“That’s… unexpected,” Yorrin said. “Sir? You alright?”
No, I am not. Aleksandr did not respond. Not at first. He simply stood beside Yorrin on a forested hilltop, and stared.
They had a good vantage of Torva. The Ironblood snaked out into the distance both east and west. The stonework of Torva’s citadel and arched bridges rose high above the water. The township on the north side of the river sprawled out considerably, protected by simple palisade walls. And outside the walls, as the report said, an army was camped.
In the distance, on the far side of the river, Aleksandr saw the township they’d spent more time in during their last visit. The township on the southern side of the river. He thought he could see another army camped out beyond it, though the distance was far enough that he couldn’t be sure.
The army besieging Torva from the north was larger than Aleksandr had expected. At least a thousand strong, probably more. But that was not the thing that had stunned Aleksandr into silence. He stared at the banners flapping in the wind above the army.
Stanislav. Proskoviya. I know that one as well, the bronze scales over a black mountain. Naksava, that’s it. Aleksandr identified the main banners one by one. And the final banner, that flew above them all, was one he had recognized instantly. Bogdanov.
Aleksandr scratched his beard, and exhaled. Bogdanov, bayard of Yerevan and all its attendant lords and lands. All three of those are his men, with manors north and east and west of Yerevan.
Bogdanov was a highly respected and successful bayard. He had many vassal bayards within his dvor, each with their own druzhniks and serfs. If Yerevan—and Bogdanov—had called its banners to war, he would have a considerable army.
He has a considerable army, Aleksandr noted. Nothing theoretical about it.
“I don’t see any Svards in that camp at all,” Yorrin said. “Do you?”
“No,” Aleksandr said.
“So… any idea what’s going on, then?” Yorrin asked. “That banner—that’s the lord of Yerevan.”
“Bogdanov. Da.”
“Bogdanov, right. That’s his banner. Why is he sieging Torva, of all places? What the hell is he playing at?”
“I do not know,” Aleksandr said. “But I will find out.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, sir?” Perrin voiced his concern tactfully. Others did not seem so concerned.
“No, it’s a right terrible idea,” Robin said.
“Da, Robin is right,” Bear growled. “Better we all go! They want fight, we give them fight!”
“Bear, that would be suicide,” Alejandra said. “There is a—mil, what is word?”
“Thousand,” Michel spoke the word softly, in his carefully enunciated Middish. His Loranette accent was subtle as always.
“Si, gracias,” Alejandra said. “There is at least one thousand of them, and we are barely a score. We fight them all?”
“Da!” Bear said. “They run like little cowards.”
“Le sauvage is right,” Leon said, nodding in agreement with Bear. “They might be an army, but they are mostly paysans, oui? Ah, peasant levy.”
“Serfs,” said Ben. “Ruskies love fightin’ with serfs. The Loonie ain’t wrong. Still, a score of serfs’ll kill you all the same.”
“Psh!” Leon made a dismissive sound. “They will run in fear at the sight of a few chevaliers.”
“Alright, that’s enough,” Yorrin said. “Pipe down. Aleksandr?” He nodded to Aleksandr.
“I am sure,” Aleksandr said, answering Perrin’s question. He knew he sounded calmer than he felt. My own people. “I will ride into their camp alone. Bayard Bogdanov knows me well. He will not harm me. I will speak with him and find out why he has brought an army against Caedia.”
“S’obvious, innit?” Ben asked. “Land grab.”
“Like what that Kazlow fellow tried at Northwatch,” said Conrad.
“That’s what I was thinkin’ too, aye,” said Cameron. “Caedia’s weakened by the Svards, and Rusk is looking to profit off it.”
Several others nodded their assent. Aleksandr took a deep breath to center himself. Of course that’s what you thought. That is what any reasonable person would think, presented with this situation, Aleksandr confined his reply to the inside of his own head.
Aloud, he kept his thoughts more direct. “Da,” he said. “Perhaps so. But I do not wish to fight my own people. If there is any chance that there is something else going on, I must know.”
“Ah,” Gunnar cleared his throat. When Aleksandr looked at him, the Svard winced uneasily. “Um. Aleksandr.”
“Da, Gunnar? What is it?”
“There is… ah, well.” Gunnar hesitated. “I have heard of something. It might be—well, it might be relevant. I do not know. But after how the bersark surprised us—and I could have perhaps warned us sooner—I was just thinking…”
“Go on man, spit it out,” Yorrin said.
Gunnar shrugged. “The priests of Vlar. They possess some strange powers. You saw Hakon, ja? You know this?”
“Not necessarily,” Aleksandr said. “What sort of strange powers do you mean?”
“The stories vary,” Gunnar said. “I have seen… only a few things, really. Simple things. A high priest in the full glory of battle, blooded upon many foes, can strike deep terror into the hearts of his foes. I have seen this.”
“I can do this, Gunnar,” Bear complained. “I am squid priest?”
“Bear’s right,” Robin said. “That doesn’t really sound like a strange power.”
Gunnar shrugged. “Maybe so. But they say the Vlari priests have many such powers. That they can twist the minds of men, and cover them in shadow. Make them confuse friend for foe and foe for friend.”
From the back of the crowd, Aleksandr noticed the Wncari woman, Cara, focus her attention on Gunnar. “My people,” she said quietly.
“Cara,” Aleksandr said. “Say again? Louder, please.”
Cara swallowed. “Aye, sorry. It’s just—when the northmen came to our hills. They won over my father and all his warriors. And—” she hesitated, shoulders tensing reflexively. “They were actin’ odd, is all. Mayhap there’s some truth t’ what Gunnar’s on about.”
It might explain how a man could betray his daughter’s trust so terribly, Aleksandr thought. If his mind was not his own.
“Sounds pretty convenient,” Robin said. “Blaming Svardy magic for folks doing nasty things. Seems just as likely that your pa’s just a piece of shit, Cara. And the Ruskies are greedy bastards. Ow!” Robin glared Perrin, who had just stomped on his foot. “You—”
“Robin,” Yorrin warned. There was a hard edge to his voice, and Robin clearly knew better than to test him. He fell silent, and chose not to pick a fight with Perrin.
Cara said nothing. She just crossed her arms over her chest and returned to silence.
“I do not know if the stories are true,” Gunnar said. “But… you said that you last saw Hakon in the waters of the Ironblood near Yerevan. And if there is any Vlari priest powerful enough to do such things…”
“It is him,” Aleksandr said. “He was banished from Yerevan. Forbidden from returning.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t, though,” Yorrin said.
Aleksandr nodded. “Da. Perhaps. Thank you, Gunnar. This is all good to know. But it does not change what I must do.”
“At least take Yorrin with you, sir,” Dylan said. He was frowning. “I don’t like the idea of you in there alone. Better he be at your side.”
“I’ll be with him,” Yorrin said. “But not at his side. Prudence?”
She nodded wordlessly. Aleksandr considered this, then nodded as well. “You two will infiltrate the camp?”
“Yeah, like we talked about at Northwatch. We can get the lay of the camp, see what their defenses are. Keep an eye on you. Maybe find a way to get word to the people in Torva.”
“Good,” Aleksandr said. “The sun is setting soon. We should go now.”
“Sir.” The word was spoken with quiet precision, and Aleksandr glanced towards the sound. Leon’s attendant Michel stood, back rigid, hands clasped behind him. He met Aleksandr’s look with a cool gaze.
“Michel?”
“Perhaps I might attend you? As your valet. The bayards and their men will not question a single attendant such as myself. My Ruskan is not refined, but I do understand it well enough to get by.”
Aleksandr frowned. “Why?” he asked.
Michel smiled thinly. “To watch your back, sir. Just in case.”
Leon grinned. “Michel is more dangerous than he looks, Sir—Aleksandr,” he said.
Aleksandr shrugged. “Very well. Thank you. Come. The rest of you—”
“No worries, boss,” Dylan said. “We’ll be ready and waiting for you, or for a sign.”
A chorus of nods and muttered affirmatives backed up Dylan’s words. Aleksandr was grateful for them.
A few minutes later, he and Michel approached the Ruskan camp from the main road. And though he could not see them, he knew Yorrin and Prudence were both with him as well. Somewhere.
“Stop!” A sentry shouted from the dusky shadows. “Who goes?” He spoke Middish in a thick accent.
Aleksandr saw several Ruskan men-at-arms approaching, bows and spears ready. He and Michel were astride their horses, approaching at a comfortable trot. Aleksandr nudged Dascha to slow his pace. In the corner of his eye he saw Michel do the same with his own horse, Pomme.
“I am Aleksandr Kerensky of Pripia, son of Bayard Valentin,” Aleksandr announced himself in his mother tongue. He felt a glimmer of satisfaction as the advancing sentries paused and their entire demeanor shifted. Eyes wide, they whispered among themselves as Aleksandr continued advancing slowly.
“What are you doing here, my lord?” asked one of the sentries in Ruskan.
“I have come to meet with Bayard Dmitri Bogdanov,” Aleksandr answered in the same tongue. “I am known to him.”
“The Black Blade,” whispered one of the men.
Aleksandr frowned at the appellation. I had hoped that name would die in the reforging. Nevertheless, the awe it seemed to inspire was at least useful in the short term. He stared at the sentries with a blank stare, waiting for them to agree to lead him in.
The man that seemed to be in the lead nodded after a moment. “Yes, alright. Kuzma, you and I will lead them in. The rest of you, stay at your post.”
The other man, Kuzma, fell into step alongside Michel. The lead sentry stepped up to Aleksandr. “Follow me, my lord,” he said.
Aleksandr nudged Dascha to keep pace with the man as they walked down the road and into the Ruskan camp. Aleksandr saw countless large campfires scattered across the fields, each with at least a dozen men gathered around them. He saw a corral full of warhorses, and a few wagons forming a makeshift supply center.
They came prepared to siege this place. The thought was disquieting. “What is your name?” he asked the closer man.
“Ilya, my lord.” The sentry looked nervous, but he answered readily.
“How long have you been here, Ilya?”
“Not long. A few days.” Ilya was frowning, obviously uncomfortable.
“Has Bayard Bogdanov announced why you have come?” Aleksandr asked. “I was in his court not so long ago, and he said nothing of any plan to invade Caedia.”
Ilya’s obvious discomfort only deepened. Finally he sighed, stopped, and looked up at Aleksandr directly.
“Bayard Dmitri is dead, my lord,” he said. “I—I am sorry I must be the one to tell you.”
Aleksandr’s pulse thumped in his ears, and his hands felt clammy inside his gloves. Many questions raced through his mind. He let silence drag on for a long moment. “How did it happen?” he finally asked.
“Middish assassins,” said a voice behind Aleksandr. He glanced over his shoulder at Kuzma, the sentry that walked alongside Michel. Kuzma glared back at him.
Aleksandr did not reply. He urged Dascha to resume their walk, and Ilya kept pace. Middish assassins, Aleksandr mulled over the assertion. His first impulse was to dismiss it entirely. What possible reason would the Middish have for striking at Yerevan? Bogdanov has been one of their greatest friends for his entire time ruling the region.
“Who leads, then?” Aleksandr asked. Bogdanov had no sons. Perhaps the Tsar will have appointed Kamarsky. He seems the most obvious choice—the most influential and powerful of all the bayards sworn to Yerevan.
“Sir Boris,” Ilya said. “For now.”
That does not make much sense. Boris is a Bogdanov, but a distant cousin. I wonder why the Tsar would have appointed—Aleksandr frowned. “For now? He has not been confirmed by the Tsar?”
“No,” Ilya said. “There was no time. Sir Boris said there was a conspiracy of Middish—of Caedians—within the city. They were hunted down, and he called Yerevan’s banners. Then we set out along the Ironblood, in ships and on foot, to exact retribution.”
The more he explains the situation, the less sense it makes, Aleksandr decided. And from Ilya’s tone, I think he knows it.
“I see,” was all Aleksandr said.
“Sir Boris commands the army,” Ilya said. “He said the conspiracy was tracked to Caedia. To this place. Once we have…” he paused. “Avenged Bayard Dmitri, then Sir Boris and the other bayards will report to the Tsar.”
“I am surprised,” Aleksandr said. “Tsar Nikolai does not always reward such… initiative.”
“We must avenge Bayard Dmitri,” Kuzma growled from where he walked.
“Forgive me,” Michel said. His Ruskan was slow, but his grammar and pronunciation seemed better than Aleksandr’s Middish. “But this seems like a… poorly thought out plan.”
Kuzma glared at Michel.
“I am uncertain of it,” Aleksandr agreed. “Ilya.”
“Sir?”
“Did Sir Boris have any… guests? An advisor, perhaps?”
Ilya glanced up at Aleksandr, eyes narrow and mouth tightly pressed into a thin line. “You speak of the Svardic priest,” he said quietly.
“Do I?” Aleksandr asked, just as quiet. Quiet enough, he hoped, that Kuzma was not listening in.
Ilya nodded. Louder, he said “Yes. He helped Boris uncover the Middish conspirators. Advised the bayards in their war councils.”
“He is here?” Aleksandr asked. He looked right and left. Dusk was well upon them, and the camp was gloomily lit by the many campfires and a few scattered lamps.
“No. He continued along the river,” Ilya said.
Aleksandr took a breath. “Ah,” he said.
Ahead, he saw a finely made pavilion rise in the middle of the camp. It was illuminated by several lamps, and he saw two more armed and armored men posted up outside. They eyed Aleksandr and Michel warily.
“Fetch Sir Boris,” Ilya said. “This is Aleksandr Kerensky. Bogdanov’s Black Blade.”
One of the guards seemed to recognize the name, and his eyes widened. He nodded, and took off deeper into the camp at a brisk jog.
“Inside, my lord,” Ilya said, gesturing to the pavilion.
Aleksandr dismounted, and Michel did the same. As they approached the pavilion, the remaining guard held up a hand. “Disarmed,” he said, more to Ilya than to Aleksandr.
Ilya nodded. He held out a hand to Aleksandr. “Your sword, sir.”
Aleksandr frowned. He unfastened Kholodny from his belt, but then he hesitated. “This sword was my father’s,” he said to Ilya. “And his father’s, before that. Kholodny, it is called. It was a great honor when Bayard Valentin Kerensky entrusted it to my care. It does not leave my sight.”
Ilya nodded. “I will hold it, my lord.”
“I would have your word,” Aleksandr said. “That you will return it to me when this meeting is done, and I am leaving.”
“Of course,” Ilya said. “I will handle your family sword with respect, Sir Kerensky. I will return it to you when you leave. I, Ilya of Yerevan, son of Petrov, so swear on my family’s honor.”
Aleksandr nodded, and passed the sheathed sword to Ilya. Ilya took it carefully, and seemed to honor his word with how delicately he held the long weapon.
Kuzma approached Michel and stripped him of the long dagger on his belt. Aleksandr knew that Michel wore a second dagger concealed in his sleeve, as well as a sling. He did not comment when Kuzma missed both items.
They were ushered into the pavilion. It was a good size, with rich carpet and thick fabric walls and ceiling. A long wooden table dominated the center of the room, with chairs and benches lining all sides. Likely the place where Boris held war councils with the Yerevani bayards. There was an inner “wall” of cloth, concealing private quarters. Dim lamps on the table cast flickering light across the room, and a brazier of coals in the middle of the pavilion made the entire tent uncomfortably warm.
Ilya stood beside Aleksandr, carefully clutching Kholodny in both hands. Kuzma slouched near Michel, obviously bored. The other guard stood near the entrance, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Aleksandr.
They waited in uneasy silence.
They did not have to wait very long. Soon enough, the flap of the pavilion opened, and men poured into the tent.
Seven in total. Aleksandr identified six of them as Yerevani druzhniks. The seventh, in plated mail and the Bogdanov colors, was of course Boris himself.
“Kerensky!” he growled. “What are you doing here?”
Aleksandr shrugged, opening his palms at his hips. “I would ask you the same, Boris.”
“We came to avenge my cousin,” Boris said. “Middish dogs—Caedian dogs—murdered him in his bed! The Torathi heathens claimed to want peace, but they brought us death and misery.”
Boris did not look well. He looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes and stark lines on his face. He had not been sleeping. His beard had grown more wild than Aleksandr remembered.
“How do you know this?” Aleksandr asked.
“We caught many of the conspirators,” Boris said. “Torathi, Middish, Caedians. Foreigners. My cousin was weak and trusting. He extended his hand to these southern swine and he paid the price. Yerevan will never make such a mistake again!”
“This invasion seems very ill-advised, Boris,” Aleksandr said. “Even if you are right, and Caedia was behind the assassination… Caedia is a powerful kingdom. You are starting a war. Not just between them and Yerevan, but all of Rusk. Do you think the Tsar will approve?”
Aleksandr studied, not just Boris, but the other men. Some of them looked uneasy at Aleksandr’s words, but others seemed indifferent.
“The Tsar will approve of my victory,” Boris declared. “We will win this citadel for Rusk, and take control of the Ironblood. We will avenge Dmitri. The Caedians will be too busy fighting their other war to stop us.”
That is, unfortunately, all too possible, Aleksandr had to admit. If they really do take Torva, and Caedia is too busy with the Svards to retaliate… it will not be honorable, but I am not so sure Tsar Nikolai will care.
“You are allied with the Svards, then?” Aleksandr asked.
Boris made a contemptuous noise. “Allied? No. But they are strong, at least. And forthright. Not treacherous snakes like the Torathi.”
Torathi, Aleksandr realized, his stomach sinking. He keeps blaming the Faith, not just the Middish.
“The Torathi? Boris…” Aleksandr swallowed. “What did you do to the Torathi? What did you do to Alaina?”
Boris frowned. His eyes squinted, almost as if in confusion, then opened wide again. “The priestess? She was involved, Kerensky.”
“Boris. What did you do to Alaina?”
“She was an enemy of Rusk,” Boris declared. “The high priest uncovered her guilt.”
Aleksandr felt his blood run icy cold. He felt strangely calm. “The high priest? Hakon?”
Boris hesitated. One of his eyes flickered closed in a motion that looked more like a twitch than a blink. “Yes,” he said. “Hakon. I gave her to him. She was guilty, and he was owed gratitude for his help.”
Aleksandr took a steadying breath. “Boris,” he said. “That was a mistake.”
“She was involved, Kerensky,” Boris repeated. “All the Caedian—”
“Hakon has done something to you, Boris,” Aleksandr interrupted. “He has clouded your mind somehow. He has turned you down a terrible path. Please, I will only ask you once: Stop this madness.”
Boris’s mouth curled into a grimace. His entire body shivered. “This is not madness,” he said. “It is vengeance. For—for Dmitri.”
Aleksandr saw a glassy sheen on Boris’s eyes, a glimmer of emotion that belied his outward expression. “Boris… Did you kill Dmitri?” Aleksandr asked.
Boris’s eyes snapped wide open in a look of pure horror. It only lasted a moment, and then he seemed to reassert control of himself. He scowled. “You are one of them. This was a waste of time.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Perhaps it was.”
Boris shook his head. He turned his back to Aleksandr. “Just kill them,” he growled to the druzhniks. He stalked out of the pavilion without looking back.
The six druzhniks looked at each other, and at Aleksandr. Aleksandr saw hesitation in them. Or at least in some of them. Two men did not move from the entryway. The other four began slowly fanning out.
Aleksanr glanced beside him, where Ilya stood. Ilya stood with his back rigid, still clutching Kholodny. He stared at Aleksandr with a pained expression.
“Ilya,” Aleksandr said softly. “My meeting is over. I am leaving now.”
Ilya gave a single nod, and extended his hands. He offered Kholodny to Aleksandr hilt first.
Aleksandr wrapped his hands around the grip of his sword and pulled it free as he spun to face the incoming druzhniks.
One of them was nearly upon him, his own sword raised to strike. His eyes widened when he realized Aleksandr had drawn his steel sword, and Aleksandr swept the blade up into his right armpit, where his mail would not cover. Kholodny caught on the edges of mail around the gap, but Aleksandr ripped it away with a sweeping draw. Blood gushed, and the druzhnik dropped his weapon and staggered to the side, out of Aleksandr’s way.
In his periphery he saw Michel draw his dagger and grapple with Kuzma. The three advancing druzhniks seemed to decide that Aleksandr was their main concern, and all of them converged on him. Aleksandr stepped to meet them, trying to maneuver so that they would trip over one another and not be able to surround him.
He needn’t have bothered. He rushed the closest of them, and as their blades clashed he saw Ilya draw his own sword and throw himself at one of the others. The third hesitated, unsure if he should fight Aleksandr or Ilya.
He did neither. One of the two men that had hesitated near the entrance stepped up and grabbed him, wresting the sword from his grasp and throwing him to the ground. Then he was tackled by the other man that had been guarding the exit.
Aleksandr overpowered his foe with a furious onslaught of swift strikes. His body felt cold despite the smoky heat in the room. His mind felt clear despite the worm of terror that gnawed at the back of his every thought. He kept Kholodny singing through the air, too swift for his enemy to follow. Finally, he leveraged the blade down and drew it across the druzhnik’s hand, slicing through his glove and severing tendons in the back of his hand. The man dropped his sword, and Aleksandr kicked his feet out from under him.
He saw Michel rise from where Kuzma lay on the carpeted floor, and then leap over the long table. The other druzhniks were all caught up in a confused, chaotic melee. Through the chaos, Ilya made eye contact with Aleksandr.
“Go!” he said.
Aleksandr nodded. He and Michel rushed out of the pavilion.
The sound of shouting and battle had drawn attention. He saw men jogging towards them from many directions, but he paid them little attention. He leapt onto Dascha’s back, and Michel mounted Pomme.
“Sir,” Michel said in Middish. “I suggest we depart immediately.”
Aleksandr scanned the camp in every direction, eyes squinting to make out detail in the shadowy lighting. He still held Kholodny in his right hand. Blood streaked the steel blade.
“Sir?” Michel repeated.
“Da,” Aleksandr said. There. “Follow me.”
He spurred Dascha into a sudden gallop. They did not ride out the way they had entered. Instead, they stormed through the camp. One of Aleksandr’s countrymen charged towards them, trying to stop him, and Dascha knocked the man aside without slowing down. They kept galloping.
“Boris!” Aleksandr called out.
Up ahead, Boris had been walking swiftly away. He stopped, and turned. His eyes widened when he saw Aleksandr riding towards him, and he went to draw his sword.
Dascha’s hooves hammered the earth like drumbeats. He thundered past Boris, and Aleksandr swung Kholodny with all his strength as they passed.
Aleksandr felt a sudden heat blaze in his right hand, as if Kholodny’s hilt was searing hot even through his glove. For an instant, light blazed from his blade as the black runes on the steel glowed orange. Blood sizzled and smoked.
The heat faded. The runes returned to soot-black. Aleksandr’s hand ached. He kept riding, charging towards the edge of the camp. He did not need to look back.
He knew that the two halves of Boris Bogdanov lay in the dirt where he had left them.