Juliet McKenna - The Warrior's Bond

“I take it he turned out to be the worm in the apple?” Avila sat back on her heels, heedless of the filth on her gown, lace overdress torn in a handful of places. Her thin face was weary but the gleam in her eyes promised ill for Tor Bezaemar. “I would rather be using my energies to tend the innocent injured.”

“Ryshad tells me it is for the Emperor to judge him,” Temar said, still rather mutinously.

“Quite so, though you seem to have done a fair job in the meanwhile.” Den Janaquel men parted to let Messire D’Olbriot through. He looked down at Kreve, who was still insensible, eyes closed. “I’d say you have your revenge on Dirindal now, D’Alsennin. She’s pinned all the hopes of the House on this lad since he first grew out of soft shoes.”

Temar looked suddenly disconcerted and sudden memories, not my own, assailed me. Temar had carried the burden of his grandsire’s expectation throughout his turbulent youth and that in part is what had driven him to Kellarin.

“Is Esquire Camarl all right?” I asked abruptly.

“Thanks to my lady Tor Arrial.” Messire’s poise was unmarred despite the lavish smears of blood darkening on his elegant clothes. “As soon as Den Janaquel can get us a coach, shall we go back to the residence? We’re hardly dressed for dining out now, and I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” He brushed at a swathe of dust on one leg and I saw a faint tremor in his hand.

“What happens to him?” Temar demanded, prodding Kreve with a hostile toe.

“Den Janaquel’s men will take care of him,” the Sieur promised with steely authority. “Their House is no friend to Tor Bezaemar, and they know well enough that the Emperor will have their necks stretched if anything goes awry.”

It galled me to leave Kreve in someone else’s custody, but as a proven man in Den Janaquel’s colours arrived with a carriage for the Sieur I had no choice. At least the grim expressions on the faces all around the unconscious Tor Bezaemar reassured me that these men would be as good as their sworn word.

The Sieur Endris D’Olbriot has caused this annal to be recorded and charges all who come after him to continue this work, in the sacred Name of Saedrin, Keeper of the Keys to the Otherworld, whose judgement every man must face

As Winter Solstice brings this year to a close, I do not know how to record a date, since all calendars are meaningless in the chaos that overwhelms us. The best I can offer is my recollection that this is the twenty-eighth year since the final solstice of Nemith the Last, also known as the Reckless. After the trials of this last generation I wonder if my father and uncles would have so rudely pulled even so wretched a ruler from his throne if they had suspected the calamities that would befall us. Should our once respected forebears be condemned as reckless in their turn? Do we suffer as a result of their impiety or does Raeponin weigh our own transgressions and finding us wanting, give Poldrion the nod to loose misfortune upon us?

The direst news I can attest to this Mid-Winter is that deaths of those bearing our Name have outnumbered births in this past year and who knows how many to those infants will succumb to the privations of hunger and disease in the seasons to come. Spurred by this, I have charged my scribes and Esquires to list each property remaining in the D’Olbriot Name, with a full list of every tenant, their claims upon us, the charges they have made on our coffers these five years past and the benefits we have gained from their loyalty. Raeponin be my judge, I have not seen the results as yet, but I predict a sorry tale of an ever shrinking fiefdom and who dares hope that there is not yet worse to come.

Let these words and the parchments appended thereto act as my defence down the generations, to whatever sons of D’Olbriot might survive to carry forward our Name, for the actions I am about to take.

We can no longer stand alone, on the dignity of our inveterate independence. The lone sheep is wolves’ meat and we are beset with marauders on every side. I purpose therefore to join with those following the Den Modrical pennant, trading what force of arms we may muster for aid in defending our lands under direction of the Sieur Laenthal. I have watched over the seasons as this youth has risen to rule his House through proven skill as a warrior and by virtue of a character more forceful than any I have seen, even in men twice his age. Minor Names, cast adrift with the breaking of every tie to their earliest loyalties, have been flocking to his banner. Inside a year he has raised a formidable force, winning notable victories against the predations of brigands from the Dalasor grasslands.

Why must I seek to justify my course when Laenthal is so clearly an effective leader of action and resolve? Because I have reservations about both Den Modrical ambitions and practices and wish to make these known under the seal of our Name, lest I die before I can nominate a Designate in proper form and confide such vital matters in person.

I can forgive a young man the conceit that prompts him to invent spurious claims to a legendary lineage but I wonder why Laenthal encourages his fellows to swear so fervently that Den Modrical descends from so many ancient Houses. Whether this is truth or lie, the facts are lost in the mists of time. How do such fictions serve, when any man of my generation recalls full well the lowly status of the Name in the Nemith era? Are we supposed to be impressed with his array of pennants and badges of yore purloined from a miscellany of Houses? Still, such trifles are largely harmless compared to the daily perils we face.

Less harmless is the youth’s assertion that anyone not with him will be deemed against him. Demanding allegiance at sword point can never be but folly. Nor can I approve Laenthal’s subsequent tactics to ensure continued loyalty. True enough, service as a page to a companion noble House has always been part of an Esquire’s education, but in these uncertain times the custom has been in abeyance for nigh on a generation. For my part, I see the gang of youths now travelling between the Modrical possessions under ostensible guard against bandits as little better than hostages for their families’ good conduct. Yet I must nominate an Esquire from every branch of D’Olbriot, senior and cadet, and deliver them into Laenthal’s custody before I can expect him to bring his lances and swords to drive the northern reivers and masterless men from our lands. That they will certainly learn their letters and reckoning at another’s expense is scant consolation when I foresee they will also be inculcated with Laenthal’s peculiarly ruthless philosophies.

But what other path is open to me? The gods have all but abandoned us, with every Artifice that priests were wont to use in our service found wanting. Shall I resort to these unsanctified sorceries that some can wield without blessing of god or man? Laenthal makes no secret of his loathing of such fell arts, putting any showing such skills to the sword without fear or favour. I might suspect some self-seeking in his ready condemnation but I cannot deny it gives any Sieur desperate enough to consider using a wizard pause for thought.

Den Modrical have been claiming their victories are proof of divine favour. Then let Raeponin weigh Laenthal’s sincerity in the balance and Saedrin can judge him as he sees fit. I will not do so. All my efforts must be spent in service of my House, and as Poldrion is my witness I see no better choice to defend D’Olbriot than Den Modrical. Thereto I set my seal.