Chapter 14: The Divine Message and the Death of Sir Mogue

  The Divine Message arrived to meet Kagarani’s troops the following day. Yashin had Na’Vanad accompany him to the introduction, not knowing the true loyalties of the local rebels. The message had been clear that this group and its associates were assumed to be Ralu’s allies—which meant proceeding with extreme caution.

  Kagarani stood with his beard trimmed, wearing his black war uniform, ornate as it was. His armored shoulders were sharp, while he wore a thin chest plate. His armored skirt went halfway down his thighs over his black trousers, the armored material well able to deflect any light weapons and projectiles. The idea behind the outfit was to intimidate with finery, while providing the warlord with enough protection to leave him alive, buying his men enough time to intervene in any attack and get him to safety. An assassin on the hunt would need to go for the neck or the head to kill him quickly.

  All the generals took this sort of precaution, but Kagarani had the misfortune of having the largest target on his back. That was why he brought his best men to this meeting with dangerous men. The Divine Message believed Rontisil was akin to a deity. They were terrorists, many of them unhinged individuals with nothing left except their cause. If they were instructed to kill Kagarani, they’d take their chance as soon as it came.

  There was tension in the clearing where they met. Yashin adjusted his armor as the rebels arrived, a group of four striding toward Kagarani’s seat, halting at Deckel’s raised palm. All of Kagarani’s men wore their full armor. Bardom liked that their gear was light; it made him feel confident in using his quick, curved sword. The Katanese fought with considerably less armor for this reason.

  The delegation from the Divine Message grumbled as Deckel and some others searched the men for weapons, confiscating some daggers, but nothing unusual. They regarded Kagarani as he stood straight over a fire pit, elegantly inviting them to stand before the prepared wooden seats.

  “You are in the presence of General Loran Kagarani, a lord of the Great Leader’s honored city,” Yashin announced. “Governor of Katan-Bat. One of the most revered men in the world.” The other soldiers held the hilts of their swords as they looked over the shabby, dirty white rags the rebels wore. Yashin returned to parade rest. “Kneel.”

  The rebels waited until one of them knelt. The man was bald save for graying black hair at the sides of the scalp. The leader, Bardom thought.

  Kagarani noted it too. He pointed at him. “Step forward.”

  He did, standing tall and proud, as if he was dressed as elegantly as the general was, like his muck and dirt stains were equal to Kagarani’s silver tassels and buttons.

  “What is your name?”

  “Your spies will have reported my name as Omen,” he said through a beard in need of trimming, “but my name is Oukleze Sone.”

  “Oukleze,” Kagarani said the name aloud as a sign of respect, “what can you tell me?”

  “The South of this land belongs to me,” he said, showing his fist. “My control of it is not negotiable.”

  Yashin hissed sharply through his teeth, prompting two guards to grab Oukleze by the arms. The other men of the Divine Message jumped up to attack, but Deckel stepped in front of them, overwhelming them with his size. They shrank away as Oukleze ordered them to stand down.

  “Relax,” Kagarani said, smooth yet commanding. “Your position, perhaps, has been overstated, my friend. You are to serve me—and when our conquest is complete, you will have your reward. Lands, slaves, money. All for you.”

  Oukleze shook his arms free, as Kagarani permitted it. “You’ll find this land conquered already, my friend.”

  Kagarani and Yashin shared a glance. “Is that so? I’ve heard there is a final garrison nearby of Leisliain troops that you’ve left. In fact, I’ve heard there are a number of garrisons held on the road to Leislay.”

  Oukleze nodded. “When they see your numbers, they will cower away to the capital city. They are without friends further south.”

  “Hm,” Kagarani sized Oukleze up.

  “Aye,” Oukleze said. “They tremble with fear in the capital at what is to come.”

  “I’m sure they do tremble,” Kagarani crossed his arms, “but at the prospect of me. Not you. Your forces, fierce as they are, are no match for Leislay’s united military. That’s why you’ve halted your offensive.”

  Oukleze responded, “And you’d expect me to believe that your forces alone could claim the capital?”

  “I’d expect you to stand down and fall in line as we prepare our assault,” Kagarani answered with a strong tone. “I don’t care what you’ve done here. The mission is to capture Leislay, and it’s not done. I respect your effort, but your goal of conquering farmland, mountains, and forests is irrelevant.” Oukleze suddenly appeared smaller. “However, if it is in your interest, I would expect you to prepare for battle alongside us, against those heathens in the north.”

  Oukleze stiffened his lip. “In your vanguard.”

  Kagarani glanced over to Na’Vanad. “Shavu-Kara? It’s your vanguard.”

  All eyes fell on him. Bardom looked at the worn-out rebel with a stone expression. “Will you lay down your life in the name of the Great Leader?”

  The captain nodded promptly. “Without question.”

  Disgusting, Bardom thought. He studied him, then glanced at Kagarani. “I’ll accept them.”

  “Good,” the general nodded. “Then it’s settled. “We’ll move out in two hours; your men will lead the way.”

  Oukleze agreed, the temperature between the men cooling. As they dispersed, Kagarani exited with a heavy guard. Bardom followed with the others.

  Yashin patted Na’Vanad’s shoulder. “You’re doing well. Very well. I'm glad you have finally accepted things.”

  Bardom looked into his eyes. “Survival is not the same as acceptance. Surely, you know that.”

  The blankly stunned look in Yashin’s eyes told Bardom that he did, despite how unsatisfying it was to both of them. Bitterness for the present was only tamed by eagerness for the future. Bardom clung to that thought.

  With the Divine Message leading the way through their savagely won territory, Kagarani’s army navigated north on the main roads of the enemy. Bardom was lent a horse for the ride. The day’s march could have been faster, but the burnt carnage of a civilization terrorized slowed the caravan. Wherever they went, the roads were decorated with hanged victims and burnt villages—the enemy soldiers captured by the Divine Message.

  As they passed, Bardom found himself back in the day the Lekkians invaded Katan-Bat. He remembered killing Kagarani’s men, so sure of their evil nature. Now he walked in their camp as one of their most respected. Knowing their hatred for life left him conflicted. Surely they valued each other, and they seemed to be otherwise ordinary men. Yet what would happen when they reached Leislay? Slaughter, brutality?

  If the value of a human life was truly so circumstantial, how could he go along with these men? Bardom was trained to defend, not murder. Gazing uncomfortably at the destruction and death around him, he wondered if his current course was right. What cost was too high for his revenge?

  It’s justice, he reminded himself. I’m pursuing justice, not revenge.

  When the day was over, and the next camp was set, Bardom found a quiet place beyond the tents and sat on his knees. The last time he meditated was during his training, but now seemed an important time to do so, with the conflict in his heart making his hand unsteady.

  I must be firm, he reasoned ahead of the war preparations.

  His affirmations began as he remembered them.

  Peace came upon him as he controlled his breathing, letting his arms sink and his head drop. The world around him melted, and he felt his mind transcend into a new state. He held onto that peace, thinking it would make him whole. It provided temporary relief, but the truth could not be understated: he would not be whole for some time. His soul was still lost.

  Na’Vanad. Wanderer. Yes, Yashin chose the right name for him.

  The Divine Message were true Midlanders, despite their switched loyalties. They were almost all bald, either by choice or genetics. Either way, the men wore beards, unkempt and scraggly, but black and gray. Most of them smelled foul, ate without manners, and grunted their words. None of them smiled, none of them joked. It made eating with them uncomfortable and tense, which was not Deckel’s way. Bardom himself ate with manners trained into him by his mother, keeping a close eye on Oukleze.

  The bald man had seen many years, evidenced by his wrinkled skin. Despite his age, Bardom knew the value of a soldier was not solely in his years but in his skill. Years only gave him more time to gain it, as long as his body could still perform. Oukleze seemed the sort who learned that strength could win him his share of battles, but hadn’t figured out why he could not win a war. This was a lesson Abban L’Ani taught his children well: Strength is not everything, no matter how much it seemed to be. A man’s mind must be sharper than his sword, and Bardom was only now realizing how formidable his own was.

  Despite what they said, the Divine Message was not loyal to Rontisil because he was divine; they were loyal because he gave them the chance they needed to profit and grow their power. Bardom could understand marauders pillaging for a better life, forgotten by their old society. He figured Oukleze could not have been much in the past. A farmer or a merchant who had little. By the way they ate and the grumpiness among them, Bardom now understood their motivations without even speaking to them. If he could own their loyalty, then they would be useful tools, but not Rontisil’s, not Ralu’s, nor Kagarani’s. One sentence was all it would take for Bardom to win their attention. Their loyalty could come that quickly.

  I need this knighthood, he thought. I cannot lose this.

  Deckel swallowed his stew and observed the men eating. “These are not the right companions for us.”

  “Do not pretend that we are much more civilized than these barbarians,” Bardom said quietly. “When I met you, I saw many similarities.”

  The giant rolled his eyes. “Aye, perhaps, but they unnerve me.”

  Bardom set down his bowl and stood up. He walked over and stared at Oukleze. The captain chewed, then glanced up at him. He, too, set down his bowl.

  “Do you know what is more valuable than silver?” Bardom asked.

  Oukleze licked his lips with a furrowed brow, his men watching him. “Gold.”

  “Have you ever seen gold?”

  The captain was silent.

  “I’ve seen gold,” Bardom shrugged, wiping his mouth. “Let me tell you, once you’ve seen it, you want it. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” he grunted.

  “Because having it means you are someone,” Bardom said, digging at the man’s pride. “It means you won it, you earned it, or you killed for it. Then, when you are something worthy, people give it to you as a currency. Or sometimes as a gift for your favor. Do you have any idea what that is like?”

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  Oukleze was quickly influenced by the bewilderment of his men, his eyes looking like he craved it.

  “I,” Bardom embellished his musings, “could get you some gold.”

  The men gasped, setting down their food. Oukleze brought his bushy eyebrows together, “How?”

  “They have no shortage in Leislay,” he replied, “and if we win this region, I will be elevated to a position of importance. If you promise to assist me, there will be a nugget of gold in each of your pockets. Double for your captains, and triple for you, Oukleze.”

  The men grinned and whispered to each other. Oukleze hushed them for silence. “You would have me believe that a slave can do this?”

  Bardom glanced at Deckel. “Do you think I can do this?”

  Deckel raised his eyebrows. “Truly, there is nothing Na’Vanad cannot do.”

  The men turned their heads from Deckel to Oukleze, to Bardom. “Victory and gold. There will be nothing sweeter.”

  The next week, Oukleze and his men trained alongside Yashin’s squad. They learned new fighting techniques and battle formations. Ralu would occasionally send forward Anders or Layos to observe their training. Bardom spoke occasionally to Anders on their progress, but Ralu never showed his face, never left his camp. Kagarani protected Ralu from danger like a buffer.

  “Anders!” Bardom called one day. “What brings you here again?”

  “My lord inquires often about you,” Anders answered. “Your relationship with him is very interesting to many of us under his command. I am curious about your deal with him, Na’Vanad.”

  “And curious you shall remain,” Bardom grinned, then waved his hand behind him. “Aren’t these renegade Midlanders glorious, my friend? They obey me like a true captain.”

  “I am impressed by your success,” Anders said. “Will the garrisoned force over that hill be your first test for them?”

  Bardom frowned. What force?

  “Don’t tell me Kagarani is just letting them be!” Anders crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “You ought to say it’s time to test these fanatics in the field of battle. Come now, you must agree—Kagarani’s plan to scare away the local militias until they’ve all retreated to Leislay is a waste of our talented men.”

  Bardom glanced at the hill. There seemed to be nothing in it, just grass. “How many are they?”

  “A thousand men, as I’ve heard.”

  Bardom nodded. “Not retreating?”

  “Not one.”

  “Ralu told you to provoke me?” Bardom raised a smirking eyebrow.

  Anders grinned back. “Everyone wants to see you fight, lad.”

  “He may get his wish then,” Bardom said. “We ought not hold here too long anyway.”

  Slipping into Kagarani’s tent, Bardom noticed the lord speaking with several of his trusted advisors. Shai Olek was his closest friend, and he led the conversation. Bardom listened from beside a shadowy shelf.

  “Should it come to it, we’re ready to attack Ralu’s forces with subterfuge. Enough men in his ranks belong to us. Doubtless, he has some in ours as well. I’d prefer if we made serious our plans to escape to Katan-Bat in the event our rivals outwit our primary contingencies.”

  “Shh,” Lord Olpaeni rose. He looked over at Na’Vanad, then glanced at Kagarani. “It’s Na’Vanad.”

  Kagarani rose from his chair and peered over. “What is it?”

  “Lord,” he approached. “I’ve received word of a thousand Midlanders camped on the other side of the hill, directly to the north of our position. I request permission to meet them and negotiate their retreat.”

  “You’d have to be prepared to fight them,” Kagarani said.

  “May I bring Yashin’s squadron and the Divine Message?”

  Kagarani glanced at his lords and seemed inconvenienced. “Lad, we’ll let them leave on their own.”

  “I insist,” Bardom pushed. “There are men among them who don’t know your name. Let’s give them a reason to fear it.”

  Kagarani sighed, then looked at Olpaeni. “Would you like to assist the adventurous Shavu? Or shall I ask Lord Senli?”

  “I’ll accompany his green force,” Lord Olpaeni regarded Na’Vanad. Come, lad, I don’t believe these men have anyone dangerous among them. I’m sure they’ll run.”

  Olpaeni’s disciplined force was mobilized an hour later. Bardom and Yashin were each offered a horse for the battle. Bardom felt good riding, donning his helmet, even though the mask was bothersome.

  Yashin, for once, wasn’t bothered that Bardom took some initiative. He actually seemed intrigued. When they rounded the hill, they saw a camp below, garrisoning a force of men that began to swarm into position as they saw the Lekkians approaching.

  Lord Olpaeni had the squads arranged into organized groups, including archers who were in a highly advantageous place. As they held, they gave their opponents time to form up their own ranks, outnumbered two to one. It would be a slaughter if they came into combat.

  “Who’s that?” Olpaeni frowned. One man stood before the enemy line, shining in fine armor, with a magnificent sword held out to his side.

  “A knight of the Realm,” Bardom said. A pang of guilt struck him. Could it be Werno? Ulli?

  The fear that this man was one of his brothers, no matter how well he knew them, made him agitated.

  Olpaeni took note of Na’Vanad’s anger and approached him. “Shall we go parlay with this knight? I’d have you accompany me, knowing your skill should he try to smite me off my horse.”

  “He has no horse of his own,” Bardom answered.

  “Yes, but one does not need a horse to assassinate a man,” Olpaeni noted. “Come.”

  So Bardom joined Yashin and Lord Olpaeni down the hill, with their men holding back. Bardom and Yashin wore their masked helms, while Olpaeni rode without one, his fine dark hair flowing behind him. He was a man in his early forties, and fiercely loyal to Kagarani. He held a secure position among Kagarani’s lords and led a battalion to show it. Those men were loyal to both him and Kagarani, being the only lord who owned the loyalty of a significant number of Kagarani’s soldiers.

  The other lords, like Shai Olek, did not have armies. They stayed in Kagarani’s part of the capital city, while they had Rontisil’s militias maintaining the safety of their land holdings in the country.

  Consequently, Kagarani had amassed one of the largest armies Stet-Lek had ever seen and maintained it for over a decade.

  Olpaeni had earned his reputation as a strong military leader, but he also kept the peace in Kagarani’s domain. He handled law enforcement and had no trouble disciplining Shavuim for minor offenses. Bardom liked the man, but knew he likely would have to die. He was still a slaver, still a Lekkian.

  As is Kagarani…

  Bardom snapped out of his thoughts as Olpaeni began speaking.

  “Hail, knight! You are standing before a fraction of Lord Loran Kagarani’s forces, followed by Lord Aya Ralu’s forces. We will be taking the hill, as we will be taking this whole country. I suggest you take your brave men and retreat to Leislay, and let this day end without bloodshed.”

  Bardom felt the lord spoke well.

  “Your name?” the knight asked. He wore fine armor, but no helmet. He was handsome, but unfamiliar to Bardom, relaxing him.

  “I have many names,” he said. “Deathwalker, Stonefist, Ellio Wenti. Lately, Lord Olpaeni.”

  The knight spat. “You’re not the man who killed Bardom L’Ani.”

  Olpaeni glanced at Bardom. “No, I’m not.”

  “You will agree to this unless you are a coward,” the knight said. “I am a true knight of the realm, and thus must demand satisfaction for the murder of my brother. You will bring out the man who killed Prince Bardom. He will face me, and whoever shall win, shall win this hill for his side. The loser shall be put to death, and their side shall turn away and leave this place.”

  Bardom swallowed as his heart began to beat fast.

  “I agree,” Olpaeni grinned. “I shall not have to look far. Na’Vanad is right here.”

  Bardom glanced at Olpaeni, then at the furious knight, who now pointed his sword at him. “So. You are here to face me after all.”

  Bardom felt the sword on his back weigh heavily. Looking upon him, he replied, “You should heed my lord’s warning, sir.”

  “There is no peace for you in this land, for we have taken it grievously that you and your kind have destroyed that great peacemaker we called Abban L’Ani, and his sons.”

  “Do all in this land feel as you do?” Bardom replied as a quip, for it was known how disjointed these West Midlanders were.

  The knight grit his teeth, but did not make an immediate retort.

  Come on, fool! Bardom thought. Don’t make me kill you.

  “I shall not move, nor shall my men,” the knight said. “You shall fight me, slave! You shall face the consequences of your actions.”

  “As will you,” Olpaeni grinned. “Go on then, Na’Vanad. This parlay has gone on long enough.”

  Bardom glanced at Yashin, whose eyes looked sorrowful, but nodded.

  With a sigh, Bardom gave Yashin his horse's reins and swung his boot back over the saddle and landed on the grass.

  The knight gave some instructions to a squire as he strode to face him. The younger man hurried off to be clear of them, while the knight flourished his sword ceremoniously.

  “What is your name?” Bardom asked.

  “Mogue,” he said. “Sir Mogue.”

  “‘Of the Hills,’” Bardom recalled.

  “How did you know that?” Sir Mogue raised an eyebrow. “Are you a hunter of knights greater than yourself, slave?”

  “I would never assign myself such a hateful title,” Bardom replied. “Tell me, sir, did you know Prince Bardom, noble a knight as he was?”

  Now they were close enough to speak softly not to be heard by the others.

  “I knew him by name and by reputation,” Mogue said. “Knowing him by voice and face is not necessary to be avenged.”

  “Aye,” Bardom agreed. “Yet it is I who knew him better than the two of us. I come to you with a message from him.”

  “Hm?” Mogue frowned. “Why must you attempt these mind games with me?”

  “My sword is not drawn,” Bardom said. “It is no game.”

  Mogue stood ready to fight.

  “You see, sir, Bardom’s dying wish was that I warn the knights of the realm of King Rontisil’s coming for their lands. It is thus not too late for you to return to Leislay and send word to the armies and knights of this continent to send you aid. You must be ready and defend your capital, or else your country shall surely be lost. These are the warnings I bear to you, instead of my sword, sir.”

  “You are a loathsome creature to behave this way,” Mogue answered. “A true knight would behave with honor and never resort to tricks to evade an honest challenge. You are, of course, no knight. Not even a fake knight of Rontisil or his lords.”

  “Think me a wretch if you must,” Bardom said, “nonetheless a wretch who would see you leave the place alive.”

  Mogue thought about it, then looked toward his men. “If I left now, your men would be at our heels until we reached the city, at which point we would surely be dead, with no respite. We shall take our chance here, as honorable men.”

  “Know now that when I defeat you, your men will be given safe passage to Leislay. It is a chance you need not take.”

  “Enough!” Mogue shouted. “Draw your sword and fight. If you refuse, by the Kahl, I shall slay an unarmed man!”

  Bardom sighed, then removed his helmet. He cast the mask aside and stared at him.

  Mogue frowned deeper. “Draw your sword!”

  “Is my face really so foreign?”

  “DRAW!”

  Bardom sighed. “I will do what I must. May the Kahl have mercy on your people.”

  He drew the sword, and he heard the Lekkian side cheer.

  “Finally,” Mogue said, then launched toward him.

  No spears were thrown, no tricks were made, Bardom only rose his sword and fought with the skill he’d earned after so many years.

  Slice! Clang!

  Bardom kept the strong swordsman back, despite his fury. Mogue fought like a man with nothing left to lose. In a way, it was true. If he fell, Leislay was next. Of course, Mogue should have known that the Lekkians weren’t going to simply turn around if Na’Vanad lost the bout.

  But that was never an outcome Bardom was concerned with.

  Bardom launched a swift punch while Mogue was off balance, and the knight stumbled back off balance.

  They glared at each other.

  “I beg you to leave,” Bardom said.

  “With my glory stolen? I am no coward!”

  “No, you’re a fool!” Bardom shouted. “Bardom could not beat me. Why would you think you could?”

  “You’re just a man.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Shut up!” Mogue cried as he launched back at Na’Vanad.

  Bardom dodged and sliced the man across the arm.

  “Damn you!” he groaned.

  That was not all, though. Mogue attacked again, so Bardom disarmed him and brought him down to his knees, his sword at his neck.

  “Is this how a knight dies?” Bardom growled. “On his knees?”

  “You’re not worth Bardom’s spit,” Mogue said dejectedly.

  “You’re such a fool, and you don’t know why.” Bardom lowered his sword. “The only way Bardom could defeat his enemy was by infiltrating them. Do you not think he could see that when they’d killed everyone he loved?”

  Mogue raised his eyebrow. “What..?”

  Bardom turned his back on him in frustration. “So when you say you’re trying to avenge Bardom, don’t you think that’s a bit foolish?”

  “Are you—?”

  “You’re getting in my way, Sir Mogue,” Bardom bared his teeth in his face, forcing the knight to recoil.

  “But you’re the best of us,” he whispered. “Why would you come to destroy us like this?”

  Bardom looked down and felt tears well in his eyes. “It’s the only way I can destroy them.”

  “But you can’t—!”

  Bardom rammed his fist into his mouth. The man groaned on the floor.

  “You must understand that this is the only way. We are all powerless to it.”

  “You can join us!” Mogue hissed.

  “You’re destined to be destroyed, and I can’t stop that,” Bardom said. “I told you to run, and you refused.”

  Bardom made to walk away, but then fell face-first into the grass, rolling back to see Sir Mogue bearing down with a dagger.

  Bardom wrestled the man, letting the dagger land beside his head. The two struggled until finally Bardom pinned him down and plunged his own knife into the man’s heart. Sir Mogue’s eyes faded into death as Bardom knelt over him. The two sides watched silently.

  He took back the knife and trudged to his comrades, where they gave him cheers. The knife he held had killed Vakin. Now it killed his fellow knight. Bardom felt miserable, flooded with thoughts of his family and how he betrayed their memory. Yet the Lekkians congratulated him, as the lines advanced toward the Midlanders, who all ran off in a hurry.

  “Next time,” Olpaeni stopped him, “you’ll keep your helmet on, and not talk so much to your adversary. He’s not yours to save.”

  Bardom retook his mount and glared at the man, tossing his helmet to the ground. “I treat my opponents with respect. And you don’t care.”

  Olpaeni scoffed, while Yashin tried not to admonish him. Bardom then took off in the opposite direction of the skirmish. As he looked up the hill from which they came, he saw men on horseback watching him. Lord Ralu watched with intrigue, then pulled his horse away, followed by his posse.

  He better have been impressed, Bardom thought. A valiant man just died for no reason.