Blood in the Water (5 page)

Seeing the Carluse prisoners gaping with astonishment, Tathrin concluded this was exactly what the Soluran captain-general intended.

Evord smiled amiably. “Tell me, boy, what do you make of my standard?”

The youth with the injured arm gazed at the banner with its golden circle of hands each brandishing a different token. “I never seen it before, your honour,” he stammered.

“No, it’s never been raised before,” Evord said kindly. “Tell me what you see.”

The boy hesitated, fearing some trick to the question. Tathrin couldn’t blame him. The lad had likely never travelled more than a few leagues from the village where he was born. A local priest might have taught him to read and to reckon but he’d never have encountered the measured interrogation of a university mentor, logically drawing him towards a desired conclusion with precisely chosen questions.

Evord glanced at Tathrin. “Well?”

Tathrin fought an absurd urge to laugh. In the midst of these woods, with dour-faced mercenaries ringing the hapless captives, he was irresistibly reminded of Mentor Peirrose’s book-crammed study in Vanam, where he and the other students had covered the table with sheets of intricate calculations, the atmosphere stuffy with concentration.

“There’s a farmer’s hayfork and a sheaf of wheat, a scholar’s quill and a goodwife’s broom. All tokens of honest labour,” he added boldly.

He saw several of the prisoners narrow their eyes, realising he was a Carluse man like themselves.

Evord cleared his throat. “Honest labour by common folk. You also see the priest’s handbell, lad. What do you suppose that declares?”

The bald man answered instead. “You claim to be god-fearing?”

Evord looked at him, unblinking. “Poldrion will not refuse me, when I ask him to ferry me over the river of the dead.”

Tathrin saw the prisoners looking dubiously at the Mountain Men. Uplanders worshipped only Misaen and Maewelin, maker of all and mother of all, according to their own strange rites. They scorned all the other gods and taproom talk claimed they were capable of anything from raping their sisters to eating their captives.

What about the Dalasorians? Tavern wisdom said the grasslanders had Eldritch Kin in their bloodlines. That’s why their hair was as black as the shadow-men who travelled to and from the Otherworld through rainbows and voids in the darkness.

“Piss on Poldrion.” A man with a bruised face spat. “Are you going to hang us or cut off our heads?” His voice cracked with apprehension.

“For defending yourselves and your families?” Evord looked at him, apparently shocked. “You see that sixth hand holds a halberd? We believe in every man’s right to defend his land and his livelihood. Though not in the right of any duke to force honest men to take up arms and oppress their neighbours in his name,” he added forcefully.

Tathrin saw the prisoners didn’t know what to think of that.

“Six hands,” Evord continued. “One for each dukedom of Lescar. Each one raised against a duke who has beggared his people in vain pursuit of high kingship. A crown as hollow as any victory that might win it. Because we believe any duke so blinded by lust for a trifle, so blind to the suffering born of his selfishness, such a duke has forfeited any right to the fealty of honest men and women.”

“So you’ve come to take the crown for yourself?” the bald man challenged.

Evord smiled, perfectly at ease. “Hardly. Ruling a kingdom I’m not even born to looks like extremely hard work.” He waved a hand, encompassing the vast army. “We’re mercenaries. We go where we’re paid. Would you like to know who’s paying us?”

The older men exchanged more dubious glances but it was clear they were desperate to know. The bleeding youth didn’t hesitate. “I would.”

Evord addressed himself to the boy. “Do you have friends who’ve fled Lescar for Tormalin, Caladhria or the cities of Ensaimin? Or relatives who live on the charity of such exiles?” He smiled as the boy nodded dumbly. “Never think they’ve forgotten you, in their peace and safety. Those who have prospered, and plenty have,” he assured them, “they’re paying us to put an end to Lescar’s suffering. All of them, whether they’re of Carluse blood, or Marlier, Triolle, Draximal, wherever. We’ve already taken Sharlac, eight days since—”

That prompted loud astonishment from the prisoners.

“Duke Moncan’s defeated?”

“What’s become of the Jackal?”

“He’s dead.”

Evord’s blunt declaration silenced them. Only the soft sound of horses champing their bits broke the stillness.

“Jackal Moncan and his heir Lord Kerlin were both slain in the sack of Sharlac Castle.” Evord didn’t sound overly contrite. “His widowed duchess Aphanie and her daughters are enjoying the protection of certain of Sharlac’s vassal lords who have long been outraged by their liege’s selfishness.”

Tathrin couldn’t dismiss that horrific night so simply. He’d seen the slaughter, heard the screams of fear and agony. The stench of blood and bowels had filled his nostrils. He’d choked on the smoke as the castle burned. He’d seen the mercenaries cutting down the Sharlac castle guard. They’d even killed scullions so crazed with fear they snatched up kitchen knives. Gren hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over it but Tathrin’s nightmares were haunted by what he had seen.

The bald man looked thoughtful. “So what now for Carluse?”

Tathrin guessed he was wondering about Carluse’s own disgruntled nobles. These men would have heard the same tales that were whispered in the Ring of Birches’ taproom. Last year, or maybe the year before, a lord had rebuked Duke Garnot, protesting over mercenaries’ depredations that left his tenants destitute. He had been summarily imprisoned. All accounts agreed on that, even if they disputed his name and estates. His family had been disinherited, everyone knew that too. According to one version, his lands had been granted to the mercenary captain who’d wed the old duke’s bastard daughter.

A half-smile touched Evord’s thin lips. “Four days ago, we took Losand away from Wynald’s Warband. Those we didn’t kill were hanged from the town battlements, at the guildmasters’ request. Some of our forces still safeguard the town, again at the guildmasters’ request, until they raise their own militia. Now we march on Carluse Town and Duke Garnot’s own castle. Once we have brought him low,” the Soluran concluded calmly, “we will free Draximal and Marlier, Triolle and Parnilesse from similar tyranny.”

Some of the prisoners looked appalled. Others couldn’t hide their disbelief.

“If you wish to live as free men under just laws, you’re welcome to join our army,” Evord continued. “Our surgeons will tend your wounds, whether you do so or not.”

“You’ll let us go?” The bleeding lad stared with desperate hope.

Evord raised his brows. “Who will believe we’re intent on freeing Lescar from the dukes’ tyranny if we shed innocent blood from the outset?”

Tathrin watched the prisoners conferring in urgent whispers.

“How many do you reckon will join us?” he asked Gren quietly.

“None.” The Mountain Man was certain. “They’ll run back to their families to bar their doors and hide under their beds until this is all over.”

Tathrin had to agree. What honest Carluse man would turn mercenary? Whether they were companies of dusty dogs, fighting for whoever offered most coin, or a duke’s hounds, retained with regular payments and granted the right to blend his badge with their blazon, all mercenaries were scum. They stole farmers’ and craftsmen’s profits and cut down unarmed husbands or sons for sheer spite.

Then there were the women supposedly taken ill. Some girls reappeared, bruises fading, flinching whenever a man came near, even boys they’d known all their lives. Others were laid on untimely funeral pyres with tightly sewn shrouds to hide their injuries. There were broken betrothals or, worse somehow, hurried weddings with the bride’s gown girdled above a swelling belly, her beloved grim-faced as he laid her newly cut bridal plait on Drianon’s altar.

That’s what mercenaries were to the common folk of Carluse. That’s what Tathrin had believed, after the battle the year before last when Duke Moncan’s army had attacked the town of Losand. He had watched weeping mothers carrying urns of ashes to Misaen’s shrine, the closest sanctuary since Wynald’s Warband had ransacked Trimon’s temple on the Abray Road. He had seen his friends and their fathers nailing coins or scraps of cloth to the shrine door in token of silent vows of vengeance.

Yet he had helped start a war that would sweep across all of Lescar. He had helped summon up an army of mercenaries brutal and callous enough to win that fight. Tathrin was going to have a great deal of explaining to do, whenever death took him to stand before Saedrin, to account for all he’d done with his life. Could he possibly satisfy the god, so he’d unlock his door and allow Tathrin to pass through to rebirth in the Otherworld?

He hadn’t been able to justify his actions to his family, when he’d snatched a day after the fall of Losand to ride home and make certain the Ring of Birches still thrived. He had barely begun explaining why he had abandoned his promising apprenticeship in Vanam before his father had berated him for taking up with cut-throats and thieves. It made no odds who waged a war, he bellowed. Innocent blood turned earth to mud regardless.

His mother had wept as if Tathrin were already dead. Why had he come back, a mercenary cur, when they had sacrificed so much to send him to safety in Vanam? His intelligence had won him a scholar’s silver ring. Why hadn’t he stayed to better himself and rise above his despised Lescari birth? Tathrin heaved a sigh.

“Cheer up,” Gren said genially. “This lot’ll soon take to their heels and we’ll be on to the next fight. You’ll soon get your chance to blood your sword properly.”

Tathrin just grunted, watching the Carluse prisoners nodding as they reached their decision. The bald man stepped forwards, apprehensive but resolute.

“If your honour pleases, we’ll have our wounds tended and be on our way.”

“Very well.” Evord nodded.

Tathrin saw their decision came as no surprise to the Soluran captain-general. Then he saw Evord beckoning and ran forwards.

“Tell Aremil that Reniack and his friends must spread their songs and pamphlets as widely as possible, as speedily as they can. He must convince the Losand guildsmen to send word to their fellow craftsmen in Carluse Town, to promote our cause in every village and hamlet. We cannot win this war merely by winning battles. Tell him to tell Dagaran to stay vigilant.”

Evord looked down from his saddle, his grey eyes shadowed. “Tell him to warn Lady Derenna and our allies in Sharlac. The commonalty there and the undecided vassal lords will keep their heads down as long as the smoke from Sharlac’s fall still drifts across the skies. They’re all waiting to see which way the wind blows next. If they hear the common folk of Carluse are fighting us, if Duke Garnot can claim his vassals and tenants are rising up to support him, those who don’t want us holding Sharlac any more than they loved Jackal Moncan will start snapping at our heels. Lady Derenna must be ready to counter any hint of disaffection.”

“I will make sure he tells her,” Tathrin assured him.

Lady Derenna would still be defending their cause in Sharlac. After all, she had spent the summer travelling the length and breadth of the dukedom, arguing in favour of the need for change with those nobles as opposed to arbitrary rule as she was. Though Tathrin wasn’t necessarily convinced her sympathies lay with the commonalty. Lady Derenna’s objections were the intellectual reasoning of a Rationalist, focusing on the resentments that tyranny prompted. That and the fact Duke Moncan had sentenced her husband to house arrest. Given the choice of joining him or exile, she had fled to Vanam.

Evord was watching the Carluse men being led away to Juxon’s Raiders’ surgeon.

“Still, this skirmish counts as a little triumph to begin this campaign, doesn’t it? Let’s hope it’s as easy to strike Duke Garnot a decisive blow when we catch up with him tomorrow. If we can’t manage that, unrest in Sharlac will be the least of our problems. And of course, the Dalasorians must play their part at Ashgil.”

He surprised Tathrin with a sudden smile. “Who knows? Perhaps we haven’t fought the first battle of this campaign after all. Let me know as soon as you’ve spoken with Aremil.” He spurred his horse into a brisk trot away.

Tathrin sighed again. He might feel more useful if he were actually able to use Artifice’s enchantments himself. But all he could do was wait for Aremil to reach out and touch his mind. And that was a very different experience from what he’d expected. Tathrin shivered despite the warmth of the unseasonal sun.

No one had told him Aremil would be able to pluck what he liked out of his innermost thoughts and feelings. If he’d known, would he have agreed to serve as the link between the other conspirators and Evord’s army? That was a pointless question. He could no more refuse now than any of them could turn back.

Not now the army they’d raised was marching to overthrow Duke Garnot. Not now the Dalasorians were riding across the open vale to the east, the other prong of the fork they hoped to impale him upon.

Chapter Four

Aremil

Losand, in the Lescari Dukedom of Carluse,

Autumn Equinox Festival, Third Day, Noon