The Colour of Vengeance (18 page)

“The city is well maintained and kept clean. All the soldiers you see are proven warriors and are drilled regularly. He keeps enough food to see the entire city through a siege of at least a year and enough weapons, armour and ammunition to make any attacking army pay through their teeth.”

“Uh huh,” Betrim grunted still staring at the spectacle of Crucible.

Lord Brekovich's palace seemed to almost sneak up on Betrim. He was expecting a tall fort of a building again surrounded by high walls visible from half the city away. Instead it appeared to be a two story building no more than a hundred feet wide and maybe three times as long with a curved roof that reminded Betrim of the hull of a boat. A short flight of steps led up to the main door and on either side of the door sat a giant skull, each with tusks longer than Betrim was tall.

“What the fuck are they?” asked Lucky.

The mad-eyed barbarian turned to the fat guard with a grim expression. “Elephant skulls. Both were decked in full armour and bore many riders. Lord Brekovich slew them both in battle.”

“Never heard of a blooded lord fightin' his own battles,” Betrim put in.

Again the barbarian glared at Betrim. “If a leader will not die for his men, how can he expect his men to die for him?”

Anders snorted. “Aye. He sounds a real hero. Can we get this over with? I believe I have an execution to attend and I don't think it can happen without me.”

“Ya know,” Betrim said, nudging Anders in the side. “Reckon I liked ya more when you were drunk.”

“Everyone likes me more when I'm drunk. It's part of the reason I so detest sobering up.”

The barbarian shook his head and dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a nearby soldier. “You speak for the others?” he asked Kain.

Kain glanced at the other mercs then nodded. “Aye. Reckon I do.”

“Then come. You three come,” he pointed at Betrim, Anders and Henry. “The rest stay.”

Betrim dismounted his horse and tried his very best not to collapse despite the aching in his legs. Anders swung down of his horse like he'd been born to the saddle and Henry almost fell trying to untangle herself from the beast but managed to land on her feet and then glared at everyone close by, daring them to mock her. No one did.

The barbarian started up the steps with Betrim, Anders and Henry just behind, their chained hands rattling with every step and Kain bringing up the rear. The barbarian nodded to the two soldiers standing guard and then pushed open the door. Betrim followed him inside.

Once all were inside the building the door closed and Betrim found they were standing in a sort of antechamber. The barbarian waited for a moment then spoke. “You have the keys to the chains?” he asked Kain.

“Aye.”

“Remove them.”

“Um... are you sure? These are criminals. Dangerous criminals.” Kain looked at Henry as he said the last, she stared back with cold, murderous eyes.

“Remove them,” the barbarian said again. “You will not speak to Lord Brekovich unless directed to. I advise not to make any threatening moves.” He waited for the last of the chains to fall off of Betrim's wrists and then pushed open the doors to the main hall and entered.

Before following the barbarian in, Betrim made a quick assessment of his options. He had two choices; he could try to convince Lord Brekovich it was all a mistake, that they were innocent of the crime Kain was laying at their feet; or he could try to convince Lord Brekovich they were more use to him alive than dead, after all, blooded folk always needed people like the Black Thorn.

The light in the main hall was dim, lit only by candles and the roaring hearth but it was still too bright for Anders' eyes. Everything was too bright, too noisy, too cluttered and too damned abrasive at the moment. His brain hadn't stopped hurting in days, the shaking made him feel like an old man waiting on his death bed and he was certain he'd sweated out his entire bodyweight in hot salty rivers at least three times over in the past hour alone.

Anders hid behind the Black Thorn which, he had to admit, made him feel a fair bit better about the entire situation. Good thing the boss was tall and broad; gave a lot for Anders to obscure himself behind, though the strange look Henry kept shooting his way was a little nerve racking. Still, chances were they would all be dead in an hour or so.

Anders glanced around the big frame of the Black Thorn. The main hall was wide and spacious with doors leading off to rooms on the sides and a staircase on either side leading up to the next floor. The floors were wooden and strewn with dried reeds to soak up any spilled liquid and seemed as though they were well used to that effect. A whole pack of dogs roamed around the hall hunting or begging for scraps and the reason was quite evident. They had been brought to see the Lord of the Brekovich family during a feast.

Four long tables, each seating twenty or so men and women, were set out in front of them and each with a whole host of different food types. Anders counted at least ten different types of meat including honey-glazed roast boar, stuffed bison, ostrich cooked in the northern fashion so that its skin actually crackled when bitten, water-lizard baked in beer and served with chilli and pepper, and others he couldn't even name. But it wasn't the food that was making Anders' mouth water. Every man and woman around every table had a mug filled with a dizzying array of alcohols. Some were drinking beer, some wine, some cider and some mead. Anders found himself leaning towards the tables despite his general feeling of wanting to hide from them all.

“Who have you brought before me, Torival?” Anders' eyes snapped into focus and he stared towards the source of the voice. Sat at the head of the central table, surrounded by his sons and his daughters and his best warriors was Lord Niles Brekovich.

The blooded Lord was well into his fifth decade of life but looked no worse for it. He was tall and straight, broad as an ox and hard as steel. Only the grey hair and the lines on his face betrayed his age and even those he wore well. His once black hair, now streaked with grey, hung long and braided in the traditional warrior fashion and his moustache, also tending towards the grey scale of black, was thick, immaculately trimmed and drooping down either side of his lip to form a horseshoe shape of fur on his face. Dark green eyes smouldered underneath his heavy brow and his jaw looked as though it had been carved from stone. He absently tossed a bone over his armoured shoulder as he stared at the newcomers and two dogs set about arguing over ownership of the discarded scrap.

“This man is a mercenary from Solantis, my lord. He has brought you the three responsible for the slave revolt,” Torival said with a minute bow and then stepped aside with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Anders would have hated him for that but all his hate was currently reserved for those seated around the tables drinking but not truly appreciating the alcohol that was so close but so out of reach.

“I see,” Lord Brekovich's voice was deep and rich and held a tone that commanded respect. He lapsed into a thoughtful silence and slowly lifted his stein to his lips. Anders took the opportunity to slink back behind the Black Thorn.

After what seemed like two eternal ages the blooded Lord spoke again. “How long do you intend to hide from me, Anders?”

The silence that fell upon the hall was as deafening as a thunderclap. Even the dogs stopped yapping as if sensing the danger in the air. Anders would have been happy to continue with his cowering but the Black Thorn stepped aside and fixed him with a queer look from his single eye. Anders shrugged back and took a reluctant step forwards towards the tables. Every set of eyes in the room were currently pointed at him and there weren't many that looked happy. None as far as he could see in fact.

“Hello father,” Anders said with a heavy sigh.

The silence held. It was a big surprise for Anders; he expected one of his brothers to take the initiative and launch an axe his way but none of them did. Most of his siblings just sat there trying desperately to mimic their father's stern but thoughtful expression. Most but not all. Francis Brekovich wore a smirk that was at least four times the size of his brain and the bull-headed fool wasn't even trying to hide it.

“After twenty-eight years I thought you might be over this phase, Anders,” Lord Niles Brekovich had an unnerving habit of never appearing to blink. It had always worried Anders.

“What phase is that, father?”

“Causing me untold grief and doing your very best to undermine the position of my family.”

It did not go unnoticed to Anders that his father was excluding him from the position of family member. Niles Brekovich had, after all, disowned his eldest son just three short years ago.

“In my defence, father, this time it was completely accidental. You see...”

“Have you any idea how much this slave revolt has cost my family?” Niles Brekovich interrupted.

Anders’ mouth felt dry as a sand worm's arse. He would have happily wrestled any man or woman, he was fairly sure he'd prefer the latter of those options, in the room for quick swig from a mug of beer. “Cost father? In terms of income loss or the cost of putting the revolt down? Because I think...”

“Putting the revolt down?” Lord Brekovich echoed Anders words. “The revolt is over. The slaves have won. Solantis, city of mercenaries is now Solantis, city of slaves. I'll have to negotiate new terms with their leaders soon and I doubt they’ll allow the re-opening of the slave pits. I may actually have to take my army to war against one of my own cities!”

Anders opened his mouth to speak and realised he had no idea what to say. He turned and looked at the Black Thorn who turned and looked at Henry. Henry for her part looked shocked and almost as timid as a young girl about to show her tits to a man for the first time. It was no doubt the first time she had ever learned she was at least partly responsible for the deaths of half a city and the recent freedom of the other half, not to mention the subsequent restructuring of an entire provincial power base.

Some men might have at least cracked a smile at the obvious shock showing on his audience's faces but not Lord Niles Brekovich. The man remained as cold as ice and as calculating as the most emotionless of scholars. He filled the deepening silence by raising his mug to signal for its refilling. Anders eyes fixed on that mug with intense longing and he felt new torrents of sweat spring forth from his brow. Then he saw the serving maid; she looked familiar but he couldn't quite place the feeling. She was blooded, of that he was certain, and she held herself with some bearing despite the large purple bruise on her cheek and the scabbed-over cut on her lip.

Niles Brekovich followed his son's gaze. “She is one of Lord D'roan's daughters,” he said with an even voice. “I took her at Elder's Gate, smashed her army. That fool D'roan's penchant for arming his women will be his undoing. He'll pay the ransom soon enough though I intend to send her back to him with child.”

Now Anders recognised her; Lady Emin D'roan. He'd first met her ten years ago at a ball held by the late Lord H'ost. She had been wearing one of the most provocative dresses Anders had ever seen; a green slip of silk that had covered her from neck to ankle but left nothing to the imagination. Every man at the ball had been drooling over her and Anders himself had tried every trick he knew to find his way underneath the dress. She had refused his every advance but in such a way that had left him wanting more.

Now the Lady Emin was dressed in the common garb of a serving maid and Anders found he still wanted to see what was underneath. She almost dropped the pitcher of beer at Lord Brekovich's final words. She was no doubt terrified and rightly so. Once Anders might have helped the poor woman, for a price of course, but right now he had the distinct impression he couldn't even help himself. After a dismissive wave from Lord Brekovich, the blooded captive backed away. No doubt she had already been taught the finer points of what awaited her should she disobey her captor.

“You can correct me if I am wrong, father, but,” Anders waved in the general direction of all of the tables, “I believe D'roan isn't the only one to arm his women.”

“Hah!” The exclamation came from the woman sitting next to Francis Brekovich, a woman Anders also remembered all too well, Lisha Tenith.

Anders remembered Lisha when she was a young girl; she had earned the name Lisha Ball Breaker; which at the age of eight years old had seemed a wonderfully clever nick name for her. Then when they had started to age, Anders had started her new nick name of Lisha Flat Chest, which incidentally had led to even more ball breaking. When they started to hit adulthood, Anders had dispensed with the nick names and started calling her darling or my lady and love, not least of all because the previous nick name no longer suited her. At first she had seemed resistant to Anders' wooing and pretty compliments but that hadn't lasted long. She was looking good these days but Anders still remembered her stark naked with her legs wrapped around him, making a wonderful purring noise. He somehow doubted she'd ever make that noise at him again. He forced himself to stop grinning at her but couldn't resist adding in a cheeky wink.

“D'roan's women are sticks,” Lisha continued, ignoring Anders. “This one was famed for her prowess in battle. Now she is famed only for her prowess in cock sucking.”

There was a general roaring of laughter from the tables as if Lisha's comment was the wittiest thing any of them had ever heard. The only one who wasn't laughing was Lord Brekovich himself and that was only because the man didn't know how.

“I seem to remember you were quite good at that very same activity, Lisha,” Anders said with a grin that only reached as far as the mug in her hand.

It took less than a second for Francis Brekovich to draw steel and another second later he was leaping over the table and charging towards Anders with a snarl of fury on his lips.

“Francis,” Niles Brekovich's voice was quiet but the implication was more than clear. Francis slowed to a standstill just a few feet from Anders and stood fuming, his sword hand shaking with anger.