It paid to put a pious face on such affairs, Otto reflected, to remind the men that the sobbing women and shivering, whey-faced lads they were dispatching were a necessary sacrifice to the health of the realm, a palliative for the ailment that had afflicted the royal dynasty for the past three generations. The servants of the tinker families—no, the clan of witches, Neuhalle reminded himself—weren’t the problem: the real problem was the weakness of the dynasty and the debauched compliance of the nobility. Egon might be unable to sacrifice himself or another of the royal bloodline for the strength of the kingdom, but at least he could satisfy Sky Father by proxy. The old ways were bloody, true, but sometimes they provided a salutary lesson, strengthening the will of the state. And so these unfortunates’ souls would be dedicated to Sky Father, the strength of their lives would escheat to the Crown, and their gold would pay for the royal army’s progress.
Neuhalle was sitting on his camp chair with an empty cup, watching his soldiers man-handle a hogtied and squalling matron towards the waiting tree, when a horseman rode up to the ale cart and dismounted. He cast about for a moment, then looped his reins around the wagon’s shaft and walked towards Otto. Otto glanced at the fellow, and his eyes narrowed. He stood up: as he did so, his hand-men appeared, clearly taking an interest in the stranger with his royalist sash and polished breastplate.
“Sir, do I have the honor of addressing Otto, Baron Neuhalle?”
Second impressions were an improvement: the fellow was young, perhaps only twenty, and easily impressed—or maybe just stupid. “That would be me.” Otto inclined his head. “And who are you?” He kept his right hand away from his sword. A glance behind the fellow took in Jorg, ready to draw at a moment’s notice, and he nodded slightly.
“I have the honor to be Eorl Geraunt voh Marlburg, second son of Baron voh Marlburg, my lord. I am here at the word of my liege his majesty—” He broke off, nonplussed, at a particularly loud outbreak of wailing and prayers from the corral. “—I’m sorry, my lord, I bear dispatches.”
Otto relaxed slightly. “I would be happy to receive them.” He snapped his fingers. “Jorg, fetch a tankard of ale for Eorl Geraunt, if you please.” Jorg nodded and headed for the ale cart, his hand leaving his sword hilt as he turned, and the other hand-man, Hein, took a step back. “Have you had a difficult time finding us?”
“Not too difficult, sir.” Geraunt bobbed his head: “I had but to follow the trail of wise trees.” Behind Otto, the crying and praying was choked off abruptly as his men raised further tribute to Sky Father. “His majesty is less than a day’s hard ride away.”
Otto glanced at Geraunt’s horse. He could take a hint. “Henryk, if you could find someone to see to the eorl’s horse…” He turned back to Geraunt as his other hand-man strode off. “How fares his majesty?”
Sir Geraunt grinned excitedly. “He does great deeds!” A nod at the tree: “Not to belittle your own, my lord, but he sweeps through the countryside like the scythe of his grandsire, reaping the fields of disorder and uprooting weeds!” He reached into the leather purse dangling from his belt and pulled out a parchment envelope, sealed with wax along its edges. “His word, as I stand before you, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Otto accepted the letter, glanced at the seal, then slit it open with his small knife. Within, he found the crabbed handwriting of one of Egon’s scribes. “Hmm.” The message was short and to the point. He glanced round, as Jorg returned with Geraunt’s beer and Heidlor walked over.
“Sergeant. How long until you are finished with the prisoners?”
Heidlor shrugged. “Before sundown, I would say, sir. Perhaps in as little as one bell.”
Otto frowned. This was taking too long. “We have orders to march. Much as it pains me to deprive Sky Father of his own, I think we’d better speed things up. So once the men have finished decorating that branch—” he pointed: there was barely room for another three bodies “—hmm, how many are we left with? Two score?” This particular house had been full of refugees, and the village with collaborators. “Strip them naked, whip them into the woods, and fire the buildings with their clothes and chattels inside. We’ll have to rely on winter to do the rest of our work here.”
Sir Geraunt blanched. “Isn’t that a bit harsh?” he asked.
“His majesty was most specific.” Otto tapped his finger on the letter. “I don’t have time to gently send them to their one-eyed father—you say his Majesty is a day’s ride away? We have to meet with him by this time tomorrow. With my men.”
“Oh, I see. If I may be permitted to ask, did he issue orders for my disposition, my lord? I am anxious to return—”
“You may ride with us.” He turned and walked away, towards his tent. “I’m sure there’ll be enough wise trees for everyone if he’s right about this,” he muttered to himself, for the summons was unequivocaclass="underline" It is time to seek a concentration of fluxes, his majesty had ordained. To draw the tinker-witches into a real battle, by threatening a target they couldn’t afford to lose with force they couldn’t ignore. It would mean attacking a real target, not just another of these tedious manor estates. It would probably be either Fort Lofstrom or Castle Hjorth, and Otto would be willing to bet good money on the latter.
Begin Transcript:
“Good evening, your grace!”
“Indeed it is, indeed it is, Eorl Riordan. A lovely evening. And how are you?”
“I am well, sir. As well as can be expected.”
“For a fellow who is well, your face is uncommonly glum. Here, sit down. A glass of the Cabernet, perhaps?”
“Thank you, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Hmm, direct and to the point. Let me ask you a leading question, then. You may answer as indiscreetly as you care—it will go no farther than this room. How do you rate our performance?”
“Tactical or strategic? Or logistic and economic?”
“Whichever you deem most important. I want to know, in confidence, what you think we’re doing wrong and what you think we’re doing right.”
“Doing right?” (Brief laughter.) “Nothing.”
“That’s—” (Pause.) “—a provocative statement. Would you elaborate?”
“Yes, your grace. May I start with a summary?”
“Be my guest.”
“We are engaged in a war on two fronts. I shall ignore the first hostility for now, and concentrate on the second, because that’s the one you assigned me to deal with. Hostilities started when the former crown prince usurped the throne. It is evident from the speed and nature of his actions that he had been planning to do so for some time, and that he had already assured himself of the support of a sufficiently broad base of the nobility, before he moved, to have some hope of success. However, his move may well have been reactive—a response to the imminent marriage of his younger brother. So to start with, we are fighting an opponent who has studied his enemies and who has prepared extensively for this conflict, but whose execution was rushed.”
“Hmm. How do you evaluate his preparations?”
“They were confoundedly good, your grace. His control over the royal Life Guards, for one thing—that was a nasty surprise. His ability to install explosives in the palace—his possession of them—speaks of a level of planning that has given me sleepless nights. The Pervert may be many things but he isn’t stupid. Despite his well-known antipathy for our number, he has studied us closely. It is impossible to now ask his grand-dame how much lore she may have passed on to him, but we should take it as read that when he refers to us as ‘witches’ he knows exactly what we are capable of. For example, rather than holding Niejwein and the castles surrounding it, he immediately departed for the field, where I am told he sleeps among his troops, never in the same tent twice. Sir, he clearly knows how the civil war was fought: he knows exactly what tactics we would first think to use against an enemy noble, and his defenses are as good as anything we could muster for one of our own.”