Conflict (24 page)

“You’ll pay me for this, fatso. Mark my words.”

“If you call me fatso again, you’ll have nothing to remember.”

“You’re an unhinged fool!” General Rangulfsen said angrily. “We need to interrogate this man. Move away from him!”

“Stop it!” came a sharp voice at the entrance to the tent.

Lasgol turned round and saw with relief that it was Count Volgren, First General of the Army.

“Can’t I leave you for one moment without you trying to kill each other? I’m wondering what will become of this campaign with such exceptional leadership.”

“He’s Orten’s murderer, I want justice!” demanded General Odir.

“What you want is revenge, which is something totally different,” said Count Volgren, “but you won’t have it. I forbid anybody to touch this man, and if anyone disobeys me I’ll cut off his ears, then his tongue and lastly his balls. Is that clear?”

The two struggling generals looked at each other and put away their swords. The tension decreased, but remained floating heavily in the air.

Count Volgren went up to Lasgol and said, more calmly: “It’s good to see you back safe and sound, young Ranger. I understand your predecessors in this hunt weren’t so lucky.”

“Thank you, Sir. Unfortunately they didn’t survive the mission.”

“But you did, and not only that, you’ve brought us back the Assassin alive for us to question him and find out whatever really happened that fateful night.”

“This snow leopard cub looks thirsty,” Olagson said. “Have them bring some good Nocean wine, quick!” he ordered, and a servant who had been standing in a corner hastened to carry out the order.

“Yes, we ought to celebrate this moment,” Volgren said. He walked to the Assassin and studied him carefully. “Is he a Chosen?” he asked Lasgol, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes, he’s a Chosen, Sir.”

“That’s dangerous, very dangerous,” General Rangulfsen said. “He must be chained.”

“Yes, feet, arms and head. Tightly, and make it hurt,” added Odir.

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary, but if you wish…” said Lasgol.

“We must take precautions with him here. Bring me shackles!” Count Volgren ordered.

In a few moments the Assassin was completely chained, sitting on the floor on a rough bearskin rug.

The three Generals and the Count were watching him, visibly intrigued.

The Assassin closed his eyes as if he were meditating, impervious to their scrutiny.

“Where the devil is he from?” General Odir asked.

“Hanged if I know!” replied Olagson.

“He’s certainly not from this continent,” General Rangulfsen said. “There’s no race like this foreigner’s on the face of Tremia.”

“A foreigner from a distant country, another continent… curious… very curious…” Count Volgren mused.

“Has anybody else ever seen or heard of this race we have in front of us?” Olagson asked.

They all shook their heads.

“Lasgol, you’ve given us a nice surprise,” Count Volgren said. “This is something we weren’t expecting at all. Would you mind telling us the whole story of how the murderer of the King’s brother was captured? I’m sure it’ll be a fascinating one.”

“Of course, as you wish, Sir.”

The Generals sat back in robust wooden armchairs lined with bear-skins and drank the Nocean wine the servant diligently offered them. Odir asked for a horn of beer, spurning the wine of the men of the desert, and Olagson joined him after downing a glass of the sweet wine in one gulp.

Lasgol told them concisely about the chase, from the day the mission had been entrusted to him up to the present moment. He changed only one thing: the Masig had escaped after hitting the Tracker, and he had not been able to catch her. Deep down he knew that a lie would be the only way of justifying his weakness before those implacable men from the ice.

“Hah! What sort of a Royal Tracker is this, knocked out by a Masig! A woman!” Odir laughed at Lasgol, the beer-foam covering his blond moustache.

“The truth is that the prairie wildling made a fool of you, Tracker,” Olagson teased.

“Let him be, it’s been a real ordeal in Masig territory no less!” Rangulfsen said. “But what’s important is that he’s brought us the Assassin alive.”

“True. He’s managed to capture an enemy agent, and one with the Gift at that, it’s a real feat,” said Count Volgren.

“Thank you, Sir,” said Lasgol. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to reveal the fact that this Assassin isn’t an agent from Rogdon. I’m absolutely sure, my Generals. Therefore the attack on the western kingdom mustn’t take place, it’s not justified…”

The Generals burst into protests and exclamations.

Count Volgren ordered: “Silence!”

Odir and Olagson were arguing on their feet amid insults and accusations, clearly unhappy with the news. Rangulfsen complained of the lack of information needed to reach a valid conclusion. As was the habit in Norghanian arguments, everything was said amid shouts, insults and colorful language, at a steadily increasing volume level.

“I said silence!” the Count demanded.

The three Generals quieted down.

Looking first at the Assassin, then at Lasgol, he asked: “How certain are you about this, Ranger?”

“I’m totally convinced, Sir. He confessed to it himself. He doesn’t work for Rogdon. Another agent ordered the murder of the King’s brother, but it wasn’t the blue and silver kingdom. I guess the murder was looking precisely to provoke an armed conflict between the two kingdoms. We must prevent this war, Sir, it’s unjustified. The Assassin is the proof.”

“Bah, humbug! We can’t trust this vermin. He’d say anything to save his skin,” said Odir, spitting on the floor. “It was the Rogdonians, and nothing will convince me otherwise.”

“Although I don’t like to admit it, I agree with Odir,” cried Olagson. “This foreigner would sell his own mother to save his neck.
Where there’s smoke, there’s fire
…It was Rogdon. They must pay for it in blood.”

“The thing is,” Rangulfsen mused, “that if we consider it carefully, it’s too obvious an attack, with clues that are far too incriminating, pointing in one direction only: west. I’d say it’s possible that there’s more to this plot than meets the eye.”

“I can assure you it wasn’t Rogdon. Someone wants us to believe it was, in order to start a war that will cost both our kingdoms thousands of lives, a war without any reason.”

“If what you say is true, Ranger, and I’m not saying it is, then everything would point at the Nocean Empire,” said the Count. “They are the clear beneficiaries of a war between Rogdon and Norghana.”

“Or the Confederation of Free Cities of the East,” suggested Rangulfsen. “They’re a new power, and they might be looking to strengthen their position.”

“Rogdonian mount, Rogdonian gold, Rogdonian ring,” said Odir. “What other proofs do we need?”

“There’s no indication from the South, from the Noceans,” Olagson concluded, “and the Confederation wouldn’t dare try anything like this, so I too think it’s Rogdon.”

“But perhaps that’s exactly why we should look there, precisely because there’s no indication from the South,” said Rangulfsen.

“There’s only one way to find out, my Generals,” said Count Volgren. “We’ll interrogate the subject until we get at the truth.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Olagson exclaimed. He levered his big body out of the chair and raised his beer horn.

“I accept the toast!” Odir said, lifting his horn and knocking it against Olagson’s. “What’s more, I volunteer to direct the interrogation.”

Lasgol’s blood froze as he imagined the horrors this madman might inflict upon the prisoner.

The Assassin remained impassive.

“That won’t be necessary,” the Count said, “Rangulfsen will be in charge. Prisoners under your
care
, Odir, tend to die before they talk.”

“Humph! In that case they must be guilty, then!” the sadistic general said, with a sinister grin.

“I doubt it, it’s rather that your methods are too bloodthirsty,” the Count said. “He’ll be in your charge, Rangulfsen. I hope you get the truth one way or another, but he must remain alive. We have to send him back to Norghana. King Thoran has ordered us to keep him alive, he himself wishes to be his executioner. His death must come from his own Royal hand.”

“I’ll extract the information you want, Count, don’t worry,” said the General of the Snow Army.

Odir stood before the Count and asked him directly:

“When do we attack? My men are ready, the fortress is in sight, all we need is the order.”

“We’ll hold our position until further notice,” the Count said, concluding the discussion.

“As you wish,” Olagson said, and left the command tent.

“Guards, with me. Escort the prisoner to my camp,” said General Rangulfsen, and left the tent.

Odir seemed to be on the point of protesting, but turned on his heels and left as well.

Lasgol watched them take Yakumo away. He knew he was going to be tortured, they would make him go through a nightmare of pain, but he could do nothing for him. He had finally completed his mission, one that was unlike any other he had known. He should have been relieved, happy, but all he felt was remorse. It was a remorse that corroded his soul at the thought of leaving that man to such punishment. He knew the foreigner was a murderer who had killed Duke Orten, and he had caught him and brought him to justice as was his duty.
But I don’t feel good about it, I feel like a coward. I know they’re going to torture him ruthlessly until he either confesses or dies. There’s no honor in that, and no matter how many times I tell myself he’s a murderer and that I’ve just done what I set out to do, this bitter taste in my mouth is never going to disappear. I could ignore what they’re going to do to him, go to the canteen and get drunk, but I’m part of the problem, and alcohol isn’t going to change that.

Count Volgren looked at him,

“You’re very thoughtful, Tracker. Is something bothering you?”

“No, Sir, I’m sorry.”

“You did a great job, and you’ll be generously rewarded for this hunt. His Majesty King Thoran will be deeply grateful for the capture of the murderer.”

“Thank you Sir. There’s just one question I’d like to ask …”

“Go ahead, Lasgol, feel free to ask.”

“Will this prevent the war with Rogdon?”

“Let’s hope it does”

“Will the King withdraw the troops?”

“That’s a different story, Lasgol. Kings are willful, their wishes inscrutable…”

“Then you believe war is inevitable?”

“We’ll know soon enough…”

The sun was beginning to hide behind the Fortress of the Half Moon, where the Rogdonians, expectant and under great pressure, awaited the next move of the threatening invading army. Lasgol, downhearted, his footsteps heavy, was moving through the camp towards the soldiers’ tents of the Snow Army. As he walked past the different groups of men he could feel the tension in them as they sat around hundreds of small camp fires, eating their rations and drinking their beer. Their faces were joyless, with a prevailing sternness everywhere, as if some contagious sickness had spread through the whole camp. Only a few seemed to want to dispel the gloom with songs and ballads of great heroes from the epic Norghanian folklore.

Lasgol knew it was the nerves that come before battle. The hardened soldiers were impatient to know whether or not they would be fighting. The waiting only served to increase the already tangible tension. He walked past a picturesque cart decorated in crimson. A woman came up to him, swaying her hips provocatively. Lasgol stopped uncertainly and the woman came up to him and pressed her body to his, placing her hand in his groin. Surprised, he took a step back.

“Don’t be shy, handsome, come and have a good time with Olsa …” she said, moving back a little to reveal her generous bosom.

“No thank you… I’m already taken care of…” he replied hastily so as to get out of the embarrassing situation.

“Well, handsome,” she said with a wink, “I’ll give you a good price, and you’ll have nothing to complain about.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, but my duty awaits me.”

“As you wish… maybe later, then? Come back and ask for Olsa, you won’t regret it.”

Lasgol went on with a smile on his face.

Fortunately, and in the process preventing worse evils, all the fears and tensions of the soldiers were released by the great number of “ladies of easy virtue” who accompanied the army on campaign. As with any army worthy of the name, that service was indispensable; if the basic needs of the men were not satisfied, a dangerous fire might break out in the camp.

It always surprised him, the crowd that trailed an army on the march. From the very necessary prostitutes to blacksmiths, carpenters, butchers, shepherds, cooks, messengers and any number of people with different professions and specialized functions. They were all necessary for the good functioning of the massive army.

He reached the distinctive white rectangular tents of the Snow Army. He looked avidly for the command ones and identified them by their banners. They were well protected by guards, watching like hawks. These were tall strong men, wearing white winged helmets on their blond heads. They wore heavy scaled armor down to their knees for protection, in the lighter and more flexible Norghanian style, although they were not as tough as the plated Rogdonian kind. Blood-red capes hung from their shoulders. He picked out General Rangulfsen’s tent and went to it. At once four guards intercepted him. He identified himself and waited for the officer on duty. A veteran captain saluted him, and after a brief exchange of explanations gave him the signal to follow.