Deed of Empire, page 11
The boy nodded and The Black Duke went on. “If he’s wearing armor, it’s going to be a lot harder. His groin will be protected.”
Fridale thought for a moment. “Stab him in the face?”
“That’s a good idea,” The Black Duke said, “but it won’t work.”
“Why not?”
In answer, The Black Duke aimed a slap at Fridale’s face. He stopped short of landing. And more importantly, pulled his hand back before he lost any fingers to the knife that Fridale suddenly swept up to protect himself.
“The hands will guard the face,” The Black Duke said, “without any help from the mind.”
The boy stared at his hands like he didn’t remember moving them. And he probably didn’t.
The Black Duke grinned. “Stab at the face. Then when the hands go up, stab him in the armpit. There will be a seam there in even the strongest armor.”
Fridale nodded, eyes a little wide as he processed all this new and bloody-minded information. The Black Duke stepped back as the boy practiced the motions he’d been shown.
“Good,” he said, though if the boy was attacked he was definitely going to die.
But he will die fighting, and Lady Yana will give him a seat with the warriors.
That would have to be enough.
The Black Duke turned and walked toward the army camp. Knowing that he would see the boy again whether or not either of them died in the next few days put a spring in his step. Fridale was family, after all, and one had to take care of family. But it wasn’t just that. He found he’d come to like the sad little man. There was a hidden strength to him, The Black Duke decided. Despite all that had happened to him during the last few days, he hadn’t fallen apart. Well, sure, a little on discovering his mother’s corpse, but The Black Duke could forgive him that. He was only a tiny bit Waldish, after all. But since then, that tiny bit must have grown, because he hadn’t groused or grumbled or shed another single tear.
And look at him. Practicing knife strikes like a regular little Waldish warrior. The Black Duke knew a Waldish youth would have been rote on all those moves by the time he was half Fridale’s age. But again, it wasn’t the boy’s fault he’d grown up soft. Now he’s got me to show him the way, he’ll catch up quick enough.
The Black Duke made his way through the haphazard camp of the baggage, aiming toward the pavilion tent that flew the black banner. He doubted he’d get close tonight. But he’d get the geometry of the place, see how the guards were set up, get a sense of what he was facing.
If that’s even where Duke Kesset stays. He chewed on that for a second, but decided the only way to find out was to get close anyway. So, I’ll go take a peek and if it’s not his tent, then I’ll at least know where he isn’t. And that’s almost as good as knowing where he is.
He drew no looks from anyone in the crowded camp, as he looked just liked them: filthy, road-worn, and dressed in rags. Bigger than most, perhaps, but he slouched and shambled, trying to look like a man who’d kept his nose pressed to the dirt for most of his life. Hard to do while still being observant. But there wasn’t much to see of the baggage train camp. Mostly dirty wagons and desperate people, and all smelling of shit, piss, and smoke. But it wasn’t so bad.
Add in the tang of terror sweat and the stench of people’s insides suddenly hitting the air and it smells like battle.
And the smell of battle brought with it mostly good memories for him: the feel of a sword biting deep into a man’s spine, the sound of shields shattering and bones breaking, the widening of an enemy’s eyes as he saw the blow coming that would cut him down and knew he couldn’t stop it. Sure there were bad memories—wounds received and good men lost—but he had never been one to concentrate on those things. This time, however, instead of smiling at the memories as usual, he began to wonder how long he could keep on making new ones.
Only cowards grow old. There were no Waldish words truer than those. The real enemy is time. And that’s a foe no man has ever beaten.
The Black Duke had passed forty winters too long ago to think about. Every day brought him a new ache, a new pain. Some mornings he could barely wrap his hand around the hilt of his sword. At night, wounds that hadn’t hurt since they’d healed now returned to wake him. Worse still, when those old wounds woke him, he often had difficulty remembering where he was. It wasn’t like misremembering from too much drink. No, this was a different kind of lapse. A sober blank where once a memory had lived.
Time is stealing me piece by piece.
“It is good to be on a holy mission,” he muttered aloud, needing to speak it. Make it true. “To die in a god’s service should please them.”
Though when he thought about it, the gods seemed a capricious lot, quick to anger, slow to forgive, and dangerous to all around them. What did he actually know of what pleased the gods?
Nothing and next to nothing, he thought.
He stomped along in foul humor then, forgetting to act the peasant and thinking dark and baleful thoughts. He almost didn’t notice when he finally entered the army camp proper. The lack of pickets or guards surprised him. The baggage train just kind of ran out and the soldiers began.
Bah! he thought. Again I am moping like a Rhagwan. If there had been guards, would I have walked right into them? What would I have done when they started asking questions in a language I don’t speak?
It had become too dark to see the black banner, but he believed he knew which way the pavilion tent was. Getting there would be another manner, because the camp didn’t seem to be laid out in any logical way. There were tents everywhere and they sported a wild assortment of heraldry, which was another language The Black Duke didn’t comprehend. He’d never had occasion to fight more than one group of Rhagwan. This force looked to be made up of dozens of lords and their personal armies. And that was just what he could see in the torchlight from where he was standing.
How many of them are there? And how do they know who to kill?
He stood there gawking at the multi-colored tents. Many were empty, and might well remain so. A lot of their occupants surely died on the walls today. But there were still plenty of men around the campfires burning outside the tents, and probably some inside as well. Men held in reserve, or too injured to fight, or smart enough to see which way the battle was going and duck out early.
Men who will soon wonder why this giant farmer is staring at them.
The Black Duke spurred his feet into motion and cursed himself again for acting like a Rhagwan fool.
I’m in no shape to fight tonight, he decided. But I need to do something to fend off this Rhagwan malaise. Remind me of who I am. Of what I am. He thought about the wagon ride into camp and the brightly colored whores’ wagons. Maybe I should visit one. Or perhaps one of these soldier boys fresh off the walls needs a tumble to forget how close to death he’d just been. He knew the Rhagwan were more prudish about such things, but he was sure he could find a willing lad if he looked hard enough.
But his thoughts were interrupted by flames suddenly illuminating the night sky up ahead and then the panicked shouts of soldiers. He oriented himself quickly and realized someone had set fire to several tents on the right flank of Kesset’s army, probably just beyond the outer walls the defenders had ceded.
Now why would they do that? If the defenders had the numbers to sally out in force, they never would have given up those outer walls. He grinned. Clever bastards. It’s a feint. Then he understood and his grin froze in place. He was turning and running back the way he’d come before the next thought was completely formed. So they can attack the baggage train. Grombok’s cock!
It’s what he would have done.
He charged back toward Fridale and the potato wagon, cursing everyone who was running the other way. And nearly all of them were, mostly soldiers dragging on armor and drawing weapons. The Black Duke would have warned them they were heading in the wrong direction, but they wouldn’t have listened to him even if they could understand him.
These are the same fools who ran into the exploding gate.
He dodged out of the way of a pair of crossbowmen but it put him right in the path of a young soldier with his sword belt on backwards and his head down trying to fix it.
They’ll fall for this trick, too.
He couldn’t avoid the youth so he put a shoulder to him and knocked him down, leapt over him, and kept sprinting toward the wagon.
And Fridale will pay the price.
The Black Duke had always been proud of his giant frame and great strength. But now he wished he’d been born small and lithe so he could maneuver through the crowd.
If I had my sword I wager I could clear a path quick enough. But his sword was stashed beneath the potatoes. And what good is it doing there? I played the farmer too long, and now I am stuck in the role when I need to be a warrior once more.
He pushed a heavily armored man into his companions and they all tumbled over, clearing a space for The Black Duke to dash through. Things opened up then as he returned to the baggage train and people were more sensibly seeking shelter rather than running toward fire and violence.
If they knew what was coming for them, they’d risk the flames.
He figured he was over halfway back to the potato wagon when the screams started. The sound spurred him to even greater speed. But the screams spurred others, as well, and suddenly he was fighting a crowd again as people fled past him and away from the incoming storm.
“Turn and fight you miserable bastards!” he shouted. But they didn’t understand him. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had. It’s barely a Rhagwan warrior’s instinct to fight; their peasants certainly aren’t going to.
The wagon finally loomed into view with Fridale atop the mound of potatoes, dagger clutched in his hand and black-cloaked men emerging from the darkness before him. The Black Duke noted idly that he was holding the dagger like he had taught him. Good lad. It was unlikely to do him any good, however. The approaching men looked like they knew their business.
Three last sprinting steps and The Black Duke smashed into the nearest man with his shoulder like he had the soldier with the backwards belt. Hard enough this time to break a rib, though, even through leather and chain. He wrenched the man’s sword from him as they both fell, rolling and tumbling until he came to his feet and sent a sweeping blow of his newly acquired weapon chopping into another man’s calf. It wasn’t a fatal blow, but it would likely take him out of the fight. Then he was on his feet, his attackers jumping back a step from the sudden onslaught. He stepped back, too, putting himself between the wagon and the men.
“Stay behind me, boy,” he said and risked a glance. The boy nodded, lips pressed in a thin line, eyes bright with fear and determination.
Turning back, he saw that he faced a half-dozen men armed with swords and hand axes. Their faces were smeared in mud. Their armor, too, so that no reflected torchlight would betray their approach. No shields. He wasn’t surprised. Shields weighed you down. Speed and ferocity were more important than defense on a raid such as this.
At least they’re not mounted. The Black Duke didn’t like fighting mounted men in the best of situations. This was not the best of situations. They must’ve tunneled out. Nobody digs a tunnel big enough for horses.
He thought he could probably take the men he faced. In fact, he was certain of it. He had already tested two of them and found them weaker, slower, and more fragile than himself. Unsurprising. If only he wasn’t already tired from his sprint here. If only he was using his own weapons instead of a poorly balanced Rhagwan sword made of steel so brittle it might as well be glass. If only the footsteps behind them didn’t announce that more men were arriving.
And look, he thought, are those bowmen?
Coming up before him now were another dozen men, half of them indeed holding the long Eidannian bows that were deadly at over three hundred yards.
From this close, the arrows will probably go right through me.
He tightened his grip on his sword. The key to blocking arrows is to watch the fingers, not the flight. Especially at this distance. He had to swing before the arrow loosed and hope the gods favored him. He’d done it successfully once before. And the attackers had been so shocked by the deed that he’d been amongst them with his sword before they recovered. He smiled wide.
And if I miss, than at least I will die in battle. I will not grow old and rot.
“Come!” he shouted at the men who still hesitated. It seemed they would wait for the archers. Good. They are cowards and will scatter when I block the arrows and attack. “Come and trade your lives for mine! I have slain more Rhagwan than raindrops fall in a year! Widowed more women than plague!” He took a step forward and ripped open the chest of his farmer’s frock, revealing the Waldish mail beneath. “I will reap you like your fields and plow your wives when I’m done! Sons and daughters, as well!”
The bowmen arrived and with them was a short, middle-aged man, whose armor, even smeared with mud, was of clearly better make than the others’. The Black Duke could tell by that and by the way the other men looked to him that he was the leader of this sortie.
Then I will kill him first. Give them even more reason to flee.
The man nodded to the archers who nocked and drew. The Black Duke went up on the balls of his feet. He wanted to be already moving when the arrows flew. He watched their fingers. He’d be off at the first twitch.
But then Fridale called out one of the few Eidannian words that The Black Duke knew besides potato. He knew the word because it was what Erm called him.
“Uncle?” Fridale said. “Uncle Horven?”
The raid leader snapped a single word to the archers who lowered their bows. Then he looked close at the wagon’s sole occupant. “Fridale?” he said.
Fridale jumped off the wagon and ran to his uncle. The Black Duke stood confused as they chattered in excited Eidannian for a few moments. Then Horven whistled three short bursts and fires sprang up all over the baggage train. Torches sprang to life in the hands of two men in Horven’s own party. They stepped toward the wagon and The Black Duke moved to decapitate them.
“No!” Fridale shouted at him. “Let them burn it! We’ll not leave it for Kesset.”
The Black Duke wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. But he understood not leaving supplies for the enemy. And though he’d been fighting these men moments ago, he remembered now that they also wanted to kill Kesset.
I guess we’re allies now. They looked about as happy with that as he was.
“A moment,” he said to Fridale who nodded and said something to his uncle. He nodded, too, and the torch bearers paused.
The man whose rib he’d broken was just getting painfully to his feet and The Black Duke tossed him his sword back. Then he jumped on the wagon and dug his own far superior weapon out from beneath the potatoes. Strapped it on and stepped back down. Nodded to the torchbearers who came forward cautiously. He walked past them as though they were hounds early to the feast and strode up to Horven. Looked down at him.
“Where away, little chief?” he said.
“To my home,” Horven answered in Waldish. Then he turned and jogged away, Fridale and his men following dutifully behind. The Black Duke took a last glance at the potato wagon just starting to smolder, shrugged his big shoulders once, then turned and ran after them.
9.
Egil — Vedland
* * *
Idoyu dragged Egil along for two days before he was well enough to stand on his own. Still couldn’t walk for long, so he dragged him half the time for another two days. When he could finally walk the whole day, they were into central Vedland, an area of verdant farmland and occasional heavily coppiced forest. They had stripped themselves of anything that might identify them as Piebald Company. That meant Egil lost most of his armor, as it was all marked with the company’s crest of horse head and crossed spears. Idoyu’s armor was plainer, though he did have to throw his helmet into a lake they slaked their thirst at on his first day upright. Egil had ducked himself in the water, as well, washing most of the filth off.
Night brought some surcease from the agony of his pounding head, but nothing lessened the ringing tone. It threatened his sanity. The sound would not stop, would not change pitch, would not grow softer. On the evening of the second full day walking, he finally had enough and in a moment of madness, struck himself in the ear, trying, he supposed, to shake the sound loose. It lessened only the tiniest amount, but enough to notice. He boxed his other ear, and though there was some pain and a light flashed through his eyes, for one glorious instant, the sound was completely gone. Both ears at the same time then and that was even better. Suddenly, he was beating the sound out of his head, slapping and punching, knocking the infuriating tone out of his head. He let loose a groan, a pure animal growl of pleasure. He wanted to pause then, see if he had done the job.
I’m definitely nearing a point where the cure will be worse than the disease.
But he couldn’t stop.
Instead, his arms and fists defied his mind and the blows got stronger, faster, even brutal in their attack. Worse still, the ringing returned, twice as loud as before. He let loose a tormented yowl that was cut short as Idoyu tackled him with a shoulder to the midsection, taking him breathless to the ground.
Egil doubted the wisdom of the maneuver. On the ground, his greater strength would surely overmatch Idoyu’s quickness. But his arms seemed only concerned with punching himself in the head. Idoyu pinned the treacherous appendages to his side. Tucked his own head away where it wouldn’t get butted. Not that Egil wanted to butt him, but his head and neck had joined his fists’ rebellion and were now beyond his control. He even tried to bite. But eventually, his restrained arms gave up the struggle, allowing him to regain control. The rest of his body followed and he relaxed in Idoyu’s grip.
“Are you here, boy?” Idoyu asked.
“Yes,” he replied, shocked at how rough his voice sounded. I think was I growling that whole time.
