Bound
By Megan Derr
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Samantha Derr
Cover designed by Megan Derr
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
Electronic Edition September 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Megan Derr
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-936202-38-6
Bound
A man needs three people in his life: someone to kneel before, someone to walk beside, and someone to hold.
~The Holy General
Prologue
"This is really it?"
"Yes," Ingolf replied, smiling briefly as he watched his men stare. He wiped sweat from his face and neck as he watched them admire the sword, hoping they would be too busy to notice how profusely he was sweating, or mark it to exertion rather than the cold fear he'd felt since this entire thing had begun.
"I cannot believe it," said Sepp, voice full of awe. "This must be a dream. It cannot be possible."
"It is very possible, my friends," Ingolf said, satisfaction and pride and excitement beginning to heat his blood now that the fear was fading. "I have done it, and you hold it."
Pancraz looked at it in wonder, eyes shining even in the dim light of the abandoned cabin they had overtaken for their own use. "The sword of the Betrayer himself," he breathed, as if afraid to give voice to the words. "It looks precisely like the legends say. I thought for sure it would be the complete opposite."
Ingolf gazed at the sword, seeing again the marble hands which had held it, the carved face which had seemed to stare so coldly at him. That was when the cold sweat had broken out, when those marble eyes had glared at him, and every story he'd ever heard of the Betrayer—the one the Illussor called the Holy General—flooded his mind.
He shoved the memory away, dismissed it, because it did not matter now in the least. The sword was now in their hands, and they would use it to drive back the bastards seeking to subjugate them. Most of the country had fallen to defeat — but not all of it.
They would sooner die than kneel before those filthy bastards. Hopefully the legends of it being able to block magic might be true. If so…they might stand a real chance.
"Did you hear that?" Sepp hissed.
"Shut up," Ingolf snapped, retrieving his own sword from the floor as he did, indeed, hear something. Boots in snow, trying to be quiet, but nature preventing whoever wore them from being entirely successful.
Then the door crashed open and hit the floor with a thud as the old leather hinges finally gave in to age and mistreatment.
Ingolf drew a sharp breath despite himself. In lamplight and moonlight, their attacker was a handsome one. His hair was so pale it looked silver in the dark, and though his eyes were not clearly visible, Ingolf knew they would be just as pale, so too the skin that seemed to reflect the moonlight.
He was not slight, however, but broad in the chest and shoulders, all but filling the doorway. "Give it back," the stranger bellowed, brandishing a sword that Ingolf was impressed he could properly use. Didn't these people typically prefer smaller swords? He had never met an Illussor who bore a sword equal in size to any Krian sword.
Intriguing. Drawing his sword, Ingolf motioned Sepp and Pancraz back. "The sword belongs to us."
"No, it does not," the man said and lunged.
Ingolf blocked the swing, but just barely. Swearing loudly, he shoved the man back and lunged forward and down, retrieving the stolen sword before bolting outside.
An angry bellowed followed him, and he swung around just in time to block another swing.
"Stay out of it," he said sharply as he saw his friends moving to join the fray. "Three against one is not fair."
His attacker sneered. "Well, well, look at that. One of you is trying to play at honor."
Ingolf snarled and swung angrily, laughing in cold triumph when he managed to slice a wound on the bastard's arm. "Who are you to question my honor? I am guilty of many things, but not dishonor."
"Stealing sounds a dishonorable crime to me, bastard," the man replied, and the fight was on again.
"You just let it sit around collecting dust," Ingolf replied, gasping the words out between swings, muscles aching after his earlier exertions, but some part of him thrilling at finding such a worthy opponent even amidst the unhappy reasons for the duel.
The wound had not slowed the bastard down at all — merely forced him to fight with his left rather than his right. Impressive. Under any other circumstance, Ingolf would have defeated him and then fucked him. "You leave it to rot," he continued, "and we intend to use it."
"Maybe you should accept your days of glory are at last come to an end, and you are getting what you have always deserved."
"You know nothing about it," Ingolf bellowed. "Your country is not free of taint. Who are you to question me?"
"I am the owner of that sword, and you will return it, or find yourself returning home lacking both sword and head."
Ingolf sneered. "No man owns that sword."
"Return it," the man bellowed again.
"Prove it is yours and perhaps I'll let you see it one last time before I kill you," Ingolf returned, amused despite himself, enjoying himself though he should have been afraid because this man was proving to be his equal.
The man roared again, pale eyes flashing, and he looked like nothing so much as the moonlight come to life in the form of a fierce warrior. Beautiful. "Prove it? I have nothing to prove to you. I am Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, direct descendant of the Holy General himself. Return the sword or die."
Ingolf charged, but it was only later that he admitted to himself that the snow was the only reason he was alive. He watched in horror as Erich moved, caught a patch of ice, and crashed hard to the ground. There was a cracking sound, a brief cry of pain, and then the Illussor man lie still.
Striding gingerly across the field, not wanting to share the man's fate, Ingolf stared down at the body of the fallen Illussor man, then knelt to examine the head wound he had incurred from his fall on an unseen patch of ice. There was no blood, a good sign.
"Is he really related to the Betrayer?" Sepp asked, as he and Pancraz joined Ingolf.
Ingolf shrugged. "I would imagine that is not something anyone would claim to be lightly. He did say he was the Duke of Korte, which was the Betrayer's title."
"What are we going to do with him?" Pancraz asked.
"Take him with us," Ingolf said. "If he has come after us, others will be on their way. That aside, if he really is the Duke of Korte, he will know things about the sword we do not, and it could help us." His mouth tightened as he thought of all they must do, how small a chance they had—no chance, really, if they were resorting to stealing the sword of the Betrayer on the small chance the legends of its resisting Salharan magic were true.
They needed all the help they could get, unfortunately. If they did not find some way to defeat the Salharan magic waging out of control and overtaking Kria, then by the spring thaw there would no longer be a Kria.
Part One
Two Princes
Never let a Krian take you prisoner.
~Beraht von Adolwulf, seventh Duke of Torla
Chapter One
Erich woke up tied to a bed.
He knew this chiefly because it was hardly the first time he had been tied to a bed and woken up in that state. The thought stirred an old, bittersweet ache. He let it linger for a moment, a brief distraction, then gently pushed the ache, the memories, back into the recesses of his mind and focused on the problem at hand.
The problem being that his hands were tied. He tested the rough rope binding them, and found they were well tied. Probably by the insufferable bastard who had stolen Bright.
Although, if that were true, it begged two questions—why was Erich still alive, and why had they kidnapped him? They had the sword, Goddess take them all, what more could they want? That begged the question, how much did they know?
First thing was first, however. He would not find answers to his questions while he remained tied to the bed. They had not secured his legs—that must be useful to him somehow. It would have to be, for he had nothing else to work with.
Now he was paying attention, he could feel they had not removed the dagger he kept in his boot. Either they had not noticed it when stripping him of his weapons—and the boot was not the only one they had missed, the fools—or they did not think it was worth the bother of removing. Definitely fools.
He hoped they were fools long enough to give him time to escape.
Grimacing, he began to swing his legs up and then down again, bringing them parallel with his torso, folding himself in half—more difficult a trick at thirty-one than it would have been even five years ago. For the first time in his life he was grateful for all the dancing he had once done, and that he kept himself in shape, even if he could be bothered to do little else.
Finally he got his legs far enough over he could wrest the knife from his boot. Letting his legs drop, red-faced and panting a bit, he began to fight with the ropes. Much swearing and half a dozen nicks later, he was free.
Tearing the remaining rope from his wrists, he cast the bits aside and slowly stood, carefully stretching out all his stiff muscles. He examined the nicks on wrists and hands and decided they would be fine without special treatment. He had done worse to himself in the past, Goddess knew. Someone had already bandaged the wound on his arm, and it somehow had not suffered in his attempts to get free.
Next he began to take a closer look at his surroundings. They had stripped him of his cloak and light armor, in addition to his sword and three of his nine daggers. Erich snorted in amusement and quickly retrieved his gear. His hand curled in anger around the pommel of his own sword. Bright, he had to get Bright back—whatever it took. That sword was a holy treasure of Illussor, and he had let the Krians take it! Tits of the Winter Princess!
He was furious with himself. Livid. It was a disgraceful to the Korte lineage, to the name of von Adolwulf, that he had permitted thieves to take the sword of the Holy General. And not just thieves, but Krian soldiers!
Well, no matter. The deed was done. What mattered was that in very short order, he would be undoing it.
So far, the room had been almost too quiet. What sorts of fools were these Krians, to leave him completely unsupervised? That was the work of amateurs, and well they should know it. Well, leave them to suffer the consequences.
He was in an inn of some sort, to judge by the furniture and the muffled noises coming up through the floor. But an inn where? Somewhere in Kria, to judge by the style, the bedding, the smells of the food wafting up to him. How long had he been unconscious? How far into Kria had they come? Hopefully far enough no one would find him to drag him home again kicking and screaming—though, likely, they would knock him out and keep him that way. They had learned before the hard way he did not go home politely until he was ready.
Shaking his head, deciding he had enough time not to race off blindly, Erich took stock. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea where his captors might be—likely in the inn. Unfortunately, he was Illussor through and through. He could not simply go around without attracting notice. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. So pale it was nearly white, save when the sun brought out the hints of gold in it. No, he could not go unnoticed through Krian land. He needed to find the sword—find it quickly—and race for the border.
Easier said than done. Well, a problem was not solved solely by thinking about it.
First thing was first—he could not continue to wear his present tunic. Moving to the small table tucked into one corner of the square room, he opened his travel pack and pulled out the one spare he carried with him for precisely this reason—sometimes it was better if no one knew he belonged to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf.
Quickly undoing belts and buckles and lacings, he stripped off the black and scarlet tunic emblazoned with a wolf and moon and pulled on a much plainer tunic of pale blue trimmed in gray. Tucking the scarlet tunic away, he restored his sword belt and cloak, smoothing down the black and gray wolf fur that comprised the hood and top half of the long, heavy winter cloak.
He sneered at himself as he moved to the door, annoyed but resigned. Who was he fooling, after all? He was angry about Bright being stolen and more than happy to take heads—but he was in Kria. The birthplace of his revered ancestor, the Holy General himself. He had wanted all his life to venture into Kria, even if he had never dared voice that wish aloud. Illussor and Kria were not enemies, per se, but neither were they friends. With the war, it became even more impossible to explore the home of his ancestor.
Slowly he pulled the door open, hand ready to draw his sword in an instant—but the sound of a voice abruptly stopped him.
It stopped him mostly because it was coming, not from the hallway, but from the window on the opposite side of the room—and speaking Salharan. What in the world...? Moving soundlessly to the window, he stopped where he knew he would not be noticed, even by way of his shadow, by those standing outside and below his window.
Because now that he was closer he realized it was two voices. One was gruff in the way of someone recovering from a recent illness; the other was smooth and rippling, almost pretty. They both spoke as only natives could. Angling just so, he managed to glimpse two shadows cast by flickering torch light.
You have them both?
Yes, and they will be delivered on time. Tell him to calm down.
You should take him now, before something goes wrong.
That is why you are the lowest ranking. If we take him now, we will have to carry an unwilling man almost forty miles to the border, and then further still to home. If we leave well enough alone, then he will go willingly to within ten miles of the border. From there, it will be easy. Eight days, and the hardest part will be done.
Yes, and that means in nine days Kria will fall.
So get back and tell our esteemed leader to stop fretting. He will get what he wants in nine days.
The voices faded off as the men finished their conversation and went their separate ways.
Erich narrowed his eyes as his mind raced. Both. Two things. To be delivered, obviously to some leader in Salhara. That could mean anything. Could it have anything to do with him and the sword? No—possibly the sword, but what did Salhara care about the sword of the Holy General? They had never seemed to care before.
It could not have to do with him, because the men he had fought had not known who he was until he had informed them, and they had not cared once the information was known. No, he had just happened to overhear some bit of plotting which had nothing to do with him.
Except it was Salhara doing the plotting. Kria and Illussor may not be friends, but they were not enemies either. Salhara was an enemy, even if Illussor worked hard to keep from outright war. Choosing between Salhara and Kria, there was no contest.
So it would seem his plans were going to have to change, at least until he better understood what he had just stumbled into. What was he going to do, though? He had not the slightest idea where to begin to look for traitor Salharans, and he still had to get his sword back. Traitors or no, he would not surrender that sword permanently into anyone's hands—not Krian, not Salharan. It was bad enough they had taken it from him to begin with; he would get it back.
He would have to get the sword, then figure out the rest. Or something. What he really wanted was food, but he supposed that would not be forthcoming anytime soon—beyond the bare essentials in his pack, anyway. Heaving a sigh, Erich moved away from the window and back toward the door—
Right as it was thrown open, and the man he had fought before filled the doorway. They stared at each other a moment in surprise, then lunged at the same time. Rather than swords, cumbersome and dangerous in such tight quarters, they drew daggers.
The Krian was fast, almost too fast—Erich found himself shoved into the wall, cursing silently, but the Krian was not so fast that he got away with the move unscathed. When they at last came to a halt, Erich shoved into the wall with the Krian flush against him, it was with a dagger to his throat while he prodded the Krian's gut with a dagger of his own. Draw.
His captor smelled like smoke and snow, a hint of ale and meat. A couple days growth of dark hair gave his face an unkempt, but not entirely unappealing look. He was as dark as any Krian, brown hair and eyes of a shade that made him think of trees in winter. Not precisely handsome—too hard and sharp for that—but striking.
Vaguely familiar, but Erich could not for the life of him think why. He had never seen this man in his life before their first encounter however many nights ago. If they had met before, Erich would remember—the man was certainly no chore to look at, and he was a damned fine swordsman.
"What a clever little Illussor," the Krian said, voice deceptively casual. "Or perhaps cracking your head on the ice managed to knock some intelligence into you."
Erich pressed his own dagger just the slightest bit harder, feeling the way the man's muscles moved with the threat, the way he tensed to avoid fatal damage should Erich actually try to shove it through his gut. "Give me back my sword, Krian, and you will not have to find out what else I can do."
"Pretty as you are, I can guess."
Erich narrowed his eyes at the jibe, but he did not rise to it. Before either one of them could speak, another figure appeared in the doorway. "My lord, how is the pris—"
The voice made Erich freeze and all but forget his precarious position between wall and knife-wielding Krian. That voice was all he could focus on—gruff, like a man recovering from a recent illness. He stared at the man and remembered there had been three of them when he had attempted to take back his sword.
So the Krian with the gruff voice was really Salharan, even though he was currently speaking Krian like a native. That did not really much, though. Erich himself was speaking Krian just as fluently. Language was one of the few things no one had been forced to tie him to a chair to make him learn.
Three men, at least one of them was a traitor. That meant that of the remaining two, one was possibly a traitor...and one was definitely going to be betrayed.
The press of the dagger drew his attention back to his immediate captor, and Erich locked gazes with the dark brown eyes—and knew suddenly, like a blow to the gut, that this was the man being betrayed. He could be wrong, he could be out of his mind. Goddess knew it would not be the first time he'd come up with a crazy, baseless idea.
But his gut was good; instinct was one of the few traits he possessed with which no one could find flaw. This man was going to be betrayed by gruff voice, and possibly the other.
Now the real question became how to handle the odd problem suddenly dropped into his lap. He supposed technically he had nothing to do with it; Kria could deal with its own problems. Except...Kria was neither friend nor enemy, and Salhara was a definite enemy.
And no one deserved to be betrayed by those he called comrades.
Really, though, who was he fooling? He did not want to go home and be useless and in the way. He did not want to go home, period. Maybe he could do something useful being by dragged into Kria and saving this idiot Krian from himself.
Of course, that required a plan. He needed to remain with them, without it being obvious he wanted to remain with them. That was the only way to gain more information, because right now he knew just enough to do more harm than good.
Focusing on the man still pinning him to the wall, Erich asked, "Why do you want my sword, Krian? Surely you have enough of your own?"
The Krian was frowning at him, obviously puzzled by something about Erich.
He strove to be distracting, another of his skills, though that one was seldom lauded. Erich eased off his own dagger the slightest bit, ignoring entirely the traitor whom his captor had signaled to remain where he stood on the far side of the room. "Just give me the sword, my dear, and we can part as friends."
The Krian shook his head. "Then I am afraid we are enemies. Kria needs that sword more than Illussor." He flashed a grin that was all teeth, an amused predator. "However, dear, I have decided that we need you to go along with it. So, you will be accompanying your sword for as long as we need it."
Erich grunted. That had been easy. "And what happens when you no longer need it, or me?"
"We'll discuss that when the time comes, hmm?"
"Men will be looking for me," Erich said, because it was true. "They tend not to like it when I vanish for days at a time. Do you want them coming along, as well?"
The man snorted in amused contempt. "They will not travel to the heart of Kria to search for one idiot Duke."
Erich decided not to mention that they would, if only because said idiot Duke had once been married to the crown prince of Illussor, and so was kind of, sort of a prince by marriage himself. It would take Reni's men days to find him, though, and that would give him time enough to get his bearings and formulate a proper plan.
"So I'm to be your prisoner?" he asked.
"Correct," the Krian said. "Any problems with that?"
"Several," Erich said drolly, but gave up all tension on his own dagger. "However, I feel you will not listen to my complaints."
"That would be correct."
Erich smirked. "Then I shall simply offer a bit of advice. If you continue to tie me up, I might think you like me. Stop doing it."
The man stared at him, so startled it showed plainly on his face—then he burst out laughing and withdrew his own dagger, tucking it away somewhere in the folds of his massive winter cloak. "What was your name, Illussor? I caught only the Duke bit, what with one thing and another."
"Erich von Adolwulf."
"So you really are descended from the so-called Holy General? We typically call him the Betrayer, you know."
"I know," Erich replied. "Who are you, Krian?"
The man sketched him a short, mocking bow. "I am Ingolf von Dirchs."
So he was a noble of some sort—and clearly a noble of great importance, if his capture and death would cause the fall of Kria...
The thoughts churned in Erich's head. Nobility did not have that much power. The country would not rise or fall because of the death of one mere noble.
But a country could be made or destroyed because of a single royal.
Erich suddenly wondered if he was staring at a Krian prince. Of course, that did not entirely make sense. He had met the royal family once, during a very cautious, very tense meeting in which all parties had agreed to politely ignore the other unless violence reached an intolerable level—and they had carefully left the definition of intolerable vaguely defined.
The royal family of Kria consisted of the Kaiser, the Kaiserin, and their four children—two sons, two daughters. They none of them had looked like Ingolf, even if it had been ten years ago. Anyway, he had not heard that the royal family had fallen. Even Salhara would have a hard time keeping that quiet for very long, and if the royal family had fallen, then what was keeping Salhara from taking over?
Nine days, they had said. That meant someone or something was keeping the Salharans from staking a claim on Kria. Someone or something, and they were bringing along someone—Ingolf, he would stake his life—to the border, there to take him across the border, ostensibly to kill or imprison him.
So he must be someone important, someone of royal blood. Which meant he must be a bastard, or married to one of the royal family like Erich and declared a suitable heir should it become necessary.
Erich looked Ingolf up and down, and decided that he must be a bastard. He could be an in-law, even if he did not wear a marriage ring, but Erich's gut said he was a bastard.
Of course, he could be completely out of his mind and making up tales... but Erich did not think so.
Ingolf spoke, breaking into his thoughts. "So if tying you up will not work, how does one keep you prisoner?"
Erich grinned. "No one has been able to figure that out, to date. If you find a method, there are many in Illussor who would reward you handsomely for the secret."
It was true. His favorite activity growing up had been to get away from whomever was making him stay in a place he did not want to be—which was almost everywhere, just to be contrary. So they had taken to locking him up, tying him, anything they could think of to make Erich hold still long enough to acquire some knowledge, to master some lesson. He had never remained trapped longer than two days. The only one he had ever allowed to tie him up had been Hahn. "Rather than take me prisoner, why not convince me to stay?"
Ingolf's expression turned hard, distrustful. "What reason would an Illussor Duke have for helping a Krian who stole a national treasure?"
"We are not enemies, and I want the sword back—and even a Krian is better than a Salharan. The von Adolwulf family has ties to Kria, as well, though I am sure Kria prefers to deny it. I am not opposed to helping you, but you will have to tell me exactly what it is you are doing."
Ingolf cut the air with one hand in negation. "I do not have to tell you anything, your grace. I am willing to take you up on your offer of cooperation, if only because I do not want to keep losing money on rope." He nodded to the cut remains that had bound Erich to the bed. "However, only a fool would trust a man who is two steps from being an enemy. We need the sword to combat the Salharans. As it is your sword, you quite possibly offer additional information about it. If you cooperate, we will treat you accordingly. If you do not, we will treat you accordingly. That is all you need to know for now."
"For the moment, I would gladly cooperate for a meal," Erich replied. "We will smooth out the rest as we go, hmm?"
The words drew a laugh from Ingolf. It was a nice laugh. That he noticed it shook Erich to the core. To notice a man was good looking was one thing—to notice his laugh was quite another. He had not noticed another man's laugh in five years.
It was only then that he realized that, since coming on this adventure, he had started to feel more like his old self. He fisted his hands to still their trembling. In the back of his mind, he heard a more familiar laugh, warm and reassuring, smoothing out the knots and worries clouding his head. It was an old sound, that warm laughter, one that had drawn him in a thousand times or more, once.
Of course Hahn would find this all amusing.
Ingolf gave him a last cautious look, once more breaking Erich's thoughts, then motioned for Erich to walk between him and his man as they left the room and ventured downstairs to the dining hall.
Erich idly stroked his thumb over the plain gold and silver band he wore on the second finger of his left hand. The widow's finger.
Yes, Hahn would have been amused by the entire situation.
Downstairs, he let the smells of meat and ale consume his thoughts. His stomach rumbled with the smells. He focused on the food, ignoring the brief, sudden silence that sprang up as the Krians noticed a full-blooded Illussor in their midst.
Thank the Goddess he had changed out of his scarlet tunic. The very last thing he needed on top of being ghost-white by comparison was to wear the colors of the army and general declared forbidden ever since the Betrayer turned on Kria to join Illussor after murdering Kaiser Benno.
Kria obviously did not know their own history.
"Why are you smirking, Illussor?" Ingolf asked, no real heat in the words.
"I was just thinking it is a good thing I changed my clothes."
Ingolf frowned at him, as the other man vanished to fetch their food, and settled down next to Erich at a small table off to one side of the large room. "Yes, you were wearing the Betrayer's color, the color of the Autumn Prince. It is forbidden; you would have caused a great deal of trouble."
Erich snorted. "The Holy General's colors, yes. I belong to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf, not that it would mean anything to you. I guess it is what the Scarlet Army was back in those days." He reached beneath the layers of his clothes and drew out a braided gold chain from which hung a pendant—a sunburst made of gold, overlaid by a crescent moon made of silver. "I also belong to the Order of Light."
Ingolf narrowed his eyes. "It is true, then, that the Betrayer ran away to Illussor with a Salharan whore."
"He was not a whore," Erich replied coldly, shoving the pendant back beneath his clothes. "He saved our country. He was the Breaker and the Holy General's bonded. Do not besmirch his name in my presence again. To do so is to insult me."
"Whatever," Ingolf said, dismissing the matter as their food arrived—along with the third man.
Erich studied them surreptitiously.
The gruff-voiced traitor was a handsome fellow, if rather slender for a Krian. He was also remarkably fair, both of which made sense if he was actually Salharan—and come to that, the eyes were slightly off, the cheekbones a bit too soft for full Krian blood. He was at least a quarter Salharan, not more than half, which meant he must have grown up right on the border. Erich doubted he would have noticed the Salharan blood if he had not known to look for it.
He shifted his attention to the second man, who was definitely all Krian—but a traitor, or ignorant, or the true target? Erich had no way of knowing, not at the moment. The man was dark, skin weathered from sun and snow and battle, not handsome, but not plain either. Respectable, Erich decided. Easy to look at, easy to forget, if that was what the man wanted.
Ingolf motioned, introducing the two men. "Pancraz," he said, pointing to the gruff-voiced man. "Sepp," he said, pointing to the other. "These are my friends and my comrades in arms. Gentlemen, this is his grace Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, and he has agreed to accompany us."
"Right," Pancraz said, clearly contemptuous. "A Krian Duke just agrees to go along with the men what stole his sword. Have you gone soft in the head, Ingolf?"
"No," Ingolf replied, eyes taking on a hard glint. "I believe him sincere, and I am taking responsibility."
Privately, Erich agreed with Pancraz's unspoken but plain-upon-the-face opinion that Ingolf was trusting too easily. However, that worked for him, and he would see to Pancraz as soon as it was possible.
He was not going to think about why he was finding this matter increasingly important, or reminding himself how stupid this was—he had responsibilities, whether he wanted them or not, even if he was unsuited for them.
But, it was too late now. Anyway, he was doing his part for his country by seeing to it Kria did not fall to Salhara.
Sepp seemed amused. "He'll certainly make the going interesting, pale as he is. We had best keep him out of sunlight and moonlight, else he'll glow and be visible at five hundred paces."
"Indeed," Ingolf said, snorting in amusement. "How do you lot avoid blinding one another with your paleness, Illussor?"
Erich rolled his eyes, and ignored them all in favor of filling his stomach. "So where are we going, or am I not allowed to know?"
"You are not allowed to know," Ingolf replied, almost sounding cheerful.
"You said you thought me sincere."
"That does not mean I trust you with vital information. You will know only what you must, and I decide what precisely you must know. Sincere does not mean you will not take the first opportunity presented you."
Though Erich had no intention of going anywhere until he knew Kria would be as safe as he could make it, it would not do to give voice to that thought. "That could certainly be true, I suppose. But I'm not leaving without my sword."
Ingolf shook his head and drank his ale.
"How do you come to know Krian so well?" Pancraz asked. "You speak nearly as well as any native."
"It was one of my many lessons," Erich replied and added, "and I like learning languages. I am fluent in Krian, Salharan, and Welestran, though let me tell you that was damned hard to learn."
Ingolf replied dryly, "I would imagine there might be some difficulty in learning the language of the pirates."
"Not really," Erich said with a grin. "Those we manage to arrest, with lesser offenses, I offer a pardon on the condition they first study with me for a set period of months, and in that time they also perform some manner of labor. The hard part is just learning all of the language; criminals of that nature are not given to an extensive vocabulary, and the higher ranking criminals are not fit for pardons, or even conversation."
Muttering something Erich could not quite catch, Ingolf returned to his food. The group subsided into silence, then, focused only their food and ale, until there was scarcely a bone left as they shoved back empty plates.
"We are moving on tonight," Ingolf said as they sipped their ale. "The snow will not stay gone long, and I want to reach out next destination before it resumes falling and traps us somewhere. You two, go pack up and ready the horses."
"Aye, boss," the men chorused, promptly standing and departing.
Definitely a figure used to authority. Erich was growing more and more certain that he was right in his baseless suppositions.
If he was correct, then why not simply kill Ingolf outright and end the royal line once and for all? The obvious answer was that Ingolf had or knew something that the Salharans needed.
This little problem was proving to be quite the mystery.
Erich was surprised he was looking forward to solving it. Despite himself, he had begun to well and truly leave behind the despondency in which he had lived so long. Oh, he had not been as bad as that first year, or even the second, since Hahn's death. But even he knew he was nothing but a shadow of himself, even five years later.
Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt like himself again. All because a bunch of idiot Krians had stolen his sword, and dragged him into a matter of terrible intrigue. He wondered what, precisely, had triggered the change, and added it to his growing list of questions in serious need of answers.
Chapter Two
Aden grimaced, but did not turn away as the Cobalt General's just-severed head was driven onto a pike in the middle of the courtyard, alongside the rotting heads of the Krian royal family. All of them, from the Kaiser to his wife, and all their children. There were also the bodies of several supporters, strung up to die slow deaths in cages above the rotting heads.
Even by Krian standards, it was barbaric.
The royal heads were at least a week old. The bodies swaying above them were older still; it took a strong man several days to die that way. One of them had just been put up that morning, the son of the dead Cobalt General. The unfortunate son was crying, and still wore the bold blue tunic of his father's army.
Unable to bear the sight, or the fact there was nothing he could do about it, Aden turned away from the grisly sight that had turned the central pavilion into an executioner's playground and made his way back into the city proper.
So the royal line of Kria was dead and its supporters were rapidly falling. Very little remained now of the once proud nation of Kria. Salhara ached to take it over once and for all, the finest of feathers in its cap—but Kria had taken five of its precious Brotherhood down in the earliest days of the bitter war, and Salhara's power was not all that it should be.
Nor could they completely defeat Kria, not while too many knew that a claimant to the throne remained alive—not to mention the two missing Generals, who continued to fight from locations unknown. Cobalt had been captured and executed, but Saffron and Verdant remained.
He wondered if Kria missed having four Generals, and if that fourth might have made a difference. Likely not; the Scarlet had been tainted ever since that long ago betrayal by the Holy General.
Aden needed to find a way out of the city and report what he had learned to the Queen. At the very least, he needed to get a message out. All his avenues of escape and communication were cut off, however. Those of his contacts who had not fled at the start of the mess were now too terrified to do anything.
Damn the Salharans anyway. It was times like this Aden really wondered if his ancestors knew what they had been doing when they rid Illussor of magic.
He needed to get home. His information could not wait. If Salhara took Kria then they would not wait long before going after Illussor. And Illussor would be all too easy to take with a sickly Queen and her only heir a despondent prince-by-marriage who avoid the responsibilities of the throne at all costs.
Stifling a sigh, he threaded his way through a pack of youths looking too grim for their age and into his favorite tavern. He was heartily sick of Krian food, but enjoyed the beer and atmosphere—or had enjoyed the atmosphere, before it was drowned in anger and depression and fear.
Once, the Krians had been the mightiest, fiercest nation in the world. Now, they were scared of their own shadows, while the drug-addicted Salharans slaughtered their leaders in a desperate search for the last remaining heir to the throne and two generals who refused to give up.
He went to the bar to order his food, then carried it to the back of the tavern, tucking himself into a corner that had easy access to the kitchens if an escape was needed, while affording him a position where he could watch everyone without anyone being able to watch him unnoticed.
Not that anyone had any reason to watch him, but neither was it the time to grow overconfident and careless. He had not gotten where he was by being reckless.
There was little worth watching, this night. Disconsolate men who obviously had been soldiers and were trying not to be to avoid being found by the Salharan army. Krian soldiers were either forced into new service, or executed on the spot. The Winter Palace and its surrounding city was no place to be right now, least of all for a soldier.
Aden picked at his food, forcing himself to take a bite here and there. Whatever plan he came up with, he would need his strength. Even if that strength came from sausages and sour cabbage and a dozen other foods of which he was heartily growing sick. He could not wait to return to Illussor and gorge himself on real food.
Though, he would miss the beer. No one made beer like the Krians. It alone was almost a good enough reason to save them from Salhara.
Of course, he would not be able to assist in that saving if he could not get himself or a message through to Illussor. Damn it!
He ate another bit of sausage, hiding a grimace, and pondered his options. He had tried almost everything, so he supposed it was time to resort to those methods he considered his last resort. Whoring might work, if he could find the right soldiers to turn his tricks. Did he have what he needed for that? Aden drummed his fingers on the table as he thought and signaled a bar maid for another beer.
Well, what he did not have, he could acquire. A night or two of that might turn him up some new avenues to pursue. Men said anything after a good fuck, and Aden could do that as well as he could everything else.
It would be well worth fucking even the most unpleasant soldier if it led him home, to report to his Queen before running off to his own home, an ancient but still sturdy Fortress overlooking the sea. He could sit on the terrace and watch the waves while his cook served him every delectable dish Aden could coax him into making.
He was so engrossed in daydreams of home and food, he nearly missed the conversation happening one table over. People were never as quiet as they liked to think, and his ears were trained to pick up even the most innocuous of words—even when he was dreaming of spicy fowl and cream sauce.
Murmuring thanks for the fresh beer, he kept his casual, disinterested ear and drank in every word the idiots said.
They were talking about the man just hung up in a cage less than an hour ago—the Cobalt Generals' son. They wanted to break him out, and move him from the city.
Aden latched on to those words—if they were going to get him out of the city, obviously they had a way out.
But they couldn't figure out a way to free the man; apparently the plan to get to him before the cage had gone awry.
Well. Aden knew an invitation when he heard one.
Picking up his beer, he moved to the group of men and dropped down in the empty seat beside the nearest—and pressed a dagger to the man's gut. They all three stilled, the one with the dagger pressed against him going pale. But they did not fight, odd for Krians, and it said more loudly than anything just how far they had fallen.
"Friends," Aden said. "I would like to have a friendly discussion. I'm thinking we can help each other out."
They just glared at him.
Aden smiled pleasantly, and took a sip of his ale. Then he spoke, far more softly than these men had managed—in Illussor. "Come now, you have nothing to fear from me. The dagger is formality, I promise."
Two of them looked at him with annoyed scowls—they recognized the language, but obviously not the words. The third one, sitting next to him, however, gave a snort of surprise. "One of the pale ones," he said. "What in the name of the Spring Prince are you doing here?"
"Trying to get out," Aden replied, slipping back into Krian. "I cannot. You seem to have a way. I will put it to you plainly. If I can free your friend, you will take me out of the city with you. How does that sound?" He put his dagger away, to show he had faith in their intelligence.
The man directly across from him only glared. "Why should we trust you? You are Illussor, but obviously pretend to be Krian. How do I know you have not sided with Salhara? You could be a spy. We are not that foolish."
"I could be a spy," Aden said with an easy smile. "However, I am only a humble wanderer eager to get home, trapped because I stayed a day too long in your fine city. I want to go home. You want him free. I do not see the problem with this bargain."
"How do you intend to get him free?"
"The less said, the safer," Aden replied. Then he gave a long sigh. "I see you do not believe me. Very well, I shall prove it to you. If you want to see me free him, then watch tonight just after the stroke of midnight. I suggest you find a safe place from which to watch. I can save one man; I cannot save four." He smirked.
The men exchanged looks, obviously unhappy, but every man at the table knew they had no choice.
"Very well," the man across from him, who seemed to be in charge, spoke at last. "If you mean it, then free him and meet us at the watch tower on the east side of town. One of us will be watching, and if you do anything suspicious, you will be leaving this city, but not in the manner of your choosing."
Aden acknowledged the point with a gracious nod. "Good sirs." He tossed back the last of his beer, set the empty tankard down with a thunk, threw down a handful of coins, and left the tavern before they could think better of it.
Outside, he called himself an idiot in every dialect he knew.
How in the name of the Goddess was he supposed to save a man from a birdcage in the middle of the central pavilion when it was crawling with guards watching over the corpses and heads to prevent the very thing he was going to attempt?
He prided himself on not being reckless, but every now and again he proved himself a self-deluded fool.
Well, what was done was done. He had struck a bargain, and he would uphold his end. That in mind, he retraced his earlier steps and made his way back to the pavilion. The crowds had largely died down by that point; those who had born witness to the grisly executions had gone on their way. Only the guards, some stragglers, and a handful of pickpockets and other desperate figures loitered.
Aden pulled his cloak more securely around his shoulders, pulling up the fabric of the high collar to cover most of his face, adjusting his posture to give the appearance of one of the morbidly fascinated gawkers who flocked to such spectacles like flies.
He eyed the son of the late Cobalt General, rifling through his memories to turn up a name, wondering if he even knew it.
A moment later, however, it came to him. Reinoehl von Hostetler. The General's only child, if he recalled correctly, which he always did. Aden examined him as thoroughly as he could without rousing suspicion. Under normal circumstances, he was likely a handsome and striking man. At the moment, he simply looked battered, exhausted, and miserable. Brown hair, touched enough by the sun there was almost some true blond in it, visible even through Goddess knew how many days of grime and lack of bathing. His clothes were just as ragged, torn and bloody and barely fit for keeping him from freezing to death—about the only concession the Salharans made, because freezing to death was too easy.
He continued to stare, this time taking stock of the birdcage—what most called the atrocious devices. It was barely big enough to hold a man, the bars so close together that little more than a finger could get through. The victim could move just enough to be tantalized by the thought of real movement. But he could not sit, could not even really slouch. There was no comfort, just constant agony until the poor bastard finally died, one way or another.
Aden looked again at the man within the cage—and drew up short as he found eyes meeting his. They were, shockingly, cobalt blue. What were the odds of that? Krians with blue eyes were a rare thing, and he had never seen a Krian with eyes that vibrant. Even the Salharans, with their glowing eyes, did not have that much force behind them. Aden felt like he'd been kicked in the gut by a horse.
Dark, chapped and bloody lips turned down in a frown as the man stared at him.
Then nearby noise drew Aden's attention, and he turned just in time to get cuffed by a guard, who then gave him a kick in the ass and sent him off with a flurry of curses. Aden did not argue the point, not wanting to draw further attention.
He resisted an urge to look back, to see if those eyes still watched him. Shaking his head, unsettled by the eyes and his reaction to them, he abandoned the main street and wove his way through various smaller streets, until he at last reached the tiny hovel of a room he had rented because it was all a proper wanderer—as he purported to be—could afford.
In his room, he locked the door and then pulled out the large satchel with which he always travelled—large enough to prove he was a dedicated wanderer without being so large as to rouse suspicions. And it could carry everything he needed, most of the time.
Tossing aside various costumes, a couple small sacks of various currencies, other miscellany, Aden finally drew out the case he wanted. It was small, of a size to hold jewelry or other such things, made of ebony and seemingly without lock or hinges.
But he knew how to open it, pressing and sliding with familiar ease.
Inside, nestled in their pockets of black velvet, were two dozen small crystal vials. Some held pale liquids, others dark. Seven of the vials, lined up neatly in a row, formed a perfect rainbow of colors. Of all his poisons, of the two dozen here and the many more at home, his collection of arcen was easily the most valuable—and the hardest to obtain. He had a scar on his back as testament to that little adventure.
Not that he ever had much cause to use them, thankfully. He just liked having the arcen in his collection. The greatest drug and poison in the world, and only Salhara itself knew how to turn the arcen flowers into the elixir that gave a nation unmatched magical prowess.
Sliding his fingers fondly over the vials of arcen, he then dismissed it and focused on what he actually needed, and selected a vial full of a liquid so dark a blue it was nearly black. Perfect.
Poison was a tricky thing, a very delicate art. Too much, too little could alter the affects and it varied greatly from person to person, use to use. Still, if one mastered it, the effects of certain poisons could be controlled and predicted.
He held the vial up to the weak light of his feeble lantern, watching the dark liquid within glimmer. This one had cost him nearly as dearly as the arcen, acquired from a handful of pirates who had not been inclined to hand the poison over willingly or easily.
It was purportedly made from the ink of some vile sea creature. Aden had seen it once, or at least, he had been told that it was the rumored creature. He had not been impressed.
The poison, however, did impress him. Depending on the dosage, it could do anything from inducing a state of seeming drunkenness to causing the victim to fall dead asleep. For his purposes, somewhere right between the disorientation and the fast asleep would be ideal. Soldiers in a severe state of intoxication would not have the wherewithal to take offense to his breaking a prisoner loose.
Aden had told them he would do it shortly after midnight, which was of course the perfect time—the guard was lightest then, and they were all bored and eager for their beds or a tavern. A desperate whore eager for any bit of coin would not warrant more notice than a quick way to pass a bit of time, and it would be simple to poison them without harming himself in the process.
The scheme was almost too simple, and more than a little mad—but it might just work. All he needed were a few minutes to drag himself up the cage, pick or break the lock, and get von Hostetler out of there. Whatever happened after that, he would have to figure out as he went.
Nodding, decided, he stowed his box of poisons, left the vial on the table, and began to strip. The clothes he wore at present would not do for a whore.
Unfortunately, playing the whore meant freezing to death. At least he usually had an easy time of it obtaining customers, by way of his rather interesting heritage. One of his ancestors had been a Krian soldier who defected to Illussor to join the Holy General. It gave him a lineage that made him blend in perfectly in either country—and made him slender, dark, and almost pretty. Combined with a host of other skills... well, there were reasons he had once managed to work two months in a high class brothel while gathering dirt on a particular politician.
Cheap, thin clothes advertised his wares, and a bottle of rotgut he always kept to hand for such purposes added a nice touch of drunken desperation splashed on his clothes and skin. Then he pulled out a small jar filled with a pale, thick cream. This he used to coat his hands. Until he scrubbed it off with a special soap, liquids would slid across his skin like water on glass. This meant he could touch and administer the poison without it affecting him. Another pirate trick.
He stared longingly at his bed, but if he was going to do this, then he needed to set the act now. The best way to look tired, desperate, cheap, and easy, was to render himself as close to that state naturally as possible.
It would also give him more time to analyze the pavilion, makes note of the guards, and see just how hard it would really be to scale the scaffold to get at the cage itself.
Hopefully he would be able to do all that without too many people actually propositioning him. He might be a good whore when the occasion called for it, but that did not mean he enjoyed it.
Slipping outside, he went in the direction opposite the way by which he had first returned to the room. Looping around the outer streets, he swiftly made his way to the poorer districts of the city, pausing at the edge. Removing his hat, he stuffed it into a pocket of his threadbare cloak and raked out his shoulder-length dark blonde hair.
It did not take long for people to start eyeing him; some speculatively, others with open hostility as they saw a newcomer in their territory. Most simply ignored him, desperate to avoid one more bit of evidence of all that was wrong.
The next few hours were not pleasant, but by the time the late hours came around, his goal had been achieved—no one was giving him a second glance, except insofar as to gauge whether or not he was affordable.
Pretending a certain level of drunkenness as the bells began to toll the midnight hour, he teetered and tottered his way to the central pavilion. He reeked of sweat, sex, smoke, and rotgut, and he did not have to pretend the weariness even a bit. Pausing at the edge of an alleyway, he opened the vial of poison and let a few small drops fall into one specially treated hand. Then he tucked the vial away, and rubbed his hands together, spreading the poison across both of them.
Balling his hands into loose fists, he stumbled his drunken way in the general direction of the four soldiers stationed around the grisly center of the pavilion.
"Ho, gentlemen," he called with drunken cheer. "Amazed you've not frozen to death in this cold. I hear told Salharans lose bits to the frost every year."
One man laughed in unpleasant fashion, as the other three snorted and immediately dismissed one stupid, drunken whore. "Not as many bits are you're going to lose, you don't put some clothes on."
"Then there'd be too many to take off," Aden replied, smirking, tossing his head so his hair fell just so, and he could see two pairs of eyes already more drawn to him than their duty. He scanned the surroundings, ensuring no other guards were tucked away somewhere, watching the guards on the distant castle walls as well.