Havoc's Daughters

Chapter 4 - Night 1: Imrys (part I) - quandary

“So King Dirk’s giving himself a war for his sixtieth birthday,” General Ursine growled, settling tiredly onto a folding camp stool. “You may be sure he’ll be expecting some truly royal gifts from us, before he heads back to those Mist-cursed mountains of his.”

King Imrys Cervides found it jarring not to see the old soldier pacing habitually in thought, though there was no room in the tent. At more than seventy summers, Ursine had participated in Cumberan campaigns under Imrys’ father and grandfather. That kind of experience was difficult to establish authority over, in Imrys’ experience, and he sat up straighter, hopeful at this indication of weakness.

Probably doesn’t bode so well for the campaign, though, he admitted privately, and leaned back, once more, on the throne that had been packed for his use.

Black walnut, carven in an intricate motife of antlers, inlaid with jet shadows and with tiger-eye forming the coronet of each antler, the chair had seemed plain in his chambers. It was ridiculously impractical in the dusty and spare command tent.

Much like myself.

Imrys repressed a sigh, and gazed out the open side of the tent. The sun rested on the western horizon like the glowing embers of burnt, dried, dung.

A fitting end to a turd of a day.

Next to the table, Duke Strigides’ face gave no more expression than if shaped of rawhide as he stood contemplating their progress on a map. A racehorse next to Duke Ursine’s draft stock, he let scarred fingers drum on a well-read translation of General Hanbel’s ‘On War’.

How much distance did we make, today? But Imrys didn’t ask. They already think I’m incompetent. No point opening my mouth and proving it. I should have looked for myself, already.

 Imrys Cervides tried to copy the wise and calm visage of his late father, still circulating through the countryside on Roenish coinage. It was a struggle, though, to show neither the bitterness he felt, nor the growing terror.

Dirk Alzarin would never have invaded if Father still ruled. They’d served together on the Adamantine campaign, and respected one-another.

“To Dirk Alzarin!” bristly Count Scrofa raised his cup from the crowded map-table, currently serving double duty as the side bar holding their dinner. “May the old codpiece choke on his birthday brandy!”

The enthusiasm was somewhat lacking, but everybody drank. Imrys grimly lifted his mug and joined in. His tisane was just tepid enough to make him simmer on an already warm evening, but not enough to make him sweat and get some relief. Worthless swill. Wine was what he wanted; what he needed. None of this would have seemed such a disaster if he could only have enjoyed a cup of wine.

“Here’s your gift, King Dirk.” Count Cannides, grinning more like a wolf than his namesake, swept out his broadsword. It gleamed in aurim and argent waves in the late afternoon light. Questre steel, it was, near as fine and as rare as the blades brought back from Mydicea that served as its inspiration.

The tone was less threat than boast, though, as if Cannides were taking the opportunity to show off his prize. Imrys spared it a longing glance, then gazed down at his drink, unwilling to meet the count’s eyes.

The old dog smiled down on the steel, then let it glide back into its sheath with a final, contented, pat on the hilt. “It’ll be my pleasure to deliver it, personally.”

“I’m sure he wants your blade, along with the entire Mirze Vale.” The youth was just beyond the rolled-up side of the tent, hoping, like Imrys himself, to catch a scrap of breeze in the deepening dusk. Only just shaving, Cannides’ heir already appeared to be as diplomatic as his grandsire. He was the only junior present with the temerity to nettle the Old Guard.