Oath of Fealty

30

Arcolin sat in the folding chair, the letter on the table—Kieri’s table, around which he and Kieri and Dorrin had sat so many times—and opened the letter.

Arcolin read the letter twice, feeling tears sting his eyes. Kieri had never expected to be king; he himself had never expected to inherit the entire company and domain. It was … ridiculous.

And yet the finality in the letter, Kieri’s determined turning away, the lack of questions, of any request for information, made it all real. Kieri had gone away—for a good reason—and left him a gift worth—he could not guess how many crowns or natas. A gift beyond price … and the greatest part, Kieri’s trust that he could—no, he would—nurture it as Kieri himself had done.

“Well,” he said aloud, to the person who was not there. “I will do that. I will.”

He refolded the letter and put it back in its case, tucking the case under the blanket of his camp bed.

Outside, he heard the sergeants scolding some hapless recruits for being lazy and slow with their shields. It had been days since he himself drilled; he walked to the area the sergeants had laid out.

“Captain!” Devlin called. Arcolin waved, pointed to the stack of bandas, and took one, shrugging into it, then put down his longsword to pick up a short one and a shield. The sounds died down; Stammel shouted at them, and the thuds and clangs speeded up again.

They had finished the warm-up drills and were well into file-on-file. Arcolin signaled Devlin, who made space for him on the second row and told one of the others to stand out. Short-sword formation work wasn’t his usual way of fighting, but he practiced it regularly anyway—Kieri had done so, on the grounds that a commander might need to fight in formation in a tight spot. With only one cohort, that chance might come oftener.

“Shield position,” Devlin muttered. Arcolin shifted his shield a hand to the left. Devlin called the front rank to drop back through the second; Arcolin managed the side-step to open ranks and then close again. Now he was in front; the front-rank center of the opposing side made a tentative poke at him, easily blocked, and Stammel yelled.

In a few minutes, Arcolin was sweaty and had two new bruises, one for missing a parry and one from holding his shield at the wrong angle. He could feel the mood of the cohort better this way—they liked it when the captains got dusty and sweaty, too, and they particularly liked it when they took some lumps. Devlin called a shift to the right; Stammel, anticipating, moved his group, too, but Arcolin saw an opening and gave someone—Tam, he saw—a hit in the ribs that would bruise even through the banda.

Then he heard Burek call his name; the sergeants called a hold, and the noise stopped. Arcolin moved out of the formation with a wave to Devlin; Burek and a Gird’s Marshal were riding up to the drill field. Arcolin pulled off the banda, set the short sword and shield down, and picked up his longsword, sliding it into the hanger then wiping the sweat off his face.

“There’s a rumor from up north that your Company’s gone Girdish because a paladin visited you,” the Marshal said. “I’m Marshal Harak, and we’d be pleased to see you at the grange.”

“Not entirely Girdish,” Arcolin said. “It’s a long story. One of our soldiers—from this cohort, in fact—did become a paladin, but not everyone’s Girdish. I put no pressure on anyone to change faiths, if their character’s good. But there’s a grange building back home, in the stronghold, and a Marshal living in Duke’s West.”

“That’s good,” Marshal Harak said. “Some things happened that last year of Siniava’s War—”

“That none of us are proud of, yes,” Arcolin said. “I’ll not argue that. Did Burek tell you our problem here?”

“Something about bad blades—Siniava’s, do you think?”

“I can’t tell, but definitely evil. I felt the malice myself. We want to destroy them, beat them into lumps, but our armorer thought we should have a Marshal or Captain present.”

“If the malice is strong enough for you to feel, then yes, you need help. Let us go.”

In the armory, the armorer had set the bad blades far from the others, near his forge. He had a fire going and his tools set out.

“These are the blades, Marshal,” Arcolin said.

“Bad blades indeed,” Marshal Harak said. “You did well to send for me. Let us see …” He took out his Gird’s symbol, freed the chain from his neck, and dangled the symbol above the blades. Arcolin was not sure, but fancied he saw a sickly yellow-green glow gather between the blades and the medallion. “Oh, that’s nasty,” Harak murmured. “Gird won’t like that.” Still holding the medallion, he held out his other hand. “Armorer, lay one of those blades on the anvil, and give me a hammer, if you please.”

“Marshal?”

Marshal Harak grinned. “My father was a smith; I’m no master of the craft, but I know the use of a hammer.”

“But the steel’s cold.” Gingerly, the armorer reached out with tongs, snatched a blade from under the steady swing of the medallion, and laid it on the anvil. Then he gave the Marshal a hammer.

“And Gird is not. We will need the fire, I know that, but this is more in the nature of the clout you give a mule or horse that’s not paying attention, before you teach it.” Marshal Harak lifted the hammer in his right hand. “By the strength of Gird Strong-arm, by the fire of the High Lord’s altar, be still!” He brought the hammer down on the blade. It squealed like an ungreased wagon wheel; the blade jerked sideways, narrowly missing the Marshal’s leg.

Arcolin shuddered; Marshal Harak laughed, repeated his abjuration, and slammed the hammer onto the blade again. This time it merely shivered and the sound was less, more that of someone shaking a saw blade. Again the Marshal prayed and hammered, and this time the blade lay still. The Marshal handed the hammer back to the armorer, took the blade, and shoved it into the fire. Then he picked up the next and repeated the process.

When he was through, he went to the bellows and began working them. “Your turn now,” he said to the armorer. “I’ll pump for you. If you were taught the Runes of Sertig, now would be the time to recite them.”

The first blade was glowing. As its wooden handle burnt away, the armorer yanked it from the fire with tongs, laid it on the anvil, and hammered vigorously, muttering in dwarvish. The barbs and jagged edges sank back into the parent metal. When that blade cooled, he thrust it back and took another. When all were done, he took the first, bending it around the horn of the anvil and then pounding that bend flat. The Marshal meanwhile plied the bellows at the armorer’s command, sweat pouring down his face, and talking in jerky phrases.

“Those had to be … Siniava’s blades … special troops. If you’d heated them … the forge would … explode. Takes Gird’s power … or Falk’s … or a dwarf if you can find … to call on Sertig. If you find … more like that … must master the demon inside first … before the fire …”

“Will they explode an ordinary fire, a campfire?” Arcolin asked.

The Marshal nodded. “Ordinary fire … they fly out to kill. And the fire … goes wild. Buried … they work through … the ground … seeking blood prey.” He coughed in a gust of smoke, then spat. “Siniava … was not a good man.”

“Who put the demon in the iron, I wonder,” Arcolin said. “What if someone is still making blades like these, though Siniava’s dead?”

“That would be … most unfortunate … if you find such … send for me. Dangerous.”

“The metal’s safe now?”

“Only fire sprites like forge-fire,” the Marshal said, stepping back from the bellows and wiping his face. “And Sertig, of course. These were pure malice, hammered into the metal by—I would guess—an artificer-priest of Liart.” To the armorer, he said, “If you have other stout arms to pump the bellows, the metal’s now safe enough without me here.”

“Of course, Marshal,” the armorer said. “I’m sorry, I just …”

“No apologies needed, but in a camp full of healthy young soldiers, I see no need to sweat longer than I must to let you work safely.”

“Come out in the cool, Marshal,” Arcolin said. “Have some refreshment.”

“My thanks.” The Marshal walked with Arcolin to the edge of the temporary drill field, where Burek was now organizing the troops for supper. “It’s been too long since I saw these colors in the south. You and Halveric Company were the core of resistance to Siniava and even before that … the whole Mercenary Code, I understand, began with your Duke and the Halveric.”

“Yes,” Arcolin said. “Aliam had set out years before what he thought was right, and taught Kieri, so when Kieri formed his own company, that’s how he fought.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you back. I suppose with the Duke now king in Lyonya, the Halverics won’t be back at all …”

“I don’t know,” Arcolin said. “My thought was that Aliam stayed in Lyonya this year for Kieri’s coronation. He is older, though, and he might send a son with his company later.”

“Or disband it, if he has no need for the money. You will need an ally, Captain, to maintain the Code; other companies have fallen away from it since Siniava’s War.”

“So I understand,” Arcolin said, thinking of Andreson. The theft of the wounded man’s death fund still rankled. “Golden Company will stand with us. I met Aesil M’dierra in Valdaire and we agreed.”

“That’s good. It was one thing in which you mercenaries led the militias, your Code, and I would see that way spread, if fighting must.”

The Marshal refused Arcolin’s offer of wine. “I am too hot,” he said. “Small beer would suit me better, or water alone, if it was not drawn from the river.”

“Not ours,” Arcolin said. “We have no beer, but we do have good water.” He himself dipped a jug of water and set out two mugs and the Southern flavorings: a lump of dark honeycomb, a box divided into compartments each with a different spice. “I, too, am thirsty,” he said, “though I think drilling was not as hard work as what you did on the bellows. I should have called one of the soldiers in sooner.”

“No, indeed.” The Marshal had added a chunk of honeycomb, a sliver of dried lemon, and some dried mint to his mug, then poured in the water. He took a sip and smiled. “It was necessary that I control the bellows until I was sure the evil in the steel had vanished. As long as it was there, it tried to seize the wind and blow the fire into a storm. Gird strengthened my arms to resist.” He drank again, and again, emptying the mug and pouring it full once more. “It was not hard to work the bellows fast enough—the difficulty was slowing and stopping.”

“What then should we do, if we find more such blades?”

“They cannot catch fire by themselves; keep them away from it. Keep them away from other iron or steel; I do not know that the evil in them can spread of its own will, but I do not know it can’t, either. They were near other steel in a wagon, were they not? When I’ve cooled off a bit more, I’ll examine the other swords you found, and ensure that none of them are contaminated.”

None were, but the Marshal noticed the Halveric sword. “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Halverics were always careful with their arms.”

“Hm. It’s not new, either. What’s this mark?”

Arcolin had not examined the Halveric sword closely, being more interested in the danger presented by the bad blades. The Marshal pointed out the small CH stamped into the undercurve of the flared pommel.

“A Halveric family member, perhaps?”

Arcolin’s skin rose in goose-prickles. “Caliam,” he said. “Aliam’s son who was captured.”

“Killed? Wasn’t he the one at Dwarfwatch?”

“No. That was Seliam, his younger brother. He was killed, but his sword was recovered. Cal’s sword wasn’t.”

“So it would have been one of Siniava’s prizes?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said.

“Hmmm. The Halverics are Falkian, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should let me take it to the Captain of Falk here—have him bless it—before you return it to the Halverics. There’s an aura of terror clinging to it—”

Arcolin looked away a moment, then met the Marshal’s gaze. “No wonder. Caliam will father no more children. Our people found him beaten, bound, squeezed into a crate like a pig for market …” The old anger rose; he pushed it down.

“He fought bravely through the rest of the war, I heard,” the Marshal said. Arcolin nodded. “Then Falk would want him to have it back again, without the pain. May I?”

“Certainly,” Arcolin said. “I’d intended to send it back to the Halverics in any case, but having it blessed by a Captain is a happy thought.” He took the blade, found a clean cloth in which to wrap it, and handed it to the Marshal. “I should write a note to accompany it—perhaps if you stay to supper—”

“Captain!” That was Burek. “There’s a messenger from the Council; they bid you to the city.”

The Marshal laughed. “So much for supper,” he said. “No, do not apologize. Shall we ride up together?”

In the long summer evening, they rode back to the city, Arcolin’s escort behind them. The guards at the gate passed them through without question. “Where is the Field of Falk?” Arcolin asked. “Or is there more than one?”

“Only one; we outnumber them, with three granges. In the northeast quadrant, a little north of the east gates. My grange, should you wish to visit another time, is in the smiths’ street, near the main market.”

“I will do so,” Arcolin said, “though I planned to march south in the morning; I will be back later. And here—I must make offering—” He reached into his belt pouch.

The Marshal held up a hand. “No, Captain. Not now. We worked together to defeat an evil; we did not exchange blows. Your contribution will be gratefully received another time, but not now.”

“You certainly gave enough blows,” Arcolin said. “That work—”

“Is well repaid by seeing good metal lose its evil taint. No, I know what Gird requires, and this day Gird requires no offering from you. Another time, I am sure he will.” The Marshal grinned, touched his riding whip to his head and reined his horse down a side street before Arcolin could say more.

The Council had gathered in the Council chamber; Arcolin recognized most of them from years past. Another boon he owed Kieri, for Kieri had ensured that his captains—especially the senior captains—met senior officials wherever they had a contract.

“My pardon, sirs, for appearing in such disarray,” Arcolin said. “We had a situation that demanded my attention all afternoon.”

“And a Marshal’s attendance, we understand,” one of them said.

“Indeed so. Some of those swords we captured were spelled, with evil intent. Fortunately, my armorer noticed before putting them to the flame. Marshal Harak said that had he done so, a magical fire would have burned up the forge and killed many.”

“Now?”

“Now, thanks to Marshal Harak, that evil is gone; those blades have been destroyed, and the metal is safe to trade, he says. But it took us some turns of the glass. I am in no fit state to dine with you gentlemen, so if that was the reason for your summons—”

“In part,” another Councilor said. “And I for one will excuse you from that, if the others will.” He wrinkled his nose slightly.

“I would as soon dine with a mercenary fresh from battle as with someone too dainty to stand the smell of honest sweat,” said another Councilor angrily. He was a big burly man, probably, Arcolin thought, from one of the construction guilds.

“Gentlesirs,” the chairman said, tapping a crystal bell with a little rod. “You will not quarrel here, surely. Captain, my pardon for our behavior. If you wish to dine here, and would prefer more formal attire, I am sure that among us we have both bathing facilities and suitable clothes. If on the other hand you prefer to return to your company, that is both understandable and acceptable to me—and I assume to all.” He glared around the table; no one spoke. “Now, Captain, there are a few other matters of which we must speak. One is that fellow Kory. You say that you personally had not seen the man who received the Duke’s punishment, but that one of your company had—by any chance, is that person one of your escort?”

“Yes,” Arcolin said.

“The man insists he was never north of the Dwarfmounts. He does bear marked scars on his back, however, and it’s clear the scars on his face come from multiple injuries. Yet we would not condemn him unless it can be proved. We would speak with that person who might have another way to recognize him.”

Arcolin stepped to the door of the chamber. “Sergeant Stammel—”

Stammel came into the room, calm as ever.

“The Council wants to know what you know of the guard we captured, Kory … you think he’s really someone who was our recruit years ago.”

“Yes, sir. Korryn, he called himself then. I signed him up myself, and wish I hadn’t. Good swordsman, already an expert, tall and strong, a bit arrogant as young men are who learn early to handle a sword. Told me he was a duke’s son’s bastard and would’ve been acknowledged but that his mother angered the duke, who turned her away, with her son. That’s how he got his first training, he said. Had been earning his keep as a door ward but wanted a real career.”

“Did he say which duke?” Arcolin asked.

“No, Captain. He wouldn’t say; said he’d promised not to. I liked that. Seemed to show a sense of honor. I was wrong about that. He was a complainer and quarrelsome. Sometimes we can train that out of them, as you know, sir, but this time we didn’t. He was always bothering the women, wanting to bed them.”

“Are you sure you recognize him? What makes you think it’s the same man?”

“It’s not just his size and hair—not even just the scar. He had a distinctive way of moving—especially when fighting, but even just walking or running. He gestured with his hand, something like this—” Stammel demonstrated. “—when he talked, especially when he joked about something. He had a way of sweeping his hair back with his left hand—” Stammel demonstrated again. “Aside from that, when we shaved him—for Captain Sejek had decreed he be tinisi turin, I remember a birthmark on his groin, left side I think. Small, dark. But what about whip scars—were they found?”

“Indeed,” the chief Councilor said. “But he claimed he always scarred dark, and we do not know what the dye you used would look like after so many years.”

“I gave him the last five lashes myself,” Stammel said. “And I know exactly where I placed them.”

Some of the Councilors shifted back in their chairs, Arcolin noticed. Stammel was not a large man, but every fingerbreadth a veteran soldier: hard-bodied, steady, with strength beyond the obvious muscles.

“Do you whip soldiers often in your company?” one of the Councilors asked.

“No, sir,” Stammel said, answering before Arcolin could. “Recruits we mostly clout if they need it. Soldiers get their pay cut, and maybe a few lashes if they do something really bad. But what this Korryn did—plotting to get another recruit in trouble, putting some kind of poison in a corporal’s drink, beating a fellow-recruit who’d refused to sleep with him and then lying about her—saying she’d attacked the corporal—that was bad enough for a whipping. Then he fought, tried to kill one of the village council. Bad enough to kill him outright, if he’d been a regular, but as he was a recruit he got off light.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” murmured one of them.

“Don’t it, sir?” Stammel asked, head cocked a little. “He nearly ruined one of the best recruits we ever had—nearly got her condemned to the same punishment—and then Stephi, a corporal—got him in trouble, too. Stephi was so ashamed of what he’d done that he got careless, thinking of it, and was killed next campaign year. If it’d been my choice, I’d have killed him then and there. But Captain Sejek, he wanted an example made.”

Arcolin didn’t interrupt, but when Stammel finished, he said, “The recruit the sergeant speaks of is now a paladin of Gird. She fought three campaign seasons with us, including the last of Siniava’s War. If she had been killed, I myself would have died in the north, along with the Duke who is now king—she, as a paladin, saved us, and she is the reason Kieri is now a king.”

“That may be, but we must be certain.”

“Of course,” Arcolin said, with difficulty keeping the edge of scorn from his voice. He was convinced now, by Stammel’s explanations, but some people were never satisfied by facts they had not themselves discovered.

In the end, Stammel and Arcolin followed two Councilors and several clerks to the city’s prison. There, in the lamplit governor’s office, Kory was brought before them. He looked the worse for wear, with fresh scrapes and bruises and one sleeve ripped to the shoulder; his hair had been tied back close to his head, so his scar was clearly visible. In daylight it had been just a mass of pale scar tissue, shiny. But in the lamplight, as he ducked his head, the shadows suddenly showed the shape of the brand under it all, the fox head.

Without waiting for permission, Stammel walked up to him. “Well, Korryn—you don’t seem to have learned much in the past hand of years.”

“You!” The man glared. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have had a decent place in the world.”

“You always were a braggart,” Stammel said. “If you’d put the effort into honest work you put into bragging and bullying, you probably would have had a decent life. I’m not the one who made you a liar and a coward.”

“I’m not a coward,” Korryn said. “I’m just not stupid enough to bow and scrape to the likes of you.” He spat at Stammel; Stammel put up a hand in time, looked at the spittle, and then wiped it down Korryn’s own shirtfront.

“Your noble father—if indeed you had such—would not be pleased with his bastard,” Stammel said.

“Would he not?” Korryn grinned suddenly, a different grin. “I think he would—” His arms struck out, the broken chains of his bonds smashing the two guards in the face, and then his hands closed on Stammel’s throat. “I have looked forward to this a long time, Matthis Stammel.”

Arcolin felt a pressure on him like a load of sand: he could not move. He knew at once it was some enchantment.

“It was my honor to serve as the body for one greater than I could ever be,” Korryn said. “And to have an audience—that is best of all.”

Stammel, Arcolin saw, could not struggle; his face darkened to a dusky purple, then bluish. Korryn dropped him, a limp heap, to the floor, then pulled a blade from one of the motionless guards.

“Which should I kill first?” he asked in a light tone. “The captain who never knew me and yet was quick to condemn? The Councilors? The guards? Such a puzzle … who will suffer most from watching others die and being unable to stop them? My pretty captain, I do believe—” He stroked Arcolin’s cheek with the flat of the guard’s sword. “But do not worry, Captain—before you die of shame, I will have my fun with you, too. I think the guards first, as they are such mindless cattle they might escape my spell.”

He did not turn, but backed around behind the guards, slitting the throat of one; blood sprayed out, soaking Stammel’s body. The other, he gutted from behind, slowly, watching with obvious delight those who could not move to stop him. “In favor of my lord Liart, and my lord Ibbirun, I give this blood and this pain,” he said. “May they grant me power to serve them better.” He dipped his hand in blood and then walked around, smearing blood on all their faces.

“I think one of you must become my next body,” he said. “And I think—looking at these flabby merchants, and the paunchy governor of this prison—it must be you, Captain. It closes the circle, you see. To have you become the secret enemy … that is a sweet revenge indeed, even though he whom you injured—the man you thought you injured—gave his life to me, I will revenge him.”

Arcolin, consumed by horror, prayed to every god he knew for help. It was as the prince had described; he could not move at all. Did that mean Korryn was a Verrakai? How could that be? He felt his muscles straining against the smothering force. The prince had been rescued by the unexpected arrival of a friend, but no one was likely to interrupt the Council questioning a prisoner in the prison governor’s office.

Korryn bent over the governor’s desk and drew the sword tip across the governor’s forehead; blood dripped down into the man’s eyes; he could not blink it away. “Your guards are disgusting,” he said. “Your cells are disgusting … you are disgusting.” Korryn’s back was turned; Arcolin struggled harder; struggled to get his hand to his sword hilt, but he could not, though he did feel his fingers trembling against his trousers. Korryn sliced the governor’s cheek, talking all the time, his tongue as fast as the blood running down.

Then Stammel, blood-drenched, crawled out of the welter of blood and guts, dagger in hand, and stabbed Korryn behind the right knee. Korryn screamed; his leg collapsed and he fell sideways, clutching at the desk. In that instant, Arcolin could move; he drew his sword and struck through Korryn’s neck before anyone else moved. The head rolled off the end of the desk and hit the floor with a wet thump. Arcolin wrestled his sword out of the edge of the desk.

“I said he bragged too much,” Stammel said, his voice raspy. Two great bruises stood out on his neck.

Behind Arcolin, two of the Councilors had fainted, untidy heaps on the floor; the other, gasping but still conscious, staggered to the wall and slid down it.

“You’re—”

“Alive,” Stammel said. “The governor …?”

Arcolin looked at the man now slumped face-down on the desk, moaning. “We need a surgeon,” he said. Opening the outside door, he called for guards and surgeon, heard shouts in answer, and turned back. Stammel had pushed himself to his feet; his expression now was blank; his eyes stared at nothing.

“Stammel?”