Skipper,” Leo said. He indicated the chair opposite and waited for the glowering man to sit before continuing. “How can we speed up the wagons?”

  The man mouthed a curse and did not meet Leo’s eyes. Then, with an almost violent lunge that sparked a warning hiss from Sann, he seized a wickerwork wine jug and took a long swig straight from it.

  “Dump what they’re carrying,” Cochran growled. “Or double the number of wagons. It’s just too much damn weight for the roads to handle. There’s hardly any mud but we’re still getting stuck every twenty fucking yards.”

  “I’ll inform the Duchess and ask for more wagons,” Leo said. He couldn’t tell if Cochran was being insubordinate or not but he kept his voice flat and even regardless. “But we’ll be lucky if any of them reach us before we cross paths with Count Bordeau. What other options do we have?”

  The quartermaster drank deeply a second time. Then, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he coughed and set the jug aside.

  “We need to li
ghten the wagons. There’s no way around that,” he said. “It won’t be popular, but I’d suggest we divide what we can amongst the elves. Carrying a few extra pounds of grain shouldn’t slow them too much.”

  “It won’t slow them at all,” Leo said, “Because we’ll be down to chaff by the time we’ve covered a league. Is there anything other than food we can distribute?”

  Cochran shrugged. “Bits and pieces. But fully half the wagons are hauling rations alone. I don’t see any way around it, sir.”

  Leo grimaced, then sighed and climbed to his feet. Walking the length of the table, he trailed his fingers over the backs of the chairs that had been painstakingly arranged.

  The entire situation was one continuous headache. Details and distractions had never been his strong suit; he preferred to pick a direction and allow those supporting him to use their discretion when it came to handling prickly matters. Not only was it a less exhausting approach, but granting limited authority also helped ensure his associates were invested in the mission at hand. But, since there seemed to be no diplomatic way of announcing he didn’t give a fuck…

  “Very well,” he said. “I suppose time is more important than provisions right now. Have your men distribute as much as needed to lighten the wagons. Make sure you explain things to the officers too. Can’t have soldiers thinking we’ve decided to throw a feast.”

  Chuckling, Cochran climbed to his feet. The man was still wearing a slight scowl, but much of the tension had drained from his shoulders. “Aye, Your Excellency,” he said. “I’ll do that, so don’t you worry. Any pointy-ear misplaces so much as a grain of wheat and I’ll flog him myself.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Leo said, sharply and without hesitation. “Threaten them however you want, but any infractions will be brought to me personally. Understood?”

  The quartermaster hesitated. Then, a bit warily, he bowed.

  “Aye, Your Excellency,” he said. “Understood.”