Shield and Crown

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Or Nico could just attack. The result would, in all likelihood, include the former conditions along with a great loss of life.

  The only other possibility was that Boisson might withdraw entire, leaving the field and the refugees to the Akenbergers. A coward’s move, and one that would reflect badly on the man who made the decision.

  Nico did not think Boisson was a coward.

  The terms were unorthodox, but fair. Were their roles reversed, Nico knew he would accept.

  Nevertheless, the silence grew more pronounced as the man considered.

  Perhaps it all boiled down to one simple equation. How great did Boisson perceive the demonic threat—the Veldt, as Jak had called it—to be?

  Perhaps Nico had miscalculated, after all. He took the threat seriously, and assumed the general did likewise. But this hesitation might mean the man considered the war with Akenberg the preeminent conflict.

  If a battle between the kingdoms ensued, then the Veldt would fall upon a divided, damaged enemy, its work already done. Disaster for the empire.

  How much did the general fear the demons? What rumors had reached his ears? What reports? What terrors?

  “Very well, King Nicolas, I accept your terms. And I apologize for my reluctance, for I see the generosity in what you offer.” He coughed once. “I am used to dealing with your predecessor, King Hermann, for which every concession concealed a darker motive. I am choosing to believe you act in good faith.”

  No sooner was Nico released from one strain than he was immediately afflicted by another. Agreement here meant a prelude to the two kingdoms working again as allies. Surely, there would be voices, loud voices, opposed to such a thing.

  That was a problem for the future. “I understand. The King’s Army will arrive on the field by nightfall. I suggest you maintain your deployment to the west of the city, for now. We will bivouac to the east. By the morrow, we should present a unified line.”

  His mind already began turning over tactical considerations. “I’d like to hear what your scouts can tell us of the enemy.”

  “There we may have a problem.”

  “Come now, General. If there is to be trust between us—”

  Boisson shook his head. “It isn’t that. Our last scouting patrol departed yesterday morn. One full company of light cavalry.” He swallowed pronouncedly. “They have not returned.”

  “Not a one?”

  The old face frowned, and Nico saw new lines of strain appear. “Not woman or man. Though one courser did, riderless and…disturbed. We found it best to kill it, for its own good.”

  Nico looked at Lima, Pim, and Jak. The latter was the only one to not show surprise.

  “Captain Mickens.”

  “Aye, My King?”

  “You’ve heard all that’s transpired here. Take word back to General Reikmann. Double march, if necessary, we must be in place this eve.”

  The need for information was a leader’s eternal quest. I must know more. If the Dauphi could not provide it, he would get it first-hand.

  He faced his companions. “Now, until the others arrive, let’s do a little scouting ourselves.”

  The gradual shift from afternoon to eve was well underway as the three horses and four riders neared the halfway point of a circuit north of the city.

  The stream of refugees eastward had thinned out considerably, though many more could be seen moving south, into and beyond the Dauphi lines. Nico believed Boisson would handle the exodus efficiently, now freed from the worry of attack from the flank.

  The scouting party avoided the road, which was overburdened already. Instead they crossed open fields, jumped a narrow brook, and followed an imprecise arc just within sight of the city’s highest spire.

  The terrain ahead changed from smooth grassland to rolling ridges bedecked by thickening tree lines. Nothing so substantial as a forest, but enough to obscure visibility past half a mile.

  From these woods emerged an unusual sight—a single rider on horseback, torn pale cloak flapping inelegantly in the growing breeze.

  Nico pointed Lancer toward the newcomer, then spurred into a gallop as soon as he recognized the man. The conversation with Jak all but forgotten, Nico’s emotions became a blur of excitement and concern.

  “Swordthane Fawkes, what are you… Fawkes, what is amiss?”

  Lima and Pim closed the distance to their leader at this first sign of disturbance. The aide reached out to stop Jak from falling out of the saddle as Nico leapt to the ground and rushed to steady the panicked horse bearing his fellow thane.

  From up close, the man looked less familiar. The Fawkes he knew had the amiable informality born of confidence. Now all the sanguinity was gone, replaced by wretched disquietude. The young face had aged at least a tenyear.

  Troubled eyes focused on their Patron until recognition set in. “Third. We are lost. Lost.” The voice cracked on the repetition.

  Nico assumed the authoritative tone of a king. “Swordthane Fawkes, calm yourself. Now tell me why you are here. You were to go to Falkenreach.”

  Fawkes nodded, the hysteria fractionally diminished. “Falkenreach is gone, Third.”

  “Gone?” Nico thought of what little he knew of the man’s plans. “Did you find Second Devero?”

  The man nodded, his body stiffened.

  “Where is she?”

  “Fallen, Third.”

  Nico winced. Devero was his own Patron, and a woman he had looked forward to knowing. According to the code of the Order, she was to guide and command him as he did his own subjects. He realized now how strongly he had anticipated their meeting. To be the recipient of orders again, rather than the one who issued them.

  Fallen. Could that be possible?

  That they had never met was a helpless feeling. That she had never communicated any instructions to him at all, even more so. Just as had happened after the death of his brother, Nico felt the firm foundation of hierarchy collapsing beneath him.

  A related thought occurred to him at once. The Order of Swordthanes had lost a Second, of which there were only two. At a time when the First was missing, and as their scant numbers most needed direction.

  Nico was one of only six Thirds in the empire entire. He desperately needed to get word to Second Garrett, who had suddenly become the undisputed leader of the Order, until such time as a replacement Second could be determined.

  Those were concerns for the future, however. For now, the present required his focus.

  A crack of thunder disrupted the interlude, all the more foreboding in what had hitherto been a cloudless sky. Now that sky was darkening quickly, while thin wisps of white turned heavy and gray. A premature eve in the premature spring.

  An unexpected chill crept into the air, as well. The sudden drop in temperature could only partly be explained by the diminishing sunlight. Nico attributed the rest to his unsettled mind, discomfited by the sight of a friend so clearly distressed.

  He looked back into Fawkes’ frightened eyes. Perhaps talking would ease the man’s burdens. “What happened? From this morn to now.”

  The man did not speak right away, needing a moment to settle his thoughts. At last, he nodded.

  “We followed the rumors from Varborg. Rode north and east into Falkenreach. Deeper into the forest. We saw the people fleeing, listened to their warnings, continued ever deeper.

  “They said the animals have all gone.” Fawkes shook his head. “Not so, not all. They’re there, but changed. They said all the people flee. Not so, not all.

  “They said the demons are led by a man. A giant with a black sword.” He nodded. “Just so.”

  “Kevik,” said Jak, still seated on Lancer but listening intently.

  “Aye. Surrounded by his flock, clawing and biting at one another to be closest to him. He commands without speaking, yet they understand him well enough, as we learned.

  “The Second desired to confront him. She believed that cutting off the head would kill the body. Perhaps she…” He s
tared up at the blackened sky. “It rains, Third. They followed me. They must be close.”

  A mist was beginning to settle over the landscape, heightening the chill. Or perhaps not settling, but bubbling forth from the ground, or pouring out from the nearest woods.

  Nico watched the pale wool of Fawkes’ torn cloak soak in the moisture. The garment was an identical match to the one on Nico’s back. Though on his, the radiant sword design was not torn in two, nor streaked with dried blood.

  Fawkes followed his gaze, then smiled oddly. “Befitting that it’s ruined. The Order meant everything.” Then he chuckled. “Weak. Useless. Hopeless, we are.”

  Nico saw no sign of wounds on the man, yet knew he had been injured. His friend needed a good night’s rest; that was apparent. But first, Nico needed information. “The Second, Thane.”

  “We found him eventually. Kevik, that is. Sitting on a fallen trunk, staring into those green jewels on his blade. Unhurried, unaware of us.

  “She called out to him, challenging him to combat. He nodded and stood. He wears a horned helm that hides his eyes, but I do believe they glow green as those gemstones.

  “His beasts blocked her passage, but one wave of a gauntlet and they parted. Where he walked, the ground recoiled, as though anguished by his touch. The very roots of the earth moved out of his path, then blocked hers. Always seeking to trip her footing they did, though she never let them. The Second’s footwork is a marvel to behold, Third. She fights like an eagle, more of the air than the land. No shield, she simply isn’t in place long enough to hit.

  “He took her blows on his own shield, on his armor, on his helm…all without notice. At last, tiring, she gave her mightiest swing of all. Her last effort to damage, if not destroy, her opponent. He blocked it with that sword of his, and hers shattered.

  “He killed her, then,” Nico said. The fatal end to a valiant duel, not unlike the contests between thanes.

  Fawkes shook his head. “Would that he had, Third.” He stared into the mist, back in the direction he had come.

  “Nay, he waved to the beasts again, and they set upon the Second. They turned their biting and scratching from one another onto her—and onto us. Thane Vasturo, and your soldiers, and me. We were beset on all sides by foul creatures of every kind. Some appeared normal, though overpowered by unnatural rage. Others…I saw so many things that don’t make sense that I question my own wits, Third.” He giggled once, then his face twisted in sadness.

  “I tried to reach her, but she called for me to flee instead. I was loath to obey—for the first time in my service, I wished to ignore the oath of the Order and die beside her.

  “Would that I had, Third. Perhaps I could have struck the final blow myself, rather than…”

  Nico waited for the thought to finish, but the face was lost in the seeping heavens again. The onset of darkness, the thickening mist, and heavier rain made it difficult to see the tears.

  “How far from here? Can you lead us there? Perhaps we can recover her body, give it a proper—”

  “I said fallen, Third. Not dead. She fought on with broken blade and bare fist, until they bore her down. Then he stood over her, reached down with that sword of his, touching her shoulder as gently as a mother might a babe. And she screamed.

  “I looked back only once, but that was enough. She stands with him now, and so he turns our greatest strength against us. Better for the Order to destroy themselves now, than to fight for a devil.”

  “Better yet for us to fight against them, Thane. The Second is a terrible loss, but the war is not over from a single defeat.”

  Nico held the other man’s gaze with his own, hoping to reassure rather than accuse. He watched Fawkes stare back, studying, his mind in turmoil.

  “Third, can we go on?” The voice cracked again, but the opening was there.

  “We will, and you will, too. There is no place for despair in the Order, Thane. You must remember that.”

  “I believed that, too,” came a voice.

  Nico looked up at the source, a solitary figure walking out of the concealing mist.

  And so we meet, after all.

  “Henrikson, get word to the others,” Nico barked. The thrall from Everdawn would have to learn how to ride on his own. “Pim…”

  “Here, Third.” His companion landed softly on the wet ground nearby.

  “Lima, make sure Henrikson and Fawkes—”

  “Aaah!” The Swordthane had already recovered his courage, drawn his sword, and charged toward whatever the Second had become.

  “Pim, left.” Nico drew his sword and moved right, so that the two of them would flank her. He quickly studied her armor for signs of vulnerability, noting a wide opening on the left of her chest where the chain mail was split.

  In a way, it was comforting to feel the familiar weight of his sword in his hand again, though the circumstances were unwelcome. Nico wished, however, that he had made more time for practice in recent months.

  Fawkes had not exaggerated her agility, nor her prowess with the broken sword she wielded as if it were whole. She parried his first slash, dodged a subsequent thrust, then brought her own blade across his swordarm so quickly his shield had no time to block.

  “Fawkes, step back,” Nico ordered, for the man’s presence was now more a hindrance than a help. Neither he nor Pim could form their own attack without the risk of hitting their ally.

  “Aaah!” Fawkes screamed again, lunging once more though his arm continued to bleed. This time the Second did not move away, and the point of his sword seemed certain to find the opening in her armor. Then a dark, sinewy appendage burst forth through that same breach, a flash of movement that stopped Fawkes’ weapon in midair.

  The fibrous tentacle of green and brown grabbed Fawkes’ swordarm at the wrist. He tried to thrust forward, then attempted to pull his hand back, but neither act yielded more than an inch.

  Devero did not smile, nor yell, nor display any emotion at all. She simply swept her broken blade across Fawkes’ throat so quickly that its full motion was little more than a blur. Then the tentacle let go and disappeared back inside its hiding place as quickly as it had appeared.

  The Second turned to face Nico, but his eyes lingered a moment on Fawkes. The thane’s hands were pressed tight against his own neck, desperately attempting to quell the torrent of blood that seeped between helpless fingers. His body sagged, dropped to a knee, then collapsed in the wet grass. One valiant life, extinguished in less time than an arrow’s flight.

  And a powerful warning that Nico’s would be next if he did not defend himself to the height of his ability. She lunged, and he spun away. She slashed, and he parried. She thrust, and he dove to the left, wishing more than ever that he had his shield.

  My shield. It hung on Lancer’s side, hopefully a good quarter-mile from this scene by now. He would have to make do without.

  Pim closed in, quickly and silently, attempting a lethal strike on her back while her attention was diverted. But the Second was not so unaware as she seemed, and he pulled back barely in time to avoid a sudden counterattack. The soldier was no fledgling swordsman, as countless practice bouts with Nico had honed his skills appreciably, but was not half as proficient as needed to protect himself from the relentless barrage of blows that ensued. She scored hits on his arm and leg before the two of them covered a half-dozen paces.

  Nico charged back into the fight, throwing himself forward less with any expectation of wounding their opponent than simply forcing her attentions back toward him. The attempt worked—nearly too well. She pressed him back as she had Pim, though his own defense was not so easily penetrated. Nevertheless, Nico dared not risk a counterattack for fear that he would give her an opening—or draw out that malignant appendage the way Fawkes had done.

  They circled, and he began to see what the Swordthane had meant in his description of her style. Devero did not so much step as glide, her feet in constant motion, her center mass never providing an easy target. If
Nico hoped to win this fight, he needed to change that—and quickly, for she was clearly learning his habits, dissecting his mechanics, determining his weaknesses.

  Of course, she had her tendencies, as well. Already, he could tell full attacks from feints before each sequence was half complete. There was little to do with the knowledge, however. There was simply no way to take advantage without giving her an opening in exchange.

  He had spent years improving the speed with which one maneuver—slash, thrust, feint, or parry—followed another. Moving fluidly from defense to attack or the reverse was one of the foremost hallmarks of a great swordsman, and Nico had met his equal only once before.

  Yet Devero was not only an equal, her speed and skill surpassed his own—aided in large measure by the uncharacteristic lightness of her fragmented weapon. His sword was sturdier, and easily deflected hers when they met, but he was spending all his energy keeping the heavier blade in the path of her lightning fast strikes.

  Within the darkened hollow of the open helm, the Second’s eyes blazed with a bright green fury. An unnatural color, glowing, as if the extra appendage were not proof enough of her corruption.

  If a warrior as great as Devero was vulnerable to the taint, surely they all were. Nico better understood the terrible significance of Jak’s warnings, as well as the despair punctuating Fawkes’ last moments.

  Nico saw Pim hovering just beyond the range of her swirling motions, attempting to divert her focus once more. The soldier went so far as to invite attack by dragging his own sword low across the ground, exposing himself unnecessarily. A brave tactic, but thus far ineffective.

  Nico had a better idea. He waited for her next feint, sidestepped, then risked what he had put off for so long—a powerful thrust, directly at her chest.

  For one heartbeat, he thought he was fast enough. Then the dreaded gash burst open again, a flash of darkness accompanied by a putrid smell of decay, and he felt his forearm locked in place as securely as a thief in a pillory.

  A revulsion overtook him at the touch, nearly as strong as the overpowering sense of impotence that came with being restrained. “Pim,” he called, wishing he had been able to communicate his plan before taking this frightening step.