Deed of Empire, page 14
Lord Onion Breath leaned forward slightly. “I think not, my dove,” he said. His tongue darted out and wetted his lips like a serpent tasting the air. “Do you believe you are the first slattern to come to my tent with ill intentions? I know your kind well. I—”
He would have said more but was suddenly distracted by the hilt of a dagger striking him hard in the breastbone. Alda cursed herself for letting fear rush her throw.
Heron would be disgusted.
“Because you’re female you may fear being taken more than men,” he’d told her before sending her off on her first assignment. “But believe me, the things I’ve done to men who’ve wronged me? They’d have surely preferred a good arse-fucking.”
She was ten years old.
That sentiment was as comforting then as it was now and Alda shook herself free of the memory as she spun to face the two guards, a knife in each hand. They reached for her with hands blissfully free of weaponry. She sheathed one knife in the closest one’s forearm. He gawped wide-eyed at the knifepoint sticking out the far side of his arm while the other man wisely took a step back.
The two men were probably decent soldiers. And in full armor atop big chargers they were probably lethal to any who opposed them. But they’d clearly been through this scenario with Lord Onion Breath before and had an easy go of it; they hadn’t even bothered to put on armor in the heat. But this time, instead of a kitchen maid who had smuggled in a single thin knife to try to defend her virtue, they suddenly faced a whirling she-demon who spouted daggers from her fists.
They weren’t ready. At all.
Alda flipped her dagger into her right hand and drew it back to throw. The uninjured guard ducked instinctively and instead of throwing the knife she stepped forward and kneed him in the face, breaking his nose for sure. The unmistakable sound of steel sliding free of leather made her turn. The guard with the knife in his arm had drawn his sword. She had stabbed him in the right arm but he didn’t look uncomfortable holding his weapon.
The bastard’s left-handed!
Worse still, Lord Onion Breath was caterwauling like a colicky baby and was sure to draw people here soon. Alda spun again, putting Broken Nose between her and Knife Arm. He was just unbending and she got one arm around his waist and drew her knife up under his chin, hoping to get him to freeze and be a better barrier between her and Knife Arm’s naked blade. But he was blinded by blood and enraged with pain and didn’t understand the danger he was in. He struggled hard and was far too strong for her to keep hold of. Laying her knife across his throat, she remembered Heron telling her, “If you’re going to cut their throat, cut their fucking throat. I’ve seen too many men take a slice full across and live to call the Keepers.”
So she sawed across his neck, pulling the knife toward her, grinding through ligaments and vocal cords. Some part of her registered that this was the first time she had ever actually killed someone, having always been more concerned with wounding any attackers just enough to get away. But there were two more she was going to have to kill, and quickly, too, and no time for thinking about it. Besides, the plan had always been to murder Lord Onion Breath, she now realized. The thought of tying him up quietly had been a fantasy, a lie she’d told herself so she could concentrate on the details of her escape plan rather than worry about killing for the first time.
As Broken Nose’s body slid to the ground, she again raised her arm to throw her knife. But Knife Arm had now processed what had happened when Broken Nose ducked and had also realized her first throw had gone awry. He strode forward confidently, sword held before him like he believed he could block anything she threw from hitting him in the chest. But Alda was in the calm of action now and threw true. And since she wasn’t completely convinced he couldn’t block a knife thrown at his chest, she put it in his groin instead. He mewled like a kitten and collapsed.
Alda crossed the tent in a flash and leapt onto Lord Onion Breath’s chest.
“I’m sorry, did you have a big speech planned?” she hissed into his face and then pulled another dagger from her improvised arm sheath and plunged it deep into his right eye. She knew she was a fool for wasting time talking, but hadn’t been able to stop herself.
And you’re an even bigger fool for stabbing him so many times.
Because that’s what she was doing, stabbing him in the eyes and slicing open his cheeks and savaging his face with her blade over and over and over. He was dead—had been since her first strike went into his brain—but she just kept flailing away.
Stop it! Stop!
A scraping from behind her finally shocked her out of it and she spun to see Knife Arm pulling himself toward the tent’s entrance. She flung herself off what remained of Lord Onion Breath and jumped on Knife Arm’s back. He was wheezing and crying and when she slit his throat it felt more like mercy than murder.
Move!
Now that she’d separated herself from Lord Onion Breath’s corpse, her mind was working again.
Don’t know if anyone heard anything, but have to assume they did.
She cut a slit in the back of the tent for a quick escape if anyone came in the front. Ripped off her bloody dress. She couldn’t spend the time she would have liked tossing the tent, so she just grabbed what wealth she could get to easily, mostly jewelry from the corpse. A few more pieces in a box under a pillow. She looked longingly at a strongbox in the shadows but it was too big to bring along and Heron’s voice was in her head telling her she didn’t have time to break into it.
It’ll have to do, she thought, ducking out through the back exit she’d made. Not exactly the fortune she’d envisioned getting her set up in style somewhere in Eidannia. Well, at least I won’t starve while I get the lay of the land. Figure out the angles in a foreign place.
She got her bearings in the dark behind the tent. Listened for cries of alarm. Didn’t hear any and cursed herself for a coward for not trying the strongbox. But then she remembered Heron’s view on cowardice.
“Give me a smart coward over a brave fool any day. Battlefields are full of brave corpses getting their eyes plucked out by ravens. Meanwhile, their widows are home getting plowed by the cowards who ran away.”
Grabbing what she needed and nothing more to save time was the smart thing to do whether it turned out she could have stayed longer or not.
Get to the horse and get gone, she told herself. She moved through the darkness, dark leathers and dark skin rendering her near invisible. I hope.
Back through the lords’ tents, ducking deep into the shadows any time she heard the slightest sound or caught even a hint of movement in her peripheral vision. She wanted to just run, but if no one had heard the screams—and the peaceful camp suggested they hadn’t—then attracting attention by sprinting through camp would be the worst thing to do.
But what if they’d found the bodies and kept quiet so as not to panic the camp? Sent runners out to alert the sentries? Lock down the perimeter and work from the outside in, squeeze their quarry into a small space without her even knowing? She clamped down her fear and kept moving cautiously. There’s no chance any of these toffs found the bodies and didn’t scream their wigs off. Past the dining tent now, where music poured out of the open entrance. Maybe that’s why they didn’t hear the screams. Lucky.
She froze as a harried maid came out of the dining tent carrying an empty tray. But the maid was too busy muttering to herself about the indignities she had to bear from the ever-drunker lords to notice Alda standing motionless in the shadows. Alda waited till the girl was nearly to the kitchen tent before moving on. No more close calls and she was at her friendly mare, quieting the beast with an apple from her food store.
“Away we go,” she whispered and untied the mare’s lead from its stake. She stepped off, the horse following along placidly. Which was good because she wasn’t sure what she would have done if it hadn’t.
What do I know about horses?
She led the mare away from the other horses, hoping none of them would make any audible complaints about their friend leaving.
Now comes the interesting part.
She’d scouted the sentries and determined that they were stationary—no patrols, just watchfires. That was good. But there were a lot of them, and not much room between them. And there was no cover, what with them being in a scrubby desert. She’d hoped to put off Lord Onion Breath till they’d hit terrain more conducive to sneaking a thousand pounds of horse around, but obviously that hadn’t happened. Still, she’d planned for that. She made for the northeasternmost watchfire, which was manned by two young Sorwalders who had become fast friends on the journey through their shared love of strong drink. Alda knew this, because she’d helped procure them some several times. She had procured them a great big skin of spirits tonight.
With any luck, that and their weak wills will have combined to give me an avenue out of here. Though, she admitted, luck has been a rare commodity of late, and all of it bad.
With that comforting thought, she led her purloined horse out into the dark of the desert night. The watchfire came up quicker than she would have thought and she sent up a prayer to all the gods that the Sorwalders had hit the skin of spirits hard. And they must have, because she passed by the watchfire without incident, then angled slightly west to get to the main trail. She was almost smiling when the screams broke out from the camp behind her.
They’d found the bodies. It was time to ride.
11.
The Black Duke — Fell Hill
* * *
The Black Duke followed Baron Horven and his men as they left the baggage train behind and looped left, ending up in a stand of trees a hundred yards from the outer walls. It looked like they dove into a thorn bush, but it was quickly revealed that in amongst the thorns a wooden hatch was sunk in the ground.
A tunnel, as I thought.
The hatch led to a crawlway through the dirt, barely wide enough for The Black Duke to fit through.
If their armor wasn’t muddied before they entered, it would be after this.
After a short crawl, the tunnel opened up into a space a man could nearly stand upright in. The Black Duke was still bent near double. A soldier in mail stood near the crawlspace with a big war hammer to hand. The Black Duke thought that an odd choice for fighting in a confined space. But the man stayed put as everyone else went past, and he realized that he was the rearguard tasked with knocking out the supports and collapsing the tunnel if the enemy discovered it.
Which they almost certainly will now that Horven has sent a small army through it. Like the ruse with the exploding doorway, it seemed this trick would only work once. He’s going to need a lot more if he hopes to win this siege.
Some of the soldiers up front now had torches, and The Black Duke followed the glow. The dirt walls changed to stone and finally stairs and he came to an iron gate that was already open by the time he got there. There was a small entryway with murder holes cut in the walls. Through another gate then and they were in a cobblestoned courtyard where Horven addressed his men.
“He tells them to go rest,” Fridale said, suddenly at The Black Duke’s side. “That Kesset will be chasing phantoms the rest of the night, but that there will be more fighting to do in the morning.”
And every day after till the keep falls, The Black Duke thought but said nothing aloud. Though cut short, the raid had been a success, making this a time of celebration, not dour truths.
The men released to their beds, Horven, now with two guardsmen wearing clean armor in tow, came up to The Black Duke and Fridale.
“Come,” he said. “Let us talk. And eat.”
He led them through the courtyard. The Black Duke noted where men wetted thatch roofs with water and clay in anticipation of Kesset using fire to fell the keep. Others fletched arrows brought to them in thick bundles. Grinding wheels were being worn down themselves by the number of swords, spears, and axes sharpened on them. Everywhere he looked, The Black Duke saw men engaged in the activities needed to carry out war.
Feels like home.
They entered the main hall, a building that many Rhagwan would have built to be more delicate and decorative than the rest of the keep. But here, too, he noted, the walls were thick and cut with arrow slits, the guards alert despite their distance from the main defenses.
“I like this uncle of yours,” The Black Duke said to Fridale, forgetting for a moment that the baron spoke Waldish.
Horven looked back and smiled, showing the bright white teeth only Rhagwan lords seemed to manage. “I am glad.”
I must be more careful with my speech, The Black Duke thought. He seems martial enough, and he is kin to Fridale. And though that makes him kin to me as well, that means something different in Rhagwan lands than it does in the Wald.
They followed Horven to a long table that liveried servants were just finishing setting. Though the Waldish outdid the Rhagwan in every activity that mattered, it could not be argued that they were better cooks. The food smelled fantastic and reminded The Black Duke’s stomach that it hadn’t had a proper meal since they had left the Wald and that here was a meal beyond proper, and he should dig in immediately. He was momentarily discomfited wondering whether there were Rhagwan manners to be observed around eating before remembering he didn’t care about such things. But neither did Horven, apparently.
“Eat,” Horven said. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He sat down at the head and gestured to the seats on either side of him. The Black Duke sat to his left, Fridale to his right.
No wife, no children. No guests but us. This baron leads a remarkably solitary life, it seems.
Despite his claim of no ceremony, the courses were brought out and placed before them with what felt like a great deal of ceremony to The Black Duke. They started with cygnet brawn in Western spices, presented with the full, feathered heads of the young swans adorning the platter. Unaccustomed to Rhagwan dining, The Black Duke thought that was the meal and pushed himself back from the table as the servants cleared the devastated platter.
“Delicious,” he said, not lying or flattering. “But now we’ve eaten, let’s talk.”
Horven smiled kindly at him. “Yes, let’s talk,” he said. “But let us continue to eat, as well.”
The Black Duke blinked as a new batch of servants arrived with a platter of mountain goat chops. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s.”
Despite that, he did very little talking, letting Fridale and Horven chatter to each other in Eidannian, the baron looking over at him oddly every few moments. The Black Duke wondered what they spoke of and what those looks meant, but mostly he concentrated on the splendid dishes that were put before him. There was roast pork with mushrooms, a pie with currant jelly on top and meat below, and a bowl of vegetables that he thought looked suspicious but tasted wonderful. Each dish was washed down by a wine picked to complement it, spicy, fruity, and aromatic by turns. There was a light dish after the vegetables, a mere bite and made of what he couldn’t tell, but it was cold and sweet and cleared the taste of the dishes that proceeded it out of his mouth just in time for the next presentation. Which was something he recognized.
“Po-ta-toes!” he cried out. And indeed they were, baked in their skins and slathered in salted butter and chopped parsley. Delicious. Who knew?
Finally, he was given a choice of three puddings and decided to take all three: a treacle tart, a piece of honey cake, and a cherry fruit batter. These were matched with cordials, sweet and warmingly alcoholic.
I must be cautious and not let the drink guide my speech over my wits, he thought. But he also acknowledged that cautious was not really his nature, and he put away the cordials in rapid order after devouring the puddings.
When the dinner was finally done, Horven said, “I apologize for the scant fare, but we are under siege.”
The Black Duke guffawed. “If that was scant, then a full feast would kill me.”
“You honor my table.” Horven tipped his glass toward his guest, then spoke hesitantly. “So, how come you to be traveling with my nephew?”
“I am his uncle, as you are. Or as close to it as to make no difference.” He went on before Horven could speak again. Let him not think this is an interrogation of me. We discuss things as equals or we’ll see how well his guards wield their weapons. “How come you to speak my tongue?”
“My grandfather was Waldish. My father grew up speaking it and taught it to his children, as well. He felt it important to be able to communicate clearly with our neighbors to the north.”
The Black Duke gave him a grin. “We communicate best with sword and shield.”
“As have I on occasion.” Horven shrugged. “When forced to it. Kesset has forced it and I know not why. You knew my brother Alton’s wife?”
The swift change of subject caught The Black Duke by surprise and he blurted out, “Who?”
“Erminkild.”
“Oh. Of course. Yes.”
“Is she truly dead? And my brother?”
“Yes,” he said, heart heavy again with the loss.
“Then Fridale is the last of us,” Horven said plainly.
“What?” The Black Duke felt like the conversation was spinning out of control. Horven obviously had a quick mind. Quicker than mine, anyway. Or maybe it’s just the drink muddling my head. Not for the first time this trip, he wished Good Fortune were here to handle the more difficult things they encountered. Like conversations with intelligent men who may or may not be trusted.
“Kesset’s armies struck all my family’s homes. Okshyde. Flodhame. Orsletter Castle. Arnswirth Keep. I heard the news only days before I was besieged. I’d hoped perhaps Alton and Erm had escaped for I’d had no word from them. But if they are truly gone, than I am the next to last Elamien alive and Fridale is my sole heir.”
He spoke plainly, but The Black Duke could hear the sadness and horror underweaving his words. Who fights to wipe out an entire line? It made even less sense than taking and holding land.
