Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 53–A New Arrangement

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Gall looked down into the lower city from the Inner Keep’s high walls. His angst continued to rise as a steady stream of wounded men trickled back from the fighting. Despite the Bretagnian army joining the fight, casualties mounted as they closed in on the south-eastern gate. At first, the increased savagery and tenacity of the Council forces was a surprise. But then, in several of the buildings, they found smashed casks of ale and the stink of alcohol.

Gall sighed. False courage. Whatever it might be called, such measures meant more fighting. Still, they were closing in on the gate, albeit slowly. But time was an enemy. They had to eliminate this opponent, only to wheel around and face another. Faline was closing in on the city from the north and could possibly be there by tomorrow evening.

A mercenary with a white flag appeared. Fighting halted while the man walked into the Bretagnian lines. He soon found an audience before Britta, Harald, and Gall.

“What do you want?” Harald asked.

“I am Krastor, second to the commander of the Mortain guard. We wish to bury our dead and negotiate an end to the fighting…or at least our part of it,” the mercenary said.

Harald flashed Gall a look but then leaned back in his chair. “What would that involve?”

“Fifty thousand crowns,” Krastor replied.

Britta narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “Did your leadership give no quarter to those defending the city?”

Krastor’s eyes twitched, and he pursed his lips. “Our previous leader said those things.”

“Then the answer is clear,” the Queen summarized grimly. “Hang this man from the walls in full view of the enemy.”

Krastor’s face whitened, but Gall interjected. “We ought to accept their offer. Without the mercenaries, the enemy will retreat.”

Britta gripped her hands tightly. “I wish to send a message to the Council.”

“Do that by defeating them now. More fighting will not make us more secure. Probably do the opposite.” He leaned close to Britta and whispered in her ear. “Do not forget Faline.”

“I am aware of that,” Britta said through clenched teeth. But then she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There is merit in what you suggest.”

Harald looked at the Queen. “Should we accept their offer?”

Britta narrowed her eyes but answered, “Yes, but you only get half now. The other half will come under one condition.”

Krastor cocked his head as he looked at her. “Which is?”

Britta grinned a cat-like smile.

* * *

Soroykin watched Krastor approach, reading the mercenary’s body language before a word was spoken. Dust and dried blood caked Krastor’s uniform.

Krastor held out a rolled parchment, his fingers leaving a faint grime on the clean paper. “They accepted,” he said, voice stripped of emotion. “But with a condition.”

Soroykin unrolled the document, his eyes scanning the contents. A thin smile cut across his weathered face—part amusement, part calculation. “Well,” he murmured, “that we can certainly do.” He looked up, meeting Krastor’s gaze. “Send word to the men. We move within the hour.”

* * *

Among the shadows of the trees, wrapped in a weathered dark cloak, Brecc watched the road from Cazidor, wishing or perhaps willing that reinforcements would come. A forlorn hope, but what choice did he have? His lips felt dry under his tongue. Damn his decision to give the ale to the men. He should have kept some for himself.

An idea popped into his head. Viperious might have some liquor in his saddlebags, but it wouldn’t do for him to wander around the horse pen, especially how the battle was going. It could easily start a rout if the men thought he was trying to leave. Still, his current disguise had kept him from being recognized while watching the road.

But as he fought the urge to go to the horse pen, his aide appeared riding hard toward him from the road from Cazidor. The man’s face and clothes were dusty from the ride from the pass. He pulled up short when he spotted Brecc.

“Any word from Dathon?” Brecc asked, his voice drifting an octave higher than he intended.

“No, sire,” the man said slipping off his horse. He glanced around. “Your grace, I need something to drink. Where is a water barrel?”

“The only one the men haven’t fouled is in my tent. Help yourself, then come back here. I have a task for you.”

“Yes, sire,” the aide said. But he only took two steps before turning around. “Can I leave my horse with you?” he asked, fiddling with the reins.

Brecc clenched his jaw. “Just give him to me. I’ll stable him and meet you in my tent.” The man smiled, handed him the reins, and trotted away.

From King to stableboy. The annoyance dug at him. He’d have to go to the horse pen, but then again, it allowed him to search Viperious’ saddle bags. After casting a last glance toward his aide, he entered the pen and let the aide’s horse go. Avoiding piles of dung, he glanced around and quickly located the Councilman’s horse and began to sift through the saddlebags on it. Sure enough, he found a small, stoppered glass flask wedged deep in the corner of a small pocket. As his hand closed on it, shouts reached his ears. He turned and spotted a wave of men running away from the siege lines —a mixture of Cazidoran conscripts, their faces contorted in fear, followed closely by mercenaries, who looked angry and wielded swords.

Some distance away, a group of mercenaries closed in on the King’s tent with lit torches. After surrounding the enclosure, several torches arced through the air and landed on top, causing the fabric to erupt in flames. His aide emerged from the enclosure, but a quick flash of a sword revealed a bloody stump where the man’s head had been. Brecc swallowed hard. Soroykin came for his payment, after all.

The mercenaries had turned on him, and if he stayed, he was a dead man. Seizing the pommel of Viperious’ horse, he swung into the saddle. With a shout, he jabbed the spurs into the animal’s flanks and plowed through the pen gate. The rest of the horses in the enclosure bolted, some slamming into the Cazidorans, running for their lives. Brecc ignored the chaos, instead focusing on the road leading back to Cazidor.

* * *

Soroykin tapped the severed head with the tip of his boot. “No, that wasn’t Brecc. He’s got to be around here somewhere.” Half of the payment depended on delivering on their promise to Britta. “Ten thousand crowns to whoever brings me Brecc’s head.”