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47: And Murder
🕑 Added 2023-07-29 06:01:47 +0000 UTCAspyr could admit that his prisoner—pale like moonlit snow—was beautiful to behold. Not as eye-catching as the Empress perhaps, but she did not have the benefit of generations of selective breeding and the bloodline of Allure. It made him all the more wary, watching her stare back at them proudly, defiantly.
There were few things more dangerous than a woman that knew her own beauty.
“What is your name?” Aspyr asked her.
She showed him nothing but teeth. “You have not earned that honor.”
“You think too highly of yourself.” He sighed, and turned to Captain Alexios by his side. “Is the prisoner still refusing to eat?” Aspyr asked in Thalassian, the dialect preferred by those seafaring strawborn to the west. He’d picked up enough to be conversational while studying at the athenaeum.
“Yes, lord,” Captain Alexios replied in a short, clipped tone. His captain of the guard spoke barely passable Thalassian, but there was no telling what languages the prisoner had sucked out of the other, older mythuselah, or learned through her own efforts. Monsi, almost certainly. It was just a tad less guttural than her native Tuskarii, but it was far from uncommon for the cousin tongues to be mutually intelligible. As for the High Speech and the Old Tongue, both were long-lived languages and the mythuselah lived long lives. “The food … is not to her liking.”
Aspyr snorted. “I never knew that beggars could be choosers.”
She snarled, showing her predatory canines as the chains rattled, straining to hold her. “I am no beggar,” she replied in the Monsi tongue.
“You’re right.” He stepped towards the cell and gripped one of the steel bars with his right hand. “I was being diplomatic. You are worse than a beggar. You’re a thief.”
She looked even more insulted by that. “I have stolen nothing. My people lived in these lands for centuries before yours even knew of them. Its fruits and flocks are ours by right!”
“I would tell you that you ought to reap what you sow, but I suppose such a metaphor is beyond your kind.” The Tuskar had not been a sedentary people for generations. Maybe the older mythuselah still knew of those days, but this one was young by their standards. She would not have had to inherit a legacy from another if she were an old monster.
She glared. “I understand just fine, q'lishvili.”
Were Mydea here, Aspyr imagined she would have said, “I believe she just insulted you.” Alexios was too well-trained to comment in front of a prisoner who might understand.
He turned his head to the side. “We should get those chains looked at.” A mythuselah loose inside a castle would be a nightmare. Castle Adyghe was not Aigis, but with so many of the stoneborn quartered here for the nonce, many of Aspyr’s senior vassals—men and women he relied on now more than ever to see the winter through—might fall into danger.
Like Mydea loved to say: do not gamble when you do not have to.
Alexios nodded, taking mental note of his command.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in her throaty accent. “Are you men so scared of a frail little girl?”
Aspyr replied with a raised brow, and a pointed look at the cursed wound she’d left on his arm. Even now it throbbed in synchrony with the beating of his heart.
Her laughter was a strange melody. “The kinsmeet ought to have sent an army of girls to drive that fear deep into your hearts!”
A kinsmeet? “Because young girls would have succeeded where the best of your tribes failed,” Aspyr retorted.
“Do not think for a moment that your one victory means you have prevailed,” she spat out. “We have been waging this war for centuries. We will wage it for centuries more if we must.”
“Then wage however many wars you wish,” Aspyr said. “If all the women of your tribes look as you do, I daresay my men might even find these fights enjoyable.”
Her face scrunched into a look of visible confusion. An uneasy silence filled the damp room.
A full minute passed before Alexios cleared his throat. “Your orders, lord?”
“Keep her alive,” Aspyr said, shifting to the High Speech.
“She will only drink blood, my lord.” Alexios’ tongue settled comfortably into the familiar motions of the language. He almost looked like he feared Aspyr would order one of his people to bleed for the enemy.
“Then let her drink an animal’s blood.” It would have the added benefit of keeping her weak, if ravenous.
“Is this the famous hospitality of your people?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.
Aspyr leaned in closer, pressing against the bars to her cell. “If you wish to be treated like a guest, you must give me your name.”
“It is the highest of ironies that your people speak of guests and their rights after what you did to mine. The Bloodless Kings should never have welcomed your kind into their halls.”
He smiled at her without warmth, without worry. “She does not seem to understand what sort of guest she is.”
“A fledgling presumes to speak to me about understanding? You do not know the immensity of heaven and earth.”
Something about her words seemed familiar to him. It felt like a quote of sorts, half-remembered. He’d never been the best of students at the athenaeum. Aspyr wagged his finger at her. “Behave now. Naughty children go to bed without supper.”
She hissed at him. Her chains creaked again.
Alexios leaned in close. “My lord, is it wise to starve her more? I fear she might turn delirious if pushed any further.”
That would be a problem. They could hardly extract any useful information from her if she went from being mad at them to being just mad. “Give her a bowl then, but make it small,” Aspyr said. “I will not spare more for the enemy of my people.”
The doors leading down into the dungeons swung open, and his valet, Jorgan, descended with a hurried bow to Aspyr.
“What news?” Aspyr asked.
“Lord Nominal Kazbekuri requests your presence at a war council.”
“Another one?” It was well within Lord Inal’s right to request one, given it was his castle Aspyr had chosen to quarter his muster in. Though Aspyr’s host had some supplies of their own, and more was being drawn in from the surrounding regions, much of the burden was borne by Lord Inal and his Siracesian folk. Castle Adyghe was built into a mountain, and if not for the ancient cavern systems connecting it to the plains below, feeding so many people would’ve been an impossible task.
“Marshal Perdiccas has returned from his venture with news, my lord,” Jorgan said.
“Good news I hope,” Aspyr muttered.
Alexios bowed as he turned to leave.
The mythuselah, still unnamed, did not.
Navigating the twisting, slanted halls of Castle Adyghe could strain even a mage in their prime, and the dampness in the air didn’t help. The experience was like hiking up a mountain, if that mountain was also a labyrinth. Lord Inal had boasted over supper that the dungeons barely needed guarding—any escapees would find themselves lost in the tunnels.
It didn’t do to tempt the gods, but there might have been truth to that.
If a prisoner did manage to find a way out, it would not be the end of their troubles. Jorgan had to take care to keep the pair of them dry, using a simple spell to wick away any of the wetness clinging to their clothes. Allowing one’s clothes to dampen was oft a fatal mistake, for the fiercest months of winter could kill those who stepped outside quicker than a wound gone bad.
There was little visible indication they’d arrived at a better part of the castle, but it could be felt. The humidity gave way to a comfortable dryness. Aspyr didn’t know whether that was a natural or magical result, only that the castle’s places of prestige were built into these pockets of reprieve. It was also the chief cause for the castle’s strange layout.
“Thank you Jorgan,” Aspyr said as his valet dried them off one last time.
How the man had found the time to familiarize himself with the underground was beyond Aspyr, but he guided them through it like a native Siracesian would. Just one of the many reasons that made Jorgan a great valet.
As he entered the meeting room Lord Inal had prepared, there was a great shuffling. All those of Siracesian descent stood to greet him, as was the custom of that ancient people. The men wore red coats with wide, short sleeves, and loose, dark trousers. Only Inal was dressed in white among them. Color was a matter of hierarchy to the Siracesians, as Aspyr understood it.
Thankfully, there were no restrictions on his own green tunic. It was a color rarely worn by this mountain tribe.
Aspyr was quickly led to the seat of highest honor at the other end of the room, and none of Inal’s people uttered even a whisper. He had total silence and their full attention, and it shamed him to admit he’d done nothing to deserve this reverence. Not even the Imperial Court could be said to be as well-behaved as these oft-ignored people.
He did not speak immediately, in accordance with what little he grasped of their customs, but accepted a warm drink first. It gave him a moment to search his mind for Lord Inal’s traditional title while admiring the Siracesian designs. They were fond of embroidering arrows and stars into their fabrics alongside spiral motifs.
“Pshi Inal, you have asked, and I have answered. What can I do for you and yours?”
“We have much to speak of, Lord Aspyrtus,” Inal replied in gutturally accented Ilyosi. “Marshal Perdiccas brings us tidings.”
The Marshal was stout, clean-shaven and well into his forties. He bowed lightly to Aspyr. Back home, he wouldn’t have bothered with the formality, but appearances had to be kept. “Hystor Adryan has been helping us keep an eye from the skies for the past week and a day now. The warbands have well and truly scattered. They will not come together again into one host.”
“Good news,” Aspyr said. The tribes had been beaten by their hands, but the victory was far from absolute. As many as half of the Tuskar host had managed to escape through freezing the river, before scattering every which way. Their pegasi could not pursue that day—they’d been forced to ground from the exertions of their aerial maneuvers throughout the battle. Without aerial support, Marshal Perdiccas had feared an ambush.
Such trickery was a specialty of the Tuskar.
Yet the strength of the tribes was brittle, and they’d shattered into half a hundred shards like glass. None of them were a threat by themselves to Aspyr’s host, but they remained a nuisance that had to be cleaned up and swept out of the Deeplands.
We were too cautious, Aspyr thought regretfully. If they’d pursued harder, they might have put an end to the warband in one fell swoop. Had I not been injured, would my advisors and vassals have hesitated that day?
“This begs the question though,” began the ever self-interested Lord Attaginus, “if the danger has passed, why do we remain? What enemies do we guard against?”
Lady Leah of House Lorne sneered at him. It was not a look that flattered her already plain and pale visage. “You cannot still be so green after so many seasons, Lord Kosmima. We all know that just because one warband is beaten does not mean the rest of the Tuskar have given up. Eight warbands came south, and we have only beaten four.”
Attaginus’ face turned into a peculiar shade of purple as Aspyr’s stoneborn north and east of Aigis laughed. Aspyr appreciated that Lady Lorne had fielded the question in his place, but her careless words might give birth to blood feud. He would have to keep an eye on the pair of them, and perhaps advise Marshal Perdiccas to position the two apart for the duration of the campaign.
Best to avoid the possibility of any “accidents”.
“So long as the Tuskar Tribes still dare to raid, we cannot dismiss our levies,” Aspyr said. “All of us miss home, but it would do us no good to leave only to have to muster again in a week’s time.”
“Better to shelter in place and recoup our strength than brave the winter’s winds,” said Lady Hermia. After delivering Aspyr’s message to Lord Pleonexia’s court, she’d hurried to join them, arriving two days ago with a small contingent of Rothston levies. Her intentions were plain to Aspyr—one learned to read that much with a sister like Mydea—but her support came at an opportune time.
The Rothstons might be a knightly house, but their strength was respected among the southern lords. In times like this, strength weighted heavier than status.
“We cannot shelter forever,” insisted their host, Lord Inal. “My people will starve with your levies if we must. But when even the crumbs and scraps have been eaten, I cannot turn stone into bread.”
“Unfortunately, with the warbands splitting apart, we cannot force another decisive battle,” Marshal Perdiccas said. “The challenge now is hunting each one down before too much harm is done.”
There was good and bad to everything, and this was the bad.
“Can we afford to split the muster here four ways?” asked Lady Leah. It was a reasonable concern. The magely lances were trained to fight as an independent unit, but the same could not be said for their foot. Would the levies hold their ground without a mass of men around them to stiffen their spines?
His father stood suddenly, catching every eye in the room. He was invited as a courtesy to Aspyr, but even Father knew it was best if he did not speak. He loved the stoneborn little, and the feeling was mutual. “We will not have to fight alone for long.”
“Do you know something?” Aspyr asked.
“As you know, I have a means of communicating with Mydea.” Father’s brows furrowed in displeasure. “It was announced before Her Imperial Highness three days ago that the Order of the Stone Shield would be mobilizing to assist us.”
Murmurs broke out.
“You’re certain?” Aspyr cut through the chatter like a knife.
Father pinned him with a look. “Would my own daughter lie to me?”
We both know that she has, Aspyr thought, shifting his weight between his feet. We both know I have. Still, that answer settled the gathered stoneborn.
“Even if Lord Eminent Pleonexia and Knight Eminent Yberia wished to, they cannot delay the Order for long now,” Hermia said in a giddy tone. It was a crime to deceive the Empress, and a grave one to do so publicly. “Unless they wish for their corpses to be sold to a necromancer, that is.”
Wouldn’t that be an irony? Centuries of mining had rendered the deepest shafts in the Pleonexian fief inhospitable to life. It was no exaggeration to say Aspyr’s liege and lord was the greatest patron of the necromantic arts.
Lord Andras Pyli ran his calloused hand through his thick mane. “I would not celebrate unduly, Dame Hermia.”
“Is this not a victory?” she asked.
“It is, and I would not be surprised if this came about through some act of Lady Mydea’s. We must be thankful she hasn’t forgotten our plights despite the many temptations of the Imperial City.”
It was a testament to his sister that those lords and ladies who’d met her—recently or at the Thalassian Athenaeum—nodded in agreement. Those who hadn’t kept their expressions respectfully neutral, but Aspyr knew they doubted her. Everyone did at first.
They would learn.
“Still,” Andras continued, “there are many and more excuses for delay that can be offered up when moving a host of mages is involved. Countless generals have argued that it is the marching, not the fighting, that truly tests their leadership.”
“Three weeks,” Marshal Perdiccas said. “That’s the longest they can loiter without inviting scorn.”
Hermia crossed her arms in front of her chest and blew at a loose strand of ginger hair trailing down her cheek. “It won’t be that long. Many in the Order are eager to fight a mythuselah.
“We hope for the best, but plan for the worst, my lady,” Perdiccas replied.
“Regardless of when it arrives, the help can only be a boon,” injected Sir Syrus. “The Tuskar are all but doomed with the whole of the Deeplands uniting against them.” He had the good sense not to add ‘We need but wait’ to the end of that, though the southern knight likely preferred that option. It was not his fief in immediate peril.
Lord Inal sipped at his cup of lemonade and tarragon. “Would that our friends were so prompt in their coming, but for every day we delay, more of the people suffer. This cannot be borne.”
“It must not be borne,” Andras said. Growls of assent came from his own vassals, and those of like minds.
Aspyr raised a hand placatingly. “Rest assured, it will not be borne.”
“Are we to sally out then?” the fair-haired Syrus asked. “And if we are, who shall we pursue first?”
That, Aspyr thought, lips drawing into a thin line, was a poisoned question. There remained four warbands out there that had not given battle, on top of the dozen or so groups of survivors who’d fled. Between them, just about every fief from the Pass of Perasma to the farms surrounding the town of Jayderest—where they’d made camp before battle—was suffering raids. Every lord and lady understandably wished for their fief to be relieved first.
Therein lay the problem, the same problem that every Lord and Lady Kolchis grappled with—the Tuskar were a swarm, and one army could not be everywhere at once.
He was a young lord, untested to many. Keeping his host together and moving had been a small challenge in and of itself while he’d been healthy. To split his force up and pursue multiple tribes invited discord and risked ruin. Were every lord and lady to take their levies to defend their own lands, they’d no longer have a large enough army in the field to guarantee victory against the larger warbands. It would be disastrous to start the season suffering needless losses, for the Tuskar he faced now were not the only ones that would need beating.
If he ordered multiple stoneborn levies to band together, that begged the question of who ought to lead—and Aspyr’s position was not so strong that he could dictate such things to them. He would have to consider rivalries that were centuries deep as well as fresh wounds, like the one Lord Attaginus Kosmima had suffered from Lady Leah Lorne. The stoneborn were not known for their meek natures, and challenges to leadership would come quickly—challenges to his authority indirectly.
The last option, no more appealing than the rest, was to have fewer, larger armies under the command of his senior subordinates. Marshal Perdiccas was certainly well-respected by the steelborn, and perhaps even Captain Alexios of his household guard would be heeded for a time. His master-of-arms remained in Aigis, ensuring the safety of hearth and home.
As for his father … well…
Aspyr himself might be doubted now if he took to the field. What use did the steelborn have for an injured commander once battle was joined? It would be a poor sight by far for their lord to struggle defending himself from even glancing blows a squire half his age could shrug off.
“We must also decide what to do with the prisoner,” Lord Inal added. “My people cling to the old ways. Superstition is in their blood, and they’ll not stand to have a Bloodless one in these halls once we depart.”
A reasonable fear. It had taken a score of mages-at-arms to subdue the mythuselah last time, and she had not yet fully embraced her legacy then. Aspyr dreaded to think what she’d be capable of if she managed to imbibe enough potent blood.
Terrible and cruel, but oh so very beautiful…
“She’s best kept in Aigis and it is time she was moved,” Aspyr said. “We have imposed on you long enough, Pshi Inal, and I could ask nothing more from a host.” His father was the obvious choice to escort the prisoner home. Father was of no use as a leader of mages, and were the mythuselah to get out of hand, he was the only one capable of matching her blow for blow.
Would the Aetos of Aigis agree though? They had survived so long by presenting a united front—fear of his father’s sword, Grandmother’s wit, Mydea’s tongue … In front of so many lords, Aspyr dared not risk making his family look weak.
It was the great sin of their father’s—his inability to grasp the bigger picture, to see beyond himself and the immediate family. Would he have been so careless in killing kin so many years ago otherwise?
“Give no order others won’t obey,” Mother’s handbook had advised.
Father was hunched over the table, scribbling furiously into his journal.
Aspyr cleared his throat. “Lord Aetos, I would ask you to pick out which mages will accompany the prisoner back to Aigis.” Not quite an order sending him home and it gave him no grounds on which to refuse, but the implication sufficed. Mydea would’ve been proud.
“Of course.” Father paused. “As—Lord Aspyr.”
He was learning!
“The path to Aigis should be free of any Tuskar,” Marshal Perdiccas supplied helpfully.
“Then a light contingent will do,” Father said. “Starved as she is, she wouldn’t make it far even if she did manage to escape.”
The hystors often said that “you are what you eat”, and that was even truer for the Bloodless Ones. Several gallons of animal blood could barely keep one of them quenched, while a pint of Father’s would drown a host.
Aspyr turned to Sir Syrus. “As for sallying, there is no question in my mind that we must. But to where, and in what numbers, will depend greatly on the warbands’ movements in the coming days. Much might still change, but every man and woman ought to make ready.” He unlocked his gaze, letting it sweep through the room. “We depart in two days.”
—Handbook—
There were many things one learned to appreciate after living inside a hollowed-out mountain. Windows were a luxury for most rooms in the interior, and it spoke highly of Lord Inal’s hospitality that Aspyr’s bedroom had one overlooking the plains below. The gentle light of a waxing moon was a welcome reprieve from the endless torches of Castle Adyghe.
“I didn’t expect my father and my marshall to visit at this hour,” Aspyr said.
“To be honest, we didn’t think you’d still be awake at this hour,” Marshall Perdiccas replied.
Aspyr glanced at his injured left arm, which was throbbing painfully. “It likes to make a nuisance of itself in the late hours.”
“A strange curse, my lord,” Perdiccas said, stroking his chin.
“Quite. What is this about then?”
“The good Marshall and I have been speaking.” Father clutched his journal tightly. He had not allowed it out of his sight since they’d arrived.
“I have never heard you offer so much as a word of praise for him in all the years he’s served me.” Aspyr eyed the pair of them with open suspicion. “What scheme have the two of you hatched?”
Father and Perdiccas shared a long look, each encouraging the other to speak first. It was Father that yielded. “The mythuselah departs on the morn, does she not?”
“If all goes according to plan. Is there any reason to expect a delay?” Aspyr asked Father pointedly.
“Not a delay, my lord,” Perdiccas interjected. “More of a deviation.”
“Is this a conversation for which I would prefer to be sober?” Aspyr asked.
Perdiccas cleared his throat. “That would be prudent, my lord.”
“It is not just us who have been speaking,” Father said. “Mydea agrees as well.”
Aspyr’s brow arched. “I’ve been meaning to ask. How is it that you’ve managed to stay in contact with her?” Father did not have access to the mirrorplane, and more conventional means of communication were too slow to converse with Aelisium in a day’s time.
Father held up his journal. “You know, of course, that I have two of these. You were there when your sister took the other.”
So he did know. Aspyr had suspected that he suspected, but they’d never aired it out like this. “I was.”
“You helped her, but did not even know what you were taking.” Father opened the journal, and most of its pages were written in a script Aspyr could not read. Finally, the pages turned to reveal two different handwritings on alternating lines.
Finally, Aspyr understood. “The notebooks are bound to each other in some way. What’s written in one appears in the other?”
“That is one of their functions, yes.” Father shut the book and kept it at his side.
“Is it instantaneous?” Aspyr asked, mind racing with possibilities. Communicating across great distances had hobbled the Syngian Empire since its earliest days. Even now, it was only possible through stationary implements like the mirrorverse or similar workings. A portable means of instant communication was rarer than royalty.
“It is, and I know what you are thinking.” Father grimaced. “There are steep costs to its making, and there can only ever be two linked together.”
“What news from the Imperial City then? What does my sister have to say?”
“That there are spies everywhere in Aelisium,” Father said.
“I asked for news.”
Father shrugged. “She speaks of an arrangement with House Pleonexia. Not quite a peace, but … a truce, of sorts.”
Aspyr pondered that for a moment, staring out at the starry night sky through his window. “That’s why the Order of the Stone Shield is gathering.”
“As you say. She bought that in exchange for her withdrawal from Aelisium.”.
As if she hadn’t sought to leave that place from the beginning. Aspyr smiled. She’d bargained away nothing for something. “That’s just like her.” He turned back to face them. “Should we be expecting her home soon then?” he asked, an eagerness coloring his voice. It really had been too long.
Father scowled. “That is less clear. It seems that one of the Empress’ daughters—Princess Lille, if I recall correctly—raised an objection when she requested leave.”
“From the Everbloom?” Aspyr’s face scrunched up. “We have no quarrel with them. Why would she do such a thing?”
“She is from the Everbloom,” Marshall Perdiccas pointed out. “It is in their nature to meddle.”
“Mydea expects the delay to last a week or two at the longest,” Father added.
“Not so long,” Aspyr mused. “What does her return have to do with transporting our prisoner though?”
“We, including Lady Mydea,” began Marshall Perdiccas, “suggest that you escort the mythuselah to Aigis instead of your father.”
Aspyr crossed his arms. “Out of the question! I must remain with my vassals. What shall they think of me if I return home while I send them to make war on my behalf?”
“With respect my lord, what would they think of you if you are injured while making war?” Perdiccas asked. “Escorting the prisoner is a fine pretext, and gives much needed time for you to recuperate. Mayhaps our hystors will have better luck breaking the curse’s hold over your wound.”
“It will also be an excuse to see your sister,” Father said. “Traveling slowly, you should still be in Aigis when she arrives.”
“An excuse to keep me home longer, you mean.” Aspyr frowned.
“There is that,” Marshall Perdiccas admitted, “but this is something the stoneborn can stomach easily. You will not have a chance like this again.”
“Whatever damage you think it will have on your reputation would be more than manageable,” Father said.
Aspyr’s nostrils flared. “Yes, you are so famously adept in matters of reputation.”
“Not me,” Father said. “Those are your sister’s words.”
His anger left him. “I will be a laughingstock.”
“You will be alive. We do not say this to bring you down. We say this because we believe that if you stay, it would be a misstep.”
“In the end we can only advise, my lord,” Perdiccas said. “You are the Lord External of Kolchis, not us.”
“What sort of lord would I be if I ignored the words of all my closest advisors?” Aspyr muttered. Not even the Empress ruled alone. “Very well. I will escort her back. But that will mean our host here must remain together under your care, Marshall. The stoneborn will not follow anyone else whilst I’m gone.”
Marshall Perdiccas bowed. “As you command, Lord Aspyrtus.”
He waved the man away, then eyed his father. “So this is what it takes for you to speak to Mydea again? Conniving to keep me bedridden.”
“You think too highly of yourself,” Father said. “I speak to her because she did what I thought was impossible.”
“Which is?”
He opened his journal once more, flipping to a page with more of the strange scribblings. “Can you read this?”
Aspyr shook his head.
“Neither could Mydea or any of the many hystors she’d consulted. But somehow she figured it out,” Father said. “My great secret is now laid bare to her.”
“Is that such a terrible thing?”
“They say that ignorance is bliss. She has never been in greater danger, and she must know it too. Aelisium is filled to the brim with everything—including spies. There are people who would prefer to see us fail; who will make us fail.”
“They will try,” Aspyr said.
—Handbook—
Early on the morrow, the stoneborn and steelborn assembled with their retinues. Their surprise seeing it was Aspyr himself escorting the prisoner was evident, and a dim murmur suffused the sloped, dirt waryard of Castle Adyghe.
It wouldn’t do to leave without a word to them.
Aspyr turned and raised his good, right hand to quiet them. “I am pleased to see my lords and ladies, my sirs and dames waking so early in the morn to see me off. I know this must come as a surprise.” He’d implied his father would be leaving instead of him just the other night, and that had been his intention.
“There is sense in you going, my lord.” Lord Andras Pyli’s tone was as diplomatic as one could be with a northern Monsi accent. The man had been a font of support ever since Mydea spoke with him. “You only ordered Lord Aetos to choose the escort. Nothing more, nothing less,” he said, more a reminder to the steelborn than to Aspyr.
How many, Aspyr thought idly, of my lords and ladies could I rely on had she been with me all this time? It was a great tragedy that there was only one of his twin sister.
It was plain as day that many of the stoneborn were displeased with the choice, despite their silent acceptance. That included Sir Syrus and Dame Hermia—though perhaps the latter begrudged him more for leaving her behind than anything else. Lady Leah’s thin brows were scrunched together, confused, while Lord Attaginus still looked angrier at the former than at Aspyr. The man simply would not let go of her slights against him.
Pride had been the downfall of many. Attaginus would not be the first or last to let that virtue become a vise around his neck, and only the gods knew if that noose would slip the neck or strangle.
“Go swiftly, Lord Aspyrtus,” Lord Inal said.
His father stepped close. “Go safely.”
“I should be saying that to you. There’s no danger to be found where I’m headed,” Aspyr said. He was traveling away from the Tuskar.
“I do not fear the sword before me. I fear the dagger behind me,” Father said as the winds whipped about them without touching even a strand of hair. “You have always relied on your sister to keep them in check and she is not here.”
It was the nature of parents to worry. “I didn’t pacify a mythuselah just to be felled so ignobly.”
“That choice is not always ours,” Father said darkly.
The winds settled down. Marshall Perdiccas bowed to him openly. “Lead them well,” Aspyr told him, letting his voice carry throughout the whole yard. Let there be no doubt that the stout Marshall acted on his behalf.
“By your will.” He bowed again.
The plan they had agreed upon was to push the warbands away from the mountains, which would please the Lornes of Lone Stone especially. If the Tuskar managed to make it into the rocky highlands, they might chance upon some of their pegasi flocks. Worse, his vassals would be largely reliant on their aerial superiority to find any raiders, and not even the most well-bred of pegasi could keep flying for more than a few hours.
Even less when bearing an armed and armored steelborn.
A guardsman he recognized but couldn’t name came over, dragging the bound form of the mythuselah with him. The woman was pale as ivory in the morning sun, and hissed as it touched her skin. The Bloodless Ones were a sensitive sort, as Aspyr recalled. The sun’s kiss could barely be felt in the Frostlands, but grew stronger south of the Aigean Range. Were it not the height of winter, she might have actually been scalded without any of her blood-fuelled arts to protect herself.
“We remember that day differently,” the woman said to Aspyr as the guard checked the tightness of her bindings, magical and mundane.
“Which day?” Aspyr asked against his better judgment.
“I didn’t pacify a mythuselah just to be felled so ignobly.” She tried to mimic his tone, but didn’t come close. “Hah! As if it was by your sword that I was subdued instead of your subordinates.”
“You couldn’t have heard that.” Aspyr narrowed his eyes. His father had placed them under a windtight silence. No one could pierce that.
There was something musical about her laugh. Haunting, but also enchanting. “Your kind are so sure of your spells, as if you can move the mountains and drain the seas. Winds silence, but they do not blind.”
“You read my lips,” Aspyr realized. He pulled her atop Steelwing roughly, taking some satisfaction when her wrists turned red. Infuriatingly, she showed no visible discomfort.
“Lord Aspyrtus—” the guard began.
Aspyr waved him away. “Leave her with me.” It wasn’t as if any of the mages-at-arms escorting them could do much if she got loose, save Alexios. His arms enveloped her as he grasped Steelwing’s reins. The guards half a dozen strong followed suit.
“Is that your sword?”
The absolute gall of this woman. “In fact, it is,” he said in a low growl, pressing the hilt of his blade into her back. “A reminder to behave.” Steelwing moved beneath them at the slightest prompting, and their party descended from the mountain holdout of Lord Inal.
She laughed again. “Is this what you think it means to bare fangs and brandish claws?” There it was again—that odd way of phrasing.
He reached out to the bindings restraining her and with a twist of will, her words failed. The silence was more beautiful than even her voice. Now if only the damned woman would stop squirming so much. Her skin was ice to his, burning every inch of contact, and his arm throbbed all the more painfully.
Briefly, he regretted that only his captain and himself had pegasi to ride on while the rest of the lance he’d normally lead in battle remained behind. There was just no justifying pulling away nine pegasi to accompany him home when war was expected.
Mile upon mile disappeared before Steelwing’s steady gait. His pegasus was a breed of the highest caliber among their flocks. Despite what Mydea thought, not even Snowscorn could match him in the air. The only contest he and Steelwing had ever lost was Marshall of the Heights, to see who could stay in the colder, higher altitudes for longer. That game was practically designed for Snowscorn to win.
“Mayhaps we should move the prisoner to another mount, my lord?” Captain Alexios suggested. “It wouldn’t do to tire out Steelwing so early into our journey.”
“It’s been little more than an hour on the ground,” Aspyr dismissed. “This much is nothing for Steelwing.”
His captain eyed the mythuselah warily, but acquiesced nonetheless. The man could be paranoid sometimes, but that was inevitable after he’d spent the better part of half a decade warding off enemies within and without.
He glanced back at the woman, and undid the bindings muting her. “What is your name?” It grew tiring referring to her as the woman in his head.
“Bite me,” she hissed. Her back was to him, but Aspyr was sure as the seasons that she was snarling.
“I shall have to refuse. I think you’d probably enjoy that.”
The enchanted ropes constricted like a snake would as she struggled to face him. In her weakened state, there was little chance that she could break free of its hold.
“Your name, now, or I shall silence you again.”
Her reply was something sharp and guttural and almost certainly a slur against himself. He sighed, and counted down in his head. From experience, he knew the binding that gagged her could leave the mouth dry and the jaw sore after a while. Not the intent of the spell, but it had never been designed with comfort in mind.
“Wait,” she said suddenly.
“Your name is Wait?” An odd name, but there was no guessing what passed for names among the uncivilized.
“No.” Her ears twitched and her head craned from side-to-side searchingly. Aspyr’s gaze followed her movements. The road they’d followed was coming up to a small, forested hill, and the terrain here was not ideal for horses. Perhaps he really ought to let another carry the prisoner and give Steelwing some respite?
“It’s too quiet,” she said.
“It would be if you ever stopped your awful growling,” Aspyr quipped. The woods were strangely bereft of birdsong though. He drew his sword in a single motion, leaving his injured arm to grasp the reins. His guards came to a halt as they heard steel drawn and unsheathed theirs as well.
Alexios approached, positioning himself and his shield to defend Aspyr’s shield arm even as years of drills made the other guards close ranks around them. “Is something the matter, my lord?”
“Quiet today, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps a sabretooth is out and about?” Alexios said. “The animals won’t dare strike a group as large as ours.”
Aspyr bobbed his head of thick, dark hair. Kolchis had no lack of enemies, but not even Lord Pleonexia would be foolish enough to send armed mages after himself. The signs of such a fight could not be explained away as mere banditry, and not even the Lord Eminent’s most fervent supporters would stomach highborn murder on the open roads.
The right to shelter and safe passage was sacrosanct to the Syngians and Ilyosi both. Of all the privileges the highborn possessed, only the right to study was more fiercely defended.
He let his sword fall back into his sheath, and the palpable tension drained away. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he murmured softly to the woman.
“You have eyes but cannot see.”
This time the peculiar phrase sparked his memory. “You’re quoting Empress—”
Steelwing neighed loudly and years of hard training and athenaeum ambushes moved his body. He was rolling off of Steelwing with the woman before the first pellets of hail hit. Magic flooded his veins, seeping into every muscle, and his left arm burned.
The woman grunted as they came to a stop, his weight pressing down onto her lithe form. “Better not to do that if you don’t want them to cut it off.”
Aspyr could not spare her a moment. He smashed the palm of his good arm into the snow, and magic unfiltered by spellwork rippled out, pushing him upright as a hand-shaped puddle formed at his feet. His sword was out in the next instant. Wind lengthened, fire sharpened, earth strengthened—the side of his blade swatted an oncoming arrow, turning it to ash.
Guttural war cries reached his ears. Tuskar came at them from all around—rising from the deep snow or jumping down from high trees as their spells of disguise faded.
How are they here? Aspyr wondered as he assessed the state of his retinue. Two weren’t moving—dead or good as. Captain Alexios and the other two in his party were trying to fight back-to-back, but the archers perched on the tree tops were not making that any easier.
“Free me!” the woman shouted, struggling to stand.
Aspyr’s sword arced outwards, and the cut projected further than the physical blade. Two of the Tuskar charging him dropped to the ground in time to avoid the slash, but the third was a tad too slow. Winds shredded his flesh into a bloody mist before he joined his friends in the snow.
It was not a spell he could use frequently, but for now it gave him time and distance to think of a way out of this. There were two scores of the Tuskar—too many to fight off. Even a genius like his father would’ve been hard pressed against these odds.
And Aspyr was a pale shadow to genius.
“Set me loose!” the woman cried again. “You will die otherwise!”
“So you can escape?”
“So that you can escape!”
He snorted. A brazen lie if he’d ever heard one. “Steelwing, to me!” The pegasus obeyed without hesitation, charging right through the hail and ice and arrows where Snowscorn would’ve danced. Streams of air circled him like snakes, tethered to his senses.
“You will not be able to flee by air.”
“I’m well aware, woman!” Aspyr said, his eyes darting around him constantly as more of the Tuskar formed a ring around him. A localized storm had been summoned to keep them grounded. They would have to get clear of it as soon—
Movement from behind, the wind warned. He lashed out with an overhead swing, trusting his magic to guide it. There was a pained scream and a thump. He’d severed an arm or a leg, but not the head.
A shame, Aspyr thought. He didn’t have the luxury of finishing off the injured Tuskar. From the corner of his eye, he could see his guards being forced away from him by sheer weight of numbers. Alexios was a fine shieldsman, but he was no Seth of the Sands. These were impossible odds.
“You cannot keep this up forever. Your magic will drain faster than their will, and what will you be once your spells fail? Just a man with a sword.”
“Legends have been built on less.”
“Vanity of vanities.”
Steelwing neighed, stretching his wings to make himself appear bigger as he stood uneasily by Aspyr’s side. Surrounded by enemies with nothing but a sword and steed, Aspyr smiled grimly. It was no different from his years in the athenaeum, but at least his foes here were lesser mages.
The woman finally managed to get to her feet. “Untie me!” she demanded for the third time. “I can help you.”
“Help me?” He scoffed. “I have never known a Tuskar to be of any help to me or mine.”
“Do you think these dogs are any friends of mine?”
Aspyr glanced at her. “They are Tuskar like you.”
“They are the Tribe of the Screaming Tempest,” she said, as if the name ought to mean something to him. “The enmity between our lines runs deeper and longer than your mortal life can fathom.”
“And so I’m supposed to trust you?”
“Do you have a choice?”
“I could strike you down,” Aspyr said. “That much is still within my power.”
She growled. “Then do it quickly! Better that than to allow my legacy to fall into their hands and harm my kin.”
Aspyr didn’t know what possessed him to act. Was it despair? Foolish hope? Bewitchment? Regardless of the answer, his sword cut through the ropes that bound her. For the last time, he repeated the request that she had so stubbornly denied him.
“I would know the name of the person I’ll die with.”
She stared at him for a moment, blinking in surprise even as Tuskar screamed their war cries from all around and hail fell all the harder. “It is Dalia,” she said, “and we will not die here.”
Aspyr turned his back to her—
—and fangs sank into his neck.
I was a fool, he thought, as he felt his magic draining out of him. Aspyr was caught in a net, his limbs growing heavier by the second. He was sinking, clawing for every breath.
He supposed that if he had to die, at least it was at the hands of a beautiful woman.
He thought the ground would be colder against his back, thought the pain would be worse. Aspyr stared up into red eyes framed by a blue sky.
I hope Mydea forgives me.
Comments
Dennis Herzberger
Just became a Patreon member yesterday and now RR is ahead of my subscription... very weird.
