Shield and Crown

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Nico did not wait for her slash at his throat, electing instead to drop his sword and use both hands to secure a grip on the tentacle. His fingers slipped on its slick surface, but his fingers dug into the spongy meat beneath. He tugged, taking her off-balance, then threw himself backward with as much leverage as he could manage.

  It was not enough to accomplish what he hoped. She remained on her feet, pulling him back, readying her broken blade for the fatal swing. From his knees, Nico tugged again at the five feet of monstrous fiber connecting the two of them.

  Then Pim’s sword came down in the divide, severing the appendage and eliciting an inhuman shriek of pain—the first sign of emotion the Second had shown during the entire encounter.

  Afraid the advantage would not last long, Nico ignored the spray of viscous fluid that splashed his cheek, seized the hilt of his sword once more, and cast all caution to the wind.

  Devero had turned to face Pim, slashing his arm once more, inflicting a far deeper wound beside the previous. Her lips twisted in anger as she drew her arm back for a more powerful thrust. Then she caught sight of Nico’s lunge, and spun to meet him instead.

  He felt the point of the blade make contact, saw with relief that his aim had been true, and pressed the blade deeper through the opening in her mail. It penetrated until hitting the intact rear portion, and he bore her down with his weight and inertia, feeling the strength within that malformed body quickly ebb away.

  Their eyes met briefly, and he wanted to believe that he saw a spark of relief before the final dimness took hold.

  “Pim?” Are you alive?

  “Aye.”

  Thank the gods for that. Then Nico looked at the body of a different friend, his heart filled with regret.

  We should depart. Immediately. “Arura?”

  “She bolted. I don’t blame her. Look.”

  Nico peered into the darkness ahead. Visibility was not much above a few dozen yards, but that was enough to see a pair of red eyes, staring at the two men. Another pair joined them, then more and more.

  The eyes moved closer, slowly, and grayish bodies took shadowy form within the mist. At least a dozen, silently closing in, enormous fangs gleaming in what little moonlight seeped through the haze.

  Wolves—or things that once were, though larger and misshapen in different ways—missing or mottled fur, twisted jaws, too few or too many limbs.

  How foolish to let night catch us alone. Nico wondered how he and Pim would fight the beasts off. It did not seem possible that they could fall now, not after what they had just gone through.

  These must be velbeasts, based on the story he had heard just earlier that day. They were the vanguard of the Veldt.

  Scouting mission accomplished.

  “Can you still fight?” he asked Pim, as the two of them instinctively moved shoulder-to-shoulder.

  “Of course.”

  The wolves pressed closer, their snarls growing louder. But not so loud as to block out the sound of hooves, drawing nearer and nearer.

  A sudden, blazing light materialized in the sky above. Nearly blinding to Nico, but far more so for the beasts of darkness, who howled and yelped and shied backwards in unhappy bounds.

  The hoofbeats on wet earth became thunderous. Nico kept his eyes on the wolves until the first of the Kingshields passed by. As the light from above began to fade, he saw the angry grimace on Captain Mickens’ freshly-bearded face.

  “Not…my…king!” he yelled at the demons. “Filthy dogs!”

  At least a score of troopers followed Mickens into the ensuing melee, more than the beasts were prepared to fight, and soon their scattered remnants scurried into the distant blackness.

  Three other horses held back from the skirmish. Arura, nervous but loyal, eager to be off but holding steady while Pim mounted. Winsome, as calm as the proud woman on her back. And Lancer, with barely restrained energy, ready to chase after the fleeing enemy if not for the graceless rider in his charge.

  “Was that you, Henrikson?” Nico asked, staring at the final twinkles of dying light.

  “Aye,” came the reply, the voice sounding weak. “I…should rest.”

  “Let us not linger, then.”

  Yet Nico tested the scholar’s stamina long enough to hand Fawkes’ body up to Pim, and to lay the Second’s over Winsome’s saddle just in front of Lima. Then he bounded onto Lancer, waited for Jak to get a firm hold, and started the hurried procession back toward Allstatte, little more than a lighted smudge in the distance.

  As they made their way, achingly slowly, toward the city, Nico began to think about the profoundness of the events in which he had just participated.

  On this day, everything had changed.

  He saw the great civil war between Akenberg and her neighbors for what it was—a foolish, selfish distraction from the real crisis.

  Now, at last, he understood the sense of urgency that had led Third Arturo to Neublusten and into the center of King Hermann’s foul intrigues.

  Arturo had attempted what Emperor Eberhart succeeded in doing many years before—getting the kingdoms to put aside rivalry to come together in common cause. The empire needed unity now more than ever before, but it lacked another Eberhart with which to accomplish the task.

  The Order of Swordthanes was the glue that held the twelve kingdoms together. Suddenly, it was missing not just the only First but one of its two Seconds. That left Second Garrett at the top of the hierarchy, unaware though he may be.

  The empire needed a stable Order, and the Order needed a new First. Garrett was the logical choice.

  As one of only six Thirds, Nico’s responsibility was clear. He needed to communicate to the Second all that had happened, lend the support of himself and his kingdom, and hope the man could live up to the responsibility.

  6

  Gothenberg

  The incessant walking was taking a toll on Summersong, that much was clear. Her knee needed time to rest and heal, but instead each day and passing mile only made it worse.

  How much worse was difficult to tell, for the harpa shrugged off Jena’s inquiries as if the injury were insignificant, as inconsequential as that extra star in the night sky.

  The refusal to be honest bothered Jena at first, until she recalled her own behavior with Yohan in the Stormere Mountains a lifetime ago. That memory brought a smile to her lips along with a newfound tolerance of, if not quite respect for, her fellow prisoner.

  They still did not speak much, though the reasons were not entirely clear. Jena was aware of her own naturally reticent nature. From everything she had heard, however, the harpa people were supposed to be the opposite. Yet for all Summersong’s politeness, there was a clear reserve at work. One marked by long pauses, limited openness, even the occasional furtive glance. If she did not know better, Jena would have thought the woman carried some burden of guilt.

  If anything, Jena should be the one feeling ashamed, for she had not treated the harpa particularly well during these past tendays of captivity. Her snobbery had been repaid with kindness and even a dangerous generosity. That the trader had risked herself to steal the figurine back from Redjack revealed much about her character. Though they never spoke of the incident, the gesture was always present in the air about them. But that act of goodwill had never blossomed into friendship. Jena supposed it would have by now, if it were ever going to.

  Now the figurine was safe, at least so long as these savages were barred from raping her. And Jena vowed to be far more selective about when she would touch the object’s crude, precious curves. Not that she minded. After fearing she had lost Yohan’s gift forever, simply knowing it was there meant enough.

  The whole episode had taught her a valuable lesson in discretion. The day after the third prisoner was added to the group, Redjack had stormed up to Jena and searched through her pockets for the item he had seized from her. Thankfully, she had tucked it into a more personal, less accessible, hiding spot. A thorough search would certainly have reve
aled the caper, but it soon became apparent that the tribesmen had more important business to occupy their time.

  When the trading town of Threefork came into view—a few hundred low stone and timber buildings, narrow streets leading in, like the spokes of a wheel, on a single large town hall at the center—Jena wondered whether they had reached their final destination. She considered asking one of their guards, then realized he was unlikely to know much more than she did. That bastard Redjack and the mysterious Chekik were the only two who ever spoke of affairs beyond the day-to-day, and seldom did so within earshot of anyone else.

  Any change to this miserable existence was a boon, and naturally turned her mind in new directions. Yet her curiosity was quite limited in scope, the nature of the stopping less significant than its duration. So far as she was concerned, it did not matter whether the barbarians intended to execute her here or elsewhere. All that really concerned her was whether she would find an opportunity to free herself, or had to wait for Yohan to do it for her.

  She hoped for the former, of course. But there would be a certain, not altogether disagreeable symmetry to the latter. Only time would tell.

  For now, they had a moment to sit and rest. The announcement came with relief for the prisoners, who all but collapsed where they stood.

  “How fares the knee?” Jena asked, for perhaps the tenth time. Clearly, the joint bothered the harpa more than usual, for she rubbed it with marked desperation in her fingers and pain on her face.

  Summersong shook her head, and Jena prepared for another long silence to pass the eve. Tending to her own aching muscles, she was caught off guard at hearing the other woman sigh heavily. “I’ll not dance again,” she said aloud, the pained expression deepening. Then she recomposed the mask and smiled. “There are other joys in life, thank the stars.”

  The rare display of emotion unsettled Jena, however. She wished she could provide some form of comfort, but knew not how. She coughed, unsure of herself. “I have seen soldiers lose entire limbs, yet continue to serve with distinction.”

  “What about those whose heads are smashed apart?” asked the third prisoner abruptly.

  Gregory called himself the magistrate of Threefork, though former magistrate was more the truth. He was a man whose world had been shattered, and whose outlook showed it.

  At the first signs of danger from raiding barbarians, late in the previous autumn, he had sent requests to the capital for additional security. His clerk had advised negotiating with the raiders instead, paying a ransom that the trading town could easily afford in exchange for forbearance. Gregory refused, confident that the kingdom’s army would protect its settlements.

  That had been a mistake. For whatever reason, the aid never came, while the numbers of tribesmen swelled. Caravans stopped coming, and the town itself became as threatened as the nearby farmsteads. The merchants of Threefork added their voices to the clerk’s, but the magistrate instead ordered the construction of a palisade to deter attack.

  Then one day, not long ago, he walked into his office to discover the clerk in conversation with a strange, tall, pale being—a Chekik like this one who led the raiders. Gregory had interrupted a treachery just in the nick of time, or so he had thought.

  It had stared at him with emotionless, unblinking eyes while he foolishly called out to the constable for its arrest. A trio of guardsmen stepped into the room, and he ordered them to confiscate the weapon it carried. When it lifted its staff, he thought this silent brute actually meant to surrender.

  Then that staff swung in his direction, and he found himself on the floor. A tremendous pain thundered inside his head, and he saw red on the twisted staffhead. Only once the guardsmen had bound him did he associate that redness with his own blood, and become aware of the full danger of his predicament.

  His was just another promising life cut short by this sudden war, a not uncommon occurrence in recent months.

  The wound must be painful indeed, for the magistrate complained of it every day. Yet it was not nearly as debilitating as Summersong’s knee, and Jena wished the annoying man would cease this endless compulsion to tell them how much it hurt.

  At least he had been doing his part to help the harpa walk, for Jena’s own wrists continued to be bound. Each time she saw Summersong grimace, Jena reminded him to be more careful with the pace he set and the patient in his charge. Yet they were all obliged to keep up with their captors, and the aid they could provide to the injured woman was severely restricted.

  The situation was intolerable, though they continued to tolerate it. That was possible, in large part, due to the knowledge that Yohan was back on their trail. The tribesmen were once again cautious about their movements, but Jena held firm to the belief that they would make a mistake sooner or later, and a rescue would come.

  Provided she did not free them all first, she reminded herself.

  She knew it would not be easy, of course. There were complicating factors, as always. At the moment, one stood out above all, even as the slackening watch on the three prisoners allowed the briefest glimmer of hope. Though less alert, there were more tribesmen about than ever. The disloyal town seemed to be serving as a sort of hub for raiders in the region, and she worried that all the activity would make tracking more difficult for the pursuers.

  Civilization—what should have been a salvation—was now working against her. The belief that some random citizen or patrol would spot the barbarians and bring summary destruction upon them now faded entirely. The people of Gothenberg, it seemed, were as traitorous and self-interested as the Vilnians had always accused them of being.

  Perhaps not all of them, for in time two additional prisoners were added to the growing collection. Two young women in common white dresses, slender and dark-haired, were unceremoniously tossed to the ground by a trio of unfriendly brutes. The girls were likely sisters, similar in appearance and expression. Wide-eyed, they stared about them, but spoke little—even after Jena and Summersong attempted to be reassuring. Soon after, normalcy was restored, an unhappy silence descending over them all as each contemplated their bitter fate.

  The five captives never entered the town proper, though they stayed day after day within sight of its buildings. To Jena, this was a much welcome respite from the endless, demanding march that had become the defining nature of her life. She suspected it would resume again at some point, but at least her muscles were gaining an opportunity to recover. To say nothing of her companion’s wounded knee.

  She noticed Redjack make several trips in and out of the bustling community, however, often disappearing inside its perimeter for hours at a time. Once he began staying nights in Threefork, too, she slowly accepted the possibility that he might be leaving them for good. And that vengeance would be denied her.

  Sure enough, he was not a part of the reduced party that set out toward the mountains in the west a few days later. Instead, the Chekik personally commanded the score of tribesmen that remained, a mix of old faces she had come to know and ones that were new. She hated them all equally, though none so much as the inhuman monster on horseback who set a pace that even the healthy men had trouble maintaining. For Summersong, each day became more of a trial of misery than ever.

  Starting on the second day, when Jena assumed the group would receive no more additions or subtractions, she began to study the individual tribesmen in their group. Though she no longer commanded troops, the habit of learning all she could about the enemy died hard.

  Summersong must have noticed her counting. “How many?” she asked.

  “Twenty-five. Two look almost the same, and I nearly miscounted. Now I’m sure. There are twenty-five savages to kill.”

  “You mean twenty-seven,” Summersong said.

  Jena was about to protest, then realized what the woman meant. She had left out the Archon himself, and that vile familiar of his.

  Though the reaver often wandered far from the group, she always knew when it was near, for the day was always darker in
its presence. Wherever the demon went, unnatural clouds followed. And though the summer heat was becoming more and more unbearable, the simple proximity of the living nightmare was prone to induce involuntary shivers.

  That such a thing existed at all was disconcerting. That it was able to walk with impunity inside the empire, infuriating. As much as she hated the traitor Redjack, and the Chekiks who were pulling the strings behind the atrocities that had ruined her life, Jena saved the worst of her enmity for the devils and demons and all creatures of evil that plagued her homeland.

  She longed to take her sword to the demon, to kill it as an example to others. She would slay the Archon, for good measure. And these primitive tribesmen, to take revenge for all of her kinsfolk they had murdered.

  For that matter, she longed simply to hold her sword at all. To feel the comfort of its grip, to swing it through the foul air in long, precise arcs. To once more not feel so helpless.

  By the third day, she knew for sure where the group was headed. Just ahead, the flat land gave way to rolling hills. Beyond them, mountains. Just as her first real test in life happened in the Stormeres, so too would her next.

  There was one benefit to the destination, for the road was crude, neglected, and littered with debris. Perhaps for that reason, perhaps another, the Archon elected to send his mount away with one of the tribesmen.

  After that, the leader of the group called breaks early and often during the afternoon. Each time he did so, the reaver disappeared from sight for long periods, and each time the sun and heat intensified during its absence.

  “What’s it about?” Summersong asked.

  “Hunting. How’s the knee?”

  “Not so bad today. Hunting what? I see no game worth the effort.”

  Jena shook her head. “I don’t think it’s looking for food.” Then she remembered the fate of Snarl. “Well, not that type of food.”