Deed of Empire, page 18
“I didn’t think you were listening.”
“I listen to everything you say,” Fridale said quietly. “You saved my life.”
I did do that, The Black Duke thought. He looked at Horven, who shrugged in the face of this new, rather forceful young man. “I guess it’s decided then.”
“You will leave after dark,” Horven said and stood. Nodded to The Black Duke who thought his eyes shone as he turned and walked out.
It matters not, he thought. I am certain he will die well.
When the sun went down, The Black Duke, Fridale, and half a dozen hand-picked men stood at the tunnel entrance. The Black Duke had argued with Horven about the extra men.
“The chest needs none but me to guard it!”
“I’m not worried about you guarding it. I’m worried about you carrying it.”
He had a point there. The chest was heavy and if attacked, he and Fridale would have to set it down to defend themselves. With the extra men, they could fight a small rearguard action to keep the chest moving and escape.
“Very well,” he said, realizing quickly that he would win the same amount of arguments with Horven as he ever had with Good Fortune or his wives. He tried one last gambit, anyway. “But only till we find another wagon of po-ta-toes to hide it in.”
Horven shook his head. “The men have given their oaths to Fridale as they had given them to me. They are his men till they die or he discharges them.”
The Black Duke still didn’t like it. As they entered the tunnel, he looked at each man, wondering which one would be the first to move on the chest.
It’s just too much coin! He was having a hard time himself not thinking of all the different ways he could abscond with it. With that kind of riches, I could become this age’s Bent Spear, Chief of Chiefs.
But he was on a holy mission, and the coin was part of the plan. And the plan was a good one, as well as a sight more possible than his had been, even if it was mostly walking and talking till the end bit and involved the death of his most recent lover.
Good plan or no, I will keep a close eye on these Rhagwan. They have only their word at risk, not the wrath of a god.
He made Fridale walk with him at the back of the short column as they moved through the tunnel. Sent two men out to scout when they reached the end. Didn’t really trust them to do a good job—they were Rhagwan after all—but what choice did he have? He had to keep an eye on Fridale and the chest and hope that the scouts were competent enough to spot any sentries or patrols. He also didn’t care for the way the men looked at Fridale as though he was giving the orders, not just translating what The Black Duke said.
Do they think the boy is in charge of this excursion? That the boy made it out of the Wald and halfway across Sorwald without my help? He rolled his eyes. This is going to be a torturous trip. His keen eyes scoured the darkness for any sign of the enemy but saw none. And it is only just beginning.
They met no one as they skulked away from Fell Hill. The men carried the chest by twos, rotating whenever they wearied. They asked no assistance and he petulantly didn’t offer. He was shamed, however, when Fridale took a turn at the handle. When the boy was done with his shift, The Black Duke stepped in and hoisted the thing onto his broad shoulders. It was foolish—the weight was immense and he risked injury from the strain alone, and Grombok strike him if he tripped in the darkness and fell—but the men were obviously impressed. And men were less likely to attempt to steal from a man who could do alone what it took two of them to accomplish.
Or I’ve just encouraged them to team up and when they rebel I’ll be faced with more than if they thought me soft.
Still, a conspiracy was harder to organize than a solo act, so he thought he’d at least bought some time.
They shared shifts at the chest handles after that, and moved swiftly through the night. Not as well as Waldish warriors would have, but well enough. And as they continued on in the daylight—the further from Fell Hill before stopping the better—without complaint or loss of speed, The Black Duke had to admit that this time he was the one impressed. Waldish men would have done it better, of course, but not so much better as he would have thought.
Horven has picked good men for this journey and no lie.
Fridale went down first, but he was a boy and that was to be expected. The Black Duke took the sleeping boy on his shoulders and they went on. He still took his turn at the chest, as well. They made it past midday and well on toward dusk before he judged the balance between needing distance from Kesset and the men needing rest had tipped too much toward the latter to continue. With hand signals he let them know it was time to stop and make camp. The men collapsed wearily to the ground and were thankful when The Black Duke signaled he would take the first watch. In truth, he was going to take every watch till Fridale awakened because he was the only one in this group he trusted.
As they slept, he tried to guess which would be the first to turn.
Will it be the big, blond one with the long moustaches so few Rhagwan wear? Or the short one with the scarred face. Men like him often feel the gods owe them something and will do whatever it takes to get it. The one with the broad archer’s chest looks steady, but perhaps that is exactly what he wants me to think. It was impossible to tell from just a look, he knew, but it didn’t hurt to gather some initial impressions. Tomorrow he’d interview them with Fridale. Find out more about them, their families, their lives. Perhaps one would let something spill that would give The Black Duke the upper hand. What I can’t do is let my guard down. Not till we get to Sodhammen and use this coin to buy an army.
After a few hours, he woke the scarred man, thinking he might be the one rash enough to try to abscond with the treasure on the very first night. He feigned sleep and watched the man whittle a stick into a clever little sliding whistle. Not very suspicious. The scarred man woke the archer next. He acted even less suspicious, sitting and staring out into the night without moving. The Black Duke had trouble staying awake for his shift and was glad when Fridale rustled and awoke. The archer turned and Fridale said something to him in Eidannian, then stepped a few paces away to relieve himself.
It’s time for a talk.
The Black Duke stood, nodding to the archer who returned it and went back to staring at nothing. He stepped up next to Fridale and whispered out the side of his mouth, “You must awaken and watch over the chest while I sleep. It won’t be long. I need but a little rest for the travel tomorrow.”
Fridale rubbed his eyes and looked up at him. “What?”
“I don’t trust these men of your uncle’s. You must watch them as I sleep.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Good.”
They returned to camp and The Black Duke dropped back onto his cloak in relief. Just a few snores and I will be refreshed. But before he could drift off, Fridale called his name. He opened his eyes to see the boy standing over him, the archer by his side.
“This is Javon,” he said. “He has served my uncle faithfully as a squire, then a knight, and finally as captain of his archers. His family traces their service to my house back seven generations and has gained land, honor, and reputation thereof. He would no more betray me than cut off his own hand.” He said something to Javon who went and began waking the other men.
“Fridale,” The Black Duke hissed. “This is foolishness.”
Fridale went on as if he’d said nothing. He pointed to the big blond man who was stumbling sleepily over to them. “Stigerd’s Frozen Lander great-grandfather lost a battle to one of my ancestors who was so impressed with his bravery that he spared him from execution. For that largesse, the man swore himself and his family to mine forevermore. As I think you know, Frozen Landers take that kind of oath very seriously.”
The Black Duke sighed. “Enough. I understand. But…”
“No,” Fridale interrupted. “It is not enough. Every one of these men was my uncle’s sworn man. And now they are mine. My personal guard. They are to be trusted. They must be trusted. Without that trust, we have no hope.”
The Black Duke raised his hands. Add this boy to the ever-growing list of family I can’t win arguments with. “Leave off, boy. You have made your point.”
But he didn’t leave off. Not until he had told The Black Duke each of the men’s names and how they came to be in service to the House of Elamien. The short man with the scars was Jacou, a former slave whose master had given him those scars before Horven slew him. Long-haired Omnic was the bastard son of a hostage lord, with no standing nor place in Rhagwan society till Horven gave him sword and station. Alvo was a fresh-faced squire who had been days away from being knighted and though he longed to die with his lord, Horven had decreed him too young and his future too promising to allow it. He had sworn to die before allowing any harm to come to the last scion of Elamien. Finally, Renatta, who until that very moment The Black Duke hadn’t realized was a woman, was forever grateful to Horven for recognizing her martial talent and promoting her to his personal guard despite centuries of Rhagwan tradition and most of his advisors telling him it was a terrible idea. According to Fridale, she had saved the baron’s life no less than three times since. Instead of trying to save it one last time, she’d sworn to protect his legacy instead.
“May I sleep now?” The Black Duke said.
“You are Waldish and may do what you will,” Fridale said. “I merely want you to know that I’ll sleep, too. And both our bodies and our quest will be safe as we do.”
“Then by Grombok, Cresni, and all the other gods, quiet yourself before the sun comes up and we must move again.”
Fridale smiled. “Thank you, Uncle. It is as you say.”
The Black Duke lay down, closed his eyes, told Cresni he hoped he would see him again in this world, and trusting to the boy’s word regarding his soldiers, went swiftly to sleep.
15.
Egil — Central Vedland
* * *
Well before midnight, Egil spotted a road west. They trotted their horses along it until dawn, circling around towns when they saw their watchfires, and leaving the road any time they spotted the torches of another group of travelers approaching. They spent six nights traveling this way, entering a part of Vedland that was mostly farmland. This was somewhat good for their purposes as it thinned the towns out and left less people to encounter. But with no forests or hills, spots where they could go to ground were hard to find. But they could usually find at least a small stand of trees or an abandoned barn that served well enough.
On the seventh day, they were awoken by rain while it was still light out. They huddled in the wet, though it was summer still and not yet cold. The horses seemed unhappy about the weather, stomping what feet they could in their hobbles and whinnying at the raindrops. But Egil felt like horses were always a little grumpy. Didn’t need to be raining.
I suppose I’d be angry most of the time, too, if I spent my whole life with someone on my back kicking my sides and slapping my neck and always telling me where to go. He supposed that was somewhat like being a boot in the Bought Companies. But you volunteered for that, and if you were good at soldiering you could move up till it was you doing most of the metaphorical side-kicking and neck-slapping. He sneezed suddenly, the rain maybe soaking through a bit more than he thought. Maybe a bit chillier, too. And look at where it’s got me. He stood.
“Bugger this for a game of knucklebones,” he said. “Let’s get moving. The horses’d be happy for a run.”
Idoyu looked at the horses, at Egil, at the empty road far from their campsite. “Indeed. Visibility’s bad enough we won’t get seen from the road.”
They trotted the horses through the fields, knowing they’d have to walk them once it was dark. The weather kept people inside, and they saw no one in the daylight hours. When it turned dark, they kept on, though with no stars to be seen they had only hope to guide them westward. Camp that morning was a half-rotted barn on a farm gone feral. They fought a family of rats for space then bedded down next to the horses who seemed as relieved as them to be out of the rain. In the evening, they walked next to the horses for a bit, letting their saddles finish drying in the last of the day’s sun. They passed a brackish pond where a kingfisher sat in a dead tree eying the waters while unseen frogs croaked out their cacophonous evening greetings.
“Reminds me of home a bit,” Egil said.
Idoyu shook his head. “Born and raised in the capital. The only birds I saw were in cages.”
“I thought your place of birth a small place. What did you say? ‘A mere dot on the map’?”
Idoyu looked at him fiercely for a moment. “You have a good memory.”
“They didn’t make me an Old Man just for my looks.”
“I suppose not.” His face softened. “Yes, it was small in comparison to other cities, as the kingdom was to the other kingdoms around it. But it was the capital, and was still bigger than most Eidannian cities, and certainly bigger than any city on Forfils,” he finished archly.
“Forfils has no cities. And the barn we slept in this morning was bigger than most Forfils towns.” They both laughed at that and Egil gauged it as good a time as not to try to find out who Idoyu was and why Baruso had aided them. “Why did you leave there?” he asked casually, though by the way Idoyu snapped his head around and glared, he guessed he hadn’t been as casual as all that. “I’m sorry,” he said, immediately. “I know I’m impertinent and prying but you know I have a curiosity that cannot be slaked! I have tried to take the lesson of Selis to heart and have been quiet for days. But you showed Baruso a ring and I thought he would go to his knees and kiss it! He gave us knives and coin and food and why won’t you tell me, Idoyu? Why?”
He didn’t care for how he sounded like a beardless child for that last part, but his breakdown may actually have had the desired result. Idoyu’s glare melted away. He even gave a soft smile.
“I will not tell you why,” he said, but went on before Egil had a chance to be disappointed, “but I will tell you a story. It will be part fable and part truth and part something in between. But it should answer enough of your questions that you’ll not bother me again till I’ve seen you safely on a ship to your miserable island. Bargain offered?”
“Bargain accepted,” Egil said immediately, for he knew he’d get no better from the taciturn southerner. “And I’ll do you one better for I’ll place my cloak closest to the rats’ nest tonight.”
“Bargain accepted,” Idoyu said. Then he went on in a sing-song cadence that reminded Egil of Forfils priests telling stories from the Madinoat on holy days. “Far south of here, over the mountains and across the sands, there lay a small kingdom.”
“The kingdom of your birth.”
“Perhaps,” Idoyu said. “But don’t interrupt.”
“Apologies.”
“The kingdom had a good king and a good queen and two princes who should have been good but were not. The youngest was only sort of bad, for he was vain and flighty and treated his subjects with disdain they did not deserve. But he was a child and there was hope he would grow out of it. The older brother was all the way grown. He was also all the way bad and balked at no deed, no matter how foul. But he was clever and was able to hide his wickedness from the only person that mattered: his father the king. For the king, if he’d known, could have named the younger prince his successor, or even adopted one of his generals—who were both numerous and competent—to be his heir.
“When the king died, the older brother became king. He was as bad a king as he was a prince and it wasn’t long before the people rose up against him. But they were put down easily, as they had no training and no leaders and the lords and ministers didn’t like it when the people rose up, even if it was for good reason.
“But it wasn’t more than a season gone by before the lords and ministers, seeing their taxes raised and their lands taken by the king for his own uses, rose up themselves. But though they were leaders and had the people behind them now, they had no true training in the art of war and the generals—who were still numerous and competent—put their rebellion down, too, though not as easily as the last.
“But soon the generals, seeing their men supplied with poor arms and cut down in wars they’d advised the king against entering, decided that they, too, must rise up. They were a bit less numerous since the last conflict, but still competent, and knew that with leadership, training, and the will of the people behind them, they were near guaranteed to win. But winning wasn’t enough. For if they deposed the current king with no plan for what came after, the chaos they created would be worse than a thousand bad kings.”
Egil couldn’t help himself. “Look at Eidannia, for example.” With no one to rule over the dukes since the Hysans left, Eidannia had become more battlefield than empire, its three kingdoms so trampled by soldiers’ boots that no farmer had to plow his fields. Just wait for the next army to march through and plant in the mud they left behind.
“Indeed,” Idoyu said. “They tried to pick one of their own to be king, but the lords and ministers refused who the generals selected and the other way round, as well. Even if they had, there was no guarantee the people would accept who they picked anyway.
“So the generals—even less numerous now, as the arguments over who should wear the crown next had been heated and no small amount of duels were fought—hit upon the perfect plan: the younger brother would rule. He was next in line, anyway, and was vain and flighty which would make him easy for the generals to control and the lords and ministers to influence and the people to—well, the generals didn’t really care what the people thought, so long as they accepted the decision.
“So a war began, but it didn’t last long, as the generals had their training and leadership and the lords, ministers, and people behind them. But when they had the bad king in chains and his brother there to execute him and take his throne, the younger brother found he couldn’t. He was vain and flighty and disdainful of his subjects but he was no kin-killer. Two kings was as bad as no king, so the generals tried to kill the older brother, anyway. But though the younger brother was vain and flighty, he was an excellent swordsman. And the older brother, when released from his chains, was a brutal and efficient killer, as well. The throne room ran red with the blood of lords and ministers and generals—not nearly so numerous after this, as well as there being some doubt now regarding their competence—and the two brothers escaped, leaving the kingdom behind to make their way north across the sands.”
