The Huntsman's War, page 4
Seeing her meet his eyes, a smile slithered across Ironshaw’s face and he urged his horse into a jog, catching up with Kenat and her escort as they rounded a bend between two fields of razorgrain. “Can I help you, Madam Governor?”
To Kenat’s left, Akina sighed heavily. Kenat pretended not to hear, instead glancing to her right towards Trunt, her aid. Beyond them, rolling farmland stretched off to the north for miles, fields of crops and livestock interspersed with the occasional farmstead or small hamlet.
Returning her gaze to Ironshaw, Kenat spoke in Asalkan. “How soon will your men be ready to move beyond the city walls?”
That reptilian smile on Ironshaw’s face seemed to widen by another degree. “If I go back now, I can have them ready in a day.”
“I want you with me,” Kenat lied. She certainly didn't want Ironshaw with her but shadows surround, just the thought of leaving this man in her city without her supervision sent a chill down her back. “Who can you trust to start the preparations?”
Ironshaw’s grin did not so much as flicker, yet his eyes suddenly seemed harder to her, more brittle. “I’d say Lieutenant M’halet.”
“Send one of the men back,” Kenat said, shifting her attention back to Trunt . She continued to speak in Asalkan. Her aid knew the language almost as well as she did, and she wanted Ironshaw to hear her orders. “Tell this M’halet that once our people have confirmed the authenticity of the first shipment, he is to move his men out of the city and begin securing the surrounding environs.” She gestured to the rolling farmland that surrounded them, dotted with dozens of tiny hamlets and Shadows knew how many homesteads. This land that sprawled around Tarbania’s walls was the lifeblood that fed her new city and would feed the Collective army. It was time to consolidate her power here.
Trunt started to bow his head, but suddenly hesitated, his eyes flicking towards hers. Kenat hid her smile behind her hand. Trunt was a good man, for one who stood in the rank of Han. He’d been her aid for years, he knew when she wasn’t quite done. Kenat added, “Have your runner go to the members of my council once he’s delivered his message to the Black Fist. He is to inform them that I would speak with them upon my return, regardless of the hour.”
Trunt dipped his head, chin briefly touching his chest, an appropriate gesture for one of his standing receiving orders from one of the Do. “As you say, Madam Governor.” He turned and rode back down the line to carry out her orders.
Beside her Captain Ironshaw hesitated. That reptilian smile was no longer painted on his face, but Kenat could feel his eyes on her, however much she tried to ignore them. “Thank you, Captain,” she said, speaking slowly as if to a wild beast. “You are dismissed.”
There was a moment of hesitation before Ironshaw bowed in his saddle. “As you say, Madam Governor.”
Kenat watched him drop back, and without meaning to, found her eyes drifting beyond him, to the city walls on the distant horizon. Tarbania. Her city.
She turned back to face the dirt road that wove between two ancient, towering trees. Ironshaw would bear watching, but getting him and his mercenaries out of the city was a relief. And now, she had the Alchemists. That was the last of the city’s guilds. These Asalkans and their false gods seemed quite happy to hand over vast amounts of mercantile and economic control to the guilds that peppered their land. A bizarre idea to be sure, but not without its uses. So long as these guilds signed the contracts her people put forward, asserting control over the economic lifeblood of her new city territory would flow smoothly.
“Shadows consume Ironshaw.”
Akina’s voice jolted Kenat out of her thoughts. Akina’s voice had been pitched low, not meant for her to hear, and Kenat had to resist the urge to glance at her friend and chief sorcerer, had to fight the urge to challenge her. She knew Akina’s opinion of Ironshaw. Shadows surround, she shared most of them. That didn’t stop her from using the mercenary, never would.
Akina guided her horse closer to Kenat’s. Her expression was carefully controlled, hidden in part behind the prosthetic that covered her face as it decayed, but Kenat could sense the tension in the way the woman rode, the way she held her reins. She would try not to just burst out with it, but it would come soon. Oh yes, another argument about Ironshaw, another example of her friend walking right up to the line of Natural Order, another case of Kenat being forced to decide if she punished this breach of protocol, or if she allowed her friend to skirt by. Again. Any second now-
“Why are you going to this… hunt?”
Kenat’s lips pursed. Well, at least it wasn’t going to be an argument. “Why shouldn’t I?”
Akina shrugged. “I understand the necessity of sending troops, I know we need their horses. But why do you want to go and see this for yourself?”
Kenat nodded, considering the question. Not what she’d expected, but perfectly reasonable to ask. “You think I’m wasting my time?”
The sorcerous cocked her head, probably guessing that Kenat was laying a trap for her. She was right, although it was only a small one. Rather than take the bait, Akina said, “I am no formal advisor, so it is certainly not my place to question one of the Do.” Absolutely correct, though Kenat had known her friend to side-step the bounds of propriety before. Akina hesitated only a moment before continuing. “I have heard of other governors in the campaign, the ones who take over for these nobles we’ve been conquering. Most have disbanded the ‘hunts’ of their territories, conscripting the ‘hunters,’ requisitioning the horses, sending the dogs to the commissary. These ‘hunts’ are widely regarded as unnecessary expenditures, drains on the coffers of a newly conquered territory.”
Kenat nodded. She’d heard those reports as well. Certainly, the vast majority of her peers saw no point in these hunts. And they were expensive, oh damnation, they were. This one particularly, fueled from the coffers of a supposed god. And yet…
“How much do you know of Astrapor?”
Akina frowned but answered quickly. “Not much, really. A pretender at divinity, the so-called Living God of Light. Not much else.”
“That’s dogmatic instruction,” Kenat said, holding up one finger. “I mean the practical, day-to-day reputation of a being that ran his province and his city for over a thousand years.”
Clearing her throat, Akina spoke with obvious hesitation. “I had nothing to do with the Governance Corps, Kenat, that’s entirely your domain.”
“Fair. But if you had, you would know that Astrapor had a reputation for efficiency. Nothing was wasted, and nothing was cut short. Every aspect of his city had what it needed, and no more.”
“He’s a false god.”
“That doesn’t mean he lacked wisdom.” Kenat shook her head. “He operated and maintained this ‘hunt’ for almost a thousand years. Astrapor believed that it was crucial to his operations. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps we can live without. I was pulled out of the officer division twenty years ago and put into the Governance Corps, because the Lord of Shadows knew that he would need military governors trained to operate and maintain the infrastructure of this land when our armies returned. It is that infrastructure that I must see for myself before I can decide.”
As the procession crested a rise and skirted around a small collection of homes, Kenat caught Akina staring at her. “What?”
“This posting means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”
Turning away, Kenat swallowed her grimace. No one else would have asked her that question, especially no one who knew her sacrifice. But Akina, sweet Akina, useful Akina, she cared about her friends, and she just had to dig where it was painful, didn’t she? Because she was concerned. “Yes. Of course, it does. You know this assignment was an offer, not an order. You know what I left.”
“Have you heard from her?”
Dammit! Kenat shook her head. “No. I’m not going to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Akina, I was married to the woman for five years. I know her, know her down to her core. She’s hurt, and she’s prideful. She won’t reach out.”
“You could.”
Kenat had to blink at the sudden appearance of dust in her eye. “I don’t think she’d read the letter I would send.” She shook her head and found her voice suddenly stronger. “So, this is where I am. I chose this assignment over my marriage. Fine.” She glanced at the sorcerer and was again unable to read Akina’s expression. “I lost my love for this posting, for this city. I’ll be damned if I lose it too!”
***
In twenty years of serving as huntsman to Astrapor’s pack, Gregan had never seen the grounds so quiet. Damn place was like a wake, everyone standing around silently, afraid to make a noise that might offend. But here, offense could mean death. The only Asalkans out on the grounds were clustered behind him: Tiod and Jellod, Rickton and Kizen, arrayed behind him as they waited for the arrival of their… guest. Every other living soul Gregan could see wore the distinctive red and black armor of the Bloods.
The grounds for Astrapor’s hunt sat atop a secluded rise, surrounded by tall, ancient pine trees that always kept them shrouded in shade. Grounds buildings were arrayed in a circle, with the large stable in the center, home to all the horses for the hunters, and for the various Lords residing in Tarbania who occasionally followed the hunt. Everywhere Gregan looked he saw that red armor as soldiers patrolled between the buildings, keeping an eye out for Gods only knew what. Wasn’t like there was much any of them could do now!
The kennels for Gregan’s hounds were on the far west side of the grounds, overlooking the hill that dropped down to a stream and the wilderness beyond. Off to one side was the whelping kennel, where Gregan kept his pregnant bitches and young puppies. Even now he could hear Riddle at the fence, whining at the sight of him, her belly heavy with a litter that would likely arrive any day now.
Gregan coughed, and almost flinched at the sound that shattered the unearthly stillness. Most days this place had horses being taken out to be exercised, kennel lads bringing in meat to be used for feed, work being done to maintain the buildings. Now, no one was out and moving. The horses had been fed and tended to, but none were allowed to leave the barn. The only people he could see were Collective guards that either patrolled or stood idly keeping watch. And those men, relaxed but extremely attentive, were certainly no comfort.
Sighing deeply, Gregan turned to the short, balding, ferret-faced man beside him. “How much longer?”
Parnit, the Collective overseer, turned to Gregan and wrinkled his nose at him. Damn near all Gregan could do not to break that nose right then and there. “Governor Kenat should be here any moment now. Have some patience, Hadshaw.”
Sighing again, Gregan turned back to face the road that disappeared into the woods and adjusted his formal crimson cloak, the one that had the gold stitching on the hem. Three days since Tarbania had fallen. Three impossible days. Parnit and these Collective thugs had shown up on the morning of the first day and had occupied the kennel grounds, camping just beyond. Their presence was to ensure that the hunt didn’t try to smuggle away or hide any horses, weapons, or equipment the Collective could use for its war effort. And now, this new governor was finally deigning to visit, and it was all Gregan could do not to throttle Parnit out of sheer impatience. Three days of waiting to have his fate decided, three days of wondering what would happen to his hounds.
You won’t kill them, he resolved for what he knew was probably the hundredth time. You can do anything you want to me, you Collective bastard, but you won’t lay a finger on my hounds! Not that there was going to be much he could do. Bloods had locked away his weapons, and he was forced to present himself to this governor unarmed. Well, mostly unarmed. The dagger concealed in the small of his back didn’t count.
A sound caught Gregan’s ear. The hard tramp of hooves on packed earth from the east, past the stables and beyond the scattered cottages that housed the grooms and kennel hands, coming from somewhere deep in the trees. It took every fiber of his being to keep from staring in that direction, toward the source of that sound. He felt his fists clenching, his stomach twisting. Every impact on the ground was a doom drum in his ears, each second drawing closer. Closer. Closer.
The column appeared around the stables, perhaps as many as a hundred soldiers in red and black armor, each mounted on small, swift horses. At their head rode a trio of figures, a banner man and, Gregan blinked, two women.
The woman in the center had to be the governor. Perhaps in her mid-thirties, she had short-cut blonde hair, bright green eyes, and a sharp face accented by her cheekbones and narrow, pointed nose. A scar ran across her face, cutting across one eye and running down her cheek almost to her jawline. Unlike her soldiers she wore a cloth uniform, predominantly black with stripes of red running across her shoulders. Her belt was black with a silver buckle etched with the triple lightning bolts of the Collective, and her boots looked to be of good worn leather that had seen many miles. She carried a sword at her waist and as she dismounted, Gregan realized she probably knew how to use it. She moved with the unconscious care of one who was accustomed to having a weapon on her side.
Once dismounted, the banner man took the reins of her horse, and a sergeant rode up to speak with her. After a few hushed words, the man barked orders in the harsh, clipped language of the Collective, and soldiers began dismounting and spreading out, followed by scribes from the back of the line.
As he watched, Gregan’s gaze fixed on an oddity among the soldiers. Moving forward toward the governor, still mounted on his horse, came a man in a blue cloak. He wore mismatched armor, though his breastplate and greaves looked to be military issue, and his red hair was cut tight to his skull. Military cut. Asalkan military.
Behind the blue-cloaked man, a squad of soldiers entered the stables and Gregan’s stomach clenched. Gods, how many horses were these sons-of-bitches going to take? Even if they left him his hounds, he needed horses to be able to hunt.
No time to worry about that now. The women were approaching him, the mounted man following behind. As they drew closer, Gregan got a good look at the other woman. Dark skinned, she was clothed in a form-fitting wrap of bright orange with a green scarf wrapped around her head. That was the first thing that caught the eye, but once he looked past the clothes, Gregan’s mouth went dry. Part of the woman’s face wasn’t flesh. The flesh from her jaw all the way up to her cheekbone on the right side had been replaced by a prosthetic of either porcelain or bright white clay. So, this other woman was a sorcerer then, and a powerful one at that. She looked to be young but was already showing signs of the decay. If there was more, her clothing hid it well.
It was an effort to keep his face schooled to impassiveness. Sorcerers made everything complicated.
The trio drew to a stop before them and suddenly Parnit was at Gregan’s side, bobbing up and down like some obscene imitation of a bird. “Governor Kenat Do’Ara, it is my humble honor to present Gregan Hadshaw, Tiod Gashwalker, and Jellod Farpine, of the Tarbania hunt.” The weasley man threw himself into a bow, leg bent, left arm tucked, right arm sweeping out to the side.
The others bowed. Maybe they were acceptable. Gregan didn’t watch, didn’t care. He kept his gaze on the governor and she matched his stare. If he affected her in any way, her face betrayed no sign of it. Not so much as a hint. Damn.
“The powerful can only be pushed so far.” His mother’s voice echoed in his head. “Let go the meaningless battles, stand your ground where it matters.” Gods dammit, she was right. Resigning himself to the fact that he would achieve nothing with rudeness, Gregan nodded his head ever so slightly and, damn it all, the woman’s lips twitched in a smile of satisfaction. Okay. He’d lost one fight, but this wasn’t over.
As the others straightened, Gregan stepped forward. “Governor it is-”
She raised a hand, forestalling him. “Don’t insult me by saying it is a pleasure to meet me.” She spoke the language well, but it had the tight, clipped accent of the Collective on every word. “You and I both know that you would just as soon never have set eyes on me, Sergeant Hadshaw.” Behind her, the man in the blue cloak smirked.
Gregan grunted. Okay, change of tactic. “I was going to make more extensive introductions.” Cheap lie, she’d see through that, but it would save him a bit of face.
Governor Kenat shook her head just slightly. “You are Gregan Hadshaw, previously a sergeant in the Asalkan military during our last conflict, now huntsman to Astrapor.” The governor’s lips quirked in the hint of a smile. “Even across the sea, your reputation is known.”
Gregan grunted in surprise, and he could almost feel the heat of Tiod’s glare on the back of his neck. “It is?”
“It is,” she said. Tucking her hands behind her back, this governor walked past them, inspecting the kennel wall, mortared riverstone. Gregan turned around to keep her in sight as she went on. “It is said that you are a fierce and cunning warrior. It is said that you never miss your kill.”
Tiod caught Gregan’s gaze and rolled his eyes. Jellod was staring straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to what was happening. Shit, was he drunk? Kizen and Rickton were both pale as sheets and looked like they wanted nothing more than to fade into the background.
Moving to follow the governor, Gregan padded after her as she walked the perimeter of the kennel. “It is true that there are few huntsmen with a perfect record.”
“Few through all of history,” she said, pausing to run a finger along a crack in the mortar. “None living. Aside from you.” Gregan said nothing. It was true, after all.
She paused, turning to face him. “You are not exactly verbose, are you?”
Forcing himself to meet her gaze, Gregan felt the intensity of this woman. There was a fire behind those eyes, and he was suddenly unsure if he’d want to cross swords with her. Interesting. “You have a strong command of our language.” His gaze went to the man behind her. “Perhaps you had a teacher?”
