King of Ashes. Raymond E. Feist
Any could have said no.’
Rodrigo smiled, and it was a bitter look he gave to his friend. ‘Aye, Daylon, and that’s the evil genius of it. It’s a gift you have. No man in your orbit would oppose your counsel. You are too versed in the games of power for me not to heed your wisdom, even to serve foul cause.’
‘You could have opposed me and served Steveren.’
‘And find myself with them?’ he said, indicating the rotting dead in the mud.
‘There is always a choice.’
‘A fool’s choice,’ Rodrigo said softly, ‘or a dreamer’s.’ Pointing to the workers at the top of the hill, finishing up the platform, he changed the subject. ‘What is going on up there?’
‘Our victorious monarchs require some theatre,’ said Daylon sourly.
‘I thought Lodavico closed all the theatres in Sandura?’
‘He did. After complaining that the plays were all making a jest of him. Which was occasionally true, but he lacks perspective, and a sense of humour.’ Daylon added, ‘And he’s completely incapable of seeing the bitter irony in this.’
‘This theatre is entirely too macabre for my taste.’ Rodrigo passed his hand in an arc around the battlefield littered with dead. ‘Killing men in the heat of battle is one thing. Hanging criminals or beheading them is another. I can even watch heretics burn without blinking much, but this killing of women and children …’
‘Lodavico Sentarzi fears retribution. No Langene left alive means the King of Sandura can sleep at night.’ Daylon shrugged. ‘Or so he supposes.’ He kept his eyes fixed on the makeshift stage at the top of the hill. The workers had finished their hasty construction of the broad stage: two steps above the mud, elevated just enough for those on the hillside to be able to see, sturdy enough to support the weight of several men. Two burly servants wrestled a chopping block up the steps while a few of Lodavico’s personal guards moved between the makeshift construction and the slowly gathering crowd.
‘This business of bashing babies against walls, ugly that … and killing those pretty young daughters and nieces … that wasn’t merely a waste, it was an iniquity,’ complained Rodrigo. ‘Those Firemane girls were breathtaking, with those long necks and slender bodies, and all that red hair—’
‘You think too much with your cock, Rodrigo.’ Daylon tried to sound light-hearted. ‘You’ve had more women and boys than any ten men I know, and yet you hunger for more.’
‘To each man his own appetites,’ conceded Rodrigo. ‘Mine easily turn to a pretty mouth and rounded arse.’ He sighed. ‘It’s no worse than King Hector’s love of wine or Baron Haythan’s lust for gambling.’ He studied his friend for a moment. ‘What whets your appetite, Daylon? I’ve never understood.’
‘I seek only not to despise the man I see in the mirror,’ said the Baron of Marquensas.
‘That’s far too abstract for my understanding. What really fires you?’
‘Little, it seems,’ Daylon replied. ‘As a young man I thought of our higher purpose, for didn’t the priests of the One God tell our fathers that the Faith brings peace to all men?’
Rodrigo looked at the nearby battlefield littered with the dead and said, ‘In a sense, life eventually brings peace.’
‘That may be the most philosophical thing I’ve ever heard you say.’ Daylon’s gaze followed Rodrigo’s and he muttered, ‘The One God’s priests promised many things.’
Rodrigo let out a long, almost theatrical sigh, save Daylon knew his friend was not the sort to indulge in false play; the man was tired to his bones. ‘When four of the five great kings declare a faith the one true faith, and all others heresy, I expect you can promise most anything.’
Daylon’s brow furrowed a little. ‘Are you suggesting the Church had a hand in this?’
Rodrigo said, ‘I suggest nothing, old friend. To do so would be to invite ruin.’ His expression held a warning. ‘In our grandfathers’ time, the One God’s church was but one among many. In our fathers’ time, it became a force. Now …’ He shook his head slightly. ‘By the time of our children, the other gods will have withered to a faint memory.’ He glanced around as if ensuring they were not overheard. ‘Or, if their priests are clever enough, they might contort their doctrine to become heralds of the One God and survive as shadows of their former selves. Some are saying thus now.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘Truly, Daylon. What moves you in this? You could have stayed home.’
Daylon nodded. ‘And had my name put on a list with those who openly supported Steveren.’ He paused, then said, ‘Truth?’
‘Always,’ replied his friend.
‘My grandfather and my father built a rich barony, and I have taken what they’ve left me and made it even more successful. I wish to leave my children with all of it, but also have them secure in their holdings.’
‘You are close to a king yourself, aren’t you?’
Daylon shared a rueful smile with his friend. ‘I’d rather have wealth and security for my children than any title.’
Satisfied no one was within earshot, Rodrigo let his hand come to rest on Daylon’s shoulder a moment. ‘Come. We should attend. This is not a good time to be counted among the missing, unless you happen to be dead already, which their majesties and Mazika might count a reasonable excuse. Anything else, not.’
Daylon inclined his head slightly in agreement and the two noblemen trudged the short walk up the muddy hillside as the rain resumed. ‘Next time you call me to battle, Daylon,’ said Rodrigo, ‘have the decency to do so on a dry morning, preferably in late spring or early summer so it’s not too hot. I have mud in my boots, rain down my tunic, rust on my armour, and my balls are growing moss. I haven’t seen a dry tunic in a week.’
Daylon made no comment as they reached the top of the hill where the execution was to be held. Common soldiers glanced over their shoulders and, seeing two nobles, gave way to let them pass until Rodrigo and Daylon stood in the forefront of the gathering men. The platform was finished and the prisoners were being marched out of the makeshift pens where they’d been kept overnight.
Steveren Langene, King of Ithrace, had been fed false reports and lies for a year, until he thought he was joining with allies to meet aggression from King Lodavico. Daylon was one of the last barons to be told of the plan, which had given him little time to consider his options. He and Rodrigo had less than a month to ready their forces and march to the appointed meeting place; most importantly, they were given no opportunity to warn Steveren and aid him effectively. Distance and travel time prevented Daylon or others sympathetic to the king of Ithrace from organizing on Steveren’s behalf. Even a message warning him might be discovered by Lodavico and earn Daylon a place on the executioner’s stage next to Steveren.
This morning, they had arisen to fix their order of battle, trumpets blowing and drums pounding, Steveren’s forces holding the leftmost position, awaiting Lodavico’s attack. The battle order had been given and suddenly King Steveren’s allies had turned on him. It had still been a bitter struggle and most of the day was gone, but in the end, betrayal had triumphed.
Daylon could see the prisoners being forced out of the pens on the other side of the platform. While Steveren’s army had been in the field, slogging through the mud of an unseasonably heavy summer storm, raiders had seized the entire royal family of Ithrace from their summer villa on the coast less than half a day’s ride away.
Cousins of blood and kin by marriage had already been put to the sword, or thrown off the cliffs onto the rocks below the villa – by all accounts more than forty men, women, and children. Even the babies were not spared. But the king’s immediate family had been granted an extra day’s existence to suffer this public humiliation. Kings Lodavico and Mazika were determined to show the world the end of the Firemane line.
Now