Deed of Empire, page 8
She pushed herself to her feet. Tucked the folder up under her shirt. Turned to leave. Oakfort was halfway across the city and pressed up against the south wall; it would take a long while to get to.
At least it’s far away from Ice Town.
“Alda.”
She looked back. “Heron?” He was standing now and it struck her that she was nearly as tall as him. The power and menace he exuded had always been disproportionate to his height.
“Nothing,” he eventually said and waved her away. “Tomorrow.”
“Sure,” she said, not trusting herself to say any more. She made her way down the stairs and into the tunnel to begin the long walk to Oakfort and the Iron Well.
5.
The Black Duke — Sorwald
* * *
The Black Duke had only spent two days as a potato merchant and he’d already decided that he was no longer destined to die in battle.
I shall die of boredom before the week is out.
“Grombok’s breath, is this what farmers do?” he asked Fridale, who had begun to speak a little more over the past two days. Still not exactly talkative though. The boy just nodded in answer. “They wait all year for these…po-ta-toes…to sprout from the ground, and then sell them for coppers in town?”
Fridale nodded again. They were parked on the outskirts of town, actually, though from what The Black Duke had seen of the town, the whole place was outskirts. Wouldn’t be worth the rations the men ate to raid the place. He’d spent the day watching the locals—a weak and sickly bunch, crooked and hunched from lifetimes of digging in the dirt—inspect each potato critically before haggling aggressively with Fridale over the price. At least that’s what he assumed they were doing. The negotiations were in Eidannian, so he couldn’t be sure, and anyway the boy always seemed to sell them two for a copper and five for two coppers, so he wasn’t sure why there was so much yelling and gesticulating.
He sat atop the dwindling pile of potatoes and tried to keep from falling asleep. Because no matter the lack of danger living in the thin limbs and submissive postures of the peasants who wandered past the wagon or stopped to bargain with the boy, the fact remained that they were in enemy territory. And the army they were tracking had destroyed Fridale’s home easily enough.
There’s got to be a few fighters in that group at least.
But then he spotted a striking young woman approaching. She had the black hair and blue eyes of the Waldish, which were easily seen, as she stood a head taller than the surrounding Rhagwan. She looked stout and strong, the natural result of a youth spent in the Wald.
Though that will change if she stays here, The Black Duke thought. I wonder if any of these weaklings were once like her before the Sorwald got into their blood and leached the strength from it.
“Look there, Fridale!” he called out, ensuring the woman would hear him. “I thought only lowly mushrooms grew in the dirt of this place. But ho! A glorious pine approaches.”
Glancing up at the sound of her native tongue, she looked round for warriors but saw only an old farmer sitting on the wagon. The Black Duke winked at her so she would know who spoke. She frowned in reply.
“No tree wishes to be pruned by one so low to the ground.”
Oh, I like her.
“Low to the ground?” he asked, astonished. He flung his arms out, a king surveying his domain. “How so, when I sit so high on my throne of po-ta-toes?” The Eidannian word was still uncomfortable in his mouth.
Snorting, she curtsied. Clumsily, The Black Duke noted with satisfaction. A Waldish woman too comfortable with Rhagwan ways was not to be trusted.
“Forgive me, King of the Worm Herds, I did not recognize you…” She paused, pointing to the sackcloth shirt and trousers he was stuffed into. “In your finery.”
Grinning at her, he hopped off the cart and approached. “Are you more thorn bush than pine to wound me so?”
“It matters not whether I am spruce or shrub,” she said, then gave him a hard stare. “Only that I grow in another man’s camp.”
She crossed her arms hard across her chest in what The Black Duke assumed was supposed to be a discouraging pose. But it pushed her breasts up in a way he found most encouraging.
“Ah,” he said, and considered for a moment, weighing his holy mission against a night’s pleasure followed by a probable blood feud with an unknown enemy—though how dangerous could this enemy be if he lived in Sorwald?—and all the while trying not to be distracted by what he imagined would be a lovely pair of tits when released from the confines of their dress.
Sadly, holy missions brook no pleasant distractions.
“I seek no quarrel,” he finally said, but qualified it. “Today. But give me the pleasure of my own language for a few moments more.”
She uncrossed her arms—which was a positive sign, though also disappointing—and nodded for him to go on.
“Has an army come through here in the past few days?” he asked
She spat on the ground in disgust. “Rhagwan bastards trample my man’s fields, then complain when he can’t provide them any victuals.”
Gods, a farmer captured this one? The Black Duke thought in disgust. Then he reconsidered. The man must be hung like our mule to keep one such as her content.
“Was it led by Duke Kesset?”
“Who can tell one Rhagwan lord from the next?”
Fair. “What direction did they go?”
“North.”
Since he and Fridale had just come from the north, that seemed unlikely. Why would she lie to me? he thought, though there was any number of reasons to lie to an inquisitive stranger who was definitely not what he was pretending to be. But then she went on.
“Then they came back perhaps a week later reeking of smoke and slaughter. They left to the east maybe three days ago.”
Ah, not a lie. Just unexpected thoroughness. That made him think even more fiercely about what it would be like to bed her. I begin to regret my decision to seek no quarrel. A fuck and a fight would be just the thing to knock the po-ta-to dirt from my body. He imagined both for a pleasant moment then sighed. But I have an army to follow and a duke to kill and both get farther away by the day.
“Thank you, Lady Pine,” he said. “You have done great service for this Rhagwan king.”
She snorted again and shot him her first real smile, a glorious dimpling of cheeks and flashing of teeth. “If you’re a Rhagwan king, than I’m Empress of the Hysans.”
May they never rise again, he thought. Of all the peoples the Waldish had fought since they’d left the cold mountains of Frissum, the only ones they feared were the Hysans. The day the Kole put an end to their empire was a blessed day for the Wald.
But to the good-looking Waldish woman, he said, “Your Majesty.”
She smiled again, bought five potatoes, and left. The Black Duke imagined an extra swish in her hips as she walked away, though he knew it wasn’t there.
No one would begrudge an old man his youthful fantasies.
“That’s not how you address an empress,” Fridale said.
The Black Duke reluctantly broke his gaze away from the glorious Waldish ass and turned to the boy. “I should hope not,” he chuckled.
“You address her as—”
“Hush, boy, I have no interest in knowing how to speak to Rhagwan royalty.” He immediately regretted speaking, as the boy’s face flushed and he turned hurriedly back to his potential customers.
Gods, I’ll not get another word from him for a week. The Black Duke sighed and hopped back onto the cart. We know which way to go now, however.
They slept under the cart that night. The next morning, Fridale used the coppers they’d earned to buy foodstuffs for the journey.
“Moshan’s mercy. We sell our food to get coin to buy different food?” The Black Duke asked him when he returned from town. “Seems mightily inefficient. Tell me what you want next time, and I’ll get it for you. We can keep our coppers and our po-ta-toes.” He still wasn’t sure he wanted to eat any of the dirty things, but he wasn’t keen on letting them go, either. They were plunder, fair won. “There’s none in this town could stop me.”
Fridale said nothing. Just loaded the wagon with his purchases and climbed up to sit with the potatoes. The Black Duke nearly picked up the ox’s lead and started the beast, but then decided he didn’t much care for the boy’s attitude and assumption.
“No,” he said, thinking that perhaps a reminder of who was in charge of this holy mission was needed. “You’re going to lead the animal today and I’ll ride on the cart.”
He had a few sons near Fridale’s age and expected at least a little huffing and slouching and perhaps a rolled eye or two before the boy did what he was told. But instead, he hopped off the cart without even changing expression, stepped forward and with a twitch of the lead and an odd click of his tongue, got the animal moving far more efficiently than The Black Duke ever had.
If I’m to have a war of wills with the boy, he thought, having to scramble now to lever himself up onto the suddenly moving wagon, I believe I just lost the first battle.
He smiled, proud of the boy rather than angry.
A fair victory, boy. I’ll try to give you more of a fight next time.
He picked through the bag of supplies Fridale had bought and selected a likely-looking sausage. As he carved pieces off it and popped them in his mouth, he considered how he was going to kill this Duke Kesset all by himself. But in doing so, he realized that he wasn’t considering a full half of his forces: Fridale. That seemed important for a bit, and he tried to think of a way the boy could help get Cresni’s revenge.
I’ve got nothing, he eventually thought, meaning ideas for using the boy. But the thought curdled quickly, leading him to once again regret all that he had lost to take up this quest. But this time he shook it off forcefully. That’s not true. I have this tasty sausage. I have a cart of po-ta-toes driven by a sorrowful boy. I have my strength of arms and a sword of Balaki steel. And if these things aren’t enough to win the day, then I will die. But I will not fail for not trying. And when I stand before Grombok, it will be without shame, for he will know that it was only my body that failed, not my will.
He took the last bite of sausage and tried to lie back in the cart and relax. But it was an unnatural mode of travel, lying down and yet still moving forward, and in his opinion—backed up by recent experience—encouraged too much indolent thought. It was a Rhagwan way to live, lying around thinking while others did the work. And if he allowed himself to adopt it, The Black Duke feared he wouldn’t be ready to act when the time came.
Hopping off the cart, he strode up to Fridale. “I’ll take the lead,” he said, taking the rope from his hands. He thought the boy would take his place on the wagon, but instead he seemed content to walk next to The Black Duke, at least for a while.
Perhaps what little Waldish blood he has is calling for him to move, take action.
It was encouraging, and The Black Duke again tried to think of a use for the boy when they caught up with Duke Kesset. He thought of nothing but this time it didn’t disturb him.
The gods will decide his use. He thought of what happened the last time he’d told the story of Cresni to Fridale. Perhaps they just need a little coaxing.
“I’d not finished the tale of Cresni,” he said to the boy. “Would you like to hear it?”
Fridale shrugged, which in a boy his age equated to an enthusiastic yes.
“Well, then, where did I leave off? Ah, yes. Cresni’s father had placed him in the sky where he was safe from Moshan’s scheming but could still be admired by all.”
The Black Duke thought of the wise men he’d listened to reluctantly as a child as they told their tales of the gods. He tried to imitate their manner, their inflection, the sing-song tone of their voice.
If I am going to influence the gods by relaying their deeds to a new generation, I had best get it right.
“When he grew to be a young man,” he began, “Cresni became more and more restless until even the sky with all its wide-open space was too small to hold him. One day—for it was all days, then—he decided that he would visit his mother, Suma, who he hadn’t seen since her exile. So down to Earth he went, and the First World was dark once more.
“By this time, the gods had become accustomed to how easy life was when the world was light all the time. They were free to hunt and fish and carouse without fear of the creatures of the night. The blood-suckers, the were-beasts, the misshapen trolls and ogres—they were all banished to the darkness of the caves and deep forest where the gods did not go. But with darkness once again on the world, the monsters returned and they were more fearsome and hungry than ever before. The gods begged Grombok to make Cresni return to the skies. He too had enjoyed the constant light Cresni had provided and so gave in to their demands. But while on Earth, Cresni had fallen in love with a beautiful young spirit of the air called Vedra, and refused his father’s orders.
“Grombok was enraged. He told Cresni, ‘If you love the Earth so much, then you can have it!’ and he gave him dominion over Earth, but consigned him to dwell there, as well. And he led the gods on a campaign to drive the night creatures from the First World and down to earth. Thus began a terror of a time for man, where all was dark and monsters roamed the land freely.
“Cresni despaired. Earth was dark and barren compared to the First World and the wide-open sky. And now it was overrun with monsters, too. Cresni couldn’t fight them on his own. But he was a clever godling. He split himself into seven pieces, and gave a part of himself to each of the seven tribes of men. Thus was fire brought to the world, and man helped Cresni defeat the night creatures, who feared nothing more than fire.
“Eventually, Grombok’s ire cooled. The gods still wished for light to return to the First World. And though even Grombok could not rescind a decree of his once it had been enacted, he could soften it some. So Cresni was allowed to spend half his time in the First World and half in the second, giving both worlds a day and a night. So when it is light in the First World it is dark on earth and the other way round as well. But our nights are not as dark as the gods’, as we still have the piece of Cresni that he left with us. And when at night we light our fires, we are ever reminded of the great love between he and Vedra, as the moths, each carrying a tiny bit of the air spirit within them, cannot help but fly into his light.”
There was plenty more to tell of Cresni, but The Black Duke knew now that he was truly a holy man, beloved by the gods. For once again, his telling of Cresni’s tale had drawn their eye and they had blessed him with a result.
On the horizon he saw the smoke from a hundred fires, as if perhaps an army encamped up ahead.
They had caught up with Kesset.
6.
Egil — Vedland
* * *
Egil awoke in darkness. Groaning, he struggled to sit up but was shoved down roughly by a hand on his chest.
“Quiet, boy,” he heard someone hiss, and Idoyu’s head loomed into view.
Not captured then, he thought and nodded to the older man. Straining his eyes in the darkness, he made out some trees and little more. Probably still in the forest by Castle Bardetorre.
The evening’s events were a blur, the intervening time a blank. His head ached and there was a persistent high tone in his ears that threatened his sanity. He desperately wanted a sword in his hand but wasn’t sure he deserved to hold one ever again. Because no matter how patchy his memory was, one thing was certain.
I ran.
That, at least, he remembered clearly. And it was that more than the hand on his chest or the whispered warning that made him subside into the loamy dirt of the forest and lie still.
I am a coward.
He would have thought he’d never run from anything; he’d certainly never run from anything before. And he didn’t know where—or how—to go on from here.
Who wants a warrior who can’t fight?
“Now,” Idoyu breathed. “Follow.”
He crawled past Egil on his belly, moving slow and silent. Egil fell in behind him, trying to emulate his elbows-splayed, knees-wide, stance; his controlled pace; his whisper-quiet progress. But he felt like an elephant to Idoyu’s panther. And where the older man moved like a breath through the darkness, Egil felt like he was snapping every twig, rustling every leaf, and colliding loudly with every rock, root, and stump that poked up out of the dirt. But Idoyu never glanced back at the noise, and nobody appeared to skewer them, so Egil assumed he must be managing well enough.
They slithered like snakes through the underbrush, low and slow. Egil hoped they didn’t run into any actual snakes. He’d held no fear of them while standing and armored despite there being some very poisonous ones this far south. But running into them face first and at their level was another thing entirely. But leaping to his feet was an even worse idea. A snake bite might kill him. A Redfish patrol definitely would.
Idoyu stopped frequently, tilting his head and listening or just going still as a statue and waiting. Maybe for a snake to go by. Egil didn’t know, and Idoyu wasn’t saying. He hadn’t spoken another word after telling Egil to follow. Hadn’t looked back to see if he’d been obeyed, either. Egil had the feeling Idoyu was determined to do his duty by a wounded comrade, but if the duty became too much of a burden he might reevaluate.
It’s not as if we’re friends, Egil thought. He wasn’t sure if Idoyu even had any friends in the company. I know I don’t.
Idoyu stopped again and this time Egil heard voices and slow hoofbeats. He tried to sink into the ground, become one with the vegetation there. He may have succeeded, because the voices never got any closer. Soon, it was silent again, and Idoyu started moving. Without speaking or glancing back, Egil noted.
