Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–Jižní Lov
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Vlk finished the last of his morning chores with a sigh that was equal parts relief and frustration. It was well past the noon bell, and he counted himself fortunate that Milan Němá-noha was nowhere to be found… to say nothing of his father. Both had departed before high sun to tend to some business or other with the Bluemark’s chief groom. This twice-blessed turn of events meant neither his master nor his father could stand behind him to pick at his every action. It also meant they couldn’t cuff him over how long it had taken him to get everything settled and sorted.
I’ve got nine fewer horses to look after in my part of the stables, vhy did it feel like there vas so much more to be done today?
The Count’s warband had marched away two days a’gone. All told, there had been nineteen mounted men with Lord Aetanis at their head, and something like a score of footmen. He hated to admit it, given his feelings on the majority of the folk in question, but they’d looked impressive, at least to his unpracticed eye.
Nine horses from the Count’s stable… mounts for Lord Caros and his lance of men, Lord Aetanis, the two guards he’d come into camp with, and that sergeant who refused to kill his own men… Stephan vas his name, I think. He shook his head, spitting to one side.
He found his mind returning to thoughts of Lord Aetanis’s newly hired footmen. Those same eight men had stood and drawn swords against Lakkrid and his uncle.
Admittedly, Stephan hadn’t been there for the fighting, but what of that? They’d been his men when they’d meant to kill Lakkrid… And now they’re Lord Aetanis’s personal guard? Vhy in the vorld they vere revarded for that is a thing I von’t ever understand. They’re lowbellies. They’ll make the Lord Aetanis and the Count look foolish.
Beyond all of that, and his frustration at the plodding pace of the day’s work, there were other matters to contend with. Rubbing grit out of his eyes, he recognized the truth. He was short-tempered, tired, and troubled all at a go. What sleep he’d gotten had been broken and thin, he was still sore from yesterday’s training, and—he’d do better to admit it—he was still thinking angry thoughts about Honeybrow’s friend Fetinba.
She vill have to go. I’ll need to beat her in a sparring match, and I’ll need to do it in front of others… especially Honeybrow. Vhen I do that, things vill return to normal, pravdivý jako zítřek.
(True as tomorrow).
He had no intention of using some unfair trick to shame or embarrass her outside of the sparring ring. His mother would have done or planned to do something like that, he had no doubt. And she would easily have roped his father into doing the same. It made a certain amount of sense, as well. It would end the matter without having to fight in the first place. But Vlk refused to sell his honor so cheaply.
If I have to do that, I’m no varrior. I need to best her. Tricking her into looking foolish—making her crawl avay like a vhipped dog—vould mean I von’t get to fight her. I can’t vin a sparring match I never get to fight. Walking to the water pump, he queued up to clean his hands. A varrior vants to test himself against other varriors, not to beat his chest and talk about how strong he is. No varrior vorth his svord vould lower himself like that.
His face split into a dark, snide smile. The Bluemark vould do such a thing. The count and his men vould not.
“Pravdivý jako zítřek.” he said to no one in particular.
“Vhat is?” The high, clear voice forced him out of his weighty thoughts.
“Nothing, Jitka.” Vlk smiled as he turned to see the little girl queue up behind him. Her rich brown waves bounced as she came to a stop. She was carrying a small wooden bucket. It bounced against the dirty wool of her smock—the only clothing she ever wore.
Jitka had been his good luck charm the night they’d last played Zvonění v Jeskyni. She’d been surprised and delighted at having been chosen as his caller. Her voice was sweet, high, and clear. She was always singing. Who better to shout “Běh!” for him? She should have been shouting poběž, but never mind. She was young, and old Kovalunth was complicated. It’d all worked out in the end.
But vait. There’s no snow on the ground. You’ve been barefoot since the last snows melted. Who’s gotten you to start veering shoes?
He noticed her gripping her smock along her dim side, hiking it up ever so slightly to reveal her feet. Those she seemed unable to stop tapping as if a song were trapped in her tousle-haired head.
It was his turn at the water pump. He stepped around it so that he could face her as he cleaned his hands and face.
“Those shoes are a pretty pair. Vhen did you get them?”
She’d wanted him to ask, and badly. Her broad grin and wide eyes made that fact endearingly clear.
“Artem made them for me.” She was bouncing again. “I vas to tell Daryna that he did and show her.”
Daryna was one of his Excellency’s cooks. She’d taken responsibility for the little girl when the Count’s men had brought her in. They’d found her wandering in the woods—filthy, sickly, and nearly feral, some nine or ten sykli a’gone.
“Vlk? Do you think Artem vill take her to vife?”
His hands and face now cold, and reasonably clean, Vlk leaned back, gesturing Jitka toward him. She obliged willingly enough, but looked up into his face, trying to read his thoughts.
With freshly numbed fingers, he took her bucket from her as gently as he could, placing it under the spout. With his other hand, he worked the force pump once more, filling the bucket but slowly.
“Vell… he’s always talking vith her.” He shrugged. “Does he talk vith you a lot, too?”
She nodded, hopping from foot to foot.
“Is he nice to you?”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. Vlk began to grow concerned, but she seemed only to be lost in thought. Her face was distant, but not clouded with any sort of worry.
“If they wed, vill that mean I have to find a new place to sleep?”
Vlk laughed. Vell, maybe a little vorry. “Vhy vould you have to do that?”
“Vell… vhen it gets cold, I sometimes sleep vith Daryna to keep varm. I like Artem, but…” She wrinkled her nose. “His breath is…” She shook her head and made flapping gestures as if to ward off a bad smell.
Vlk laughed. He couldn’t help it. A moment later, she joined in.
As he stopped the flow of water, he hefted the small bucket, thinking of his first lesson with Andrej. That led him to thoughts of Fetinba, magically transforming Andrej into Honeybrow. He made an effort to banish those thoughts. Turning to Jitka, he asked what, to him, were the obvious questions.
“Vhere are you meant to take this? Is it for Artem or Daryna?”
Her face lit up in that smile again. It was a perfect antidote for his frustrations. Somehow, she managed to smile with her entire body, which made it hard to lump her in with most of the other children her age. Being around Jitka made people, well, happy.
“No! Come! Come and see!” With that, she began to run off.
Vlk shook his head. Apparently, he was carrying her water for her. Vell, at least she asked nicely. He snorted and walked after her.
What he found beyond the entrance to Maker’s Row was at once annoying and amazing. At a small camp table sat Andrej, Fetinba, Pavel, and a man wearing the Count’s livery. A moment later, he recognized the man, too. He’d taken Pavel away after Lakkrid faced down the Bluemark. They looked as if they were playing cards—a thing his parents refused to let him do, let alone teach him how to do.
He felt a wave of embarrassed rage begin to roll toward him. Here was yet another thing Andrej had been given. It wasn’t Andrej’s fault, of course, and indeed Andrej would almost certainly be willing to teach Vlk how to play. Still, here were Pavel, the dull-witted baker’s boy, Andrej, and Fetinba sitting with one of the Count’s men, playing cards as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Then he saw it.
Jitka had bolted over, crouched down behind the man’s camp stool, and began crooning. As she did, she started sliding her hand along what at first he’d taken for a dark red log, before it raised its head and licked her small face. She giggled, stroking the massive hound’s sleek crimson head with one hand, and made frantic hurry up gestures to Vlk with the other.
“Is that…” He shook his head, speechless for the moment. Please don’t let it be Fetinba’s. If the dark-skinned girl had a Karmínové Srdce—a Crimson Heart—it would be the final… the final… what?
He walked the short distance to where Jitka crouched with the hero’s hound. As he did, both Andrej and Pavel nodded in his direction, though they kept their minds focused on their game.
Jitka gestured for him to put the bucket down in front of the Karmínové Srdce, which he did gladly. He’d never actually seen one, but every child knew their description. Blood red fur. Ears that hung down beside their dark faces. Eyes like warmth and wisdom brought to life. As he met the beast’s eyes, resisting the urge—the almost physical need to pet the massive, friendly-looking creature—he suddenly knew why he feared that it was Fetinba’s.
If she has a hero’s hound, that makes her a hero. I can help her train, maybe even help her fight, but if I stand against her, I’m the monster. I’m the foe. It voud mean she’s the varrior, and I’m the vile thing setting himself in her vay.
He sat on his knees and asked the question, bracing himself for the answer he so dreaded… bracing himself to make peace he didn’t want to make.
“Is he … yours, Fetinba?”
“She … is mine,” said the man as they flipped their cards. “Or perhaps I’m hers.”
“She’s called Štít!” Jitka spoke as if she, herself, had chosen the name. Štít was old Kovalunth for Shield—a fine name for a war hound.
Vlk had to fight the urge not to shout his relief. He wasn’t the villain in Fetinba’s story, nor was he an afterthought in his own. He could continue to think of her as a rival to be bested.
“Štít proti Vzteku, if we’re making formal introductions.” The man’s voice was hard to read as he made this correction. He didn’t sound unhappy, but mild enough to make reading him difficult. “Štít will do, though.”
Štít proti Vzteku. Vlk felt a smile sneaking its way onto his face… Rage Shield. At once, his mind filled with images of the battles the hound would have seen to earn such a name. To have a varhound like you stood beside me. Vhat glory ve vould find! He began stroking the dog, who gave his face a single lick before dipping down to drink from the bucket.
He heard a collective drawing of breaths, presumably at whatever the cards had shown, then the man spoke again through a grin.
“And you, Fetinba, are mine. Off the field, at least for this round.”
Fetinba sucked her teeth. “So be-yit, Ruční Kopí. That means…” She gave a brief bark of satisfied laughter.
Pavel threw up his hands. “Hells. Vhy didn’t you play that sooner, Andrej?” He sounded more confused than frustrated, though not by much.
Vlk lifted himself to see the table, careful to position himself so that he could continue petting Štít. Pavel and Fetinba held no cards. Andrej and the man—Ruční Kopí, apparently—held a pair and a single card, respectively. All four of them had a card turned skyward in front of them, with two piles in the middle. One of these was face-up, the other face-down. Andrej’s card bore seven of what looked to be red spearheads. Fetinba’s showed an armored man holding a black banner with a white diamond in its center. Pavel’s card displayed seven red castles, and Ruční Kopí’s was a figure in a red cloak and hood.
Andrej shrugged.
“True Trefning, boys,” said the man. “A real skirmish. Pavel? Do you want to draw first or second?”
Pavel blinked. “I … don’t know. Vhich is best?”
The man offered a smile, reaching his dim hand over to grip Pavel’s shoulder. “Fortunes of war. Your castles are higher in the order of precedence than Andrej’s spears. You can make him choose the top card, or you can choose it. It’s all down to chance now.”
“Then vhy does it matter?”
Fetinba spoke up. “Right now, you’re lear-ning. In bat-tle, though, if you can scare your foe, you may force them to make a mistake lay-tah.”
The Count’s man nodded, making a there you have it gesture.
Pavel reached for the cards, then stopped himself. “I’m too happy to eat vhatever’s in reach. I think this time I vait for Andrej to eat first.”
The man gave Pavel’s shoulder a squeeze, nodding.
Andrej reached for the top card on the face-down pile, then flipped it over. It was another armored man with a banner—this one bearing a white knight’s spur on it.
Pavel shook his head, sighing. He reached for the next card on the pile, flipping it over with surprising dexterity. It bore ten red spearheads and carried with it Pavel’s sigh of frustration. He had no more cards in his hand.
“I vant to see vhy Andrej held onto that seven.”
I vould have thought Pavel vould be angry. He sounds more interested in seeing who vins than angry at losing.
Andrej’s face was calm and thoughtful, though it showed no sign of particularly deep concentration. He drew the banner-bearing card into his hand, placing the seven of spyd (spears) onto the face-up pile at table’s center. After a moment, he began sliding the three cards he held in his hand, reordering them in an absent sort of way. Finally, he looked up as Ruční Kopí placed his only card on the table, face down.
“At your pleasure, Andrej.” The man’s voice was calm and cheerful.
Andrej nodded, selected a card, and placed it down.
The pair nodded at one another, then flipped their cards. Andrej had played the same banner-bearing man he’d just claimed. Ruční Kopí played a card bearing a man with a small crown on his head. Its six spires were topped with tiny round orbs.
Ruční Kopí knocked on the tabletop, eliciting a grin from Pavel. “Baron beats banner,” said he.
Andrej nodded, saying nothing. He moved his banner card onto the face-up pile and waited.
Ruční Kopí leaned back, leaving his baron card face-up. “Not gonna re-draw till I have to.”
Andrej took one of his remaining two cards and laid it on the table face-up. It showed six white spurs on a black field.
“That vas vhat I thought you vould play vhen I played the seven.” Pavel squinted as if he were still trying to work out why Andrej had beaten him.
Ruční Kopí took his baron and tossed it on the discard pile. Andrej’s six joined it. The man drew a fresh card, glancing at it before he grinned and placed it face-down on the table. The boy’s remaining card followed a moment later.
Andrej’s vaited. He couldn’t beat the baron, and now Ruční Kopí doesn’t have it anymore.
Both reached as if to flip their own card, then paused, seeking one another’s eyes. Satisfied that each was ready, they flipped.
Thwip.
“Hells haul me home! Damn you, Andrej!” Rather than angry, Ruční Kopí sounded as if he were on the verge of real laughter. “That was well played.”
Before Ruční Kopí sat another of what they were calling a banner. The armored figure held a white banner bearing a red spearhead in its center. In front of Andrej sat another baron card—this one with a red castle on two of its corners.
Štít lifted her head from the bucket to look around, then turned back to resume drinking.
“How did he know?” Pavel was still a few paces back, looking first to Andrej, then the Count’s man with undisguised confusion.
“A banner can beat most cards,” Andrej said. “Can’t beat a baron, though, can it?”
Pavel shook his head. “But you had a baron. Vhy didn’t you play that sooner?”
“Be-cause it wasn’t worth the risk,” Fetinba put in.
Ruční Kopí had taken up the cards and begun to shuffle them afresh. “Trefning means skirmish in Havalunth, Pavel. Yes?”
“Yes, you said this already.”
“Well, skirmishes aren’t the whole war, are they?”
Pavel sat back, considering. “No… they’re a part of the var, though. You have to vin skirmishes to vin the var, just as you have to vin your rounds in a lyst to vin the whole tournament.”
Ruční Kopí was nodding. “After a fashion, but it might be better to say you have to win the right skirmishes to win the war. You have to think about the whole war, not just a single skirmish.”
Pavel nodded, then rolled his head from side to side, and seemed to chew on it.
“If you tire yourself out in the first round of the lyst, you’ve won that round, but at a cost. You have less energy for the rest of the rounds, yes?”
Pavel nodded, albeit slowly.
“You don’t just need to be able to defeat your first foe. To win the tourney—to win the war—you have to have the strength and cunning to defeat your last foe, too. Do you see?”
Vlk could almost smell the smoke from Pavel’s effort. The lesson seemed obvious to his thinking, but everyone was different, he supposed. Pavel had not been cursed vith an excess of opinion, as his mother would say.
Andrej stiffened suddenly. Vlk saw his nostrils flare, chin pointed skyward.
He looks like an animal scenting something.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, the great red hound beside Vlk lifted her head from the bucket, growling softly and also scenting the air.
“That’s smoke.”
“So? There are fires all over camp, Honeybrow.”
“Yes, but this is coming from that way.” Andrej gestured to the northwest with his chin. “The wind’s blowing toward us from that direction, and there are no fires between here and the gate for it to carry this way.”
Ruční Kopí stood up, looking down at his hound. The man was opening his mouth to speak, even as he turned away from the table, when Vlk heard a woman call his name.
“Vlk! Stay there and don’t let anyone leave!”
He knew the voice. It was one of Lady Kastan’s folk, though he couldn’t recall her name.
“Vlasta?” Fetinba, apparently, could.
Turning, he saw the old woman trotting toward them on a horse he remembered. It had been one of the only Flekket Vinds he’d ever seen, and he’d been utterly taken by its dappled beauty. Something in the horse’s gait seemed off, though—as if she wanted to run, but was being held back.
The woman rode over, swinging out of the saddle with surprising grace. “Hajvarr, I need you to get me in to see Edmund right away.” She handed her reins to Vlk with barely a nod of acknowledgement. “Fetinba, there’s trouble on the come. Rally the rest of our number. Andrej? Go with her.”
Vlk blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Ne, I vant to go vith Andrej.”
“I need you to take care of my horse and saddle all of those you can while there’s time, Vlk.” The woman’s voice made it clear she expected his obedience.
Vell, she’ll be disappointed. “I go vith Andrej. If there’s trouble, I vant to fi—”
“Villlk!” Andrej made his voice sharp, extending the word until Vlk—and everyone else—had quieted. When they’d all turned to look at him, including the hound, he spoke again. His voice returned to its normal timbre. “See to Vlasta’s tasks. Rally the other stable boys to help, if you can. I’ll find you before… before whatever this is comes to pass.”
Vlk looked at him for what seemed like a long moment. “…Opravdu?” (Really?)
Andrej nodded, grinning. “Jo. Pravdivý jako zítřek.” (Yeah. True as tomorrow.)
Vlk gave a single, solemn nod, turned, and headed off. He hadn’t gone far when he heard Pavel’s heavy steps jogging up behind him.
“Ruční Kopí says I’m to help you vith vhatever I can.”
Vlk turned, walking backward as he watched the boy’s approach. He saw the Count’s man level a finger at his hero’s hound. She, in turn, sat back down beside Jitka, who instantly began to pet the massive beast.
“Vhy did the voman call him Hajvarr?”
Pavel shrugged. “They know each other vell, I think. Ruční Kopí isn’t his name.”
“Vell, not his given name at least. I thought maybe it vas his varrior’s name, the vay Count Edmund is Edmund the Tall.” Ruční Kopí meant Hand Spear in the old tongue—an odd epithet, but a memorable one.
“Ne. Ruční Kopí’s his rank—his job. He’s the leader of the Count’s personal guard. I’m to join vith him. Ruční Kopí asked my father, and he says I may.”
Vlk fought back the urge to sigh. Honeybrow gets service and training from a noble house. Lakkrid gets to train and fight vith his father and his father’s men, as does Maksu. Pavel gets knocked out for being an unlucky oaf of a varrior, then gets revarded for it by being selected for the Count’s personal guard. And I…
“…Have vork to do,” he murmured aloud.
“Vhat?”
“I said ve have vork to do. Take this horse into that stall over there. Get her some vater. I’ll be back in a blink.”
Pavel nodded, but Vlk barely noticed. He moved to the center of the stable complex, lifted his face toward the ceiling, and shouted. “Ke mě! Ke mě! Ve have vork, and ve need to be quick!”
Several stall doors squeaked open, then banged shut again. This arhythmic thumping heralded roughly a dozen sets of footfalls moving toward him in varying states of speed. Once he could see faces, he told them what was to be done. Horses saddled—as many as possible, as swiftly as may be. They listened, nodded, and raced off to see to it. Vlk wasn’t in charge in any official sense, but orders were often delivered from the master to the nearest stable boy to hand, along with instructions to pass the word. Orders like this usually meant the count or his men would be on the move double-sharp due to some nearby threat—a caravan in trouble, or a large-scale bandit party spotted in the area. The idea that it might have something to do with trouble on its way to them never really occurred to any of them.
As Vlk walked back toward where he’d left Pavel, the idea finally occurred to him.