Lord Fortinbrass knew how to throw a feast.
No surprise there, Yorrin thought. I expect he hosts a lot of them.
The hall was full of noise and pleasant smells. The trestle tables were laden with roasted pig, fresh bread, whole baked onions, fennel gravy, and many more dishes Yorrin was not sophisticated enough to recognize. The servers kept his cup full of strong, spiced red wine.
Fortinbrass wasn’t just feasting Steelshod. He’d also invited all of the former thralls to partake on the far side of the great hall, seated with his household staff. He had at least a score of his knights and other courtiers at further tables, mingled with Steelshod. Aleksandr and Yorrin were seated at the Lord’s table, along with Giancarlo, Cleaver, Ayers, and a surprisingly slender older woman that had been introduced to them as Lady Fortinbrass.
I’m not sure if she’s his wife or his mother, Yorrin thought to himself. He was wise enough not to ask.
Fortinbrass insisted on hearing the story of their fight with the Svards. Aleksandr began the tale, but he was too dour and fact-based to get the sort of rousing response this setting required. Yorrin jumped in, not just continuing the story but also livening it up a little. Fortinbrass hung on every word, constantly making that stupid shocked face where his lips formed an O and his jowls quivered like a bowl of pudding.
What a ridiculous man. And he’s a high lord of Caedia? What the hell hope does this kingdom have? At first Yorrin couldn’t fathom how Fortinbrass was anything but a laughingstock. How has he avoided a reputation for utter ineptitude and gluttony?
As best Yorrin could figure it, Fortinbrass’s prodigious weight was carried to success on the backs of his staff.
From the table discussion he gathered that Ayers was the uncle of one of Fortinbrass’s vassal knights, a landed young lord with a small holding to the south. A landless second son himself, Brian Ayers had done what he could and risen high enough to follow his lord’s lord.
Or his lord’s lord’s lord? Yorrin thought. I wasn’t listening too close.
Ayers was a bit of a hard-ass, but Yorrin could respect it. Even if it had been momentarily annoying. He took the security of Torva seriously, and his knights and men-at-arms appeared quite disciplined.
“I served under Lord Marshal during the Kilchester Uprising, fifteen years past,” Ayers said, when Aleksandr asked about his service. “After that, his lordship offered me this post and here I’ve stayed.”
He talks like we know what that war was, or who the “Lord Marshal” is. Presumably both meant something in Caedia.
Even more than Ayers, though, the more time Yorrin spent in Torva’s great hall the more convinced he became that Fortinbrass’s success came down to one man.
Vernon Cleaver.
It was hardly a secret that Fortinbrass asked Cleaver’s advice constantly, and seemed to listen to it. But the more Yorrin watched them, the more convinced he became that Cleaver was the power behind the lord in every way that mattered. The steward was a shrewd man, and with a name like Cleaver he was obviously lowborn. It seemed to Yorrin he’d found the perfect job for a sharp-minded commoner. He listened to everyone and spoke infrequently. When he asked questions, Yorrin felt them pierce through to the heart of the matter.
He seemed to be as unlike his lord as it was possible to be.
When Fortinbrass finished stuffing his face—or at least put his gluttony on a brief pause—he demanded another tale of adventure. Giancarlo took the lead this time, and began regaling the table with tales of their experiences in Yerevan: their run-in with Hakon and his Svards, the holmgang, and even the unpleasantness with the cult. Yorrin let the merchant do most of the storytelling for him, as he seemed to enjoy being the center of attention. Occasionally he chimed in, just to punctuate the moments and get a few more comical gasps out of the fat lord.
When the time came in the tale, Fortinbrass demanded to see the inscriptions on Aleksandr’s “Black Blade.” Aleksandr looked visibly uncomfortable, but he nevertheless drew his sword and laid it on the table in front of the lord. Fortinbrass stared at it with huge eyes.
“So the entire blade was charred black like that?”
“Da.” Aleksandr sounded like he wished to be anywhere but in this conversation.
“Until they reforged it,” Yorrin said. “And the priestess invoked Torath’s name during the process. Put His blessing on it and bound up the demon in holy shackles.”
No need to mention the old wizard’s role, Yorrin decided. Borthul’s understanding of the Thaumati—and his proximity to the Thaumati cult itself—had been something Yorrin was far from comfortable with. He was sure these rubes would understand it even less than he did.
“Amazing!” Fortinbrass said. “Unbelievable!”
“Indeed,” Cleaver murmured under his breath.
Yorrin couldn’t totally fault the steward for doubting the story. It was outlandish. Yorrin might have doubted it too, if he hadn’t been there. Still, nobody likes being called a liar, Yorrin thought. Or having it implied, anyway. He held his tongue nonetheless.
“And now, after all those adventures and troubles, you’ve come here seeking more of the same, eh?” Fortinbrass said. “Come to join our holy war against the heathen invaders.”
“Pretty much,” Yorrin said, even as Aleksandr frowned.
“Ah,” Aleksandr interjected. “That is not exactly how I would—”
“Good, good, jolly good!” Fortinbrass bellowed. “We’ll need the help, no doubt about that. They say the Svards are raiding in record numbers, you know. From what you say, it must be this Taerbjornsen fellow, eh, Cleaver?”
“It seems so, my lord,” Cleaver said, frowning. He looked thoughtful. “What is it they call him? Jarl of Jarls?”
“Da, according to Gunnar—our freed thrall—this is so. Lord of Lords, I think it means.”
“Or King of Kings,” Cleaver muttered. “Yes. A dangerous man, it seems. Do you believe the stories you heard, then? That he’s won armies to his cause on the back of his prowess in battle?”
“The Svards were boastful,” Yorrin said. “Could’ve been a brag. But it didn’t sound like it.”
“No doubt!” Fortinbrass said. “Svards and Kriegars are a savage lot. They respect naught but strength and brutality! If their new king has those two in abundance, it’s little wonder he’s drawn so many to his horde.”
“My lord,” Sir Ayers interjected. He’d been silent a good long while. “Word is that most of them have come by sea, but I wonder… should we be wary of them coming overland out of Kriegany too? Unusual for Svards, but not for Kriegars. If he’s got both under his banner…”
“Quite, quite!” said Fortinbrass, slapping the table hard enough to get his chins quivering. “But there’s the whole of the Loheim between us and Kriegany, Brian. Surely we haven’t too much to worry about. We’ve heard not a peep out of Northwatch or any of the northern lords.”
“I suppose so, my lord,” Ayers nodded.
“Still, you’re quite right. Vigilance is the watchword, my good man,” said his lord. “Vigilance!”
Yorrin rolled his eyes. The table talk swirled around the topic of Svards for another useless half hour or more. Fortinbrass ate another meal’s worth of food while he babbled about the coming war.
Finally, mercifully, the feast was ended. Fortinbrass had them all quartered in his keep, though the former thralls were only allotted pallets in the stables. They didn’t seem to mind much, or if they did then it was hard to tell , what with none of them speaking Middish.
Steelshod was granted an entire floor of the keep, eight rooms to split amongst them. Giancarlo and Aleksandr were given private quarters, and everyone else began breaking off into pairs or trios. While they staked out their rooms, Prudence caught Yorrin’s eye and nodded him towards Aleksandr’s room.
Aleksandr opened the door after the first knock.
“Yorrin? And Prudence. Come in. What is it?”
“Gunnar and I stayed in earshot of the thralls after you left,” Prudence said. “As requested.”
Aleksandr’s mouth quirked in confusion. “Requested? I do not remember—”
“I suggested it,” Yorrin cut in quickly. “Wasn’t sure what we’d find when we met with the lord, so I had a word with Prudence as you and I were leaving with Ayers.”
“Da, I see,” Aleksandr said. He looked back to Prudence. “Go on.”
“They were quiet and compliant while you were gone. Nothing noteworthy, not until Cleaver showed up.”
“Da, he said he would help to resupply them.”
“Yeah, he did that,” Prudence agreed. “But that wasn’t all he did. He talked with them for a while. Gunnar said it sounded like he was making a deal with them.”
“What sort of deal?” Yorrin asked, eyes narrowing. Cleaver is definitely the brains here… but is he too cunning for his own good? Is he selling out his country to heathen invaders?
“He’s giving them more than just basic supplies. Food, yeah, but also weapons, armor, and coin.”
“To what end?” Aleksandr asked.
“It almost sounds like he’s double-crossing Caedia,” Yorrin said. “Except—”
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Prudence said. “But he’s not. I think—”
“Shut up, Prudence. I said it almost sounds that way,” Yorrin snapped. “But we’ve already established that these thralls are peace-minded northern savages. They don’t work for Taerbjornsen. So what it actually sounds like is that he’s trying to turn them into double agents.”
Prudence nodded. “Gunnar and I think so too. Cleaver told them he would give them a few names before they set out, of men in Kriegany that they can trust to get messages back to him.”
“So he is turning them into spies,” Aleksandr said. “That is unexpected.”
“Not so much,” said Yorrin. “Cleaver’s the brains of this place, that much is obvious. The lord is friendly enough, but he’s a guileless oaf. Torva seems to run smoothly, with plenty of surplus prosperity. There’s no way it’s to Lord Fattenbrass’s credit.”
Prudence snorted a laugh, but Aleksandr frowned. “That is an uncharitable nickname,” he said.
Yorrin shrugged. “Fits, though,” he said.
Aleksandr’s lips quirked in a brief smile, which he quickly suppressed. “Da,” he said. “Perhaps it does. Even so.”
“In any case, it seems like Cleaver’s running his own little spy ring. I don’t see as that’s a problem, or anything we need to worry about,” Yorrin said.
Aleksandr nodded. “I agree. Thank you, Prudence.”
She shrugged, and slipped out the door without a word.
“Yorrin,” Aleksandr said.
“Sir?”
“Thank you. For all that you do. You think of many things that would never occur to me.”
Yorrin shuffled on his feet, feeling uncertain of how to respond. “Oh. No problem. I don’t… eh. No problem. Happy to do my part.”
Aleksandr clapped a hand on Yorrin’s shoulder in solidarity, and nodded. That seemed to have been all he wanted to say, so Yorrin slipped out of the room before he could be paid further uncomfortable compliments.
He slept restlessly on a soft bed in ostentatious quarters. He was happy when they put Torva behind them in the morning. He had nothing against Cleaver, and for all his inadequacies Fortinbrass seemed at least to be a kindly lord. But Torva was too soft. Too mercantile. With war on Caedia’s doorstep, and thousands of Svards sweeping across their coast, Yorrin didn’t think it could withstand what was to come.
They made their way south out of the city’s outer wooden walls. Yorrin rode ahead with Levin and Conrad, with Giancarlo’s wagons and most of Steelshod forming the caravan behind. The area south of Torva was mostly farmland. Flat, with occasional hills and small, well-kept forests to provide lumber and game to Torva.
They followed an old Cassaline road out. The mortared stone was still intact though the Empire had fallen in the Midlands centuries past. The Caedian stonemasons kept the old Imperial roads in good repair, same as they did back in Yorrin’s homeland.
The day passed quietly. They bedded down at an old campsite a hundred yards off the road. The area was well-worn from pack animals and carts, and dotted with three firepits. More than enough for their company. They posted sentries through the night, but this far inland from the coast and off the Ironblood they’d seen no sign of Svardic raiders.
Yorrin broke his fast on old bread toasted over coals and a few bits of meat off a small bird Levin had killed just before dawn. The meat was stringy, but greasy enough to add some flavor to the bread. Yorrin spent much of the next day outriding as well, keeping his eyes sharp for any sign of danger. He saw distant signs of more substantial civilization—enough smoke rising in the southeast that it was likely a good-sized town, and beyond that he saw the distant silhouette of a keep on a hilltop.
One of Fortinbrass’s vassals, Yorrin decided. A border lord, since they were skirting close to the eastern edge of Caedia. They were near Caedia’s neighbor, the kingdom of Kirkworth, though not so near that they would cross over. As far as Giancarlo had said, the Cassaline road they were following would only take them to Kirkworth if they took a wrong turn when they reached the next fork.
Late in the day Yorrin saw more smoke rising, this time in the west. It was closer, and it was a thick black plume. That’s not good, he thought. No hearth or cookfire makes smoke like that. He circled back to Aleksandr.
“Da, we should have a look,” Aleksandr said. At Giancarlo’s grumbled objection, he added: “Just a few of us. Yorrin, take four. If it is trouble, find us and report.”
Yorrin nodded. “Works for me. Levin, Anatoly, Nathan, Cam. With me. Prudence, take point for the caravan.”
He wheeled his horse around, not waiting for replies. Soon he heard the hoofbeats of the others catching up. They kept up a swift gallop across the plains until they closed in on the smoke. Yorrin gestured for them to slow as the source of the smoke came into view.
Even from a considerable distance, it was obvious what they were looking at. The wreckage of a farmstead was still smoldering. They approached cautiously, bows ready and arrows nocked, but they saw no signs of any movement. When they grew close enough, they saw the corpses scattered across the ground. They had been left where they fell, hacked down by sword and axe.
Crows scattered from one of the bodies when Yorrin rode close enough.
The Svards are long gone, he realized. The barn’s probably been burning since this morning.
Cam found tracks leading southwest. He suspected close to a dozen men. He wasn’t sure how easy they would be to follow, especially as the land southwest looked to be rocky foothills that Yorrin assumed were the beginnings of the Wncari territory he’d heard about.
“We aren’t going to find them,” Yorrin said. “They’ve too much headstart on us anyway. Let’s rejoin Aleksandr and the others.”
“What about the dead?” asked Nathan. “We just leavin’ them there?”
Anatoly frowned. “No,” he said. “We should not. Is not right.”
If we take the time to bury them, we’ll fall behind. Yorrin wasn’t sure how best to argue, so he held his tongue.
“Aye, but we haven’t got all day, have we?” said Cam. “Might be we could gather ‘em up in one o’ them buildings, turn it into a pyre. Reckon that wouldn’t take so long.”
Yorrin nodded instantly. “Good idea,” he said. “Better that than we leave them for the crows. We can say a few words over the fire. Let Torath embrace them in his coils.”
That seemed to satisfy Anatoly and Nathan well enough. Levin had kept silent through the exchange, staring off into the distance where the Svards tracks disappeared.
It still took too long. But much less time than burials would have. When they caught up with Aleksandr and the caravan it was past nightfall and their horses were lathered. Still, there was food and shelter waiting for them. They told everyone of what they’d found, and the talk around the campfire was somber that night. Not even Bear or Robin got into their typical boisterous arguments or dicing, though Yorrin suspected that was more because of everyone else’s mood than because they’d been legitimately bothered by the dead farmers.
Are you bothered by dead farmers? Yorrin asked himself. It was hard to say. It was surely distasteful. The Svardic heathens deserve to die for it. But I’m not exactly going to lose sleep over a handful of dead farmers I’ve never met and never will.
He had a feeling Aleksandr would. At least a little. He’s a better man than I am, of course. That’s why I’m following him.
That much, at least, was familiar. Aleksandr was the best man Yorrin had ever really known. It was a simple truth, and one that helped him to set aside the rest of the uncomfortable introspection.
He slept better on a bedroll than he had back in Torva. Even when he dreamed of crows gnawing at a dead farmer.
They rose early and got back on the road. By midday the road began to slowly climb in elevation, and all around them the terrain turned to green forested hills. When dusk approached, visibility had shrunk so far they could barely see fifty feet out from the road. Outriding was all but pointless, so Yorrin and the others returned to the main column.
When the wagons came into view, Yorrin spurred his horse ahead. “This would be the Wncari Hills, I assume?” he asked as he rejoined the caravan.
“Si,” Giancarlo said from where he sat on his wagon. “It may not be full of Svards, but it is still full of danger. The Wncar barbarians are molto dangerous, signore. They raid Caedia at every opportunity, and those who trade with her. It is very unlikely we cross the entire hills without any trouble.”
“Uh, sirs?” Behind Yorrin, the others in his outriding party had caught up. Orson was the one that had spoken up. “About that not full of Svards bit…”
Yorrin and Aleksandr both turned to give the young man sharp looks. “What’s that?” Yorrin said.
Orson swallowed nervously. Yorrin looked past him, noting that Levin still had his bow drawn and was staring into the wooded hills rising all around them. Cam was quietly riding further down the line, exchanging quiet words with every other member of Steelshod in the caravan.
“Levin says he saw something out there. Heard something too. He thinks it’s Svards. Told me to tell you and keep it calm.”
“I do not think this is likely,” Giancarlo said. “The Wncar, they guard their borders jealously. They would not allow Svards in any more than they will welcome us. If he saw something, it was likely them.”
“He seemed pretty sure…” Orson said.
“Either way, we should be ready,” said Aleksandr. He drew his sword. “If they are—”
Levin suddenly nocked an arrow, drew it back, and released in a single smooth motion. The arrow disappeared into the foliage to the north, and a moment later a scream pierced the air.
Levin nodded in the direction of the screaming, and he nocked another arrow.
“Make ready!” Aleksandr called out. “Defend the wagons!”
The scream slowly faded to a whimper, and an eerie quiet fell across the woods. Steelshod held took up positions around the wagons, weapons ready, staring into the trees.
For a moment, Yorrin began to wonder if Levin was wrong. Maybe he shot some poor fellow out gathering wood.
Then the chanting started. Voices rose all around them, shouting in their savage tongues. A clattering followed it as weapons and shields were clashed against each other.
Gunnar stepped up alongside Yorrin. He had dismounted, and held shield and sword in hand.
“They are both right,” he said to Yorrin. He nodded between Giancarlo and Levin. “And wrong. Some of those voices chant in Svardic. The others, though… not Svards, and not Kriegars.”
“So the Wncar and the Svards are working together after all,” Yorrin said.
Giancarlo went pale. “That… I did not expect.”
“It changes nothing,” Aleksandr said. “Svard or Wncar, if they come to kill us we will end them.”
“They are preparing to charge,” Gunnar said quietly. He gestured towards part of the treeline. “There.”
Aleksandr nodded, and calmly gestured to his men to reposition. “Then we will be ready.”
Yorrin swallowed a lump of nervousness that rose unwanted in his throat. I’m glad you’re so confident, Aleksandr, he thought. I hope to God you’re right.