Feodor “The Younger” Proskoviya was out of his depth.
That much was obvious from the moment they rode into his section of camp. Their perimeter was porous as cheesecloth, with a few night-blind sentries scattered about with lamps. These sentries eyed Steelshod’s riders nervously as they approached. Nobody called out to stop them.
Maybe they can tell we don’t work for what’s-his-name, Stanislav, Nathan thought. But even so, this is sloppy.
Many of the men were nursing obvious injuries. They huddled around their fires, moaning and whimpering and whispering to one another. The slushy sound of the Ruskan tongue, the sounds all flowing together so fast you couldn’t even discern where the words or sentences broke, was familiar to Nathan. He’d been to Yerevan several times before he was hired on to work for Rossi. He’d never really felt his ignorance of the tongue mattered before, but he was finally reconsidering that stance.
It’d probably be better if Aleksandr wasn’t the only one that speaks it.
Fortunately, plenty of the Yerevani Ruskans spoke Middish. This was in evidence again when someone finally flagged them down, shouting for them to stop. A couple of nervous Ruskan knights approached them, shouting in Middish and Ruskan by turns. Aleksandr rode forward and spoke to them in a quiet, stern tone. Nathan couldn’t hear it, but he had seen how Aleksandr handled such things enough times to guess.
He’s almost as silver-tongued as Rossi, in his own odd way, Nathan thought to himself. Though I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him lie, which marks him as pretty damned different. Somehow he still manages to be just as persuasive.
Unsurprisingly, the guards calmed down after a few moments. They led everyone deeper into the camp, until they found the man that must be the new Bayard Proskoviya.
Feodor the Younger was standing at the center of a thick knot of armed men. Several bonfires cast the crowd of them in flickering orange light—the greatest fire was very close by, and Feodor was staring directly into it. It was a high fire, built on some sort of crude scaffold, and it only took Nathan a moment to realize that a corpse was burning atop it.
Feodor wore plated mail and held a naked blade in his hand. He wore no helmet, however. His hair was dark, hanging about his head in long ringlets that tumbled just below his ears. His face was streaked with dark smudges—dirt or blood, it was hard to be certain in the firelight. His eyes were glassy, and he waited a long while before finally looking up from the pyre.
Aleksandr dismounted and approached Feodor. Yorrin followed suit.
Nathan felt someone’s horse brush close to his own. He didn’t bother to even look, assuming it was one of the lads—Conrad, Cam, or Orson. They’d been together through so much, even serving in a new company it was hard to shake the old camaraderie.
Technically Levin was counted in that group too, but he’d never warmed to anyone but Orson. And even then, Orson says Levin is just as terse with him as he is with the rest of us. Yorrin might’ve meant for Lemon to be cruel, but it’s probably the best nickname I’ve ever heard.
He watched as Aleksandr and Yorrin were briefly stopped by Feodor’s men, then allowed to get closer to him. Aleksandr spoke to the haggard young man in Ruskan. Feodor replied in Middish, though Nathan could only make out a few words.
“Nathan,” rasped an accented voice from beside him.
He jumped so hard he nearly fell out of the saddle. He turned to look beside him in surprise. It was not one of the lads.
“Gunnar!” he said. He realized he’d drawn a few looks at the exclamation, and lowered his voice. “You surprised me.”
“I am sorry,” Gunnar said quietly. “I did not mean—”
“No, it’s fine,” Nathan said. “What do you need?”
Gunnar nodded towards the funeral pyre. “This—Middish death rites?”
“Yeah,” Nathan said. “Though they’re Ruskan, not Middish.”
“Yerevan,” Gunnar said with a shrug. “Basically Middish. Southerners.”
Nathan had grown up in Kirkside, the city of the King of Kirkworth and as central in the Midlands as anywhere. The idea of anyone considering the Yerevani to be southerners was hard to wrap his head around. I guess from his perspective…
“Well, anyway. Yeah. Funeral pyres aren’t uncommon, I guess. Especially for nobility. Then they gather the ashes to take them to a holy tomb. Saw it a lot, where I came from. Catacombs beneath The Kirk are huge, and I think that’s pretty common for most big churches.”
Gunnar shivered, though it wasn’t a particularly cold night. Nathan felt his brow furrow. “You alright?”
“Ja,” Gunnar said. He forced a half-hearted smile. “Just—burning the dead. It is not our way.”
Nathan nodded. He’d sort of suspected it must be something like that. “Well, uh, if you die out here I’ll make sure the boss knows.”
Gunnar’s smile shifted, and Nathan could tell there was some genuine feeling behind it now. “Thank you. And you?”
“Me?”
“If you die in battle, do you have wishes for what is done?”
Nathan blinked. Now that’s a question. “Um, I suppose so. Orson once promised to have my ashes interred back home—at The Kirk, like I said before. So… that.”
Gunnar nodded. “Good. I will remember.”
He may be strange, and foreign, but he’s not a bad fellow, Nathan decided. “Thanks.”
“The Kirk,” Gunnar said. “This is... temple?”
“Yeah. You’ve never—oh, of course you haven’t. It’s a Torathi church. The biggest and greatest church in all the Midlands.” Except the Ammud Kahal in Torathia, but that hardly counts. “Originally built by the Cassalines, but we’ve maintained it and added to it. It’s what Kirkworth is named for.”
“Kirkworth,” Gunnar said. “East of Caedia, ja? I think I have heard of this place.”
“I’d hope so,” Nathan said. “It’s a huge kingdom, nearly as big as Caedia. And—”
Raised voices resounded from near the pyre. Nathan swiveled his head to look, hand going to the haft of his axe. He sensed Gunnar reaching for his sword as well.
The Younger Proskoviya was snapping at Aleksandr, his voice raised. Nathan only heard a few words clearly.
“—my vengeance! A price must be paid!” After that, the young lord shouted something in Ruskan.
Aleksandr faced Feodor’s vitriol calmly. He replied in a quiet voice, so quiet Nathan wasn’t even sure what tongue he was speaking. Feodor’s chest rose and fell in heavy, furious breaths. He stared at Aleksandr, fury on his face, but he was not raising his sword or taking any overt aggressive actions. His men looked to be on edge, but none of them acted either.
He’s not really upset with us, Nathan decided. He’s upset because Aleksandr is telling him to put vengeance aside until the immediate issue is settled. His father was slain, and now he’s supposed to make nice with the man that did it. It must be infuriating.
Nathan couldn’t relate. Not really. There had been little love lost between him and his father. He didn’t even give me his name.
Sir Isaac Bruston had been a minor household knight of the king—one of many. Landless, just one step above a yeoman in the ranks of the king’s men-at-arms. Still, a noble surname was worth something. It meant chances to distinguish yourself in tournament melees or the battlefield. Opportunities for advancement. Many of the Kirkworth’s landed gentry had, somewhere in their lineage, risen from humble roots.
But since Nathan had been conceived on the wrong side of the sheets, he’d had no claim to the Bruston name. His father had refused to acknowledge him, and Nathan had not even met Sir Isaac until he was nearly a man grown.
He only took me as a squire because mother begged him to, Nathan reminded himself. His two years serving under Sir Isaac—the man did not wish to be Nathan’s father and so Nathan would never think of him as such—had been miserable. Isaac told him he would never be knighted, never acknowledged.
“You’ll live and die a bastard squire,” Sir Isaac said to him. “But if you live a good life, give honor to God, and wed a good woman, I’ll keep you in my household. Perhaps your son could rise higher than you.”
Sir Isaac died choking in his own blood near the northern border, where Kirkworth met Victoria. Fighting Wncari raiders, not Victorians. Nathan remembered watching it happen. Watching someone pull the arrow from Isaac’s chest, only to hear that sucking sound that meant he was a dead man.
He’d felt nothing when Isaac died. He didn’t know which of the Wncari had shot the arrow, and he didn’t care. He never returned to Kirkside after that.
I owe that Wncar a drink, Nathan thought. If Isaac hadn’t died, I might never have gone mercenary. Might never have met Conrad and the other lads, met Rossi. Met Aleksandr. Now, my life has taken a new path. Maybe I could even bear to see mother again, if she still lives. Now that I’m a part of something… better. Something noble.
He looked back towards Aleksandr, breaking free of his distracted thoughts. Steelshod’s strange commander was still talking to Feodor in a hushed, compassionate tone.
It seemed to be working. Feodor certainly looked calmer, though he didn’t look happy.
Be your own man, Nathan told the young lordling in his mind. You’re Bayard Proskoviya now. You don’t need to live in his shadow, or fight his battles. Stanislav did you a favor, you just can’t see it yet.
Feodor’s shoulders sagged and he lowered his head. He nodded to whatever Aleksandr said next. After a moment of silence, he shouted out a few words in Ruskan. His men snapped to act, moving about the camp and shouting further commands.
“Looks like Aleksandr did it,” Nathan said.
“Ja,” Gunnar agreed. “I—I am not surprised.”
“Nah, me neither,” Nathan agreed. “Still, it’s good to know for sure we won’t have to kill any of them.”
“Ja, same. Better this way,” Gunnar said with a grin. The Svard’s teeth looked surprisingly healthy for a northern barbarian.
Honestly, he keeps his beard trimmed cleaner than Cam does, and his hair may be long but it’s better kept than Yorrin’s, Nathan had to admit. He cleans his mail and hones his blade every night. His Middish is better than Aleksandr’s, his bladework is as good as Levin’s… Nathan smiled back. I think I need to stop thinking of him as clean for a barbarian, smart for a barbarian. He’s one of us now.
“Nathan.”
He turned to the voice, and saw Dylan riding closer. “Aleksandr says we’ll be heading to Stanislav’s camp soon, but we’re going to wait for Proskoviya to gather his best men to him. Need a few of you to ride to the south end of camp and find Naksava. See if he’s got the men there gathered up yet, and bring them to Stanislav’s if you can.”
Nathan nodded. “Makes sense—he’s the warlord, hey? Show of force to keep him from getting any ideas.”
“Exactly,” Dylan said. “Take Conrad or someone with you to watch your back, just in case one of these Ruskan sentries does something stupid.”
“Yessir,” Nathan said. The Whip wheeled his horse around, riding back towards Aleksandr without another word.
Nathan glanced through the crowd of Steelshod. It was hard to make them all out in the firelight, but he still found Conrad soon enough. His oldest friend, the first man to make him feel truly welcome in mercenary life. Conrad was mounted up between Cam and the Loonie knight. He said something, and Leon laughed.
Nathan glanced beside him. “Oi, Gunnar, you want to keep me company?”
Gunnar furrowed his brow in surprise. Then he shrugged. “Ja, of course. Uh…” the Svard looked around, then at the cloudy sky. “You know the way? I am not sure… that is south?”
He pointed in roughly the right direction, towards the glimmering lights blinking on Torva’s walls. “That’s south, but I think Stanislav’s camp is southeast, and Naksava’s southwest,” Nathan said.
“Oh,” Gunnar said. “Ja, I see. You lead the way?”
“Sure thing, mate,” Nathan said. “Let’s ride.”
Naksava was easy to find. He had mustered out of his camp like he said he would, and by the time Nathan and Gunnar reached him he was surrounded by at least a hundred men. They recognized the Steelshod cloaks after a brief, tense moment, and then they ushered both Nathan and Gunnar on to their lord.
Naksava looked surprised when they told him Bayard Proskoviya was with them. Nathan wasn’t really sure why—hadn’t Aleksandr and Yorrin told him the plan? Either way, when Nathan told him that they requested he join them at Stanislav’s camp, he agreed readily enough.
They arrived late. Stanislav’s perimeter seemed to be the most heavily guarded of them all, and when they arrived there were lines of soldiers several ranks deep arrayed for battle. At the vanguard were at least a score of heavily armored cavalry in what Nathan assumed would be Stanislav’s colors had the light not been cast in the yellow and orange glow of torches, lamps, and bonfires.
Proskoviya and crowd of his men-at-arms were lined up opposite Stanislav’s men. They looked paltry by comparison, but his handful of mounted knights were supplemented by Steelshod, so at least their vanguards looked comparable. Naksava led his men in quickly, lining up a short distance away but basically on the same side as Proskoviya.
“We join them?” Gunnar said, gesturing towards where Aleksandr, Yorrin, and Proskoviya sat astride their horses at the very tip of the vanguard.
“Yes,” Nathan said. He glanced at Bayard Naksava. “Your lordship?”
“Da,” Naksava agreed. He called out to his men, and his knights fell in around him as they covered the distance.
Bayard Stanislav had ridden forth as well. Once they got closer there was no mistaking him. He was a big man, with broad shoulders and a thick body that strained against his plated mail. His open-faced helm showed a bushy gray beard covering jowls that looked to have grown thick with age. He looked like he’d probably been a terrifying warrior… ten or twenty years ago. Now he was fast approaching the age when men had to stop leading from the front, or die.
“Pavel!” Stanislav declared when he saw them approach. “Of course this is your idea!”
Hey, at least he’s speaking Middish. Accent’s not too bad, either.
“Yuri,” Bayard Naksava gave Stanislav a cool nod. “It is not. It—”
“Yes, da, da, da,” Stanislav interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Definitely not your idea. It is just coincidence, these mercenaries came and killed Boris. He works for Caedia, this Kerensky, I am sure. And now you whisper silver words to little Feodor to make him forget honor, forget his father, and—”
“Zatknis' na khuy!” Feodor shouted, hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Hold tongue, or I cut it out!”
Stanislav grinned. “There it is,” he said. “Zlost! Embrace it, boy. Draw your blade!”
Nathan saw Aleksandr tilt his head towards Feodor and arch an eyebrow. He said nothing, but when Feodor met Aleksandr’s eyes there was no mistaking the way some of his anger leaked out of him.
“No,” he said. “Not today, Yuri. I will kill you. Obeshchayu. But today, I must do right for my people. For our people.”
“Fah!” Stanislav scoffed. He looked back at Naksava. “I know this is your doing, Pavel. This trusost' has your fingers all over it. We flee with our tails between our legs and bleat like lambs to the Tsar, begging him for forgiveness.”
“It’s not,” Naksava said. “But it doesn’t matter. It is the right plan, Yuri. If we draw Yerevan into a war with Caedia, and anything goes wrong, the Tsar will have all of our heads. Boris was a fool. More than that. He was manipulated.”
Stanislav raised a hand and waved it dismissively. “Kerensky already tried that. Barbarian magic? You want me to believe Boris led us here because the Svards wished it?”
“I do not care what you believe,” Aleksandr interjected.
“Shh, I am talking to your master,” said Stanislav.
Nathan’s mouth felt suddenly dry. He swallowed. Aleksandr looked very calm, but Nathan saw the hand that rested on the hilt of his sword flex slightly.
“Bayard Naksava is not my master,” Aleksandr said. “I work for Caedia, but they are not my masters either.”
Stanislav laughed. “You cannot even keep your own story right. Who is your master, then?”
“My principles. Reason. Justice.” There was no mistaking Stanislav’s exaggerated scoffing sigh, but Aleksandr did not give any indication that he had noticed. “I am not here to help Bayard Naksava secure power in Yerevan—that means nothing to me,” Aleksandr continued. “I am not even here to help Caedia, really.”
“Da, fine. So then why are you here, great and noble druzhnik?”
“To save their lives,” Aleksandr said. He gestured to the men behind Stanislav. Nathan could see many of them shift uneasily at the gesture. “And theirs.” He gestured behind him, to Proskoviya’s and Naksava’s men. “Because this war is stupidest thing I have seen in quite some time, and if it is not stopped now I do not think anyone will be able to stop it until many hundreds or thousands of men have died for nothing.”
“They are soldiers,” Stanislav said brusquely. “It is the way of war that some soldiers die.”
“Not for nothing, Stanislav,” Aleksandr said. “That is the way of madness, savagery, and tyranny.”
Sounds like Rusk, Nathan thought. He knew better than to say it.
“It won’t be for nothing,” Stanislav said. “When we take Torva—”
“This will not happen,” Aleksandr said. “You do not have the men. Naksava and Proskoviya have agreed to stand down.”
“A coward and a green boy? Feh. We have thousands more men across the river.”
“I will speak with them in time,” Aleksandr said. “But they are not here. Here, you control less than half of these men. Here, you have Torva in front of you, and Northwatch behind.”
Stanislav frowned. “Northwatch? My lands are close enough to Caedia to know the place they call Loheim well. You should have bluffed better. Wigglesworth or Volkung maybe, they are lords with teeth. Northwatch is nothing.”
“Northwatch houses an army of five hundred soldiers, to ward against Svards,” Aleksandr said. “I escorted them there myself. And they will be here soon, to break you against Torva’s walls like hammer on anvil.”
He inflated Cox’s troop count by a fair bit, Nathan noticed. And I don’t think Cox had any immediate intention of coming down here, either.
Stanislav frowned. He reached up and tugged absently at the tip of his beard. “A bluff,” he said.
“Maybe,” Aleksandr said. “It does not matter. If you press this to a fight, Bayard Stanislav, it will not just be your men that die. Ponimayete?”
Stanislav’s lips curled in a sneer behind his mustache. “You threaten me?”
“Da.” Aleksandr’s hand still rested on his sword, and he spoke the single syllable with a tone of uncomfortable finality.
“You think you can kill me, boy?” Stanislav growled.
“Da.”
Before Stanislav could retort, Yorrin spoke up from where he sat in the saddle next to Aleksandr. “Believe me, Stanny, we’ve got you dead to rights. I think there’s a reason most old timers lead their armies from the rear, you know? Up here… well, the moment Aleksandr says the word you’ll be breathing from a dozen new holes.”
Behind Yorrin, a chuckle rippled through Steelshod’s fighters. Nathan laughed with them.
Damn right, Yorrin. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it, but now that Yorrin had pointed it out it was funny how obvious it was. Nathan’s hand was on his axe, and he’d been considering from what angle he’d charge the asshole bayard if a fight broke out.
Stanislav’s eyes flickered across them, no doubt noticing that several of them held strung bows at the ready as well as the ones resting their hands on melee weapons.
“Middish!” Stanislav complained. “Honorless dogs.”
“That’s pretty rich,” Nathan blurted out before he could think better of it. Oh well, they’re staring at you now. May as well say it. “Coming from you, I mean. Stealing a march to wage a bullshit war on a trade ally.”
Stanislav glared at him. Then he looked back at Aleksandr. “Control your dogs, Kerensky.”
“They are men, Stanislav,” Aleksandr said. “And I welcome them to speak their minds. If you dislike the situation you find yourself in, I will give you one last offer. If you are too afraid to return to Yerevan empty-handed—”
“Afraid?” Stanislav roared. “You dare—”
“Da,” Aleksandr kept speaking, without raising his voice. “If you fear the Tsar more than you fear us, fine. Face me alone, in single combat. If you slay me, we fall back and let you waste your life—and the lives of your men—against the Caedians. When I slay you, your men stand down. Agreed?”
Stanislav was seething. His face was red behind his beard, and his fist was clenched on the hilt of his sheathed sword. He looked like he was ready to take Aleksandr up on his offer, but he hesitated.
Oh shit, Aleksandr’s right, Nathan suddenly realized. He is afraid. Of the Tsar, and of us, and of Aleksandr. He’s getting old, and slow, and he knows it.
Finally, Stanislav let go of his sword. “Blyat! You are not worth my time,” he declared. “But you are right about one thing. I cannot take this keep by myself. You have little Feodor and Pavel in your pocket. If Verchenko and Kamarsky also agree to return to Yerevan, I will follow.”
“And you will stay here until you hear otherwise from them?” Aleksandr asked.
Stanislav reached up to scratch at his cheek. “Da,” he growled. “Fine. Without the rest of these men I will not risk a storm anyway, unless I knew Kamarsky was storming the southern side.”
Aleksandr nodded. He glanced at Feodor the Younger, and then at Bayard Naksava. “Acceptable?”
Naksava nodded immediately. “Of course,” he said. “We will fall back to our camp and wait.”
Feodor hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded as well. “Da,” he said. “Fine. Is acceptable. I agree to this.”
Aleksandr exhaled a deep breath. “Good. Lead your men to your camps, then. We will ride on to speak with those in Torva, and then on to the other bayards.”
Stanislav laughed. “What, tonight? You won’t wait until morning?”
“No.” Aleksandr did not elaborate, and Stanislav stopped laughing. Aleksandr made to wheel his horse around, then stopped. “Bayard Stanislav,” he said.
“Da?”
Aleksandr carefully reached for his sword, and slowly lifted it from his belt. Stanislav looked nervous for a moment, but when he saw the blade was wrapped in a crude cloth sheath he seemed to relax. Aleksandr kept his hands on the hilt of his sword, but he still held it out towards Stanislav with the pommel first. His longsword had a two-handed grip, so there was plenty of hilt extending past his hand.
“What is this?” Stanislav asked, confused.
“Barbarian magic,” Aleksandr said. “Humor me? Just touch the pommel.”
Stanislav looked skeptical, but he finally shrugged. He nudged his horse a few steps forward and reached out to grab the pommel of Aleksandr’s family sword.
Nathan had heard about what happened when Aleksandr cut down Boris, and inside Naksava’s tent. Ensorcellment seemed to result in an orange glow and searing heat. Or at least, that was the going theory.
Nathan joined the rest of Steelshod in holding his breath as Stanislav reached out. He grabbed the pommel.
Nothing happened.
Aleksandr sighed. ”Ah,” was all he said.
“What now?” asked Stanislav.
Aleksandr pulled back the sword and slid it into his belt. “Nothing,” he said. “Thank you.”
With that, they turned to go their separate ways.
Of course, Nathan thought as he rode. He stifled a laugh. The Svardic priest was clouding minds to push them to this foolish war.
But that man needed no encouragement whatsoever.