Blood Tempered: Book 1 of the Sword Monk Saga

Blood Tempered: Part 25

The Gods' Balcony, the escarpment Thunderhead ruled, was a fifty yard high wall of chalky, crumbling limestone that stretched for a dozen leagues in a northeast-southwest line. It neatly divided disputed Wyeth from undisputed Ardesh. While there were many places other then Thunderhead where passing from the one state to the other was possible, most of those routes were fit only for goats, smugglers and bandits–which was how Wyeth bandits had come to be called 'fanged goats' in Ardesh.

Thunderhead controlled the only passage along the escarpment fit for caravanserai. Laboriously hewn into the limestone cliff more than a century before, when Wyeth still had something approaching true rule, a stone ramp wide enough to accommodate most wagons with a span or two to spare descended from the fortress to the grasslands at a moderate angle that was still punishing to climb.

The caravanserai trail ran straight across league after league of flat Ardeshi grassland, terminating at the foot of the ramp. At the top of the ramp stood the thick, wide, well-maintained northeast gates of Thunderhead.

Jaga knew that gate would have to be watched as closely as the western gate that currently kept out the Roumnan troops. He wasn't worried about an enemies coming up the ramp–if the gods were merciful–but he was worried about deserters. For all his fine talk to the sword monk about his troop being honorable mercenaries, Jaga was well aware that for most of his men the concept of honor was at best an aspirational one. Most of them were only a step or two above bandits and, faced with trained soldiery nearly ten times their number and with siege engines, far too many of them would be tempted to melt away into the sea of grass below in the dead of night.

"Arle," he said, and his aide grunted acknowledgment.

"Make sure we have trusted men on that gate. And double the watch at night."

"Already done."

"I knew there was a reason I married you," Jaga replied.

Arle laughed mirthlessly. "You aren't my type. Too fat. Too hairy. But better you than her." He inclined his head toward the witch, who was sketching some sort of sorcerous circle in the center of the courtyard with what appeared to be ash. Armsmen rushed to and fro around her, stocking arrows and pitch and preparing all the other sundries of siege, and giving her a wide berth.

"Any sign of a parley flag yet?" asked Jaga.

"Not yet."

Jaga shook his head. Not that it really mattered. If the Roumnans really believed he held the witch captive, logic said they would not dare attack for fear he would slay her or worse. In that case parley, when it came, would simply be about the terms of her release.

If, on the other hand, the Roumnans believed their princess dead....

Then, there would be no parley. The would simply attack, and keep attacking, until Thunderhead was reduced to rubble.

Jaga wondered if they shouldn't all take the Ardesh gate and leave the witch to her fate, whatever it might be. But he knew such thoughts were pointless. He's seen what she'd done to her Imperial escort.

No. It seemed they were locked into whatever her plan was, for he had no doubt she had orchestrated nearly everything that had happened since he'd met her and before. All the large movements were part of her plan, whatever it was. It was only in small details that she ever seemed baulked, frustrated or bemused. Small details, like the sword monk. Jaga looked over to where the young man stood on the rampart, greatsword strapped to his back.

Only small details seemed to be beyond the control of the witch, and in a very real sense, one man could be nothing more than a small detail when you considered battles, armies, and the course of nations and histories.

But on the other hand, a sword monk was never just a man. And the course of history was often decided by the actions of a few...

Or even by the actions of one.

~ ~ ~

Later that afternoon, the witch killed a man.

Gavul wasn't terribly well-liked. He had a temper when he didn't drink, and a vile temper when he did. But he was also built like an ox, and was deceptively quick with a sword, so Jaga kept him on despite disliking him immensely.

When Gavul saw the Roumnans assembling the trebuchet, he decided it was time to go. He wasn't going to wait for nightfall to slip over the wall, either. He just climbed down from the ramparts, collected his kit from the barracks, and started walking towards the Ardesh gate, away from all the suicidal fools.

When the guards Arle had assigned to the gate tried to stop them, he dropped his pack and beat them down with ruthless efficiency–an elbow to the neck of one, a head slammed down on a stone-hard knee for the other–and then he lifted the massive oak bar that secured the gate and let it drop to the cracked flagstones, where it made a massive, booming thud.

Anya's contralto voice rang out across the courtyard, preternaturally loud: "Put that bar back, armsman, or I'll kill you."

Gavul sneered and put his huge hand against the rightside gate. A fraction of a moment later his head disintegrated, magically transformed into a fine, red mist. His body dropped, loose-limbed, to the ground, lifeblood spurting up out of the ragged divide between neck and missing head.

The courtyard was as silent as a tomb.

Anya stood up from her sorcerous preparations, wiped her hands, and addressed the mercenaries present.

"I will not suffer fools, cowards, or anyone who takes my coin but not my orders. Understand this.

"Understand too that I am going to give orders, and I do not have the time or inclination to explain them or hold your gods-damned hands. You are warriors, by the Axumite, paid to do two things: Take orders and kill people. If you can't manage to do the one, then how can I trust you to do the other?"

"Lady Anya," said Jaga from the entrance of the keep, "My men are indeed warriors. Soldiers. You are not, and so you may not be aware that soldiers are at their most effective when they know what their objective is." His tone was not one of pacification, but of earnestness.

"You are our employer," he continued despite the witch's obvious impatience. "We serve you. But we can serve you best by knowing what it is you want us to do."

"I've told you, Khun. I want you to hold this fortress."

"Well and good," he replied. "For how long?"

"Until I say otherwise." Her eyes flashed red.

"Your pardon, my lady, but if we know whether that was likely to be hours, days or weeks from now, we could adjust our tactics accordingly and have a better chance of delivering to you what you require of us, and have paid us for."

"You will hold until I say otherwise," Anya repeated, and her face was as cold as her eyes were hot. "You will not question my orders again." Her hair began to float about her beautiful, terrible face on an unfelt breeze.

"Jaga Khun is right," the Andine called out from the ramparts, "and you, my lady, are in the wrong."