Verchenko’s boats proved very useful.
It did not take long for Aleksandr to make contact with Bayard Naksava again. Stanislav and Proskoviya had done as they’d promised, reining in their men and holding position. Soon Verchenko had ferried all three bayards from the north shore to the south, each with an escort of trusted druzhniks.
One of the men in the retinue approached Aleksandr as soon as the groups met. Aleksandr recognized him immediately. Ilya. The guard that had been there in the tent, when Boris tried to have him killed.
“Sir Kerensky,” Ilya said. He held out his hands, and Aleksandr saw him holding Kholodny’s scabbard. “This belongs to you. To blade of your fathers.”
Aleksandr smiled at him. “Ilya,” he said. The man-at-arms widened his eyes, as if surprised to be remembered. Aleksandr accepted the scabbard. He immediately threaded it through his swordbelt and returned Kholodny to its rightful home. “Thank you.”
Ilya simply nodded, and withdrew back to the ranks of soldiers escorting the four bayards.
They all approached the final warcamp together. Verchenko, Naksava, Stanislav, and Proskoviya rode alongside Aleksandr and Steelshod. Even Cleaver emerged from behind Torva’s walls with a small retinue to witness on behalf of his lord.
Yorrin does not believe Cleaver does anything on Fortinbrass’s behalf, so much as he acts of his own accord for Torva and Fortinbrass blithely follows along. Aleksandr felt that Yorrin’s assessment was uncharitable. But he could not decide whether or not it was false. Fortinbrass certainly appears less cunning than his seneschal.
The sun was just beginning to rise. The sky was gray, with faint orange rays blooming on the horizon. To Aleksandr’s knowledge, no one in Steelshod had slept during the night. Perhaps Robin. Almost certainly Robin.
He heard cries of alarm ahead. There was no missing such a large group approaching openly. Aleksandr saw that Kamarsky’s camp was orderly, at least compared to his peers. The tents and cookfires were arranged in tidy rows, and the sentries had spotted them promptly. The alarm continued to sound, shouts and hornblasts echoing through the camp.
By the time they were close enough to announce themselves, men-at-arms were surging through the camp and forming up along the perimeter. Aleksandr rode at the front, alongside the four bayards. It did not take long for Bayard Kamarsky to emerge, astride his own warhorse.
Sergei Kamarsky was of old blood, with a storied lineage. Many generations ago, his ancestors ruled Yerevan. A previous Tsar’s displeasure had lowered their status, and lifted the Bogdanov line above them. Despite this, from all that Aleksandr had heard, Sergei was an honorable man and a leal servant to his liege. He also controlled the largest acreage of any Yerevani bayard save Bogdanov, and with the largest number of serfs.
He was an older man, past forty for certain and easily a decade or more past it at that. His hair was trimmed short, mostly dark but white around his temples. He had a thick mustache and shaven cheeks.
His plated mail was well made, the plates inlaid with polished bronze. He held a naked blade in his hand, and even in the gray light of early dawn he saw that the sword was limned with the ripples of true steel.
Kamarsky narrowed his eyes at the men approaching him.
“What is this?” he asked in Ruskan. His voice was deep, and it carried well without shouting. A voice for the battlefield.
“This is folly,” Aleksandr said. He spoke Middish, so that his men and the men from Torva would know what was said. Like all the Yerevani bayards, he knew Kamarsky was fluent in the tongue. “It has come to its end.”
Kamarsky narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, boy?” He switched to Middish.
“Aleksandr Kerensky, commander of Steelshod Company,” Aleksandr said.
“A mercenary?” Kamarsky grimaced. “Who hired you? Caedia? You betray your homeland for these murderous dogs?”
“We are hired on to defend Caedia from Svards,” Aleksandr said. “But we are here to stop this madness from going further. Caedia has murdered no one. Boris called you to war on a lie, a lie that serves only Svarden and its high priest.”
“A lie,” Kamarsky insisted. “Caedian assassins slew Dmitri. This is known. We all saw—Pavel, Vladimir? You were the first to answer the call.”
“The lie was told by Boris, Sergei,” said Naksava. “Not by this man, Kerensky. He is right. We were deceived. By Boris, and by the Svardic priest.”
Kamarsky frowned, clenched his jaw in annoyance. Aleksandr watched the man carefully. Look for discomfort, as Boris showed. Dissonance in his own mind, causing him to doubt himself, rail blindly against reason.
“Boris,” Kamarsky finally said. “Where is he?”
“Dead,” Aleksandr said. “He tried to execute me for speaking truth. Things… did not go as he hoped.”
Kamarsky looked even more upset. He turned to the other bayards. “What is this?” he asked. “You side with this man? Pavel, Vladimir? This criminal? Even you, Yuri? You wish to flee? And… where is Feodor?”
“Dead,” Feodor the Younger said.
“His work as well?” Kamarsky asked, nodding at Aleksandr.
“No, mine,” Yuri Stanislav was nothing if not proud. “When Boris died, the camp fell into chaos. I tried to take control, and Feodor got in my way, old fool.”
“You will not speak ill of my father!” Feodor shouted in Ruskan.
Stanislav shrugged. “Sorry,” he muttered without remorse.
Kamarsky seemed disturbed by the news. His lips were drawn in a tense, thin line. Even at the distance between them Aleksandr saw sweat bead on the man’s brow. His hand clenched the pommel of his saddle.
Aleksandr dismounted Dascha. “Bayard Kamarsky,” he said. “Bayards of Yerevan. Please. May we talk? Peacefully?”
Naksava dismounted immediately, and Verchenko a scant moment later. Yuri and Feodor hesitated, but soon joined him. They all watched as Kamarsky reluctantly climbed out of his own saddle and took a few steps closer. His eyes were wide, and they flickered between the faces of his fellow lords.
“Bayard Kamarsky,” Aleksandr said. “I am from Pripia, in the far north. Even there, I have heard of you. You are known across the homeland for your wisdom and, above all, your honor. Where is honor in this? A surprise attack on an ally?”
Kamarsky frowned. “Caedia betrayed us first,” he said. “They—”
“They did not slay Dmitri,” Aleksandr said. “For what reason would they? You are allies. Torva profits greatly from your trade. Why betray you? And why betray you now, as they face a grave threat from forces of Svarden? Is not just treacherous—it would be idiotic.”
Kamarsky hesitated, his expression locked in a grimace of significant discomfort. He is definitely ensorcelled by the priest, Aleksandr decided. He is uncomfortable. He knows what I am saying is right. Hakon must have appealed to the betrayal, the affront to Ruskan honor. That is the only way he could have gotten Kamarsky to go along with this.
“No,” Kamarsky said. “I—I saw evidence. Dmitri and the priest. They had captured an assassin. He confessed. I—”
“The assassin was dead before I arrived,” Naksava said. “But you arrived before I did. Did you actually speak with him yourself, Sergei?”
“No…” Kamarsky swallowed. “Boris and the priest, they did.”
This man was there when Alaina was given to Hakon. The realization hit Aleksandr like a physical blow. He felt a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. He pushed it away. You have work to do. End this war before it begins. Then you can ask them what they saw, what they remember. But first, do your duty.
“Boris and the priest deceived you, Bayard Kamarsky,” Aleksandr said.
“They deceived all of us, Sergei,” Naksava said.
“No,” Kamarsky said, but Aleksandr could hear the strain and doubt in his voice. “I—they did not. They—”
“They did,” Verchenko interjected. Where Naksava had sounded sympathetic, Verchenko just seemed annoyed. “It was the Svard, Kamarsky. He did something to us. Some heathen black magic. Twisted us in knots, pushed us to believe Boris. He whispered in our ears, told us what we wanted to hear.”
The look Kamarsky gave his fellow bayards was pained. It reminded Aleksandr, uncomfortably, of how Boris had looked earlier in the night. Perhaps, if Aleksandr had been able to break through the Vlari priest’s magic, he would not have needed to kill him.
The cold knot in the pit of Aleksandr’s stomach twisted. He gave her to Hakon. Aleksandr would not feel remorse for slaying Boris. More than that, he felt his last bit of sympathy for these bayards drain away into that empty, unfeeling abyss that threatened to overtake him. Enough.
Kamarsky was objecting again. Aleksandr did not listen. “Verchenko. Naksava. You know what my sword can do. You felt it,” he said calmly. Both men gave uneasy nods. Aleksandr spoke his next words quietly, so that they would not carry beyond the men closest to him.
“Hold him.”
Verchenko and Naksava hesitated. Aleksandr unstrapped Kholodny, still sheathed, from his belt. Because he did not draw the blade, Kamarsky’s men-at-arms did not immediately react. Aleksandr took a step towards Kamarsky, and Naksava did as well. Naksava stepped up to Kamarsky and took one arm in hand. He moved calmly, as if moving to support an old friend.
Verchenko hesitated, clearly unsure of whether or not he wished to be a part of this. Fortunately, Stanislav did not hesitate. He leapt forward, laughing, and grabbed hold of Kamarsky by the other arm. Kamarsky shouted in surprise, and tried to shrug them both off.
That was enough to set off Kamarsky’s men. But even as they began shouting and surging forward, Aleksandr closed the distance and thrust the hilt of Kholodny against Kamarsky’s chest.
His screams echoed across the camp.
It very nearly came to blows after that. Stanislav bellowed at Kamarsky’s men, and the other Yerevani bayards all joined him in shouting at them to stand down. Between that and the small—but well-armed—collection of druzhniks and Steelshod, Kamarsky’s troops hesitated.
Kamarsky’s pain lasted longer than either Naksava’s or Verchenko’s had. With the sword sheathed, the glowing runes were not visible. But smoke curled off of the scabbard, and Aleksandr felt the searing heat through his gloves. It did not burn his hands, like a normal heat might. It burned straight through him.
Finally, Kamarsky fell silent. He sagged, and the heat emanating from Kholodny dissipated. Aleksandr pulled the sword away, and watched as Kamarsky nearly collapsed. Naksava and Stanislav held him up. Slowly, and amidst much shouting, the bayard finally regained his senses.
It took several minutes for Kamarsky to regain some semblance of strength, and longer still to calm his men. Aleksandr stepped back to stand alongside Steelshod, and they waited patiently for the Yerevani bayards to come to him.
He sensed as someone moved close to him. He assumed it was Yorrin, until they spoke.
“You really do have a magic sword,” Cleaver said.
“It appears so,” Aleksandr replied. “It was not my doing.”
“Seems terribly useful, whoever’s doing it was,” said Cleaver.
My family’s blade is cursed by a Thaumati demon. Aleksandr could find little pleasure in whatever sorcery the blade held now, however useful it might be in the moment. Borthul thought it was contained, but this doesn’t feel contained.
Aleksandr went to refasten Kholodny to his belt, and he paused. The scabbard was different. It was marred with blackened burns all along its length. He saw the faint shape of the runes in the scorch marks. Breaking the enchantment on Kamarsky had taken so long the glowing runes had burned all the way through the scabbard.
The sight of it heightened Aleksandr’s sense of disappointment. This sword survived many generations intact, he reminded himself numbly. Father entrusted it to me. I have failed him.
He strapped the sword back to his belt in silence.
“Kerensky,” Bayard Sergei Kamarsky called to him, his voice hoarse.
Aleksandr approached. “Bayard Kamarsky.”
“Thank you,” Kamarsky said, in Ruskan. “I—I do not know what to say. Your words were true. This is folly.”
Aleksandr nodded. “I am glad you see reason, then.”
“We have a problem, however,” Kamarsky added. “Yuri has correctly observed that, folly or not, we are here now. There is no changing what is done.”
Aleksandr frowned. He did not reply immediately. Kamarsky seemed to read into his silence, and he continued. “Whatever the reason, Caedia now has cause to see this as an act of war. There will be no stifling word of this. It will make its way to the king of these lands.”
“It will,” Aleksandr agreed.
“And it will make its way to the Tsar,” Kamarsky said. “A diplomatic catastrophe. An insult to Caedia, a stain on Rusk’s honor. All of this is bad enough, but Yuri is right that the Tsar might forgive it all if we had something to show for it.”
Aleksandr shook his head. “Do not do this,” he said quietly. He was glad they were speaking Ruskan, so that Steelshod and the Torvan soldiers could not hear. But he strongly suspected Cleaver spoke Ruskan anyway, and Torva’s chief steward was in earshot.
“I have not done anything,” Kamarsky said. “But Yuri is not wrong.”
Aleksandr closed his eyes. He saw Alaina’s face. He saw Hakon’s sneer. He saw the look in Boris’s eyes in the last moment before Aleksandr’s blade struck him down. He rested a hand on Kholodny hilt, and it felt familiar. Cool to the touch, the leather smooth and worn.
“You may blame Hakon,” Aleksandr said, eyes still closed. “But you must still answer for your own decisions. Go to the Tsar and tell him what happened. He will be displeased, but he will not kill you. Not when every Yerevani bayard shares the same folly. Face the consequences with honor, and dignity.”
“The consequences would be much lessened if we took this place,” Kamarsky said softly. “A conquest, to slake the Tsar’s thirst. Yuri thinks that we should. Verchenko is considering it too.”
“That would be a mistake,” Aleksandr said. He felt his jaw clench, and he consciously relaxed it. He shifted his footing in the dirt.
“We have the men to take this place,” Kamarsky said.
Aleksandr opened his eyes. “No,” he said. “You do not.”
Kamarsky frowned. “I think—”
“You misunderstand me,” Aleksandr interrupted. “You do not. Whether your men take Torva or not, if you give that order then you will not live past this sunrise.”
Kamarsky’s eyes widened.
“You are in arm’s reach, Bayard Kamarsky,” Aleksandr said quietly. “You are an old man now. My sword arm is swift. I promise you: you will not live to see the rewards of such treachery. I do not think many of the other bayards will either. My men are similarly swift.”
“You threaten me,” Kamarsky said.
“I am informing you of the situation,” Aleksandr said. “Your reputation precedes you. A man of honor. Prove it. Please.”
Kamarsky was silent for several long, tense moments. When he spoke, it was a shout.
“Men! Break camp!” his voice was still hoarse, but it carried. “We’re going home!”
Aleksandr saw Naksava and Proskoviya sigh in relief. Even Verchenko looked more relieved than upset. Stanislav grumbled to himself, but the others ignored him.
Kamarsky turned to rejoin them. Aleksandr could not hold back the storm of fears within him any longer. “Bayard Kamarsky,” he called out, and Kamarsky paused. Aleksandr switched back to Middish. “There was a Torathi priestess in Yerevan. Alaina. Boris said she was given to the Svard. To Hakon.”
Kamarsky nodded. Aleksandr spoke his next words carefully. “Did he kill her?”
Kamarsky furrowed his brow. “Not in Yerevan,” he said. “He took her with him, on his ship. That was the last I saw.”
She lives. It was a scant hope. She was in the clutches of a dark sorcerer that did not hesitate to ritually sacrifice his own men. Still, it was a hope.
Aleksandr turned away without another word.
“We owe you a debt we can never repay!”
Lord Fortinbrass was as boisterous as ever. The sun had fully risen by the time Cleaver and Steelshod had retired back to the citadel in Torva, and when they entered the lord’s great hall the smell of food was overpowering.
“But this is a decent start, at least!” Fortinbrass added with a grin. He swept his hand out across the trestle tables, each laden with a dizzying array of food and drink.
He feasted Steelshod exactly as he had promised. Aleksandr’s protests were dismissed immediately. Even when he pointed out that they had not slept since arriving at Torva near nightfall, and that had been preceded by a long day of riding down from Northwatch.
“You’ll never sleep better than after one of my feasts, Sir Kerensky,” Fortinbrass declared. “I’ll swear to that! I’ve got accommodations for you and all of your men being prepared as we speak, young sir. You’ll sleep as long as you like on feather beds, every one of you!”
“Hear hear!” Robin raised a goblet of wine from where he sat. Fortinbrass raised his own drink in return, grinning.
“You see? Your men know how to appreciate a good feast,” Fortinbrass said.
It was true. They had been scrambling to deal with the Ruskans ever since they’d arrived, and many hours had passed in tense uncertainty. They’d gone with neither sleep nor food for all that time. Now, most of Steelshod was attacking the lord’s spread with enthusiasm. Aleksandr felt little appetite, but he did not abstain entirely. He sipped mulled wine and picked at a shank of braised lamb while Cleaver and Fortinbrass discussed the situation.
The Ruskans had promised to be back in their boats and underway by nightfall. Fortinbrass was ecstatic at the news. When Cleaver confirmed Aleksandr’s claims of Vlari sorcery, the portly lord’s eyes widened. Eventually, Cleaver finished relating all that Fortinbrass had missed, and the lord of Torva turned back to Aleksandr.
“Sir Kerensky,” he said.
“Da?”
“Vernon didn’t believe you could do this, you know,” he said. He nudged Cleaver, giving his seneschal a cheeky grin. Cleaver sighed. “He was sure of two things. First, that you were only helping us in the hopes of some rich reward. And second, that when you realized just how many Ruskans there were, you’d turn tail and flee.”
Near Aleksandr, Yorrin snorted. “Fuck that,” he said. When Fortinbrass’s jaw dropped in a surprised O Yorrin quickly added “Uh, pardon, your lordship.”
Fortinbrass’s look of shock quickly turned to another smile. “Ah, it’s no trouble, master Yorrin. No trouble at all. After what you’ve done for my city, no uncouth outburst could ever exceed the goodwill you’ve earned. Fuck it indeed, my good man! You did nothing of the sort!”
Aleksandr still felt turmoil within him, but he allowed himself to join in the smile Fortinbrass and Yorrin shared.
“Truly!” the lord went on. “Not only was he wrong, he was spectacularly wrong! You didn’t flee. You broke the bloody siege! In a single night, no less! Whoever has heard of such a thing? Nobody! That’s who!”
Fortinbrass did not seem to need much in the way of responses. He was content to talk, and Aleksandr preferred to do nothing but listen anyway.
“What do you intend to do next, Sir Kerensky?” Fortinbrass asked.
Aleksandr swallowed a sip of wine. So much for sitting and listening. “We will return to Arcadia, Lord Fortinbrass. Our mission was to Northwatch… we are likely expected back soon.”
Fortinbrass nodded. “Northwatch, yes, yes. You reclaimed that, too, did you not?”
“Da. We did.”
“Steelshod Siegebreakers!” Fortinbrass declared. “Jolly good. Well, Marshal will have to hear of what you’ve done here this night. Yes indeed, he shall.”
“We will give Lord Marshal a full report,” Aleksandr said.
Fortinbrass scoffed. “No, no, that won’t do! Marshal’s a good man, but he’s not known for giving strangers the benefit of the doubt. He’ll never believe a story like this. It’s too bloody good, it is!”
Aleksandr blinked, unsure of how to respond. That was fine. Fortinbrass was not one to let a silence stand for long.
“You’ll take the Iron Lance,” he announced, as if the meaning of the words were obvious. “With an escort of as many men we can spare. She’ll get you there much faster than riding, mark me.”
Aleksandr pondered the words. “This is… a ship?”
“Of course! The sturdiest, fastest cog in my fleet,” Fortinbrass said.
“You’re very generous, my lord,” Perrin said from where he sat. “A credit to Torva, and to all Caedia.”
“Psh!” Fortinbrass dismissed the praise. “I’m nothing of the sort, young man! But I’d have to be an absolute ruffian not to show you lot proper gratitude, and that’s as true as anything spoken by the forked tongue of God!”
“You have our thanks regardless, Lord Fortinbrass,” Aleksandr said.
“Yes, yes, it’s an endless circle of thanks, Sir Kerensky,” said Fortinbrass. “Anyway, as I was saying. You’ll take the Iron Lance, and Vernon too.”
Aleksandr glanced at Cleaver. Fortinbrass’s seneschal did not seem surprised by the announcement, which suggested it may have been his idea in the first place.
“Your steward?” Aleksandr said. “Is he not needed here?”
“We’ll make do,” Fortinbrass said. “Milton can step in to handle Vernon’s duties as needed. I’ll not hear that Marshal doubted a single word of your story, when you tell him what happened here. Vernon will sail with you, and he’ll deliver my own report directly to Marshal’s hands. Right Vernon?”
Cleaver nodded. “As you say, my lord.”
Fortinbrass nodded as well, as much to himself as to anyone else. “Good, good. I expect Marshal could use your help anyway, Vernon, with all that’s going on right now.”
Cleaver said nothing, but he gave one final nod of his head before he raised his cup to his lips.
Marshal is not likely to need a steward, Aleksandr though. But if Yorrin is right about Cleaver being an expert in spycraft, then he would likely be of great use to a general in a time of war. There was no way Fortinbrass was ignorant of his man’s skills, then. It seemed increasingly likely that Fortinbrass was fully aware of his own position as a figurehead, with Cleaver ruling from the shadows. Unless… Aleksandr pondered another thought, one Yorrin had definitely never voiced.
“Vernon, can you handle one last thing for me before you go?” Fortinbrass asked, disrupting Aleksandr’s chain of thoughts. “While Steelshod sleeps off the feast? Those refugees… might be they could return to Yerevan with the army, couldn’t they? Since the madness that overtook the bayards seems to have passed? I can’t imagine they’ll keep persecuting Torathi faithful, will they?”
Cleaver nodded. “A good thought, my lord. I’ll speak with the Spatalian after the feast. The other refugees follow his lead.”
Spatalian? “Pardon,” Aleksandr interjected. “Refugees? From Yerevan?”
“Of course,” Fortinbrass said. “Oh, yes, you wouldn’t know. You’ve only just barely arrived! They came down a day ahead of the armies on a stolen ship. It was packed full of folk from Yerevan… mostly those with Middish ancestry, and followers of Torath. They were being slain in the streets, accused of conspiring against Yerevan or somesuch nonsense.”
“They escaped the city?” Aleksandr asked.
Beside him, Yorrin had also perked up. “You mentioned a Spatalian?”
Fortinbrass nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “The fellow claimed to have stolen the ship himself. He had quite a lot of bravado for a one-armed man, but the other folk seem to listen to him.”
Aleksandr looked at Yorrin, and Yorrin met his gaze. They turned back to Fortinbrass and Cleaver in unison.
“Take us to him,” Yorrin said.
For once, Aleksandr did not bother to soften Yorrin’s blunt demand.