Master of furies, p.10
Master of Furies, page 10
Hatushaly listened.
‘What do you know of families?’ Bodai asked.
Hatu stopped dead, his expression one of open confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve travelled, seen this and that, so I assume you’ve seen families who actually care about each other.’ He motioned for them to resume walking.
Hatu fell into step but he was silent as he weighed the question. ‘I suppose so. I was once apprenticed to a leatherworker who seemed really happy to see his children when they interrupted his work. I thought it was odd that he’d feign annoyance when they intruded upon his work, but actually was delighted to see them.’ Hatu reached up and brushed back his hair, then continued. ‘It was sort of a game, I think, but they really seemed to enjoy it. He’d chide them for coming into the tannery, then catch and scoop them up and spin them around the room, each in turn, then feign scolding them and shoo them out. It was a few days before I realized it wasn’t a real … a real problem, but some sort of game they played.’
Bodai nodded. ‘When I first came to Coaltachin, I succeeded because no one had seen the real Bodai at home for years. As I told you, once I rid myself of two older brothers – as I also said, despised by the real Bodai – I was heir to the clan’s leadership. But I apparently failed to realize that by doing so I had removed two of the last three obstacles between becoming a master and my “younger brother”, who managed to kill my wife but failed to kill me before I ended him.’ Bodai let out a slight sigh. ‘It’s so commonplace in Coaltachin, killing for advancement, it’s hard to believe the society has endured as long as it has.
‘Anyway, the strongest survive and in a way that strengthens everyone, I suppose.’ He looked at Hatu in a way that suggested he was open to questions.
‘You’re talking about things … I never understood.’
‘Time for a bit more history, then.’ Bodai saw Hatu’s expression cloud over and quickly said, ‘I’ll try to be brief.’
After a second, they both laughed. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Bodai.’ Then Hatu’s forehead furrowed for an instant and he said, ‘When you first told me who you were, back on Elsobas, did I ever ask your real name?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘That drug you slipped me played serious tricks with my memory.’
‘Not so. I remember I told you it was Zander, which was a lie.’ Bodai answered. ‘As for my original name, it’s been so many years I occasionally have to remind myself it is Nelson.’
‘Nelson?’
They reached the door to the courtyard, and both stopped.
‘Nell’s son, as Nell was my mother’s name, and no one knows who my father is. She abandoned me and the Flame Guard took me in. But I’ve been called Bodai for so many years it’s more my “real” name than the one the first pedagogues gave to me here.’ Bodai took a breath, then added, ‘I expect we’ll discover many histories scattered among the volumes in that library. So, if we ever get organized you can delve deeper into the subject, but what you need to know is this. This Sanctuary was once the home to the Flame Guard, and we were here for several reasons, but the key reason was to keep an eye on the Nytanny. That name is used for the land and the people who live there, though that is somewhat lazy, for Nytanny, the continent, is home to many people, many nations.’
‘I see,’ said Hatu.
‘We …’ Bodai sighed. ‘So many different places to start.’ Then he smiled. ‘But where we start is a question that can wait until tomorrow. Right now we both need sleep.’
Hatu nodded. ‘Goodnight, Bodai.’ He turned towards his quarters.
‘Goodnight, Hatu,’ the teacher replied. He stood for a moment watching the troubled young man walk away and then turned towards his own rooms. Whatever might be false or not how it appeared, he knew his need for sleep was as real as the stones beneath his feet.
As he neared his own quarters, Bodai realized that his conversation with Hatu had touched on feelings he had ignored most of his life. The truth was that his wife was someone he had wed for political advantage within the families of the masters, and it had put him in position so that when the time came, he had been able to replace the true Bodai’s father on the Council without opposition. But even though his motives had been based on logic and politics, he’d come to appreciate his wife, and had grown very fond of her. He realized this was the closest he had come to that love, and for the first time in years felt a twinge of regret at her death.
DONTE FOLLOWED A PAIR OF porters into a section of the barracks put aside for the escorts and retinues of visiting nobles. Some must have had large escorts, judged Donte, because this company numbered seventeen men, not counting the two men who were still staying with the baron, yet they filled less than a quarter of the barracks. So, sometimes a hundred men-at-arms and servants were housed here? Donte decided there were things about life on North Tembria he would never understand. Most Coaltachin masters wouldn’t let one armed retainer of any foreign noble within striking distance, let alone a hundred.
The baron had placed a company of his best soldiers around the barracks. They were members of his household guards – those they called castellans, and from the look of them, Donte judged them to be as rough and ready to brawl as any fighters he’d ever seen.
After a long discussion with Balven, who had listened closely, the second most important man in the barony had concluded that Donte needed to stay close to these men. His awareness of danger from the Azhante put him in a unique position to anticipate trouble, whoever they might be. Donte wasn’t happy with the assignment, but then he was rarely happy with any assignment given him.
He knew this escort for Episkopos Bernardo was as serious a band of soldiers as those outside guarding them. He had no objection to them happily murdering one another but had a strong aversion to being caught between them.
‘Supper, courtesy of the baron,’ he announced as the porters deposited two large trays with plates and cups, while behind Donte half a dozen other porters entered carrying food and wine.
The episkopos’s company looked a bit wary until the food was placed where they could reach it, and when the wine goblets were full, any reluctance to trust strangers vanished.
Donte watched from the corner of the barracks next to the open door, outside of which Baron Dumarch’s soldiers stood ready. No explicit plan had been made, but Balven had ordered the sergeant in charge to be ready should trouble erupt. Donte also suspected he had ordered the sergeant to make sure Donte didn’t slip away.
The episkopos’s men grabbed at the wine first, and two of them jostled, and one swore at the other without thought, and the word he used was one Donte knew well.
Donte wasn’t averse to a brawl, but he also was nobody’s fool when it came to being outnumbered by trained soldiers. He stepped outside and shouted, ‘Subdue them and keep everyone alive if you can!’
The sergeant in charge didn’t hesitate. Normally, he would never take orders from someone like Donte, but Balven’s instructions had been clear enough and he was ready for just this sort of problem.
The men inside were momentarily surprised, and most were holding food or drink, and their weapons were next to the bunks in the far end of the barracks. The baron’s guards swarmed in, and half the men were on the floor being pummelled senseless by the time the others reached their weapons.
Several turned to find soldiers of Marquensas holding swords poised at their throats, and others were struck from behind and slammed against the wall. A few managed to grab their weapons and lashed out at the baron’s troops, and two others saw that it was hopeless and threw down their arms.
Three men attacked Dumarch’s men, and one was the soldier who had uttered the curse that set Donte off. Donte had no weapon, but he pushed through those between him and the man he had singled out, and at the last jumped high, slamming into the back of the soldier engaged with that man, knocking both of them into the wall.
Donte unceremoniously put his knee into the back of the baron’s soldier, and lashed out with his fist, sticking the targeted man as hard as he was able. ‘Swarm him!’ Donte shouted, and within seconds three other Marquensas men were throwing themselves upon the target.
Donte jumped up and almost overbalanced, falling back, then catching himself. He desperately searched for something to use, grabbing a dirty road rag used to wipe dust and sweat from a rider’s face, then leapt onto the pile of soldiers squirming in the corner.
Donte reached down and jammed the rag into the target’s mouth, shouting, ‘Be wary of poison!’
The outbreak of fighting had rapidly brought more of the garrison’s troops to the fray, and while Donte tried to keep the man at the bottom of the pile subdued, the flood of Dumarch’s soldiers resulted in clubbing and kicks that rendered the episkopos’s retinue senseless in good order.
A big hand grabbed Donte by the shoulder and pulled him off the top of the pile.
Without a weapon, Donte was ready to strike with balled fist, till he saw that the man hauling him off was one of Dumarch’s senior sergeants. ‘Strike me and I’ll beat you within an inch of your life, boy, and apologize to the baron after!’ he shouted at Donte.
Donte took a moment to gather his wits. Looking down, he saw the man he suspected of being a sicari had been completely immobilized by the weight of bodies upon him, as well as the rag jammed in his mouth. His eyes were starting to bulge as he fought for breath, and Donte found that amusing.
Suddenly he found himself gripped by giddiness, and looked back at the sergeant who said, ‘Easy there, lad.’
‘Easy …’ said Donte, not understanding what had occurred, then looked down and discovered a dagger was protruding from his side, just above his hip.
He found that even funnier, and started to laugh, but pain seized him and drove the breath out of his lungs, and he gasped as he fought to refill them. ‘Damn,’ he said as consciousness fled and he fell into the sergeant’s arms.
• CHAPTER FIVE •
Encounters, Education, and Hope
Baron Dumarch was overseeing the training of new recruits, many of whom were experienced brawlers, but few with soldiering experience. All the accounts of the raids that had destroyed the western coast detailed massive swarms of raiders, who pillaged and took captives, but there were no reports of organized forces under any field commanders.
Daylon had consulted with every experienced soldier he could, his own officers and sergeants, and some fleeing from Ilcomen and the Copper Hills whom he had enlisted into the army he was building. Command came from somewhere in that massive fleet, and there were only two orders: first to loot, burn, and take captives; then to retreat back to the ships. Despite the simple organization, they had effectively sacked every community from Port Calos down to the border of Marquensas, driving the Baron of Copper Hills into hiding, and turning the Kingdom of Ilcomen into a failed state. Other reports suggested they had raided along the northern coast of South Tembria, keeping the big fleets from Zindaros and Metros safely at anchor in deep harbours.
He decided that no matter how big his new army grew, at its centre would stand a large company of well-trained soldiers who could be directed to a specific target of his choosing: that being whoever had been responsible for the destruction of his family. No matter what else, the author of that horror would die at Daylon’s hands.
‘Ship coming in!’ came a cry from a rider galloping through the gate.
Daylon waved the rider over. The man’s horse was lathered, its nostrils flaring, but Daylon could tell this had been a fast gallop and not a long, hard ride. ‘North Point?’ asked the baron.
‘Yes, m’lord.’
Daylon turned to the sergeant overseeing the training, a Copper Hills man named Haskel whom he knew from his visits to Rodrigo, the Baron of Copper Hills. ‘Continue the drills,’ he instructed. He then motioned to a groom and said, ‘Saddle my horse.’
He hurried to the barracks where Balven was interrogating the men Donte had identified and could hear shouts and grunts of pain from within as he came nearer. ‘Tell Balven there’s a ship approaching North Point. I am going there,’ he told the guards at the door.
The guards saluted, and by the time the baron had returned to where Sergeant Haskel was drilling the gathered fighters, he found his horse saddled and waiting for him.
‘Escort, m’lord?’ asked the groom.
‘Have half a dozen riders catch up with me, if they can.’
The baron urged his mount out of the castle gate and down through the city streets towards the north gate. Life was becoming more settled in the city, though it was hardly back to normal. There were still food shortages, hoarding, and fights erupting between those who had fled returning to find squatters in their homes and places of business. Still, progress was being made on a daily basis. It was as if Marquensas was becoming what Daylon demanded by his force of will alone.
He rode at a good canter, having to avoid only a few people as the population was still half what it had been, and once out of the gate, he set his mount to a gallop. He ran his horse for a little over a mile, then reined him back to a trot. Daylon had seen more than one mount ruined by a rider demanding too much, and his personal horse was the finest he’d ever seen. He estimated that the messenger who had carried news to him had galloped the last mile or two into the city, but also had spared his mount.
Daylon had visited the North Point countless times since he was a boy, as it was one of the first places his own father had taken him when he began his military lessons. Literally, a lifetime ago, he thought ruefully. Bitterly he then realized he had no one left to teach as his father had taught him.
A cascade of memories threatened to come flooding in, from his boyhood up to recent attempts by his brother Balven trying to remind Daylon he was still young enough to take a third wife, start a new family, all of which he rejected equally, as nothing would detract him from his need for revenge.
After trotting, cantering, and galloping in rotation, Daylon crested a hill and saw the North Point tower come into view. A ship, barely more than a white blot on the distant blue sea below, was anchored a short distance out from the shore. Daylon slowed his mount to a walk, resisting the urge to get to the tower as fast as possible.
This was the first ship to approach any port or landing in Marquensas since the raids. And while the barony had been spared direct assault, the impact of the raids was still devastating. Daylon knew that the arrival of this ship was important.
SABIEN SAID, ‘TAKING THEIR TIME, aren’t they?’
The Queen of Storms had sailed into view of the North Point tower more than four hours earlier, hoisted a white parley flag, and dropped anchor a short distance offshore.
Hava said, ‘Seems that way. Then they sent a rider off to the baron, and whoever’s up in that stone tor is not willing to take the responsibility of inviting us ashore. Probably a sergeant, maybe a corporal.’
‘Corporal?’
‘In between a sergeant and regular soldier here.’
‘Oh.’ Sabien’s expression was one of boredom. The journey had been easy and uneventful, but tedious as once they got north of the equator the winds changed. A great deal of tacking and rigging of sails had been involved, and progress had slowed.
‘Don’t they have signal fires?’
‘Whoever’s in charge probably didn’t want the baron bringing his whole army with him. Better to send a rider.’
Sabien shrugged. ‘Makes sense, Captain.’
After a few more minutes, Hava asked, ‘How are the people below holding out?’
‘Anxious to know if it’s safe to return home, and restless.’
‘They’ve been restless since we cast off at the Sanctuary.’
‘True,’ agreed Sabien.
Hava had been surprised that so few people wanted a quick return. Less than a hundred of the more than four hundred she’d freed on repeated raids of Azhante ports and ships had requested a trip back to North Tembria. Hava suspected it was fear, the realization that Port Calos and Copper Hills were in total ruin, and the promise of fresh farm- and pasture-land on the countless islands surrounding the Sanctuary. She thought many of them looked at that part of the world as a new beginning, a way to turn their backs on a horrifying happening in their lives, one where they’d lost all they owned, the lives of friends and families. She knew she’d never feel that way, but she did understand how they felt.
‘I see a rider,’ said Sabien, as he pointed to a distant speck coming over a ridge and heading towards the tor.
‘Maybe someone will answer our parley flag.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sabien.
The distant rider seemed in little hurry as his horse trotted the final quarter of a mile from the ridge to the tor. There, he vanished into the structure and as they watched a company of riders came over the hill, moving quickly as if to overtake the first rider.
‘I wonder what that’s about?’ said Sabien.
‘I have no idea,’ began Hava, then an answering white banner was hoisted atop the tor and waved from side to side to ensure that it was seen.
‘Maybe we’re about to find out,’ said Hava. ‘Ready the longboat.’
‘It’s been ready for about four hours, Captain,’ said Sabien with a chuckle.
Hava moved down to the main deck, where four sailors waited to crew the boat. Hava felt confident leaving Sabien in charge: she had seen enough to know that they were in safe waters.
She watched as the crew deftly housed the boat, turned a pair of hoists, and lowered the craft until it was even with the railing and the rowers entered, Hava last of all.
The boat was lowered and within minutes they were rowing towards the breakers. Hava was pleased with how the crew was shaping up, after months of combat, deft sailing, and the routine day-to-day care of the Queen of Storms, and what pleased her most was her crew retention. At first it had been a makeshift collection of some experienced sailors and those willing to serve in exchange for a voyage to a safe haven. Now she had a crew who understood their captain, knew their jobs, and worked well without the need of bullying from a mate.
