The Cor Chronicles: Volume 02 - Fire and Steel (25 page)

It wasn’t that Palius actually believed Aidan’s narrative as related by Queen Erella. He had no doubt that the priest had embellished it, but to what extent he was not sure. However, Aidan failed at his task, and he had failed quite thoroughly, which only meant that something close to what he described had happened. In the end, it only reinforced one simple fact, a fact that Palius had known for quite some time; this Dahken Cor and his kind were dangerous and untrustworthy, and it was time to solve the Dahken problem.

Larnd had sent assassins the first time, professionals at striking down persons unaware in the dark, and they had failed miserably. All they had managed to do was put Cor on the defensive, and he immediately made plans to segregate his people into their own enclosure. Additionally, he had halted or at least slowed severely the flow of new troops to Fort Haldon. It was time for something more direct, overpowering, and the timing was perfect. Cor would be away from his protection at Fort Haldon as he crossed miles of open country on his way to Byrverus.

Palius pushed himself from his bed and sat on its edge, and his bare feet hovered several inches over the rug. He pushed himself off slowly until his feet touched the floor gingerly. It was something he did every time he arose from bed, and when he was sure that his legs would still support his weight, Palius slowly walked to the corner of the room that held his chamber pot.

Once relieved, he tottered to the adjacent chamber that still held his desk, where he handled state business. He stopped briefly as he passed a mirror, suddenly aware that he hadn’t shaved in months, and his beard was several inches long at his chin, scraggly and inconsistent. The top of his head was completely bald now, and the white hair around the sides and back of his head was extremely long and unkempt. The combination of his beard and hair lent him a particularly insane appearance, like that of some poor homeless old man.

Palius sat at his desk, which had gone unused for months ever since Queen Erella had pointedly stopped asking for his help in state affairs. He arranged its surface with blank parchment, ink and pen and wax to seal the message he began to compose mentally. Palius started to write a message to Laird, but found it a difficult task as he halted every several words. He folded the parchment in half and started again, this time intent on sending the message to Marek. He found this no easier however and again folded the parchment, placing it to the side after only two words.

Palius leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and pinched his nose as he tried to gather his thoughts. He couldn’t possibly make the journey through the city to Marek or Larnd; beyond the fact of his failing health, it would raise many eyebrows to see him about the palace and even leaving it. He couldn’t write a letter directly to Larnd because he couldn’t trust anyone to deliver it safely to one of the kings of Byrverus’ underworld. In fact a message of any kind just seemed unsafe at this point, which meant Palius needed to send for one of the men to come to the palace. Marek was the obvious choice as the cutthroat was a master of disguise, and no one would guess him to be Larnd’s brother, a former soldier and murderer of notably ill repute.

Opening his eyes, Palius pushed away from his desk and picked up the two failed letters. He shambled his way to his fireplace, the blaze now reduced to hot coals and cinders. He still had a small amount of fuel available, and he dropped a piece of tinder onto the iron rack, lighting it painstakingly with flint. As the fire caught and grew steady, he caught the corners of the parchment sheets in the open flame. The dry parchment lit easily, and he held it in front of his face, watching the fire grow and move across its surface. When it was half consumed, Palius dropped the burning parchment onto the flaming tinder, and he reached to the side for a small piece of split wood, which he added to the small blaze.

He stood and went back to his bed, wheezing somewhat with the exertion of it all. Most certainly, he would not make it to the palace’s doors, much less into the city somewhere, without collapsing. Lying down, he reached for a small bronze bell that he kept on the table at his bedside for use when his breath would not allow him to call for the guards. Mere seconds after he rang the bell, one of the soldiers who stood outside his chambers entered. “Get me Sergeant Holt,” Palius said to the man.

Palius liked Sergeant Holt, and he had used the grizzled veteran for a large variety of tasks over the years. He was a pragmatic old soldier, well past the age that most fighting men hung their sword upon the mantle and told their grandchildren great tales of their exploits. Long ago, he had realized that Palius’ only concern was for the safety and security of Aquis and its queen, and as such, the then young soldier had made himself available to Palius’ every need.

Holt had done it all in the service of Her Majesty and more in the service of Palius, from guarding the queen Herself to hunting down bandits in the Aquis countryside. He had sailed the Narrow Sea for six months as Aquis helped Roka defeat a pirate flotilla that pillaged the trading lanes. He had even helped put down a rebellion on the western side of the nation, summarily executing over fifty men who had murdered a local priest and burned his temple to the ground. Palius assigned that particular task to him, and the entire affair had never reached the ears of Queen Erella. It was Holt who most brutally and efficiently tortured the user of the Loszian mirror that Palius now possessed.

It easily took Holt a half hour to arrive at Palius’ chambers, and the dying old man was most aware of the passage of time. A year ago, he would not have noticed due to that peculiar perception that time seemed pass more quickly as one ages. However, now he was dying, and every minute, every second seemed more important than a great sack full of gold coins. He would have given anything to go back and tell himself how important time was, to make every moment count as if it were his last. His life could have been something else entirely, could have been so different.

The old soldier trudged into Palius’ rooms, having pushed the door open and entered with no announcement. He clinked as he walked a steady pace, no doubt set by years as a soldier marching from place to place. Holt’s face had been tanned like leather from years of the sun and elements with eyes that had been closed from exposure and were yet sharp as a hawk. He shaved occasionally enough to avoid growing a full beard, giving him a constantly stubbled appearance. As opposed to the plate armor worn by the younger soldiers, Holt always wore a full suit of gray chain mail and hard brown leather boots. Attached to the back of the shirt, a chain cowl covered his once black hair now grayed to match his armor. Everything about Holt shouted practical and uncompromising efficiency, including the unadorned sheathe that carried his double edged longsword with its plain steel guard.

“My Lord,” Holt said in his distinct gravelly voice, “I came as soon as I was able.”

“I understand you have duties beyond my needs,” Palius replied, wheezing from his bed.

“My duty is whatever Aquis demands, sir. What does my home require of me?”

“Ever loyal Holt, Aquis faces a grave danger from within, and I must take action beyond the usual channels,” Palius said. “Unfortunately, my failing health prevents me from contacting those I need to handle the problem. I’m afraid I may not be able to breathe much longer, and a walk across the city would speed my breathe away from me.”

“I understand. It would be my honor to serve you as always. Where do you need me to go lord?” Holt asked.

“There is a man who lives in the city, not far from here. His name is Marek, and he lives in the part of Byrverus past the rich estates and private villas.”

Holt nodded several times as Palius spoke. “I’ve been around lord. I know who he is and where to find him, but I believe it’s his brother that you truly need.”

“Indeed, but Marek’s brother could never come here or anywhere even near the palace. On this matter, I will deal with Marek, and he will have to deal with Larnd. And I’ll need your help Holt.”

“Of course lord,” Holt said, and then he simply listened.

22.

Sergeant Holt dreamt, and he knew it, for these events had happened over twenty years ago. He was still an old man, a worn old soldier over sixty years of age, but when this actually happened, he had been middle aged. It always disturbed him that of all the things he had done in life it was this dream, this memory, that stayed with him and haunted him every time Lord Palius needed something of him. He never appeared in this dream as he was at the time of its events, but as he appeared at the time he had the dream.

It had been three weeks since Palius called for Holt, and they had discussed what happened in hushed tones behind closed doors. A village near the far western edge of Aquis had fallen into revolt against the crown and therefore the priesthood. Palius had heard of it weeks ago, rumblings of discontent among the commoners there, and that they had ceased tithing. When the local priest warned them of their actions and even went so far as to impose an additional tax on those who would not tithe, things turned ugly. The small handful of soldiers the priest had at his disposal was overrun by an organized mob mostly wielding farm tools as weapons. The farmers burst into the temple and brutally beat the priest to death to the point that he was wholly unrecognizable. Five soldiers were killed and the sixth sent to Byrverus with a message, a message that Palius intercepted so that Queen Erella would never hear of it. Palius loved his queen more than anyone, but he knew she was too benevolent a person and incapable of the unpleasantness that must be done.

Palius image never changed in Holt’s dream memory, always appearing as he did those years ago. He was thin and fit with a straight, tall back that had not yet hunched over from age and weight. Palius had a full head of hair that only just began turning from near black to white, and his full white beard was gone in place of a trimmed goatee that matched his hair. One thing always remained the same however - Palius’ face was always drawn and exhausted, with dark rings under his eyes on a face that was not yet lined from age.

The queen’s advisor explained to Holt that the situation must be handled and handled properly, that no hint of rebellion or challenge to the order of things could survive. Those responsible must disappear entirely, so their dangerous actions and thoughts do not spread elsewhere in Aquis. It would weaken the Shining West for decades, and Aquis would no longer be able to protect its people from the horrors of the Loszian Empire.

“Yes lord,” Holt had said. “I’ll take a group of men I trust. We’ll handle this.”

“No,” Palius said a little more forcefully than he had planned. He again hushed his voice to a whisper. “It must be you alone, Holt. If you take more soldiers, even a small force, it will be apparent to all that a battle occurred. There will be too much evidence, too much proof that the queen put them down forcibly.”

“Lord, how might I defeat at least two score men, farmers perhaps, but men none the less.”

“Holt,” Palius said, placing a less than reassuring hand on the soldier’s shoulder, “I have faith in you.”

“Garod help me,” Holt mumbled as his eyes sank to Palius’ white slippered feet.

“He will, Holt. For everything you do, you do for Him and Aquis.”

Holt left Byrverus immediately and traveled west by horse to the city of Harus. The journey required a solid ten days of him, even at the steady pace he kept, and he had worked out his plan in the meantime. Palius had given him ample gold as well as blanket authorization to commandeer whatever resources he needed. Once in Harus, Holt acquired a small wagon, which he loaded with two barrels of whale oil, two steel chains, two heavy locks and a small barrel of white glue made from some kind of fish organ. The vendor claimed it to be the best - sticky and very fast to dry. He also bought a couple large brushes meant for staining furniture, a torch and some flint before setting off again.

He’d detached the wagon in a small grove not far from the village, a few miles at most, and rode the horse the rest of the way. Holt wore his armor as proof of his position in the queen’s palace, but he left his weapons behind in the wagon. He wanted no cause for the villagers to attack. As he entered the village from the east, he found it oddly deserted. He rode in slowly, cautiously, with his sharp eyes and ears open for any movement or sign of danger. Doors to small houses were left open in the breeze, and there were none of the sounds of a village about him. No farm animals snorted, clucked or bayed, nor did he hear children’s laughter or shouting parents. He rode for the temple, easily distinguished as the largest edifice among the quaint collection of buildings and painted white to match the great temples of the cities.

Holt approached the white building from the side, as its main doors faced south through the village center. He slowly rode around to the front and the main street, such as it was, a growing sense of uneasiness growing in his gut. Someone watched him, he was sure, and his suspicions were confirmed as he saw three men slinking between the small houses and shops to come up behind his horse. He watched them carefully with one eye, very aware that they were about to cut him off from the way back to his wagon. The men wore clothes of peasants and farmers, and they each carried a tool turned weapon - pick, pitchfork and hoe.

“What do you here?” shouted a voice.

Holt stopped his horse and turned his attention forward. Standing in an open doorway to one of the apparently deserted homes stood a large man, easily over six feet and muscled to be as strong as iron. He had extraordinarily fair skin and strawberry hair not seen among Westerners, which was parted down the middle and combed to each side, to fall almost to his shoulders. He had a broad, clean shaven face with a jutting forehead and wide features, giving the illusion of stupidity and barbarism, and Holt suspected that at least the latter was accurate. Holt eyed the proper sword that hung across the man’s back. It was a large weapon held in a sling of sorts with no sheathe or scabbard, the blade of which was longer than Holt’s own, and the hilt looked as if it could be used either one or two handed. It was a bastard sword, the weapon of a Northman.