Act of Will

SCENE XXX



Ironwall

It was evening by the time we reached the city. A slight buzz of excitement rose up from the wagons as the citadel’s towering walls and turrets came into view. In other circumstances I might have been impressed too, since it far outshone anything I’d ever seen in the Empire lands, but I was having a bad day. It seemed like I’d had a lot of bad days lately. Since I blamed my companions for that, I ignored their vaguely awestruck whispers about the scale of the fortifications and glowered at the Greycoast capital.

Ironwall looked like it had emerged from the earth. It was completely contained by its perimeter wall—no straggling inns and houses overspilling the city proper—and only the road we were on showed signs of civilization beyond its massive battlements. It breathed unassailable authority from its granite bulk. I shifted uneasily in my saddle as the thing got closer, filling the horizon and looming over us like storm clouds.

Renthrette had raised the beaver of her helm by the time we approached the huge gatehouse, but her face gave so little away that she might as well have kept it down. She had been like that since the battle: quiet, watchful, uncertain. It was weird and a little scary. If the raiders could leave her unsure of herself, then their powers had no limits.

She had ridden ahead to announce our coming, since it took about ten minutes to get the massive porticullis open, and by the time we got there, soldiers and townsfolk had gathered along the walls to watch our entry. I think they were cheering. I dismounted, tethered my horse to the back of the wagon, and climbed inside, where I felt less exposed. Garnet rode out to the front looking brave and stalwart.

An expensive-looking wagon bearing a silversmith’s arms was stuck in the roadway, trying to get out of the city and head north. The old man driving it paused to cheer us on. He wore a silver pendant at his throat shaped like a sun disk with a huge blue stone in the center. The cheering increased, muting only slightly as the corpse wagons passed over the bridge and into the city.

Duke Raymon had left his litter and stood before us, shaking Mithos by the hand and beaming conspicuously to the crowd. He was dressed in turquoise silk with a fur mantle and looked regally impressive. There was a touch of swagger in his gait, which may once have merely been his size but was now part of his politician’s confidence. On either side of him stood Arlest, count of Shale, and Edwyn Treylen, governor of Verneytha. In a voice meant to be heard throughout the region, he said, “Welcome, thrice-noble Mithos and your honorable companions. Today you have shown the people of Greycoast that there is yet hope. The ruthless enemy of our people, the enemy indeed of the free world, will be vanquished. This cargo is of great import to us, but more so is this victory over the crimson tyrants who rape our land. Together we have shown them that we will not submit to their barbarism. Greycoast and its allies stand firm and will give no quarter to those who persecute the innocent. We will sorrow for those who fell, but we will also celebrate the dignity of their ends, for their blood has been turned to gold by the service they have performed for their country. We salute you all for your stand against evil.”

The crowd exulted and waved their Greycoast flags. They threw flowers and their petals fell about us like snow. The injured remnants of our escort smiled proudly and shouted back words of triumph and determination. God help them.



Only when we reached the palace did the duke’s smile slip away. He began to scowl at us irritably before finally slamming his fist on the great walnut table before him and roaring, “Sixty-five dead and thirty injured? Three wagons destroyed and the contents of one other all but burnt up? You incompetent fools!”

I stared at him in astonishment as he released the chain clasp at his throat and shook off his fur mantle, his face red and ugly with sudden anger. Arlest was watching uncertainly, his features drawn and his eyes weary. The weaselish Treylen looked out of the window, as if stepping out of the room.

Mithos said, in a deliberately measured tone, “We brought the majority of the cargo to Ironwall as requested. The casualties we sustained were . . . regrettable, but apparently unavoidable.”

“Unavoidable?” bellowed the duke, his mouth wide through his beard, the fat in his cheeks quivering. We were in his throne room, a large stone chamber surrounded by guarded archways from which his words echoed.

“Now, Raymon,” said Arlest, conciliating. “I’m sure the party did what it could—”

The duke cut him off, continuing to berate us as if the count weren’t really there. “You are professionals,” he snorted, his voice full of derision, “but you can’t protect a few wagons with a hundred men? How is it possible that you could have lost so heavily? And how is it possible that you pathetic mercenaries emerged unscathed?”

At these random insults and queries I saw Garnet, his green eyes suddenly lit with fury, lay his hand to the haft of his ax. Lisha also saw and touched his wrist gently with her fingertips. He froze. Mithos answered, “The men you gave us were untrained and inadequately equipped to deal with such an adversary.”

“So you sent them in to protect your worthless hides?” shouted the duke.

“We stood in the front line,” persisted Mithos, his voice still restrained, but with an increasing edge of bitterness. “We fought alongside them and organized them as best we could. Ask them. The enemy was vastly superior to our force, something we were unprepared for.”

“Unprepared for?” the duke responded. “You were warned—”

“You gave us raw recruits!” Mithos inserted. “What did you expect?”

There was a frosty pause, and Treylen turned back from the window, as if he thought that what happened next might be interesting. Greycoast stepped up to Mithos’s chest and whispered hoarsely into his face,

“How dare you interrupt me and toss me this abuse! You are in Ironwall now, friend, and I have great power here. Absolute power. If you do not learn some respect for your superiors, it will be beaten into you. Henceforth you will address me as ‘sir’ and speak only when you are asked to. Is that clear?”

Mithos looked at him silently, his fists clenched so that the olive skin of his knuckles whitened. By the heavy entrance door a pair of guards exchanged swift glances and swung the heads of their pikes round towards us. Treylen raised one eyebrow, curious to see how Mithos would respond.

“Is that clear?” repeated the duke of Greycoast, leaning closer still to Mithos.

“Yes,” said Mithos slowly, adding, after a pause, “sir.”

“Good,” said the duke with an unpleasant smile of satisfaction. “Now—”

I couldn’t take it anymore. “No, it’s not good, and I’ll respect my superiors when I meet them.”

This was probably not the best thing I could have said, but I figured I was out of this farce for good, so what the hell. I continued, “I’m sure that Your Most Excellent Majesty was grieved that you couldn’t be with us when the convoy was attacked, and I for one wish you had been around to enlighten us with your brilliant military mind, but you weren’t. You see,” I said, starting to feel good about myself for the first time in weeks, “I know it sounds like child’s play, defending ten wagons of coal with a hundred soldiers who are waiting for their voices to break, but that’s because you wouldn’t know a battle plan if it bit you in your massive ass.”

Lisha stirred but I cut her off before she could say anything.

“No,” I said quickly, with a look in her direction, “it doesn’t matter anymore, so I’ll say what I like. Now, Your Royal Immensity, judging from your speech to the ignorant masses earlier, you either have no grasp on reality or choose to ignore it when it suits your political career.”

I couldn’t stop. I was enjoying myself, and he wasn’t the only one who needed someone to blame. I pointed my finger squarely at him and went on. “You spoke of their dignified deaths. What do you know about death? I was there and there was no dignity. Not that you care. I’ll bet the armed escort that brought you home from Seaholme was a sight better trained than the boy soldiers you left with us. But then, what’s a hundred boys compared to a duke? You probably eat close to that at a sitting.”

I sat down.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, with the kind of cold reserve that you know is going to explode any second.

“For the moment,” I said cheerily.

“Did you know that throughout Greycoast, treachery is punishable by death, the traitors being hanged, drawn, and quartered?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“And do you know how we define treachery here?” asked the duke.

I thought for a moment and said, “Calling you a fat, self-important bastard would probably do it.”

“Guards!” he called, lashing out with one heavily braceleted fist. They came at me with their pikes and rapiers. His knuckles caught me just under the chin, and I felt my head lurch up and back so that the room spun for a second. I whirled away from him, barely retaining consciousness as my teeth slammed together. The guards descended on me like hawks. They pinned my arms behind my back and, at the duke’s cursory command of “Get him out of my sight,” they marched me out. One guard gestured to Garnet in a way that suggested the misguided nature of any intervention on his part. They had to virtually carry me out of the room.