![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrAm reposting the prologue for Bound, and the first chapter. After that, you'll have to wait 'til March or so for the rest ^__^
“This is really it?”
“Yes,” Ingolf replied. He wiped sweat from his face and neck as he watched them admire the sword, hoping they would be too busy to notice how profusely he was sweating, or mark it to exertion rather than the cold fear he’d felt since this entire thing had begun.
“I cannot believe it,” said Sepp. “This must be a dream. It cannot be possible.”
“It is very possible, my friends,” Ingolf said, satisfaction and pride and excitement begin to heat his blood now that the fear was fading. “I have done it, and you hold it.”
Pancraz looked at it with awe, eyes shining even in the dim light of the abandoned cabin they’d overtaken for their own use. “The sword of the Betrayer himself,” he breathed, as if afraid to give voice to the words. “It looks precisely like the legends say. I thought for sure it would be the complete opposite.”
Ingolf gazed at the sword, seeing again the marble hands which had held it, the carved face which had seemed to stare so coldly at him. That was when the cold sweat had broken out, when those marble eyes had glared at him, and every story he’d ever heard of the Betrayer—the one the Illussor called the Holy General—flooded his mind.
He shoved the memory away, dismissed it, because it did not matter now in the least. The sword was now in their hands, and they would use it to drive back the bastards seeking to subjugate them. Most of the country had fallen to defeat – but not all of it.
They would sooner die than kneel before those filthy bastards.
“Did you hear that?” Sepp hissed.
“Shut up,” Ingolf snapped, retrieving his own sword from the floor as he did, indeed, hear something. Boots in snow, trying to be quiet but nature preventing him from being entirely successful.
Then the door crashed open, hit the floor with a thud as the old leather hinges finally gave in to age and mistreatment.
Ingolf drew a sharp breath despite himself. In lamplight and moonlight, their attacker was a handsome one. His hair was so pale it looked silver in the dark, and though his eyes were not clearly visible, he knew they would be just as pale, so too the skin that seemed to reflect the moonlight.
He was not slight, however, but broad in the chest and shoulders, all but filling the doorway. “Give it back,” the stranger bellowed, brandishing a sword that Ingolf was impressed he could properly use. Didn’t these people typically prefer smaller swords? He had never met one who bore a sword equal in size to his own native style.
Intriguing. Drawing his sword, he motioned Sepp and Pancraz back. “The sword belongs to us.”
“No, it does not,” the man said, and lunged.
Ingolf blocked the swing, but just barely. Swearing loudly, he shoved the man back and lunged forward and down, retrieving the stolen sword before bolting outside.
An angry bellowed followed him, and he swung around just in time to block another swing.
“Stay out of it,” he said sharply as he saw his friends moving to join the fray. “Three against one is no fair.”
“Well, well, look at that. One of you is trying to play at honor.”
Ingolf snarled and swung angrily, laughing in cold triumph when he managed to slice a wound on the bastard’s arm. “Who are you to question my honor? I am guilty of many things, but not dishonor.”
“Stealing sounds a dishonorable crime to me, bastard,” the man replied, and the fight was on again.
“You just let it sit around collecting dust,” Ingolf replied, gasping the words out between swings, muscles aching after his earlier exertions, but some part of him thrilling at finding such a worthy opponent even amidst the unhappy reasons for the duel.
The wound had not slowed the bastard down at all – merely forced him to fight with his left rather than his right. Impressive. Under any other circumstance, Ingolf would have defeated him and then fucked him. “You leave it to rot,” he continued, “and we intend to use it.”
“Maybe you should accept your days of glory are at last come to an end, and you are getting what you have always deserved.”
“You know nothing about it,” Ingolf bellowed. “Your country is not free of taint. Who are you to question me?”
“I am the owner of that sword, and you will return it or find yourself returning home lacking both sword and head.”
Ingolf sneered. “No man owns that sword.”
“Return it,” the man bellowed again.
“Prove it is yours and perhaps I’ll let you see it one last time before I kill you,” Ingolf returned, amused despite himself, enjoying himself though he should be afraid because this man was proving to be his equal.
The man roared again, pale eyes flashing, and he looked like nothing so much as the moonlight come to life in the form of a fierce warrior. Beautiful. “Prove it? I have nothing to prove to you. I am Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, direct descendant of the Holy General himself – return the sword or die.”
Ingolf charged, but it was only later that he admitted to himself that the snow was the only reason he was alive.
He stared at the body of the fallen von Adolwulf, the knelt to examine the head wound he had incurred from his fall on an unseen patch of ice. There was no blood, a good sign.
“Is he really related to the Betrayer?” Sepp asked.
Ingolf shrugged. “I would imagine that is not something anyone would claim to be lightly. He did say he was the Duke of Korte, which was the Betrayer’s title.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Take him with us,” Ingolf said. “If he has come after us, others will be on their way. That aside, if he really is the Duke of Korte, he will know things about the sword we do not and it could help us.” His mouth tightened as he thought of all they must do, how small a chance they had – no chance, really, if they were resorting to stealing the sword of the Holy General on the small chance the legends of it resisting Salharan magic were true.
They needed all the help they could get, unfortunately. If they did not find someway to defeat the Salharan magic waging out of control and overtaking Kria – then by the spring thaw there would no longer be a Kria.
Chapter One
Erich woke up tied to a bed.
He knew this chiefly because it was hardly the first time he had been tied to a bed, and woken up in that state. The thought stirred an old, bittersweet ache. He let it linger for a moment, a brief distraction, then gently pushed it back into the recesses of his mind and focused on the problem at hand.
The problem being that his hands were tied. He tested the rough rope binding them, and found they were well tied. Probably by the insufferable bastard who had stolen Bright.
Although, if that were true, it begged two questions—why was Erich still alive, and why had they kidnapped him? They had the sword, Goddess take them all, what more could they want?
First thing was first, however. He would not find answers to his questions while he remained tied to the bed. They had not secured his legs—that must be useful to him somehow. It would have to be, for he had nothing else to work with.
Now he was paying attention, he could feel they had not removed the dagger he kept there. Either they had not noticed it when stripping him of his weapons—and the boot was not the only one they had missed, the fools—or they did not think it was worth the bother of removing. Definitely fools.
He hoped they were fools long enough to give him time to escape.
Grimacing, he began to swing his legs up and then down again, bringing them parallel with his torso, folding himself in half—more difficult a trick at thirty one than it would have been even five years ago. For the first time in his life he was grateful to his little sister for forcing him to dance and dance and dance, which kept him far more limber and flexible than even combat.
Finally he got his legs far enough over he could wrest the knife from his boot. Letting his legs drop, red-faced and panting a bit, he began to fight with the ropes. Much swearing and half a dozen nicks later, he was free.
Tearing the remaining rope from his wrists, he cast the bits aside and slowly stood, carefully stretching out all his stiff muscles. He examined the nicks on wrists and hands, and decided they would be fine without special treatment. He'd done worse, Goddess knew. Someone had already bandaged the wound on his arm, and it somehow had not suffered in his attempts to get free.
Then he began to take a closer look at his surroundings. They had stripped him of his cloak and light armor, in addition to his sword and three of his nine daggers. Erich snorted in amusement and quickly retrieved his gear. His hand curled in anger around the pommel of his own sword. Bright, he had to get Bright back—whatever it took. That sword was a holy treasure of Illussor and he had let the Krians take it! Tits of the Winter Princess!
So far, the room had been almost too quiet. What sorts of fools were these Krians, to leave him completely unsupervised? That was the work of amateurs, and well they should know it. Well, leave them to suffer the consequences.
An inn of some sort, to judge by the furniture and the muffled noises coming up through the floor. But an inn where? Somewhere in Kria, likely. Hopefully far enough no one would find him to drag him home again kicking and screaming—though, likely, they would knock him out and keep him that way. They had learned before the hard way he did not go home politely until he was ready.
Shaking his head, deciding he had enough time not to race off blindly, Erich took stock. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea where his captors might be—likely in the inn. Unfortunately, he was Illussor through and through. He could not simply go around without attracting notice. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. So pale it was nearly white, save when the sun brought out the hints of gold in it. No, he could not go unnoticed through Krian land. He needed to find the sword, and find it quickly, and race for the border.
Easier said than done. Well, a problem was not solved solely by thinking about it.
First thing was first—he could not continue to wear his present tunic. Moving to the small table tucked into one corner of the square room, he opened his travel pack and pulled out the one spare he had brought for precisely this reason—sometimes it was better if no one knew he belonged to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf.
Quickly undoing belts and buckles and lacings, he stripped off the black and scarlet tunic emblazoned with a wolf and moon, and pulled on a much plainer tunic of pale blue trimmed in gray. Tucking the scarlet tunic away, he restored his sword belt and cloak, smoothing down the black and gray wolf fur that comprised the hood and top half of the long, heavy winter cloak.
He sneered at himself as he moved to the door, annoyed but resigned. Who was he fooling, after all? He was angry about Bright being stolen, and more than happy to take heads—but he was in Kria. The birthplace of his revered ancestor, the Holy General himself. He had wanted all his life to venture in Kria, even if he had never dared voice that wish aloud. Illussor and Kria were not enemies, per se, but neither were they friends.
Slowly he pulled the door open, hand ready to draw his sword in an instant—but the sound of a voice abruptly stopped him.
It stopped him mostly because it was coming, not from the hallway, but from the window on the opposite side of the room—and speaking Salharan. What in the world…? Moving soundlessly to the window, he stopped where he knew he would not be noticed, even by way of his shadow, by those standing outside and below his window.
Because now that he was closer he realized it was two voices. One was gruff in the way of someone recovering from a recent illness; the other was smooth and rippling, almost pretty. They both spoke as only natives could. Angling just so, he managed to glimpse two shadows cast by flickering torch light.
You have them both?
Yes, and they will be delivered on time. Tell him to calm down.
You should take him now, before something goes wrong.
That is why you are the lowest ranking. If we take him now, we will have to carry an unwilling man almost forty miles to the border, and then further still to home. If we leave well enough alone, then he will go willingly to within ten miles of the border. From there, it will be easy. Eight days, and the hardest part will be done.
Yes, and that means in nine days Kria will fall.
So get back and tell our esteemed leader to stop fretting. He will get what he wants in nine days.
The voices faded off as the men finished their conversation and went their separate ways.
Erich narrowed his eyes as his mind raced. Both. Two things. To be delivered, obviously to some leader in Salhara. That could mean anything. Could it have anything to do with him and the sword? No—possibly the sword, but what did Salhara care about the sword of the Holy General? They had never cared before; he was not even certain how the Krians had come to know the sword was crafted with arcen powder.
It could not have to do with him, because the men he'd fought had not known who he was until he had informed them, and they had not cared once the information was known. No, he had just happened to overhear some bit of plotting which had nothing to do with him.
Except it was Salhara. Kria and Illussor may not be friends, but they were not enemies either. Salhara was an enemy, even if Illussor worked hard to keep from outright war. Between the two, there was no contest.
So it would seem his plans were changing. How, though? He had not the slightest idea where to begin to look for traitor Salharans, and he still had to get his sword back. Traitors or no, he would not surrender that sword permanently into Krian hands. It was bad enough they had taken it from him to begin with; he would get it back.
He would have to get the sword, then figure out the rest. Or something. What he really wanted was food, but he supposed that would not be forthcoming anytime soon, beyond the bare essentials in his pack, anyway. Heaving a sigh, Erich moved away from the window and back toward the door—
Right as it was thrown open and the man he'd fought filled the doorway. They stared at each other a moment in surprise, then lunged. Rather than swords, cumbersome and dangerous in such tight quarters, they drew daggers.
The Krian was fast, almost too fast—Erich found himself shoved into the wall, cursing silently, but the Krian was not so fast that he got away with the move unscathed. When they at last came to a halt, Erich shoved into the wall with the Krian flush against him, it was with a dagger to his throat while he prodded the Krian's gut with a dagger of his own. Draw.
His captor smelled like smoke and snow, a hint of ale and meat. A couple days growth of dark hair gave his face an unkempt, but not entirely unappealing look. He was as dark as any Krian, brown hair and eyes of a shade that made him think of trees in winter. Not precisely handsome…too hard and sharp for that…but striking.
Vaguely familiar, but Erich could not for the life of him think why. He had never seen this man in his life, before their first encounter however many nights ago. If they had met before, Erich would remember—the man was certainly no chore to look at.
"What a clever little Illussor," the Krian said, voice deceptively casual. "Or perhaps cracking your head on the ice managed to knock some intelligence into you."
Erich pressed his own dagger just the slightest bit harder, feeling the way the man's muscles moved with the threat, the way he tensed to avoid fatal damage should Erich actually try to shove it through his gut. "Give me back my sword, Krian, and you will not have to find out what else I can do."
"Pretty as you are, I can guess."
Erich narrowed his eyes at the jibe, but did not rise to it. Before either one of them could speak, another figure appeared in the doorway. "My lord, how is the pris—"
The voice made Erich freeze, and all but forget his precarious position between wall and knife-wielding Krian. That voice was all he could focus on—gruff, like a man recovering from a recent illness. He stared at the man, and remembered there had been three of them when he had attempted to take back his sword.
So gruff voice was really Salharan, even though he was currently speaking Krian like a native. Really, though, so was Erich. Language was one of the few things no one had been forced to tie him to a chair to make him learn.
Three men, at least one a traitor. That meant that of the remaining two, one was possibly a traitor…and one was definitely going to be betrayed.
The press of the dagger drew his attention back to his immediate captor, and Erich locked gazes with the dark brown eyes—and knew suddenly, like a blow to the gut, that this was the man being betrayed. He could be wrong, he could be out of his mind. Goddess knew it would not be the first time he'd come up with a crazy, baseless idea.
But his gut was good; instinct was one of the few traits he possessed with which no one could find flaw.
Now the real question became how to handle the odd problem suddenly dropped into his lap. He supposed technically he had nothing to do with it; Kria could deal with its own problems. Except…Kria was neither friend nor enemy, and Salhara was a definite enemy.
And no one deserved to be betrayed that way.
Really, who was he fooling? He didn't want to go home and be useless and in the way. Maybe he could so something useful being dragged Kria, saving this idiot Krian from himself.
Of course, that required a plan. He needed to remain with them, without it being obvious he wanted to remain with them. That was the only way to gain more information, because right now he knew just enough to do more harm than good.
"Why do you want my sword, Krian? Surely you have enough of your own?"
The Krian was frowning at him, obviously puzzled by something about Erich.
He strove to be distracting, another of his skills, though this one was seldom lauded. Erich eased off his own dagger the slightest bit, ignoring entirely the traitor whom his captor had signaled to remain where he stood on the far side of the room. "Just give the sword, my dear, and we can part as friends."
The Krian shook his head. "Then I am afraid we are enemies. Kria needs that sword more than Illussor." He flashed a grin that was all teeth, an amused predator. "However, dear, I have decided that we need you to go along with it. So, you will be accompanying your sword for as long as we need it."
Erich grunted. "And when you no longer need it?"
"We'll discuss that when the time comes, hmm?"
"Men will be looking for me," Erich said, because it was true. "They tend not to like it when I vanish for days at a time. Do you want them coming along, as well?"
The man snorted in amused contempt. "They will not travel to the heart of Kria to search for one idiot Duke."
Erich decided not to mention that they would, if only because said idiot Duke had once been bonded to a prince of the realm, and so was kind of sort of a prince by marriage himself. It would take them days to find him, anyway, and that would give him time enough to get his bearings and formulate a proper plan.
"So I'm to be your prisoner?" he asked.
"Correct," the Krian said. "Any problems with that?"
"Several," Erich said drolly, but gave up all tension on his own dagger. "However, I feel you will not listen to my complaints."
"That would be correct."
"Then I shall simply offer a bit of advice. If you continue to tie me up, I might think you like me. So stop doing it."
The man stared at him—then burst out laughing, and withdrew his own dagger, tucking it away somewhere in the folds of his massive winter cloak. "What was your name, Illussor? I caught only the Duke bit, what with one thing and another."
"Erich von Adolwulf."
"So you really are descended from the so-called Holy General? We typically call him the Betrayer, you know."
"I know," Erich replied. "Who are you, Krian?"
The man sketched him a short, mocking bow. "I am Ingolf von Dirchs."
So he was a noble of some sort—and clearly a noble of great importance, if his capture and death would cause the fall of Kria…
Nobility did not have that much power.
Royalty, however, did.
Erich suddenly wondered if he staring at a Krian prince. Of course, that did not entirely make sense. He had met the royal family once, during a very cautious, very tense meeting in which all parties agreed to politely ignore the other unless violence reached an intolerable level—and they had carefully left the definition of intolerable vaguely defined.
The royal family of Kria consisted of the Kaiser, the Kaiserin , and their four children—two sons, two daughters. They none of them had looked like Ingolf, even if it had been ten years ago. Anyway, he had not heard that the royal family had fallen. Even Salhara would have a hard time keeping that quiet for very long, and if the royal family had fallen, then what was keeping Salhara from taking over?
Nine days, they had said. That meant someone or something was keeping the Salharans from staking a claim on Kria. Someone or something, and they were bringing along someone—Ingolf, he would stake his life—to the border, there to take him across the border, ostensibly to kill or imprison him.
So he must be someone important, someone of royal blood. Which meant he must be a bastard, or married to one of the royal family like Erich and declared a suitable heir should it become necessary.
Erich looked Ingolf up and down, and decided that he must be a bastard. He could be an in-law, even if he did not wear a marriage ring, but Erich's gut said he was a bastard.
Of course, he could be completely out of his mind and making up tales…but he did not think so.
Ingolf spoke, breaking into his thoughts. "So if tying you up will not work, how does one keep you prisoner?"
Erich grinned. "No one has been able to figure that out, to date. If you find a method, there are many in Illussor who would reward you handsomely for the secret."
It was true. His favorite activity growing up had been to get away from whomever was making him stay in a place he did not want to be—which was almost everywhere, just to be contrary. So they had taken to locking him up, tying him, anything they could think of to make Erich hold still long enough to acquire some knowledge, to master some lesson. He had never remained trapped longer than two days. The only one he had ever allowed to tie him up had been Hahn. "Rather than take me prisoner, why not convince me to stay?"
Ingolf's expression turned hard, distrustful. "What reason would an Illussor Duke have for helping a Krian who stole a national treasure?"
"We are not enemies, and I want the sword back—and even a Krian is better than a Salharan. The von Adolwulf family has ties to Kria, as well, though I am sure Kria prefers to deny it. I am not opposed to helping you, but you will have to tell me exactly what it is you are doing."
Ingolf cut the air with one hand in negation. "I do not have to tell you anything, your grace. I am willing to take you up on your offer of cooperation, if only because I do not want to keeping losing money on rope." He nodded to the cut remains that had bound Erich to the bed. "However, only a fool would trust a man who is two steps from being an enemy. We need the sword to combat the Salharans. As it is your sword, you quite possibly offer additional information about it. If you cooperate, we will treat you accordingly. If you do not, we will treat you accordingly. That is all you need to know for now."
"For the moment, I would gladly cooperate for a meal," Erich replied. "We will smooth out the rest as we go, hmm?"
The words drew a laugh from Ingolf. It was a nice laugh. That he noticed it shook Erich to the core. To notice a man was good looking was one thing—to notice his laugh was quite another. He had not noticed another man's laugh in five years.
It was only then that he realized he had felt like his old self, since coming on this adventure. He fisted his hands to still their trembling. In the back of his mind, he heard a more familiar laugh, warm and reassuring, smoothing out the knots and worries clouding his head. It was an old sound, one that had drawn him in a thousand times or more, once.
Of course Hahn would find this all amusing.
Ingolf gave him a last cautious look, once more breaking Erich's thoughts, then motioned for Erich to walk between him and his man as they left the room and ventured downstairs to the dining hall.
Erich idly stroked his thumb over the plain gold and silver band he wore on the second finger of his left hand. The widow's finger.
Yes, Hahn would have been amused by the entire situation.
Downstairs, he let the smells of meat and ale consume his thoughts. His stomach rumbled with the smells. He focused on the food, ignoring the brief, sudden silence that sprang up as the Krians noticed a full-blooded Illussor in their midst.
Thank the Goddess he had changed out of his scarlet tunic. The very last thing he needed on top of being ghost-white by comparison was to wear the colors of the army and general declared forbidden ever since the Betrayer turned on Kria to join Illussor after murdering Kaiser Benno.
Kria obviously did not know their own history.
"Why are you smirking, Illussor?" Ingolf asked, no real heat in the words.
"I was just thinking it is a good thing I changed my clothes."
Ingolf frowned at him, as the other man vanished to fetch their food, and settled down next to Erich at a small table off to one side of the large room. "Yes, you were wearing the Betrayer's color, the color of the Autumn Prince. It is forbidden, you would have caused a great deal of trouble."
Erich snorted. "The Holy General's colors, yes. I belong to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf, not that it would mean anything to you. I guess it is what the Scarlet Army was back in those days." He reached beneath the layers of his clothes and drew out a braided gold chain, from which hung a pendant—a sunburst made of gold, overlaid by a crescent moon made of silver. "I also belong to the Order of Light."
Ingolf narrowed his eyes. "It is true, then, that the Betrayer ran away to Illussor with a Salharan whore."
"He was not a whore," Erich replied coldly, shoving the pendant back beneath his clothes. "He saved our country. He was the Breaker, and the Holy General's bonded. Do not besmirch his name in my presence again. To do so is to insult me."
"Whatever," Ingolf said, dismissing the matter as their food arrived—along with the third man.
Erich studied them surreptiously.
The gruff-voiced traitor was a handsome fellow, if rather slender for a Krian. He was also remarkably fair, which made sense if he was actually Salharan—and come to that, the eyes were slightly off, the cheekbones a bit too soft for full Krian blood. He was at least a quarter Salharan, not more than half, which meant he must have grown up right on the border. Erich doubted he would have noticed the Salharan blood if he had not known to look for it.
He shifted his attention to the second man, who was definitely all Krian—but a traitor, or ignorant, or the true target? Erich had no way of knowing, not at the moment. He was dark, skin weathered from sun and snow and battle, not handsome, but not plain either. Respectable, Erich decided. Easy to look at, easy to forget, if that's what the man wanted.
Ingolf motioned, introducing the two men. "Pancraz," he said, pointing to the gruff-voiced man. "Sepp," he said, pointing to the other. "These are my friends, and my comrades in arms. Gentlemen, this is his grace Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, and he has agreed to accompany us."
"Right," Pancraz said, clearly contemptuous. "A Krian Duke just agrees to go along with the men what stole his sword. Have you gone soft in the head, Ingolf?"
"No," Ingolf replied, eyes taking on a hard glint. "I believe him sincere, and I am taking responsibility."
Privately, Erich agreed with Pancraz's unspoken but plain upon the face opinion that Ingolf was trusting too easily. However, that worked for him, and he would see to Pancraz as soon as it was possible.
He was not going to think about why he was finding this matter increasingly important, or reminding himself how stupid this was—he had responsibilities, whether he wanted them or not, even if he was unsuited for them.
But, it was too last now. Anyway, he was doing his part for his country by seeing to it Kria did not fall to Salhara.
Sepp seemed amused. "He'll certainly make the going interesting, pale as he is. We had best keep him out of sunlight and moonlight, else he'll glow and be visible at five hundred paces."
"Indeed," Ingolf said, snorting in amusement. "How do you lot avoid blinding one another with your paleness, Illussor?"
Erich rolled his eyes, and ignored them all in favor of filling his stomach. "So where are we going, or am I not allowed to know?"
"You are not allowed to know," Ingolf replied, almost sounding cheerful.
"You said you thought me sincere."
"That does not mean I trust you with vital information. You will know only what you must, and I decide what precisely you must know. Sincere does not mean you will not take the first opportunity presented you."
Though Erich had no intention of going anywhere until he knew Kria would be as safe as he could make it, it would not do to give voice to that thought. "That could certainly be true, I suppose. But I'm not leaving without my sword."
Ingolf shook his head and drank his ale.
"How do you come to know Krian so well?" Pancraz asked. "You speak nearly as well as any native."
"It was one of my many lessons," Erich replied, and added, "and I like learning languages. I am fluent in Krian, Salharan, and Welestran, though let me tell you that was damned hard to learn."
Ingolf replied dryly, "I would imagine there might be some difficulty in learning the language of the pirates."
"Not really," Erich said with a grin. "Those we manage to arrest, with lesser offenses, I offer a pardon on the condition they first study with me for a set period of months, and in that time they also perform some manner of labor. The hard part is just learning all of the language; criminals of that nature are not given to an extensive vocabulary, and the higher ranking criminals are not fit for pardons, or even conversation."
Muttering something Erich did not quite catch, Ingolf returned to his food. The group subsided into silence, then, focused only their food and ale, until there was scarcely a bone left as they shoved back empty plates.
"We are moving on tonight," Ingolf said as they sipped their ale. "The snow will not stay gone long, and I want to reach out next destination before it resumes falling and traps us somewhere. You two, go pack up and ready the horses."
"Aye, boss," the men chorused, promptly standing and departing.
Definitely a figure used to authority. Erich was growing more and more certain that he was right in his baseless suppositions.
If he was correct, then why not simply kill Ingolf outright and end the royal line once and for all? The obvious answer was that Ingolf had or knew something that the Salharans needed.
This little problem was proving to be quite the mystery.
Erich was surprised he was looking forward to solving it. Despite himself, he had begun to well and truly leave behind the despondency in which he had lived so long. Oh, he had not been as bad as that first year, or even the second, since Hahn's death. But eve he knew he had been nothing but a shadow of himself, even five years later.
Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt like himself again. All because a bunch of idiot Krians had stolen his sword, and dragged him into a matter of terrible intrigue. He wondered what, precisely, had triggered the change, and added it to his growing list of questions in serious need of answers.
Prologue
A man needs three people in his life – someone to kneel before, someone to walk beside, and someone to hold.
~The Holy General
A man needs three people in his life – someone to kneel before, someone to walk beside, and someone to hold.
~The Holy General
“This is really it?”
“Yes,” Ingolf replied. He wiped sweat from his face and neck as he watched them admire the sword, hoping they would be too busy to notice how profusely he was sweating, or mark it to exertion rather than the cold fear he’d felt since this entire thing had begun.
“I cannot believe it,” said Sepp. “This must be a dream. It cannot be possible.”
“It is very possible, my friends,” Ingolf said, satisfaction and pride and excitement begin to heat his blood now that the fear was fading. “I have done it, and you hold it.”
Pancraz looked at it with awe, eyes shining even in the dim light of the abandoned cabin they’d overtaken for their own use. “The sword of the Betrayer himself,” he breathed, as if afraid to give voice to the words. “It looks precisely like the legends say. I thought for sure it would be the complete opposite.”
Ingolf gazed at the sword, seeing again the marble hands which had held it, the carved face which had seemed to stare so coldly at him. That was when the cold sweat had broken out, when those marble eyes had glared at him, and every story he’d ever heard of the Betrayer—the one the Illussor called the Holy General—flooded his mind.
He shoved the memory away, dismissed it, because it did not matter now in the least. The sword was now in their hands, and they would use it to drive back the bastards seeking to subjugate them. Most of the country had fallen to defeat – but not all of it.
They would sooner die than kneel before those filthy bastards.
“Did you hear that?” Sepp hissed.
“Shut up,” Ingolf snapped, retrieving his own sword from the floor as he did, indeed, hear something. Boots in snow, trying to be quiet but nature preventing him from being entirely successful.
Then the door crashed open, hit the floor with a thud as the old leather hinges finally gave in to age and mistreatment.
Ingolf drew a sharp breath despite himself. In lamplight and moonlight, their attacker was a handsome one. His hair was so pale it looked silver in the dark, and though his eyes were not clearly visible, he knew they would be just as pale, so too the skin that seemed to reflect the moonlight.
He was not slight, however, but broad in the chest and shoulders, all but filling the doorway. “Give it back,” the stranger bellowed, brandishing a sword that Ingolf was impressed he could properly use. Didn’t these people typically prefer smaller swords? He had never met one who bore a sword equal in size to his own native style.
Intriguing. Drawing his sword, he motioned Sepp and Pancraz back. “The sword belongs to us.”
“No, it does not,” the man said, and lunged.
Ingolf blocked the swing, but just barely. Swearing loudly, he shoved the man back and lunged forward and down, retrieving the stolen sword before bolting outside.
An angry bellowed followed him, and he swung around just in time to block another swing.
“Stay out of it,” he said sharply as he saw his friends moving to join the fray. “Three against one is no fair.”
“Well, well, look at that. One of you is trying to play at honor.”
Ingolf snarled and swung angrily, laughing in cold triumph when he managed to slice a wound on the bastard’s arm. “Who are you to question my honor? I am guilty of many things, but not dishonor.”
“Stealing sounds a dishonorable crime to me, bastard,” the man replied, and the fight was on again.
“You just let it sit around collecting dust,” Ingolf replied, gasping the words out between swings, muscles aching after his earlier exertions, but some part of him thrilling at finding such a worthy opponent even amidst the unhappy reasons for the duel.
The wound had not slowed the bastard down at all – merely forced him to fight with his left rather than his right. Impressive. Under any other circumstance, Ingolf would have defeated him and then fucked him. “You leave it to rot,” he continued, “and we intend to use it.”
“Maybe you should accept your days of glory are at last come to an end, and you are getting what you have always deserved.”
“You know nothing about it,” Ingolf bellowed. “Your country is not free of taint. Who are you to question me?”
“I am the owner of that sword, and you will return it or find yourself returning home lacking both sword and head.”
Ingolf sneered. “No man owns that sword.”
“Return it,” the man bellowed again.
“Prove it is yours and perhaps I’ll let you see it one last time before I kill you,” Ingolf returned, amused despite himself, enjoying himself though he should be afraid because this man was proving to be his equal.
The man roared again, pale eyes flashing, and he looked like nothing so much as the moonlight come to life in the form of a fierce warrior. Beautiful. “Prove it? I have nothing to prove to you. I am Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, direct descendant of the Holy General himself – return the sword or die.”
Ingolf charged, but it was only later that he admitted to himself that the snow was the only reason he was alive.
He stared at the body of the fallen von Adolwulf, the knelt to examine the head wound he had incurred from his fall on an unseen patch of ice. There was no blood, a good sign.
“Is he really related to the Betrayer?” Sepp asked.
Ingolf shrugged. “I would imagine that is not something anyone would claim to be lightly. He did say he was the Duke of Korte, which was the Betrayer’s title.”
“What are we going to do with him?”
“Take him with us,” Ingolf said. “If he has come after us, others will be on their way. That aside, if he really is the Duke of Korte, he will know things about the sword we do not and it could help us.” His mouth tightened as he thought of all they must do, how small a chance they had – no chance, really, if they were resorting to stealing the sword of the Holy General on the small chance the legends of it resisting Salharan magic were true.
They needed all the help they could get, unfortunately. If they did not find someway to defeat the Salharan magic waging out of control and overtaking Kria – then by the spring thaw there would no longer be a Kria.
Part One
Two Princes
Never let a Krian take you prisoner.
~Beraht von Adolwulf, seventh Duke of Torla
Two Princes
Never let a Krian take you prisoner.
~Beraht von Adolwulf, seventh Duke of Torla
Chapter One
Erich woke up tied to a bed.
He knew this chiefly because it was hardly the first time he had been tied to a bed, and woken up in that state. The thought stirred an old, bittersweet ache. He let it linger for a moment, a brief distraction, then gently pushed it back into the recesses of his mind and focused on the problem at hand.
The problem being that his hands were tied. He tested the rough rope binding them, and found they were well tied. Probably by the insufferable bastard who had stolen Bright.
Although, if that were true, it begged two questions—why was Erich still alive, and why had they kidnapped him? They had the sword, Goddess take them all, what more could they want?
First thing was first, however. He would not find answers to his questions while he remained tied to the bed. They had not secured his legs—that must be useful to him somehow. It would have to be, for he had nothing else to work with.
Now he was paying attention, he could feel they had not removed the dagger he kept there. Either they had not noticed it when stripping him of his weapons—and the boot was not the only one they had missed, the fools—or they did not think it was worth the bother of removing. Definitely fools.
He hoped they were fools long enough to give him time to escape.
Grimacing, he began to swing his legs up and then down again, bringing them parallel with his torso, folding himself in half—more difficult a trick at thirty one than it would have been even five years ago. For the first time in his life he was grateful to his little sister for forcing him to dance and dance and dance, which kept him far more limber and flexible than even combat.
Finally he got his legs far enough over he could wrest the knife from his boot. Letting his legs drop, red-faced and panting a bit, he began to fight with the ropes. Much swearing and half a dozen nicks later, he was free.
Tearing the remaining rope from his wrists, he cast the bits aside and slowly stood, carefully stretching out all his stiff muscles. He examined the nicks on wrists and hands, and decided they would be fine without special treatment. He'd done worse, Goddess knew. Someone had already bandaged the wound on his arm, and it somehow had not suffered in his attempts to get free.
Then he began to take a closer look at his surroundings. They had stripped him of his cloak and light armor, in addition to his sword and three of his nine daggers. Erich snorted in amusement and quickly retrieved his gear. His hand curled in anger around the pommel of his own sword. Bright, he had to get Bright back—whatever it took. That sword was a holy treasure of Illussor and he had let the Krians take it! Tits of the Winter Princess!
So far, the room had been almost too quiet. What sorts of fools were these Krians, to leave him completely unsupervised? That was the work of amateurs, and well they should know it. Well, leave them to suffer the consequences.
An inn of some sort, to judge by the furniture and the muffled noises coming up through the floor. But an inn where? Somewhere in Kria, likely. Hopefully far enough no one would find him to drag him home again kicking and screaming—though, likely, they would knock him out and keep him that way. They had learned before the hard way he did not go home politely until he was ready.
Shaking his head, deciding he had enough time not to race off blindly, Erich took stock. He had no idea where he was, he had no idea where his captors might be—likely in the inn. Unfortunately, he was Illussor through and through. He could not simply go around without attracting notice. He ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. So pale it was nearly white, save when the sun brought out the hints of gold in it. No, he could not go unnoticed through Krian land. He needed to find the sword, and find it quickly, and race for the border.
Easier said than done. Well, a problem was not solved solely by thinking about it.
First thing was first—he could not continue to wear his present tunic. Moving to the small table tucked into one corner of the square room, he opened his travel pack and pulled out the one spare he had brought for precisely this reason—sometimes it was better if no one knew he belonged to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf.
Quickly undoing belts and buckles and lacings, he stripped off the black and scarlet tunic emblazoned with a wolf and moon, and pulled on a much plainer tunic of pale blue trimmed in gray. Tucking the scarlet tunic away, he restored his sword belt and cloak, smoothing down the black and gray wolf fur that comprised the hood and top half of the long, heavy winter cloak.
He sneered at himself as he moved to the door, annoyed but resigned. Who was he fooling, after all? He was angry about Bright being stolen, and more than happy to take heads—but he was in Kria. The birthplace of his revered ancestor, the Holy General himself. He had wanted all his life to venture in Kria, even if he had never dared voice that wish aloud. Illussor and Kria were not enemies, per se, but neither were they friends.
Slowly he pulled the door open, hand ready to draw his sword in an instant—but the sound of a voice abruptly stopped him.
It stopped him mostly because it was coming, not from the hallway, but from the window on the opposite side of the room—and speaking Salharan. What in the world…? Moving soundlessly to the window, he stopped where he knew he would not be noticed, even by way of his shadow, by those standing outside and below his window.
Because now that he was closer he realized it was two voices. One was gruff in the way of someone recovering from a recent illness; the other was smooth and rippling, almost pretty. They both spoke as only natives could. Angling just so, he managed to glimpse two shadows cast by flickering torch light.
You have them both?
Yes, and they will be delivered on time. Tell him to calm down.
You should take him now, before something goes wrong.
That is why you are the lowest ranking. If we take him now, we will have to carry an unwilling man almost forty miles to the border, and then further still to home. If we leave well enough alone, then he will go willingly to within ten miles of the border. From there, it will be easy. Eight days, and the hardest part will be done.
Yes, and that means in nine days Kria will fall.
So get back and tell our esteemed leader to stop fretting. He will get what he wants in nine days.
The voices faded off as the men finished their conversation and went their separate ways.
Erich narrowed his eyes as his mind raced. Both. Two things. To be delivered, obviously to some leader in Salhara. That could mean anything. Could it have anything to do with him and the sword? No—possibly the sword, but what did Salhara care about the sword of the Holy General? They had never cared before; he was not even certain how the Krians had come to know the sword was crafted with arcen powder.
It could not have to do with him, because the men he'd fought had not known who he was until he had informed them, and they had not cared once the information was known. No, he had just happened to overhear some bit of plotting which had nothing to do with him.
Except it was Salhara. Kria and Illussor may not be friends, but they were not enemies either. Salhara was an enemy, even if Illussor worked hard to keep from outright war. Between the two, there was no contest.
So it would seem his plans were changing. How, though? He had not the slightest idea where to begin to look for traitor Salharans, and he still had to get his sword back. Traitors or no, he would not surrender that sword permanently into Krian hands. It was bad enough they had taken it from him to begin with; he would get it back.
He would have to get the sword, then figure out the rest. Or something. What he really wanted was food, but he supposed that would not be forthcoming anytime soon, beyond the bare essentials in his pack, anyway. Heaving a sigh, Erich moved away from the window and back toward the door—
Right as it was thrown open and the man he'd fought filled the doorway. They stared at each other a moment in surprise, then lunged. Rather than swords, cumbersome and dangerous in such tight quarters, they drew daggers.
The Krian was fast, almost too fast—Erich found himself shoved into the wall, cursing silently, but the Krian was not so fast that he got away with the move unscathed. When they at last came to a halt, Erich shoved into the wall with the Krian flush against him, it was with a dagger to his throat while he prodded the Krian's gut with a dagger of his own. Draw.
His captor smelled like smoke and snow, a hint of ale and meat. A couple days growth of dark hair gave his face an unkempt, but not entirely unappealing look. He was as dark as any Krian, brown hair and eyes of a shade that made him think of trees in winter. Not precisely handsome…too hard and sharp for that…but striking.
Vaguely familiar, but Erich could not for the life of him think why. He had never seen this man in his life, before their first encounter however many nights ago. If they had met before, Erich would remember—the man was certainly no chore to look at.
"What a clever little Illussor," the Krian said, voice deceptively casual. "Or perhaps cracking your head on the ice managed to knock some intelligence into you."
Erich pressed his own dagger just the slightest bit harder, feeling the way the man's muscles moved with the threat, the way he tensed to avoid fatal damage should Erich actually try to shove it through his gut. "Give me back my sword, Krian, and you will not have to find out what else I can do."
"Pretty as you are, I can guess."
Erich narrowed his eyes at the jibe, but did not rise to it. Before either one of them could speak, another figure appeared in the doorway. "My lord, how is the pris—"
The voice made Erich freeze, and all but forget his precarious position between wall and knife-wielding Krian. That voice was all he could focus on—gruff, like a man recovering from a recent illness. He stared at the man, and remembered there had been three of them when he had attempted to take back his sword.
So gruff voice was really Salharan, even though he was currently speaking Krian like a native. Really, though, so was Erich. Language was one of the few things no one had been forced to tie him to a chair to make him learn.
Three men, at least one a traitor. That meant that of the remaining two, one was possibly a traitor…and one was definitely going to be betrayed.
The press of the dagger drew his attention back to his immediate captor, and Erich locked gazes with the dark brown eyes—and knew suddenly, like a blow to the gut, that this was the man being betrayed. He could be wrong, he could be out of his mind. Goddess knew it would not be the first time he'd come up with a crazy, baseless idea.
But his gut was good; instinct was one of the few traits he possessed with which no one could find flaw.
Now the real question became how to handle the odd problem suddenly dropped into his lap. He supposed technically he had nothing to do with it; Kria could deal with its own problems. Except…Kria was neither friend nor enemy, and Salhara was a definite enemy.
And no one deserved to be betrayed that way.
Really, who was he fooling? He didn't want to go home and be useless and in the way. Maybe he could so something useful being dragged Kria, saving this idiot Krian from himself.
Of course, that required a plan. He needed to remain with them, without it being obvious he wanted to remain with them. That was the only way to gain more information, because right now he knew just enough to do more harm than good.
"Why do you want my sword, Krian? Surely you have enough of your own?"
The Krian was frowning at him, obviously puzzled by something about Erich.
He strove to be distracting, another of his skills, though this one was seldom lauded. Erich eased off his own dagger the slightest bit, ignoring entirely the traitor whom his captor had signaled to remain where he stood on the far side of the room. "Just give the sword, my dear, and we can part as friends."
The Krian shook his head. "Then I am afraid we are enemies. Kria needs that sword more than Illussor." He flashed a grin that was all teeth, an amused predator. "However, dear, I have decided that we need you to go along with it. So, you will be accompanying your sword for as long as we need it."
Erich grunted. "And when you no longer need it?"
"We'll discuss that when the time comes, hmm?"
"Men will be looking for me," Erich said, because it was true. "They tend not to like it when I vanish for days at a time. Do you want them coming along, as well?"
The man snorted in amused contempt. "They will not travel to the heart of Kria to search for one idiot Duke."
Erich decided not to mention that they would, if only because said idiot Duke had once been bonded to a prince of the realm, and so was kind of sort of a prince by marriage himself. It would take them days to find him, anyway, and that would give him time enough to get his bearings and formulate a proper plan.
"So I'm to be your prisoner?" he asked.
"Correct," the Krian said. "Any problems with that?"
"Several," Erich said drolly, but gave up all tension on his own dagger. "However, I feel you will not listen to my complaints."
"That would be correct."
"Then I shall simply offer a bit of advice. If you continue to tie me up, I might think you like me. So stop doing it."
The man stared at him—then burst out laughing, and withdrew his own dagger, tucking it away somewhere in the folds of his massive winter cloak. "What was your name, Illussor? I caught only the Duke bit, what with one thing and another."
"Erich von Adolwulf."
"So you really are descended from the so-called Holy General? We typically call him the Betrayer, you know."
"I know," Erich replied. "Who are you, Krian?"
The man sketched him a short, mocking bow. "I am Ingolf von Dirchs."
So he was a noble of some sort—and clearly a noble of great importance, if his capture and death would cause the fall of Kria…
Nobility did not have that much power.
Royalty, however, did.
Erich suddenly wondered if he staring at a Krian prince. Of course, that did not entirely make sense. He had met the royal family once, during a very cautious, very tense meeting in which all parties agreed to politely ignore the other unless violence reached an intolerable level—and they had carefully left the definition of intolerable vaguely defined.
The royal family of Kria consisted of the Kaiser, the Kaiserin , and their four children—two sons, two daughters. They none of them had looked like Ingolf, even if it had been ten years ago. Anyway, he had not heard that the royal family had fallen. Even Salhara would have a hard time keeping that quiet for very long, and if the royal family had fallen, then what was keeping Salhara from taking over?
Nine days, they had said. That meant someone or something was keeping the Salharans from staking a claim on Kria. Someone or something, and they were bringing along someone—Ingolf, he would stake his life—to the border, there to take him across the border, ostensibly to kill or imprison him.
So he must be someone important, someone of royal blood. Which meant he must be a bastard, or married to one of the royal family like Erich and declared a suitable heir should it become necessary.
Erich looked Ingolf up and down, and decided that he must be a bastard. He could be an in-law, even if he did not wear a marriage ring, but Erich's gut said he was a bastard.
Of course, he could be completely out of his mind and making up tales…but he did not think so.
Ingolf spoke, breaking into his thoughts. "So if tying you up will not work, how does one keep you prisoner?"
Erich grinned. "No one has been able to figure that out, to date. If you find a method, there are many in Illussor who would reward you handsomely for the secret."
It was true. His favorite activity growing up had been to get away from whomever was making him stay in a place he did not want to be—which was almost everywhere, just to be contrary. So they had taken to locking him up, tying him, anything they could think of to make Erich hold still long enough to acquire some knowledge, to master some lesson. He had never remained trapped longer than two days. The only one he had ever allowed to tie him up had been Hahn. "Rather than take me prisoner, why not convince me to stay?"
Ingolf's expression turned hard, distrustful. "What reason would an Illussor Duke have for helping a Krian who stole a national treasure?"
"We are not enemies, and I want the sword back—and even a Krian is better than a Salharan. The von Adolwulf family has ties to Kria, as well, though I am sure Kria prefers to deny it. I am not opposed to helping you, but you will have to tell me exactly what it is you are doing."
Ingolf cut the air with one hand in negation. "I do not have to tell you anything, your grace. I am willing to take you up on your offer of cooperation, if only because I do not want to keeping losing money on rope." He nodded to the cut remains that had bound Erich to the bed. "However, only a fool would trust a man who is two steps from being an enemy. We need the sword to combat the Salharans. As it is your sword, you quite possibly offer additional information about it. If you cooperate, we will treat you accordingly. If you do not, we will treat you accordingly. That is all you need to know for now."
"For the moment, I would gladly cooperate for a meal," Erich replied. "We will smooth out the rest as we go, hmm?"
The words drew a laugh from Ingolf. It was a nice laugh. That he noticed it shook Erich to the core. To notice a man was good looking was one thing—to notice his laugh was quite another. He had not noticed another man's laugh in five years.
It was only then that he realized he had felt like his old self, since coming on this adventure. He fisted his hands to still their trembling. In the back of his mind, he heard a more familiar laugh, warm and reassuring, smoothing out the knots and worries clouding his head. It was an old sound, one that had drawn him in a thousand times or more, once.
Of course Hahn would find this all amusing.
Ingolf gave him a last cautious look, once more breaking Erich's thoughts, then motioned for Erich to walk between him and his man as they left the room and ventured downstairs to the dining hall.
Erich idly stroked his thumb over the plain gold and silver band he wore on the second finger of his left hand. The widow's finger.
Yes, Hahn would have been amused by the entire situation.
Downstairs, he let the smells of meat and ale consume his thoughts. His stomach rumbled with the smells. He focused on the food, ignoring the brief, sudden silence that sprang up as the Krians noticed a full-blooded Illussor in their midst.
Thank the Goddess he had changed out of his scarlet tunic. The very last thing he needed on top of being ghost-white by comparison was to wear the colors of the army and general declared forbidden ever since the Betrayer turned on Kria to join Illussor after murdering Kaiser Benno.
Kria obviously did not know their own history.
"Why are you smirking, Illussor?" Ingolf asked, no real heat in the words.
"I was just thinking it is a good thing I changed my clothes."
Ingolf frowned at him, as the other man vanished to fetch their food, and settled down next to Erich at a small table off to one side of the large room. "Yes, you were wearing the Betrayer's color, the color of the Autumn Prince. It is forbidden, you would have caused a great deal of trouble."
Erich snorted. "The Holy General's colors, yes. I belong to the Order of the Scarlet Wolf, not that it would mean anything to you. I guess it is what the Scarlet Army was back in those days." He reached beneath the layers of his clothes and drew out a braided gold chain, from which hung a pendant—a sunburst made of gold, overlaid by a crescent moon made of silver. "I also belong to the Order of Light."
Ingolf narrowed his eyes. "It is true, then, that the Betrayer ran away to Illussor with a Salharan whore."
"He was not a whore," Erich replied coldly, shoving the pendant back beneath his clothes. "He saved our country. He was the Breaker, and the Holy General's bonded. Do not besmirch his name in my presence again. To do so is to insult me."
"Whatever," Ingolf said, dismissing the matter as their food arrived—along with the third man.
Erich studied them surreptiously.
The gruff-voiced traitor was a handsome fellow, if rather slender for a Krian. He was also remarkably fair, which made sense if he was actually Salharan—and come to that, the eyes were slightly off, the cheekbones a bit too soft for full Krian blood. He was at least a quarter Salharan, not more than half, which meant he must have grown up right on the border. Erich doubted he would have noticed the Salharan blood if he had not known to look for it.
He shifted his attention to the second man, who was definitely all Krian—but a traitor, or ignorant, or the true target? Erich had no way of knowing, not at the moment. He was dark, skin weathered from sun and snow and battle, not handsome, but not plain either. Respectable, Erich decided. Easy to look at, easy to forget, if that's what the man wanted.
Ingolf motioned, introducing the two men. "Pancraz," he said, pointing to the gruff-voiced man. "Sepp," he said, pointing to the other. "These are my friends, and my comrades in arms. Gentlemen, this is his grace Erich von Adolwulf, Duke of Korte, and he has agreed to accompany us."
"Right," Pancraz said, clearly contemptuous. "A Krian Duke just agrees to go along with the men what stole his sword. Have you gone soft in the head, Ingolf?"
"No," Ingolf replied, eyes taking on a hard glint. "I believe him sincere, and I am taking responsibility."
Privately, Erich agreed with Pancraz's unspoken but plain upon the face opinion that Ingolf was trusting too easily. However, that worked for him, and he would see to Pancraz as soon as it was possible.
He was not going to think about why he was finding this matter increasingly important, or reminding himself how stupid this was—he had responsibilities, whether he wanted them or not, even if he was unsuited for them.
But, it was too last now. Anyway, he was doing his part for his country by seeing to it Kria did not fall to Salhara.
Sepp seemed amused. "He'll certainly make the going interesting, pale as he is. We had best keep him out of sunlight and moonlight, else he'll glow and be visible at five hundred paces."
"Indeed," Ingolf said, snorting in amusement. "How do you lot avoid blinding one another with your paleness, Illussor?"
Erich rolled his eyes, and ignored them all in favor of filling his stomach. "So where are we going, or am I not allowed to know?"
"You are not allowed to know," Ingolf replied, almost sounding cheerful.
"You said you thought me sincere."
"That does not mean I trust you with vital information. You will know only what you must, and I decide what precisely you must know. Sincere does not mean you will not take the first opportunity presented you."
Though Erich had no intention of going anywhere until he knew Kria would be as safe as he could make it, it would not do to give voice to that thought. "That could certainly be true, I suppose. But I'm not leaving without my sword."
Ingolf shook his head and drank his ale.
"How do you come to know Krian so well?" Pancraz asked. "You speak nearly as well as any native."
"It was one of my many lessons," Erich replied, and added, "and I like learning languages. I am fluent in Krian, Salharan, and Welestran, though let me tell you that was damned hard to learn."
Ingolf replied dryly, "I would imagine there might be some difficulty in learning the language of the pirates."
"Not really," Erich said with a grin. "Those we manage to arrest, with lesser offenses, I offer a pardon on the condition they first study with me for a set period of months, and in that time they also perform some manner of labor. The hard part is just learning all of the language; criminals of that nature are not given to an extensive vocabulary, and the higher ranking criminals are not fit for pardons, or even conversation."
Muttering something Erich did not quite catch, Ingolf returned to his food. The group subsided into silence, then, focused only their food and ale, until there was scarcely a bone left as they shoved back empty plates.
"We are moving on tonight," Ingolf said as they sipped their ale. "The snow will not stay gone long, and I want to reach out next destination before it resumes falling and traps us somewhere. You two, go pack up and ready the horses."
"Aye, boss," the men chorused, promptly standing and departing.
Definitely a figure used to authority. Erich was growing more and more certain that he was right in his baseless suppositions.
If he was correct, then why not simply kill Ingolf outright and end the royal line once and for all? The obvious answer was that Ingolf had or knew something that the Salharans needed.
This little problem was proving to be quite the mystery.
Erich was surprised he was looking forward to solving it. Despite himself, he had begun to well and truly leave behind the despondency in which he had lived so long. Oh, he had not been as bad as that first year, or even the second, since Hahn's death. But eve he knew he had been nothing but a shadow of himself, even five years later.
Now, for the first time in a long time, he felt like himself again. All because a bunch of idiot Krians had stolen his sword, and dragged him into a matter of terrible intrigue. He wondered what, precisely, had triggered the change, and added it to his growing list of questions in serious need of answers.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 02:24 pm (UTC)Also, Prisoner-verse! Although I'm bit sad to think of Dietr et al dead and gone. T_T But whatever, this is a very sparkly, shiny story.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 02:54 pm (UTC)I emailed you my squeals, incoherent as they might be...^_^;;
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 03:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 04:16 pm (UTC)And then those little bits and pieces Erich puts together about Ingolf? *wriggles happily* March can't come soon enough.
What I probably liked best in the first chapter, though, was the number of variations on the title "Bound": bound as in bonded in marriage, as in tied to the bed, or to a chair to enforce study, and also bound to the past by misery. But there's also the opposite: no one has yet found out how to keep Erich prisoner, which makes him un-bound (or rather un-bindable, but you know what I mean). And he's becomgin un-bound from past misery as well.
Eeep! March definitely can't come soon enough!! :)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 04:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 05:31 pm (UTC)And I don't suppose he's a descendant of that sly half-everything fellow whose name escapes me now (ended up with an Illusor general blinded by a Salharan assassin) who is really playing for the good of all.
Also, March cannot come soon enough. Please publish something for us to buy soon.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 12:32 am (UTC)Pancraz would have no reason to be concerned, it's not like he would be speaking Salharan where he thinks anyone might hear. Even now, he's completely unaware.
None of this group is descended from Sol, no ^^;
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 01:07 am (UTC)And I should have said "whose names escape me now..."
Thanks. May your muses torment you. I mean that in a good way, k?
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 08:31 pm (UTC)I love Beraht's little quote. <3
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 10:49 pm (UTC)Would you at least give a specific day of March? It would be hard to endure as I might count the day, but it's more than not knowing exactly when.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-14 10:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 12:31 am (UTC)Oh, sharp cookie. Yes, indeed. He does resemble Benno ^__^
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 01:10 am (UTC)..wait a minute - March?!? well I guess now I have something else to look forward to besides my birthday ^_^
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 01:32 am (UTC)Exciting~ <3
I can definitely wait until March.. cause I have no choice! :DD I just need to not die from stress before then. XD
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 03:07 am (UTC)I spotted a couple of typing errors - near the start of the prologue: 'pride and excitement begin to heat his blood' (I'm guessing 'began' or 'begining' instead of 'begin') and toward the end of the chapter: 'I want to reach out next destination' ('our' not 'out'). I know I spotted one other, but I don't remember where sorry.
I am also wondering about Erich's claim to be a 'direct decendant' of Dieter, because I just can't picture Dieter as a father, and I have no idea who the mother could have been.
March is good, though, I ought to be able to afford it in March. :D
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 03:17 am (UTC)He's not a blood descendant, and he says as much later. It's tradition in his family to adopt the next heir, rather than create a blood tradition. But he is a real and true descendant, so far as everyone and the law is concerned.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 04:08 am (UTC)Aha! That makes a lot more sense. Thanks, :)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-15 05:55 pm (UTC)It's nothing bad, but I always have mixed feelings with the legacy/descendent fics. Good part is, yay! continuation of a verse I love by an author I love. Bad part is, the characters that I know and love so well are basically long gone dead. Ugh.
Also Berath's saying immortalized forever? Is pure love! Plus he married into Dieter's family! *squee*
Also lots of squees for the new charas. I can tell Erich's gonna be a handful for Ingolf to handle. Pun intended. Heh.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-16 08:07 pm (UTC)I don't know why but I think I would have really liked Hahn. D: Also, not Bright. DD:
no subject
Date: 2009-03-23 08:30 pm (UTC)but..KYAA s2!!!! Prisoner has always been my favorite and I loved how I found the drabbles and then this *__*!!1! I really want to read this! I get so excited to see Prisoner references and guessing about the characters. lovelove.