Deed of Empire, page 17
The gap-toothed rider turned. “We hear, Isrim-aban. After. The mare, after. Yes?” He sounded like he was asking permission, but his hand was sitting on the pommel of his sword. “You like?” He poked Alda with his toe. “You go first!” He pushed the other rider away, sweeping his arm down at her like a salesman presenting his most prized possession.
Isrim stared at him and Alda wished she could read his expression. But his face had gone featureless as a stone. She didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking for long, however, because he nodded.
“Very well,” he said, and strode toward her.
“You gods-cursed—”
She didn’t get to finish swearing at him because the second rider knelt down and shoved his scarf in her mouth. She couldn’t scream and she couldn’t struggle. All she could do was stare hatred at Isrim as he approached. He stared back, looking sad.
Not as sad as he’ll be if I can get free of these ropes.
While the other two riders watched him, and she held his eyes with her own, Alda strained her fingers as far as they could go, stretched her arms the little bit the ropes would allow and felt her fingertips just brush the top of the last of her boot knives.
But then Isrim reached her, leaned over, and plucked the knife from her boot.
“Looking for this?” he said, holding it up for all to see.
The other two riders laughed hard at that, like it was the best joke they’d ever heard. Gap-tooth’s laughter was cut short, however, by Isrim ramming the knife through the soft flesh behind his chin, through his open mouth, and on into his brain above. It jammed there when Isrim tried to yank it free. He spun to face the other rider empty-handed. That man had his sword halfway out and suddenly Alda didn’t like Isrim’s chances. The only thing she could do in her current state was roll, so she did that, sending herself clumsily at the feet of the other rider.
It was enough. He foolishly sliced at her instead of Isrim and before he could realize the mistake he’d made, Isrim’s newly drawn sword bit into his neck, driving deep until it hit bone. The rider toppled, gouting blood into the sand.
Isrim stared at him for a moment. Muttered a few words in the language of the sands. Then he wiped his sword on the man’s silks. Inspected it for blood and sheathed it when it met his approval. He put a foot on Gap-tooth’s skull, gaining the leverage to retrieve the knife from his face. That blade, too, was cleaned on a dead man’s silks and inspected before getting tucked into Isrim’s wide belt. Then he walked to where Alda lay and stared down at her, frowning.
She spit out the scarf and no small amount of sand. Smiled cautiously up at him. “Guess I’m not the only brave and foolish one here.” Rolling onto her side so he could more easily reach her bonds with the knife, she said, “Cut me loose?”
Isrim shook his head and grunted a negative. “I am not so foolish as that. You must still face the duke’s justice.”
“What about you? You killed two of his men. We’ll both face his justice.”
He waved his hand as if swatting an insect away. Or perhaps the fickle justice of all dukes. “You truly think the duke cares what happens to a few white robes he hired to guide him through the sands? You are even more foolish than I thought.”
“Still, he has to—”
“Enough! From Pallasoldi to the end of the sands, I am the duke’s man. I shall return you to him gagged as well as bound if need be.”
She couldn’t believe how quickly her rescue had turned back into capture.
How can he do this? He cared enough about my well-being to murder my would-be rapists. Why would he do that just to drag me back to certain death at the duke’s hands? It makes no sense. Then she corrected herself. It makes no sense to me. That doesn’t mean it makes no sense to him. But how?
She thought about all she knew of Isrim. It wasn’t much. Though he’d been friendly toward her, he hadn’t revealed a lot of personal information. Obviously, he was a tribesman from the Wandering Sands. But which tribe? What were his connections with the duke? How did he end up in his employ? Did he need money? Love? Vengeance?
Face it, Alda, you know nothing about him. Even the men he’d killed knew him better than you. They at least knew to call him Isrim-aban.
Then it hit her. “God of farts and thunder,” she blurted, “you’re an Aban!”
His frown looked etched into his face now. “What do you know of Aban?”
“My employer back in Pallasoldi did some business with you desert folk. I may have learned a thing or two.”
“Is that so?”
“I know that to be named Aban is a great honor. You are deemed the best of your people in faith and in war. You are neither leader nor holy man, but a little of both.” She wiggled her fingers at him behind her back. “And you follow the Lessons of Abanachim more closely than any.”
He made no move to free her. “And what do you know of the Lessons?”
“Not a lot,” she admitted. “But at this moment, there’s really only one I’m interested in.”
Isrim raised one white eyebrow. “And which one is that?”
“I think it’s called the Wanderer and the Snake?” She shrugged as well as she could with her shoulders wrenched back. “It’s the one that says if you save a person’s life you become responsible for them.”
“That is its name,” he answered, “though you are giving it a…” He paused, searching for the right word. “A charitable interpretation.”
“And isn’t charity one of the first lessons?”
Isrim sighed and sat in the sand next to Alda. “It is. But it does not matter.”
“Oh, I think it—” she began, but Isrim cut her off, sounding weary.
“Firstly, the Lesson of the Wanderer and the Snake is a caution. The wanderer saves the snake and is forever responsible to see that it poisons no one else, for their deaths would then be on his head.”
Alda thought the easy solution to that problem was for the wanderer to kill the snake, but for obvious reasons decided it best not to bring that up.
“Secondly, it has been determined that the Lesson of Charity applies only to those of the faith, of which you are not.”
“Yes, but I suddenly find myself filled with a religious fervor. Indeed, I ache to join the faithful.”
He almost smiled at that, but Alda could see that something weighed him down. Something more than the conundrum she’d put him in. Though what could be more weighty than the killing of two caravan guards and—hopefully—the release of one murderous prisoner, she wasn’t sure.
“Finally, though these dead men addressed me as Aban, I no longer have any right to the name. I was stripped of haras and herd and sent from the sands. I am no more Aban than you.”
Alda understood the feeling of losing everything and she told him so. “I, too, have been stripped of all I have and sent away from my home.” She tried to grab his eyes with hers. “But I didn’t stop being me. Though given where I’ve landed, perhaps I should have.”
He finally smiled just a little, giving her a spark of hope.
“So tell me, Isrim-no-Aban,” she continued, “when they took your title and possessions, did they take your faith and fidelity, as well? Are they so easy to take from a man?”
He looked at her wide-eyed for a moment and she thought she’d finally swayed him. But then his eyes narrowed. “You argue this only because you wish to live.”
She snorted. “Of course I wish to live! That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
His lips pressed thin and his eyes stayed critical even though she was sure she’d hit home.
If only I knew more about him. She would have thought knowing he was Aban would be enough. But somehow, she had missed her mark. Not by much, I wager. But enough that if she didn’t figure him out in the next few moments she was going to have a short ride and a long death in her very near future.
She remembered Heron once telling her, “I’d rather deal with crooks, with thieves, with murderers and rogues. They’ll always do what they think is best for themselves, considering no other. Makes them easy to predict, even when they betray you. But men of principle? Men who base their decisions on ideas and ideals? Only the gods know which way they’ll jump when things go askew.”
She was sure now that Isrim was a man of principle. But how did that help? She knew nothing of principle. If only I knew more about him.
But then she remembered another thing Heron had told her, and she knew the argument to use.
All men lie. But steel always tells it true.
Isrim had killed two men right in front of her. That’s exactly the kind of thing that reveals a man’s character. The principles he’ll die—or in this case, kill—for.
“I’ll tell you one last thing, Isrim,” she said, “then say no more and let the decision be yours alone. The men I killed, though they aimed to use honeyed words and a handful of silver, were exactly the same as these two once thwarted. They would have used me violently and tossed me aside. And if I must die for their murder then I do it proudly, for if I’d let them live, then like the Wanderer and the Snake, the next girl they raped would be wholly my fault.”
It was a good argument, and had the added bonus of being mostly true. And though her motives hadn’t been nearly as pure as she made them out to be, when she spoke, she believed differently. She had killed them not for personal gain, but selflessly, so that other young women wouldn’t suffer their misdeeds. She was practically a hero, and if Isrim couldn’t see that, then he was right and he didn’t deserve the title of Aban.
She tried to plaster a good and decent look to her face, but realized she didn’t actually know what that looked like. She settled for staring at Isrim frankly, daring him to condemn her, a hero, to death. He met her eyes firmly and, after a few hard moments, let out a heavy sigh. Then he pulled Alda’s knife back out and swiftly sawed through her bonds.
She was free.
Her arms and legs tingled as the blood flowed back into them and her left thigh had a particular ache to it, but she was determined to get to her feet.
I’ve lain on the ground long enough.
She stood quickly, fighting the urge to check which of her knives were still in place. Isrim seemed sharp-eyed. He’d found one of her knives easily enough, and she didn’t want to help him find any others. Though he’d released her, she wasn’t sure if she could fully trust him yet. He’d proven twice now that he was a man of principle, so how was she to know what his principles would tell him to do next?
Her left leg was weaker than she’d suspected and she stumbled. Isrim reached out a hand and grabbed her arm, steadying her, but it wasn’t enough. Her leg wouldn’t take her weight. Looking down at it, she saw a large rip in her breeches and a gash to match it in the leg beneath. The rider had clearly caught her with his blade before Isrim had killed him. She hadn’t even felt it.
That’s a lot of blood.
The weight of the past night and all its running, killing, and begging for her life settled on her chest and she collapsed back onto the sandy road, unconscious.
14.
The Black Duke — Fell Hill
* * *
Breakfast at Fell Hill was as grand as dinner had been, if a bit hurried. Kesset had begun constructing siege engines, and Horven needed to get out and check with his leaders on preparations for defense against them. When he left, The Black Duke spoke with Fridale.
“We’re going to have to leave soon,” he said. “This place will fall eventually, and we’ll die defending it and never get near Kesset.”
Fridale frowned but didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything, actually. That was fine with The Black Duke, who concentrated on sopping up the last of his broth with a piece of bread. He knocked the crumbs from his beard and made to stand but saw Fridale looking at him sadly.
“It’s the way of things, boy,” he said. “Cresni has set our fate.”
This did nothing to change the boy’s expression. “But what of my uncle?”
He has lost a lot of relatives in a short time. “He answers to different gods than ours.”
“Ours? I have only just learned of Cresni, and now he is mine? What of the gods of my father?”
“The gods of your dead father? Your dead mother? The gods that have allowed your entire family to be destroyed?” The boy looked close to tears, but it was time for hard truths if he wanted Lady Yana to seat him with the warriors. “The Rhagwan gods are no good for you. Cresni, at least, offers a chance at vengeance.”
“What chance? What vengeance?” The boy looked angry now, which was a far sight better than sorrowful. The Black Duke only wished he wasn’t the target. “We’ve done nothing but kill farmers and steal potatoes. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a thousand men between us and Duke Kesset! And perhaps a wizard, as well.”
Now he’s talkative? I’m starting to miss the quiet boy from the road. “There are far more than a thousand men.”
Fridale grunted and folded his arms in front of him, suddenly looking very young. The Black Duke had a moment of pity for the boy, but only a moment.
Pity won’t help him. Pity won’t avenge Erm.
“If you wish to stay here and die fighting beside your family, I respect that. But if you think hiding behind these walls will save you, it won’t. Neither will your Rhagwan gods.”
“So those are my choices? Die here fighting a futile defense or die out there in a hopeless attack?”
The Black Duke laughed, but there was very little humor in it. “Boy, most men don’t even get that much of a choice.”
“Perhaps there’s a third option,” Horven said, reentering the room. The two guards accompanying him carried a chest between them. They strained with the weight. The Black Duke thought for a moment of the pleasant straining he’d done recently with Horven, but quickly put it from his mind.
That is over now. We must away, and thinking on the many ways I could yet enjoy that man’s body will only make me want to stay.
Horven sat down at the head of the table. His men put down the chest and stepped back.
“Events have overtaken us very quickly,” Horven said. “Just days ago, I had family, influence, a certain amount of wealth. Now, all I have of any of those things is within these walls. And the most important of those is in this very room.” He looked at Fridale as he spoke, then turned to The Black Duke. “Do you have family?”
“Yes,” he answered. “And I’ve sworn vengeance for some of them.”
“I understand. And I don’t ask you to forsake that vengeance. I just ask you to attain it in a different manner than you’d planned.” He nodded to one of the guards who unlatched the chest and flipped it open. Inside was a healthy amount of portable wealth. Silver Eidannian coins mostly, with the heads of Rhagwan dukes stamped into them, but also Pallasoldi toldi, Frozen Land hacksilver, and even some Hysan gold pieces valuable for their rarity as much as their gold content.
“That could pay for a lot of planning,” The Black Duke noted. “Have you considered trying to buy your life with it?” The Frozen Landers, forebears of the Waldish, had always been just as happy to be paid off as to raid a place. Their descendants had let the practice lapse since entering the Wald.
If I’d known the Rhagwan kept this kind of wealth lying around I may have tried to resurrect it.
“He flies the black,” Horven answered. “He is here for death, not profit.”
“The Bought Companies,” Fridale said.
“Erm always was a sharp one,” Horven said. “I’m glad to see she passed it on.”
“Mercenaries?” The Black Duke said. He didn’t much trust mercenaries. He understood fighting for money—it was basically what he did, though it wasn’t always money that he took—he just didn’t understand picking a side for it.
But a relieving force, even a mercenary one, might be able turn this fight.
“Yes,” Horven said. “Travel to Sodhammen and hire them.”
“Where is that?” The Black Duke asked.
“On the north coast of Eidan. Or the south coast of Sorwald, depending on who holds it at the moment. Three week’s travel, at least.”
He thought about it. “There’s a chance, then.”
Horven shook his head. “Three weeks to get there.”
“Oh.” And three weeks back. Plus the time to hire an army and get it moving. There’s no way.
“What?” Fridale asked.
The Black Duke sighed. “The mercenaries aren’t to save your uncle. They’re to avenge him.”
Horven nodded. “And for Fridale to reclaim his lands.”
Fridale spoke up. “Maybe if we hurried…”
“Save your coin,” The Black Duke said. “Even that much won’t buy enough to face an army the size of Kennet’s. And bought swords don’t sign on for a battle they can’t win.”
“I have nothing else to spend it on.” Horven gave a thin-lipped smile. “And the length of time to accomplish it actually helps. Kesset can’t hold an army that size in the field forever. This is his last siege. After he kills me, he’ll release the levy to the fields. Send his bannermen back to their halls. It will just be his own men holed up in Castle Marlou. Which is a hard nut to crack, but you’ll be paying well.”
The Black Duke thought about it. It was a good plan, like one Good Fortune would have thought of. But it involved a lot of traveling in Rhagwan lands, then a bunch of negotiating before traveling again. There would be very little opportunity for him to impress the gods in that time. Honestly, he would rather try to assassinate Kesset here and now, though it was unlikely he’d succeed. But it would be a fine last act to lay at Grombok’s feet. But before he could speak his mind on the matter, Fridale spoke up. And now The Black Duke definitely missed the quiet kid.
“We’ll do it,” Fridale said.
“Wait, I…”
“No, Uncle, it is the only way,” Fridale said. “When Cresni was in the Second World and beset by monsters, did he try to face them alone? No. He gathered allies for the fight.” He stood from the table, and The Black Duke found he almost had to look up at him. “We shall do the same.”
Isrim stared at him and Alda wished she could read his expression. But his face had gone featureless as a stone. She didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking for long, however, because he nodded.
“Very well,” he said, and strode toward her.
“You gods-cursed—”
She didn’t get to finish swearing at him because the second rider knelt down and shoved his scarf in her mouth. She couldn’t scream and she couldn’t struggle. All she could do was stare hatred at Isrim as he approached. He stared back, looking sad.
Not as sad as he’ll be if I can get free of these ropes.
While the other two riders watched him, and she held his eyes with her own, Alda strained her fingers as far as they could go, stretched her arms the little bit the ropes would allow and felt her fingertips just brush the top of the last of her boot knives.
But then Isrim reached her, leaned over, and plucked the knife from her boot.
“Looking for this?” he said, holding it up for all to see.
The other two riders laughed hard at that, like it was the best joke they’d ever heard. Gap-tooth’s laughter was cut short, however, by Isrim ramming the knife through the soft flesh behind his chin, through his open mouth, and on into his brain above. It jammed there when Isrim tried to yank it free. He spun to face the other rider empty-handed. That man had his sword halfway out and suddenly Alda didn’t like Isrim’s chances. The only thing she could do in her current state was roll, so she did that, sending herself clumsily at the feet of the other rider.
It was enough. He foolishly sliced at her instead of Isrim and before he could realize the mistake he’d made, Isrim’s newly drawn sword bit into his neck, driving deep until it hit bone. The rider toppled, gouting blood into the sand.
Isrim stared at him for a moment. Muttered a few words in the language of the sands. Then he wiped his sword on the man’s silks. Inspected it for blood and sheathed it when it met his approval. He put a foot on Gap-tooth’s skull, gaining the leverage to retrieve the knife from his face. That blade, too, was cleaned on a dead man’s silks and inspected before getting tucked into Isrim’s wide belt. Then he walked to where Alda lay and stared down at her, frowning.
She spit out the scarf and no small amount of sand. Smiled cautiously up at him. “Guess I’m not the only brave and foolish one here.” Rolling onto her side so he could more easily reach her bonds with the knife, she said, “Cut me loose?”
Isrim shook his head and grunted a negative. “I am not so foolish as that. You must still face the duke’s justice.”
“What about you? You killed two of his men. We’ll both face his justice.”
He waved his hand as if swatting an insect away. Or perhaps the fickle justice of all dukes. “You truly think the duke cares what happens to a few white robes he hired to guide him through the sands? You are even more foolish than I thought.”
“Still, he has to—”
“Enough! From Pallasoldi to the end of the sands, I am the duke’s man. I shall return you to him gagged as well as bound if need be.”
She couldn’t believe how quickly her rescue had turned back into capture.
How can he do this? He cared enough about my well-being to murder my would-be rapists. Why would he do that just to drag me back to certain death at the duke’s hands? It makes no sense. Then she corrected herself. It makes no sense to me. That doesn’t mean it makes no sense to him. But how?
She thought about all she knew of Isrim. It wasn’t much. Though he’d been friendly toward her, he hadn’t revealed a lot of personal information. Obviously, he was a tribesman from the Wandering Sands. But which tribe? What were his connections with the duke? How did he end up in his employ? Did he need money? Love? Vengeance?
Face it, Alda, you know nothing about him. Even the men he’d killed knew him better than you. They at least knew to call him Isrim-aban.
Then it hit her. “God of farts and thunder,” she blurted, “you’re an Aban!”
His frown looked etched into his face now. “What do you know of Aban?”
“My employer back in Pallasoldi did some business with you desert folk. I may have learned a thing or two.”
“Is that so?”
“I know that to be named Aban is a great honor. You are deemed the best of your people in faith and in war. You are neither leader nor holy man, but a little of both.” She wiggled her fingers at him behind her back. “And you follow the Lessons of Abanachim more closely than any.”
He made no move to free her. “And what do you know of the Lessons?”
“Not a lot,” she admitted. “But at this moment, there’s really only one I’m interested in.”
Isrim raised one white eyebrow. “And which one is that?”
“I think it’s called the Wanderer and the Snake?” She shrugged as well as she could with her shoulders wrenched back. “It’s the one that says if you save a person’s life you become responsible for them.”
“That is its name,” he answered, “though you are giving it a…” He paused, searching for the right word. “A charitable interpretation.”
“And isn’t charity one of the first lessons?”
Isrim sighed and sat in the sand next to Alda. “It is. But it does not matter.”
“Oh, I think it—” she began, but Isrim cut her off, sounding weary.
“Firstly, the Lesson of the Wanderer and the Snake is a caution. The wanderer saves the snake and is forever responsible to see that it poisons no one else, for their deaths would then be on his head.”
Alda thought the easy solution to that problem was for the wanderer to kill the snake, but for obvious reasons decided it best not to bring that up.
“Secondly, it has been determined that the Lesson of Charity applies only to those of the faith, of which you are not.”
“Yes, but I suddenly find myself filled with a religious fervor. Indeed, I ache to join the faithful.”
He almost smiled at that, but Alda could see that something weighed him down. Something more than the conundrum she’d put him in. Though what could be more weighty than the killing of two caravan guards and—hopefully—the release of one murderous prisoner, she wasn’t sure.
“Finally, though these dead men addressed me as Aban, I no longer have any right to the name. I was stripped of haras and herd and sent from the sands. I am no more Aban than you.”
Alda understood the feeling of losing everything and she told him so. “I, too, have been stripped of all I have and sent away from my home.” She tried to grab his eyes with hers. “But I didn’t stop being me. Though given where I’ve landed, perhaps I should have.”
He finally smiled just a little, giving her a spark of hope.
“So tell me, Isrim-no-Aban,” she continued, “when they took your title and possessions, did they take your faith and fidelity, as well? Are they so easy to take from a man?”
He looked at her wide-eyed for a moment and she thought she’d finally swayed him. But then his eyes narrowed. “You argue this only because you wish to live.”
She snorted. “Of course I wish to live! That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
His lips pressed thin and his eyes stayed critical even though she was sure she’d hit home.
If only I knew more about him. She would have thought knowing he was Aban would be enough. But somehow, she had missed her mark. Not by much, I wager. But enough that if she didn’t figure him out in the next few moments she was going to have a short ride and a long death in her very near future.
She remembered Heron once telling her, “I’d rather deal with crooks, with thieves, with murderers and rogues. They’ll always do what they think is best for themselves, considering no other. Makes them easy to predict, even when they betray you. But men of principle? Men who base their decisions on ideas and ideals? Only the gods know which way they’ll jump when things go askew.”
She was sure now that Isrim was a man of principle. But how did that help? She knew nothing of principle. If only I knew more about him.
But then she remembered another thing Heron had told her, and she knew the argument to use.
All men lie. But steel always tells it true.
Isrim had killed two men right in front of her. That’s exactly the kind of thing that reveals a man’s character. The principles he’ll die—or in this case, kill—for.
“I’ll tell you one last thing, Isrim,” she said, “then say no more and let the decision be yours alone. The men I killed, though they aimed to use honeyed words and a handful of silver, were exactly the same as these two once thwarted. They would have used me violently and tossed me aside. And if I must die for their murder then I do it proudly, for if I’d let them live, then like the Wanderer and the Snake, the next girl they raped would be wholly my fault.”
It was a good argument, and had the added bonus of being mostly true. And though her motives hadn’t been nearly as pure as she made them out to be, when she spoke, she believed differently. She had killed them not for personal gain, but selflessly, so that other young women wouldn’t suffer their misdeeds. She was practically a hero, and if Isrim couldn’t see that, then he was right and he didn’t deserve the title of Aban.
She tried to plaster a good and decent look to her face, but realized she didn’t actually know what that looked like. She settled for staring at Isrim frankly, daring him to condemn her, a hero, to death. He met her eyes firmly and, after a few hard moments, let out a heavy sigh. Then he pulled Alda’s knife back out and swiftly sawed through her bonds.
She was free.
Her arms and legs tingled as the blood flowed back into them and her left thigh had a particular ache to it, but she was determined to get to her feet.
I’ve lain on the ground long enough.
She stood quickly, fighting the urge to check which of her knives were still in place. Isrim seemed sharp-eyed. He’d found one of her knives easily enough, and she didn’t want to help him find any others. Though he’d released her, she wasn’t sure if she could fully trust him yet. He’d proven twice now that he was a man of principle, so how was she to know what his principles would tell him to do next?
Her left leg was weaker than she’d suspected and she stumbled. Isrim reached out a hand and grabbed her arm, steadying her, but it wasn’t enough. Her leg wouldn’t take her weight. Looking down at it, she saw a large rip in her breeches and a gash to match it in the leg beneath. The rider had clearly caught her with his blade before Isrim had killed him. She hadn’t even felt it.
That’s a lot of blood.
The weight of the past night and all its running, killing, and begging for her life settled on her chest and she collapsed back onto the sandy road, unconscious.
14.
The Black Duke — Fell Hill
* * *
Breakfast at Fell Hill was as grand as dinner had been, if a bit hurried. Kesset had begun constructing siege engines, and Horven needed to get out and check with his leaders on preparations for defense against them. When he left, The Black Duke spoke with Fridale.
“We’re going to have to leave soon,” he said. “This place will fall eventually, and we’ll die defending it and never get near Kesset.”
Fridale frowned but didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything, actually. That was fine with The Black Duke, who concentrated on sopping up the last of his broth with a piece of bread. He knocked the crumbs from his beard and made to stand but saw Fridale looking at him sadly.
“It’s the way of things, boy,” he said. “Cresni has set our fate.”
This did nothing to change the boy’s expression. “But what of my uncle?”
He has lost a lot of relatives in a short time. “He answers to different gods than ours.”
“Ours? I have only just learned of Cresni, and now he is mine? What of the gods of my father?”
“The gods of your dead father? Your dead mother? The gods that have allowed your entire family to be destroyed?” The boy looked close to tears, but it was time for hard truths if he wanted Lady Yana to seat him with the warriors. “The Rhagwan gods are no good for you. Cresni, at least, offers a chance at vengeance.”
“What chance? What vengeance?” The boy looked angry now, which was a far sight better than sorrowful. The Black Duke only wished he wasn’t the target. “We’ve done nothing but kill farmers and steal potatoes. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a thousand men between us and Duke Kesset! And perhaps a wizard, as well.”
Now he’s talkative? I’m starting to miss the quiet boy from the road. “There are far more than a thousand men.”
Fridale grunted and folded his arms in front of him, suddenly looking very young. The Black Duke had a moment of pity for the boy, but only a moment.
Pity won’t help him. Pity won’t avenge Erm.
“If you wish to stay here and die fighting beside your family, I respect that. But if you think hiding behind these walls will save you, it won’t. Neither will your Rhagwan gods.”
“So those are my choices? Die here fighting a futile defense or die out there in a hopeless attack?”
The Black Duke laughed, but there was very little humor in it. “Boy, most men don’t even get that much of a choice.”
“Perhaps there’s a third option,” Horven said, reentering the room. The two guards accompanying him carried a chest between them. They strained with the weight. The Black Duke thought for a moment of the pleasant straining he’d done recently with Horven, but quickly put it from his mind.
That is over now. We must away, and thinking on the many ways I could yet enjoy that man’s body will only make me want to stay.
Horven sat down at the head of the table. His men put down the chest and stepped back.
“Events have overtaken us very quickly,” Horven said. “Just days ago, I had family, influence, a certain amount of wealth. Now, all I have of any of those things is within these walls. And the most important of those is in this very room.” He looked at Fridale as he spoke, then turned to The Black Duke. “Do you have family?”
“Yes,” he answered. “And I’ve sworn vengeance for some of them.”
“I understand. And I don’t ask you to forsake that vengeance. I just ask you to attain it in a different manner than you’d planned.” He nodded to one of the guards who unlatched the chest and flipped it open. Inside was a healthy amount of portable wealth. Silver Eidannian coins mostly, with the heads of Rhagwan dukes stamped into them, but also Pallasoldi toldi, Frozen Land hacksilver, and even some Hysan gold pieces valuable for their rarity as much as their gold content.
“That could pay for a lot of planning,” The Black Duke noted. “Have you considered trying to buy your life with it?” The Frozen Landers, forebears of the Waldish, had always been just as happy to be paid off as to raid a place. Their descendants had let the practice lapse since entering the Wald.
If I’d known the Rhagwan kept this kind of wealth lying around I may have tried to resurrect it.
“He flies the black,” Horven answered. “He is here for death, not profit.”
“The Bought Companies,” Fridale said.
“Erm always was a sharp one,” Horven said. “I’m glad to see she passed it on.”
“Mercenaries?” The Black Duke said. He didn’t much trust mercenaries. He understood fighting for money—it was basically what he did, though it wasn’t always money that he took—he just didn’t understand picking a side for it.
But a relieving force, even a mercenary one, might be able turn this fight.
“Yes,” Horven said. “Travel to Sodhammen and hire them.”
“Where is that?” The Black Duke asked.
“On the north coast of Eidan. Or the south coast of Sorwald, depending on who holds it at the moment. Three week’s travel, at least.”
He thought about it. “There’s a chance, then.”
Horven shook his head. “Three weeks to get there.”
“Oh.” And three weeks back. Plus the time to hire an army and get it moving. There’s no way.
“What?” Fridale asked.
The Black Duke sighed. “The mercenaries aren’t to save your uncle. They’re to avenge him.”
Horven nodded. “And for Fridale to reclaim his lands.”
Fridale spoke up. “Maybe if we hurried…”
“Save your coin,” The Black Duke said. “Even that much won’t buy enough to face an army the size of Kennet’s. And bought swords don’t sign on for a battle they can’t win.”
“I have nothing else to spend it on.” Horven gave a thin-lipped smile. “And the length of time to accomplish it actually helps. Kesset can’t hold an army that size in the field forever. This is his last siege. After he kills me, he’ll release the levy to the fields. Send his bannermen back to their halls. It will just be his own men holed up in Castle Marlou. Which is a hard nut to crack, but you’ll be paying well.”
The Black Duke thought about it. It was a good plan, like one Good Fortune would have thought of. But it involved a lot of traveling in Rhagwan lands, then a bunch of negotiating before traveling again. There would be very little opportunity for him to impress the gods in that time. Honestly, he would rather try to assassinate Kesset here and now, though it was unlikely he’d succeed. But it would be a fine last act to lay at Grombok’s feet. But before he could speak his mind on the matter, Fridale spoke up. And now The Black Duke definitely missed the quiet kid.
“We’ll do it,” Fridale said.
“Wait, I…”
“No, Uncle, it is the only way,” Fridale said. “When Cresni was in the Second World and beset by monsters, did he try to face them alone? No. He gathered allies for the fight.” He stood from the table, and The Black Duke found he almost had to look up at him. “We shall do the same.”
