Samual (9 page)

So he had abducted Samual's wife and locked her away. Then he had sent his royal guards to kill Samual. They had failed. Badly. But his hostage had saved him. Even at the end Samual had not been able to kill him. The whore was his weakness. And Heri knew he had to keep her. Always. He could not afford her getting ill.

The girl had to live, at least until his brother had died. But Samual kept refusing to die, so his miserable elven whore had to live. For the moment. Because if she died it would be war. And Heri had no idea how strong or cunning Samual had become. How many allies he'd gained. All he knew was that until his assassins who he paid a hefty amount of coin for had finally done the one and only job he paid them to do, she had to live. Then she could hang.

If only he could find him! Heri was almost certain now that Samual was somewhere in one of the nearby elven realms. He was half elf so where else could he go? But finding one man who was presumably using a false name in either of the two nearest elven realms was proving extremely difficult. Samual could be anywhere, gathering his power and preparing his plans to take his throne. The whore had to live.

He'd sent a messenger back down to the dungeons with those very instructions, and a healer as well, but they hadn't yet reported back. For all he knew the elven wench could already be dead. Then there would be an underworld of trouble. Especially if the nobles realised.

He had gone to great lengths to make sure that they never found out about his prisoner. Because the instant they did, his brother would have an ally. And if she died, then the nobles would have an angry fire mage, knight and a prince at their side. It would become a revolution.

“Highness?”

Heri looked up as his major-domo finally caught his attention, reminding him that he had a decision to render. The man was an irritation some days with his simpering words, and Heri hated the way he watched him all the time with those calculating eyes. But he could be useful, especially when he reminded him that he was supposed to be hearing a dispute instead of fretting. A dispute between a merchants' guild and the Fallbrights. Which reminded him in turn that he had already made up his mind – in fact he had done so well before the hearing – and he couldn't be bothered listening to anything more from the two of them. The morning was marching on and Heri had had enough. It was time to give his decision.

“Fallbright, attend me.” He commanded the ageing Baron with an imperious wave of his hand, and watched with not particularly well-concealed glee as the noble limped his way to the foot of his throne. He was an old man, his hair very grey if not completely white yet, and he'd suffered an injury a year before falling off his horse. An injury that would not heal. But then it wouldn't when the Baron's own healers were in the pay of Heri, and had been commanded to keep him suffering. With luck he'd never walk properly again. But that was the price for disloyalty. After all, the man had openly questioned his will. Now it would be good that the rest of the court should witness his dominion over the noble, and learn some respect.

“Highness.” Baron Fallbright bowed low to him as was required, despite the obvious pain it caused him. But then he probably knew that bad news was coming, and he didn't want to make it any worse.

“Your roads have been closed too long, the taxes you demand of the merchants passing through, too high. This will change. From the morn you will halve your taxes on the merchants, and your lands will be open to all.”

“Yes your Highness.” The Baron bowed again, probably hating him with every breath of his weakened body, while the rest of the court clapped politely. No doubt at least the merchant cartels would welcome his decision even if the nobles hated him for it. But Heri hadn't made his decision for them. Nor for trade. It was always about strategy. Fallbright had defied him, openly questioned his decisions in front of the court. He had to pay and he had to be seen to pay.

With the income from the merchants halved, the Barony of Fallbright would find itself in a difficult position. They could not afford to continue spending as they did, which meant their small army would become smaller again. Their spies and assassins would be reduced in number as well, and most importantly, their influence in the court would suffer.

Of course they'd fight back. They'd find some other devious method for gaining coin, and start once again to rise to the top of the pile of noble houses through a careful programme of assassinations and espionage. They'd probably also make a few more attempts on his life, never realising that their assassins were also in Heri's pay, or that their spies told them exactly what Heri wanted them to hear. The Barony was a big house and a rich one, but not that clever. Still, perhaps this would be a good evening to sit in his sanctum and spy on them through the Window of Parsus.

Heri dismissed the Baron with a casual wave and watched him limp back to his place in the queue of attendees to stand with his advisers, happy with his work. It would perhaps have been more satisfying to kill the old man, whether officially or through his own assassins, but that would bring its own problems in the form of his sons. The Baron had three of them and all of them were nasty in their own right. Each had trained as soldiers, although the two elder sons were none too bright. When their father died there would be a grab for his seat, and when one of them claimed it, trouble would begin. Bainbury – their main town – would be in turmoil – and there would likely be battles in the street as soldiers loyal to each of the three sons fought. And no matter which one of them finally succeeded and took the reins of the barony all three were just about ambitious and stupid enough to actually try to form an alliance against him and march on the citadel. The eldest two anyway.

They would lose of course. Fall Keep was ready for them – and even if it wasn't he had one or two toys in his secret sanctum that would destroy them completely – but they wouldn't be clever enough to realise that in advance, and there would be trouble until then. It would lead to his people panicking. Nobles and merchants would all be busy trying to take advantage of the discord, and of course, there would be more threats against him as people took their chances. The old man was a nuisance, but at least he wasn't stupid.

The youngest son though, Harmion, the weasel, now he was clever. Cunning like a rat. Or like one of Alder's followers as Heri sometimes suspected he was. Who else could the weasel follow but the God of mischief? If Harmion somehow took the seat when his father died, things would be worse. He wouldn't make the same mistakes as his older brothers. He would use subtlety and guile, and that was far harder to defend against.

Maybe, Heri thought, it was time that the weasel had an unfortunate accident. A crossbow bolt in his back. And while he was at it, Samual too could finally die. His assassins had failed repeatedly against him, causing him no end of annoyance, but there were always more to hire, and some of them surely were better skilled.

Sooner or later one of them would have to get through. Sooner or later Samual would die and he would finally be rid of him.

Heri tried to concentrate on that joyful thought as he listened to the next petitioner – a trading consortium upset about the market fees in one of Lord Cameral's towns. But really he couldn't. Not when Samual was so well hidden from his agents and all he wanted to do was kill him.

Now there was a prayer he would offer to the All Father.

Life was pain for Sam. It had been for a day and a half.

His woes had begun from the very moment he'd finally caught up with the elves after the battle and he was beginning to wonder if that had been a mistake. Despite the exhaustion of their mounts they had made good time and were very nearly at Torin Vale by the time he and Tyla had reached them. Sam by that stage had been almost asleep in the saddle. Only his horse's smooth gait and his feet bound firmly in the stirrups had stopped him from falling to the ground. The fire within him had seemed to have been drained by the battle – more so than ever before. He knew he couldn't have launched another attack for at least a week. Fortunately he figured the enemy had been badly hurt and his remaining machina a long way behind. He would need time to recover. The elves would have time to flee.

It was lucky he had a well-trained steed. He could set her off on course, and Tyla would carry on even though he had given her the lead. True to her nature, Tyla once on the path had quickly located her daughter Aegis' scent ahead, and had tracked her down and even given chase. By the time he truly awoke he was already in the midst of the fleeing elves. Elves who understandably had questions.

Despite the distance, they had seen and heard much of the battle, if only from the shaking of the ground under their feet, the thunder that echoed for leagues and the great balls of flame that seared the very sky. But from at least several leagues away, that was an incredible testament to just how massive that last spell must have been. Though Sam had been at the very heart of the blast, he had been sheltered from the worst of it by the channelling itself. So even what he had witnessed had been limited. The true force of the magic only the machina and the forest had known, and they weren't talking.

Half asleep on Tyla, Sam had answered a few of the Elders' questions as best he could while they rode the last few leagues into Torin Vale together, before he had collapsed completely in the saddle. By then he knew he had gotten as far as he could under his own power, and others would care for him until he was awake again. Half elf or not, the elves did not abandon anyone. Besides, if they hadn't, they wouldn't have been able to interrogate him. And he was beginning to realise the elves were curious.

He had awoken to find himself in the town itself and was soon being interrogated by a veritable menagerie of wizards and war masters, all of whom were desperately trying to work out what had happened. Even from the town they had seen and heard some of the battle, while the wizards – especially those with any sensitivity to fire – had felt it. The elves he was with were of course only too happy to tell them what they knew, which naturally only wetted their leaders' appetite for answers. The only part of which he could tell them before he had collapsed again was that the nearer machina were gone, and the rest were a long way off. He had bought them some time.

That was when he'd finally done the intelligent thing and fainted. Unfortunately he'd foolishly woken up.

He had awoken in the middle of the morning to find himself lying on a wagon and being carted out of town as the people of Torin Vale itself were packing up and joining the caravan. But he hadn't been lucky enough to be in one of the wagons peopled with villagers. Instead he had been left to sleep in the midst of a bunch of wizards, war masters and elders, all of whom were more than a little curious about him and what he'd done, and actually seemed to be happy to threaten torture to find out. To make matters worse he'd awoken with a headache vicious enough to make the idea of torture look good.

Of course while he was still asleep they had started doing a little sleuthing of their own. It was a polite way of saying they'd searched him thoroughly. They'd started by removing his helmet and discovered his half human half elven nature, something that naturally enough hadn't gone down well. Then they'd moved on to his armour, quickly identifying the crest of the House of Hanor, as well as the fact that he'd tried to remove it. They'd put two and two together and soon decided that he was some sort of rogue knight. It was actually close enough to the truth, even if he still remained true to his vows and was in good standing with the Order of Hanor.

After that they'd gone through his saddle bags and kit, examining first his weapons, and then finding his books of wizardry. Things that should not exist outside a guild. Such books should they fall into the wrong hands could be dangerous, and for that reason alone they were closely guarded. The wizards were understandably upset by the discovery, the more so when they saw that some of the books were of the higher levels of fire and ice magic as well as earth magic and nature magic, and that all were written for warring wizards. Thus with a single discovery he'd gone from being a rogue knight to a rogue wizard and possibly a criminal from another land. But at least the books weren't from any of the elven guilds. That would have been proof of a crime in their lands. But the books weren't written in Elvish and he had been cleared of that accusation at least.

Their pet theory had become a near certainty when they'd gone through all that Aegis was carrying in her packs. He'd loaded the poor horse high with valuables before he'd left, just in case he needed to find some coin on the way. Perhaps that hadn't been such a clever idea after all.

The three sets of blackened snake scale armour they took as evidence of his antisocial nocturnal activities. Only thieves and rogues had such armour they reasoned, and only the most successful ones at that. The others couldn't afford it. The brace of stilettos and vial of dragon bane poison bore testament to another grisly trade. Then they'd found the shadow cloak, and all their theories had somehow become proof. After all, none but the most exclusive and expensive assassins would have such a cloak. Their cost was beyond anyone else's means. By the time Sam awoke fully he'd practically been convicted.

The only reason he wasn't being punished – other than for the fact that they no longer had a gaol, a labour camp, a court, or for that matter evidence of any crime – was that their own scouts had managed to confirm the few details of the battle that he had given them the previous day. That steel rats by the hundreds had been destroyed, along with their precious forest, and that no more machina were nearby. According to their far-seers the nearest rats were still rebuilding their numbers slowly in Shavarra itself. Thus he had saved them, and as far as they knew he had committed no crime in elven lands.

Meanwhile the wizards had determined he was suffering from the effects of having over exerted himself in combat due to his inexperience, and had prescribed rest and some of the worst herbal tea he'd ever tasted. That tea he rather imagined was the source of his headache. His own brain hated the taste so very much it was simply trying to claw its way out of his skull rather than remain anywhere near his tongue.

Of course a rock pounding headache wasn't about to save him from their interrogation once he'd awoken again, and for the rest of the day he had been subjected to their endless questioning. Who was he? Who had trained him? Where had he learned those spells? Where had he got those books? And above all else, what had he done?

It had been a very long day.

He had been given a brief respite for afternoon tea, when the entire train pulled to a stop. The horses needed rest and water, the people food and a chance to stretch their legs, and the wizards confirmed that there were no rats nearby. Something Sam, even in his weakened state could agree with.

Like the rest Sam too had been given a chance to get up and do the basics, naturally while being closely watched by the city guards. But by the time he'd stretched and had some warm food inside him, he'd been beginning to feel a little like his old self. He'd been exhausted as he had never been before. The usual roaring bonfire of fire magic in his centre remained little more than embers, and he could find no way to fan it back into life. The elders had told him that it would return with time, for which he was relieved. The magic had been with him all his life and he didn't want to lose it. Especially not now when it had finally grown powerful enough to do all that he needed it to.

Actually he could already feel a little of his fire returning, but only a very little. There was a lot more to come. Much more than ever before. He knew that by the size of the hole it had left in him. A gaping hole larger than he had known could exist within him.

Unlike the other sick and injured though, Sam had chosen to dress himself for battle once more, and had pulled on his full armour and gathered his weapons to him. Exhausted or not he would not lie like a corpse in the back of a wagon when there might still be battles ahead. The wizards had disapproved of course. They'd told him he should rest. They didn't truly understand him. But the soldiers did and they'd made no move to stop him. He was a soldier, and no soldier ever born should have to face the enemy half naked. Besides, most of the elves by then had known something about what he had done from the gossip that had been flying around, and seeing him up and about was a morale booster for those in the nearer wagons.

Pulling his greatsword to him once more had also provided a surcease from his suffering. The sword still had some of the fire magic he'd imbued in it, and having it close helped to fire up his own energies a little. It wasn't much, but it was enough to brighten his mood a little.

Tea done, some warm stew and bread which had gone down happily if far too quickly, he'd spent the rest of the break grooming his two horses, both of which were tied alongside the wagon he was in. Both had been ridden hard, and both had been through a lot for little reward. They were due it, and he'd fed them from a bag of the best oats he could find and groomed them thoroughly. Elsbeth the goat had gone out to the bushes on the side of the road to chew away happily at some gorse, and he'd decided that she could ride on the wagon instead of in a saddle bag for the next part of the journey. She would like it better and at least his saddle bag would remain free of her deposits. While she'd eaten, a young boy had spent some time milking her, something she was quite used to, and her tail had wagged furiously with pleasure at the thought of the carrots to come. At least someone had been enjoying the journey.

Neither of his horses were presently being ridden as the elves seemed to have more than enough for their people. Also Sam suspected, the horses being both so large and black intimidated them. He wondered if any of them had realised that they were also fully trained war horses. Tyla had been trained by the stable masters for the Fair Fields dragoons, and Aegis by him. He hadn't told them. It would have just created more problems.

Grooming the horses had also given him the chance to study some of the other elves in the nearer wagons. A necessary yet upsetting chore. The soldier in him had needed to gauge their fighting strength, to know if they could defend themselves should the need arise; the knight had needed to confirm the truth of their plight. But the man simply wanted to weep as he saw their suffering. And their numbers.

Torin Vale was a large town with nearly ten thousand residents, while the city of Shavarra itself had held over thirty thousand more, but the caravan had swelled by at least twenty thousand more than that, as elves from the nearer towns and the outlying regions of the city had joined them. He gathered many more were coming. Unfortunately it had been easy to tell who had come from the city.

Sam knew many of the elves from Torin Vale, and by and large he recognised many of them among his neighbours. They were the ones with the better carts, the fresher horses, and the more generous supplies. The city elves were the ones wearing the bandages, crutches, slings and casts. They had the horses that had been ridden too hard for too long, and many pulled carts that would normally have been broken down for fire wood in due course. They were also the ones with the physicians hovering about, and whose faces were lined with terrible pain as they grieved for those they had lost.

Even worse than seeing them had been listening to their tales of woe, for they had suffered losses that no man should ever have to bear. Their kith and kin, their homes, their livelihoods, their pride and even their hope. He had known that first night that they were refugees, but it still hadn't prepared him for what that meant. Nothing could. It wasn't even as if he'd asked them of their troubles. He'd simply listened as they'd spoken among themselves, and he'd known that they spoke the truth. They weren't deceiving him for some typically incomprehensible elven reason. To them he wasn't important enough to even notice, and he hadn't broken into their grief with his sympathies. His words could not have helped. Instead he'd just listened quietly.

After the break, when the wagons had started rolling again, Sam's woes had been redoubled as his interrogation had started in truth. Choosing to ride alongside the wagon instead of in it hadn't helped him. His questioners having decided that he'd had enough rest and that they had the time to spare, had been both relentless and merciless. Moreover, they had already known enough about him by then, to make it damnably near impossible to hide anything.