by J. P. Ashman
Fal noticed Gleave tighten his grip on both sword and axe, so he did the same on his falchion.
‘My lords,’ Correia started, but Sir Allon smiled and held up a hand to stop her. ‘No apologies or explanations, please. It is I who should apologise for leaving you in that poor tent, waiting for so long. It was not my idea. And please, Sir Allon is good enough.’
Correia smiled and nodded her thanks, before nodding to the man beside her. ‘The tent was the baron’s idea?’ she asked Sir Allon. The baron released a rumbling laugh that trailed off to a throaty growl.
‘You know him well, it seems.’ Allon smiled.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Sir Allon.’ The baron nudged Correia. ‘She could know me far better if she wanted.’ He laughed again. Correia smiled, but was the only one.
Good job Sav’s not here after all, Fal thought.
‘It’s a long story for another time, Sir Allon,’ Correia said, the man beside her nodding.
‘Very well,’ Allon allowed, ‘there are matters we should discuss anyway, you and I.’
Correia bowed her head and moved to the table.
‘Like why you have an Orismaran dog to heal?’
Fal gritted his teeth and stole a glance Gleave’s way. Gleave’s cheek rose, hinting at a smile, which calmed Fal’s ire.
‘Orismaran dogs are savage things, Sir Allon. If I had one of those in here, we’d all know about it. Mind you, I have seen Fal angered before…’
The baritone baron laughed and took a seat.
‘Actually, Sir Allon, Sergeant Falchion received honours from the King himself, not so long ago,’ Correia added, when Allon’s eyes remained on Fal, who stared ahead dutifully.
‘Did he now? Well, what pleases King Barrison pleases me. I would have thought,’ Allon said, eyes moving down to Fal’s side, ‘someone of such standing would carry a sword to match.’
‘Well there’s the thing,’ Correia said, stepping in to break Allon’s line of sight and so stealing his gaze, ‘I’ve witnessed my Orismaran dog in combat with that common blade and, after seeing what I saw, I wouldn’t wish any other sword in his capable hands; defending my back, as he so often does.’
Sir Allon sniffed and looked away, the conversation seemingly surpassing his interest.
‘Wine?’ he offered, looking back to Correia after an awkward pause punctuated by the heavy breathing of the baron, and the ceaseless noise of the roused camp.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, taking a goblet offered to her by a servant neither Fal nor Gleave had noticed enter. It seemed there was more than one opening into the large tent.
‘A toast?’ Baron Baritone said, snatching up a freshly filled goblet and sloshing a good portion of it on the floor; more on his hand and sleeve.
‘Already, Harold? We haven’t discussed anything yet.’ Allon frowned.
‘We’ll toast to discussions to come,’ the baron, or Harold it seemed, roared, before quaffing the remaining wine in one and slamming the goblet down. ‘Fill it, damn you,’ he shouted into a dark corner. The same servant as before rushed forth and did as told.
This is going to be a long night, Fal thought.
As Correia spoke to Allon Bratby and Baron Baritone, Fal and Gleave had to stand, watch and listen. Formalities were followed by questions, which were followed by answers that didn’t satisfy Correia who asked more questions. Answers led to disagreements and near full-on arguments at times, one of which started when Correia learnt that the staked men out front were Giles Bratby’s own men, the ones who’d been with him when he was captured by his Sirretan counterpart, Eudes de Geelan. The matter was not resolved, nor were several others, much to Correia’s obvious annoyance. Food was consumed by the three, again whilst Fal and Gleave watched on, mouths watering and lips being licked. Wine was consumed, although not as much by Correia, who Fal noticed was sipping rather than gulping or quaffing like Baron Baritone. Fal mused that, despite the baron’s name being mentioned throughout the night, he couldn’t think of the crass man as anything else.
‘So, you’ll wait here? For my word?’ Correia said, elbows on the pretty but ‘inaccurate’ map the Cartographers Guild had apparently sold Sir Allon for a small fortune.
A heavy sigh was drowned out by the sudden grating snore of the baron, who’d slumped back on his precariously balancing chair.
‘Is that an agreement, Sir Allon?’ Correia asked again, eyebrows and goblet raised.
The young man nodded, took his stalked cap off and threw it down on the table from where he stood, and wavered. He raised his own goblet and drained it.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Correia said, doing the same for the first time that night, or wee hours of the morning, as was now the case.
Setting the empty goblet down with a dull thud, the marquess’ son wiped his red lips before leaning heavily on the table.
‘The army will remain here,’ he confirmed, eyes locked on Correia’s, ‘although it’ll cost, in coin and morale.’
Correia nodded at that. ‘And…’ she prompted, circling her hand for him to go on.
Oh, how she plays him. Fal fought the smile that attempted to push through his exhaustion.
‘I remain unsure.’
‘You don’t have to be sure, Sir Allon,’ Correia said, standing so she was level with Allon’s stare. ‘I’m sure and that should be enough for you, because if I’m sure, your King is sure. As I’ve said countless times tonight, there’s something pushing at us, something silencing Sirreta and pushing on us. I don’t know what it is, so no one does. That means we could have that push break through—’
‘I know, I know,’ Allon said, exasperated. He dropped into the closest chair before looking back at the woman.
‘Send the scouts.’
‘I will,’ he said, defeated. ‘They’ll ride tomorrow, for Stonebridge and…’
‘And?’
‘And Royce’s border with Sirreta.’ He dropped his head into his hands.
‘Very good,’ Correia said, moving to stand by Fal and Gleave.
‘If Royce retaliates,’ Allon said, looking back up. ‘If he misreads my father’s men scouting his earldom?’
‘He won’t,’ Correia insisted, and Fal marvelled at the re-assuring tone that eased the tension from the powerful young man. ‘Hugh Torquill may well be aware of the happenings on his border by now, but I am not.’ Correia moved over to the man, crouched before him. ‘You sit an army here, Sir Allon. A large army. It’s best that Royce sees and knows your scouts, and therefore your goodly intentions. If his own men scout your father’s lands, your lands, Sir Allon, and see a camped army with no known reason as to why?’ She let the question hang.
Allon nodded and sighed once more. ‘It is settled,’ he said, with a flat smile. ‘I will have the borders scouted east to west and the army ready to move on either, with messengers sent to Royce, too. But should you fail to negotiate my father’s release, Lady Burr. Should you fail to return by the agreed date—’
‘Then you best come and get me and your father out, eh?’ She smiled at that, as did he.
‘Agreed.’
‘Don’t underestimate anything your scouts discover or Royce tells you via messenger. For me to receive no news from my Sirretan contacts, for my network to have gone dark…’ She looked worried, or rather let it show, for the first time since Wesson. Fal’s stomach turned at that.
‘I know,’ Allon said, his understanding clear.
‘Whatever might be coming, I fear it has bested, or is besting, Sirreta and her armies. And if that is the case…’
A chill ran through the tent, standing hairs on hands and necks, and shudders throughout. A servant had entered through the main opening, but the feeling it brought was not lost on those present.
‘I’ll hold, my lady.’ Allon stood. ‘Whatever comes, I’ll hold.’
‘You do that, my lord Bratby. You send riders and you do that. If to the west, Royce will come, if to the north, the central barons if
not Adlestrop, Yewdale or Rowberry, you have my word and you have my mark on those orders.’ She pointed to wax sealed papers she’d written, signed and sealed earlier that night, the marks of the young lord and baron upon them also. ‘Send riders with these and I promise you those who can will come to your aid.’
‘Go,’ Allon said. ‘Go and ride the forest trail for my father. Warn the Twin Inns and tell them to send word should they need aid. I can’t hold the line there, if this threat comes, but I can assist them with a fighting retreat back here where we can and will hold.’
Correia frowned. ‘You wouldn’t fall back to Bratby Castle? Who would defend her should forces skirt this army?’
Allon grinned. ‘My mother commands the garrison.’
Correia’s smile was uncontrollable and she inclined her head before replying. ‘I shall say no more on that matter, for I dare say the castle is in better hands than were your father home.’ Both shared a laugh. Fal and Gleave shared a curious look.
‘Off with you, Lady Burr, and your two dogs. I’m for my bed before the cock calls.’
Charmed, Fal thought. Gleave grunted.
‘And Harold?’ Correia asked, looking to the gaping, groaning mouth of the sleeping baron.
‘Bah, leave him.’ Allon waved a hand. ‘He’ll crawl out of his own accord when he wakes. Now be gone.’ Another wave of the hand before the young lord clicked fingers for his servants, who rushed forth to undress him.
‘Away we go,’ Correia said, turning and pushing through Fal and Gleave. ‘Heel, boys.’
A grunt from Fal this time, a smirk from Gleave and a laugh from the already half naked Sir Allon Bratby, who turned to watch the three leave, the remainder of his clothes falling to the floor as he swayed on the spot.
Chapter 17 – Me, thee and The Three
‘Are we in agreement?’ Mannino asked, reclined as he was in the large chair he’d insisted on sitting in.
With a snarl followed by a gobbet of spit that landed off to the side, near a dying Croxon, Badham nodded. ‘Yep, we have a deal.’
Lips pursed, Mannino nodded. ‘Splendid, man.’ He looked to Hitchmogh, whose vacant stare seemed to hold Stone in check. The big ganger stood swaying like a tree in a gale, as he’d been since he’d tried to make a move on Mannino soon after the captain had entered the room.
Looking back to Badham, Mannino stood, stepped forward and offered the gang master his hand. Snarling once more, Badham stood and shook the offered hand, albeit briefly.
‘You’ll help him now?’ Badham nodded to Croxon, who looked pale and close to death, bloody wrappings around his severed leg.
‘Of course,’ Mannino said, slapping Hitchmogh on the back. The grizzled old sailor jerked and blinked several times. At the same time, Stone gasped and looked around as if he’d appeared in a strange place. Upon seeing Mannino and Hitchmogh, he reached for his weapon, only to be held back by one of Badham’s thick arms.
‘Not now, Stone,’ Badham said, with a single shake of his head. Stone made to speak, but Badham cut him off with a short sharp hiss. The man scowled but held his tongue.
‘I’d like you to help the man on the ground, Master Hitchmogh,’ Mannino said, eyes remaining on Badham, who glared back.
‘Squall’s tits,’ Hitchmogh breathed, rubbing hard at his pock marked face. ‘We’re pushing it. Ye know that, don’t ye, Cap’n?’
‘I do, but an accord has been made and I am not about to break it at first step.’
Sighing hard, Hitchmogh nodded. ‘On your, mine and the bloody crew’s head be it.’
Answering the captain back in such a way, especially in front of others, was rare indeed for the first mate, but Mannino knew the cause and let it slide. He could hardly blame the man.
Moving to Croxon, who was now unconscious, Hitchmogh flashed Badham and a scowling Stone a stare that, despite their size over the small man, knocked them both back a step.
‘Off to work we go,’ Hitchmogh muttered before dropping to his knees, wincing as he went. ‘Let’s give this a shot, eh?’ he continued, to no one but himself it seemed. The other three lucid men in the room watched on as the first mate rocked back and forth, massaging the bloody rags about Croxon’s stump-ended lower leg; an unpleasant tingling ran through all present and it built until they could taste sick in their mouths.
Licking his gums, Badham looked from Hitchmogh to Mannino, and when he saw the bitter expression on the renowned captain’s face, he relaxed a little, clearly understanding that the effects of Hitchmogh’s workings were felt by all.
Hitchmogh cursed, slapped the side of his head, which left a feint, bloody hand print, and threw-up to the side of Croxon, who began to groan.
Stone stepped forward, but Badham clamped a hand on the man, drawing his gaze before shaking his head.
‘I don’t like this, Cap’n,’ Hitchmogh said, eyes back on the bound wound and his massaging hands.
‘Needs doing, man.’
‘He’s an ugly bastard this one,’ Hitchmogh went on, through gritted teeth. ‘Inside as well as…’ He threw up again and let go of the bandages, before climbing with a groan to his feet. When he turned to the three men staring at him, he looked drawn. Drawn and exhausted. ‘I’m done,’ he said, turning and leaving the room without another word; leaving Mannino alone with Badham and his officers.
‘Well,’ Mannino said, ‘that’s that, gentlemen. Now it’s your turn. My men, if you please, and all this can be done with and we can all be on our way.’
Stone checked Croxon’s wound, after unwrapping it, and Badham’s eyes widened as Stone whistled at the healed flesh.
‘You, Captain,’ Badham said, turning back to Mannino, ‘have a deal.’
***
Eyes wide, breaths and heartbeat quickened, Antreas, youngest brother of The Three, looked about his dark room, objects highlighted by the ambient light from the chamber beyond his own. His eyes were drawn to that light, through the lilac silk drapes that separated his bedchamber from that of his concubine’s. Creases marred the otherwise smooth skin of his forehead and he chewed his bottom lip before swinging his long legs out of the bed. Head tilted to the side, white hair hanging down to feather the sheets by his side, he took a deep breath and stood, arms wide.
Shadows moved as men swept in. They approached with deft skill, the contents of their hands closing on the ancient elf. As they reached Antreas he stepped and turned in a well-versed series of movements, passing close to but not touching those who moved about him. When he was done, stood by lilac silk, the shadows were whole once more, his servants out of sight.
Dressed in layers of white velvet and crumpled linen, Antreas strode into his concubine’s chamber, dismissing the human men who were attending her, carnally.
‘What is it, my love?’ Rina said, pulling a gown about her black shoulders.
Lips working silently, Antreas shrugged before answering. ‘I’m not sure, but it felt… dirty.’
‘Well you look immaculate, darling.’ Rina slid across the sheets and ran her fingers across his clothing and up to his pale skin, before resting entangled in his hair.
‘I always do.’ Antreas’ pink eyes roamed Rina’s room, his lips working once more. ‘Where is Achiad?’ he said at last, gaze lingering on thick velvet covering an entire wall.
‘Behind the drapes.’ Rina’s honesty was refreshing, fearless, for a human.
‘Come out, Brother,’ Antreas said. ‘I have news, I think.’
‘What news?’ Achiad’s voice came from behind the drapes, a tone of boredom poorly hidden.
‘I’m not sure,’ Antreas admitted. ‘We, all three, need to be together for me to make sense of it.’
‘And it can’t wait?’
A pale hand slapped away a dark one and Rina knew better than to persist, so repaired to her gargantuan bed where she crawled to the centre and lay sprawled amongst the voluminous covers and discarded clothes. Her brown eyes closed as the two brothers continued, Antreas now in the chamber’s
doorway, Achiad from behind the mass of vertical velvet.
‘No, it cannot wait.’ Antreas became weary and he swayed on the spot, moving the back of his right hand to his forehead. ‘I tire. Attend me now.’
The drapes moved aside with a hiss, continuing on to reveal the open arch and balcony beyond. ‘Lovely dawn,’ Achiad remarked, his naked back to the room, skin matching the patterned velvet like the camouflaging of so many insects.
‘I don’t care!’
Achiad spun around, eyes narrow. ‘Do not—’
‘Apologies, Brother. I had a dream.’ Antreas made sure his voice softened in a way he knew his older sibling could not resist. If only it worked on Andarna as well.
Pink eyes relaxed. ‘A dream… of what, or whom?’
A deep breath. ‘I shall tell you when we’re all together.’
Achiad rolled his eyes and turned back to take in the view of the distant scales, or rather the flickering lights of the towns the scales suspended over the bay, one higher than the other.
‘Are you listening?’ Antreas practically glided back into the room and around the oval bed, to close on his naked sibling. He shuddered at the sight as Achiad’s shimmering skin smoothed from the velvet mimicry to its usual pallid paleness.
‘I will listen when you offer me something more specific. I was busy, you know?’
‘With my concubine, yes, I’m fully aware. But I had a dream, Brother. Must I wake Andarna myself, or will you join me? Clothed, preferably.’
Releasing a weary sigh, Achiad turned to face. ‘Stop eyeing my scars,’ he snapped, pushing past Antreas and heading for coarse woollen clothes that lay scatted about the marble floor. He whipped them up and threw them on to reveal a confusion of colours and styles far removed from any current fashion in Brisance.
I hadn’t noticed the scars, truth be told. Are they new? He’d considered asking aloud, but assumed he’d just forgotten the puckered criss-crossing marring his brother’s chest.
Antreas moved to the outer door of the chamber. ‘Let us see what state we find Andarna in, shall we?’
