At about the same time, in the town of Morguhnpolis, another nobleman was hearing the report of a spikebearded visitor. The visitor knelt before the lord, still in his hacked and dented armor, a bloodcrusty rag wrapped around his head and another around his right hand.
When he had mumbled the last word of his summary, the nobleman hissed, “You clumsy, witless, bungling fool!”
Jerkily, the armored man crawled a few feet closer and, raising his hands in supplication, stuttered, “Please … if it please my Lord … we did all that mortal flesh…”
A chopping motion of the nobleman’s head silenced the supplicant. Leaning far back in his chair, he jerked a dark red rose from a silver vase on the table beside him and pressed it to his nostrils, snarling around the stem, “Get away, you pig! Your mortal flesh stinks, and nothing you have done or countenanced this cursed night pleases me!
“What made you think we wanted the Thoheek’s son killed, you witless ape? Who gave you leave to think, anyway? Better, far better, for you had you heeded the good Lady’s advice!”
“But … but, the men …” the spikebearded one started.
“Damn you!” growled the nobleman. “You were represented to me as a veteran soldier, who had command experience. If you truly commanded soldiers, why can you not handle a pack of oafish servants and stupid peasants and city gutterscum? Never mind. I don’t wish to hear any more of your excuses. You answer my questions, no more!
“Succinctly, then, thanks to your ill-conceived and amateurishly staged little skirmish, the Staheerforeeah has at least twelve members dead and as many more missing or unaccounted for, not to mention the losses of painfully collected arms and equipment. And what did this blood sacrifice buy our Holy Cause? Hah! Two barbarian mercenaries and possibly a traveling bard slain; and two nobles wounded! And one of these nobles is a Kath’ahrohs, to all intents and purposes, whom we still have reason to think we can convert to the True Faith. As for the other … what in God’s name did you dimwits expect to accomplish in the death of Thoheek’s son, Bili?”
Eagerly, the soldier grasped at this straw which might possibly redeem him. “It has worked very well, Lord, in other places. Slay the heir and you put question to the lawful succession, and…”
The nobleman’s fleshy lips curled back to expose his even teeth-amazingly white for a man of his middle years. “You ambulatory dungheapl This is not ‘other places’!” he snarled. “True, the present Thoheeks is in ill health and, I have been reliably informed, is partially paralyzed and assuredly dying, though slowly. But-and of this matter you might have inquired before you did the irrevocable, the Lady could have told you every bit as easily as I—the death of Bili would lawfully throw the succession to Djehf, his junior by about six months. The death of Djehf would lawfully make Thoheeks of Tchahrlee, Bili’s younger by roughly a year. The death of Tchahrlee would see the accession of Gilbuht, and the death of Gilbuht would give the title to Djaikuhb; and so on. Dammit, the Thoheeks has nine living sons! How many do you think the Staheerforeeah could assassinate, ere we all had a Confederation expeditionary force breathing down our necks, eh? You and those fools you presumably lead may have suicidal tendencies, but I, for one, have no wish to adorn a damned cross!
“Not only have you wasted good men on a fool’s errand, but this bit of stupidity may well have jeopardized the entire structure of the Staheerforees in this duchy, especially if any of those missing have been taken alive!”
“But … but, My Lord,” stuttered Spikebeard. “None of … they are all … all have taken the Sacred Oaths, they would never betray…”
The noble leaned forward and hissed scornfully. “Have you never heard of torture, then? Oaths, sacred or otherwise, mean nothing to a man whose pain is sufficiently unbearable! Oh, damn you to the lowest reaches. If they have one of ours we may have to strike ere our time is truly ripe, ere our western brothers have done their own work and can join us!”
Spikebeard raised his bloody head, squared his shoulders, fanaticism gleaming from his eyes. “Nonetheless, My Lord, you must know that we will triumph, for God, the one True God, is on our side!”
The noble sighed. “Oh, yes, we’ll triumph. But lacking surprise, truly overwhelming forces, and more professionals than this Duchy can presently count, the butcher’s bill will be high, very high. One look at your sorry state would tell anyone that!
“Speaking of which, one would hope that you came into the city unseen? Did you scale the wall, come through our tunnel?”
The kneeling soldier crimsoned and fidgeted. Through trembling lips, he at last managed to mumble. “I … I rode through the … the gate, My Lord. But … but I … I had my cloak so arranged that … that none could possibly have seen my armor and…”
The noble clenched his fists and his dark eyes flashed fire. “What in hell kind of soldier are you, or were you ever really a soldier at all? Don’t you think the mercenaries at the east gate could tell you were wearing armor, cloak or no cloak, you idiot? A man carries his body differently in armor, any fool knows that!
“So you rode through the east gate, bleeding, in armor, and wearing a sword, and, fool that you are, you came directly to my house, eh? Damn your eyes, I should have your life … would, were you not so highly connected elsewhere!”
The kneeling man’s face had faded from crimson to pasty white, his lord’s reputation for cruelty being well known and equally well earned. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it with a snap when the noble added, “And still may, if I hear one more odious yap from your dog’s mouth!”
He struck a small gong on the table at his side. Two brawny, olive-skinned guards opened the door and entered, bowing.
Vahrohnos Myros waved a graceful, manicured hand at Spikebeard. “Take him to your barracks and strip off his armor, every scrap of it, mind you. You, Ahngehlos, bundle them well, I want no one to suspect what you’re carrying. Bear the armor to Paulos, the smith. Tell him to immediately break up the plates, burn off the leather, and dip the metal in acid, before he scatters it throughout his scrap heap.
“As for Captain Manos here, humm. Feelos, send a man for a physician to tend a man injured in a barracks brawl. By the time the doctor arrives, I will expect his patient to look the part. Take him away!”
VII
Mahrnee and Behrnees Morguhn, wrapped warmly against the chill morning air, received Komees Djeen and Bard Klairuhnz in the broad foyer of Morguhn Hall. Standing on the main staircase, the ladies were flanked by Vahrohnos Spiros Morguhn and Clan Bard Hail Morguhn.
The trim old warrior marched in, his braided grey hair coiled about the crown of his head to pad the helmet he now bore in the crook of his left arm. He halted and stiffly bowed, his armor clanking.
“Ladies Morguhn, Cousin Spiros, Cousin Hail, greet the Sun. I am sorry to rouse your hall at so early an hour, but midnight last saw a brisk little melee at the Forest Bridge. I’ve brought a son of this House and another nobleman, both of whom are in urgent need of a physician’s care.”
The two women paled, but otherwise did credit to their stern upbringing.
Vahrohnos Spiros asked in a tight voice, “Be candid, Djeen. How bad are Bili’s wounds?”
A smile flitted across the Komees’s thin lips. “Ladies and Kinsmen, we may all be proud of the lad, according to Bard Klairuhnz here. You do not know him, of course, but he is a clanless Kinsman who took part in the action, until his horse was slain and he was rendered senseless.