The Death of a Swordsman 5

5

The Bay of Dylath-Leen was twenty leagues wide and forty across from the southern lip where the road met it to Dylath-Leen itself. It was shaped like a bean and fairly shallow. Lofty mountains ran past it to the north, sheltering it from the raging gales of winter. That limb of mountains was called the Eyre'mae for the way it cupped the bay. The bay itself was sunk into the ground between them and the wide plains that the duo had just crossed. Its mouth was partially corked by the Isle Vrarras, and the maps of the channels around the isle were for sale by the Baron. Wise captains bought the most recent ones, and it served as a tax on shipping. Cost conscious captains could copy them from their mates, but such maps were not always accurate or up-to-date. Torn every winter by storm and the raging currents, the channels moved. Bad maps were a dangerous method of saving money.

Beyond that was the sea. It was the Fhysay that reached the to furthest corners of Seminarh. The sea was never peaceful for always breakers beat against the rocks and rotting trees, but now it lurked instead of raged. Threats of great storms were distant as winter, and they rarely came early. The water was a very dark blue save where foam crested the breakers. Of these there were many, beating against the shore hungrily. Beyond the road the lowlands fell away into the water, and the road turned east to skirt the bay.

“Look. The earthquake a few days ago was here,” Pug said, pointing down towards the shore. Seething breakers crashed among the long tops of the dune grasses. A few trees now jutted up from the crashing water, but already their leaves were wilting in the spring.

“The sea gods will eat the whole world in the end,” Varad told him, and for once Pug said nothing. The old pessimistic aphorism was one of the things he did not argue with.

“How long now?” Varad asked.

Pug thought for a bit, pouting at the water in consideration. “Maybe fifty leagues. Five days.”

The swordsman waved him to resume, and they turned to follow the road around the coast. That evening creatures came from the woods. Like those from the churchyard, there were less than half a dozen of the small, sniffling beings who came stealing along the gullies towards the wagon. Varad ambushed them when the clouds parted before the moon, and silver light flooded the coast. One got away, and it fled directly to the tall, thin handler who waited within the trees.

Only the horses noted anything, but they seemed curiously unconcerned by the strange creatures. Pug slept through the night. By morning the bodies were gone, and a faint drizzle washed the blood from the ground. Pug either didn't notice or didn't react to that either, and the pink rivulets had been washed away before they left.

It was hard to sleep in the fitful rain. While the driver continued his narration about all the ills of the world, the Al hunched under his cloak.

The same thing happened the next night. More of the dark, silent creatures came, but the only difference was the number of trips that Varad made, carrying the dismembered dead. He wondered if they found him by his distinctive cloak and ceased to wear it. They did not return a third time, though it rained again.

After a restless night waiting for an attack that did not come, Varad was sandy-eyed and tired when Pug set about preparing to leave that morning. As they were making ready, six riders charged past on the road. They paid the wagoneers little attention, but were watched closely in turn. Five of the six wore brilliant scarlet cloaks, the same as Varad kept hidden, and all carried long spears with curved swords at their sides. The other wore brown and tan cotton, but his cloak was emblazoned with the jade emblem of the Baron. A scroll tube caked with dried mud was bound tightly to his saddle. Two of the redcloaks rode ahead of the messenger, two on either side, and one behind, far enough back that clods were not thrown into his face. They passed at a dead run, and Varad stopped what he was doing to stare after them.

“I wonder where they're going,” Pug asked rhetorically. It sounded rhetorical at any rate, and he asked it without sending Varad so much as a look.

“The Baron's Keep at Dylath-Leen,” Varad answered anyway, guessing that was what Pug really wanted. “The redcloaks are the guards, and the other is a messenger.”

“How do you know?”

“Two years, Pug. Two years,” Varad answered bitterly.

“Two years isn't that long,” Pug said.

“It can be a very long time,” Varad answered, and his tone was hard and acid. “It's plenty to know that when someone has a message for Dylath-Leen and they think it important, the Red Guard will assign a detachment to see it gets to its objective.” Pug noted a subdued anger that he hadn't seen before. It was not the burning rage when they had lost the coffin in the Narrows, but a deep, poisonous anger that had been buried and left to fester. Pug felt unnerved.

Changing the subject, he asked, “What message do you think they're carrying?”

“I could only guess,” Varad replied and went back to strapping in the horses.

“Then what would you guess?”

“I wouldn't.”

They departed in silence, but once on the road Varad urged them to make more speed then they had before. He stared at the road, and the clear tracks on the muddy road. Pug got the team cantering and then trotting. His employer said nothing else while watching the road ahead with clear discontent. It was clear he wanted more speed, but there was no way a laden wagon could match six men, traveling light and riding fast.

Several leagues later the sun had not yet emerged from gloomy clouds, and the road was desolate enough that nothing had erased the tracks. Around midday they came to an intersection, and a decaying road broke off from the highway west, going down towards the bay. They were several leagues east of it, and the shore was out of sight. Between low hills the deep navy bay itself could seen on the horizon. Varad made Pug stop, and stared down the road towards the sea where the six had gone.

“Unless you want to follow them, there's no reason to stop,” Pug told him, wondering at this sudden change in behavior. The hostility his employer had exhibited had been clear, and he did not expect Varad to desire a meeting with them.

“You're right,” Varad agreed. “Let's go.”

Pug lifted the reins, but Varad seized his arm. “No. That way, towards the sea.”

“You want to go after them?”

“We may shave some time from our route yet, and go in greater secrecy and security besides. How many leagues to Dylath-Leen?”

“Less than twenty?” Pug hazarded a guess. “Two days on this road.”

“On this road,” Varad repeated. “We shall see. After them, with all due haste.” Then the swordsman hunched forward on the seat, and lost himself in thought as the wagon turned. On of his hands played with the silk cording on the Song of Winter's handle.

While he knew nothing of the nocturnal fights, he did recognize the other's latent propensity for violence. He wondered if Varad intended to attack six armed men by himself.

He was wrong by a wide margin. Varad was deciding whether or not to wear his red cloak again. He had taken it off to avoid attention, but now it might get him the kind of attention he wanted. It would also be a tacit admission he needed help. He wrestled with pride, but had done nothing when they rounded a low hill and came to the shore. The road ended in a rocky, dirty beach and ruined houses crouched in a cluster. They looked like they only remained upright because they were waiting to die. The sun had finally come out, but the light did little to relieve the gloom. It only revealed how decaying this spot was.

“It's an old fishing village,” Pug said. “The green silkies used to spawn off the shore, and fishing was as easy as plucking them out of the water. Then the schools left, and now no one lives down here. This road doesn't run along the coast at all.”

“You know that how?” Varad asked, searching the ground for signs of the horses.

“You hired me because I know the roads. I know the roads,” Pug replied with injured professional pride.

“Keep going,” Varad ordered. Pug had slowed to a walk, and that pace suited the ruined path. Now the swordsman rose and stood on the running boards, bending his legs to let them absorb the bumps in the path. Soon they were in the midst of the crumbling village.

All five of the Red Guard appeared at once. They stepped from behind cover in perfect unison, sabers drawn. Their cowls were thrown back, but the winds from the sea whipped their capes like flames. Gold threads in the crimson fabric caught the fading sunlight until they all seemed to radiate aura's of vicious power. Pug stopped the team immediately, but the guard made no move to capitalize on their ambush. He shot a worried look up at Varad.

The other had an incongruous expression of deep pride. He was looking at the red guard and their movements with satisfaction. Their sabers were longer handled than typical, but well balanced to be wielded with either one hand or both. All of them now used two hands, and their blades were in a variety of low and side guards.

“Good evening, Swordsmen,” Varad greeted them and jumped to the ground. The Red Guard had taken the word for a personal title, and it meant something special when referring to a red-cloaked man. He moved to the back of the wagon, and the encirclement moved to stay centered around him.

“Why have you pursued us?” asked one cagily.

“What is your name?” Varad asked, ignoring the question. “When did you last go through the chapterhouse?”

The redcloak looked at Varad oddly and made no response. The lone swordsman turned from one to another, trying to make eye contact and searching for a hint of recognition. At first there was none, but one of the younger men met his gaze levelly instead of watching his body for hints of purpose.

“Are you trying to match wills with me?” Varad asked.

The young man cocked his head, confused but said nothing. Varad continued, “If you find it necessary to draw your blade, would it not be better to ignore the vain challenge of the ego and concern yourself with making ready in case I attack.”

“There are five of us, and one of you,” the youth replied. “Your ally has no weapon.” His words and gaze were both firmly confident. Yet a hint of a forgotten memory lurked in the back of his eyes.

“Then you have been entirely too long from training.”

“Al'Varad!” gasped another. “The devil himself!”

The devil twisted to look at that one and smile. “Good evening, Swordsman,” he repeated.

None of them dropped their weapons. In fact they tightened their grips and several stopped standing still, now rocking gently while keeping their weights precisely balanced. Varad's hands were clear of the Song of Winter, but they were taking no chances.

“You put aside the scarlet,” one observed, with neither hostility or welcome.

“My two years ended,” Varad replied. “Besides, I was twice attacked, and I thought they were tracking me by the cloak.”

“You were what!?” snapped Pug. No one answered him.

Instead, the other speaker nodded slowly. “This morning we were attacked as well.”

“Like the ratlings of the Old City in Asali Al?” Varad asked. In order to demonstrate he was not fishing for information he added specifics. "Less than a hand's worth and a handler who hid in the trees?"

“It is as you said,” the speaker agreed. He was slightly beyond Varad's age and held his weapon with deep familiarity. Only one other seemed as competent, and he was even older. The other three youths all had the brash overconfidence of good beginners. “The creatures came during the night.”

“How did that work out?” Varad asked with exaggerated nonchalance.

The others glanced at the speaker, and clearly they were waiting for him to set the tone of the meeting. Mindful of their attention he considered his next words carefully. “Ve'Orok got bitten on the foot,” he said suddenly. “But he was wearing his boots, so the only harm is to his free time. Their mouths are vile, and the spit stained his leather.” His sword point dropped and pointed to the ground.

The others let their swords dip as well, and Varad glanced around. One of the younger men did indeed have a weird mark on his boot and several long scratches that lead towards the toe.

“That's going to take a while to polish out,” Varad told him, trying to be lighthearted.

The younger man grunted.

“Orok?” Varad repeated the name, triggering a slight memory. “Just recently given the cloak and spurs?”

“Yes,” Orok replied. He recognized Varad; it was plain in his voice. “But only my brothers in red may call me that.”

“I remember. You were in my second morning class before I left with the Prince. You learned fast. Committed your weight too early,” he added.

“That's no business of his!” Orok snapped, jutting his chin at Pug.

Varad shrugged, and splayed his hands wide. “Very well. But lets talk instead of fight. Let's not vacillate any more.”

Orok snapped with injured pride and flicked his glance at the more loquacious Swordsman. The other said, “You mean no harm to the Baron's messenger, not any action against his rule?” It was a formal question that echoed oaths they had all taken. There was something of a rite to the way it was asked.

“None,” Varad swore solemnly.

The asker slid his sword back into its sheath, and the others followed suit. “Very well. I am Svir'Garin and left the chapterhouse a very long time ago. The two years you were there I was at the shoulder of mount Illiareth in Cutter. It is no surprise we've never met. Al'Varad you were, but you've left the Guard and wear the red no more. Why did you follow us?”

“I must get to the Baron soon. I must complete my final obligation before leaving his service,” Varad explained.

“I heard something of your final obligation,” Garin replied. He was not sure whether or not Varad still had claim on rank and thus omitted his name.

Instead of replying, Varad cocked his head sideways towards the wagon. Garin followed the gesture, and found himself staring at the huge black coffin. Realization hit him like lightning.

“Is that-”

“Yes.”

“You are in a world of shit,” Garin pronounced, awed by the sudden understanding of the depth of Varad's impending difficulties.

“It gets better,” Varad agreed. “Unless I miss my guess your Baron's messenger carries word from Ungale Nganek. That message is is a lie.”

There was a hiss, very faint, from behind one of the ramshackle buildings. Listening for it Varad could tell that was where occasional steps of restless horses emanated. They must have left their steeds with the messenger, for the footing was uneven and treacherous. Old remnants of the village stuck up from the ground in strange places, making riding uncertain. Giving up the advantage of their mounts was necessary here for anyone without the preternatural skill of Morryin. Besides, Swordsmen should always trust their feet.

“We should talk then,” replied the Svir' and stood upright releasing the hilt of his weapon. The others followed suit. “This is Ve'Pittin, Ve'Orok, Ve'Rurous, and Ve'Omat. The messenger is Dyroom.”

Ve was the rank of swordsman, and it was maintained until a soldier achieved Senior Swordsman at the cohort level. Then he became a Svir and remained that until First Svir of which there was only one per garrison. In the Red Guard now there were six First Svirs. It required great dedication, excellence, and luck to reach Svir at all, and many men retired after fulfilling careers as a Ve. There was nothing above the First Svir save officers and the Swordmaster of the Red Guard, the Al. Yet the Al' did not outrank a Svir for it did not fit directly into the chain of command. Svir'Garin's use of rank for the junior soldiers was unnecessary but a mark of deep courtesy.

Orok and Rurous went to get the messenger, while Omat escorted Pug to where the horses were tethered. They had found some grazing land. Garin walked with Varad down towards the bay, bringing with them the only man older than himself. This was Pittin, and he was gnarled with skin like leather. His face looked craggy. In spite of this his hair was dark, and his step firm. He was younger then he looked.

“How long have you been in the Red Guard?” Varad asked Ve'Pittin as they moved away to have a private conversation.

“Seventeen years,” he replied. “Since the last Baron held the throne.”

Varad nodded, respectful of the time. Garin explained he had only been in for twelve years, but had been luckier in his assignments. “Cutter is a common observation post for the high command, and even the Baron has stayed there several times, reviewing the southern defenses. At one point I impressed him, and was tasked with this assignment because of it. I'm hoping to get Pittin the promotion he's long deserved on this ride.”

Pittin, he explained, had been assigned to Hodor, in the highlands in the east. It was an arid plateau where no one came and few things lived. It had no seasons, being hot and dry year round. “It's a hard draw for assignments,” Pittin admitted. “No one goes there, and we who are assigned to watch the rocks get forgotten. There is little to do, and years to do it.”

“How long were you there?”

“Ten years. After that I got send to Muyr, which is nice. It's in the basket of the mountains, but it's very quiet. It's hard to distinguish yourself and harder still to make rank.”

“Can you practice much?” Varad asked, nodding towards his scabbard.

“I do little else,” he replied.

“When we get to Dylath-Leen, I'd like to see your skill.”

“That would please me,” he said. “I've heard stories of you from the chapterhouse. It's hard to gain that reputation in so short a time.”

“Two years,” Varad replied, but his words sounded hollow. It was juvenile to complain of two years in the heart of a city to a man who had spend so much more in a blasted wasteland.

“And that's such a long time,” Garin agreed. If the words were not so patronizing he would have sounded serious. Examining his position tactically Varad realized he was in no position to talk, so he changed the subject.

“I'm sure you see why I have to get to the Baron,” he said. “I presume by your messenger's hiss that my guess about the message was correct?”

“That's not something I discuss,” Garin replied.

“Wise of you. But suppose that message is from Ungale Ngalnek where the southern Kahserac meets, and suppose it tells the Baron that Prince Kosle has been captured. The obvious ransom is the Baron lifting his prohibition on open southern metal trading. The horned lords are desperate for northern steel, and they can force the Baron to give it to them if they say they have his son.” He paused and waited for a response.

The two Swordsmen were looking at him stone-faced. “That's not the sort of thing we're inclined to discuss,” Garin said again. Varad waited, but they made no move to walk away.

“But you'll listen?” he asked.

“You can say whatever you want.”

“Kosle's in the box,” Varad said suddenly, openly confirming his earlier implication to Garin. “My final obligation is to bring him home.”

“The Baron is going to be most upset with you when he finds out you let his son die,” Garin observed at the same time Pittin said, “You're boned.”

“How much did you hear about my final mission?” Varad asked Garin, ignoring the other's snark.

“Quite a bit. Nearly all the officers do a few years at Cutter, and command stays there. It's central to the southern defense.” This was no secret, though rarely spoken of. As many generals at any post as there were at Cutter made rumors in the right circles, but the Red Guard was notoriously tight lipped about such things. That was only to outsiders, though. Swordsmen talked to Swordsmen.

“Then you might know that in the seventh month of the second year of my time, Prince Kosle ran into some trouble,” Varad said it like it was question, but he would have been shocked if Garin did not know all this already.

“I also heard that by then you'd challenged him five times, and spend two nights in jail for beating him during practice.”

“That happened,” Varad agreed.

“The prince?” Pittin asked, startled.

“We didn't get along,” Varad explained.

“He's the prince!” Pittin exclaimed. “Especially in Dylath-Leen, where his father was the Baron. That's just dumb.”

“We really didn't get along,” Varad repeated vehemently. “Technically, anything that happens during practice was an accident, so his dad shouldn't be able to hold it against me.”

“He's the Baron,” Pittin pointed out. “What exactly did you do to his son?”

“We got into an argument about the importance of practice. Kosle said once you knew something, you didn't need to practice it any more. I disagreed. That was the last time I challenged him, and this time his daddy wasn't around to interfere so we took it to the practice ring with wooden blades. I broke both his legs.”

Pittin looked startled, but Garin nodded. He had heard the story before.

“How did you survive that?” Pittin asked, aghast.

“The crux of the matter was the forward falling strike. Kosle said he had mastered it, and thus it would be useless against him. I challenged him, and swore only to use the forward falling strike. I did. I used it twice.”

“He survived because he was still wearing the red then,” Garin said, overriding Varad's words to explain things to Garin quickly. “The Baron couldn't get him for crimes committed during Red Guard practice until he left the Red Guard. After Kosle could walk again, he went south to do some spying. The prince had been humiliated and was set on covering himself in glory. The best way to do that was do something dangerous. So he went south.”

“A few months later the Baron gets a messenger from the Kahserac. They said they captured the Prince,” Varad interjected. He glanced around to be sure they still had their element of privacy, and then continued. Garin was nodding like he knew all this already. “The Baron sent word back that he wanted proof his son was alive, the typical thing, and then appeals to the Red Guard for their best man to go get him. And guess who the Baron deems the best man in the Guard?” Varad asked cockily.

“Oh, fuck you, short timer,” Pittin told him.

“So I went south,” Varad added, full of himself. Pittin was looking at him with disdain, but Garin did not react. “What no one knows yet is that after I went down south, I found out that they didn't have the prince. They had his body. Humiliated once, the Prince had pulled one of those 'death before dishonor' things and refused to be captured. He'd died fighting.”

Garin blinked. “Oh.”

“Yeah. He died honorably,” Varad admitted and that was just as difficult as Garin's had been earlier. “Raging idiot with a sword, but not a coward.”

“Don't speak ill of the dead,” Garin corrected him.

A retort snapped to Varad's lips, but he bit it back. “Anyway, I got my hands on the body, got out, and managed to get to to the Hysterai. He was getting a little ripe by that point, so I had the casket made, and now I'm taking him back.”

“So that's why you said the message is a lie,” Pittin muttered, pieces falling into place.

“Exactly. The Kahserac can't have Kosle as a hostage, because the prince is dead in a box on the back of my wagon,” Varad explained. “Naturally, the Kahserac is doing everything they can to stop me. If I get to Dylath-Leen and have on of the Baron's dead-speakers identify the body in the casket, their whole plan falls apart. Up till now I'm been traveling secretly, but they have to know I'm almost there. They'll throw everything they've got at me to stop me.

“And then,” he said with a sudden change in tone. “You guys passed me, and I noticed you were riding hard for the north. We all know the Red Guard escorts messengers only when speed and certainty is an issue, so I expected you to right straight through. But you didn't. You came here. So I followed you. If you've got a ship or something, I can skip whatever they've got waiting for me, complete my mission-”

“-and get thrown in jail for the rest of your life,” Pittin interjected.

Varad stopped, open-mouthed. It took him several seconds for his brain to get back on track. “Well, hopefully not. At least the Baron will know his son is dead and not captured, and he'll have the body. That should count for something.”

“You know what I don't believe here?” Pittin said suddenly. “That you're the best. Why would the Baron entrust his son and heir to you? Especially when your enlistment is almost done.”

Varad stared at the water, watching the breakers crash against the shore. “The Baron's very shrewd,” he admitted at length. “He played me. I'm bringing Kosle's corpse back because it is difficult, and Kosle wouldn't. Duty and obligation play a role, but Kosle wouldn't have raised a hand for me. He would have thought it beneath him. This is how I show the Baron I'm better than his son.”

“You'll never win greater esteem in a man then his first born son,” Garin pointed out.

“Then maybe this is how I show the world. You met Kosle? You knew his manners?” There was an edge of acid in Varad's voice that he was trying to keep submerged. It rose with a sick feeling in his stomach. Forcing himself to be calm, he pushed the cold anger down back into the well of hostility.

The two men nodded noncommittally. Varad guessed that Garin would have met the prince at Cutter, while Pittin was an unknown. “Make up your own mind then. I have nothing to say about the man, but you can see for yourself how I act. Besides, any way this sorts out the Baron will want to speak with me, and he will want the coffin delivered to him. Since you go in that direction anyway, let me join you.”

Garin thought hard. He did not trust this Swordmaster who had put aside the red, and Pittin obviously thought he was lying. Regardless, though, the best solution was to bring Varad and the casket back with them. He would let the Baron and the Red Guard high command settle the matter.

“You can come with us,” the Svir decided. “Be ready to leave soon.”

“You have a ship coming?”

“You'll see.”