The King's Might: A Legend of Averdan

Part Six, Chapter Two

TWO

In Which Nothing Much Suits Lukere

"Aychari's hells," Lukere swore, banging the hilt of his sword on one of the few remaining stones of the keep. "I applaud your fine sentiments, but you're too bloody late. Look at all this destruction! And not a Northman in sight, mind you. Not a one. Not even the First traitorous twice-damned bloody Prince."

"Mind your tongue, my son," Lanon said mechanically.

But there was no denying it: Northold had been razed, and razed most terribly. Rare was the place where stone stood upon stone. The road which had led to it had been crushed to rubble. Smoke, in places, withstood even the bitter cold of the Borderlands, where a deep fire glowed within the devastation.

"They didn't come forwards," Lanon said. "We saw not a soul on the roads. Where on earth could they have gone?"

"Backwards," Lukere spat. "Back into their own country. As for why, I have no idea. I sat here like a wart on a toad, waiting for you. I didn't dare pursue without your permission." His proud and sullen face was streaked with grime. He banged the hilt of his sword against the rock, more forcibly. "I don't know how many of our people are dead, royal Father. Enough to fill charnel houses for all the provinces, I'm sure. And for what? For nothing. For fuck-all. For fuck-all, Sire," he corrected himself sarcastically.

"And the Ironstar? Did she burn with her fortress?"

"No. She's a sly one, that Ironstar. They fought their way out right before it burned. She's suffered heavy losses, but she herself is still very much alive, along with a handful of her folk. " Lukere, in spite of the deathly cold, was sweating. He wiped a handful of sweat from his brow, splattered it desultorily over the bloodied scorched ground. "For all the good it does her. So what do we do? Do we follow them?"

"I think we do." Lanon surveyed what remained of Lukere's forces, sitting in hodgepodge groups around them, their eyes filled with a bone-weariness that chilled him even more than the air. "Whatever the reason for their leaving so close to victory, I can't imagine it bodes well for us. We've fresh forces now, at least. Perhaps you should keep to the rear."

"I'll do no such thing, begging your fucking pardon," Lukere snapped. "Sire. My men might enjoy the reprieve, but I've come too far in this to back out now. I'll be right there with you at the front of the lines where I belong. And when I see Jalith--if I see Jalith--I'll bloody well kill him."

"Lukere," Lanon said wearily. "You'll do no such thing. He is still your brother."

"He is a traitor. Where was he, I ask you, when Northold burned? When Third and Fourth Prince were slaughtered on the field? He was somewhere up north, toasting his boots at the hearth of the bloody Northmage."

"He will come when it is time," Lanon said, though he was no longer sure if he believed it or if he just said it out of habit. "And Lukere. You must not speak that way."

"My men are dead. I'll speak however I want, Sire."

"You must not speak that way," Lanon reiterated, "or I'll have you up on a pike with the Northern footsoldiers you're so proud of killing."

There was a long and pregnant pause.

"As my lord wishes," Lukere said sullenly. "Where, may I ask, is Seventeenth Prince, who you've lately been keeping so near?"

"He's with the rest of the men, speaking to Karloi.The two of them seem to have become close." Lanon shook his head. "It's just as well--that woman frankly gives me the shivers."