Echoes of Betrayal (4 page)

Y
ou know your companion is a kteknik gnome?”

Arvid grunted. He was hungry and tired and longed for civilized food and a bath, which he could not get in these clothes and smelling as he smelled. One shopkeeper after another had turned them away. It was almost dark, the markets closed, and they had found this shopkeeper just closing up. Arvid hadn’t liked the look of the shop or the man, but he had run out of choices.

Now the shopkeeper poked him, hard. “You hear me? I said your companion is a gnome … did you know?”

“Knew,” Arvid said, in as woodsfolk an accent as he could manage. “Don’t care.”

“You’re not woodsfolk,” the man said. “And you travel with a gnome. I know someone would pay to know more.” He smirked and rubbed his fingers.

“I know someone who would
die
to say more,” Arvid said, and grabbed the man’s sword wrist, slamming it to the counter. Under his grip, the man’s wrist twisted, but Arvid had the correct angle and used it. The man cursed and reached for his dagger with his other hand, but Arvid was faster. “That was a mistake,” he said as the man stared in surprise and then slowly slumped onto the table. “True or not, you set your own fate.”

“A bad mistake,” Dattur said from behind him. “They will know who killed him.”

“They won’t care,” Arvid said. “And they won’t know if we change clothes fast enough.” As he spoke, he rummaged through the assortment of secondhand clothes in the shop, tossing Dattur a green wool jacket to replace his sheepskin and then an oiled-leather hooded cape. Arvid pulled off his own motley assortment, shivering in the cold shop. When they were dressed, Arvid put the sheepskins and other woodsfolk items into a pile of other rustic clothing at the back of the shop.

Outside, the snow still fell; the narrow street was empty. Arvid found a cash box with “Gallis” carved in the lid under the counter, then used the shopkeeper’s chalk to draw a Thieves’ Guild symbol on the table—“Didn’t pay.” He took what he thought would be a likely Guild fee from the box and replaced the box under the counter.

They left, unseen and unheard, Arvid hoped, in the dark and silent snowfall. Thanks to his experience and the tools in his own black cloak, he found a likely lock to pick, behind which was a small stable providing a bed of hay and the company of two stocky, warm, and very calm cart horses.

When they left well before dawn the next morning, Arvid fluffed the hay, brushed the snow over their tracks to the gate, and relocked the gate from the outside. By late afternoon, he had visited a money changer and changed a few of the gold Guild League natas into less noticeable silver nitis and nis, replaced his clothing, and visited a barber to have his beard trimmed. Now he presented the appearance of a somewhat travel-stained but respectable merchant, and felt ready to look for comfortable lodging for a few days.

Cheaper lodgings were full, he was told, as the city was full of wintering soldiers. Nobody questioned his identity or purposes as he inquired at one inn after another. Finally, he found a room at the White Dragon, a substantial inn in the northeast quarter. Here, near the winter quarters of several mercenary companies, streets teemed with traders, crafters, and off-duty soldiers. The innkeeper gave the two of them a piercing look, but a gold nata changed his expression. He sent them up to his remaining empty room with a boy to lead the way.

When the boy had left, Arvid sniffed. The room smelled reasonably clean; empty clean chamber pots stood at the foot of each bed. A
thick blanket of undyed wool and—amazingly—a pillow were on each bed. Arvid turned the pillow over and smacked it; nothing ran out. Better and better. Dattur would have preferred a ground-floor room, but he himself liked being upstairs, without windows … it felt safer.

K
ieri Phelan, Lyonya’s king, paused at the top of the steps down to the palace courtyard. Despite all he had said to hearten his Council and the small guard he would leave in Chaya, the cluster of Siers and palace servants gathered near the palace entrance looked scared. He could understand that. Beyond them, the fifty Royal Archers on their horses and his half dozen King’s Squires looked nothing like an effective army: too few and too new. He did not doubt their courage, but he would have been very glad of a cohort of his former Company. For the first time in his life, he was going into battle without any veterans, with nothing but his own ability to mold these novices into a fighting force by sheer strength of will.

And that meant hiding his own concerns—not only about his troops, but about the whereabouts of the elves who had promised, not two days before, to bend all their powers to aid him. Since then he had seen or heard nothing of them. Were they doing anything to heal the taig or repel the Pargunese, or had they withdrawn yet again into their own protected world? And the dragon: could it really prevent more scathefire attacks? The Pargunese troops: how many had landed, how many more were crossing the river even now? How close were they to Chaya? And how many more days until Aliam Halveric, with the rest of Halveric Company, arrived from his steading in the south? Had he even started yet?

He smiled at those waiting and came down the stairs briskly, demonstrating his confidence, but though they bowed as he passed, their faces did not relax. Only Arian, her gaze steady as ever, her expression resolute, reflected his own feelings. He had convinced her to stay behind, to wait for Aliam; she had understood his reasons and agreed without protest.

“A Lyonyan king has not gone to battle in generations,” Sier Belvarin said. He had led the Council’s argument against Kieri’s commanding in the field.

“A Lyonyan king has not been needed in battle for generations,” Kieri said. “The war is not over, even though no more scathefire has come. Pargunese invaders are on this side of the river. There’s no one else to take command. I’m needed.” He signaled the groom who held Banner, his gray charger; the man led the horse nearer. He clasped Belvarin’s shoulder. “It will be well, Sier Belvarin, if we all do our duty. You have your orders.” Orders he had to hope Belvarin and the others would carry out,
could
carry out.

He ran his hand down Banner’s head, checking the bridle, then the girth, as if for any ride. At least he had this familiar, war-experienced mount. Banner flicked his ears and snorted. “Easy,” Kieri said; the horse stood quietly as Kieri mounted and picked up the reins. He nodded to the groom, who stepped back. Between his thighs, he felt the horse tremble with eagerness, and up from the ground, through the horse, surged a plea from the taig itself. Whatever the elves had done, the taig had not fully healed. He had a vague impression of elves busy on or near the upriver scathefire track, but this call had come from downriver.

“We will survive,” he said to the worried faces tilted up to watch him. “I’ve done this before.” No change in their tension. “After all,” he said, forcing a grin, “we have a dragon on our side.” That didn’t help, either. “And the Lady approves.” That did; their faces relaxed. He felt a wave of pity … most of them did not know yet how she had been involved in the disaster that had befallen the realm, how fallible she was, and it was not the time to shake their confidence further. To them, she was the great, the beneficent, the all-powerful elven queen who could do no wrong, whose desire was law.

“Let’s go,” he said to his Squires with a last glance at Arian. She nodded: understanding and trust and hope all in that gesture. He
turned Banner’s head to the gate. Outside, a crowd had gathered. He lifted his hand in greeting, smiled at them, exchanged greetings with the mayor and Council members.

“What if they get past you?” someone called from the crowd.

“Then you stop them,” Kieri said. He waved a hand at the new, small, city militia, their weapons in hand. “You are brave, and you have the will.” Most of them stood straighter at that. He hoped their fragile confidence would not be needed.

They rode northeast from the city, heading for the near end of the eastern scathefire track. Even though he had explained the marching order before the invasion ever started, and the reasons for it, the small force fumbled its way into formation, taking almost twice as long as the entire Phelani Company would have. If he’d had just one cohort of Phelani, under an experienced captain—! But he didn’t. He pushed that wish aside. He’d started his military career with fewer than this. At least he’d managed to convince Arian she should stay behind in Chaya.

He set a brisk pace; he wanted to meet the invaders as far from Chaya as possible. If their force was as large as Torfinn had said it might be, he could not hope for a clean victory, but he could delay them, perhaps until Aliam brought up the rest of the Halverics.

When they came to the scathefire track, Kieri’s heart clenched at the sight of so much anguish for the taig. Nothing but ash remained where the dragonlet had gone, and the blackened sticks and stumps of trees on either side. The others’ faces looked the way he felt—shocked, horrified, heartsick. Whatever the elves had done here, he saw no healing, though the taig no longer seemed as anguished.

They moved down the track, making better time on that fire-hardened surface; wind blew the soft ash away from the horses’ hooves. Kieri thought the Pargunese troops were also likely to use this open track instead of the narrower, meandering forest trails.

Toward evening, one of the forward scouts reported that he’d made contact with a wounded forest ranger on his way south to Chaya. Kieri pushed forward with his Squires and a squad of Royal Archers, leaving the supply train behind, and found the ranger, one arm wrapped in a bloody bandage, slumped against a tree.

“Sir king,” the man said, struggling to stand.

“Be easy,” Kieri said, waving him back down. “I need your report, not formality.” He squatted down beside the man.

“Yes, sir king. A large body of Pargunese troops marching this way on the fire trail, only a day away, if that. They got across just upstream of Blackmarsh, following that magical fire; it burned out the Halveric camp there. I was in Blackmarsh, close enough to feel the heat of the fire, but escaped.”

This close, Kieri could see that the ranger’s eyebrows had burnt away, leaving his face looking peculiarly blank and shiny.

“How many, and what arms?” Kieri asked.

“The Pargunese? Maybe five hundred at first, but now maybe two to three hundred foot—pikes and crossbows—and twenty horse. We rangers harried them along the way, sir king, as much as we could.”

“Rangers only? What about Royal Archers or Halverics?”

“Not many Halverics left—a few showed up, right after the fire, then more trickled in. Seven hands of them altogether, under a sergeant, but some wounded. They’ve helped. The Royal Archers to the west weren’t sure they should leave their camp—they’d been fighting the first wave, from before the fire, and expected more to come. They did lend us ten of their fifty. When I was hit and couldn’t bend my bow, I came south as fast as I could, hoping to reach Chaya and give warning, but—” He paused; Kieri could tell that despite the food he’d been given, he was exhausted. “And our supplies are low, sir king. I hadn’t eaten in two days when I met your scout.”

Kieri cast his mind back over thirty years of war and could imagine every miserable hour of the defense … outnumbered, confused, leaderless, hungry and cold and tired.

“There’s too many of ’em, sir king,” the ranger said. “We’ve tried, but—”

“Be at ease,” Kieri said again. “You and the others have done very well; I honor your service. Now I am here, and the Pargunese will not know what happened.” The ranger’s jaw dropped a little. “There are ways for a fox to eat a bullock … not in one gulp, but one bite at a time.” Kieri stood. “You need a surgeon’s care and rest and warmth,” he said. “My supply train is coming, and you’ll be taken care of.”

“But there are so many—” the man said. “And that fire—”

“The fire is gone,” Kieri said. “It will not return.” He hoped and trusted that the dragon would prevent that, though he would have been comforted to have the beast itself at his side, ready to flame a formation of Pargunese.

Would you really?

The thought in his mind bore a tang of smoke and hot iron. Kieri’s thoughts stumbled for an instant, and then he thought, with all his might,
Yes
.

We are not tools of the lateborn. I have my work; you have yours
.

Not hostile, not friendly: commanding.

Kieri gave a mental shrug and turned back to his task. Dragons and elves, both uncanny, but dragons—in this war—far more useful than the other. Once more the tang of a smithy, the ghost of a chuckle, and then it was gone.

He glanced at his Squires, their faces sober. One, in that interval, had taken off his cloak and laid it on the ranger, over the bloodstained cloak that had been ripped short to make the bandage on the man’s arm. Kieri nodded. “Indeed, that is well thought of.” Then he touched the taig and called a little warmth into the soil under the ranger. The man’s face relaxed as the warmth touched him.