Echoes of Betrayal

  The man scowled. “A hard death, I’ll wager.”

  “You lose. If you would rather die than give your word to abide my commands until you return to your king, you will have a sword-stroke to the neck.”

  “You would give war-honor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we return to Pargun … when?”

  “When I have word of your king and meet with him to learn his will in this.”

  “But Einar is dead.”

  “Not Einar. Torfinn, your true king.”

  “Torfinn has no honor,” another man said. “His daughter—”

  “Is Pargun’s ambassador to this court,” Kieri said, raising his voice. “But that is not to the point. Here it is: you will give your parole to me personally, each one of you, or your life is forfeit. When my messengers find your king, or his legitimate successor, you will be sent to him for his judgment of your rebellion. I cannot say what he will do. I have said what I will do. What say you?”

  The first man who had spoken looked back over either shoulder, first heart-side, then sword-side. Then he shrugged and nodded. “I say you speak truth like a man. How do I swear?”

  The old mercenary ritual of surrender and parole would not suit this occasion; Kieri’s observation of the Pargunese lords at his earlier meeting had given him a better idea.

  “You will kneel and kiss the scabbard of my sword. If you intend falsehood, this elf-made sword will tell.”

  “I do not swear falsely,” the man said. He took two steps forward and went to his knees. Kieri led him through the oath, in Pargunese, and the man kissed the sword.

  “Now go over there,” Kieri said, pointing. The man stood, bowed, and walked off to the area Kieri had marked off for those who had given parole.

  He was halfway through taking the oaths—so far all had sworn—when a small party of horsemen rode into the court. One was a King’s Squire, and one was Aliam Halveric himself, flanked by his son Caliam and the Knight-Commander of Falk. Kieri took the oath of the man kneeling before him, then held up his hand to forestall another coming forward. He stood, peering over the heads.

  “Did you marry her yet?” Aliam yelled in a voice that could have carried to the Tsaian border.

  Kieri laughed. The prisoners shifted uneasily. In Pargunese he said, “That is an old friend, from my days as a mercenary. Do not fear.” To Aliam he said, “Get over here, man of war: I need your advice.”

  The group dismounted and made their way around the remaining prisoners and the Royal Archers. “We made better time than I thought we would,” Aliam said as he came close enough to speak in a normal tone. “Cal wanted to be sure the sprout had made it.”

  “He did; he had breakfast with me and is somewhere inside, in care of a King’s Squire.”

  “And Estil said to ask you first thing if you’d married her.”

  “Who?” Kieri said, but he could feel himself reddening. “And no, I haven’t married yet.” He looked closely at Aliam. Kieri had worried after leaving Aliam’s steading that he might relapse. Now it was clear that the friend he’d known was—though a little balder and grayer—healthy in mind and body. “I’m glad you brought Cal,” he said. “When I’ve taken these oaths, I have something to show you. Go on inside, see if you can find young Aliam. I’ll be with you when I can.”

  He finished taking the rest of the oaths and then explained what he would do. “We have no great prisons here—nor even empty granaries, not in this season. For the present, you will be housed in the outbuildings here—some in the stables, some in the other spaces, as we can make room and contrive bedding. You will keep your own spaces clean, and fetch your own food from the kitchens, and return the cleaned pots and dishes. Now, is there one among you with more rank whom you consider your leader?”

  Eyes shifted back and forth, and finally one said, “Makkar.” Others nodded. The same man who had spoken first turned and looked at them.

  “You want me?” He sounded surprised. Some nodded, some didn’t. “Who else?”

  “Bladon!” someone called.

  “No,” another man said. To Kieri he called, “I am Bladon; I should not be leader. I vote for Makkar.”

  Much stamping of feet and muttering, and then Makkar said, “Give hands!” and arms shot up. “Agreed?”

  “Aye.”

  “They call me leader,” Makkar said. He came to Kieri and bowed again. “My neck stands between them and you. What now?”

  “First you will eat,” Kieri said. “Then you divide the men among the places to rest, as you think best. You will tell this man”—he indicated the captain of the Royal Archers—“who needs a surgeon and what supplies you need. The Royal Archers have my command to treat you fairly.”

  “It is well,” Makkar said. He turned to the prisoners. “Oath-brothers together.” The group shifted around; Kieri could now see what looked like fives—hands—in clumps, though some had only three or four.

  “Captain,” Kieri said to the Royal Archer captain. “Take these men to the mews and see them settled. Place a guard, and when you have a report of the wounded and any other needs, see to their care.”

  “Yes, sir king.” He saluted and turned; Kieri entered the palace, where he found the Halveric trio in the main passage, young Aliam reporting on everything he’d seen since he left them, with a bemused King’s Squire standing by.

  Cal glanced up, saw Kieri, and tapped the boy’s shoulder. “Show respect, son.”

  They all bowed, murmuring, “Sir king,” but Aliam had a glint in his eye that Kieri recognized.

  “I’m glad you’re all here,” he said to them. To the Squire he said, “Ask Garris to come to my office, if you please, and Arian as well.”

  “What is it?” Aliam asked, this time with no hint of mischief.

  Kieri shook his head and led them into his office. The Halveric sword, wrapped in a green cloth, stood in the sword rack. He said nothing until Garris arrived. Garris glanced at Cal, then the sword rack, and his eyes widened. Then Arian came in. “Close the door, please,” he said to Arian. “This is a private matter concerning Halveric Company and Caliam Halveric.”

  “What—” began Aliam; Kieri shook his head.

  “You may remember something I mentioned when I visited in early autumn. I will not dwell on the circumstances,” he said. “But in the third year of Siniava’s War, a Halveric sword was lost in Aarenis and never found. By good chance, Captain Arcolin found it this past campaign season, recognized the style and then the mark—”

  Caliam had gone pale. “Sir king!”

  Kieri went to the rack, retrieved the sword, and unwrapped it. He held the sword in its new scabbard flat across both hands. “It has been blessed by a Captain of Falk, Cal, and carried by hand from Aarenis by Arcolin, who sent it by royal courier from Vérella. I did not have it when I came down earlier, or I would have brought it—but here it is, your sword, safe once more from any evil. Take it now, and joy with it.”

  “I never thought …” Cal reached out slowly and picked it up. “I never thought to see it again … I hoped it had been lost in the river or … or somewhere it could not be used wrongly.” He ran a hand down the scabbard and fingered the grip. “It is certainly mine. Where—how did Captain Arcolin find it?”

  “Hidden in the bottom compartment of a trader’s wagon with many other weapons not listed on the manifest. Some were evilly enchanted, and that is why Arcolin had it ritually purified and blessed, in case of any contamination.”

  “And you’re sure it’s harmless?” Aliam said, scowling.

  “Yes,” Kieri said. “I felt no evil in it and had another Captain of Falk check it as well. Although ‘harmless,’ as applied to a sword, is hardly the right word.”

  Cal had regained his color; his eyes glittered with unshed tears. “Sir king, I have no way to thank—”

  “It is Arcolin, not I, who found and brought it back, Cal.”

  “But you thought to have us all here, and—” Cal shook his hea
d, unable to say more.

  “And now to something as cheering, I hope,” Kieri said. “Aliam, you asked if I had married ‘her’ yet, but you seemed to have no idea who ‘she’ might be. In fact, you have met Arian before, and we will celebrate our engagement this Midwinter Feast and be wed at the Evener.”

  Aliam grinned. “So Estil is right again! She thought so! You remember, Kieri, after your coronation, with the horses—”

  “I wasn’t listening then,” Kieri said. “But I would have you, my oldest friends, know Arian better. Here—we’ve been standing too long—I have chairs in this room for a reason. Garris, we might as well have a private supper in here, don’t you think?”

  “Of course,” Garris said. “I’ll tell them,” and he went out.

  Cal still held the blade a little awkwardly; he had another at his hip and no place to hang that one. “Give it to your son for now,” Aliam said. “Unless the king objects to having a rash youth armed in his presence.”

  “Not I,” said Kieri. “In fact, it’s time he learned to manage a blade at his side indoors.” He rummaged in his desk drawer. “Here’s a hanger. Let’s see how he does.”

  The adults racked their blades before sitting down and tried not to laugh as the boy strutted up and down, occasionally catching his father’s sword on the chairs and tables.

  By the time supper arrived, the boy had settled down. After several unsuccessful attempts to fit himself into one of the chairs with the sword, he put the sword in the rack with the others. As they finished supper, Kieri said, “Aliam, I do have bad news, which I have not sent you on the road.”

  Aliam nodded.

  “You lost a lot of people. The Pargunese did have an unquenchable fire; it burned two swaths through the forest down to rock, as they’d threatened. Riverwash is nothing but ash, including Talgan and your troops there.”

  “Dear gods!”

  “Talgan had posted half his command in another place—also attacked with fire—and most of those died, but some were out on patrol.”

  “What was it? Are there more?”

  “You will find this hard to believe,” Kieri said. “It was living fire—dragonspawn—and Arian killed them with the aid of a dragon.”

  “A dragon! But—but there are no dragons anymore!”

  “There are,” Kieri said. “Moreover, this dragon can take man’s shape. I was as surprised and disbelieving as you, until I saw it myself.” He went on to tell what the dragon had told him, what he had seen himself, and what Arian had done with the dragon.

  “You rode a dragon?” Aliam said, staring at Arian.

  “No, Lord Halveric. It carried me in its mouth.” Arian grinned. “It was a comfortable ride, like being inside a feather bed.” She told the rest briefly.

  “And … I do not question your courage, Lady Arian, but was that not … dangerous?”

  “I knew the dragon intended me no harm,” Arian said. “I had seen it kill Pargunese. But yes, I was frightened the first time. How could an arrow kill a creature of fire? But arrows tipped with a dragon’s own fire can. It must be much like the way stone-tipped arrows kill daskdraudigs.”

  “Your surviving troops are here,” Kieri said. “I assigned them the Royal Archer barracks—many of the Archers are still out in the field.”

  “I want to see them,” Aliam said, pushing himself up.

  “I’ll take you,” Kieri said. “They should be well rested by now, but they’re not all in good uniform; they had to borrow from dead Pargunese.”

  “I’m not going to scold them,” Aliam said.

  “Your Sergeant Vardan held her patrol together, found other surviving Halverics, and harried the Pargunese force all the way to where we defeated and captured them.”

  “Linnar? I’m not surprised.”

  “Alas, she died in the final battle with the Pargunese—killed by one of Achrya’s creatures,” Kieri said. “Her body’s here, and if you want to use part of the river meadows for burial of your people, be my guest.”

  “You stay here, Ali,” Aliam said to his grandson as he and his son belted on their swords again. Kieri led them across the courtyard.

  The Halveric troops looked better than they had on arrival, but Kieri knew how Aliam’s heart must ache to see so few, and so many of them wounded. He went to each one, greeting them by name and praising them.

  Tsaia: Verrakai Estate

  Dorrin Verrakai called her steward Grekkan into her office. “Pargun invaded Lyonya,” she said. He stared, eyes wide. “I expect at least some Pargunese will make a diversionary attack on Tsaia. There’s a Royal Guard unit in Harway, but I must leave and organize Tsaia’s defenses.”

  “The king—” Grekkan began.

  “The king named me Constable; he gave me this task, and he will send orders, I don’t doubt, as soon as he hears of it. Now, I do not know how long I will be gone. This may be the time my remaining relatives choose to cause trouble, so be vigilant.”

  “You can leave some troops here, can’t you?” Grekkan looked around as if he expected Pargunese to pop out of the walls.

  “Not more than a handful. I’ll send someone after Beclan, telling him he must come back, gathering troops on the way, and bring them to Harway. A groom—he won’t be needed once I leave with Daryan and the others; all the horses will be gone but the one he rides.”

  “My lord—Squire Beclan is a Mahieran.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m asking him to gather troops: Beclan’s of the royal family, and he has that presence. And they’ll be protection for him.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Grekkan said.

  “I must write letters to the other nobles,” Dorrin said. “Daryan should be in today or tomorrow; I must be ready to leave the day after. Do your own planning for the household and let me know if there’s anything I should send back from Harway when I get there.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Grekkan said. He bowed and left her, heading for the back of the house.

  Familiar lists ran through Dorrin’s mind: what was packed for any campaign, plus what would be needed in winter. Heavier clothing, shelter, more fodder for mounts … Verrakai lands, unlike the Duke’s Stronghold in the north, produced abundant hay and grain, so that would not be a problem. She stopped by the kitchen to let Farin Cook know there’d be a flurry of activity in the next day or so and more troops to feed later.

  “Your meals today, my lord?” Farin asked. When Dorrin said nothing, she frowned. “You’re not going hungry, my lord, not if there’s a war to fight. You’ve not an extra finger of flesh on your bones; we don’t want you taking the cold sickness.”

  “I leave it to you,” Dorrin said. “Tell me when it’s ready, whatever it is.”

  She had finally moved into the traditional ducal office after clearing it of all traps and dangers. On the broad worktable, she spread maps of eastern Tsaia. Arcolin would guard the northern border with Pargun. South of him, but north of the river, two different counts held border land. When she’d asked them, back in the summer, they’d claimed to have the required number of troops.

  Her own levy would be short, as she had warned the king—so many Verrakai vassals had died in that abortive attempt on Kieri’s life that she had not yet found enough able-bodied who could be trained to make up the number. Three Marshals had come late in summer, but neither they nor the Squires had found the remaining vassals apt at martial skills. Verrakaien had always scorned the use of women, too. It would be a year or more before those now in training could be really useful.

  She looked at the notes she’d made after talking to the other nobles, the recommendations she’d made at Midsummer. At Autumn Court she’d learned that most had been ignored. Their vassals were busy; their local Marshals assured them joint training wasn’t necessary; harvest had been heavy—or too light—or they’d been busy with something else. Duke Marrakai, who’d actually experienced war against the Pargunese when he was kirgan, had done the most, but only about half what she’d proposed. And his lands we
re west of Vérella; they would be among the last to arrive.

  If they had continued their sluggish response after Autumn Court—which she suspected in spite of the scolding the king had given them—the realm might gather a bare third of the muster on the king’s rolls. Only a few of those—the house militia of the various lords—had drilled regularly with their lords. What could she do with that motley and ill-trained force? What would the king expect her to do?

  All depended on what the Pargunese intended. Were they really determined to attack Kieri? Could they be deflected by a small but stout defense at the border? Surely they did not intend a long campaign in winter, across a river that might freeze and trap their boats.

  She began her correspondence with a suggestion to the Royal Guard commander in Vérella. Not orders, as the king had not given her authority over the Royal Guard; she could only hope the commander would pay attention. A third of the light cavalry and half the heavy cavalry should be sent to the east to guard the border; a third of the light and the remainder of the heavy should stay with the king. The other third south, to watch the Valdaire road and patrol the southern trade route. She laid out her reasoning carefully, knowing the king would read it as well. Then she wrote orders to one lord after another, based on her latest knowledge of their resources and readiness. Despite the king’s comments at Autumn Court, she was not sure any of them would obey promptly.

  She ignored the sounds of the children and servants until Farin Cook said, “My lord, lunch. I called twice. I can bring it here.”

  “No … no, I should come.” She had stiffened in the chair; she shook out her hands and stretched as she came into the passage. “Kitchen?” she said.

  “No, my lord,” Cook said firmly. “I’m making trail rations for the troops. There’s no room. Small dining room’s best.”

  “Fine. Has Grekkan eaten?”

  “No, my lord. Do you wish him to join you?”

  “Where is he? I can fetch him—stretch my legs.”

  “Out in the storehouses counting something, I don’t doubt.” Cook sniffed. “Don’t you be standing talking; the food’s hot now.”