“Not only have you wasted good men on a fool’s errand, but this bit of stupidity may well have jeopardized the entire structure of the Staheerforees in this duchy, especially if any of those missing have been taken alive!”
“But . . . but, My Lord,” stuttered Spikebeard. “None of … they are all … all have taken the Sacred Oaths, they would never betray…”
The noble leaned forward and hissed scornfully. “Have you never heard of torture, then? Oaths, sacred or otherwise, mean nothing to a man whose pain is sufficiently unbearable! Oh, damn you to the lowest reaches. If they have one of ours we may have to strike ere our time is truly ripe, ere our western brothers have done their own work and can join us!”
Spikebeard raised his bloody head, squared his shoulders, fanaticism gleaming from his eyes. “Nonetheless, My Lord, you must know that we will triumph, for God, the one True God, is on our side!”
The noble sighed. “Oh, yes, we’ll triumph. But lacking surprise, truly overwhelming forces, and more professionals than this Duchy can presently count, the butcher’s bill will be high, very high. One look at your sorry state would tell anyone that!
“Speaking of which, one would hope that you came into the city unseen? Did you scale the wall, come through our tunnel?”
The kneeling soldier crimsoned and fidgeted. Through trembling lips, he at last managed to mumble. “I … I rode through the … the gate, My Lord. But … but I … I had my cloak so arranged that . . . that none could possibly have seen my armor and .. .”
The noble clenched his fists and his dark eyes flashed fire. “What in hell kind of soldier are you, or were you ever really a soldier at all? Don’t you think the mercenaries at the east gate could tell you were wearing armor, cloak or no cloak, you idiot? A man carries his body differently in armor, any fool knows that!
“So you rode through the east gate, bleeding, in armor, and wearing a sword, and, fool that you are, you came directly to my house, eh? Damn your eyes, I should have your life . . . would, were you not so highly connected elsewhere!”
The kneeling man’s face had faded from crimson to pasty white, his lord’s reputation for cruelty being well known and equally well earned. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it with a snap when the noble added, “And still may, if I hear one more odious yap from your dog’s mouth!”
He struck a small gong on the table at his side. Two brawny, olive-skinned guards opened the door and entered, bowing.
Vahrohnos Myros waved a graceful, manicured hand at
Spikebeard. “Take him to your barracks and strip off his armor, every scrap of it, mind you. You, Ahngehlos, bundle them well, I want no one to suspect what you’re carrying. Bear the armor to Paulos, the smith. Tell him to immediately break up the plates, burn off the leather, and dip the metal in acid, before he scatters it throughout his scrap heap.
“As for Captain Manos here, humm. Feelos, send a man for a physician to tend a man injured in a barracks brawl. By the time the doctor arrives, I will expect his patient to look the part. Take him away!”
CHAPTER VII
Mahrnee and Behrnees Morguhn, wrapped warmly against the chill morning air, received Komees Djeen and Bard Klairuhnz in the broad foyer of Morguhn Hall. Standing on the main staircase, the ladies were flanked by Vahrohnos Spiros Morguhn and Clan Bard Hail Morguhn.
The trim old warrior marched in, his braided grey hair coiled about the crown of his head to pad the helmet he now bore in the crook of his left arm. He halted and stiffly bowed, his armor clanking.
“Ladies Morguhn, Cousin Spiros, Cousin Hail, greet the Sun. I am sorry to rouse your hall at so early an hour, but midnight last saw a brisk little melee at the Forest Bridge. I’ve brought a son of this House and another nobleman, both of whom are in urgent need of a physician’s care.”