Victor of Tucson

Book 6: Chapter 11: A Baron and His Retinue

The place was abuzz with activity when Victor, Valla, and Edeya burst into the courtyard. Soldiers were hurrying to the ramparts, and sergeants were shouting orders. Victor scanned the area for Sarl, but too many people in similar uniforms crowded the confines between the rampart walls. Finally, his eyes settled on a thicker cluster of Naghelli on the ramparts over the gate, and he figured it made sense that Sarl would be at a central location like that. He was tempted to use Titanic Leap to launch himself up there, but then he’d have to Berserk or at least take on his Titanic Aspect, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. He wanted to see what he was dealing with.

He jogged for the nearest stairs, leaped up them, two at a time, and nodded to the soldiers who rapidly cleared a path for him on the ramparts. As he turned toward the gated section of the wall facing south, he saw what had launched the mad frenzy of activity—lines of black-clad soldiers were marching over the twilit hillsides. These soldiers were different from the undead they’d faced; they were orderly and armored, moving with discipline. “Not undead?” The question came unbidden to his lips as he stepped toward the cluster of officers and Naghelli above the gate.

“We’re not sure, sir.” Sarl turned and nodded to Kethelket. “One of his people got close enough to see their faces. They, well, sir, they look a bit like you. I mean the coloring and size.”

“Like me or like humans?”

Kethelket cleared his throat. “I’ve not met other humans, Victor, but my scout tells me they resemble stocky, wingless Ghelli. That is to say, they aren’t red or blue like our other friends here.” He gestured to a pair of lieutenants, one Ardeni and one Shadeni. “Speak up, Offathi.”

“Aye, sir.” A slender Naghelli stepped around behind Kethelket and looked shyly up at Victor. “They have skin a good deal paler than yours, sir, and, well, their eyes are mostly red. Brighter than Shadeni eyes. They might be a kind of undead, but I couldn’t tell for certain. I didn’t see any rot on them; they weren’t like the zombies and . . . things we killed earlier.”

“Look.” Valla pointed over the crenellations toward the advancing army. A small group had detached from the main force about a mile out and continued to march forward while the bulk of the army hung back. “Do they want to talk?”

“Maybe.” Victor frowned, running his eyes over the lines of soldiers, their numbers darkening the shadowy slopes of the nearby hills. “How many do you count?”

Kethelket answered before Sarl could, “Something close to a thousand.”

“So, probably not the entire invading army.” Victor nodded, stroking his chin. “Maybe they don’t know about our forces up in the pass?”

“Perhaps, or perhaps this army was near and chose to risk a quick assault to retake the keep.”

Victor looked at Sarl, then Kethelket and Valla. “Let’s ride out to see what this small group coming forward has to say. Sarl, we’ll let Kethelket do the talking for now. Act like you’re his subordinate, as will Valla and I.”

“Why?” Valla was quick to ask.

“I liked how I could observe the Ridonne when Borrius and Rellia spoke to him. Don’t worry; I’ll speak up when the time is right.”

“Very well.” Kethelket gestured toward the distant group, still walking toward them over the grassy hills. “Will you ride your mounts? They seem to be on foot . . .”

“Yeah, we can walk out. Uvu is still recuperating, and I can summon Guapo if we need some speed. We’ll take our time.” When the others looked at him as though he had more to say, Victor added, “I mean, so we’re talking closer to the keep than his army.”

“Shall I come, Victor?” Edeya looked both eager and trepidatious.

“Yeah. Bring your book and look officious.” As he spoke, Victor caught her glancing over her shoulder as though to see her truncated wings, and he growled, “Don’t you dare worry about those. You look badass.”

She narrowed her eyes, stood up straighter, and saluted. “As you say, sir!”

“Good.” Victor gestured for the stairs, and the others started ahead of him. One of the lieutenants nearby cleared his throat and approached Sarl.

“Will you be bringing a guard detachment, sir?”

“I’ll be quite all right with the Legate, Tribune ap’Yensha, and Captain Kethelket. If they can’t defend any sort of ambush, then I don’t think a detachment of soldiers will tip the scales.”

“Of course, sir.” The lieutenant backed away, his pale blue cheeks darkening, and Victor had to give him a double-take—he looked like he was about fifteen years old. As he descended to the gate, he looked around and had to remind himself that he wasn’t surrounded by people younger than he; the truth was, with Energy so prevalent in the world, nobody really looked their age. That lieutenant might very well be forty years old.

“Shit, he could be older than that.”

“Something on your mind?” Valla rested her hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I like it when you reduce your size like this.”

“I knew it was a good idea to learn that spell!” Victor winked at her, but then he shrugged and, following the others through the gate, said, “I was just thinking that I don’t feel my age. I feel old. I mean, I know that’s stupid, but I feel like the last year has aged the shit out of me.”

“You’ve seen a lot. More than most people ever do—more fighting, for certain.”

“Well, you’ve been with me for a lot of it.”

“A lot more to come, too.” She returned his wink, and Victor suddenly felt very damn good, far better than he had any right to feel, what with an unknown army waiting a couple of miles away.

“Keep walking,” he said as Kethelket, Sarl, and Edeya paused outside the gate, waiting for him and Valla. “We’ll be right behind. With our similar armor, maybe they’ll think we’re your guards.”

“As you say.” Kethelket motioned for Edeya to walk beside him. “Come, you’re my aide for the moment.”

Victor’s plan to lure the foreign party closer didn’t bear fruit; they stopped a good half mile from the keep’s walls and waited. As they drew closer, Victor tried to peer through the gloom of the darkening twilight to see what they looked like. Kethelket’s scout hadn’t been lying; the figures were all quite imposing physically—the smallest of them had to be halfway between six and seven feet tall. Moreover, they wore glossy black plate breastplates and helmets, the tops of which were festooned with black feathered plumes.

Victor noted slung round shields on three of the seven figures, and each of them wore a sword of some sort or another, from dual short blades to one enormous man with a gigantic, naked, two-handed, straight-bladed sword attached to a harness on his back. “That sword must be seven feet long,” Valla said, following Victor’s eyes.

“Yeah. They like swords, it seems.”

“Their armor shines and reflects the starlight . . .” Edeya started to say, but Kethelket held up a closed fist, and she clamped her mouth shut. The message was clear—they were getting too close, and it wouldn’t do for the enemy to hear them speaking in awe about their weapons and armor. Victor felt a little bad for the slight Ghelli; she’d no doubt heard him and Valla talking and wanted to join in, only to be chastised by the ancient Naghelli prince. Victor thought about that, about how Kethelket was supposedly from a time before the joining, from the original world where the Ghelli, Ilyathi, and Yovashi originated. Had he met anyone else on Fanwath that old?

He had so many questions he wanted to ask the man and wondered at how he’d been able to push all those thoughts to the background while they’d traveled. “Always something more important than my simple interests,” he muttered, rubbing his thumb idly on Lifedrinker’s haft as they walked, his scowl deepening to the point where, if he were cognizant of it, he might have worried the approaching party might think he was intent on murder. He pushed his annoyance aside as they came to a stop atop a smooth grassy hillock, just twenty yards separating Kethelket’s diverse group of five from the seven uniform, black-armored, pale-fleshed invaders.

“You seem to be occupying my keep,” the man in the center announced by way of greeting. His voice was resonant and sharp, and he leaned forward with the vehemence of his words. He was lanky, much slighter than the giant with the massive sword, but still a formidable, imposing figure in his shiny black armor with the tall, feathered plume. He wore a single blade at his hip, though it was broad and heavy and looked to have something close to a five-foot reach. Victor could feel the aura the man, or perhaps his entire party, projected—it was heavy and full of violence. These people had fought and killed many people and were prepared to do so again.

Victor shrugged it off, though he ducked his head, playing his part, trying not to look sturdier than their “leader.” Kethelket, despite his experience, cringed back a bit but managed to straighten up and scowl. His gossamer, orange-lit wings spread wide, and he touched a hand to the hilt of the sword he wore at his hip and replied, “The keep just yonder?” He jerked his thumb toward the walls behind them. “No, no. I’m afraid you’ve been ill-informed. That’s mine.”

“We’ve deigned to give you this chance to surrender or flee; I’m not here to play games or bargain. You slew a horde of mindless chaff; don’t let that bolster your ego to the point where you’ll throw your lives away—those creatures were simply meant to hold these lands under the influence of my lord while I gathered my retinue and traveled here. Your trespass, while insulting, can be forgiven—you knew not whom you crossed.”

“And whom is it that I have slighted?”

“Why me, and, of course, my lord.”

“Must I ask again?”

“So, you truly are an ignorant victim in all of this? A simple bumpkin stumbling upon matters far above his station?” The man smirked, and some of those in his imposing retinue chuckled or tittered. For the first time, Victor realized one of the tallest, most heavily armored of his retainers was a woman. He could just make out her red-painted lips through the narrow gap in the center of her heavy helm. He’d given her a double take when a trilling laugh echoed out of that thick armored encasement. The speaker sighed and waved his hand as though brushing off an embarrassing mistake. “I am Baron Eric Gore Lust, and I serve Prince Hector of Heart Rot.”

“Such names . . .” Kethelket shook his head slowly, a note of disbelief in his voice. Victor knew the Naghelli prince was remarking about the ‘Gore Lust’ part of the baron’s name, but he couldn’t help wondering about the first part—Eric. Hector and Eric were both familiar names to him, names that harkened back to Earth, and he pondered that coincidence. More than that, if it weren’t for their size and strange pale skin and red eyes, these people could very well be human.

“Such names. Now, will you depart my keep, or must I and my reavers wash the stones with your blood?”

“Well, I, too, serve a lord, you see. If I were to pass off this keep without a struggle, I imagine he’d be rather perturbed.” Kethelket turned to Sarl. “Wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

“Oh, aye, sir. I believe our Legate would be furious. Might be worse for us if we returned home having abandoned his keep.”

“This is not his keep!” the self-styled baron growled.

“Well, what’s that they say?” Sarl asked, eyeing Kethelket as he straightened the lapel on his uniform jacket. “He who holds the pie decides who will eat?”

“I’ve certainly heard something of the like . . .”

“So, you choose death?” the tall, pale, red-eyed man asked, interrupting Kethelket’s quip.

“Choose it? No, sir. I believe we’ll put up a fight.”

“And your men?” the baron growled, “Will they stay and fight with your head on a pike out here?”

“Are we not going to honor the standard terms of parley?”

“Why should we? Our kind has little concern for the respect of the quick-blooded.”

“Quick . . .” Kethelket peered more closely at the baron. “Are you undead, sir?”

“We are immortal.” As he answered, the eight-foot giant with the massive sword reached up and grasped the hilt, taking a step forward. “Hold, Porter. We’ll not yet water this grass.” The baron held up a finger as though urging everyone to pause and pay attention and then looked at Kethelket, eyeing him more closely, taking in his swords and luminescent wings. “I have another option, sirrah.”

“By all means! I’d love to hear all of my options.”

“You have a sharp tongue; are your blades as bold? Let us settle this like gentlemen. A simple duel here on this hill; should you slay me, my men will leave for the nonce. If I kill you, your men will have one hour to take flight.” After he spoke, the man who’d named himself Gore Lust let his eyes drift over Edeya’s slight form, then to Sarl, and finally to Victor and Valla, still lingering behind the other three. “What say you, soldiers? Do you wish to die tonight, or would you appreciate your leader settling this score here and now?”

Kethelket grinned and turned to regard his companions. “Yes, do any of you have something to say in this matter?”

Victor stepped forward and nodded. “I do.” He regarded the self-styled baron. “So, you’re saying you want to duel the leader of our little army here?”

“That’s right, young man. Should I win, you have my word that your people will have a full hour to depart these lands. I won’t promise you’ll remain safe after that. I can promise that if don’t linger near my keep, I, personally, will not give chase.”

“And if our leader wins?”

“My army here will depart.”

“Depart this world?” Victor pressed, noticing some of the baron’s retinue had begun to fan out, shifting their hands to weapons.

“Oh . . . well, I can’t guarantee that. Prince Hector, you see, is a rather demanding lord. He may insist on fealty from my thralls.”

“No, Lord,” the giant said, “My allegiance would be to your lady back on Dark Ember.”

“Ah, Porter. Ever loyal to my blood. This is a moot point, good reaver—I will not lose. Still, you should know Lady Charisma will be unable to draw you home past the Prince’s lines. He’ll have first claim.”

Victor watched the exchange, trying to make sense of all the words but gaining far more understanding in the expressions of the few invaders wearing open-faced helms—they didn’t like the idea of serving Prince Hector directly. They were loyal to this man and his “lady.” He found it interesting and a bit heartening; some infighting among his enemies was good in his book. He didn’t like the idea of all these soldiers returning to serve the Prince, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to cut the head off this particular snake. He leaned forward, knuckles white on Lifedrinker’s haft. “Okay, I’ll accept.”

“You?” The baron took a step back and eyed Victor more carefully, then glanced at Kethelket and back to Victor with confusion in his eyes. “You’re this one’s champion? I hardly think a lanky young man with a crude weapon will serve as an appropriate opponent for me. Do you not fight your own battles, sirrah?” He scowled at Kethelket, who’d stepped back beside Sarl.

“Oh, I do indeed, sirrah. Sadly, this isn’t my fight; you said you wanted to fight our leader.”

“This one? You all bow to this man?”

“Oh, aye, he’s the strongest of us.” Valla stepped to the side, edging in front of Sarl and Edeya, putting herself between them and the other invaders who’d slowly been forming a semi-circle around their leader.

“Truly?”

“Truly,” Victor growled, and he cut the connection to his Alter Self spell. His body swelled with power, surging with mass and Energy as his true, nigh-eight-foot form took shape. Simultaneously, he released his hold on his aura, letting the full murderous, fear-fueled fury of his being roll out in a heavy wave that fell like a lead blanket of scorching hatred around him, so palpable that it rippled in the air, like shimmering heat on a blistering day in the desert. “Draw your blade, Eric.” His voice rumbled from his belly, thick with intent so evident that images of corpses and splashes of blood flashed through the minds of all who heard him.

The baron’s retinue balked, stepping back, even the giant stumbling in his involuntary haste to escape the cone of Victor’s gaze. Eric’s jaw had slackened, and his eyes widened, but, to his credit, he held his ground, and his hand found his sword. “So, it will be a contest, after all.” He turned to his six retainers. “You all heard my wishes. I made an offer, and this man has accepted. We will dance the blood waltz on this hill, and you all will witness my victory.”

“Stand back,” Victor growled, and though he addressed nobody in particular, everyone scrambled to obey, creating a loose circle around him and Eric. Edeya and Sarl, in particular, stumbled in their haste to put a bit of distance between themselves and the two fighters; they might have felt his aura before, but never with such baleful fury behind it. Something about the baron’s haughty attitude and desire to fight an opponent he’d seen as weaker than himself had angered Victor; no, pissed him off was a better way to describe his feelings. He wanted to teach the asshole a lesson about coming to his world and thinking he could walk all over everyone.

If he’d been more aware of his inner dialogue and motivations, Victor might have been surprised to note that he was thinking of Fanwath as his world, his home. Later, he might reflect on this moment and wonder at that change, but for the moment, he had eyes and thoughts only for Eric Gore Lust and the shimmering, smoky blade he drew forth from his scabbard. It was a deadly-looking weapon, moving in flickers and jumps as Eric stroked it through the air, and Victor knew it was alive and that it wanted to taste his blood. The thought brought a savage grin to his face as he unslung Lifedrinker. “Time to drink, chica.”