| |
The air was frosty and the wind ill-tempered, but it mattered little to Valdemar. Winter in Bruallia was harsh, and everything was ill-tempered. He rode Fever at a brisk trot. A pair of Dragonists followed just a pace behind; another ranged ahead. Their heads swiveled as they surveyed their surroundings, ever wary of hidden threats.
The battlements of his city were blackened spires in the distance. The sun had already set behind the looming Dragonspine, casting its spiked shadow across the ground for miles, blanketing the endless array of tents and temporary constructs.
The encampment spread as far as the eye could see. They came from the kingdoms and clans of Bruallia—Ravynna, Aracville, and Radoth. They belonged to him as surely as though they were of his blood. Fear had put that kind of loyalty into them. He had done what no one had in ages, not even his father. He had united the fractured Bruallian kingdoms. He commanded a host of numbers not seen since the dawn of the Age of Kings. They would crash down the Dragonspine like a tidal wave, soaking the ground in the blood of any who stood against them.
More importantly, he had allies more powerful than all his might combined, contracts forged in shadow that would tip the scales in his favor. It was as good as written. The son of Basilis would be the greatest ruler in history.
He lifted a hand to halt the Dragonists and pulled rein at a burnt-out copse. A thicket of stakes with bodies impaled upon them stood in the place of trees. The air was ripe with the perfume of defecation and death; the ground churned into reddish mud from the blood that drained down the stakes. Some of the victims still whimpered and wailed from the unspeakable agony. He briefly wondered what it must feel like. How much suffering could be endured before the body simply surrendered and became numb? Torture was a science to him, and he was an apt pupil in the art. His acts of vengeance were whispered of fearfully, and men shivered at the mention of his name.
He smiled.
Respect and fear were far better motivators for a ruler than the love or adoration some rulers sought. Love could be easily taken for granted, but fear stayed with a man all the days of his life.
It was better that way.
Valdemar waved over a nearby captain. He was a Bruallian, as were most of the commanders. Valdemar couldn't remember the man's name, which meant he had not impressed Valdemar yet.
"Are you in charge of the impaling, Captain?"
"I am, sire." The man sounded proud. From Valdemar's perspective atop Fever, he looked timid and diminutive.
"Why have you impaled only men?"
"Sire?"
Valdemar looked steadily into the Captain's eyes. He noted the nervous shift, the sag of the shoulders, and finally, the shattered confidence. No, the man didn't impress him at all. "When your Lord asks you a question, you answer swiftly. Why have you impaled only men?"
The Captain dropped to one knee with head bowed and one palm on the ground. "I didn't think to do otherwise, sire. I beg forgiveness for my error."
"Tomorrow, I will see double the amount, or I will see you on a stake along with them. And I will see women and children impaled as well. Do you understand, soldier?"
The Captain swallowed hard. "I—I will, sire."
"The enemy must see that defiance results in the worst possible retribution, Captain. There will be no mercy for them. That will be demonstrated when their wives, daughters, and sons adorn stakes alongside the very roads they travel. I want these rebels to succumb to sheer horror before they surrender to me."
The captain's eyes reflected that horror, but he swore he would follow his orders. Valdemar nudged Fever forward and left the man kneeling. It was hard on the new officers when they first experienced the rigors of torture. The man would soon be numb to the blood and the screams. He would make a good officer. Time and experience were the deciding factors.
The sound of the encampment carried for miles. Ringing blows resounded as smiths forged weapons, officers barked orders at their men, fires crackled, and the men around them laughed and sang as they feasted and drank. Valdemar allowed them their amusements. No man could be expected to work unceasingly without a release.
No man but himself.
Lord General Ganbatar Basilis joined Valdemar as he rode toward the main encampment. Ganbatar's lamellar armor was still dusty from his recent expedition. He dipped a bow from the saddle of his warhorse. "We pursued the remaining rebels and put them to the sword. That makes six bands so far."
"All Parthava fighters?"
"They didn't bear the colors, but they were definitely Parthavan."
Valdemar's mouth thinned. "Still fighting a lost cause for a nation that now belongs to me. Another day I might admire these warriors, but I do not have the luxury of time to waste."
"At least it gives our men some exercise. They needed the chance to work off some of the rust."
"Those sheep are good for nothing except sating bloodlust. The best of Parthava's fighters have already been slain." Valdemar gazed at the distant peaks of the Dragonspine. "The Leodian soldiers will not fall so easily, I promise you that."
Ganbatar nodded. Valdemar knew his brother already had plans of attack and battle formations in place, contingencies arranged, and backup plans established. Ganbatar spent any free hours studying maps and reading records of legendary generals of the past and could probably direct an entire campaign in his sleep.
"Ask your questions, Lord General. I know you have them."
Ganbatar didn't hesitate. "Why Stravaholme? Even the pagan Parthavans will not go within miles of the place. It has long been abandoned in their lands by our forefathers. It is said great evil resides there. Evil from the Age of Chaos, when sorcery abounded, and the foulest daemons wandered the earth."
"Don't let superstitions cloud your mind, Lord General. Deis' power is mightier than any false god or daemon force. He is our Creator, the source of our strength and warrior spirit. Through his will, the way has opened for us to reclaim our inheritance. He won't abandon us to the perils of Stravaholme."
Ganbatar was silent for a moment. "That still doesn't explain why we journey there, Lord Commander."
Valdemar smiled at Ganbatar's practical insistence. "You know it's nearly impossible to move an army across the Dragonspine."
"I do."
"Stravaholme is the answer. It's an access point to passages long forgotten. We'll use those passages to enter Leodia undetected."
"The army will travel the distance from Parthava to Leodia ... underground?" The slight widening of Ganbatar's eyes betrayed anxiety another man would express by a dismayed shout.
"You believe that to be an issue, Lord General?"
"Every man must die one day, Lord Commander." Ganbatar made the sign of the Sword of Deis across his chest with his free hand.
Valdemar repeated the gesture. "Leave those concerns to me, Ganbatar. For now, we should concentrate on these Parthavan rats that nibble at our ankles."
"Even nibbles draw blood." Ganbatar frowned and fingered the tasseled pommel of his daito sword. "We are wide open to attack at any given moment and move dismally slow in this terrain and weather. The rebels know they cannot defeat us. All they seem to desire is that we feel their fury and give them a good death."
"I will give them death. Whether it is good or not is not my concern. But their reckless abandonment makes me believe their actions have been approved."
"You believe the nobles of Parthava have secretly blessed their actions? They are sycophants, owing their positions to you, Lord Commander."
"Even sycophants can grow a spine if left to their own devices. You saw how they refused to respect me in Dragos. I thought I humbled them when I nailed their silly turbans to their brows. I should have simply relieved them of their heads and been done with it. It would have been best to have placed Bruallian lords in charge of their cities, but I didn't want to stoke a spirit of rebellion." Valdemar's laugh was bitter. "I won't make that mistake again. Parthava will submit, even if I must raze their cities and build anew on a foundation of their broken bodies. It will take time away from my plans, but I won't leave my city open to attack when we cross the Dragonspine."
"What are you saying, Lord Commander? We are to sack Parthava on the way to Stravaholme?"
"You said yourself the men needed to shake off the rust. I want this army blooded before the campaign against Leodia. Are they up to the task?"
"If you are willing to lose the men. I warn you, it will not be easy. The remaining Parthavan soldiers will fight desperately when they realize they have nothing to lose."
"So will the forest knights of Byrthon. The clan warriors of the Steppes. The Legions of Hispalis. And finally, so will the legendary knights of Kaerleon. We are not yet ready, Lord General. But we will be."
Ganbatar nodded and saluted with a fist across his armored chest. "We will be, Lord Commander. It will be as you say. By your leave, I will relay the new orders to my commanders."
"You have my leave, Lord General." Valdemar reached out to clasp Ganbatar's forearm. "Our moment is finally upon us, brother."
"It is. Father would be proud of you." Ganbatar spurred his horse and rode away in the direction of the commanders' camp, followed by a squadron of Dragonists.
Those remaining encircled Valdemar when he guided Fever to a clearing away from the din, where a separate, more lavish camp was spread. It had been laid aside for his chief officers and the prominent Bruallian leaders. He preferred to keep them close. Around their own people, they were more likely to scheme and plot how to usurp him, but it was much harder to do so around his Dragonists.
His sprawling, black-shrouded tent was as large as a Bruallian manor. Stationed around it were more knights of the Dragonist Order. One took the bridle as Valdemar dismounted. He gave Fever a final pat between the eyes. The stallion was a fine steed, but not like Daemon—the stallion that Marcellus Admorran rode over the cliff. Valdemar clenched his fists.
Marcellus was never far from his mind. The man would never know how much trouble he had caused. Not only did he make a fool out of Valdemar, but the Parthavan rebels had never openly shown such defiance until after the news of Marcellus' escape leaked out beyond Bruallia. Valdemar had appeared weak, and it had cost him much.
The other lords began to question his authority. He had been forced to be more ruthless than ever before to settle matters before they got out of hand. The debacle with Oebarsius was only the latest in a sequence of minor uprisings Valdemar had to quell.
Yet, the fractured kingdoms had united because of Marcellus' actions. All agreed that the knight's trespass was unforgivable, a breach of any contract preventing them from crossing the Dragonspine. Declaring war against Leodia presented no problem. The Bruallians had long chafed from being exiled to the harshness of the Eastern Wilds. All they needed was an excuse to raise arms against their hated enemies. Marcellus had provided just that excuse.
Valdemar hated him for that. Hated being grateful to a man who shamed him in front of thousands, upsetting his supposed day of glory. He wondered what Marcellus was doing right then and how long it would be before they met again. He knew the day would come. It was as the Caraka said: life moved in circles.
The two Dragonists at his door saluted when he entered his tent. A horned owl turned its head around to stare with unblinking eyes from its perch in the corner. Valdemar walked through the sitting room past gilded tables, chairs, and satin cushions, all black against the scarlet silk that lined the interior. A marble fountain murmured as he strode through the council hall into his personal chamber. The room was rounded and small enough to be comfortable. His eyes flicked across the shadows of the velvet curtains, the hidden corners for the assassin who might have made it past his Dragonists.
The room was empty. He relaxed and unbuckled his sword belt, hung his velvet cloak on the proper peg, and carefully laid his pearl-embroidered cap on the polished oak of the tabletop.
He paused to gaze at the painting that centered the room. His mother's saintly face stared back at him, framed with wavy raven hair. Her dark, penetrating eyes seemed to see beyond things, as they did when she lived.
Something moved in the shadows.
Delilah padded into the room. Her smoky velvet fur gleamed, and her emerald eyes glimmered. Her rumbling purr was the only sound in the room as she rubbed her head against his stroking fingers. He scratched her chin when he lifted her in his arms, feeling the faintest shadow of a smile touch his lips. Delilah's eyes were half-closed as she thoroughly enjoyed the special treatment.
A shuffling sound caused her ears to prick forward.
An elderly woman slowly entered the room with a tray of steaming food in her trembling hands. Her breath wheezed, and her approach was slow enough to be near exasperating, but Valdemar waited patiently for her to set the tray on a stand beside him.
"Thank you, Mara."
A smile creased her wrinkled cheeks. Mara had been mute all her life, one of the reasons his mother had hired her. No gossip was possible when one had no voice. His mother was younger than himself at that time, and when she died, Valdemar had retained Mara's services. His mother had trusted her, and he, living among many who would kill him without a second thought, could as well.
Mara should have been settled down somewhere living on her pension but had never indicated she wanted to be relieved of her duties. So he had never found cause to let her go. She could be trusted, and besides the Dragonist Order, he could say that of no one else.
Her body was failing, but her mind was still sharp. Her white hair was neatly pulled up in a bun, and her gray dress was clean and pressed.
How long will it be before she lays down and never rises again? How long until every meal, every sip of wine will be suspect to poison from a jealous rival or vengeful enemy?
He knew he should have let her live out her twilight years in peace. But he knew he would not. He hated to admit it, but he depended on her.
It would be some time before she made it back with his wine chalice, so he lifted the cover off the tray. The night's supper was thick slices of veal and potatoes, surrounded by buttered peas and bread. He ate ravenously, pausing only to tear a strip of veal and feed it to Delilah. She ate with the dignified manner of a lady of the court, something that never failed to amuse him.
A moment later, she lifted her head, laid her ears back, and narrowed her green eyes into slits. Baring her razor teeth, she emitted a venomous hiss before scampering out of the room as if her tail was on fire.
Valdemar sighed as the food turned to sawdust in his mouth. The shadows of the tent darkened as the familiar sucking of air through inhuman lips became audible, accompanied by the stench of rotted leather.
"Hello, father."
He didn't turn. He had tried to see in the past, but the specter that haunted him wore shadows like a man wore a cloak. Only a pair of dimly glowing orbs were visible in the silhouette of what could have been a man.
Darroth Basilis was dead. Yet Darroth Basilis spoke to him through twisted, bestial lips.
"Greetings, Valdemar."
Valdemar was relieved to find his voice steady. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"Someone has to be the hand that guides you. You are too headstrong, too reckless. You appear ready to cross the border before the order from your Mistress."
Valdemar nearly snarled. "Do you take me for a fool? One does not simply lead an army across borders in the winter, especially not across the Dragonspine. But it takes time to gather this kind of force, and the Parthavans needed to be punished. In this way, I get the soldiers ready for the spring crossing. The High King of Leodia is dead, and Kaerleon is in chaos. It will be the perfect time to strike."
The shadowy figure's gaze sharpened, causing Valdemar much more unease than he dared to show.
"You are a warrior with no peer, but you have no grasp of politics," Darroth hissed through jagged teeth. "This is a game of timing and calculated moves. Should you come through the borders in all your force, you would succeed in taking some of the realm. But before you could get near Kaerleon, the remaining kingdoms would surely unite against you. Even your grand army would dash to pieces against such a force. But with the kingdom in peril, you must allow time for the separate provinces to muster the boldness to declare their sovereignty and rebel against Leodia on their own. Then you will be able to gain allies in our drive of conquest."
Valdemar toyed with the food on his plate, though his appetite had failed. "My men didn't come to the field of battle to wait. They anticipate slaughter and spoils, and I will feed them until their bowels rupture. The Parthavans thought they could overpower us, but I left them dangling from stakes and drowning in their own blood. These kingdoms of Leodia will be no different."
Darroth's voice was a stern hiss from the shadows. "You will obey your commands without question. Remember, you are Property, and should you ever expect to receive the Gift, you will do as I say. Men named me Basilis to revile me, but I embraced the name and became the very spirit of it, laying waste to all who stood against me. Now the task is yours, son of Basilis. Recall your failure to capture one of the most important players, this Marcellus Admorran. It was his hand that thwarted our allies in Kaerleon, slaying those who controlled the kingdom. Years of planning were ruined in a single day. It was from your hand that he escaped. You must bear the responsibility."
"I will kill the man myself!" Valdemar felt his jaw tremble. "I will raise him on a stake and drink of his flowing blood. Send me into Kaerleon, and I will return with his heart in my fist."
The creature sighed. "You speak with the rashness of foolhardy youth. The Sects will be swarming in the area to control the situation. For now, our operation must remain invisible, our operatives nonexistent. But in the name of the High Lady Masiki, you will stand in the heart of Kaerleon when the time comes. You will sit upon the throne of the High King and rule the entire kingdom as your blood entitles you. This I swear. Patience. Soon you and your men will have all the battle your hearts could desire. Soon the world will tremble at the son of Basilis."
The darkness in the room dissipated, but Valdemar hardly noticed. He ignored the return of Delilah, who curled up beside his feet, and Mara when she returned with a cool chalice of wine. After a moment, she placed it on the stand beside him and left him to his murderous thoughts.