Kingshelm (Renegade Druid Cycle Book 1) (11 page)

Paardrac shook his
 
head. “There is no reason for my people to follow me. They believe I will meet my doom in the wilds. Perhaps they are correct.”

“The Wandering Star approaches,” the creature said, abruptly changing the subject. “It is too far away for your people to see, but the First Ones feel its disturbance. Its powers again course and pulse across the land. Subtly for now, but the old magics will become stronger and stronger as it nears. Your kind call it the Chaos Moon and suffer mightily when it is close.”

Thunder pealed in the distance, and the clouds were closer. The creatures looked at each other and scuttled backwards into the woods. “We will not eat you this night, for we have hunted and are well fed.”

Paardrac awoke beneath a spring thunderstorm crashing in from the north. Rain fell suddenly and harried the trees, while thunderbolts shattered the air all around the hill and illuminated the inky-black woods. Paardrac struggled down the hill to flee the lightning. He tripped over roots and rocks as the rain hammed down on him, and then saw a white flash and nothing more. Paardrac came to moments later tangled in the exposed roots beneath a great oak tree riven down the middle by the lightning strike. He rolled over the root to gain his footing and stepped into empty space. Paardrac fell into a shallow void blasted into the side of the hill and landed on flat stone.
 

Paardrac stood and gazed around him in wonder and for a moment forgot the danger of the lightning and ignored the sharp ache in his shoulder. Above and behind him, tangled roots and flat, broken rocks
 
glistened and flickered in the storm. Before him, a rectangular void opened into the side of the hill. Another bolt split the air nearby, and Paardrac ducked through the opening into the hill.

The walls, floor and ceiling of the passage were built from immense, rough-hewn stones taller than a man and about half as wide. Paardrac felt the stony tunnel take a slight incline as it led deeper into the hill, then suddenly walked a wider blackness. The druid stopped and knelt to feel the ground in front of him with his hand. Rough steps led a short way down. Paardrac followed them down and explored the chamber, keeping his right hand on the wall. He circumambulated the chamber and ended up back at the steps. He sat down and took stock of his situation. Paardrac knew only that the chamber was round, had no other openings in the walls, and seemed to be covered with spirals carved into the rock. As his eyes finally adjusted to the dark, Paardrac could also just make out a dark shape in the middle of the chamber, but the fitful light from the passing thunderstorm provided no further clues as to what it was.

The druid froze. He heard the gentle, unhurried clinking of claw on stone approach from the passage behind him. Paardrac then relaxed, knowing his spirit would soon walk with his ancestors in the Blessed Realms while his body nourished the kor-toth that had been stalking him. Paardrac moved deeper into the chamber and faced the doorway.
Mighty ancestors, greet me with love when I join you in the Lands of Summer. Let my actions in this world honor your blood, which I share. Holy gods, accept my body as a sacrifice…

A mass of giant spider-like legs and pedipalps reached out of the darkness of the passage, and the horrifying creature was in the chamber. It curled its abdomen high over its thorax and lifted two pairs of its front legs up and out.
 

“Holy gods!” Paardrac gasped aloud. The chamber suddenly filled with a ghostly blue light as the kor-toth lit up with bioluminescence. Blue and white lights danced within its abdomen and up and down its legs. In a breath, Paardrac lost the shape of the kor-toth. His entire existence was nothing but those dancing lights…and then a woman’s voice.

It seems you have led us to a new lair, and it is filled with the trinkets that your kind covet. Take what you can carry, and go in peace. We are more curious than hungry.
 

Paardrac’s mind was freed, and he watched two more kor-toth slowly erupt out of the passage and light up, bathing the chamber in enough light for Paardrac to see clearly. He turned and obeyed the first creature. The eery blue light revealed spiral carvings
 
that covered the walls, the ceiling and a rough stone altar in the middle of the chamber. Gem encrusted gold objects were piled high on the ground around the altar—cups, model longships, jewelry, weapon fittings—along with gold coins.
 

Atop the altar sat a bronze spectacled helm heavily laden with gold trim. Knotwork and coiled dragons writhed on the cheek pads and spectacles; richly decorated gold plates hung from the back and formed the legendary helm’s aventail. Wonder racked Paardrac’s exhausted body harder than the terror of the spiders. He knew what he gazed upon. Children grow up hearing the couplet as they huddle around ruddy hearth fires during cold winter nights:

In darkness dwells the Kingshelm | where dragons’ dens are sealed

And duty dares the man who gains | to find his death or be the Dragon Chief

Alcuin Darkwood had business in the capital beyond jousting and hustling for clients in the capital. He was the Most Honorable Elected Grand Master of the Mercenaries Guild, and thanks to his competent leadership, it looked like he would be elected to another four-year term.
 

Splendid
, he thought.
Just fucking splendid
.
 

The mercenary commander walked up the broad stairs to the columned Guildhouse flanked by his two bodyguards. The three wore no armor, but carried swords and daggers for self defense in accordance with municipal law. Even in the capital—especially in the capital—a man of his position must take precautions. Alcuin wore the ceremonial armored gauntlet denoting his status as Grand Master.

He paused before the iron-bound, arching double doors and flexed the fingers in the gauntlet. He was only mildly bitter about the prospect of reelection. The paperwork, correspondence and hard decisions all made for a righteous pain in the ass. But it was, all told, a great honor to lead one of the most professional and respected guilds in the Empire.
 

Alcuin strode into the great hall of the Guildhouse and hammered his gauntleted fist three times on a block resting upon the ancient round table. The sudden, thunderous sound brought the annual meeting to order, its echoes reverberating through the high stone chamber for a moment after the murmuring of the eight assembled mercenary commanders stopped.
 

The Guildhouse was, many years before, the temple of the war god Taern and was saved from the iconoclastic ravages of the Church of Mahurin when a rich mercenary paid a “love offering” generations ago to the church and was allowed to headquarter in it. By twists of fate and the commander’s mastery of coin and politics, Taern was demoted from war god to patron saint of mercenaries. Thus, his 30-foot statue survived the Harrowing of the False Gods to loom over the Mercenary Guild’s proceedings. Taern’s stern, bearded countenance and two-handed sword gave the hall an atmosphere that was at once martial and hallowed.
 

Alcuin removed the gauntlet of office and laid it in front of him on the round table. “Under the auspices of Saint Taern, patron of mercenaries, and with the blessing of the Great God Mahurin, I, Alcuin Darkwood of the Black Swan Company, call to order this Council of Commanders of the Mercenaries Guild. The first order of business is the reading of the names of the fallen.”

The commanders stood, and the secretary-scribe handed Alcuin a scroll with the names of the Guild members who had died in battle since the body’s last annual council. These he read aloud: Bryson Carswith, Pug the Carter’s Son, Jurgen…after he read the first 100 names, Alcuin passed the list to the commander on his left, who read the next hundred. They each had a century of names to read and several more—the list was more than a thousand. It had, after all, been a relatively peaceful year. The Morgane’s solemn eyes flashed with sadness at the only women’s names to be mentioned, for they were her warriors.
 

Alcuin finished the list then handed the scroll back to the scribe. “These are the Brothers and Sisters of the Mercenaries Guild whose duties have ben fulfilled. May they find their rest in the Kingdom of Mahurin and prepare to march at the End of Days with their general, Saint Taern.”

“Their duties were fulfilled,” the commanders said in unison.
 

That solemnity done, Alcuin moved on the mundane business of the Guild. Over the next several hours, the commanders re-elected Alcuin, ratified 2,372 new guild memberships, added six former clients to the Guild’s black list, and amended the bylaws to correct inconsistencies and grammatical errors that Demon Company’s master of coin had found.
 

“Your staff is nothing if not thorough,” Alcuin told Edoc Jynn, Demon Company’s commander, when the corrections passed with a unanimous vote. He picked up the agenda and read. “Next before us is
 
a hearing on the possible expulsion of the Wurath Lancers, a 200-man company of cavalry, on grounds that they broke contract with their employer, Baron Finlies of Hastrus, and took employment with his opponent, Baron Shardath of Hastrus, a violation of the bylaws of this Guild and an affront against the whole of the profession of arms. Do I have a motion to open this hearing?”

“So moved,” said the commander of Galieon’s Light Horse.

“Second,” said Dagon Mor, commander of the Viper Guard.
 

“This hearing is open,” Alcuin said. “Galieon was in the employ of Duke Philo of Hastrus at the time of the alleged infraction, and thus will serve as the Guild’s representative of that province.”

Galieon read the narrative of the charges, which related a straightforward tale of avarice on the field of battle—the kind that the Mercenaries Guild sought to extinguish from the profession. The Wurath Lancers had been hired by Baron Finlies to harry the countryside surrounding some castle of no real consequence that the two barons claimed while Finlies laid siege. However, the besiegers had failed to seal the castle off, and the defenders managed to slip messengers out to summon help. They returned a week later with the Lancers and routed the besieging force.
 

“Against the dignity of this Guild,” Galieon said, concluding.
 

“Will anyone speak on behalf of the accused?” Alcuin asked. The Lancers had not bothered to send a representative, and none of the Council of Commanders spoke up. “Very well. What is the pleasure of the Council?”

“I move that the Guild strip the Wurath Lancers of their membership,” said the Morgane. Galieon seconded her motion.
 

“Discussion?”

“In fairness,” said Radic Balmor, commander of Radic’s Reavers, “the Lancers’ original client seems to have been incompetent. Would any of us want to fight for someone who can’t even manage the rudiments of siegecraft?”
 

“Would any of us break contract?” the Morgane shot back.
 

“Besides,” Galieon said, “the Lancers had no way to know that Baron Finlies was botching the siege.”

“Until they made contact with the messengers,” Radic said. “I would like to amend the Morgane’s original motion. Let us strip the unit and its leaders of membership, but give the men 30 days to abandon the unit. Any who remain will be considered renegades and treated as such. Is that acceptable?”

The Morgane frowned, and her green eyes narrowed as if to presage one of her famous acidic retorts. But then she sighed and ran her hand over her short-cropped, prematurely silver hair. “Fine. We’ll make a score of renegades instead 200. I assent to your amendment.”

“We will show ourselves to be magnanimous to rank-and-file mercs who are just trying to make an honest living in this savage world,” Radic said, smiling.
 

“Radic, you have quite a few billets to fill after your bandit hunting forays into the Dread Marches,” the Morgane said. “Are you looking to recruit?”

“Radic’s billets are not on the agenda for discussion,” Alcuin said. “Are there any more comments germane to this item before it goes to vote? Seeing none, I will call the vote.”

The motion and its amendment passed. Next came the final item, which was always the most interesting to Alcuin: discussing the geopolitical situation of the Empire. The secretary-scribe unrolled a map the size of a saddle blanket on the round table, and the mercenary commanders weighed down the corners with daggers, flagons, a stack of past years’ minute books and a sugarloaf helm. The commanders then spent several minutes placing small wooden models on the map showing where their companies were, as well as any barons or dukes who were on campaign. Every year, the Imperial forces were massed in the capital and scattered along outposts supporting the expanding road network.
 

Alcuin delighted in the annual spectacle of the mercenary commanders hovering over the Empire like old pagan gods, carving it up for the coming year. Occasionally two would bicker over who would bid on large potential contracts when they thought a war was brewing. Usually, however, it was a matter of renewing existing contracts and taking on new jobs clearing out bandit enclaves or garrisoning border towns.
 

Sometimes the leaders of two opposing units were at the table looking down at wooden models representing their armies, their executive officers leading their forces while they were attending to Guild business. That happened less and less frequently, and Alcuin was glad. The barons and dukes had learned that Guild companies will fight each other with gusto, but never mistreated their prisoners when the fighting was over. Then they were all fellow Guild members, and prisoners lived as comfortably as their captors until an exchange could be brokered. Some nobles, Alcuin knew, believed that Guild units would not fight each other as hard as they would the “free companies” or the noblesse and their feudal levies. These clients would be sure to not send Guild mercenaries in their employ against their opponent’s Guild companies.