22
LORD RIVA
THE SARASINIAN 5th ARMY
SOUTHERN AHRENIA
NEAR BORDIS
Riva spent the best part of the morning readying himself to visit the Torsmen. It wasn’t the most opportune time to leave the marching camp, not with battle imminent, but he’d put the matter off long enough. A few days longer and it would almost certainly be too late.
He’d envisioned simply riding out to the followers’ camp with a small detachment, but in reality, things turned out to be slightly more complicated. First of all, his security chief, Nohrt, refused to let him leave with anything less than his full bodyguard. They’d argued about that until eventually the man agreed to whittle his escort down to a mere thirty men.
Next, Istome insisted on accompanying him. He knew he hadn’t the slightest chance of dissuading her, so he didn’t even try. At least she’d dressed decently for the occasion, hiding herself under a long cloak.
One final problem materialised in the form of Lord Amulius intercepting him before his entourage reached the western gate.
“I regret,” said Amulius, wheezing. He had his hands on his hips and his enormous gut heaved beneath his breastplate. “To inform you that you cannot leave.”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Riva, looking down at the man from the saddle.
Amulius scowled. “You heard me.” He turned and gave his own followers–all purple-crested officers–a pained look.
“I must have misheard you,” said Riva, sitting up straight. “Or did you actually say I couldn’t leave?”
Amulius cleared his throat. “Correct. I have instructions from our general, Lord Virgilio. No one is to leave the marching camp. That is all. Good day.”
“So,” said Riva, indicating the gate behind the man, “should I take it to mean you intend to prevent me from passing through?”
Amulius reached around behind himself and scratched his arse. “Well, I do believe the general’s instructions weren’t exactly unclear.”
“Just open the gate.”
“Alas, I cannot. I have orders that no one is to–”
“Shut up, Amulius.”
Several members of Amulius’s staff gasped. The man himself reeled as if struck. “What did you say?”
“I told you to shut up. It’s high time, I think, that I put you firmly in your place.”
“This is an outrage!” said Amulius. “I’ll not be spoken to in such a way by you!”
“Dismiss your officers, Amulius.”
“I will not! Why would you even–?”
Riva waved a hand at Amulius’s men. “Leave.” They looked at each other, hesitant, but dispersed.
Amulius put a hand on the hilt of his sword. “What is the meaning of this, Riva?” he said, bristling. “Such a crude display of power!”
“This, from the master of crude displays of power?” said Riva, laughing.
“What do you mean?” asked Amulius, his chins quivering in indignation.
“Remove your hand from your weapon, Amulius,” said Riva, looking down at him. “Or do you intend to draw it, perhaps?”
“What?” squawked Amulius, spreading his arms. “What in the world are you talking about? Don’t be absurd, man! It was just somewhere to rest my hand, that’s all. I didn’t put it there intentionally.”
Riva glared at him. “I’m inclined to think otherwise.”
“It was nothing, truly.” Amulius’s face betrayed his mounting panic. “On my honour.”
“I don’t like you, Amulius,” said Riva. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Riva spat. “I said, I don’t like you. In fact, I despise you. I think you’re a bloated piece of shit.”
“I’m not altogether sure what’s going on with you, Riva, but–”
“Shut up, Amulius.”
“I–”
“Shut! Up!” said Riva, gripping his mount’s reins with white knuckles. Furious didn’t quite describe what he was, and it felt good. “One more word from you, and I’ll remove your head from your shoulders. And if you ever put so much as a finger on a weapon in my presence again, I’ll assume you’re challenging me!”
Amulius didn’t reply.
Riva spat again. “And here’s something to remember for the future: I’m in charge here. Not you. Whatever blood flows through your veins, Amulius, it means nothing to me. In my eyes, you’re lower than the filth under my boots.”
Amulius just stood there, too shocked for words.
“Oh, and that reminds me–more latrines need to be dug. I’ve been receiving complaints that there aren’t enough latrines.”
Amulius licked his lips. “I shall have my people see to it.”
“It’s when shit starts piling up, Amulius, that men start getting sick.”
“Indeed.”
Riva narrowed his eyes. “Have you ever dug a latrine, Amulius?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should start,” said Riva, his eyes falling to the man’s belly. “Digging latrines is hard work. Keeps a man fit.”
Amulius, who looked like he was on the verge of an existential crisis, merely nodded.
Though he was enjoying the man’s humiliation, Riva wasn’t quite through toying with him just yet. “Have you seen Lord Mozga about this morning?”
“Lord Mozga?”
“Oh, and here I was thinking you already knew Virgilio’s champion?” said Riva. “Seems I was mistaken. In that case, shall I describe him for you, Amulius? Very well. He’s Ivarian–which of course means his skin is rather dark–and he’s quite tall, too, with–”
“I know who he is, Riva,” said Amulius, at last managing to gather his wits. “I’m just not sure of his current whereabouts.”
Riva nodded. “I see. Then maybe you’d be so kind as to fetch him for me. I’ll wait.”
Amulius stood motionless for a few moments before stiffly marching off. When he returned, he said, “Mozga shall be here presently, Lord Riva,” and then swivelled on his heels if to leave for good.
Riva cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I dismissed you, Amulius.”
“Lord Riva,” said Amulius gruffly, turning back.
“If it’s not too much bother, you can open the gate for me as well.”
“Oh?”
“Did you not hear me, Amulius?”
“You, er, actually wish to leave the camp?”
“Yes, Amulius. I do. And will.”
“I–” said Amulius, stuck for words.
Riva arched his brow, at which the man swallowed and gestured at the soldiers manning the gate. It was promptly opened.
Though Virgilio’s champion came loping along soon after, Riva would have been quite happy to keep Amulius standing there awkwardly for a bit longer.
“Lord Riva,” said Mozga, saluting. “Lord Amulius. You called for me, yes? How can I be of service?”
“I called for you,” said Riva, wheeling his horse so its arse pointed at Amulius. “How are you, Lord Mozga? I thought you might like to accompany me on a short trip beyond the walls.”
Mozga bowed. “Of course, general. I should be greatly honoured.”
“Good,” said Riva. “I have a mount for you.”
Amulius watched them, red-faced and with his hands curling into fists, but said nothing. Riva wondered what the man’s next move would be. Would he go crying to Virgilio? Would he try to get revenge? If the latter, he’d better do it quickly–he was fast running out of time.
Riva swiftly forgot about Amulius as he rode out of the marching camp with Mozga, Nohrt and his bodyguard. Half a dozen servants trailed behind, Istome among them. He set a casual pace, inviting the Ivarian to ride beside him. “So, Mozga,” he said, “I understand this will be your first campaign?”
“That is true, lord,” said Mozga. “And yours as well, yes?”
“In a way. It’s my first real one of this size, anyway. You must be excited?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Although I’ve been told you don’t fight in the ranks?”
“That is so, lord. It is not my style, though I will serve as I must. I am more at home fighting one-on-one.”
“Ah. Like the northerners.”
“Yes, lord.”
“We are mere days from fighting, I think, so I wanted to broach a certain subject with you. You will like what I am going to propose, I hope.”
“Lord?”
“Before every battle, it’s the Ahren custom to send out their best warriors to duel. Did you know this?”
“I have heard it said, lord.”
“Yes. Well, I haven’t spoken to Lord Virgilio about it much, though I do remember him saying once that he didn’t like it. Didn’t particularly like the idea of our men accepting duels, that is.”
Mozga nodded. “I see.”
“I do think he could be persuaded otherwise, though.”
“Ah.”
“A man who killed an Ahren champion in a duel,” said Riva, raising a finger, “would win himself much renown, not to mention deal a significant emotional blow to the clans. Our enemy is particularly vulnerable to this sort of thing. In fact, it’s a major weakness I’m keen to exploit. This is the point I will impress upon the general to try to sway him.”
“I understand,” said Mozga.
“In the Ahren world, when a man says no to a duel, it is a nod to the superior strength of his challenger. And while there is no shame in refusing, it does tend to elevate the other man’s prestige. You follow me?”
Mozga nodded. “I follow.”
“So, if we were to refuse the enemy’s invitation, it would be seen as weakness. Their army would be emboldened, and their men would fight all the harder. And while there is no doubt that we will prevail under any circumstances, a mere win is not enough for me. I want nothing less than a crushing victory, Lord Mozga! Which is why I would have us accept their champions’ calls to fight. Accept, and then kill each of them! It will shake the confidence of their rank and file, making them fight poorly. We’ll butcher them, and their humiliation will be compounded when we drive them from their land. I want this battle to be such a great victory for the League that the Ahren will make songs of their lament. What do you think?”
“If you are asking me to be part of your strategy, lord, then know that I would be happy to do so,” said Mozga.
“I am,” said Riva, “and I will do everything in my power to make sure you fight.”
Mozga bowed in the saddle. “Thank you, lord. I think I would be greatly indebted to you.”
Behind them, Nohrt cleared his throat conspicuously. When Riva showed no reaction, he did it again.
Riva smiled and turned around to face him. “Are you all right, Nohrt? Or could it be that you have something to say? I wonder what it might possibly be in regards to?”
“I want to fight an Ahren champion as well,” said Nohrt.
Feeling playful, Riva pretended to give the matter serious thought. “Hmm. I don’t know, Nohrt. Duelling is a terribly dangerous pursuit.”
Mozga chuckled, but gormless Nohrt didn’t get the joke. “Lord?”
“However,” said Riva with a sigh. Teasing the man was as sporting as a foot race against a brick and even less entertaining. “Now that I reflect on it, it’s hardly fair to let one man fight and deny another. Is that not so?”
Nohrt first shook his head, then nodded after realising he was meant to be in agreement. “Uh, yes, that’s right.”
“So I suppose I should let you enjoy a chance to duel, too, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes, lord,” said Nohrt and then he grinned at Mozga in a way that suggested the man could go eat shit. But the Ivarian took no offence, smiling benignly.
“I have a question for you, Mozga,” said Riva. “Something philosophical that I like to ask people from time to time.”
“Yes lord?”
“What do you think about the idea that good always triumphs over evil?”
Mozga thought about it. “Not always. But, ultimately? Yes.”
“How so? What do you mean?”
“In the days before mankind faces his final judgement,” said Mozga, clearly reciting, “there will be a final battle between the gods and foul spirits in which evil shall perish forever.”
“Mm. So you believe in the Sarasinian pantheon, then?”
“I do, lord.”
Riva pressed his lips together. He held to a different set of gods himself, though not tightly. Still, to each his own. “Very well. Nohrt? How about you? Do you believe that good always triumphs over evil?”
“No,” said Nohrt, casting a sideways glance at Mozga. “I don’t.”
“How so?”
Nohrt shrugged. “I heard tell of a purple shield whose men murdered a score of our people recently. Burned a certain hall down on top of them and everything.”
Riva looked at him. Nohrt obviously knew about the reasons for this excursion. But how had he come to know? Perhaps Amulius, not content with merely intercepting his mail, had also divulged their contents? By the gods, he would have the man’s head on a spear! “Still just gossip at this point. Besides, what does it have to do with what I asked?”
“If it’s not just gossip, lord,” said the man with another shrug, “it would be a case of evil triumphing over good, wouldn’t it?”
“Not,” said Riva, hardening his tone, “if the perpetrators are brought to justice in the end, Nohrt.”
That was enough to quiet the man. Riva turned again to Virgilio’s champion. “The question of good always triumphing over evil is something I ponder almost daily. I even asked Lord Virgilio about it just the other day, Mozga, and do you know what he said? He said it all depends on how you define good and evil.”
Mozga thought about it. “On how you define good and evil? What does that mean, exactly?”
“Well,” said Riva. “It means that one man finds evil in a place where another does not. Which is an interesting concept, don’t you think?”
“I think,” said Mozga quietly, “it’s best for men to leave it to the gods to make those distinctions.”
“But which gods? There are many faiths, and their gods all seem to require different things of their followers. And these deities, of course, do not always agree with one another. What one deems evil, another deems good! To whom should we defer?”
Mozga didn’t seem to know how to reply. The Ivarian surely knew that Riva didn’t follow his Sarasinian gods. And he was far too polite, no doubt, to say that he thought the whole of mankind should defer to those gods exclusively.
“What do you think of the idea then, Lord Mozga, that sometimes good men are called upon to do evil things?”
“Maybe they are,” said Mozga. A moment later he added, “Usually by men or false gods.”
“Let’s take murder, for example. Murder is inherently evil, isn’t it? I believe that Nohrt even suggested as much just now. Did he not?”
“Yes. And I would agree that murder is evil.”
Riva shrugged. “And yet we call murder by another name when it suits us, don’t we? When it’s sanctioned by law courts it isn’t murder, is it? No, because we don’t murder murderers. We execute them instead. We kill them all the time and no one loses sleep over it. No evil there, eh? And yet some might argue that murder and execution are the same thing. That a mere change of words transforms the immoral into the principled?
“And that’s just one example. Rulers have sometimes been assassinated for one reason or another, haven’t they? Sometimes we call it murder, but at other times we say it was a justified killing. Another word choice based on whether or not we think it’s good that a particular man is being put to death. And this is why I think Virgilio is right. It all comes down to whose heart we’re cutting out, and why.
“But perhaps you need another example? Well, there’s no better one than what we’re doing out here, is there? We’re making war on the northerners for no reason other than we want their land! That’s murder, isn’t it? And wholesale murder at that.”
Mozga said nothing.
“Halt!” cried Nohrt suddenly. “Visitors!”
Riva looked up. A sizeable mounted warband had appeared on the horizon. His men arrayed themselves for a confrontation, and waited. The warband didn’t seem to be making aggressive manoeuvres, however, and eventually a lone rider broke away from the group, a white pennant flapping in his grasp. Riva recognised him as he drew near.
“Greetings, lord,” said the man, climbing out of the saddle and getting down on one knee.
“Goraric of Herena,” said Riva. He dismounted and walked toward the man, raising him up with both hands. “What is this? On your feet, man. I am your governor, not your king!”
“I bring you formal greetings, Lord Riva,” said Goraric. His eyes were puffy and he looked as though he hadn’t slept for days.
“And I return them.” He indicated the warband in the distance. “I assume you mean to offer us escort?”
“Yes, lord.”
Riva chuckled. “Why? Are things so dangerous in the mile or so between my army and its followers’ camp?”
Goraric did not smile. “Allow me to speak plainly, lord?”
“Of course.”
“Kolf sent us,” and here the man made a sweeping gesture with one arm toward the rest of his warband, “partly out of courtesy, but also because he was concerned that some misfortune might befall you on the way.”
“Indeed?” said Riva, arching an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Well… uh, you have enemies, lord. Even amongst the Fifth.”
“That’s not exactly news to me, Goraric.” Riva shook his head. “Every man of standing in the League has enemies. That’s just how things are. Do you know how hard it is sleeping with your eyes open? Have you ever tried?”
“Uh, no lord.”
Riva took Goraric’s elbow and guided him until they were out of earshot of the men. “That was my attempt at humour.” And a poor one, obviously, because Goraric wasn’t laughing. He looked terrible, almost haunted, and Riva knew why. Straight to business, then. “So, is it true?” he asked. “The Sarasinians attacked Engund’s Tor?”
“Yes, lord. It’s true.”
“And you were there?”
Goraric took a deep breath. “No. I wasn’t on the Tor that day, but I was nearby. It was the city garrison that did it. Men under a purple shield by the name of Giandelone.”
“Captain Giandelone?”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. A minor noble. So, what happened, exactly?”
“He and his went to the Tor to collect the annual levy, but by all accounts things went awry.” Goraric transferred his weight to his other foot. “There was a disagreement, and he used it as a pretext for murder. I’ve also heard that he might have even planned the whole thing in advance. Either way, his men killed a third of the people on the Tor, more or less. Made off with a great deal of goods and coin. What cattle wasn’t stolen was killed. And the bloody-minded bastards even burned the hall to the ground with people in it.”
“I see.”
“They killed women and children, lord. Little boys and girls, and even babies. Babies, would you believe? Gutted like sheep.” Goraric hung his head. “And when they left, they took some small girls with them.”
Riva frowned. “But you said you weren’t a witness to any of this?”
“It’s true that I wasn’t on the Tor when it all happened. But Kolf told me the story. I was in the Herenian garrison myself, only that day I was serving with a different company, led by another purple shield, Captain Lamela. We’d been collecting the levy from a smaller hamlet just a few miles from the Tor. Then on the way back to our camp, we crossed paths with Giandelone’s company in the forest. I heard Giandelone himself tell Lamela the same story Kolf later told me. That’s how I know what happened is the truth. Not that I would gainsay my uncle, of course.”
“And what happened in the forest?”
“Giandelone’s company had stopped there to rest. When we found them, they were in a sorry state. I think the captain might have been having some sort of argument with his sergeants. One of them was lying right there on the ground with his cock half chewed off.”
“Go on.”
“There were four girls there, lord. I saw them with my own eyes. They were from the Tor.” Goraric shook his head. “May Owic preserve them, they were just children! One was already dead with her throat cut, and Giandelone might have said something about the injured sergeant having forced himself on her. I think they were raping those girls and killed the one when she fought back, or something like that. I wasn’t there from the beginning so I can’t say for certain.
“Anyway, it was then that I heard Giandelone tell his version of what happened on the Tor. Lamela listened, but didn’t like what he heard. The wounded sergeant was a liability, and the girls were potential witnesses. I didn’t hear him say it, but I think he told Giandelone to get rid of him and the girls. And that’s exactly what happened. He killed the sergeant with a knife in front of everyone.
“It was then that Lamela ordered us to march out. To my everlasting shame, lord, I obeyed. I did nothing. I should have at least said something, raised some objection to what I knew was going to happen to the girls. But I didn’t. I just marched out without even trying to help them. Those poor children. I heard them screaming...”
Riva rubbed his chin. “This… explains much.” If nothing else, it was confirmation that the reports about Engund’s Tor were more than mere tales.
“There’s more, lord. I have another confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“I left my company soon after. I had to. I haven’t been at peace since all of this happened. I had to do something, had to try to make amends to the families of the little girls I failed to protect. I wanted to give something to the families who lost everything to the Sarasinians. So, I stole money from my friends and my company commander. I took it, and I went back to the Tor with it. Which was where my uncle found me before we came here.”
“You left your company unlawfully? That makes you a deserter.”
“Yes, lord,” said Goraric, swallowing. “That’s what I am. And I am at your mercy.”
Riva nodded. “I will have to give that particular matter further thought before I pass judgement. For the moment, I want to know why you are here, exactly. Why have you and yours come all this way, to me?”
Goraric nodded. “I am a poor storyteller, lord,” he said with a sigh. “A fact for which I must apologise. After the Tor, but before I deserted my post, Kolf and other Torsmen went to Herena to bring our case before your regent, your good brother. We were told that he was too busy to see us, however, and the guards ordered us to leave. The following day we enquired again, only this time his steward informed us that our business was a matter for the courts.”
“Which,” said Riva, “to be fair, it is.”
“The courts didn’t agree, unfortunately, because no less than three different magistrates directed us back to the regent’s office. And each time, the regent’s steward referred us to the courts again. Eventually we found a company of purple shields waiting for us outside the courthouse, barring our entry. We were charged with disturbing the peace and the Torsmen escorted from the city.”
“And were you disturbing the peace?”
“No, lord,” said Goraric, shaking his head. “I swear it.”
“The charge carries a fine. How much did you pay?”
“Nothing. There was talk of fining us, but I think they just wanted the Torsmen out. Kolf himself was warned not to return to the city for a year and a day.”
“Kicked out of the city, for requesting justice? Now I begin to see why you’re here.”
“Kolf said there was no other option.”
Riva pondered all that Goraric had told him. “Indeed, indeed.” It wasn’t stretch to conclude that purple shields in Herena had plotted to hide their crimes. To what extent were the courts involved, though? And was his brother tangled up in their webs, or had his steward kept him isolated on purpose? And was Amulius connected to all this? If so, it would certainly explain his behaviour. After all, he’d gone to considerable lengths to try to prevent this very meeting.
Goraric looked down at his feet. “We’ve been travelling with the followers’ camp since the beginning. Would you allow us to receive you? We don’t have much, but we would be honoured to have you as our guest. And my uncle will, without a doubt, explain everything much better than I have.”
“Lead on,” said Riva.
Goraric bowed, mounted his horse and rode off.
Riva went back to his men. “Onward. Let’s go.”
Riva’s arrival drew much excited attention in the f