Well, that’s one way to negotiate, Yorrin thought to himself.
He watched Aleksandr and Michel ride at full gallop out of the Ruskan camp. The Ruskan soldiers were scrambling to pursue him, but none of them seemed particularly close on his heels.
Boris Bogdanov’s bisected corpse lay in the dirt road where it had fallen, blood and viscera oozing out to form a thick dark pool.
How the hell did Aleksandr hack through iron mail, front and back? Yorrin wondered. He would have thought such a thing was impossible, had he not seen it with his own eyes.
He had seen something else with his own eyes, too. Something even more alarming. A shimmering orange light that seemed to glow along the runes of Aleksandr’s blade. Don’t think about it now, Yorrin told himself. You’ve got work to do, and you won’t get a better opportunity than this.
He was watching everything from a shadowed nook between several tents. He expected Prudence was somewhere nearby. They’d both slipped into the Ruskan camp when Aleksandr got the attention of the sentries. It was surely the sign of a sloppy perimeter, that a stranger approaching causes such an easily exploited gap.
“Yorrin.”
The voice was a quiet breath on the back of his neck. He very nearly did something stupid. Turn to attack her, maybe. Or, even stupider, shout out his surprise. Instead, he inhaled and exhaled quietly. “Prudence,” he whispered, tilting his head to the side.
She must’ve shimmied between the tents to squeeze in behind me. He had not thought there was room for it, but Prudence had a knack for such things. “What took you so long?” he said.
“There’s something seriously wrong with this camp,” Prudence whispered. “The men are nervous. Skittish as all hell.”
Yorrin almost scolded her for speaking so much, but the camp around them was beginning to grow louder with the chaos following Aleksandr’s wake. A few hushed words were safe enough.
“Got all that just by staring at them, did you?”
“Half these folk speak more Middish than Ruskan,” Prudence said. “Yerevan’s like that. And besides, I have a little Ruskan myself.”
“You do?” Yorrin blinked in surprise. That’s damned useful. How come you haven’t done that yet? He asked himself. “What, Middish isn’t good enough for you?”
Prudence rolled her eyes. “Anyway, I heard a few bits. Murmured gossip. But with what Aleksandr just did, I think this place is about to erupt.”
Yorrin nodded. That much was true. “Perfect cover, honestly. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get all the way past the camp and over the walls into Torva, but I think this is the moment for it.”
“Good idea,” Prudence said. “You could make contact with—”
“Cleaver. Yes, Prudence, keep up,” Yorrin said. “We should move now. Come on.”
She shook her head. “I’m going to stay in the camp. There are other bayards here. Lords.”
“Shut up Prudence,” Yorrin said. “I know what a bayard is.”
She took the admonishment in stride. “I’ll creep up on one of their tents. Listen in. Hopefully they’ll speak some Middish, and if not I’ll still get about one word in three.”
It was a good plan. Yorrin nodded. “Meet back at the camp,” he said.
Nothing else need be said. Prudence might rub Yorrin the wrong way, but there was no denying her skills. She knew what she was about. She returned the nod, and disappeared back between the tents.
Yorrin waited for his own opening to arrive. He didn’t wait long. Crowds of Ruskan soldiers began rushing through the camp. He swore he heard the clash of iron from somewhere. For a moment he feared Aleksandr was caught amidst some Ruskans, but that made no sense. It was a straight shot down the road, and he was more than halfway out when I lost sight of him.
Yorrin paid the sounds no more mind. He crept out from the tents and skulked his way through the camp. He stayed in the long shadows cast by the dusky glow of the setting sun. The closer he grew to Torva, the more chaotic things seemed to be. He could definitely hear the sounds of fighting from deeper within the camp.
Here’s hoping they all kill each other, save us the trouble.
There were scattered sentries along the edge of the camp, with gaps big enough to drive a wagon through. Once he was past that, he jogged across the no-man’s land that lay between the Ruskan camp and the northernmost walls of Torva.
The northern walls were a sprawl of wooden palisades, simple but effective at defending the township that sprawled along the Ironblood’s banks. Yorrin saw at least a dozen figures lining the walls—more defenders than he’d expect at nightfall. Drawn by the noises coming from the camp, most likely.
The Caedian sentries were staring at the camp, so Yorrin dropped low as he grew closer. He approached along the darkest path. He didn’t want some idiot with itchy bow fingers shooting him before he’d introduced himself.
Once he reached the gates, he stood tall and called up at them in a sort of low, hushed shout.
“Hey!” he said. “Open up! I’ve got information for his lordship!”
It took several moments for the confused chatter above to settle down, and one voice to reply.
“Who goes there?”
“Name’s Yorrin, of Steelshod Company. I work for Aleksandr Kerensky. I’ve got information for Lord Fortinbrass. Fetch his steward, Cleaver. Or the guard captain,” Yorrin hesitated, searching his memories for the unremarkable man’s name. “Ayers. Sir Brian Ayers. But preferably Cleaver. Or just let me in, and I can go find him myself.”
They didn’t open the gate. But he heard them confer, and heard the sound of at least one man hurrying down from the wall. Yorrin sighed, and leaned against the thick wooden logs that made up the wall. They made him wait too long, but not as long as he feared. He could still hear fighting from the Ruskan camp.
The gate finally cracked open a few feet, and Yorrin slipped inside. He was surprised to find himself face-to-face with the man he’d asked for.
Cleaver looked much as Yorrin remembered. He wore crisply tailored clothes, his hair was pulled neatly behind his head, and he studied Yorrin with a critical eye. He gestured for Yorrin to follow him, and they both stepped inside the gatehouse. None of the sentries followed them inside.
The gatehouse was sparsely accommodated. A weapon rack in one corner of the room, next to a few double-stacked cots. Aside from that it was just a table and a few chairs, warmed by coal-filled braziers. The only light came from the braziers and a single lamp on the table.
“What are you doing here?” Cleaver asked.
“Fuck that, what are the Ruskans doing here?” Yorrin asked. “Tell us all you know.”
“You are a mercenary, and you work for a Ruskan bayard,” said Cleaver calmly. “How are we to know you aren’t in league with them?”
Yorrin noticed the way Cleaver was carrying himself. His arms were crossed low behind him, likely clasped behind his tailbone. It was a rigid pose, no doubt a classic steward’s affectation of subservient efficiency. But it also meant that if Cleaver had a concealed weapon back there, he could likely draw it in the blink of an eye.
This man is dangerous, Yorrin reminded himself. He rules Torva, not Fattenbrass. I’m certain of it. Aleksandr would advise that I tread carefully.
“Are you an idiot?” Yorrin snapped. “We’re not about to betray our contract, nor betray the Midlands. Marshal hired us to serve Caedia and defend it against the Svards, and that’s what we’re doing. We just got finished saving Northwatch, and we’ll save you too if you just tell us what the hell is going on.”
Cleaver was silent for a long moment, seeming to consider Yorrin’s words. Finally, he nodded. “I’d heard about Northwatch, before the Ruskans arrived. That was you?”
“Didn’t I just say it was?”
“Indeed. And scouts out of Northwatch doubtless noticed the troop movements along the Ironblood. That’s what brought you down here.”
Yorrin shrugged, holding his hands up with open palms. Yeah, no shit, said the gesture. He trusted Cleaver was savvy enough to hear it.
“Very well. As you may have noticed, we are being besieged.”
Yorrin rolled his eyes. “Have they made any demands? Offered any explanations?”
“None that made any sense,” Cleaver said. “Their commander, Boris Bogdanov, sent a message claiming that we assassinated the bayard of Yerevan.”
“Bogdanov is bayard of Yerevan,” Yorrin said.
“Dmitri Bogdanov is. Or, was. This is some cousin of his, I believe. Yerevan’s captain of the guard, if my intelligence is correct.”
Oh. Right. Aleksandr would’ve remembered that. All of the Ruskan names blurred together.
“We did not—needless to say—have Dmitri Bogdanov assassinated. He was an excellent partner in trade along the river. Relations between Yerevan and Torva have never been better. Had never been better.”
Svardy magic, Yorrin thought. Maybe Gunnar was right after all. “And they want vengeance?”
“They want Torva. They’ve made no request for justice or recompense for this supposed assassination. Only a demand of our abject surrender. His lordship did not see fit to agree to that.” Cleaver smirked at these last words.
“Have they attacked yet?”
Cleaver shook his head. “No. They were still encamping until earlier today. Especially on the southern shore.”
Shit. “They’re on both sides of the river?” he asked.
“Indeed. The largest force is to the north—Bogdanov himself, as well as Proskoviya, Naksava, and Stanislav.”
“Of course,” Yorrin said. Aleksandr knows those names already. I don’t think it matters whether I can tell any of them apart right now.
“The southern township is besieged by a smaller force, but still a considerable one. Bayard Kamarsky’s army, I believe. And there is a secondary camp on the southern shore, further upriver. They fly the Verchenko banner, which makes sense.”
“Does it?” Yorrin didn’t feel the need to pretend he knew what a Verchenko was. “Why?”
“Bayard Verchenko owns a considerable fleet of trade ships that ply the Ironblood. His camp is the hub to which Yerevan sends further supply. He has several vessels banked on the shore there, as well, so he can ferry troops or necessaries from one camp to the other.”
Yorrin frowned. “You’ve got ships too, haven’t you? I seem to remember seeing quite a few in dock the last time we passed through.”
“Yes. We sent a vessel downriver to plead for relief, but we won’t know if the message got through for days yet.”
“You could disrupt their camps, though. Break those supply lines,” Yorrin said. “That’s what I meant. Use your ships for something more than begging someone else to save you.”
“Ships we have,” Cleaver agreed. “What we lack is men to sortie out effectively.”
“How d’you figure?” Yorrin asked. “That Ayers fellow had a decent number of men-at-arms jumping when he said boo.”
“Sir Brian has left for Arcadia,” Cleaver said. “Along with as many able-bodied fighting men as Torva could spare. We must all do our part to serve the King’s army.”
“Oh,” Yorrin said. “How many do you have left?”
“Eight proper knights. A score of men-at-arms, city guards and the like. Maybe three or four score yeomen that have put in their time at the butts. Armed with bow, spear, and iron helms.”
Barely a hundred. Aleksandr guessed the army on the northern side was at least ten times that. “Have you taken stock of the enemy’s number?” Yorrin asked.
Cleaver nodded. “Twelve hundred in the north, I think. At least half that in Kamarsky’s camp. And maybe a couple hundred in reserve, with the boats.”
“That’s not so bad. Don’t they say one on a wall is worth twenty below?” Yorrin said.
“No, they don’t,” Cleaver said. “Ten, maybe.”
“I’ve heard it both ways,” Yorrin said with a shrug.
“We were speaking of sorties, however,” Cleaver reminded him. “And in a sortie, one man is worth whatever his training and outfitting can get him and nothing more. The average Ruskan levied serf may not be competent, but numbers will tell. We dare not sortie out. Our best bet is diplomacy. Bogdanov will have to listen to reason. He—”
“About that,” Yorrin interrupted. “Your men told you about the commotion in the Ruskie’s camp, yeah?”
“They did.”
“Bogdanov’s dead.”
Cleaver blinked. He had no clever retort or insight. He just stared at Yorrin for a long, quiet moment. Finally, he swallowed. “How?”
“Aleksandr rode into their camp to speak with him. I don’t know what was said, but it must not have gone well. It wasn’t long before Aleksandr was fighting his way out of the bayard’s pavilion. He cut down Boris on his way out of the camp.”
“You’re certain he slew him?” Cleaver asked. “Or could he have wounded him?”
“I’m sure both halves of him feel about equally wounded,” Yorrin said. He smiled when Cleaver wrinkled his nose in distaste.
“I see,” Cleaver said. “Hm. What’s done is done. Perhaps this will redound to our advantage. His death should create an internal struggle, as the other bayards figure out who leads next. Bogdanov seemed single-minded, unwilling to negotiate. His successor may be wiser.”
Yorrin nodded. “Maybe. There was definitely fighting in the camp. Not our guys. Ruskies fighting Ruskies. Probably you’re right about that power struggle. I’ll need to get back to Aleksandr, see what happened. Finish taking the lay of the Ruskan camp. And tell him what sort of help we can expect from Torva.” Not much, apparently.
Cleaver didn’t miss the unspoken conclusion. “I—we did not anticipate a sieging force of this size coming from upriver. This treachery was not something that was accounted for.”
Yorrin shrugged. “I’m not really surprised, tell you the truth. Last time we passed through it was plain to see this place was as soft and squishy as your lord’s belly.”
Cleaver frowned. “Do not disrespect Edmund,” he said quietly.
Yorrin sensed genuine menace in the slight man’s tone. He would never show it, but he felt a flicker of fear creep across the back of his neck. Fattenbrass may be a soft simpleton, but his steward is not one to trifle with.
He shrugged. “Sorry,” he said.
He knew he didn’t sound sincere. Cleaver didn’t seem to care. “Why have you come here anyway?” he asked. “You said Marshal hired you. To defend Northwatch from the Svards. Not to defend Torva from Yerevan.”
“Svards, Ruskans. Northwatch, Torva.” Yorrin shrugged. “Who can keep it all straight? You need saving from treacherous violent bastards. That’s good enough for Aleksandr, I think. Which means it’s good enough for me, and for Steelshod.”
Cleaver narrowed his eyes, as if studying Yorrin’s face for some deception or hidden truth. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for, Yorrin decided. Because I’m not even sure myself.
“Torva is renowned for its success in trade and commerce,” Cleaver said finally. “We have considerable wealth. Perhaps you hope to secure some further reward?”
Yorrin just shrugged again. “Sure, if it helps you or your lord sleep better when we do what you can’t. Men and horses gotta eat.”
“And if I tell you that no such reward will be forthcoming?” Cleaver asked.
“Rich fat men aren’t necessarily known for being fonts of generosity,” Yorrin said. “So I guess that’d be right on the mark.”
“And it would change nothing,” Cleaver said. He didn’t speak in the tone of a question, so Yorrin didn’t offer up an answer.
The answer’s obvious anyway. Yorrin moved towards the exit of the small room.
“You are strange mercenaries,” said Cleaver.
“That’s what we keep telling people,” Yorrin said. He stepped out the door of the gatehouse.
The Ruskan camp was in shambles when Yorrin passed through it a second time. There were a few knots of sentries that seemed to huddle around the edges of the camp, guarding as much against the camp itself as they were against Torva. They didn’t so much as glance in Yorrin’s direction as he crept past.
Tents had been trampled, and Yorrin passed at least a dozen men sprawling in the dirt—dead or badly wounded. It seemed that several sections of the camp had fortified themselves, creating smaller internal perimeters.
It’s almost like they’ve fractured into three or four different camps, he decided.
It took no more than a half an hour for Yorrin to make his way out of the camp and rejoin Steelshod in their hidden copse. Aleksandr was waiting for him. He looked troubled, sitting on a fallen log. His sword was naked, resting across his knees. He was honing the blade and cleaning it with an oiled cloth.
The rest of Steelshod gathered around him, and they welcomed Yorrin in with visible relief. Prudence, it seemed, had already returned some time ago.
It took another half hour for Yorrin to tell what he’d learned inside Torva, and to hear why Aleksandr slew Boris Bogdanov.
“So Gunnar was right,” Yorrin said. “Some sort of Svardic magic was clouding Boris’s mind?”
Aleksandr frowned. “Is… possible,” he said. “Boris was troubled, for certain. Though I wonder… he was a distant kin of Dmitri. His blood claim to Yerevan was weak, and there is little chance the Tsar would have appointed the lands to him. Not with powerful lords such as Kamarsky sworn to the city.”
“You think he did it for ambition,” said Perrin.
“Oui, this makes much sense,” Leon said. “If a young chevalier wishes to rise in prestige, he must prove himself. How better than war?”
“But the Tsar isn’t going to appreciate being dragged into a war, is he?” asked the Whip.
Aleksandr grimaced. “I am not sure,” he said. “If—if the war was swift, and yielded good results…”
“Torva’s a proper jewel of a city,” drawled Longshanks. He had his longbow unstrung, resting in the crook of his arm as he leaned against a tree. “Be one hell of an acquisition.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. He sighed.
He doesn’t like admitting the truth about his homeland—that it’s ruled by a greedy, honorless piece of shit.
“Is possible that the Tsar would have forgiven Boris for acting boldly, and rewarded him. Had he survived, and taken Torva swiftly.”
“So… you think that was Boris’s scheme? No Svardic magic required?” Yorrin asked.
“I do not know,” Aleksandr said.
Gunnar stepped forward. “Sir,” he said. “Aleksandr. It may be that it is both. The Vlari priests can cloud men’s minds, they say… but I do not know what that means. Not truly. It may be that Hakon was able to…” Gunnar hesitated.
“Nudge him,” said Michel. “Appeal to his base desires. Push him to take actions against his better judgement.” He nodded. “From where I stood, the man seemed tortured by something. Guilt, perhaps.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “It may be. Something else happened, when I struck down Boris. I did not mention it earlier, but…”
“Your sword,” Yorrin said.
Aleksandr met Yorrin’s eyes. His were surprisingly soft, blue-green, but his look was sharp. “You saw.”
“I think all four of us saw it,” Prudence said. Michel simply nodded.
“What happened to his sword?” asked Perrin.
“It was glowing,” Prudence said. “Not the whole blade… just the runes. They were glowing orange, like—”
“The forge,” Yorrin said. “The exact same shade the whole sword glowed, when you were reforging it back in Yerevan.”
Aleksandr nodded. “Da,” he said. “And Kholodny felt hot in my hands. Even through gloves. As hot as if it was fresh out of the forge. For a moment, anyway.”
“When you struck Boris,” said Michel. “It did not glow before you cut him down, and it faded the moment after.”
“What d’you suppose that means?” asked Nathan.
“Not like he knows,” Conrad scoffed. “Not like any of us’ve seen something like that before.”
Aleksandr cleared his throat. He looked uneasy. “Actually…” he said.
“You have?” said Yorrin. “When?”
“During the holmgang,” Aleksandr said. “When I fought Hakon’s champion. And after.”
“It definitely wasn’t glowing then,” said Dylan.
Yorrin rolled his eyes. “No, Whip? The rest of us hadn’t noticed.”
“It was not,” Aleksandr said. “But it felt warm in my hands. Not… not so hot as it did when I struck Boris. But I felt something.”
A thought struck Yorrin out of nowhere. No, not out of nowhere, he decided. Message received.
“Maybe it’s Torath,” Yorrin said.
He noticed the disparate array of reactions. The good god-fearing members mostly nodded, and the heathens frowned or rolled their eyes. He didn’t give any of them a second thought. Aleksandr’s reaction was the only one he cared about. He pursed his lips in thoughtful silence.
“The wards, I mean,” Yorrin added. “Alaina inscribed Torath’s blessing of protection against evil magics, didn’t she? Svardic magic may not be Thaumati but I bet it still qualifies. Hakon blessed his fighters. And he tried to paint some sort of curse in his dead man’s blood. Torath protected you from that.”
“And helped him strike down Boris?” Perrin said. He wrinkled his nose. “Boris wasn’t blessed by Vlar, though. Was he? Why would Torath help strike down a cursed man?”
“He was ensorcelled somehow or another,” Yorrin insisted. “And he was doing evil. Maybe that’s enough. Or maybe... “ Yorrin hesitated, then forged ahead. He chose to be heedless of the skeptical looks he was getting. “Maybe there’s only so precise God can be when he’s working through a magic sword.”
Aleksandr scratched his beard. “Perhaps,” he said. “I do not know. But… is not an unreasonable idea, Yorrin.”
Yorrin nodded. “Thanks.”
“Forgive me, but—it does not make much difference now, si?” Alejandra interjected. “Whatever brujería might be within the blade, it does not change what must be done.”
“Da,” Aleksandr agreed. “Cleaver was right, I think.”
About what? Yorrin wondered. “Sir?”
“The armies are too large to defeat with force. We must negotiate. Boris was not willing to, but others might be.”
“Oh. Right. Looked like their camp was in disarray,” Yorrin said.
“Da. Prudence took stock of the camps already.”
“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Yorrin asked Prudence, irritated.
“You were too busy theorizing about Torath,” she sniped back.
“Shut up, Prudence,” Yorrin snapped. “Now, what’s this about camps?”
She sighed. “There’s three factions, near as I can tell. Well, maybe four. Two of them were fighting for the better part of half an hour. Hundreds of troops clashing, including some knights. I described the banners to Aleksandr.”
“Stanislav and Proskoviya,” Aleksandr said. “This is not surprising. Stanislav has been a line of warriors for generations. They lie along the border of Brązogóra, I think. And the northern edges of Caedia. He is known for border raids, both of foreign lords as well as his fellow Yerevani.”
“And the other one. Prosk-whatever? They’re the same?”
“No,” Aleksandr said. “I do not think so. I have not heard much of Feodor Proskoviya, but I think he is a decent enough man. He is Stanislav’s neighbor, however. And Stanislav is not usually friendly with his neighbors.”
“So they’ve been fighting for control of the camp?”
“Da, it seems so. Their holdings are of a similar size, and they are each likely to think they will be able to take command.”
“What about the third faction?”
“They’ve just been hunkered down in their camp,” Prudence said. “Smallest force by far, I think. Trying to bring in anyone they can, but in small groups. So they don’t trust the wrong person, I bet.”
“Naksava,” Aleksandr said. “He has a reputation for… caution.”
“Cowardice,” Leon said immediately.
“Da!” Bear agreed. “Middish has many words for coward. Caution, scared, careful. Prudence.”
Prudence rolled her eyes at Bear, and he grinned.
“Perhaps so,” Aleksandr said. “Bayard Naksava’s lands lie on the opposite side of Yerevan from the others. Most of his wealth comes from a tin mine in the mountains, and through trade with Copperwell. He is not highly regarded by most bayards I have heard speak of him.”
“Sounds like our kind of man,” Yorrin said.
Aleksandr nodded. He finally stood up from his log. He rested the naked blade of his sword against his shoulder, and for the first time Yorrin realized that Aleksandr’s scabbard was nowhere to be seen. He must’ve lost it in the camp.
“I was thinking this as well,” Aleksandr said. “I think he must be first bayard we approach. He will be easier than the other two, and if we get him perhaps they will be more inclined to listen.”
“Makes sense,” Yorrin said. “I say we go now, while things are still in chaos.”
“Da,” Aleksandr agreed. “All of us this time. So that we look a less vulnerable target.”
“Right. You heard him, men,” Yorrin said. “Saddle up.”
Steelshod snapped to comply. Well, most of them did. Yorrin saw Perrin kicking Robin awake where he lay under a nearby tree.
“Wait, what about the fourth group?” Yorrin said. He turned to Prudence. “The maybe one?”
“Lots of men in the camp seem leaderless,” she said. “I assume they were Bogdanov’s. The other bayards were trying to round them up when they could, but when I left I’d guess at least a third of the army has no idea what to do. They’re just standing around with their dicks in their hands waiting for someone to give them orders.”
Yorrin grinned. “Oh,” he said “I think we’ve got just the man for that.”