Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 27

  Cale wiped her nose on her sleeve and introduced him to the others. “You know Tiler. This is Sim, Whitt’s mate, and Rose, their girl.”

  The connections befuddled him, but he’d ask about details later. Whatever Whitt finagled was fine with him. The boy was a blessing to Guardian, almost a son, now that he thought about it.

  Shadows of fatigue ringed the Farlander’s eyes, and she studied him with silent suspicion. The girl was dark-haired, about three, and she beamed up at him, cute as a honeyed cake. He laughed, tickled by his guests, and stunned by his own merriment. “I haven’t felt this happy to see anyone in years.”

  The Farlander’s eyes rounded. She picked up the girl and whispered in her ear. The child pursed her lips and dropped her gaze to the floor. Jagur’s jolly mood evaporated. Influence. He frowned at the woman.

  “Our regrets,” she whispered.

  Cale stepped forward before he could order the woman and child out. “I brought a letter from Gannon.” She handed him a folded, rumpled, grimy piece of paper. “We need your help in the south.”

  Jagur read it, his cloudy mood further darkening. The door opened and his page entered, leading four kitchen helpers, their hands full. Trays of cut bread, hard cheese, and slices of fresh fruit landed on the table with a pitcher of water and stack of dishware. When they turned to exist, Jagur held up a hand. “Wait!” He pointed at his page with the letter. “I order you to stay and play with that one. Keep her distracted.” The letter swung to Rose.

  “Yes, Sir.” His page eyed the girl, his nose wrinkling.

  Jagur raised a bushy eyebrow, making sure no other formal salutes or statements were required, and then finished his reading. He peered at Cale. “All true?”

  “Worse, Commander.” Cale crossed her arms. “The fire was no accident, and by the time we rode, the Farlander district was lit up like a torch. The blaze spread to the city. Breaching the dam was the only way to save anything. We have thousands without homes. The Ellegeans are beating, hanging, and beheading Farlan—”

  “Beheading?” He scowled and glanced at the woman, Sim.

  “Yes, Sir.” Cale nodded. “I saw it myself and nearly chucked my insides out.”

  Jagur waved them to the table, the situation more perilous than he imagined. “Gannon says Antoris intends to march all Farlanders from the Far Wolds. Can you speak to that?”

  “I wasn’t there,” Cale said, “but Tiler was.”

  Breadcrumbs sprinkled from Tiler’s stuffed mouth, and his eyes bulged. “Wuff a momet.” He tried to chew faster and finally swallowed. “The old prod and his trio of dip-wipes are giving them until Brightest Night to scarper out of Tor. Harvest to leave the province.”

  “It’s not even a province,” Cale said. “But either way, he’s added Falcyn and Outlyer in the threat.”

  “What’s he threatening?” Jagur peered at his pipe bowl, the fire out.

  “To make their lives so piss-pecking miserable they’ll beg to leave.” Tiler popped a handful of berries into his mouth. “Then the fire started.”

  Jagur tapped the table, observing the children playing a pretend game, the girl hopping on the stone floor. His gaze swung to Sim. “Will the Farlanders leave?”

  Her slanted eyes narrowed. The fury seething below her skin at the mere question was all the answer he needed. “We are not a warlike people,” she said, her voice measured but as sharp as shattered glass. “But we will spend our fortune in blood and power to protect the land. You may not believe me, Commander, yet I will tell you the truth. Whitt and Gannon asked for our cooperation and forbearance, and we’ve complied. We have refrained from killing your kind. If you fail to protect us as the queen promised, you will unleash an avalanche of destruction that Ellegeance has never seen. Help us, and we will give you what we both desire. Peace.”

  Jagur didn’t doubt one sliver of her statement or the ferocity behind her words. The stew had rattled the pot lid since the Far Wolds War, and he’d talked himself short of breath. His words had slipped off the satin of royalty before they could take hold, and he felt a certain satisfaction that his instincts had been right all along.

  Whitt and Gannon orchestrated a coup, their weapon the queen’s promise, witnessed, confirmed and served up to Guardian for action. They handed him license to act to protect the Farlanders. He folded the wrinkled letter and slid it into a pocket.

  “I need to notify the queen,” he said.

  Cale squared her jaw. “Our guardians will be dead by then.”

  “So will Whitt and hundreds of my people.” Sim stared at him. “If you delay, you simply prove, once again, that Ellegeans can’t be trusted to keep their words.”

  Jagur’s hand staunched the verbal rampage. “I didn’t say I’d wait for a reply. A bird can’t share what I heard here, and I’m not inclined to send one anyway. Instead, I want you three”—he glanced at the little influencer—“you four on your way to Elan-Sia in the morning.”

  Cale and Tiler nodded, but Sim stiffened. “Rose and I can’t go. We’ll go back over the pass.”

  “Not on my watch, you won’t.” Jagur scowled at her. “If it’s as dire as you say, then you’ll at least stay here. Is it too dangerous for little girls?”

  The woman lifted her chin in defiance. “Then, we will remain here.”

  “We’re agreed.” He slid back his chair, grabbed his pipe, and hauled himself to his feet. “I have a letter to ink to the queen and an army to prepare. You’ll excuse me.”

  ***

  Jagur rode behind the vanguard, an army of nine hundred men climbing the rough terrain of the pass behind him. A minimal number of supply wagons trundled along in the rear as he intended this to be a short campaign. Summertide might bake the north coast beneath a sultry sun, but this far south and at the height of the Fangwold peaks, Harvest rolled up early. Layers of cloud painted the sky, lower levels shunting around the jagged crags. The wind smelled like snow.

  They rounded the barren crest and headed down the other side. Before long, the lead riders halted, and he guided his horse forward. The wreckage of the destroyed dam punched him squarely between the eyes. Immediately below them lay the hollowed out lake, watermarks on the gorge walls defining its previous size. Now, a stream ran straight through the rock basin of drowned trees and out the other side. Any sign of the timber structure had washed away.

  A gap in the foothills afforded a view of Tor. Cale hadn’t exaggerated; the city’s western half smudged the valley like a black eye. The gray residue of mud and ash coated the roads and fields from the Whiprill to the lanes between the charred ruins.

  “Thoughts?”

  “It’s not good.” Captain Nordin’s gelding sidestepped, and he patted its neck with a scarred hand. “No sign of Farlander camps. If they’re not in the city, they’ve fled into the forest.”

  Major Parso’s wiry frame sat primly on his saddle. “I’d suggest we avoid the previously flooded areas. Poor grazing and there’s a good chance it’s thick with debris including drowned animals. We’ll cross and make camp there.” He pointed to the long swath of green nearer the trees.

  Jagur squinted and scanned the forest’s edge stretching across the southern horizon. “I want four camps along the southern border of Tor. You decide locations, Parso. I’m going into the city with two hundred men to pay Antoris-Tor a visit.”

  “Two hundred,” Nordin chuckled. “You’re betting he doesn’t appreciate surprises.”

  “I’m not a betting man.” Jagur eyed the two officers. “If Gannon shows up, keep him occupied. Get me an update.”

  “And Whitt?” Parso asked.

  A weary frown dragged down his souring mood. His men respected Whitt, and this foray into the south would do nothing to quell the rumors that he’d acted honorably. “I’ll deal with him after this is finished. If he shows his face, don’t hold him.”

  Nordin assembled the men who’d march into the city while Jagur puffed smoke into the wind. Tor would see them coming if they hadn�
�t already. The goal of this expedition was peace, not war, and the lanky captain doled out cautionary instructions like a headmaster. Within the hour, Jagur took his place at the vanguard’s head, and they started down ahead of Parso and his train of wagons. He tapped the dead ash from his pipe and slipped it in his pocket.

  Before they were halfway down the mountain, a slightly larger number of city guards lined up for a formal reception. “Maintain our columns,” he ordered Nordin. “We’re here to assist them in keeping peace and upholding the law. We’re riding right up to them, and eighty of us are going through. No sense forming battle lines and treating this like a parlay.”

  The captain nodded and heeled around to pass the order down the line. Jagur rocked in his saddle, picking out Captain Pike and his lackeys at the assembly’s fore. He’d met the broad-shouldered, pompous, posturing, pandering, poor excuse for an officer twice and cared for him less each time.

  Nordin rejoined him by the time they were within shouting distance of Tor’s guards. Jagur set an easy pace, and Pike rode out to greet him with a contingent of six other riders. “Greetings, Commander. My respects.” He flashed a winning smile and bowed in his saddle. “What brings you and an army to Tor? Come to aid us in maintaining Ellegean power?”

  “My respects, Pike.” Jagur continued his ambling ride, forcing Pike to rein his horse around and his men to fall in with Guardian’s vanguard. “Heard you’re having a disastrous time keeping the peace down here. The queen ordered us to lend a hand enforcing the law.”

  “Ha!” Pike laughed, the man no fool and choosing to go along with the dodge. “I’m a servant of Antoris-Tor and the law, a prickly merging of interpretations. I wish you luck in the high ward’s hall and on the battlefield.”

  Jagur grunted, the captain’s bravado no surprise. All but eighty of his guardians peeled off at the city’s border. Pike and his contingent of guards escorted Jagur into the city proper. He caught glimpses of the black ruins of the Farlanders’ compound between flood-stained buildings.

  A woman screamed ahead to their right, dashed into the road, and halted. The slim Farlander’s hair was tangled, and blood smeared her forehead and sleeve. Her green eyes rounded as she backed up, spun, and darted into the cross alley. A group of six Ellegeans, men and women, burst into the road, shouting slurs and laughing. Two of them noticed the advancing army and ran back the way they’d come while the other four hunted on.

  “Nordin!” Jagur barked.

  The captain shouted, and two horsemen went barreling around the corner with eight guardians following at a run. Pike sighed and waved to his nearest riders. “Follow them. Arrest them all.”

  “The Ellegeans?” his rider asked.

  “Yes.” Pike flicked his wrist. “Them all.”

  Ahead a sudden eruption of cheers turned Pike’s gaze to Jagur. “I’m afraid you’ve come at an inopportune time, Commander. It’s hanging day. Antoris has two influencers, and they are preoccupied with soothing the guilds grievances. The crowds become a little overzealous.”

  “Nordin!” Jagur bellowed.

  “On it, Sir.” Nordin snapped his reins and his gelding lunged forward. He galloped ahead with all but two horsemen who flanked Jagur, insufferable mollycoddling he didn’t require but was forced to endure. He applied his heels, his horse eager to run. Pike huffed at his side and kept stride.

  Voices flared in a paved square at a wide intersection. People leaned out of windows, and spectators jamming the crossroads raised their fists and cursed. Nordin stood on the gallows cutting the nooses from the next six Farlanders lined up for a hanging. Jagur spied a familiar jowled justice in a plum jacket tiptoeing down the gallows steps and sidling into an alley.

  Horsemen formed a flesh and blood barrier to prevent Tor’s citizens from taking death into their own hands. The throng pelted clods of mud and stones from the road at the guardians and a horse reared, bleeding above its eye. Guardians on foot bulled forward through the crowd, striking out only when struck. Dead Farlanders were stacked in two wagons, and a man with his trousers around his ankles stood on the wagon’s bench and pissed on the corpses.

  Jagur spun on Pike. “Exactly what law do you serve?”

  “Wortin!” Pike shouted and pointed with his chin at the half-naked man. Wortin nodded, swung his crossbow off his back, and shot the man through his chest. Several women shrieked as the newest body joined the others in the wagon, bare rump in the air. Part of the crowd peeled off, hurrying into the surrounding lanes and alleyways.

  “I advise you all to go home,” Pike shouted to the crowd. “Today’s spectacle is over.” His plum-cloaked guards pressed into the remaining mass of people, shoving them aside and pulling them back from the horses ringing the gallows. A clot of horse dung hit Pike in the chest.

  Jagur would have chuckled if his anger hadn’t erased any trace of humor. The crowd dispersed, and he rode forward, joining his captain near the gallows. Other than a score of cuts and bruises, his men had survived.

  “I’d suggest, Sir, we keep the Farlanders with us.” Nordin brushed dirt from his hair. “We don’t know what they were arrested for and—”

  “For being different,” a man said. His face, chest, and arms were laden with ritual scars.

  “What’s your name?” Jagur leaned on his pommel.

  “Lian. We came to Tor to help our people trapped in the city. It is deadly to stay and dangerous to flee.”

  “I don’t doubt it.” He straightened on his saddle. “Go with my men to our camp. You’ll be safe there, and I want to talk.”

  Lian hesitated and nodded. “Whitt said you’d come. We’ll talk; then I will return to my people.”

  “Agreed.” Jagur swung to Nordin. “But before we do, I feel a sudden urge to pay a visit to the high ward.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Thirty of the guardians Jagur led into the city left with the Farlanders and their wagon of dead. The one Ellegean among the corpses, they’d left on the gallows platform, his trousers politely pulled up for his family’s sake.

  Jagur, Nordin, and thirty of his remaining escort marched down the corridor to the high ward’s hall, the others stationed in the courtyard. Three bowmen walked behind him to his right, their instructions explicit. Captain Pike strode beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his cordial mood somewhat restored since the incident with the manure. “Allow me to announce you, Commander.”

  “Not necessary.”

  Pike sighed. “He’s not a man of good humor.”

  “Then, Captain, we will understand each other perfectly.”

  The twelve city guards stationed before a set of ornate doors marked the hall’s entrance. They shuffled into an armed barricade. “The high ward is not to be disturbed.”

  Jagur motioned to Nordin. “Kill them all. Start with Pike.”

  “Pardon?” Pike jerked up. His chin recoiled into his neck as Nordin swung toward the guardians, prepared to give the order. Pike flicked his wrist at the door. “Open it.”

  “But the high ward—”

  “Open it.” Pike huffed.

  A guard cleared his throat. “We need to disarm—”

  “Unnecessary and dangerous,” Jagur said. “Captain Pike?”

  Pike glanced at Nordin’s sword. “They’re here by the queen’s command. Open it.”

  The doors swung wide. Nordin tucked his sword in its sheath and leaned toward Jagur. “Did you mean it?”

  “Does it matter?” Jagur’s lips twitched as he and Nordin strode in, followed by half of their guardians.

  Antoris-Tor rose from his regal chair with the grace of a spider. He frowned beneath a thick bristled beard, eyes sparkling like sapphires. In the corners of his vision, Jagur noted the grisly trophies, the polished floors and gleaming woodwork, vases of Summertide blooms and tall windows, all in sharp contrast to the city’s derelict and feral aura.

  Eight guards lined the walls. Three advisors rose from a brass-rimmed table, one of them Narl, the jowled and
sweaty justice in his plum jacket. The other two were influencers. Jagur knew Ardal-Mur more than he cared to. According to Whitt and Gannon, the third man, Olivan-Bes, was as much a disagreeable ass as his associate.

  “My respects, Antoris-Tor,” Jagur said. He and Nordin bowed. “I’m Commander Jagur of Guardian; this is Captain Nordin, Second in Command. We are here by order of Her Grace Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance, to aid you in restoring the rule of law and facilitating a peaceful resolution to hostilities with the Farlanders.”

  “I don’t require the queen’s assistance,” Antoris said, retaking his seat. “You are dismissed.” He gestured to his influencers. At the same moment, the three archers raised their recurve bows, one pointed at the high ward’s chest, the other two at the woaded men. Jagur’s warriors fanned out, blades scraping free. More entered and blocked the doorway. The city guards around the room stepped forward, and fear darted across their eyes as sunlight glinted in Guardian’s brandished steel.

  “You are outnumbered, Antoris-Tor.” Jagur pulled out his pipe and mused over the chances of getting a light. “I control two hundred guardians in Tor and another seven hundred currently forming a perimeter. A handful of my men would perish, but your death and the deaths of every man and woman in this room would be assured.”

  The high ward laughed and waved his men’s weapons down. “What do you want?”

  “First, to escort your influencers from the room.”

  “As you wish.” Antoris didn’t flinch.

  Olivan led the way. Ardal tugged on both sleeves of his jacket, bowed, and exited the room followed by a pair of guardians and two archers.

  “Anything more,” the high ward asked.

  “The resumption of Ellegean law.”

  “Resumption? Ha! I am a champion of the rule of law.” Antoris’s smile thinned. “As we speak, I have guards scouring the land to rid my province of lawbreakers.”