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Dusk fell as Corban urged Ghost through the huge encampment. Travel-weariness and boredom faded as he eyed the soldiers who idled before Tragobre’s fortress, glaring at him in turn. Corban acknowledged their stares with icy Thaenfall pride. Not one man challenged him. Indeed, several backed away.
Cowards.
Interesting. None of the men were attired alike, and their tents were equally cobbled together, some of oiled canvas, others of leather, several were plain lean-to’s of fabric that promised little sleep in the looming autumn chill. Tragobre was besieged by an army of mercenaries. Had the queen kept most of her trained army in Arimna to shield herself against attack? It seemed so.
Corban studied the muddled assortment of tents, then grimaced against the stench of unkempt privy pits. By all that he’d been taught as a youth, this encampment of mercenaries was ripe for disease. Their lack-wit commander should be dropped into one of his own pits.
Stifling his breath, Corban rode toward the largest tent, which dared to flaunt Darzeq’s pennants and banners—most boasting a fortress set above waters. Depicting Arimna Castle’s origin as guardian of the land between Darzeq’s twin rivers. If the queen mother, Cthar, wasn’t here to command her own forces, then who had she sent in her place, bearing treasonously stolen colors? Royal banners she’d stolen by spilling royal blood.
He almost smiled at the irony. He, a Thaenfall, was insulted on behalf of a king chosen by the Infinite. His lord-father would have ordered Matteo and Corban roasted alive. As Corban might yet be if he failed to keep his wits now. He’d concealed enough weapons about himself, on his belt and in his boots to use if anyone attacked him. However, if this camp’s commander ordered him thoroughly searched, there would be no meeting. No gathering of information to share later with Lord Tragobre—though Corban could speculate with some certainty that many of these men would soon be stricken with flux of the bowels and fevers matching their violent digestive unrest.
The guards ringing the tent eyed him warily, and a vaguely familiar Istgard-accented voice cut into Corban’s thoughts. “Swiln-gut gouger!”
Ghost huffed as Corban reined him in, seeming to recognize his erstwhile foe even as Corban recalled the man’s name. Corban glowered toward the Istgardian wretch and answered with cold, carrying blade-like sharpness. “Aki of Riyan. Do you believe I’ve forgotten you—you sniveling runaway stable hand?”
Aki puffed up like a defensive motley bird. “I’m free and no runaway!”
“You ran when I beat you to the pavings in Riyan.” Disdainful, Corban warned the men seated around the startled Aki, as if the listening men were nearer his equal. “Guard your horses, sirs. This man will thrash them and demand that you pay him for injuring them—yet when he’s struck, he whimpers and flees. Istgard’s well rid of him. Who is your commander, and where is he?”
One of the louts edged away from Aki then nodded toward the tent’s entry. “Lord Gueronn’s there at evening meal.”
Gueronn. Corban’s senses seized upon the name, blade sharp and keen to fight. Wasn’t Gueronn the palace guard who’d led the slaughter of Matteo’s brothers? Corban foraged his memories for details from the king’s retellings of the massacre. Had Gueronn been a lord before this siege? Not likely. Courtly life hinged upon matters of rank, and Corban would have remembered mention of a “Lord Gueronn.”
Had the queen-mother merely rewarded a common guard for killing Darzeq’s princes, or was Cthar heaping honors upon her unsanctioned favorite? If so, then undoubtedly Gueronn was setting himself up to rule Darzeq through the queen-mother. Overreaching felon!
Corban suppressed a snarl as he dismounted Ghost and lowered the reins onto the trampled soil. Not bothering to lower his voice, he commanded his horse, “Wait here. If anyone approaches you, alert me and then stomp him to dust.”
He turned toward the butcher Gueronn’s tent, stretched out his arms, and then lifted his chin, eyeing the guards, silently commanding them to search him. As they approached, he allowed them the thinnest smile in his arsenal and ordered the lead guard, “Tell your commander-general that Lord Corban Thaenfall of Siphra requires an audience—it will be well-worth his time.”
The lead guard, no autocrat, bowed like a scuffling minion. Too easily intimidated, as were his lessor comrades. The lead made one meek request. “Your sword, sir? My lord.”
Corban unbuckled his sword from his belt, but didn’t hand it over. “This was my lord-father’s sword, and I allow no man to touch it. I’ll place it in the entryway where you may view it while I speak with your commander. I’ve one dagger in my right boot, the other at my left side.”
The lead nodded and motioned to the others, who searched Corban, their motions too-wary, tentative as a pack of timid maidens. He wore two additional concealed blades and these wretches found neither.
The lead announced him in awed tones, then stepped aside. Corban swept past him, leaned his lord-father’s sheathed sword just inside against the entry post, dropped the entry’s curtain, then nodded toward the camp’s commander, Gueronn, who betrayed his lowly origins by standing the instant Corban eyed him, and muttering, “My lord.”
Corban smiled, noting his host’s sumptuous attire—the fine linen, the rings on his fingers, his heavy new gold and gem-studded belt, the golden cloak, and the lordly golden circlet crowning his head. “You are ... Lord Gueronn.”
“I am.” Gueronn straightened, affecting a superiority that rested on him as awkwardly as a gossamer scarf settled upon a gladiator. His looks, brawny, tanned, and sun-streaked, would have gained royal attention in Siphra’s former court—as they obviously had in Cthar’s. Moreover, this Gueronn’s table was covered with fresh linen, gilded silverware, and well-prepared food that half the men in his camp might kill for. Corban would wager his own life on his conclusion.
Gueronn was more than the queen-mother’s guard.
Did the new-belted lord understand the risks he now faced as royal favorite? Gueronn studied Corban, not entirely a fool. “Who are you, sir? One of the foreign recruits?”
“I am Lord Corban Thaenfall of Siphra, offering my service to Darzeq. May I salute Dazeq’s favored new lord?” Corban gave the man a courtly Siphran salute, even as his entire being protested the degradation. He straightened, then stood at ease, hands behind his back beneath his cloak, resting against his concealed dagger’s hilt. To the Infinite, he thought, One-Who-Sees, be with me now—this time, I ask! Let me understand Your will for this man.
A sensing slipped over Corban as a downrushing air current and he smiled, fixated upon the favored guard-turned-lord.
Gueronn accepted Corban’s formal salute with a grin. He relaxed in his chair and reached for his gem-chased silver goblet. “Darzeq’s new ‘lord’ has only begun to rule! How might you serve me, Lord Corban?” The arrogant guard’s eyebrows raised, he took a mighty swig of the wine, then set down his cup with gusto.
Splinterings of outrage stabbed within Corban’s thoughts, expanding to fury against the opportunistic Gueronn. The man dared to step above his place and seize control of Darzeq. Dared to slaughter the heirs of the Infinite’s anointed king! Dared to threaten Darzeq’s new queen.
Corban eased his dagger from its sheath and slipped it around beneath his cloak. “Today, I formally pledge to serve Darzeq with all my soul.”
Too late, Gueronn saw his intent.
Corban lunged and slid his dagger into the man’s belly. Gueronn spewed wine, and Corban swiftly choked off any outcry, grasping the man’s jaw with all his might, lowering him to the tent’s carpeted floor, even as he pressed the blade deeper into the favorite’s abdomen. Within two bubbling breaths, Gueronn’s features went slack, his body exuded its dying fumes, and his eyes stared into an eternal void, horror-masked.
Leaving his blade submerged within the corpse, Corban rinsed his bloodied hand in a water pitcher, dried his fingers on Gueronn’s fine linen tunic, then lifted the golden circlet from the favorite’s head and crushed it flat. Gueronn’s bejeweled dagger gleamed at him, and Corban took that as well, using the dagger to harvest a lock of the guard’s sun-bleached hair. He hid the dagger in his belt, tucked the kill-tokens within his heavy coin-purse, then stalked outside, retrieving his father’s sword from the entry. He must escape before that familiar and unwelcomed fatigue drained him of the ability to fight. Closing the entry curtain behind him, Corban nodded to the guards. “I’ll return later. He doesn’t wish to be disturbed—he’s using the privy pot.” Eternally.
The guards all bowed to Corban as he strode away, with Ghost following.
***
Seated at their encampment’s fire, Lord Tragobre stared at Corban and shook his head in wide-eyed disbelief. “You didn’t.”
Corban sat near the fire adjacent to Lord Kemuel, sighed, then slid the favorite’s crushed golden circlet and the golden dagger from his waistband. “I did. Then, I removed these pretty things from Gueronn’s wine-soaked corpse. By the way, he was so heavily adorned with gems and finery that I’d wager my life he was the queen-mother’s paramour.”
Tragobre and the other Forum Lords stared, aghast. Tragobre coughed. “There’ve been rumors, but nothing’s proven—except that the man wielded too much power, despite his lowly status.”
Then Kemuel broke into a broad grin and pounded his fists on his knees. “Gueronn’s dead! The golden toad’s crushed!”
Thaddeus Ormr laughed. “Justice has been dealt to the man! More mercifully than he deserved, Lord Corban, make no mistake! Yet, we’re grateful. I’d pay to tell the king this news, except that I’m poor now that my lord-father’s disowned me.”
“I’d pay for you,” Kemuel retorted cheerily, “But by then it would be too late—I’d have told the king myself.”
Corban lifted one hand, calling out, “To continue... The force set against Tragobre is mercenary—all hired men. Some will be true fighters, but I suspect that within two days, half the camp will be puking or too wearied to fight. The other half, if wise, will flee by dawn when they finally realize their commander is dead.”
His eyes lit with ferocious glee, Roi Hradedh tapped his fingertips together—a man making plans. “Then we attack after dawn, when they’ve discover Gueronn’s corpse and everyone’s panicked. Once we’ve regained Tragobre, my lords, I say we gather our mutual forces, blockade the river—both branches, north and south—and surround Arimna!”
“We’ll be there all winter,” Lord Karvos argued. “I say we open negotiations with the queen-mother and convince her to leave Darzeq.”
Kemuel reached for a steaming metal pitcher and a cup. “We’d be negotiating for years. I say we gather a raiding party, break into the palace, and drag her out.”
“Suicide,” Karvos muttered.
Thaddeus shot a quizzing look at Corban. “I’d go if you would, my lord. The Infinite’s with you. Fighting under your command would be an honor.”
Roi Hradedh grunted agreement as he reached for the pitcher. “To watch you fight, I believe, is the nearest we’ll ever see one of the Infinite’s warriors battle in our mortal realm.” He poured a cup of steaming liquid, then studied Corban. “You’re not as fatigued this time as you were when you defeated those scalns, my lord.”
“I’ve been waiting for the exhaustion to strike,” Corban admitted as Roi handed him the near-brimming cup. Had the attack on Gueronn simply been less draining, or was he becoming used to these divinely prompted bouts? Moreover, Lord Tragobre’s comment about the Infinite’s divine warriors ruffed all the hairs on Corban’s scalp in wary unease. He hurriedly shifted the subject. “As far as joining a raid to wrest the queen-mother from Arimna ... yes, I’d be willing to go, but I know nothing of the place.”
Karvos growled and shook his head. “It’s foolishness! You won’t get past the palace gates.”
“I’d wager he will,” Tragobre argued.
Ordinary fatigue mingled with boredom as Corban listened to the escalating quarrel. He sipped at his cup, helped himself to several handfuls of dried meat and sweetened grain-cakes, and then left the squabbling lords for the solitude of his own tent. But he called back over his shoulder, “Excuse me, my lords. It’s been a long day, and dawn will arrive soon enough. Let me know what you decide!”
Whatever they decided, he’d do as he pleased, if the Infinite allowed.
***
A golden sunrise did nothing to brighten Corban’s sour mood as he guided Ghost toward Darzeq’s dominant Forum lords. They all greeted him, but said nothing to each other as they rode with their men toward the river road leading to Tragobre.
Corban masked a scowl and eased his shoulders beneath his metal-riveted protective vest. He should have stayed with these surly noblemen and finished their quarrel—their silence boded ill for winning a battle. Had they clashed beyond repair? Beneath his breath, he groused to the Infinite, “One-Who-Sees, do You see these lords? Deal with them as You’ve dealt with me! How can we prevail here if we’re fighting among ourselves?”
His own dourness deepened as Lord Roi led them beyond the next curve in the river road—wrought by a bend in the river. Tragobre’s town—blockaded and barred against the invaders—rested along the river road between the bridge and the fields near the approach to Tragobre’s fortress. The fields where the mercenary army should have been.
Lord Tragobre himself called out, “Where’ve they gone? Beware a trap, my lords!”
They drew their swords and rode toward the castle above, amid a clutter of camp rubbish, badly trampled soil, abandoned utensils, and still-smoking hearths. Gueronn’s tent still stood, but wide open and cleared of his corpse and his gear, as if his guards had removed all evidence of his existence.
Lord Kemuel turned toward Corban and shrugged eloquently, bug-eyed with wonder. “They’re gone! All because that toad is dead—thanks to you, Lord Corban. My one disappointment is that I didn’t have the chance to watch you fight this morning.”
Even as Kemuel talked, the castle above was obviously astir, its inhabitants becoming aware that the besiegers had departed and that Lord Tragobre approached. Ram’s horns blared in the distance, and shouts accompanied the din of the clattering, creaking gate and gears being worked as the castle was opened.
Lord Tragobre led them all up the steep incline toward his massive fortress. They rode through the gatehouse single file, then into a crowded bailey teeming with animals in makeshift pens, and the heady scent of manure piles, which steamed in the cold morning air.
A noblewoman emerged from the main building, obviously summoned in haste. Her dark, thickly curling hair billowed long and loose about her shoulders, and she’d clasped a noticeably uneven mantle around her linen gown. Yet for all her carelessness—or perhaps because of that graceful carelessness—Corban would have known her anywhere as a relative of Darzeq’s new queen.
Lady Tragobre’s delicate features predicted her daughter’s own, and her glorious smile as she greeted Lord Tragobre was so reminiscent of Araine’s that Corban bowed and glanced away.
In time to see Lord Karvos ride in one uneven circle around the courtyard before he led his men out of Tragobre without a word.
***
The royal messenger arrived and was admitted to Tragobre’s keep after being thoroughly searched. Corban stood on guard nearby as Lord Tragobre greeted the messenger formally, never moving from his lordly high chair upon the dais in his great hall. The courier bowed then cowered before him. “My lord, I bring you a communication from Lord Karvos, who is in Arimna.”
Tragobre’s eyes widened, then narrowed in a frown that cut deep twin furrows between his eyebrows. “Arimna?” He glanced toward Corban and then at Lord Kemuel, who had just entered the great hall. “Karvos betrayed us!”
Kemuel halted. “How dare the cur sidestep us!”
Tragobre broke the note’s seal, opened the crackling parchment, scanned its contents, and then cast them down onto the stones below the dais. He snarled at the messenger, “Out! Now!” To his own men standing in the doorway, he bellowed, “Take that man outside! Give him some food and lock him out! There is no reply!”
The doors’ great bars rasped into place, sealing Tragobre’s great hall. Roi snarled toward Corban and Kemuel, “Karvos has gone to ‘negotiate’ with the queen! He’s destroyed all our plans and given us away completely—she knows everything!”
He stood and stomped off the dais. “She wants to meet with the king, and his new queen. I’m going to kill Karvos!”