Markan Sword

  The man who called himself Hingast winced. More importantly, Eldova had lost three generals, almost the entire head of the army removed at once. At best captured, to be ransomed back in the future. For gold, or the promise of peace and a dropped claim?

  He enjoyed being a claimant. "More survivors may trickle in," he said. He hoped not; they would tell a very different story than the one he had put about. His fellow returnees were content to go along with this official story, or else be shown as cowards who chose flight over fight.

  But Eldova needed all her men. The game was not yet over.

  "Marka may attack us," continued Ansin. "The men you promoted are not as good as those we lost."

  That was unfair and not completely true.

  "A Markan army must cross the Barren," he said. Again, a wince.

  The real Hingast had spent most of his sixteen year rule depopulating and destroying lands surrounding Eldova. Fertile farmland planted with softwood trees, changing the soil so other crops could no longer grow. This prevented any invading army from living off the land, the wood useless for making war machines and siege engines any potential invader would need.

  A terrible waste of perfectly good arable land; he needed years to reclaim and restore it to proper use.

  Clearing the land also meant the mass movement of huge numbers of people, which in turn caused prices to collapse in the slave markets. Followed by starvation for many and the highest proportion of enslaved humans anywhere on the continent. Which then made a significant number of sylphs destitute.

  Not a good situation. Sylphs, not humans, existed to be slaves.

  Everywhere, signs of avoidable neglect stood out. Human urchins infested the streets and were probably responsible for most of the crime. They organized and lived off whatever the many indigent sylphs managed to bring in. As in Marka, so many sylphs, particularly the infertiles, chose negative attention over no attention at all, happily joining human gangs that controlled and used them.

  Copying the Markan sylph-Emperor's ideas would solve the problem of surplus people and sylphs. He had made a beginning since his return the previous fall. He had so much to put right.

  Fortunately, he had a good feel for running a city.

  Eldova's guilds had been denuded of men for the army, so the man who called himself Hingast had encouraged them to employ more women and even the older urchins. Trade and commerce must flow again.

  Fortunately, the parts of Eldova Hingast had not ruined were fertile, so food shortages – caused by a lack of young men to farm – should not be repeated this year. He had begun to move surplus sylphs out from the city and onto the land, where they happily sowed and tended crops.

  Every day, there were fewer and fewer beggars. Crime, a canker in any human society, was relentlessly driven down by a mixture of sylph relocation and strict enforcement of laws.

  But he must also keep at least one eye on Marka. The sylph-Emperor might not attack, preferring to consolidate his position further east, but one man would have something planned.

  General Kelanus.

  "A pity Dervra seems to have left us," remarked the man who now called himself Hingast.

  Ansin sniffed disapprovingly. She had never liked Dervra. In fairness, not very many people did, even if a goodly number had cause to thank him for what they were, or what they had managed to achieve.

  The man who now called himself Hingast included. He gave Dervra a few moments' thought. The man probably lurked further north, hiding in the stronghold where he believed himself safe. Turivkan was anything but safe, all but surrounded by enemies and potential enemies.

  Not his problem.

  "The Markans won't worry us here," he said, at last.

  He worried more about returning Eldovans, and began to plan what best to do should any appear.

  ***

  IV: Sandester

  "Support for our claim in Marka falls day by day." Kana Santon shook her head. "Those not for Marcus stand behind Zenepha, united in their desire to keep him from the throne, yet unable to agree who should take it."

  Nazvasta grimaced. He was not in his study, but the palace. Carpeted floors were normal here, to help insulate against the bitter cold that could persist into early summer, despite the lack of north-facing windows or doors. And despite the palace being built into the hill.

  A fire crackled cheerfully on the hearth and servants stood ready to keep it fed with fresh wood and coal. The ceilings in the palace were lower than in many other grand houses, again to help retain heat.

  "So your attempts to garner support failed," he remarked.

  Kana snorted. "I would have enjoyed considerable success had Verdin laid his claim, but he followed his father's example."

  Nazvasta's eyes flickered aside briefly. "Quite. He seems to have thrown his lot in with Marcus."

  Kana smiled. "He fancies himself as the man to rebuild the empire and in fairness, he's doing quite well so far. But he's running free from our control. What influence we might gain through his actions so far is being wasted. Remember though that he is my son."

  "It is hard to forget that fact," smiled Nazvasta, leaning back. He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced.

  "Re Taura tamed by Marka, thanks to Verdin," continued Kana. "Ambassadors exchanged between Marka and former Prefectures, thanks to Verdin. Other Prefectures joining with Marka, thanks to Verdin."

  "The boy certainly has a flair for diplomacy," remarked Nazvasta. "He's doing very well without us. Perhaps we can make use of your son yet."

  "I hope so," admitted Kana.

  "How secure is Zenepha?" Nazvasta kept his voice quiet.

  Kana's grey-blue eyes were calm. "Away from his Supreme Council and Senate supporters, not very," she replied. "Marcus and Kelanus outmaneuvered him over Re Taura. Worse, Zenepha has begun to doubt himself."

  "We offered Zenepha our support." Nazvasta tapped his fingernails together.

  "Will you raise the dragon's head banner?" Kana's eyes were unblinking.

  "If Zenepha abdicates?" Nazvasta paused. "I expect so."

  Kana smiled and leaned forward. "You can count on my support."

  Nazvasta did not return the smile. He faced a massive task to turn around support for Marcus Vintner, but he had overcome obstacles before, and could do so again.

  One way or another, his claim would be settled.

  ***

  V: Assassin

  Dervra relaxed in his small study, where nobody would disturb him, except perhaps Marlen, if he brought really dire news. He kept the room sparsely furnished, with a desk and two simple chairs, a single painting of a snow-capped mountain above a hearth on which no fire burned. A single rug covered part of the stone-flagged floor and pale beech panels lined every wall to the ceiling.

  A door lay behind one of those panels, leading to an escape tunnel, but Dervra had never tried to work out how to get into it. He had more entertaining methods of escape, should such ever be needed.

  A row of books lined the mantel, with a carved wooden lion forming one bookend and a stone dragon the other.

  Dervra had one chair, his guest the other and two mugs of alovak steamed gently on the desk between them. His guest had dark curly hair, dark blue eyes and the pale skin that would ensure near anonymity in Marka. Of course, his guest hailed from those parts, and would fit in perfectly there. That guest now sat perfectly at ease. Few people were so comfortable in Dervra's presence.

  A closer look revealed oddities. The guest seemed relaxed, but the eyes held a wary glint and those narrow shoulders looked tense. An air of watchfulness, ready for fight or flight at any moment. All movements were sinuous and graceful; sylphlike or perhaps effeminate.

  Dervra could not care less which.

  "I trust the alovak is to your taste?" he asked, as he reached into a desk drawer.

  His guest tensed until Dervra pulled free some miniature portraits. The guest covered the small movement by spea
king. "Good alovak." The soft voice held an edge, as if the speaker tried to disguise its true sound. But disguise never fooled Dervra.

  He nodded. His guest's alovak stood untouched, probably thanks to a suspicious nature. Dervra respected a strong survival instinct in others. "These are the people I want you to kill." He pushed the miniatures across the desk.

  Dark blue eyes locked momentarily with Dervra's before the assassin leaned forward. The gaze flickered across the pictures before the guest sat back again.

  "Many have balked because women and children are to be killed as well as the man," said Dervra. "Not to mention the sylph, of course."

  The assassin shrugged.

  "Do you need the portraits?" pressed Dervra.

  "No." A long forefinger tapped against the assassin's own head. "They are in here now."

  Dervra gestured towards the portraits. "You will eliminate all these people?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent." Dervra smiled. "Marcus Vintner and his wife Zandra. Three daughters, infant son and Marcus's beloved infertile sylph." He raised a finger. "All of them."

  The guest nodded, barely reacting as the targets were named.

  Dervra reached into the drawer, and again the assassin tensed until the canvas bag sat on the table.

  "Feel free to count it," invited Dervra, "I will not feel insulted. Two hundred in gold."

  The long forefinger touched the bag, before the rest of the assassin's fingers wrapped around it. A moment later, the gold disappeared, secreted somewhere within the cloak.

  "Make Marcus suffer as he loses his family. Drag it out, drive him insane." Smiling, Dervra grasped his alovak. "Soon, I will take you directly to Marka. But first a toast to your success!"

  The assassin lifted the mug and even touched it to lips, but Dervra knew not a drop passed into the mouth. A suspicious nature indeed. Disposing of this one once the task was complete might not be as easy as he hoped.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  Lucky Escape

  Reshiad wondered if he would see his seventeenth birthday.

  Today had begun like any other, with washing and early morning chores, before heading out to check the livestock. Today, he and his father intended to take a couple of sylphs and repair one of the stone walls; sheep enjoyed obstacle courses and eventually pulled down any wall, no matter how stoutly built.

  Breakfast, with his father, mother and only sister still living at home, was eaten quickly so father and son could get on with their chore. Sylphs padded around the table, serving the simple meal.

  A normal day, up until the soldiers arrived.

  They had heard rumors. Boys certain age disappearing, some reappearing unharmed a few days later, but others never came back. Darker tales of burned farms and people murdered also circulated. Few believed these tales, but they persisted, whispered in corners and over mugs of ale.

  The Prefect's census went on at the same time. His father had filled out the form under the diligent eye of a bureaucrat, whose gaze had turned Reshiad's way more than once...

  His sister Lien saw the soldiers first, as her seat faced the window.

  "Father!" she cautioned.

  Wajrun took one look and dragged his son to his feet.

  "They've come for you!" he hissed. "Go now. Quickly!"

  Reshiad needed no second prompting. Leaving everything, he slipped out of the kitchen door and began running as soon as he came around the side of the barn.

  "Boy!" A stentorian voice, used to command. "Stand where you are!"

  The words only spurred him to greater speed. A horse whinnied in frustration and Reshiad risked a look over his shoulder. A couple of sylphs had somehow managed to wander in the way, slowing the pursuit.

  Thank you Manto and Kinto, he thought.

  One of the sylphs cried out, caught by a boot or riding crop. He did not look over his shoulder to see which. A sylph's lot so often included rough treatment. Not that he agreed it should be this way of course.

  He looked to the nearby forest where safety and freedom beckoned. Shouts from the farm faded, but a new sound intruded.

  Hunting dogs? Who would hunt so early in the year?

  Then he realized he was the quarry.

  Reshiad increased his pace and didn't relax even when he reached the forest. He must cross the river to escape the dogs. Called the Foam Race River for good reason, he knew only one calm pool, where the raging torrent quietened briefly before continuing its race towards a distant lake.

  Barking grew louder and he knew the dogs had his scent.

  He dodged trees as best he could and jumped over anything on the ground that might trip him. Even so, brambles and ivy sent him sprawling more than once as they snagged an ankle or caught his toes.

  At first, the river sounded little different from the wind in the upper branches, but the sound steadily grew to a roar as water thundered through gorges and piled across rocks. He almost fell in as trees abruptly gave way to one of the gorges, where water whipped to foam danced high in the air before falling back.

  Death waited if he went in here.

  He must flee downriver.

  He scrambled down treacherous rocks as the riverside path faded to nothing and the ground became rougher, his footing precarious on the slippery surfaces. Even over the river's thunder, he heard the hunting dogs, gaining ground all the time.

  Reshiad glanced across the river. Surely nobody waited for him over there? Perhaps he imagined it, he hoped for sanctuary once across the river. He slipped on the rocks and bounced a little distance before regaining his footing.

  Barking behind. Barking to the side.

  A flash of movement as something ran along the opposite bank. Friend or foe? A census. Boys of a certain age never came back. Reshiad assumed unpleasant things happened to them.

  The barking grew louder and nearer.

  With courage born of desperation, he threw himself into the river.

  He twirled and spun in the water, fighting to reach air. He could deal with wet easily but oh, the cold! And blackness below. He struggled to lift his head as a leg broke the surface, but the current pulled him back under.

  Lungs aching, spots danced across his vision. Fear faded and acceptance of the inevitable came. The light above called to him and he stretched toward it, vaguely aware of arms reaching out for him...

  Sudden pain, and everything went black.

  ***

  Reshiad opened his eyes.

  Not what he expected from paradise, he blinked at the mixture of tree roots and dirt barely incas above. His head throbbed and a shoulder ached. He lay on a blanket, which in turn covered something soft, and a second blanket covered him, pulled to his chin. They looked clean, but smelled strongly of sylph, and sinabra – the sylph's natural odor – hung in the air.

  Turning his head, he tried not to groan at the flash of pain.

  This strange cave looked recent, hollowed out from the bare earth. He saw a narrow walkway and another recess opposite. Leaves hung to dry from the ceiling and ragged edges showed where parts had been torn free, for whatever purpose.

  He pushed the blanket aside and realized his clothes were gone. He glanced around again, but saw no sign of his breeches and shirt. He felt under the lower blanket, where more leaves and grasses were stuffed to make the bed more comfortable.

  Woodsmoke tickled his nostrils, so he must have company. He would remember making the dugout and lighting a fire. Besides, his hair was still damp, so there hadn't been enough time.

  The dugout darkened as someone entered and Reshiad stared.

  Painted gray, green and brown, the newcomer wore snug short breeches. Earpoints twitched forward and cat-slit silver-gray eyes widened. A sylph, despite his coloring. The only normal thing about him was a leather collar, with a nametag appended.

  "Awake now?" asked the newcomer.

  Reshiad nodded. He stared as a second sylph entered the dugout. This one wore a shirt as well as breeches, but no paint. Th
e infertile at least looked normal, until he realized she wore no collar.

  "Has the boy got a name?" asked the painted sylph and his earpoints twitched a little.

  Reshiad spluttered and his eyes widened in outrage. "How dare you?" he snapped. "You will tell me your name and that of your owner. Now."

  At home, sylphs always showed due respect and obedience, knowing they would get what for if they dared step out of line. They always lowered their eyes to him, none daring to meet the gaze of a freeman.

  These two were different. The painted sylph looked amused – even his earpoints twitched. When Reshiad used this tone of voice to other sylphs, their earpoints always wilted.

  The infertile's eyes hardened and her earpoints slanted forward. Bizarre: anger from a sylph?

  "He saved your life," she said, indicating her painted companion. "The least you can do is give your name. Or we might put you back where we found you."

  "I am Reshiad Wajrun Helzar," he replied.

  Both sylphs blinked. "Does Awen Adelbard Haist mean anything to you?"

  Reshiad shook his head. "Should it?"

  The painted sylph pulled himself together and shrugged. He exchanged a look with the infertile. Stranger and stranger; breeders and infertiles rarely had much to do with each other.

  "Now you have my name, you should at least return the courtesy," said Reshiad.

  "I am Neptarik and this is Tektu."

  "Just Neptarik and just Tektu?"

  The infertile scowled at him again, behaving in a most unsylphlike manner.

  Neptarik shrugged. "Neptarik-y-Balnus."

  "And?" His attention turned to the infertile.

  "Tektu-y-Neptarik," she snapped.

  Reshiad stared. "You belong to him?" he squeaked.

  "Long story," smiled Neptarik.

  "One you are not about to hear," added Tektu. She glanced at her companion. "I will see if his clothes are dry yet."

  Reshiad blinked again. No hint whatsoever of deference in the infertile's tone, but she must be inferior in status. An odd pair. With Tektu gone, he suspected Neptarik might be easier to converse with.

  "What is it you want of me?" he asked.

  "Probably nothing," replied Neptarik. "After all the effort of saving your life, I do not want to leave you to the soldiers."

  Reshiad inclined his head and wrapped the blanket around himself as he swung free from the recess. "Thank you for that. Why did you ask about the name? Um, Awen."

  "The oldest son of the last true Prefect of Turivkan," replied Neptarik. "He had two sons and the present Prefect wants them dead."