“Don’t get nervous,” Bram said. “I have no such cowardice in me. But only a few miles away sleep the soldiers of Mordan. Think on this, Antonil…who is their king?”
“That priest-king, I suppose.”
“No,” Bram said, shaking his head as if correcting a young student. “That is their current ruler, but who is their king? Who have they sworn their swords to for generations? Who can trace their bloodline back to the early days of Victor the Grand?”
“It’s you, you daft fool,” Sergan said. He elbowed Antonil in the side. “You do realize that, right?”
“What are you playing at, Bram?” Antonil asked.
The man leaned in closer, as if he were to tell a secret.
“You and I are brothers, Antonil. We both wear the crown. We both know thousands live or die depending on our choices. But sometimes we must endanger our own lives. We must risk everything in a last throw of the dice, because sometimes, the greatest victories come only with the greatest risks.”
“I’m still waiting for an explanation,” Antonil said.
“Take wing with the angels. Come with me to their camp. The sellswords and commoners may not care who they fight for, but the lords themselves? Who knows how they have been treated, or where their loyalties lie?”
“You’re asking him to walk right into the enemy’s hands!” Sergan nearly roared.
“Keep your voice down, fool,” Bram said, and with such authority that Sergan immediately obeyed. “And I will be right at his side. This is no trap, and no pointless gesture. Think of what they have just seen. Do you remember the tempest that broke the rock and rained ice and fire across the grass? They must think the gods themselves have come to retake Mordan. We must use that. Let them see their king has returned. Let them bow their knee once more to the true bloodline.”
“A thin bloodline,” Antonil said, his tone carefully guarded. “By a short marriage to Queen Annabelle, and nothing more.”
“Far better than the priest-king who threatens to overthrow the lords and nobles to establish a theocracy.”
“Maybe,” grumbled Sergan. “But who is to say they won’t turn him over to the priests the second you two show up?”
“We’re kings,” Antonil said. He stared into the fire, deep in thought. “They must respect us. We’ll represent life before the priest-king took control. How many will turn to us in hope? How many will turn to us in fear? Bram’s right. While they sleep, we might steal half their army away. Thousands of soldiers…”
He stood and nodded to Bram.
“Have you told Ahaesarus about this plan?” he asked.
“Not quite,” said Bram. “I told one I felt might be more…open to the idea. And don’t worry about his safety, Sergan. You’re coming with us.”
A zariah led the way, while behind him, three of his most trusted carried the humans in their arms. The fires of the enemy camp were easy enough to see, red dots among the moonlit darkness. Azariah angled lower, and they dived to the far side of the encampment.
“Are you sure you can do this?” Antonil asked Sergan once they landed.
“Not at all,” Sergan said. He grabbed his axe and shifted its belt so it hung more comfortably from his waist. “But I’d rather it be me going in there than you.”
“Be calm, certain, and authoritative,” Bram said. “Act as if you are asking a question where only one answer will please you, and the rest will cost them their heads. The slightest hint of fear will betray you. Remember the display the elf put on. The illusion of power is often greater than the real thing.”
“Can’t we just kill them all instead?” asked Sergan. He rolled his eyes at their glares and shifted his belt a second time.
“I look fine?” he asked.
“You look fine, and you’ll do fine,” Antonil said, smacking him on the shoulder. “Now go, and do me proud. And come back alive.”
Sergan nodded, wiped his brow, and then trudged for the camp. He ran a hundred sentences through his head, trying to think of something that sounded appropriate. Both kings had tried giving him lines to say, but they fumbled on his tongue so they’d given up. He was on his own.
“Damn stupid kings,” he muttered. “Claim they’ll risk their own lives, then send me in to do the dirty work. All I have to do is start hollering as they chop off my head and they’re gone, safe in angel arms while I find out how many ways they can twist my insides into knots before I pass out from…”
He stopped, for before him stood a guard looking as perplexed as Sergan felt. Before he could even shout warning, Sergan saluted, a single smooth motion perfected over many years serving the kings of Neldar.
“Well met, soldier!” Sergan said. He felt proud at how sharp his voice came off, not at all horrified. “I’m here to speak for King Antonil Copernus, husband of Queen Annabelle Copernus. I wish to speak with your lord.”
The soldier stammered. Sergan recognized his sort. He looked freshly conscripted, his servitude in the military one step up above slavery. Perfect.
“My lord is asleep, but I take orders from…”
“Don’t try telling me you don’t take orders from your lord,” Sergan said. “Who else would you take orders from? Now go wake him, and don’t you worry about him being mad. This is a diplomatic matter, you see? I ain’t waiting until morning to make my offer.”
“Diplo…but, sir, please stay here so I can…”
“I will not sit here while you run off to find a wet-nurse to change your soiled underpants, boy! Who is your lord? What’s his name?”
“Hemman. Lord Hemman of the north.”
Sergan rested his hand on the handle of his axe and delayed speaking for a second to make sure the conscript noticed.
“Then, boy, I suggest you bring him to me at once. No delays, or else you can explain to them why the elf goddess decided to no longer parley.”
“But I can’t leave here unguar…”
“I said go!”
The young man saluted and then rushed into the tents. Sergan chuckled despite his heart pounding like an orc wailing on a drum. So far so good. Once he got the audience of a lord, any lord, then his chances of succeeding went up tenfold. He waited just beyond the light of the campfires, hoping no one else would spot him. He was not so fortuitous.
“Halt!” shouted a guard, and by the growl of his voice, Sergan knew he had found no wet-eared conscript.
“I’m armed but not dangerous,” Sergan said, lifting his hands upward as two soldiers approached, both with their swords drawn. “I’m here on behalf of King Antonil, and I need to speak with your lord.”
“You’re a spy,” said one. “On your knees, now.”
Sergan fixed his most brutal glare on the man. “I would rather die with an axe in my hand than bow one knee to the likes of you.”
They circled him, one to his back, one to his front. So far he kept his axe at his side, and in truth he wouldn’t dare draw. He just needed to delay. Every second was precious.
“One last chance,” said the guard before him. “On your knees, now, and hand over your axe.”
“I’ve come to speak with your lord,” Sergan said. “I’ve come with an offer of…”
The guard behind him struck the back of his neck. Vision swimming, he fell to his knees. A sword pressed against his throat as the other took away his axe and cast it several feet to the grass.
“Where’s Gideon?” asked one of them. “Where’d you hide his body?”
Gideon?
“You mean that little boy pretending to be a soldier?” he asked. “He went running for Lord Hemman. Still, he’s a smarter man than either of you.”
The older struck his face with his fist. Sergan spat blood and chuckled.
“Now that’s the welcome I was expecting.”
A sword hilt struck his side, followed by a boot to his stomach. He coughed and beat the grass with a fist.
