The King's Blood (21 page)

"By the bed there's a small stack, about fifteen or so, grab the fifth book from the top. It'll have an image of a stave on it."

Ciara complied. This book, while old, was nowhere near as ancient as the one he was thumbing carefully through on his lap. In bold lettering it proclaimed itself to be "Casam and the Elves."

"What are we..." she started to ask, her eyes skipping past the piles of work still waiting for an audience.

Medwin smiled, his own version of which never actually reached his dead eyes, leaving almost no crows feet to compete against the deep scars. "We are reviving the lost tales of Casamir for the Baron."

He turned towards his book, now flipped to a section in ant-sized font that began half way down the page. It was called "TerraFae."
 

"Begin on page one of 'Casam,'" he said, pulling a fresh piece of vellum out and not bothering with his placement comb. Beside him, his left hand followed along on the ancient book as Ciara brought forth the island of the elves.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
arciano rattled his sword in its scabbard, ignoring the fascinating arch work, and marble floors, and the chandelier made from the bones of over thirty of the Baron's enemies. The last month of his life was spent trying to find passage for the vast army amassing in the East and not in feigning interest in chickpea tours.

Originally his men were to wait until the first thaw from winter securely in long loyal Empire territory, then amass and march through the Northern Passage after the Knights Eritaller secured the disputed mountain gap with the liberal use of kind words and less kind swords. But, while the King's head was being shipped to him, what remained of Ostero's close guards and that Lord Albrant, they amassed and caused a major avalanche, sealing off the passage for all.

The Emperor's informant accomplished what little job they needed to cut off the snake's head, but was of no use in finishing off the body. Most were uncertain where the traitor even went or if he survived. While the castle bathed in blood, servants and some disguised as such still managed to slip past the black blades. All reports pointed to them regrouping in the North, within the tower the Emperor had been eyeing his entire life. Marciano would call it destiny if he believed in such things.

"And here we have the crests of the five houses under the rule of Shar."

Weary eyes turned up to the banners wafting in the rising northern winds, five of them broken up and pushed aside to accommodate the large addition in green. A set of three rings interlocked each other, one pointing East, another West, and the last North. In the middle sat Aravi, and the seat of the Empire.

"You seem to be missing one," Marciano said, pointing towards an unfaded section of bricks on the wall that would have balanced the houses out.

The Baron, his eyes bulging out of his face, stared guiltily at the spot where a dragon once roared out of its frozen hell. He gasped and backtracked, blaming the house maidens for failing to do their job and that they needn't concern themselves with such empty space when all eyes are drawn to the magnificent crest of the Empire.

Marciano paid no heed to the honey dribbling from the man's jowls. He knew that it was the Ostero flag, a proud and strong ally tossed upon the winter fire by what were once friends. The Baron continued to babble such flattering claptrap Marciano was afraid he'd slip right out of his chair from the slobbery kisses on his posterior. It was giving the General a headache that would father bastard headaches for weeks to come.

The Baron was a viner; someone that climbed by grabbing onto those above him, passing flattery and praise as if actually substantial, and hoisting himself up little by little until he forgot he also came from a pile of dirt. Marciano knew them well, lords and ladies of court who spent most of their days trying to tear each other apart in the most polite ways possible. Meanwhile, he gained his notoriety and power actually tearing people apart. On the darker days, he was loath to determine which had more purpose in the world.

Lavish parties and feasts in the honor of the Empire bored Marciano, who still had men facing a freezing winter and another matter that was proving more difficult than he expected. Losing waking hours listening to a man more properly suited to unload half rotted wagons on gullible fools drone on about the nobility of his family was splints under the General's nails.

"And tonight we...I shall host some lavish entertainment in your honor," the pug faced man was babbling, directing his full attention upon the General who deigned a thin smile and found his experienced eyes wandering up the walls for arrow slits. Assessing his lodgings for fortification purposes was the closest he came to a hobby anymore.
 

A great commotion, like someone dropped an entire knight's kit and kicked it down the stairs, clattered at the end of the hall as his lieutenant, Sir Gian, tripped over one of the misplaced ladders from the Baron's servants hanging festive lanterns off the vaulted ceilings. The man caught the ladder before it and the servant crashed to the ground and, after steadying it, continued jogging towards his General.

"My Lord," he said breathlessly, still stinking of sweat and horse as he bowed deeper than was tradition. Foolish ambition was a young man's game, but it didn't stop Marciano from enjoying the spectacle every now and again as long as he didn't have to play.

"At ease, before you fall over," he said, steadying the young man and leading him towards one of the eastern tables and away from the Baron's prying ears.

"What news have you to report?" He'd sent Gian after numerous failed attempts at trying to butter up and then threaten the local populace. Even in a full set of armor the scout looked about as threatening as a sack of flour left in the rain. People opened up around him without meaning to. At the rate he was climbing, soon enough he wouldn't be able to put his natural skills to use anymore and find himself behind a line of men instead of to the side.

"Regarding the prince? Nothing," the lad shook his head sadly, wispy hair barbered by a drunk or blind man, half falling in his face.

"Impossible. Royalty does not simply vanish." He'd watched it enough before; high society trying to flee when a treaty or agreement has gone south, or their serfs are banging nicely on the door asking for a cup of freedom. They have an elaborate escape plan, tunnels carved for years, secret doors triggered from trick lute strings, but every blasted time they pile themselves up with all the silver plated back scratchers and other trappings of their golden lives that will do jack squat in exile.
 

Weighed down and demanding of the inn owner two towns over, "Don't you know who I am?!" to get a free room always ensured a matter of days before their enemies caught up with them and handled the outstanding bill.

But this boy was proving to be a ghost. None of the Knights remembered seeing him. Marciano tried to trace the steps of the battle as it progressed across the castle, but at one point the surprisingly capable soldiers of Albrant finally wised up to what was going on and fought back. A few of the Empire's own men fell to the brute force of the barbarians, some even wandering far from the hall near the sleeping quarters, but no signs as to how a boy and a few guards surely with him could escape.

There were whispers, half rumors really, that the princeling was spotted fleeing into the night with, of all things, a daughter of the sands. Also, with two of their own Knights of Eritaller and a pet bear, and in one he rode forth on a unicorn with wings and swooped into the wintry sky. Each rumor led to more whispers, more half ideas.
 

Most seemed unaware there even was a second son, pointing to the first when asked about a free prince. Everyone in the "free territories" knew that their beloved Prince Henrik was safe with his father's armies, plotting to bring revenge. Marciano chuckled a bit at that, knowing how well revenge worked out for the other kingdoms falling under the Emperor's shadow.

"If you know nothing of the boy, why did you come running up to me?" the General pressed.

"It is the Queen, Sir," Gian said.

"The Queen?"
 

"She did not travel with the Albrant men. She, she's raising an army in the East, Sir."

The General tugged on his mustache, trying to slot the information into place. "How can she possibly be raising an army out where ours is camped? The East has been loyal to the Empire for almost a generation."

"So you say, Sir. But there is talk of traitors, willing to shed blood to reclaim their lands."

Marciano laughed mercilessly, "Farmers, Smithies, Shop keeps, Merchants, old men who have seen too many winters. That is not an army. That is a pebble to try and hold back a stream."

But the news concerned him. Most reports said it was in fact the woman behind the throne directing the ass previously squatting in it. A girl, raised in the further reaches of Arda, who took her father's throne at a young age and led her own people to victory until the Osteros began eyeing the land. Rather than risk what would be certain annihilation for her famished people she took the second option and married the King, bringing to his weak rule a strong fist camouflaged behind a perfumed hand.

The Queen was no fool, and the fact that she raced off to the dangerous East rather than the North with her now dead husband's army was most interesting. For all Marciano knew she had been their inside traitor, the Emperor wouldn't say who it was, only that he'd been communicating and planning for months. And it wouldn't be the first time she'd exchanged her family for ambition.
 

"We ride tomorrow, toward Magton, and begin to assemble our men. This cannot wait until spring. A small, local band fighting for their home can be far more dangerous than an entire thousand strong foreign platoon."

"Yes, Sir," Gian nodded.

The General sighed, "And tell the priests to write their best fire and brimstone. We'll need it to convince the locals as we go just how hellish their lives and mortal souls will be if they refuse to help us."

Gian frowned too, not wanting to give the priests anymore power than they'd already leeched from the Emperor. They said there were no atheists on the battlefield, but it's hard to find gods when all you know is a sea of red. Bowing again, the boy skittered off towards the door, sending a chair crashing to the floor. Marciano stood slowly, already feeling the burn of the Baron's hospitality upon him.
 

"My lord," the pug man started, but the General waved him off.

"Things have changed and I am afraid we must leave your open doors and march in the morning," Marciano told him ruefully, lying through his teeth.

"Well, that," the Baron was flustered, he'd been planning this shindig for over a week since news came of the Emperor's elite passing through his fief. "That doesn't mean we cannot still celebrate tonight."

"What?" Marciano was already measuring out provisions necessary to make it to the next point, setting up patrol schedules and considering loyal farmsteads along the way. He wasn't a hands off kind of General.

"It can be a Bone Vo-yage party," the Baron said, eliciting a small groan from Marciano for both having to put up with excruciating minglings with miss-entertainment and for the atrocious pronunciation.
 

But he could think of no easy escape short of packing everyone up and riding into the afternoon sun before the pug man became something approaching wiser. Tempting as it might be, he'd probably have to leave half his troops behind and that seemed particularly cruel, "Very well."

"That shall give me time to give you the thorough tour!" the Baron exclaimed. Marciano moaned again, falling into step as buttresses became an important point of conversation.

The party was even worse than Marciano feared. While most of his men spoke either fluent Aravian or the garbled common trading tongue, the local "nobility" could only eek out "Where's the Bathroom?" "I'm allergic to the fish," and "You are quite handsome for a donkey, wish to make a vote?" Everything else they said was in their local muck of noises dressing itself up as a language.