The camp was every bit as bad as Prudence and Yorrin had described.
No, it is worse, Aleksandr decided.
Corpses littered the ground. Many tents were collapsed, shredded, trampled, or even burnt to scorched tatters. Supplies were smashed or scattered in disarray.
This looks like the site of a battle. One man’s death caused all this? Aleksandr’s thoughts turned to the death of another Bogdanov. It sounded as though Boris had led some sort of inquest against the Torathi Middish, after Dmitri’s death. Aleksandr wondered how many had been slain in Yerevan before these armies ventured downriver.
She was given to Hakon. Did he kill her, or take her? He pushed the thought away. Focused on the churned dirt ahead, as Dascha picked his way through the disheveled camp.
His twenty-odd companions rode alongside him, and they had close to a dozen lanterns between them, yet no Ruskan soldiers challenged them.
Aleksandr remembered where he’d seen Naksava’s banner flying, though in the dusky light it was much harder to spot now. He led Steelshod towards that section of the camp, and eventually spotted the banners still flying. As he grew closer, he was pleased to see some semblance of order emerge.
It seemed Naksava’s men had created barriers against the rest of the Ruskan camp—carts rolled into position around small mounds of freshly dug earth, and makeshift fences made of tentpoles and scraps of wood lashed together.
The small, slapdash wall could do little more than slow a determined force for a minute or two. But it was impressive that Naksava’s men had managed to erect it so quickly.
“Who approaches?” cried a voice from behind the crude wall. He was shouting in Ruskan.
“I am Aleksandr Kerensky,” Aleksandr replied in kind. “Commander of Steelshod Company. I come in peace, and wish only to speak with Bayard Naksava.”
There was a pause, and then a man popped up from behind the makeshift barricade. He was framed by the lantern he held, and Aleksandr saw a few men behind him.
He stared at Aleksandr and the rest of Steelshod in surprise. Fear was plain in his face. Aleksandr was thankful he had taken the time, before they left, to wrap Kholodny in cloth and loop it onto his baldrick. I think the sentries would have attacked us outright if I was carrying a naked blade.
“Who are you?” the sentry blurted out.
“Mercenary wanderers. Friends of Yerevan,” Aleksandr said. “Perhaps friends of Bayard Naksava, as well. We mean no harm.”
The man nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Come on then.” He hesitated, then pointed at Aleksandr. “Just you.”
Yorrin could not object, since he spoke no Ruskan. Even so, Aleksandr knew that he would if he could.
“May I bring my second?” Aleksanr asked, gesturing beside him.
The guard squinted at Yorrin, then shrugged. Aleksandr took it for an assent. Naksava’s men began dragging debris to make a small opening in the fence.
“Yorrin and I are being admitted to meet with Bayard Naksava,” Aleksandr told the others. “Dylan, you command until we return. Watch yourselves, da? I do not know if the fighting will return.”
Dylan nodded. “Sure thing,” he said. He glanced at the others. “You heard the boss. Eyes up.”
Steelshod fanned out around the perimeter of Naksava’s camp, watching for trouble in all directions. Yorrin nudged his horse so that he was trotting alongside Dascha.
They entered the camp without fanfare. Aleksandr noted dozens of guards spaced out regularly along the fortifications, watching the darkness of the camp. Though alert, the men were still in some disarray. Half-dressed, hastily fastened armor, and missing weapons were in clear evidence. Most of these men were off-duty when I slew Boris, Aleksandr noted. Their fast response does them some credit, at least.
“Do we have a plan?” Yorrin whispered.
“Not exactly,” Aleksandr admitted. “We talk to Naksava. See how he behaves.”
“And improvise,” Yorrin said, nodding as if this was an eminently reasonable plan. “Understood.”
They were led by two guards deeper into Naksava’s section of the camp. It proved to be a small section, all told. Though four bayards had split this camp, it was clear Naksava’s men did not comprise one quarter of the total force. Soon enough they approached a small but well-made pavilion bearing the banner of Naksava. A drowsy druzhnik stood outside, leaning sleepily on his polearm. He straightened up as they approached.
One of the guards went ahead, and he stepped inside the tent. Aleksandr could hear muffled voices within as he dismounted.
“Who are you?” the druzhnik asked, stifling a yawn.
“My name is Aleksandr Kerensky,” Aleksandr said.
The druzhnik’s eyes widened, and he tightened his grip on the haft of his weapon. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes darting between Aleksandr and Yorrin.
“Send him in!” called a voice from within the tent.
The druzhnik hesitated. It was obvious he had heard of Aleksandr’s arrival earlier, even though the sentries had not.
“I mean no harm,” Aleksandr said softly. “Boris Bogdanov made himself my enemy. He was…” Aleksandr hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Unwell.”
Thankfully, he could see the druzhnik exhale. The man seemed to relax slightly, and his chin jerked in a slight nod.
“I wish to speak to your master,” Aleksandr continued. “To help salvage this situation.”
The druzhnik nodded. “Come on,” he said. He pushed open the flap, and he led them inside.
Naksava’s pavilion was a simple, well-furnished room. His bed and wardrobe took up the most distant corner. The center of the room was a table, much smaller than the one in the Bogdanov pavilion. Two lamps on the table cast the entire room in an orange glow. A half-eaten meal lay forgotten on one side of the table, but most of the table appeared to be dominated by a large flat piece of birchwood marked in charcoal.
A single chair was set aside, and four men stood at the table instead. Aleksandr noticed that three of them wore mail and had swords on their belts. The third man wore nothing but a dagger and a clean, tailored surcoat in his house colors.
Pavel Naksava was a merchant first. Aleksandr did not know what the man was second, but he knew that warrior came much further down the list. He was a middle-aged man, with a crisply trimmed beard and hair. He watched Aleksandr with piercing eyes.
Aleksandr noted that the sentry who’d preceded them was now standing just beside the entrance to the pavilion, and the druzhnik leading them in stopped to take up position there as well. Both men were positioned behind Aleksandr and Yorrin as they entered the room and approached the table.
It is understandable that they do not trust us yet, Aleksandr had to admit. With how these men had him flanked, he had to hope that things did not turn as sour as his last parley.
He stifled such doubts, and approached Naksava with a calm purposeful stride.
“Stop,” Naksava said—in Middish, not Ruskan.
Aleksandr and Yorrin did so.
“You slew Boris,” Naksava said. His Middish was accented, but sounded better than Aleksandr’s. “Tell me you did not come to do the same to me.”
“We did not,” Aleksandr said immediately. “We came only to talk.”
Naksava nodded. “Then talk.”
“Have you heard of us? Of me?”
Naksava narrowed his eyes. He considered the words for a moment before speaking. “Bogdanov’s Black Blade,” he murmured. “Your house is in the frozen north, I think. A wandering druzhnik selling his sword?”
“Something like this, da,” Aleksandr said. “We did some work for Bayard Bogdanov.”
“Hunting criminals in Yerevan. A cult, I think?” Naksava said.
“A Thaumati cult,” Yorrin interjected. “They were sacrificing people to their dark gods.”
Naksava wrinkled his nose. “Da, I think I heard this. Fine. You did Yerevan a service. This is irrelevant. You worked for Dmitri, and so… what? I am to trust that you had good intentions when you slew Boris?”
“No,” Aleksandr admitted. “He was wrong. He tried to have me killed, but even so. I am not certain of my intentions, when I slew Boris. He—wronged me.”
“I gave her to him,” Boris’ words whispered in the back of Aleksandr’s mind. He tried to push them away.
“Then what do you want, Black Blade?” Naksava asked. He drummed his fingers on the table. The charcoal-marked panel appeared to have a crude drawing of Torva and the surrounding area on it. Aleksandr noticed several chaotic slashes across the area he surmised was the Ruskan camp.
“I want to understand why you are here,” Aleksandr said. “Boris tried to explain, but his words made no sense. He spoke of Middish assassins in Yerevan, of a retaliation against Caedia.”
Naksava scratched at his beard, frowning. “Da, he spoke of these things often,” he said.
“Did you believe him?” Aleksandr asked. He met Naksava’s gaze and held it. “Truly?”
The bayard sighed out an annoyed breath. “Not really,” he said. “There was a… strangeness, to Boris’ stories. By the time I arrived in Yerevan he had already assembled much of this host. My own people in Yerevan could not confirm much of what he said, though.”
“Because it was a load of shit,” Yorrin said. “Obviously. Any fool could see that much. Yerevan’s been an ally of the Midlands. Bogdanov was a decent enough sort. What purpose would killing him serve?”
Naksava’s druzhniks glared at Yorrin. The bayard himself looked annoyed, and he glanced to Aleksandr. “Your man is impertinent,” he said in Ruskan.
“He speaks truth,” Aleksandr replied in Middish. Yorrin gave a satisfied nod and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Perhaps,” Naksava said. “There were other strangenesses. The Svardic priest…”
“Hakon.” Aleksandr realized he had growled the name.
“Da. Hakon. He rarely left Boris’ side. He attended our war councils. It was not—not seemly. I wonder why the other bayards allowed it. Why Kamarsky allowed it.”
“Kamarsky?” said Yorrin. “You spoke of him earlier, Aleksandr. Why is he so important?”
Naksava shook his head in exasperation. “Sergei Kamarsky is a great man. The greatest bayard sworn to Yerevan. He has greater holdings, in acreage and serfs, than even Bogdanov. He was always Dmitri’s right hand man, when all of us sworn to Yerevan were called to war.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “I have heard of him, a little. Why did he not take command of this army? Boris was kin to Dmitri, but—distant kin. I was surprised, to see him in command.”
Naksava nodded at that. His brow furrowed in thought. “I—I am not sure.That is simply how it happened. Boris called us to revenge his cousin, and we followed.”
“This is what puzzles me, Bayard Naksava,” Aleksandr said. “Why? You said you wonder why the other bayards allowed it. Why did you allow it?”
“I am no fool, Black Blade,” Naksava said. “I am not a war bayard. I come when Bogdanov calls his banners. I am not one to question the war council.”
“But Bogdanov—your Bogdanov—was dead,” Aleksandr said. “He did not call you. You may not be a war leader, but you are still bayard. You had no words for Boris? You did not question him, or his Svardic advisor?”
Naksava frowned. He said nothing, just pursing his lips in discomfort.
Something is wrong here, Aleksandr decided. Not as bad as Boris, but—that cloud Gunnar spoke of. It hangs over this man. It must.
“It did not seem prudent,” Naksava said. “The other bayards were already in agreement. Kamarsky, Stanislav—”
“In agreement to war with Caedia,” Aleksandr said. “Boris did not receive the Tsar’s blessing for this war, did he?”
Naksava swallowed. “No,” he said after a pause.
“Did that not trouble you?” Aleksandr asked.
“I—” Naksava opened his mouth, then hesitated.
“The Tsar is not known for his accommodating nature,” Aleksandr said. “Nor his mercy on those that cause problems for him. This war—the Caedians will retaliate. Torva is too precious a jewel to let it slip away. You must know this.”
“Of course,” Naksava said. “But—”
“But you followed Boris anyway, and did not object,” Aleksandr interrupted.
“It was not my—”
“Of course it was your place,” Aleksandr said sharply. “You are bayard. More than that, you are not a fool. And yet you have acted foolishly.”
Naksava recoiled slightly, as if Aleksandr had pushed him or smacked him. His lips tightened in a thin, angry line.
His men are not upset with me, Aleksandr realized suddenly. The druzhniks are watching me, but they seem intrigued. Not offended by my impertinence. It only took a moment of contemplation to understand why. They knew something was wrong already.
“This war was ill-conceived. You must withdraw your men. We are friends with the lord of Torva. We can settle this, prevent them from retaliating. But only if this ends now.” Aleksandr took a single step closer to Naksava, not menacing, just to better implore him. The druzhniks tensed slightly, but they did not intervene.
“Perhaps you are right,” Naksava said. “With Boris dead, our camp is in disarray as it is. I will not let Yuri seize command and throw my men’s lives away in a rash attempt to storm the walls.”
Yuri, Aleksandr thought for a moment. Yuri Stanislav, it has to be. He is the rash one, the war bayard that skirmishes along the border.
Aleksandr nodded. “Good. We must take control of the camp, Bayard Naksava. There are many leaderless men still, as well as the other bayards.”
“Perhaps fewer than you think,” Naksava said. At Aleksandr’s questioning look, he continued. “Feodor. Bayard Proskoviya. My men say he was cut down fighting Stanislav’s men. Wounded badly—they think mortally.”
Damn, Aleksandr thought. “Damn,” he said. “His men will be leaderless as well? Or will Stanislav have absorbed them already?”
“Neither,” Naksava said. “Feodor the Younger—his firstborn—should be in his camp still. But he is inexperienced. It is only a matter of time before Yuri kills him too. He has always hated the Proskoviya line, and coveted their lands.”
“Then we must meet with Feodor the Younger,” Aleksandr said. “Perhaps he will be eager to abandon this war with Caedia, given what it has already cost him.”
Naksava nodded. “Perhaps. I—” he hesitated. “You are sure this is the best plan? The Tsar will be angry when he hears of what has already occurred here. If we could at least show him a victory…”
“Pavel,” Aleksandr used the bayard’s first name. Naksava gave him a sharp look at the liberty, but he did not object. “You will not have a victory to show him. You will have a protracted siege. There is a small army of Caedians stationed north of here, and they will descend upon you long before you take Torva. This siege will yield Yerevan nothing but blood and dead, and the Tsar will only double the cost you and the other bayards pay.”
Naksava was silent, considering Aleksandr’s words.
“I’m no expert on Tsars,” Yorrin said. “But I know how to deflect. Maybe you lot could blame all of this on Boris. He pushed you into it, began marching off to war before you’d even decided what to do. You had to go with him or else risk Yerevan throwing away its troops unsupported. Let him take the fall for all of this. Partly because it’s true, but more importantly because he’s dead.”
Naksava nodded. “I—da, I think this is a good idea,” he said. “But I cannot help this feeling that something is wrong.”
“Sir?” Yorrin said, nudging Aleksandr. “Remember what we talked about?”
The sword, Aleksandr’s hand involuntarily went to Kholodny. He did not grip the hilt, but rather brushed his fingertips across the pommel. Yorrin thinks it is blessed by Torath, to ward against evil magic. He recalled that Alaina herself had been skeptical of her blessing. But she and Borthul both agreed that the markings he placed upon the steel contained some sort of protective magic.
Naksava looked between both of them with arched eyebrows. “What?” he said.
“We think that Svard may have magicked you,” Yorrin said bluntly. “Apparently, the Svards believe their priests can cloud the minds of men. Confuse them, beguile them. Some such thing.”
Naksava huffed a skeptical sigh. “Some sort of hedge witchery? Surely you don’t think—”
“I am not sure,” Aleksandr said. “I did not know Boris well, but he seemed troubled. Did he seem normal to you?”
Naksava scowled. “No, I suppose not,” he admitted. “He was not sleeping much. He seemed to take his cousin’s death hard. Harder than I would have expected.”
“And you, Bayard Naksava? Do you feel well? Normal?” Aleksandr did not look at Naksava, but instead met the eyes of his druzhniks. They shuffled uncomfortably, avoiding Aleksandr’s gaze.
“I feel… tired,” Naksava said. “Slow.”
“Foggy?” Yorrin prompted.
It was clear Naksava wanted to deny Yorrin’s suggestion, but he held his tongue. After a moment, he nodded. “Perhaps.”
“It may be nothing,” Aleksandr said. “But… something strange happened earlier tonight. When I struck Boris. My family blade—it is a long story. It changed when I fought the Thaumati cult. I wonder if there is some sorcery still in it, and that reacted when I cut down Boris.”
Naksava looked at Aleksandr’s sword, frowning again. “So, what? You wish to cut me with your sword? No.”
“Not exactly,” Aleksandr said. “I do not know, in truth. Perhaps… simply touch it, to start with. Perhaps nothing will happen. Perhaps something will. Can it hurt to try?”
Naksava opened his mouth, and Aleksandr saw his lips begin to form no, but then he paused. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. I will touch it.”
Aleksandr carefully pulled Kholodny from its makeshift loop. The blade was still wrapped in cloth, and he delicately held it by this cloth as he offered Naksava the hilt. Naksava reached out and wrapped his fingers around the grip of the sword.
Aleksandr’s world was reduced to searing pain.
He was dimly aware of shouting, of arguing, of a whimpered cry. But for a moment all he felt was a burning heat that began in his hands and radiated through his entire body.
A moment later, the feeling vanished. Aleksandr’s breath came in tense gasps for a few more moments, and then he steadied himself. He was still gripping Kholodny, and he saw curls of smoke rising from the sword’s cloth wrapping.
Naksava still gripped the hilt with one hand, but he leaned heavily on the table with his other hand. His druzhniks were crowded around them, weapons drawn, and Yorrin was standing beside Aleksandr. The small man was coldly and calmly demanding the druzhniks back off.
“Stop!” Naksava gasped in Ruskan. “I am alright. Stop, stand down!”
His men reluctantly stepped back. Naksava righted himself, and let go of the sword. He looked at Aleksandr with wide eyes.
“Is that what you expected?” he asked, still panting.
“I—maybe,” Aleksandr said. “I don’t know.”
“It was unpleasant.”
“Da,” Aleksandr said. “I agree.”
Naksava took a deep breath, and then another. He looked around the room. Something seemed different about him. He stood straighter, his gaze seemed sharper. Finally, he looked at Yorrin.
“Foggy,” Naksava said.
“Yeah, foggy.”
“Da. A fog hung over my thoughts. Smoothing the edges, obscuring them just so. Clouding my mind. This is the work of that Svard?”
“I believe so,” Aleksandr said. “You feel this fog is gone?”
Naksava nodded. “Da.”
“Does this change anything?” Aleksandr asked. “You—you were much more reasonable than Boris already.”
Naksava laughed. It was the first genuine smile Aleksandr had seen from the man. “No,” he said. “It changes little. Only—I am with you. Fully. I felt hesitant, but I could not say why. Now I see that this was the fog. You are right, Kerensky. This siege is a fool’s ambition. Boris’ ambition. We will not pursue it.”
“Perhaps it was not really the ambition of Boris, then,” Aleksandr said. “He must have been clouded as well.”
Naksava shook his head. “Boris did what he did. My thoughts were slow, confused… but still my own. I did not do anything I might not have already done, if given the right reasons. The fog just made it harder to see the wiser path.”
So Boris already had it in him to betray the Middish. To wage war on Caedia. To give Alaina—He set the thought aside. “Whatever it did, I’m glad you are free of it,” he said.
“Da, as am I,” Naksava said with a nod. “As I said before: I am with you. My men will withdraw.”
“It can’t just be your men,” Aleksandr said. “It must be the entire army, or I cannot promise that Caedia won’t retaliate.” Can you really promise such a thing, even if they do withdraw?
“Of course,” Naksava said. “You said you will speak with the Younger Proskoviya?”
“Da,” said Aleksandr. “Could you speak with Stanislav?”
Naksava snorted. “No,” he said. “Yuri has no respect for my house. He calls me a copper counter and miser. And coward, when he thinks I cannot hear.”
Aleksandr frowned. “What about the others? Bogdanov’s men?”
“Da, the leaderless ones,” Naksava nodded. “Any Yuri has not already dragged into his camp. This, I can do. I will rally them, bring them into my camp. Tell them to stand down from this fighting.”
“Good enough,” Aleksandr said. “If you get them, and we get Proskoviya, then we will control most of the camp. Stanislav may be brash, but he is not an idiot, da?”
“It is tempting to disagree,” Naksava said. “But you are right. He is no fool. He will not wage a war against Caedia by himself.”
“Good. We will approach him together, then. Once we have the rest of the camp under control.”
Naksava held out a hand, and Aleksandr clasped it. “There’s still the matter of the southern army,” Naksava said. “Kamarsky’s army.”
“And the reserve,” Yorrin added. Naksava gave Yorrin a perplexed look, perhaps wondering how Yorrin knew about the reserve, but he only nodded.
“One step at a time,” Aleksandr said. “Proskoviya first. Then Stanislav. Then the others.”
Naksava shook his head, and exhaled a breath of laughter. “You make it sound so simple.”
Yorrin smiled. “You’re working with Steeshod now, Naksava,” he said. “Trust me, we’ll have this siege rolled up by morning.”