The Death of a Swordsman 7

7

Before the iron bound doorways of the Baron's hall, Garin stopped. The guards, the Baron's own men at arms and not of the red, drew back so the Svir could approach the Al, who technically outranked him.

"Listen carefully. You're about to walk in there and tell a man his son is dead. You're going to tell him his only message of hope is a lie. I don't care what kind of inane little problems you had with my Red Guard, nor how you got out of it after only two years. There is nothing in your worthless little life that can compare to the amount of pain you are about to inflict. Lay aside your pride and have some respect. You had a father once if you don't have one now. Think about what you're going to say, and who you're saying it to."

Then he turned, and they marched in before Varad could reply.

Beyond the walls were set with soaring columns, matched by exterior buttresses, that supported the lofty ceiling, and between them were high windows of many colored glass. Thus the white marble floor was lit by all colors. It was a warm, colorful room with a regal air. From the ceiling hung many banners, both the war banners of old kings and flags of conquered cities. At the far end of the hall was a low dais of nine wide steps leading up to a high backed chair of oak. It was trimmed with gold and platinum, and above the seat was a wooden bas relief of a sunburst crown.

Wearing the sunburst crown in the seat was the Baron. His birth name was forgotten when he ascended to Lordship by tradition, and he wore formal black robes with white trim. As Varad looked closer he could see that the Baron's robes were neither black nor white in truth, as the body of them was made of many dark colored threads, while the fringe was similarly mulitcolored with pale pastels. So always was the Baron accoutered.

He had a fierce beak of a nose and heavy, craggy brows beneath a high forehead. It was lined with cares. His black hair was winged in gray at the temples even though he was not old. The Baron wore no beard or mustache. His mouth was a thin, hard line with small lips. He looked like he was accustomed to making hard choices, and they hard turned him to a hard man. Garin lead to within ten steps of the dais, and Varad walked the rest of the way alone. At the first step he bowed. Citizens of Dylath-Leen genuflect.

“Sire,” Varad said politely.

“Swordsman,” the Baron acknowledged him.

“I no longer carry that title,” Varad replied.

"Then where is my son?" the Baron asked. His words were neither imperious nor lenient. They were firm and measured. His old face looked down on the tired man, whose features were still rimed with salt from hours before.

Looking up, Varad was hit at once by the weight of his exhaustion. Days of toil and combat came back to him at once. There were word games being played all around him, but he had none of the patience or energy they required. Perhaps clever phrasing would mitigate his problems. Varad was too tired to try.

"Your son is dead. The Kahserac killed him. His body lies in a casket at the bottom of the bay. That is anchored to a wagon which still floats as a marker, but it will sink soon. I need a ship, blocks and tackle, and winches. Time is short." He spoke in clipped, short sentences. There was no room for misunderstanding, but also nothing to cushion the sharp impact of his words on the Baron. The old man sighed and settled wearily into his throne. Svir'Garin said nothing.

"Is there any chance of a mistake?" the Baron asked. His voice was soft. He sounded utterly devoid of hope, that this was just a locked door he must test the handle of before walking alone down a dark hallway.

"No, sire. I carried him north out of the Ungale, from Ngalnek to Hysterat over land with his body on my back. He had begun to turn when I came to the coffin wrights. But he is in a sealed coffin. The bay itself can't get to him, and I know where it lies. The Svir was with me. He can attest to the casket's location."

"Yes, highlander, he briefed me. He said your sword was the equal of what I've heard about it, and he told me of marking with the wagon."

The Baron went silent, but his silence was expectant. From his breathing, the lord of Dylath-Leen had more to say. Varad waited.

"Svir'Garin also told me you guessed the contents of Dyroom's message."

"Yes. I did. The Kahserac lies to you."

"We've considered that," the Baron noted in his tired tone. "You can retrieve his casket?"

"With a ship, and a block and tackle. The bay isn't deep, and the bottom is sandy. It should be no great problem."

The Baron turned to a courtier and said, "Make it happen."

"Sire." The man bowed and left. As he walked past the company, Garin turned to Ve'Pittin and ordered, "Go with him. Make sure matters are taken care of."

"Svir," Pittin assented in almost the exact same manner as the other, only with a salute instead of a bow. It was a sharp tap to the left breast with the empty right hand. Saluting with a sword would likely result in a man cutting his own face. With that Pittin bowed to the Baron and hurried after the courtier. He caught up quickly and fell into pace beside him.

The Baron spoke quietly but not gently. "Tell me how this came to be."

"When you sent me south, you said he was going to Ungale Ngalnek. I went there immediately, and found his body laid on a stone. I took it and left, journeying overland to Hysterat. I went east instead of west to avoid pursuit, but by the time I came to Hysterat, someone was after me. I commissioned a coffin to hold is body and a carriage to carry it, and set out north." He spoke quickly, passing over details that the Baron wanted to hear, forcing the monarch to stop him.

"You say you took his body?"

"Yes," Varad replied.

"How did he die?" the Baron asked. There was a deeply suppressed, dreadful need in his asking.

"In combat. He was wounded in front and behind. Likely he was surrounded and fought to the very end. There was a chest wound that I believe finished him, meaning he wasn't cut down in flight. He met his end bravely, worthy of a prince." Varad spoke very carefully, picking his words.

The Baron stroked his face with his palm. The hall was very silent. Finally the old man continued, and his stoicism returned.

"Wasn't he guarded?"

"Sire?"

"His body, when you found it in Ngalnek. Wasn't he guarded?"

"Yes, he was." Varad sounded confused by this line of questioning.

The two looked at each other across a barrier of miscommunication. Varad had only a faint Hobbol accent, but the Baron felt like they weren't speaking the same language. Much like the warrior before him, the Baron was suddenly intensely tired of playing word games, but a lifetime of politics inured him to aggravation. Nor did he reproach the other for the curt tone. Though the nobles and aids were marking the manner in which Varad spoke, the Baron was inclined to overlook the matter in favor of discerning the events.

"So you took my son from under the eyes of the guards. How?"

"By the sword."

"And you were pursued to Hysterat?"

"I believe my trail was only discovered when I passed through that city. I was pursued after leaving it, but then I was on a fast carriage. It was not until Asali Al that pursuit caught up. I drove it off, again by the sword, but now I was marked. More and more often I was waylaid. It was then I found Svir'Garin and his detachment. I joined them, and we traveled north, across the bay. Then I was waylaid a final time, and the casket was thrown into the sea."

"What was different about that final ambush?" the Baron asked.

"I don't understand the question," Varad replied.

"You said escaped with Kosle from the heart of the Kahserac's city. You speak of driving off pursuit and breaking chase for hundreds of leagues while traveling alone. Yet with a detachment of Swordsmen, you are overcome while coming north by hidden ways. Why then, and not before?"

"In Ngalnek he was guarded by men. Through Asali Al and northwards, we were chased by men. I can handle men. On the bridge, we were attacked by monsters."

A murmur and a titter ran through the previously silent spectators of the Hall.

Varad's eyes snapped to the closest one and his hand fell to his blade, when the Baron asked, calmly, "Does someone find this amusing?"

Absolutely no one did.

"Reverend lord," interrupted the Svir suddenly, and in a voice as low and quiet as the Baron's. His words were very respectful. "As a Swordsman, my hearing is perhaps weak, but Varad's words are true. He speaks about an incident where three good Swordsmen died, and his words are vouchsafed by myself. Perhaps he did not speak clearly."

"I heard that quite distinctly," the Baron replied. "And I do not believe a Swordsman would make mistakes about how his brothers died."

"No, sire. That does not happen."

The skepticism of the audience found itself confronting the integrity of the Red Guard on the matter of dead comrades. Such doubts had best be expressed quietly, if at all, and with great care. Nobles could question the efficacy of the Red Guard, and the superiority of the Red Guard or the White was a common matter of debate. Their honesty was not, especially when they related the fall of their comrades. That could be considered an attack on the entire Red Guard's honor. Murders had been committed over that issue and pardoned.

"Thank you, reverend lord. Please excuse me." Garin bowed. "Swordmaster, please resume your tale for the Baron. You were telling him how our brothers died defending his son's casket."

Garin's words subtlety shifted the basis of the conversation. His implication had put the two of them with the Baron in the unfortunate fraternity of people dealing with dead family.

"A moment, Swordmaster. Svir, what were their names?" the Baron asked.

"Ve'Omat, Ve'Rurous, and Ve'Orok, sire." Garin's voice was quiet, and it lost its professional, dispassionate edge. He sounded like his lord, a tired old man.

"Where are they now?"

"At the chapterhouse, being interred in our mausoleum."

"It is as if they served under my son, and I see no difference. I will speak to my stone carvers. Something should be done for them."

"Thank you, sire," Garin replied.

"Which brings us back to you, Al'Varad. You swore to return my son to me. If he cannot be brought back in health, you were right to bring back his body. When that is complete, I will release you from my service."

He paused before continuing, "Al'Varad, I have your word of honor and full confidence that alone would hold you. I keep you in my Red Guard so they can help you. Go. Bring Kosle back so his father can bury him."

"Yes, my lord," Varad replied. He and the Svir bowed. The house guards escorting them to the palace gates, and then stepped aside with a salute. Garin had to remind Al'Varad to acknowledge it. When he did, the house guards turned and went back in. The other two conintued on.

They met Pittin on the docks. He had two hundred Swordsmen with him. The small army was fully equipped and waiting with practiced patience.

"I assumed that when you said make arrangements, you meant of the militant variety," Pittin explained when the others strode up.

"What? Do you think I thought you were a sailor?" Garin agreed sarcastically. Then, more seriously, "You do have a ship lined up, correct?"

"Two. One's tiny and fast. The three of us can take that and head out first. The other one's bigger but can't leave until the tide changes. It will hold everyone."

"Gods bless the escalation of force. That should be fine."

With Ve'Pittin was Ve'Gelhalt, a crusty old Swordsman who had been frequently passed over for promotion. He was, beside Garin himself, the most senior man there.

"Who's in charge?" the Svir asked.

"Verr Hradt," Gelhart answered. "He's on his way. He sent the men on ahead while he finished making arrangements back at the chapterhouse."

"He what?" Garin demanded flatly.

"He says that since the tide isn't going to change for a few hours, he'll have time. We won't be able to sail before than anyway."

Varad, who had overheard this, snarled something about useless officers mixed with profanity. Garin ignored him. "Make sure you pass everything I say along."

"Word for word, Svir," Ve'Gelhart agreed.

"What's going on, Svir?" one of the redcloaks asked, coming to his feet from a piling.

"Gentlemen, listen up!" Garin bellowed. The group instantly went silent. "Our short-timer has to get something from the bay. People keep trying to stop him. The last time they tried, we were waylaid, and three of our brothers died. This timer we're going to see he succeeds. Are there any questions?"

There were none, and the troops were silent and grim.

"Good. Once we get out to sea, the marker is a wagon. It's anchored to the bottom of the bay with white sideboards and walls. I want everyone of you looking for it. There shouldn't be that many wagons floating ten leagues from shore, so don't get picky over details. Sing out if you see any wagons at all. Also, keep an eye on the skies above. The last time we were here, we got attacked by flying monsters, and I don't want them taking anyone by surprise."

There were nods and frowns. No one spoke. Having addressed the group, Garin and Ve'Gelhart worked out routes, rendezvous points, and suchlike quickly. Meanwhile Pittin and Varad lifted their traveling belongings and headed off.

Traveling with two old campaigners has an odd effect on problems: most of them just go away. The large body of troops trudged off to the larger vessel that would follow while the other three headed towards the head of the dock. They piled on a small ship called the Angry Gremlin with a light beam that only drew a few feet of water. She normally carried messengers and made her living on speed.

"Can we leave now?" Garin asked the captain, a young man named Krose.

"Sure. We've got a good wind."

"Good. Take us to Six Kings's Point."

They were underway almost immediately. As they headed out of the dock, Garin explained what the operation was. "This shouldn't be a problem. All we're going to do is find the wagon and mark it. You should be able to take care of that?"

"I've got a lantern buoy and an anchor ready. I'm also a pretty fair diver."

"Good. Once we find it, we drop the buoy, we signal for the galleon. She'll be coming along behind us. If anything shifty happens, we drop the buoy and signal for the galleon. She can't leave until the tide changes, though, and we don't want to waste time."

"What are we looking for?"

"A wagon."

"No. What is it marking?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I want to know what I'm taking on," the captain argued.

Garin reached into his pocket and started paying him. "It's a secret."

"I didn't care anyway," Krose decided.

They passed the galleon and waved, and hundreds of men waved back. Then they moved into the bay, and headed towards Six King Point under full sail.

The Bay of Dylath-Leen was mostly flat, placid expanse of water, sheltered from the northern storms and winds by the Eyrimae. Six Kings Point was a promontory from the same at the furthest extent of the Ashirak-Dylath-Leen roadway. That road had taken the tenures of six kings to build, hence the name. Beyond this the peninsula was just a jumbled mass of towering stone, high enough to break the storms and send them around to the southwest.

Joined to the Fhysay by a series of narrow channels, here the bay was murderous at the tide change. Traversing in or out was only possible when the tide was static and with excellent cartography. The party had no intention of going to such distance. From the point they conferred with the redcloaked men who manned a watchtower and the origin of the Starlit Way. They had marked the direction of Garin's beacon well and helped Krose plot a course that would nearly mimic the path of the bridge. Leaving further instructions for the troop ship coming behind, the forerunners set out again. Garin asked Pittin to climb the mast and keep an eye out, which he did.

"There are a couple of things you and I need to get straight," Garin said to Varad. They were seated at the prow, watching the waves break underneath the Angry Gremlin's cutting nose.

Varad said nothing, but listened warily.

"First of all, you're back in the Red until this is complete. Which means you need to wear your cloak."

Varad was a bit taken aback. He hadn't expected that at all. "But I'm a short-timer."

"Doesn't matter. You're in the Red now under command of the Baron and have two hundred of my brothers coming along behind you to keep you out of trouble. Wear the cloak until you're formally released."

“I see.” Again Varad spoke evasively. He wasn't sure he wanted to press the issue but was more surprised that Garin had mentioned it. 'Til Death was one of the Red Guard's credos. For him it had turned to 'Til I Can Get The Hell Out Of Here very quickly. The matter twisted and changed in his head trickily. Pittin's thoughts on the matter seemed very clear, and the red cloak clearly meant everything to him. Yet Garin had broached the matter in a way that left few questions.

"Are you sure that would be wise?" Varad finally concluded.

"Well, I'm telling you to be stupid about it. You don't have to wear the red while sneaking any more than you have to carry a torch or sing war anthems. But here and now, yes."

The Swordmaster shrugged. "Very well, Svir. I'll go put mine back on."

"Good, but before you go do that, there's more. You handled the Baron well. It's common knowledge you and Kosle hated each other, so no one expected you to sing his praises. But he had the balls to ask you for instruction after you beat him, so you'd better have the balls to speak respectfully of him in the halls of his father. You did well."

Varad let that roll around inside his head before replying, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Finally, in spite of all the bad blood floating around, I want you to think about how much faith the Baron's putting in you. You did hate his son, but you're the one he gave the responsibility of finding him too. We're just helping.

"Even as short as we've known each other, I think I've got a decent handle on you, and I know the one thing you really care about is swordfighting. That's fine. You're a Swordmaster among Swordsmen, and if you weren't deeply concerned with swordfighting, we'd have a problem. You are, and we don't. Keep in mind that it is respect for your sword arm that gave you this job, and while it may be a shit job, it's also the greatest honor the Baron could bestow upon you. He's trusting you with his son."

After that Varad waited for the Svir to continue, but Garin was waiting for Varad's response. Neither said anything until Varad admitted, "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I'm saying he's paying your skill a deep honor! You should be proud of this. Stop looking for fights all the time."

"Oh."

Varad mulled over that as well. Finally he said, "I'm not sure what you want me to say, but believe me, I am taking this very seriously."

"That's good enough for now. Now get into uniform."

"Right."

Soon everyone on the boat but the captain wore red. They sailed slowly with little canvas, and all eyes were on the sea. Soon, even the slower, delayed galleon caught up with them. Garin waved, and a cheer went up. Then the galleon drew away some distance to expand their area of inspection. So many Swordsmen were in the rigging, looking for the wagon, that her masts looked aflame.