Chapter 10

Coldhope, the Imperial League

Afterwards, they had the servants bring the midday meal to their chambers, and ate it in bed—cold venison with leeks, fresh bread and oil, and a pitcher of watered wine. They fed each other yellow grapes, still naked in the bed, then made love a second time, slower than before. Later, they dressed and went down together toward the great hall.

"You had another dream last night," she said. "I heard you."

He paused on the stairs, glancing at her, and felt his cheeks flush. "I'm sorry, Starlight."

"Don't apologize. I'm worried about you, Barreth. Not a night goes by."

"I know." He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "I wish I could make the dreams stop, Essana. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever have a good night's sleep again."

Her fingers touched his arm, gentle. He covered her hand with his.

"Are they truly that bad?" she asked.

Forlo considered, then shrugged. "It's always something from the last few days of the war," he murmured. "Up until the last battle, at Hawkbluff. Last night I dreamed about the start of it."

"When you found the dead soldiers under the mud."

"Yes." He'd told her all about it. She shuddered. "I'll dream the rest of it tonight, I know I will. And tomorrow it'll begin again. And on and on, for the rest of my damned life!"

He slammed the heel of his fist against the wall, then stood there silently, his hand stinging, feeling foolish.

"We'll stop it, Barreth. We'll find a way."

He shrugged, his stomach clenched with nausea. He hadn't even told her the worst part. In his dreams, the battle never ended. The war had finished in the tunnels beneath Bishop Ondelos's church, when he and his men had finally chased the wicked priest down, where he had cut the man's fat head from his shoulders. But the nightmares always stopped before he got to the temple. The nightmare would stop there again, that night. Even his own memory of that last chase through the caverns of Hawkbluff had grown hazy.

Gods, he thought. What if I'm going mad?

Essana only watched him, her expression troubled. She may have guessed there was more he wasn't sharing, but she didn't speak. Instead she nodded, and managed a smile.

"Come," she said. "We can't while the whole day away, out of sights. The servants will talk."

He chuckled at that, and together they walked the rest of the way down the stairs.

Voss, Essana's elderly chamberlain, was awaiting them when they reached the great hall. He bowed as they entered, his bald pate shining in the light that streamed through the high windows. "My lady," he said, "I did not think I should disturb you while you were… relaxing… but there is a matter that requires your attention."

"Of course, Voss," Essana replied. She looked past him, to where a plump, well-dressed man stood, clad in a blue tunic and a mantle of green silk. Forlo didn't recognize him, though he marked him as a merchant. "Good day to you, sir," Essana said, touching her forehead in greeting. "How may—"

"It's about time!" the man huffed, striding forward. "I've been waiting nearly an hour for you to come down from your tower, while—"

He stopped, the tip of Forlo's sword a hand's breadth from his throat.

"I would ask you," Forlo said pleasantly, "not to take that tone with my wife."

"Barreth!" Essana exclaimed.

Forlo didn't back down. He stared at the merchant, who blew out his lips and backed away from the blade. With a nod, Forlo sheathed his sword again.

"May I present Sammek Thale," said Voss, seemingly unruffled by the confrontation. "A trader from Malton, across the Run. Lady Essana, Baroness of Coldhope, and her husband, Lord Barreth Forlo."

Essana touched her forehead again. Forlo smiled, but not with his eyes. The merchant blushed, pressing his fat hands together. "I apologize for my rude manners," he said. "Only something most troubling has happened, and I thought you might help, since it took place in your waters."

"Our waters?" Essana asked. She traded glances with her husband. "What sort of trouble?"

"Only pirates!" Sammek half-shouted. "My flagship, the White Worm… we were on our way home from the inland seas when we were waylaid, not ten leagues from here. The dogs ransacked our holds and locked us below. It took us three days to break free!"

Forlo looked at Essana again, then stepped forward. "How many ships? Did you see their captain, or what colors they flew?"

"A black trident, on scarlet," Sammek said. "They had only the one ship, but it was the quickest wave-cutter I've seen. The one they called boss was a minotaur with one horn, and a foul temper."

Essana sighed. "Damn it. Harlad."

"Harlad," Forlo echoed, and thought: I can't believe He's still alive. He leveled a stern gaze at the merchant. "Very well, Master Thale. You should know your wares are probably already gone. But we'll do what we can."

Essana looked over at him, her smile saying everything. At least he had something to do now.

Lamport was a small, dirty town, built in a tiny notch of a cove a dozen leagues west of Coldhope. Travelers seldom passed through the town, and the local lords left it alone: it was well known that nearly everyone who dwelt or stayed there was a bandit, pirate, or some other sort of scoundrel. Every few years the emperor sent a brigade to empty the place, but its denizens always seemed to find out about the raids well before they happened. The soldiers would burn the taverns and brothels, and drag a few drunks away in irons to fight in the Arenas—then a few days after they marched away again the riffraff would return, to start anew.

Forlo stood at the tiller of his boat, looking inland across the harbor. Smoke hung over the dirty town like a shroud, and not a green thing grew beneath. Wooden walkways crisscrossed streets of mud, leading from one rundown inn to another. In the midst of everything was a patch of bare ground: the plunder-market, where everything stolen on sea or land was bartered and traded. With the spring-tides running high, the market was an empty lake, and many of the streets were brown rivers. Lamplight glowed within the windows of the pubs, the only sign of warmth in the light of the damp, hazy dawn.

Eight ships stood moored along the wharf, of various sizes and styles, with not an honest captain among them. Forlo's eyes flicked from one to the next, settling at last on a narrow, knife-shaped galley with a single level of oars and three tall masts. It flew no colors at port, but painted on its side was an unmistakable sign: a black trident. On the prow was the vessel's name: Blade of Sargas. A lipless frown settled on Forlo's face.

"Harlad," he murmured. "You've gotten predictable in your age."

He guided his boat up to a dock, well away from the Blade. He climbed onto the pier, made fast the mooring lines, and tossed a gold coin at the startled harbormaster. Then, with a hand on the hilt of his sword, he strode into the town.

Harlad the Gray had been prowling the Tiderun and the inland seas for a very long time. Forlo remembered hearing tales about the grizzled pirate when he was a boy. Despite his age, the old minotaur showed no signs of slowing down. Most of the local lords, after years of fruitless attempts to catch him, had instead made agreements to pay fees to keep him out of their waters. In return, Harlad policed the other pirates as well. Coldhope had paid for this protection for the past thirty summers, and Harlad had always kept his word. Forlo wondered, as he clumped along the boardwalk, why the pirate had broken the old treaty now. Greed? Complacency? Hubris? Harlad boasted all three in abundance.

The Green Lady was named after one of the more exclusive wine-houses of Kristophan—lost now, to the quake that killed the emperor—but it was little different from the rest of the taverns in the town. Ruddy light spilled through its greasy windows, curses and rough laughter through its open doors. A huge, red furred minotaur sat on a stool outside the entrance, a spiked club at his side. Dried blood on the weapon made it clear it wasn't just for show. A few bodies lay propped against the wall beyond the bouncer, maybe drunk, maybe hurt. Forlo knew better than to check. He simply tossed another coin to the minotaur, who yawned and let him pass.

The reek of the place—stale beer and sweat and piss—made Forlo's eyes water, but he managed to keep from retching as he looked around. Wraiths of smoke coiled around the roof-beams, glowing in the firelight. Sawdust covered the floor, crusted in places with blood and worse. The picked-over carcass of a dog turned on a spit over the fire, and sausages—the ingredients of which he didn't want to consider—hung from the rafters. In the room's midst stood a badly carved wooden figure of a naked woman, its coat of green paint worn away in all the obvious places.

It was either very early or very late for business, and the taproom was mostly empty. A few hooded dwarves huddled in one corner, singing dirge-like songs and lifting foaming tankards to each other's health, and a handful of men and minotaurs snored facedown on the tables. The bartender, a pale human with arms like tree trunks, squinted at Forlo from where he sat, picking his teeth with a knife.

"Help you?" the man muttered.

"Mug of Black-peak," Forlo replied, watching the shadowed corners as he crossed the room. "And may be a little more. I'm looking for someone."

"Ain't everyone?" the barkeep answered, going to the kegs to fill a dirty cup with dark beer. He thumped it on the bar, and Forlo paid him in silver, then added five more gold. The money disappeared. "Who d'ya want?"

Forlo took a drink, then set down the mug. The beer was as good as the tavern was awful. He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in. "The Gray. He's here," he added, as the barkeep began to shake his head. "The Blade's moored out yonder, and this hole's his favorite, gods know why. Now say you point me toward him and skip the nonsense. Aye?"

The barkeep grinned, showing three missing teeth, and nodded toward a door at the back of the tavern. "No nonsense, that's me. He took a private room. Him, three o' his mates, and a barrel and a couple bottles. Ain't seen a hair on their hides since three bells past midnight."

"Good man," Forlo said, and put another three gold coins on the bar. They vanished too as he walked to the door. Reaching out, he put a hand on the handle.

The door wrenched inward, nearly yanking him along with it. Instinct taking over, he leaped back as a heavy axeblade whistled through the air where his neck had been a moment ago. In the doorway stood a giant minotaur, nearly nine feet tall, his shaven chest covered with tattoos. Nostrils flaring, he glared at Forlo for an instant before he charged, axe held high.

Forlo moved easily, spinning to the right and whipping his sword from its scabbard. His foot lashed out, kicking a stool into the minotaur's path. The bull-man tripped, stumbled, and went down with a crash. Without hesitating, Forlo turned and thrust his blade into the brute's thigh. The minotaur howled and blood soaked the sawdust. Forlo left him there, clutching the crippling wound, and continued into the private parlor.

"You'll have to do better than that, Harlad," he said.

There were three more bull-men waiting in the room. Two, nearly as large as the one who had attacked him, stood with weapons bared. The third was smaller and silver furred, and held no blade. His right horn was missing, shorn off in some long-forgotten battle. In all the tales Forlo had heard, Harlad the Gray was the one with the single horn. A half-empty bottle of red liquor sat on a table before the Gray.

"Sargas smite me," the pirate captain said, his tone pleasant. "You must be Barreth Forlo. I'd heard you were back from Thenol."

"I am back indeed," Forlo replied, keeping his sword in front of him. "I've given up soldiering, but I still know how to use this."

Harlad nodded. "So I see. Ease off, lads. I know this one by his commendable reputation. Rugal, go make sure poor Bek out there doesn't bleed to death on the floor. Stang, stay here—but put your cutlass away. There's a good fellow."

The bodyguards did as Harlad bade. He pushed the bottle forward. "How's your lady-wife? Still as sweet as Hulder-wine?"

Slowly, Forlo lowered his blade. "She's well, thank you. But I didn't come all this way to drink your spice-brandy, Harlad."

"So I see," the pirate said. He thought a moment, then laughed. "That puling pig Thale came to you, did he? I should have known."

"I thought we had a deal," Forlo said. "Five hundred gold a year, and you don't show your colors in Coldhope waters. I have a habit of holding men to their oaths."

"Fair enough." Harlad leaned forward, his eyes shining. "You can have your gold back, if you want. What's more, I'll double it. And I'll keep clear of you for the next five years, no payment necessary. But I keep what I got."

Forlo had opened his mouth to argue, but now he blinked. "All for one raid? What was he carrying?"

"Oh, you know," the pirate said, and winked. "Priceless riches, ancient relics, that sort of thing. Didn't he tell you? He's been trading with the dwarves, down in the Steamwalls. Had a hold full of gold and jewels, and a few other trinkets. Of course, he paid the tariff for entering your waters with foreign goods, aye?"

Forlo shook his head, suddenly annoyed with Sammek Thale. The merchant had tried to cheat him, refusing to pay for the right to pass by Coldhope. Then he'd sent him into a fight with Harlad. He'd have words with Thale when he got home again.

"If you want," Harlad added, "instead of paying you back, I'll simply make the pig disappear."

"Tempting," Forlo said. "But no. Essana and I'll handle him. Your offer's not enough, either. I want something else… something to show for this trouble, besides the gold I'm due."

The bodyguard, Stang, growled and reached for his sword, but Harlad hissed, raising a hand. "You were always hard on me, Forlo. And I've always respected you for it. Too many lords line up to kiss my hinder these days. Boring.

"All right, there is something valuable I stole from the pig… something I'd never be able to sell in this gods-forsaken town, anyway. It's yours, if it interests you."

Forlo raised his eyebrows, sheathing his blade. "I'm interested. Show me."

"Eh? Was I lying?" Harlad asked as Stang opened the door wide.

The hold of the Blade of Sargas was filled with riches—ingots of gold and silver, new-cut emeralds and topaz, hunks of moonstone and malachite ready for carving. It was a fortune, all of it marked with dwarf-runes. Sammek Thale had tried to smuggle it to Malton without paying the necessary tribute. Probably he'd been doing the same thing for a long while. Looking at all that wealth, Forlo couldn't help but smile. The fat merchant deserved to lose this bounty. There was a certain justice to it. At least Harlad was honest about being a criminal.

"Where's my precious memento?" Forlo asked.

"In the back. Don't worry, I'm not going to thump you on the head and dump you in the Run," Harlad added when Forlo hesitated. "If word got out that you disappeared looking for me, I'd be in trouble up to my horn with the other lords. Not to mention the army, assuming Rekhaz would spare the men to hunt an old dog like me. Come on."

With that, he led the way down the ladder into the hold. Casting a quick glance at Stang, Forlo followed. Wood creaked around him as the pirate lit a nearby lantern, spilling dim light across the hold. More gold and jewels sparkled from the dancing shadows' edges. The old minotaur grinned.

"You could retire on this," Forlo said.

"I could have retired thirty years ago," Harlad answered. "Wealth's not the point. The hunt's the thing."

They went on, into the back of the hold. There, in the shadows, something big loomed over the rest of the treasure. As they got closer, he made out details: a statue of black marble, life-size or a little bigger, of a robed man whose face was obscured by a deep hood. He stared at it, wondering.

"This is Aurish," he breathed. "It's got to be a thousand years old."

"Aye." Harlad nudged him. "Worth twice its weight in gold. But not the trouble of trying to find a buyer—one who buys from a pirate, at least. Maybe you can find a use for it."

Forlo stared at the statue, amazed. The imperial historians were always on the watch for artifacts from Old Aurim. After the interregnum was settled, he could bring the statue to Kristophan and sell it to the new emperor's court for a fortune. Until then, it could stay at Coldhope. The keep had plenty of room. He craned his neck, trying to see what lay within the hood's shadows, but the sculptor had hidden the face from view.

Harlad leaned toward him, his eyes sly. "So? We have a bargain?"

Forlo looked at the statue a long moment, then nodded. "Done."