King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One (28 page)

Like he felt when he found out the truth of Valric’s death. He thought there would be greater guilt, or anger, once he’d plied those words from the guard’s lips. He thought he’d would want Kells dead, to serve justice. But he didn’t, because... it was battle, and Kells had acted with honor to save his mens’ lives. Valric had set out on a fool’s quest, put his men in danger, acted recklessly… all of the things Marrol had expected from the prince. That was why he distrusted Kells’ account to begin with: men who were born ingrates seldom acted any other way.
Once an ungrateful, insolent shit
...

What does that make me, then?
Marrol wondered, as he penned a last few lines, and asked Ostre to meet discreetly - one day later, on the edge of town.
Have I always been an immoral man at heart, and never thought to test it?
He sealed the letter with wax, and no stamp, and set out to find a child to deliver it on his behalf. A poor one, whose silence could be bought.

He hoped it all would be worth the risk. That, it seemed, was the greatest thing on his mind - successes beyond his dreams were well within his grasp. He only needed to be bold, and take them.
The risk is always worth the reward,
he thought.
As in battle, as in life.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The women rode fast and swift through the night, like wraiths; they made no stops until they thundered through the outskirts of Dunsbrook, and found the inn Dyern mentioned. It was hardly an inn, or a building; more so a skeleton of a house, with boards barely attached. A nervous, disheveled woman leaned against the building’s outside, and nibbled at her fingernail. Sophine and Bevi passed her without so much as a look, but before they entered, she grabbed at Sophine’s arm.

“M’lady,” the woman said, “Please. I don’t want to do this. Help me - you’re a mother. I know you are. If you know what you’d do for your children, at the cost of your soul.”

Sophine pulled her arm away. “Do not touch me,” Sophine seethed.

“Please, M’lady, anything, anything will help - copper, silver, just… there’s naught I have left except myself to offer, and my babies can’t go hungry. Please.”

“Then go to the temple,” Sophine said, “avail yourself of their kindness. Learn a trade. And leave us be.”

“No one’ll teach a whore,” the disheveled woman protested; her plea became more emotional, and then, caustic. “Do it once, only trade you’re fit for is on your back for the rest of your life. You don’t know what that’s like. You’re noble blood. Bet your husband’s even got a gold prick.”

Sophine stopped cold, and looked back at the woman with a hateful glare. “My husband is dead,” she replied, “And if being a whore bothers you so much, go live somewhere you aren’t.”

The woman started to reply, but Sophine ignored her, and entered the inn with Bevi at her side. It was lit with dim candlelight, and mostly empty, but for some raucous men playing cards in the middle of the room. Among them, she saw her man from the White Stags in the middle of the room – a blonde, well-dressed mercenary who was older than his counterparts, held himself taller, and missed the lower half of his right ear. Dyern Westfall. And from the sound of it, she judged, they’ve drank the better half of a barrel. She waited several seconds, and then walked over; Bevi hesitated, but caught up with her steps.

Sophine walked up to the table, and came to a stop across from Dyern; he glanced at her, smiled, and gestured to his men. “Go on,” he said. “Bow to the Duchess, you mongrels. And give me my winnings, while you’re at it.” The men stood up, and tossed pieces of silver and copper into a small pile, which Dyern raked into his purse.

“I see you’ve kept yourself occupied,” Sophine replied. “I can smell it on your breath, Dyern.”

“In my defense,” Dyern replied, as he pulled his purse strings tight, “I’d have thought you’d take until sunrise, at least, and there’s precious little to do at this hour. Such late travel doesn’t befit a woman of your stature - but then again, I’ve paid the barkeep to forget if he’s seen any highborn women tonight. Shall we conduct our business, then?”

“Not yet,” she said, watching the door. “Not until my men get here.”

“What’s the matter, Duchess?” he said, with a sarcastic smirk. “You don’t trust bought men?”

She didn’t acknowledge him; she only watched the door, hoping that Kells chose well. Long minutes passed, but eventually, two men entered; one, slim and red-haired, but with a strong intelligence behind his green eyes, and a satchel over his shoulder. The other, tall and broad-shouldered, with blonde hair and a warrior’s eyes - and a broadsword strapped to his hip. Fenwyn noticed Sophine, and gave her a nod; he strode towards her, the satchel never leaving his grip. Josske walked two paces behind him, with vigilant purpose. She was glad; Kells had done his job especially well.

“Here are my men,” she said to Dyern. “Now, let us do business.”

The mercenary smirked, and then whistled. A minute later, three men came down the stairs: two held a large bag between them. The third, two slightly smaller bags - smaller than what she assumed was the axe, but still larger than a purse. She winced; those, no doubt, were the proof she asked for. They heaved the items onto the oak table, and Sophine unrolled the thick sack-cloth that surrounded the larger bag, until at last she came to the parts of the Peacebringer axe - the head, separate from the haft, both gleamed as brightly as when they were first polished. She glanced at the other two bags; she would have to open them, too, before the night was done, and she did not anticipate looking through them.

“The parts look genuine,” she said, admiring them, “But looks are deceiving, when so much money’s involved.”

The mercenary captain raised an eyebrow. “A good move,” he said, “If I were to spend as much as you did to find them, I’d be careful, too.” He gestured outside. “Perhaps you have a test in mind?”

“I do,” she replied. “A test of sharpness. Take out your sword, if you wouldn’t mind?”

He hesitated. “What’s the matter, then?” Sophine asked, noticing his brief pause. “Afraid it won’t pass muster?”

Dyern looked her in the eye, and gently scoffed. “No, just that I’ve come to like this sword,” he replied.

“All the better for my satisfaction, then,” Sophine said. “Give it to me.” Dyern reluctantly obliged, and handed her the sword. “Now, hold the head upright, with the blade to the sky,” she instructed him, and motioned to the Peacebringer. He chuckled, and placed his hands on the axe.

“You know,” he said, “if you blind me, that’ll cost you.”

“Hold it up, and be still,” she said. “And you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“Duchess,” Bevi began to protest, but Sophine heard Fenwyn cut her off.

“Just let her do it,” Fenwyn said. “She has to be sure.”

Sophine watched as Dyern held up the axe head by the back, struggling to use both of his hands to do so. She waited, until he had held it for some time, and enjoyed watching the frustration color his face. “Will you swing, Duchess, or is this a test of patience?” he asked, as his muscles quivered.

“I must be sure you’ll hold it still for me,” she said, as she raised his sword; a light thing, evenly balanced, made of Silenian steel. She saw the craftsman’s mark on the blade, and for a moment, felt proud of her countrymen’s work; a Silenian woman could always take pride in that, no matter who she married. Then, she swung it through the air; it collided with the axe Dyern claimed was the Peacebringer. The sword split in half upon contact; the blade flew off, and embedded itself in a nearby table with a
thwang.
It narrowly missed Dyern’s arm. Sophine estimated six inches of steel still held strong to the handle, still safely in her grasp. She smiled; Dyern chuckled nervously. “Are you satisfied, Duchess?” he asked.

“No,” she said, and motioned to Josske. “It’s time for the bjarl, I think. To be certain.”

Dyern’s face whitened as Josske produced the sword at his hip; it wasn’t a sword, so much as it was a solid piece of metal, studded with spikes – an iron war-club, thicker than a man’s wrist. “We must be sure,” she said, with a soothing voice, “As must you, for your efforts. Fenwyn?”

A large bag of gold coins fell on the table, next to the Peacebringer parts. Sophine watched as Dyern eyed it, and looked back at the bjarl.

“It was your sword, and an expected demonstration.” she said. “A club’s a better test, by any measure.”

“I agree,” Dyern said. His eyes darted over to Josske. “So be quick, and don’t miss.”

Josske cracked his neck, and put both hands on the bjarl’s grip. His muscles tensed. “Don’t drop it. I doubt that’s something you can afford,” he said.

“If you hurt me-“

Dyern flinched as the bjarl came hurtling towards him; sure to his word, he held the axe head firm, and the club’s end broke off clean on contact. It cracked against his hand, and he dropped the Peacebringer’s head with a pained yelp - it fell, and cleaved the wood floor below.

“Fucking tooth-shitting bastard,” Dyern howled. “You broke my hand!” Sophine smiled; not for his pain, but, rather, for the success.

“It’s genuine, then,” she said. “Good. Josske, Fenwyn,” she said, as she gestured towards the table. Josske bent down, and took hold of the axe head; he worked his fingers into the grooves on the back, and pulled it out of the wooden floor. Fenwyn dropped three bags of gold coins on the table, and took the sack-cloth and the axe’s haft. “Our business is concluded,” she said. “The rest of your money is in the bags.”

“And you think my men’ll just let you leave,” Dyern grunted, clutching his hand, “after what you just did to my hand?”

“If they’re wise, yes,” Josske said, with a faint smirk on his face. “And they’d give us a bag back,” he said, indicating the gold. Sophine watched as Dyern’s eyes widened with rage.

“Who the hell are you?” he spat.

“Josske Akenfeld, formerly of the Wolves of Thunder.” he said, as he lifted a bag of gold from the table. The mention of the name struck Dyern with shock. “You know who I am. And your men would be very, very wise not to anger me.”

“You’re not Josske. He’s dead,” Dyern said, his voice quavering. “They gave him a burning funeral.”

“Not dead, only gone,” Josske said, with a smirk. He lifted the bag up, and tossed it to Sophine, who caught it. “But that was nice of them.” But as Sophine watched him prepare to square off, she had second thoughts; she threw the bag at Dyern, much to Josske’s surprise.

“A deal is a deal,” She announced, as she inspected the remaining two bags - she saw the heads, and in each, what she could only assume was preserved flesh. She felt sick to her stomach as she pulled the flesh out of one bag, to examine it. She had to be absolutely certain, and as she feared, it was a Barrish chest tattoo, marking the man as a soldier, along with his rank. “And the letter, with the illustrations?” she asked, barely hiding her disgust.
So it was Marrol, after all
, she thought.

Dyern reached his good hand into his pocket, and produced a sealed letter, marked in wax with the White Stags’ crest. “Take it,” he said, offering it to her, “and be gone.” She plucked the letter from his hand, stuffed the flesh back into the bag, and pulled the drawstring tight. Bevi took the bags in hand.

“Good day to you, Captain,” she said, and walked out the door. She heard footsteps behind her, and Josske’s last taunts at the mercenary captain… but none of Dyern’s threats were made tangible. As she and Bevi made their way to their horses, tied up at a post, Sophine found herself again face to face with the woman from earlier; the desperate, furious, loud one.

“You still think you deserve my money, I assume,” Sophine said, straightening her back.

“No,” the woman said, her eyes locked on Sophine’s. She drew her neck back, and spit in Sophine’s face. The Duchess was mortified. The woman laughed, and Sophine could see the tiny gaps in her mouth laughing with her. Bevi flew to Sophine’s rescue with a kerchief, but Sophine shooed her away.

“You enjoyed that, did you?” Sophine asked.

“It’s not often you get to let a Lady know her place,” the woman said, chuckling. Sophine imagined that, with that approach, the woman expected any such insulted noblewoman to run away in shock – leaving her to treasure that moment as a private amusement. So she would not envision the fist that drove into her mouth, or that the few decaying teeth she still had would be knocked loose. Or the second fist that came after, that blackened her eye, or the third, which struck her nose, and brought a gush of blood forth. After all three had landed, the woman regarded Sophine with shock and surprise.

“Your greatest mistake,” Sophine said, dead-eyed, with peeling wounds on her knuckles, “was thinking me a Lady.” She watched as the woman ran away, and took no small amount of satisfaction in it.

“Shall we meet you in town, then?” Fenwyn asked, from behind her. She turned, and saw him holding the bags full of proof; Josske had already strapped the halves of the Axe to the sides of his horse.

“That may be best,” Sophine said. “We’ll need to think of how to bring them into the castle, undetected.”

“Duchess, if I may be so bold,” Bevi said, speaking up, “I have a suggestion.”

The riders parted, and rode out into the night - with Sophine and Bevi taking a longer route to get to Fenwyn and Josske’s house, to acquire the means of executing Bevi’s plan. Sophine hardly regretted what she did; in fact, the exhilaration helped her feel more alive than she had been in days, on the ride home. Josske and Fenwyn followed close after, on their own steeds, and Sophine had felt glad for her message reaching them in time. But the day was still ahead of them, and Marrol would not make it easy for them.