Markan Sword

  Nobody saw it go.

  ***

  Chapter 5

  Plots And Plans

  Nazvasta Ulvic Vintner – younger brother of the late Branad Ulvic Vintner, who until his death had claimed the vacant Markan Throne – looked around his study and nodded in satisfaction. The smell of old books mixed with the equally pleasant smell of wood polish. He looked at the two servants and smiled.

  "Gena and Yeran, an excellent job as always."

  Both servants bobbed their heads and gave a small curtsy.

  "Back to the palace with you and remember, that if anybody asks, you've been –"

  "Tidying the yard," Gena completed for him, while Yeran hid a giggle with a hand.

  Nazvasta smiled. He doubted if the two girls – he still thought of them as girls, though Gena had almost as many years as he – were half as discreet as they claimed, but both were as good as illiterate, so could pass on none of his secrets. Once one servant knew a thing, all did.

  He watched them leave by the old service tunnel, used by his grandfather to reach the observatory without leaving the comfort of the palace. Staflan had liked his comforts. Many had forgotten the tunnel even existed, so few ever bothered to come here. And now Staflan's grandson used the place as his study.

  Morran Barr Fynn – Nazvasta's opposite number in Marka – had tried many times to infiltrate this room, but every one of his spies had been uncovered and either sent home, or given unpleasant duties elsewhere.

  He had thought of acquiring a couple of sylphs for cleaning his study. The creatures were loyal, as well as intelligent, companionable and very discreet. He considered it now for a few moments, remembered that he disliked sylphs' natural odor, and dismissed the idea again.

  The main room of the observatory – he had installed a false ceiling to trap most warmth, essential for his books in winter – formed his study. Or, as he preferred to call it, his library. Rows of books lined every wall bar one, shelved as high as he could reach. Two reading desks, three chairs and eight light crystals completed the furniture.

  The unshelved wall boasted an impressive fireplace he could walk into, the stone surround carved into every animal the sculptor's imagination could remember. Above that the only decoration in the room: a lone painting of a ship battering her way through heavy seas.

  Even though the servants had gone, he was not alone.

  "Recalling everybody from Marka may prove a strategic blunder," said his companion. Nazvasta's most trusted advisor, many in the palace forgot Fareen-y-Vintner even existed. Not that the gwerin hid from view, but she rarely pushed herself forward. "That action will warn Marcus you intend to move against him. Whatever else we think of him, the man is far from foolish."

  Nazvasta regarded the gwerin. "A little late to concern yourself about that now?" He raised an eyebrow. "Besides, we need our people here once the inevitable happens."

  Fareen's pale brown eyes glittered. Even in this light, the cat-slit pupils stood out against her irises, betraying her sylph heritage. Her earpoints twitched. "Zenepha will fall," she said. "And Marcus is best placed to replace him."

  "Our plan failed. Thanks to a sylph."

  Fareen managed a small smile. "Better to stop the invasion from Re Taura, no matter how politically complicated the result has turned out for us. Zenepha's position has been considerably weakened."

  "At least the questioning of our people as they return yields some results."

  Fareen nodded. "Some surprising results. Will you set up a school?"

  Nazvasta grimaced. Many of the officers and men who had served temporarily under Marcus Vintner spoke highly both of his rival and the sylphs he employed as scouts and messengers.

  "Tempting," he answered. "But the struggle might be over quickly, and we will have Marcus Vintner's school."

  Fareen stroked her chin. "Shortsighted," she murmured, hoping for a change of heart. "The struggle might not be over quickly."

  "True," admitted Nazvasta, "but the worst that can happen is Marcus attacking us full on. He will either win or lose. Either way, there is only need for one scout training school."

  Fareen shook her head, eyes solemn. "The worst that will happen is that Marcus decides to ignore us," she said. She changed the subject, though she would return to it at another time. She dared not tell him that she had already authorized Mikhan to establish a sylph scout school and training had already produced some promising young scouts. Another secret she must keep a little longer.

  "There is something else you have forgotten."

  Nazvasta blinked.

  "You have a gwerin advisor." Fareen smiled. "But Marcus has two. Or will have, once Zenepha falls."

  ***

  Captain Indelgar Manin da Saar leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on the back of his head. His companion sipped at a dark drink.

  "Is something wrong with your alovak?" asked the questioner.

  "Of course not, just waiting for it to cool a little," replied Indelgar. He had nothing against the questioner as such, but the man's line of work left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Not that Indelgar had been put through a full interrogation, but persistent and thorough questioning made him feel like a suspect.

  "Tell me about the scouts," prompted the questioner. "Many of your colleagues spoke highly of the sylphs Marcus uses instead of soldiers. Very good, a few say they are."

  Indelgar snorted. "Better than very good. They're excellent. We knew within hours in Marka everything going on hundreds of milas away."

  "They do seem very impressive." The questioner smiled. "And they communicate by whistles that, ah, humans cannot hear."

  "That pretty much sums it up."

  "Why can we not hear them?"

  "No idea," replied Indelgar. "But the sylphs can. Their information is second to none and a commander is kept informed right up until the moment he commits to battle." He forced a smile. "Are we getting some?"

  "Perhaps," replied the questioner, before changing the subject. "Right, so after serving with Lance General Kestan, you ended up as second to Commandant Treylfor."

  "Yes." Indelgar leaned forward for his alovak.

  "What did you think of the Cadisterans, both men and their commander?"

  Indelgar's green eyes flashed and he sipped his alovak before answering. "You expect me to talk about these men as if they are enemies. They are my friends!"

  The questioner smiled indulgently. "Captain Indelgar," he said, as if addressing a recalcitrant child, "today's friend can become tomorrow's enemy in the blink of an eye. We do not seek to harm Cadister or any of your other so-called friends, but they might seek to harm us."

  "Why?" Indelgar shrugged. "We are all part of the Markan Empire now."

  Again, that condescending smile. "Perhaps we are. But it is better to be prepared. Now, the Cadisterans, please."

  Indelgar shook his head, but acquiesced. "Independent minded but tough fighters. They first came to Marka with little experience, but showed themselves to be quick learners and very, very adaptable. They adopt new tactics very quickly, without forgetting the old. Adaptable and flexible, treat enemies with a healthy respect rather than contempt, and they are well led."

  "But a small officer corps," pointed out the questioner.

  "A highly efficient officer corps," countered Indelgar, before taking more alovak. "Recruited on merit and not birth. Many are former private soldiers. Their army relies more on experienced Sergeants than young, highborn officers."

  "I seem to recall you are not from a poor family." The questioner's eyes betrayed inner laughter as he spoke.

  "Only way I could become an officer here," retorted Indelgar. "Whatever you think of my wealth, at least my advancement since has been by merit."

  The questioner inclined his head. "Granted. You are highly commended and His Majesty has spoken of you."

  A frown furrowed Indelgar's brow. "This is the part I don't understand," he complained. "Who is His Majesty? Verdin refused to return home
and says that his father's renunciation stands."

  The questioner looked surprised. "Nazvasta Ulvic Vintner is His Majesty," he replied. "Or will be once the sylph in Marka steps aside. Times have changed. We cannot let Marcus Vintner take the throne and, if he does, we must remove him."

  Indelgar gaped. It seemed that a war he believed to be over had instead only just begun. "There is something else I'd like to know," he said.

  The questioner paused. "Ask," he said.

  "What is your name?"

  The questioner's condescending smile returned. "It is a requirement of our service that we do not share names with those we interrogate," he replied.

  Indelgar leaned back. "So you can hide behind anonymity," he remarked. "Many would see that as cowardice." Siranva, but he hated this wordplay! Unlike his father, he had always avoided politics, considering it a dangerous profession. But it seemed that politics had now snared everybody from Sandester who had marched under Marcus.

  "They are not my rules, Captain Indelgar," protested the questioner.

  Indelgar leaned forward to drain his alovak. "It strikes me that the man who now wants us to put him on the Markan throne is frightened to trust us." He gave an offhand gesture with an arm. "Here we are, being interrogated almost as if we are criminals. And you can tell Naz-bloody-vasta I said that."

  Again, that glint of humor in the questioner's eyes. "Safer for you if I did not," he replied. "Or you might learn for yourself exactly how we do deal with criminals."

  Somehow, Indelgar failed to see the funny side of the quip.

  ***

  Mikhan Edric Annada, lately Marshal of Marka and now restored to his previous position as Marshal of Sandester, clasped his hands behind his back and stared out of the window across the city.

  Ranva's breath, but he had missed this view.

  Despite proximity to the palace, his office looked towards the bone-white turrets of the South Gate, the most impressive entrance to any city he had ever seen. Sure, Marka had its massive and awe-inspiring pyramid, but its entry gates were nothing special.

  Many in Sandester also knew it as the Pauper Gate, because of the old tradition of expelling beggars and ne'er-do-wells from the city through it. Not a tradition exercised today of course, in these humane and kindly times.

  But seeing the gate reinforced the knowledge that he had come home.

  "Two years, Paul," Mikhan said, still looking out the window. "Two years and it's gone in a flash."

  Mikhan's companion in the room stirred as the marshal turned away from the window.

  Field Captain Paul Tennan shrugged. "At least you are back now," he replied, dark eyes thoughtful. Married to Mikhan's oldest granddaughter, he suspected that his promotion to Field Captain was partly due to that fact. "Any more thoughts on who to promote General?"

  Mikhan's blue eyes twinkled. "Think you are ready for it?"

  "Me?" Paul gaped. "I'm much too young."

  "And more use at your present rank." Mikhan laughed. "Age is immaterial, experience and skill are more important. I took overall command of the army before I reached forty. Only a couple of years older than you are now when promoted to General."

  "Bloodier times," muttered Paul.

  "And incompetent leaders," added Mikhan. He gestured out the window. "Marcus Vintner Elder managed to besiege the city for a year and we needed new tactics to break him. But break him we did, and the incompetents were cleared out."

  "Or dead," added Paul. He did not add breaking that siege had sealed Mikhan's reputation as a poliorcetic.

  "We nearly lost everything to Marcus Senior," continued Mikhan. Salin. I lost my beautiful daughter. Thirty years and the pain feels fresh every time I think of her. "Imagine Calcan gaining control over all the ships passing in to or out from the Bay of Plenty, owning both Horns of Ramte."

  "I imagine those Vintners might have the throne by now," said Paul.

  "Very likely. But we threw them out of Sandester and they've never been back. The younger Marcus doesn't have the same fire as his father. More diplomat and politician than warrior, but no less dangerous for that."

  "You worry that he might replace Zenepha as Emperor?" asked Paul.

  "He will replace Zenepha. And Nazvasta will rebel against him."

  "And remove him from the throne?"

  Mikhan's shoulders slumped. "That is the stated aim," he replied.

  "But?"

  Mikhan smiled again. "Very perceptive. Sure you're not ready for that generalship? Maybe I should offer it to Drecan, or Indelgar."

  "Indelgar might be the wisest choice," said Paul, eagerly seizing a straw. "Not related to you and very experienced."

  Mikhan waited.

  "My question?" prompted Paul.

  "I don't think Nazvasta will be able to take the Markan Throne without fighting unless he moves before Zenepha steps down. And he won't do that, because he offered his fealty. Marka's Senate stands behind the sylph, but enough of them support Marcus should Zenepha fall. Marcus is there, in place, and ready. He's been politicking hard for two years. The best we can hope for is some sort of continued independence for Sandester, reinforced with military victories."

  "Some will see that as defeatism," said Paul. "So many are tired of war."

  "I know." Mikhan nodded. "But the reality is that war is inevitable when politics fail. Trouble is, I believe that Nazvasta agrees with me, even if he dare not admit to it openly."

  "What is it you want me to do?"

  "Do?" Mikhan's smile widened. "You carry on as normal, but we must help Nazvasta in any way we can. Kana is pushing Nazvasta hard to pursue the claim. She believes that is his duty, especially since Verdin stands by his father's renunciation. But whether Nazvasta has the drive and determination to win through is the bit we don't know. The last thing we need, if we must offer our lives, is weak leadership."

  "So there is still hope that we can win?" Paul's dark eyes showed renewed excitement.

  "Of course we can win." Mikhan spread his arms. "There is always hope."

  ***

  Three barrack blocks and a cookhouse surrounded the square. Men formed an inner square, watching the last two men fight with practice swords. They might learn something while witnessing the duel. Among the junior soldiers, these were the best swordsmen.

  Using both hands on the practice sword, Egran danced. Swordplay and dancing were similar, though one of the two disciplines was a lot more deadly. His opponent boasted excellent skills, and a telltale line of red across Egran's side showed where a hit had been scored, and where a fresh bruise would soon swell.

  Many of these men came from Egran's Re Taura, but the rest hailed from other lands. Even a smattering of Sandesterans, who had returned home from Re Taura and joined their own land's army.

  Egran turned on his feet, feinted to one side, then whipped his flexible practice sword against the other side of his opponent's chest, kept on moving and slashed again across the man's back.

  "Enough!" The Sergeant overseeing the session clapped his hands.

  Both men stepped back and inclined their heads.

  Sergeant Tresker, Blade Trainer for Sandester's army, came forward.

  "An excellent display, from both of you."

  Both men inclined their heads again, but remained silent.

  "Especially you, Egran. I feel a promotion might come your way very quickly."

  "Yes Sergeant, thank you Sergeant." By Ranva, but Egran hated this submission. He hoped that promotion would come quickly; he disliked starting again in a new army.

  "Right, you shower!" called Tresker. "Dismissed. You've got thirty minutes to get cleaned up for your evening meal."

  Inside, at the row of wash basins, Egran found himself beside another Re Tauran with the look of a grizzled veteran.

  "Wasn't you a red-tabber?" asked the other man, voice little more than a growl.

  "That was then," replied Egran. "Just an ordinary soldier now."

  A quick grin and flash of strong t
eeth. "World turns in funny ways," grunted the other man. "Thought you lot would've been looked after."

  Egran snorted. "Once the old mametain was back in charge, he had no need for us," he replied. "He doesn't trust us; we were Nijen's men."

  "Not much left of Castle Beren, so I hear," chuckled the other man.

  "All the mametain's quarters are gone," said Egran. "But the castle is still garrisoned, if no longer by us."

  The other man rinsed soap off his face and dried himself. He buttoned up his shirt and stuck his hand out.

  "Name's Kullin," he said. "Used to be a Lieutenant. Like I said, world turns in funny ways. Yesterday I used the arserags, today I'm the arserag."

  "I'm Egran." He shook the other's hand. "Like you said, the world turns in funny ways, but I reckon some of us can make something of what we've got now."

  Kullin chuckled. "Like your attitude," he said. "We can make this our army, if we try."

  The two men sat together for their evening meal.

  "So what did happen at Castle Beren?" asked Kullin, while chewing on something that might even have been meat. "At the end I mean. It didn't just fall down."

  Egran considered his words carefully. "Nobody is really sure. Some reckon a secret weapon, planted by spies. Others say sorcerers at work."

  Kullin took another bite. "What do you reckon?"

  Egran's smile looked more like a rictus. Nobody would believe the truth. He wasn't sure he believed it. "Spies," he said. "That's my favorite." Nearly the truth. He didn't dare add those spies were sylphs.

  Kullin's gray eyes regarded his companion neutrally. "Spies with a secret weapon?"

  "Yes."

  "There's talk here about a secret weapon," said Kullin. "Reckon these were the ones who tried it on Castle Beren first?"

  Egran shrugged. "So long as they pay us, I don't really care."

  Kullin smiled. "Some of those who fought alongside Marka say there's a weapon that rips men to shreds."

  Egran stared. "That sounds like it," he said, pleased for the diversion.

  One of the cooks stuck his head into the dining hall, saving Egran from further questions. "If anyone wants more, he'd best come through now."

  ***

  Kern Ranja Tulhern blinked myopically at Marshal Mikhan and gestured towards some black powder.

  "I've managed to duplicate your sample, Marshal," he said, voice surprisingly deep for such an inoffensive looking man. "A question of getting the charcoal crushed finely enough and in correct proportion with the other ingredients."