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.

The Death of a Swordsman 6

6

The sun finally set. Now the guards put aside their dice, and all five of them began kicking apart the old ruins for the lumber. This was mostly dry and burned well. They dismantled the docks first, tossing great, dry rotted beams into the fire. They followed with the deck boards. By now the blaze was taller than any of the men, and the crackle was growing towards a seething roar. It was louder than the relentless beat of the waves against the shore. Orok and a comrade tore down a shed and tossed its bones in. Beams vanished into the orange and crimson glow. It was bright enough to read fifty yards from the flames, and still they stoked the fire.

As the twilight darkened a fog began to roll in. The guards weren't bothering to save any wood, tossing everything immediately onto the fire, but some of the larger logs would burn for hours. They were just above the high tide line, blackening the sand, while the sea grew misty. Soon Varad couldn't see the stars, for the fog overhead threw the ruddy glow back down at us. Without needing instructions, Pug harnessed the team, and the messenger was saddling their horses as well. No one asked the Swordmaster to help, but he grabbed a timber Omat was lifting. Without exchanging a word they cast it into the blaze and went out again for more.

Now the bonfire was more than fifteen feet tall. It was hard to get close enough to toss additional wood in, even with the chilling mist, and the men stopped their efforts. Houses had been left untouched, out of respect for those who had dwelt within, but everything else was afire. Even the piers were dismantled as far out as a man could walk without wading. The Swordsman were standing together, looking out into the murk towards the sea with their horses at their shoulders. Everyone looked ready.

Varad did not know exactly when he saw the light. It was hard to distinguish it from the reflected glow of the signal flame, but soon it grew brighter, out to sea in the gloom. At first it looked like a ship, coming towards the shore with beacons lit on the bow. Quickly it grew brighter, and finally the light distinguished itself from the blazing red beacon as a small yellow dot. He realized it wasn't getting closer, nor was it a single light. Instead there were two lines of small flames, lighting one after another. Additional flames were catching on the near side of the rows. They looked like nothing so much as streetlights, being lit by lampsmen on either side of a long avenue. Then they were close, and out of the gloom there were black shadow between them. The Red Guards mounted, and Varad swung up onto the driver's bench with Pug. The team began to walk towards the sea.

Out of the gloom the shadow resolved itself into a stone bridge, with many deep set pillars that the hostile waves shattered against. The near side ran directly into the steep line of the beach, and two guardrails of aged stone stood on either side. They terminated in tall poles; at the top of each was an oil lamp. The lights were further such lamps, marching off along the bridge as it vanished out too sea in the gloom. The party rode down the shore onto the stone bridge, and the transition from of riding on sand to flagstones was marked by ringing hoofbeats. The sound was curiously mundane.

“Come,” urged Garin. “This will take us to Six King Point, less than a mile from Dylath-Leen, where the Baron's lighthouse marks the way for ships at sea.”

Pug looked at his employer. “But there was no bridge before. Did it rise from the sea?”

“They summoned it, most likely,” Varad replied. “No doubt that was what the bonfire was for.”

“But the seabed here is just sand. There's nothing for the pillars to find foundation on.”

The other shrugged. “There must be enough, if this bridge requires foundations at all.”

“It hardly seems possible.”

When he did not get a reply Pug urged his team along behind the riders, and in a clatter of horseshoes on flagstones, drove out to sea. The beacon dwindled behind them, and soon they were alone in the murk on a path lit by streetlights.

The horsemen set the fastest pace the wagon could match. Dylath-Leen was fifty miles away by shore, but perhaps half that directly across the sea. The shore went wide behind them, taking a long arc north around Green Silk Bay, named for the fish that used to spawn there. Garin constantly encouraged chided Pug to hasten, saying the trip had to be complete before sunrise. It was a smooth ride for the road was very well paved and the cracks between the flagstones were slight. Pug had team canting and rebuffed Svir'Garin's continued urgings.

"If they are to run all night, this is the fastest pace they can maintain." Pug told him flatly and refused to budge.

The Svir accepted this reluctantly. "At sunrise we lose the bridge," Garin said. "If we're in the middle of the bay, we'll drown."

"Then on all our lives, I'm telling you this pace will carry us twenty five miles by dawn. If you won't accept it, run."

Garin's face turned to flint. "I am the Red Guard. I don't leave comrades." His words were absolute.

"And that's special," Pug replied condescendingly. "I'm Pug, and I drive horses. We'll have gone fifty miles by morning."

Pug did not mark it, but Garin's eyes flashed with intensity. The teamster's words had flayed across his core. Yet the Svir did not retort. Instead he set the redcloaks to riding before and behind the wagon with Dyroom the messenger protected in their midst. They moved relentlessly, and only Pittin noticed that at the root of Garin's silence he was deeply offended.

The attack came without warning when they were miles from shore. One instant they rode along, the monotony of travel unobstructed, and another black shapes dropped from the gray fog above on leathery batwings. There were dozens of them with tiny emaciated bodies and spreading wings, bony arms and legs with bird claws instead of feet. Worst of all were the long spade-tipped tails that they used like prehensile lances.

Omat went down almost instantly as a leathery thing pounced on him, driving its bladed tail through his body from the back. The spade ripped out his chest, and two more fell on the horse. It had no time to go wild before their claws had torn out its throat. Four more went for each of the redcloaks and the messenger, but here they were foiled. Before he had time to draw his blade, Pittin threw himself from his saddle and tackled the small messenger from his mount. They crashed to the ground and rolled, but the claws and spades of the winged beasts found nothing but empty air. Another of the Red Guards, Ve'Rurous, was impaled through the throat as he drew, and his body was yanked aloft. Garin tore his sword free and defended himself desperately, trying to put his horse between the airborne horde and Pittin, where he lay near the guardrail.

A great swarm of them went for the wagon. Alerted by the deaths of the guards around the wagon, Varad rolled backwards out of his seat and landed on the casket, sweeping the Song of Winter free of its sheath into an overhead circle. Bodies and blood dropped out of the sky in a black rain. Hurling himself to his feet, he hacked at the cluster overhead. Their batlike wings were strong, but the leather sheared easily. Avian bones splintered before his sword.

There was a tortured scream, and Ve'Orok had his chest ripped open. His boots were no longer an issue. Pug had thrown the brake before tumbling out of the seat. The team was panicking, rearing and screaming while the portly driver tried to get away from smashing hooves. Garin was beset on all sides, and though he'd killed several, now his sword was hilt deep in the leg of a beast that was clawing at the sky, trying to get away. Two more grabbed him and bore him aloft. Pittin had his blade out and the messenger wedged into a crevice in the guard rail behind him.

Varad took a running leap and snagged a long tail just above the barb. The thing buckled in the sky and sank. Flailing mindlessly, the barbed tail scored his leather glove above the wrist until he sheared that off. After that it still continued its blunt stabbing. The Swordmaster climbed until he got his hands on Garin's leg, sliced the wings off one, and chopped the other one into pieces. With both their weights on Garin's blade, it tore free of the black leg, ripping the talon with it. They plummeted into the northern water.

When they broached the surface, the fluttering pack of dark beasts was clustered over the bridge. Pittin was running, keeping the messenger between him and the railing while he fought off his attackers. No one else on the bridge was moving. Garin and Varad swam for the pillars, finding them as well made as the road surface. Now that proved a horrible problem, for the stones were so close set that there were no good handholds between them and mist had made them slick. Without asking, Garin grabbed Varad by the leg and heaved him upwards, driving the Svir underwater. The Al caught the rim of the bridge, an ornamental gutter carved of volcanic stone. He threw himself over the side.

The wagon had been torn to pieces, and the bat creatures were picking at the coffin. Knowing Hysterai coffins were never meant to open, Varad ignored it and set upon the horde that beset Pittin. The old man was dragged Pug to the railing as well, and was holding off three attackers with desperation and fury. No one noticed Varad hit them from behind, and then everything nonhuman died.

"The others?" Varad asked.

"No. The Svir?" Pittin snapped angrily.

"Swimming," Varad replied, glancing around for a means to drag the other Swordsman back onto the bridge.

"Behind you!" Pittin interrupted, pointing.

The things were taking the coffin. A flock of them had distributed the restraints between them, and ponderously they heaved it into the air. It cleared the wreckage of the wagon, and began to lumber ponderously away over the sea. Varad went after it. He caught a trailing strap and swung wildly.

Once on the strap it wasn't hard to climb up to the nest of cords underneath the casket. By then they were rising out of the fog and into the clear, dark air. Below him the unnatural pathway of the fog ran across the bay in a line as straight as a plumber's. If dropped, the casket would hit the surface of the sea, and the thing would surely sink. Then there would be no way to retrieve it. As the beasts flew higher, the chance of Varad surviving the process grew remote. While he was wrestling with the choice, they simplified it for him by dropping it.

If their mission had been only to insure that the coffin could not be found, it was hard to imagine a better means to achieve that end. The thing rocked the water when it hit, sending up a huge plume of a splash. Varad managed to enter the water cleanly not far away and felt the surge as the thing sank, heading down to the bottom. Now his choices were getting simpler and easier. He went after the vanishing sarcophagus and snagged one of the ropes as it snaked down into the blackness. The coffin dove, taking Varad with it.

As it went deeper, the pressure on his ears kept building. It was like the first time he had gone swimming after coming down from the mountains. He held his nose and exhaled to equalize twice, and then felt more than heard the thud of the great casket hitting the sandy bottom of the bay. At least it was not infinitely deep.

Hand over hand Varad dragged himself down until an outstretched hand felt smooth wood. Blind and holding my breath he tugged hard on the rope, following it to the nest of its brethren. Pug had done his job well, and the ropes were tightly bound to the casket. The Swordsmaster grabbed a mainline and swam up, heading for the surface while tying them together. Yet the Bay was shallow, not more than fifty, perhaps sixty feet. He breached the surface like a whale, and in his hand was a cord that bound me directly to the submerged casket. At least he wouldn't loose it.

Of course Varad had no idea what to do now. He was alone in the middle of Green Silk Bay, and at the bottom was a thousand pounds of mahogany. He could tread water for a few hours, certainly, but not long enough for the Red Guards to ride the bridge to its end, ready a ship, and sail it back to find him, if that could even be done. Yet Varad was not yet willing to give up his errand. Somewhere along the way, it had crossed the line from duty to obsession.

The fog bank was not far off. The waves were pushing him around, breaking over his head as the tether kept anchored him to featureless point at the center of a vastness of water. He yelled and yelled.

Like a miracle, Garin heard the cries. Out of the dark he came swimming, a dim shadow against the rolling waves, but Varad kept yelling until he found him. They grabbed ahold of each other in the dark.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, when the waves weren't crashing over his head.

“No. But the coffin sank.”

“Then there's nothing to be done. Let's go back.”

“Not yet. I have a rope tied to it. It's in my hand now.”

It took Garin a moment to realize what the Al was saying. “You want to stay with it?” he exclaimed.

“There's no choice. Go back to the bridge, find something that will float. The wagon's made of wood, so some part of it should do. Bring me enough of it that I can stay afloat here at sea. I'll wait, and you can take the others to Dylath-Leen. Get a ship and come looking for me.”

“You're daft!” Garin yelled. “We'll never find you.”

“There's a chance. But there's no chance you'll find the coffin if I leave.”

“There's no chance if you stay!”

Varad discovered shrugging was impossible while swimming. “How's Ve'Pittin?”

“He's fine. He and Dyroom the messenger took a hard fall, but they can ride. Your man Pug hid under his wagon, and he's fine too. The creatures haven't returned since they flew away with you.”

“Pug's a smart man,” Varad told him. “How's the team?”

“Not good. The night-gaunts killed several of his horses and broke the wagon taking the coffin. It won't move. ”

"Good."

"The hell?" Garin asked.

“It should float,” Varad pointed out.

“Ah. We'll never get it off the bridge by morning,” Garin added. “Plus the current is pushing in this direction. It should be an easy matter to get it out here and secure it. Fine, stay here and I'll be back with the wagon."

"Like I'm anchored to the bottom," Varad concurred.

“Agreed!” replied Garin and left. He swam strongly for the bridge and soon vanished into the static fog bank.

Varad didn't know how Garin persuaded Pug, but the Svir could be very determined when necessary. The Al stayed where he was, treading water, until with a splash the wagon was heaved over the side of the bridge. From there it was a matter of little more than pushing while it floated with the current. He had a loop of the tether handy and wrapped it around the broken axle. The wagon floated with the waves, bobbing heavily in the water. It was a pale tan, and would be easier to see than Pug's original black carriage. Varad dove once more, checking the knots all the way down to the bottom. Water crushed his ears, and the terrifying obscurity of the dark water was all around. It was possible that any number of submerged monsters had come with the night-gaunts to ensure they succeeded in putting the casket forever beyond hope of retrieval. Yet nothing happened, and the ropes were firm. He breached the surface once more and joined Garin swimming for the bridge.

Pug was mad. Pug was beyond mad, and seemed in a state of halted volcanic eruption, just looking for an excuse. Garin must have been quite forceful when he'd explained the plan, and it had not been to the driver's liking. Beyond half, half of his treasured team had been killed. The entire bridge was littered with corpses, and the dark bodies of the slain winged creatures.

“Night-gaunts, you call them?” Varad asked Garin.

“Yes. I've heard rumors of them, but never seen them myself,” he replied, getting Dyroom into a saddle.

“A pity to meet them now, under such circumstances,” Varad agreed. “Pug, we need to ride. Help us put the bodies on your horses.”

“Well, if we had the wagon-” he began, but was interrupted forcefully.

“We don't. It wasn't going to make it to the far shore anyway. There's no time for that. We need to take the fallen with us, and we need to get off this bridge before sunrise. The Endless Bridge only exists during night. With the dawn, it will cease to be, whether we are still on it or not.” Svir'Garin spoke forcefully, and his words left no room for argument.

The driver turned his attention to the Al. “What about your precious cargo?” he asked angrily.

“We're coming back for that,” Varad told him.

“There is no time. We must hurry,” Garin interrupted.

Varad agreed and turned to the team. Pug didn't like doing it, but they stripped the harnesses from the three unhurt horses and bound the bodies of the fallen Red Guards to their backs. Then the remaining five took the mounts. Pittin's horse, as well as Dyroom's were unharmed. Garin's was unhurt as well. For some reason the night-gaunts had only killed the mounts of the dead riders. But that left five people and three horses. We doubled up the dead, and tried to put Dyroom in the saddle with one, for he was the smallest person and the easiest for a mount to carry double, but he flatly refused. There wasn't enough time to fight about it. In the end, Varad rode with a corpse, while Pittin and the messenger rode double. Then they set off, pushing as hard as we could. Matters had been close before, and now there was much uncertainty if the survivors would make it at all.

They didn't. The first rays of dawn broke the horizon when they were in the final stretch, riding hard for the shore. At once the bridge seemed to shimmer. At the next step the horses took the stone underneath shattered like spun sugar candy. Then all the horses were falling, and the streetlights winked out. They plunged down into the cold water and were nearly lost. On their own the horses got upright and broached. Then they swam for the shore, needing no encouragement. Dripping wet, they rode onto the beach, and the fivesome were met by a dozen red cloaked guards. Happy greetings died on their lips as they saw the grisly burden.

“Give me the reins,” one said, speaking coldly, like he was either furiously angry or hiding terrible grief. He took the bridle of Varad's mount. At once the Swordmaster slid off to the sand and relinquished the beast to him. Another Red Guard took the other horse. Then the Swordsmen gently lowered their dead brothers down and laid them on their cloaks in the sand. The bodies were already stiffening, and they lay unnaturally.

Six Kings Point was a narrow peninsula that reached out from the northern side of Dylath-Leen. It had a bony central highland, nearly a hundred feet tall that fell away sharply on either side. At the foot of the bluff was a rocky beach. On the furthest tip of the point there stood a great lighthouse, and it reached another hundred feet above the bluff. In the dawn it was the color of roses. The Red Guards had who'd come to meet their fellows had brought a carriage in case they were tired, but now that used to carry the dead with as much respect as possible. The rest rode behind with bowed heads. Garin and Pittin were offered dry cloaks by their brothers. They accepted and clean clothes were also donated to Pug and Dyroom from the backs of the mournful Swordsmen. Once they realized who Varad was no one made any motion to offer him anything.

“The short-timer is back,” one observed, looking over with hostility. Varad opened his mouth to respond but shut it silently. Instead he rode along behind the pack and said nothing.

Garin told his brothers of how they'd met, though said little of the Al's mission beyond it was important. So they came to the city, and the guards branched off to go to their capterhouse. It was a tall building of high walls, just outside the great keep of the Baron but within the curtain of the citadel. The house was a small castle itself, built in the style of the northern fortresses, and Varad knew it well. He'd spend almost all of his two years in the city there. Now he had no desire to see it again. He left without crossing the gateway.

Pug's hostility was partially mollified when Varad gave him almost all the money he had left. The fat man was still unhappy, of the opinion that he deserved more. Yet there was nothing Varad could do, and he had given him more even then the promised bonus. In the end the driver went away disgruntled. It had been days since Varad had slept, but he hied at once to the Baron's keep, and entered the official channels for getting a meeting with the lord of the city.

Soldiers awoke him when they burst into a waiting room. Varad nearly drew on them in his haze, but paused when he saw Garin.

“Dyroom has made his report to the Baron, and I told him what you had told me,” Garin explained, while men in the white and blue of the Baron's house watched with hands on their weapons. “He sends for you to tell him everything.”

It was odd that they came to arrest him and bring him before the Baron, when that was what Varad had spend all day trying to do. At the sight of their arms Varad nearly fought them anyway, but realized that in winning, he would only have prevented the meeting he wanted. Stifling his tired hostility, Varad fell in behind Garin and let the Svir lead him on.

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.”