Chapter Text
Ira instantly disliked Lore.
His appearance had been too timely to be coincidental.
Ira did not know a lot about the trained assassin agents of the southern kingdom, but he knew enough to know that if one showed up on your doorstep claiming to hold insider secrets from your most dangerous enemy, you should be at least somewhat suspicious. And if said assassin claimed to want to work for free, that suspicion should double. And lastly, if that assassin should have nothing to offer as collateral – no guarantee of his loyalty but his word – he should be killed immediately and his body thrown over the parapets. It simply was not worth the risk.
He was explaining this to his Queen, her majesty Roven XXII, pacing up and down the length of her reading room, when she held up a hand to silence him. He stilled immediately, pressing his mouth into a tight line.
“You’ve said all this before.” Rov looked up at Ira from behind her writing desk. She had a quill between her fingers and she looked tired and annoyed. Dark circles made her clear gray eyes appear shadowed sunken. It had been a long week.
Under normal circumstances, Ira would have been more protective of her energy. As Cairn’s warlord he was her second in command, they worked together tightly, watched each others’ backs, and rarely disagreed. When they did, he almost always bowed to her will, as both his elder and his leader.
The arrival of the assassin had thrown their relationship into chaos. Her lack of caution alarmed and distressed him. She seemed not to hear his warnings. Her intractability on an issue that seemed obvious to him replaced his usual deference and care with frustration.
“We don’t need him,” Ira said stubbornly, aware that Rov was right on one score – they had had this conversation a hundred times in the past months since he had appeared and it had made no difference in her opinion.
“If you wanted an agent we could have hired one. One without a questionable backstory. One whose loyalty we could verify and assure.” He bit out the words, knowing his argument was useless even as he voiced it.
Rov sighed and looked away from him. She had the demeanor of a woman fighting an old battle and holding her position with all the calm authority of her position. And just a little of the cockiness of royalty.
“I like this one,” she said finally. Then she looked at him hard.
“I understand where this is coming from Ira. But what happened to your father was a long time ago, and this isn’t the same. We can trust Lore. I know it.” Ira was shocked to silence, brought up short against this new and unexpected verbal attack.
When Ira was eleven, his father had been killed by an undercover attack sent by a coalition of smaller lords. They had hoped to unseat the recently-crowned Rov. His father had stopped them, at the cost of his own life.
Ira had not brought the incident up, knowing that she might use it as evidence of his own irrationality on the subject. But she’d dredged it up anyway. How could he make her understand that this was not an emotional reaction but a logical one?
Her attack on his neutrality made him realize he was losing. Again. And the last thing he wanted to do was make her angry enough to give him a direct order. If she told him to cease his protests permanently, he would be compelled to obey. And then he would be truly powerless. He’d have to watch as the assassin traitor pulled apart his little kingdom piece by piece and say nothing about it.
Instead of saying anything he placed one hand over his heart - the Cairnish salute – and bowed his head.
“I will try, Rov. But please…at least be cautious.” Her eyes swung back up to him, bemused.
“I am always cautious, Ira,” she replied.
Here we are on the verge of war, Ira thought, a time when caution gets thrown to the wind – especially the caution of hot-blooded, stubborn, over-tired royalty. But he pressed his lips together and said nothing.
“Leave me to my letters, Ira. I will see you in the council shortly.” Obediently, Ira let himself out of the room, sliding the ornate doors carefully closed behind him. He could feel a headache coming on.
In the hallway, two guards on either side stood to attention. Ira paused to eye them both critically. They shifted uncertainly under his gaze, meeting each others’ eyes in the silence.
Both were young but able soldiers. Ira knew because he had overseen their training personally. This was the way of all of Rov’s soldiers. Ira took a personal interest. It meant that he knew his people on an individual bases, and had a strong sense of their strengths and weaknesses. It also meant that they were as loyal to him as they were to Rov, if not more.
If Rov was going to be foolish, he could at least ensure that she was surrounded by people with a rigorous sense of duty.
“Trust no one.” He said quietly, so that Rov would not hear on the other side of the door. “Especially not strangers.” He knew his meaning would not be missed. The one on the right nodded crisply, acknowledging his words.
Ira felt moderately reassured, but he could not shake the feeling of unease as he descended to the courtyard and his officers’ quarters below.
~*~
An hour later Rov’s council gathered in their chambers around the great oak table: Ten generals, Ira, Rov, and, to Ira’s consternation, her assassin pet. The stranger, whose name was Lore, was seated unobtrusively to the side of the room, cloaked in shadow. But Ira saw him and felt a stab of anger. Was Rov doing this just to provoke him?
Everyone was dressed formally and talking in low tones. The candles lit worried faces, set jaws, and hard eyes.
There was a war coming, and they could feel it.
Ira glared at the shadowed assassin and wondering when and how he would report back to his true masters, now that he had gained access to their inner sanctum.
Ira had to admit that he had been effective. The assassin’s natural charisma had charmed everyone at Cairn, even if it grated on Ira. He was beautiful, friendly, and told an irresistible tale of personal tragedy. He claimed to have been betrayed by their common enemy. There had been a fight, he said, between his brother and one of the Lord Tavish’s top generals. His brother had been killed unjustly. Now he sought revenge by aligning himself with the people most likely to come up against the marauding Tavish next - Cairn. He asked for no fee except the chance to avenge himself on Tavish if the opportunity presented itself.
Nothing but a clever tale, as far as Ira was concerned.
Ira couldn’t see his features in the dark chamber, but he knew the shadows hid a shock blonde and warm olive skin. For a southerner who looked so exotic and out of place, he had slid easily into their lives.
Sure he had sworn an oath of fidelity before the Queen and her court, but Ira saw no reason to trust his word. He was a stranger. No one knew him or could speak for his character. The alleged death of his brother meant he conveniently had no family to hold as collateral - no partner or children or even friend to take as guarantee of his good behaviour. He did not even know his parents, having been sold to an assassin’s school as a young boy.
He tried not to let it be generally known that he and Rov disagreed on this matter, although he knew that others at court had picked up on the tension. Ira served Rov, as his father had served Rov’s father, and his mother before that, going back generations. Even if they argued, his loyalty was unshakable. Their disagreement stemmed from his concern for her and his desire to protect his homeland. Ultimately, he knew, he would obey her – even if it was against his better judgement.
Lost in thought, Ira missed Rov’s opening remarks. The council was in session.
“Tavish will not wait for the roads to freeze,” general Miko was guessing aloud. “He will not want to give us time to prepare. It is the same pattern he followed with Abosa in the west, last year. Besides, his army will be restless after a summer of inaction.”
Rov chewed speculatively on one lip. “Tavish spent most of the summer mopping up after Abosa castle fell. There were reports of unsanctioned raids in the outer villages, which makes me wonder about how much control he has over them. You may be right.”
“But surely he knows that marching before the roads freeze would be madness,” Hael countered in his deep rumbling baritone, shaking his bearded head. “The road through the lowlands is impassible at this time of year. He will lose horses and men to the muck before he even comes close to us. And he will risk getting caught in snow squalls in the pass. No one could be that foolish.”
“He may have no choice in the matter,” Miko shrugged. “If the army is bored and full of themselves and itching for a new conquest.”
“If not him, then surely his generals will see sense,” reasoned another councilor, the priest Ven, sounding incredulous. “They may be restless, but not restless enough to risk their lives. Surely they will settle down in Abosa and enjoy the spoils of war until the season is more favorable.”
Ira was about to agree with this later opinion, but when he looked up he caught sight of the spy, who was wearing a thoughtful expression on his face. Ira gritted his teeth. In the space where the warlord might have spoken, a brief, thoughtful silence descended on the room.
Rov’s eyes flicked up from the faces around her table to the assassin by the door. Around the room, all eyes turned to follow the direction of her gaze. She, too, had noticed his interest.
“What do you think, Lore?” The question was asked quietly, but Ira could see it was a test from the set of her grey eyes.
“You have told me that when you left, it was commonly known that Tavish would move on un in Cairn once Abosa had been secured. Did he seem in a great hurry?”
The thoughtful look faded, and was replaced with amusement. Bright blue eyes flickered in the dark face, true thoughts hidden behind their sparkle. That man is the embodiment of duplicitous, Ira thought. His own eyes narrowed with dislike.
“It is impossible to say for certain, my lady” answered Lore’s smooth voice after a moment.
“I am sorry I cannot be of more help on this matter.” There was a brief pause. Ira held his breath. Then,
“as your general Miko has observed, Tavish has imperfect control of his forces and, although skilled in schemes, is not a competent leader.” There was a suggestion of a shrug.
“Anything could happen.”
A safe answer, Ira fumed. The assassin’s observations added nothing, and possibly strengthened the irrational speculations already voiced by Miko. It was impossible that Tavish would move so soon, and sending out a force, even a small one, would reveal their hand and weaken Cairn. They needed to focus on preparing for the coming battle in the winter. Miko drummed her fingers on the table, thinking.
“I think the most prudent course of action is to send a small mobile force to the south, where our informants among the villages have reported seeing travelers bearing Tavish’s colours,” she said with her usual confidence. Ira opened his mouth to protest, but she continued.
“With a full contingent of messengers and the swiftest horses we can spare.” There was some nodding around the table, even from Hael and Ven who had apparently taken the assassin at his word. Ira looked around in disbelief.
“Even if Tavish doesn’t move this autumn, it will be easy for a small force to remain for the winter,” Hael added. Miko smiled.
“Exactly. And the moment he moves, we will be ready to counter him. Well-rested and warm from the fires of Cairn. Like the old saying goes, when the enemy attacks, he is most vulnerable.”
Ira had taught her that saying. He hadn’t thought she would use it to justify such a foolish move. But, unbelievably, Rov was nodding too.
“I will think about who to send. If Abosa moves soon, or is already moving, it will have to be a competent group, with enough firepower to launch an ambush immediately, if needed.” Ira frowned down at the table. Sending any force south, let alone some of Cairn’s best, would leave the castle more poorly defended. If Tavish learned of their plot, he could easily send a force from the East or West and catch them short men and horses. But it was too late to raise these points without undermining Rov’s decision.
In truth, there was nothing wrong with the plan – if they assumed that the assassin was trustworthy. The only way that Tavish would learn of their project was if the assassin betrayed them. Ira wasn’t ready to make that assumption. But at this point, to protest the plan would be to cast doubt on his loyalty. It would sow discontent among the council, which had already accepted the man’s presence on Rov’s word.
Rov looked around the room.
“It is nearly dark. We will reconvene in the morning to finalize these plans.” The Queen rapped her knuckles on the Oak table, signaling the end to the session. With a murmur, her councilors rose and began to trickle out.
Even though he watched him like a hawk, Ira did not see the assassin leave. When he looked at the place where he had been standing, there was simply no one there.
~*~
The moon was high, so Ira could see the assassin waiting for him easily next to the entrance to his rooms. The man leaned casually on the sandstone wall, arms crossed. He was still skinny from his journey through the Cairnish mountains, but managed to be the picture of lithe confidence despite his smaller stature. Ira stopped ten feet before the door, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his shortsword and hailed the assassin with as little friendliness as possible.
“What do you want?” he called out lightly. The other looked up and smiled.
The expression made Ira extremely nervous. There was no way that the assassin had failed to notice Ira’s feelings about him. Ira was also aware of the fact that, as far as targets went, he was a good one. If the assassin killed him there would be no one to pull the generals together, lead the army, or communicate between Rov and her people.
But there were soldiers everywhere here. Ira knew that a single shouted word would bring a large portion of Rov’s army pouring into the street within seconds. Any move on behalf of the assassin would be pure foolishness. The assassin would be killed before he could blink if he attempted anything now.
But that did not mean Ira would not be cautious.
The assassin straightened on Ira’s unfriendly greeting and came toward Ira a few steps, placing himself fully in the pale blue light of the moon. He moved with a liquid grace, but in the full light Ira could see his features more clearly. He was shorter and slighter than Ira, dressed in loose black silks. He had large blue eyes, which belied his deadliness. His halo of rough, dirty blonde hair cut short in the style of the sea people He had fine brows and lips, and high cheekbones. The only thing that took away from his perfection was a slightly crooked nose – it looked like it had broken long ago and not reset. As he greeted Ira he spread long fingers on strong hands in an imploring gesture.
“You don’t trust me,” the assassin said, sounding hurt. He was trying to look innocent. Ira was having none of it. There was nothing innocent about a face like that.
“What gave you that idea?” he asked dryly, looking down at the assassin across the cobblestones, contemptuous.
“What can I do to put you at ease, warlord? I mean you no harm, and I hate your enemies as much as you do. If there is something more I can do to convince you of this, you must tell me so I can do it.” Ira’s eyes narrowed. The assassin was relaxed and apparently unarmed, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. His very composure was enough to make Ira seethe. How dare he walk around here, like he owned the place? He should be in chains.
“I follow the orders of my queen.” Ira replied coldly. The assassin leaned forward, and Ira was unexpectedly struck by his terrible beauty. The moon lit up his olive skin and glowed in his strange blonde hair. Was this the reason for the easy way he had ingratiated himself to everyone? Ira caught his breath as the assassin studied him calmly, lips pursed.
“Barely,” the southerner observed, a hint of teasing in his voice. Ira tensed, disliking the accusation. What right had this stranger to comment on his relationship with Rov? He was forcing an issue Ira had been very careful to be diplomatic about. He felt anger boiling up in him.
“I have nothing to say to you, assassin.” Ira’s voice was sharper than he intended, showing a degree of frustration with the situation he had not planned to reveal. The other man leaned back from the force of it, surprised by the open vehemence.
“As you wish, warlord,” he replied softly, after a moment’s pause. “But it will make both of our lives’ easier if we can learn to work together. For the good of Cairn.”
Ira said nothing, leaving his hand on the hilt of his sword, his body still and his eyes hard. His body radiated tension. For the good of Cairn. Not a chance, you evil bastard. There was a moment of silence while they eyed each other. Then the assassin shrugged.
“As you wish,” he signed, and turned away, leaving Ira angry and alone and frustrated under the bright cold moon.
~*~
Lore was in Cairn’s library when Rov told Ira her decision. So he got to witness the full glory of the warlord’s temper tantrum.
Lore had explained to Rov that he needed access to the library so that he could study Cairnish geography and culture and thereby work more easily for her against Tavish’s advance.
But since then, Lore had found the library offered a different sort of education. Its large clear windows offered a perfect view of the castle’s central courtyard. The necessity of Cairn’s architecture dictated that everyone passed through the courtyard below the library window as they moved between the castle, its military barracks, and the city. It was an excellent place to observe the pulse of Cairnish life as it passed in real time. And although Lore came to the library ostensibly to read, he spent most of his time watching people pass below, learning Cairn’s habits and inconsistencies and customs.
Rov had given her orders early in the morning, pulling Miko from her bed before the sun had risen. This, too, Lore knew because he had watched it happen. He always exercised before dawn, when the courtyard was empty and quiet. So he had been just wiping the sweat from his brow when he saw the sleepy page descend from the castle and cross to the officers’ quarters to fetch the general.
Now, Lore watched from his vantage point in the library and speculated: What factors had gone into Rov’s decision? Had it been his own endorsement of the plan? He doubted it, but he couldn’t be sure. How many would they send? What route would they take? Would Cairn have its own assassin-agents among them?
Miko was below with her unit, engaged in the business of loading horses. One of Lore's hands rested absently on an open scroll he’d meant to read -- it was covered in maps that Lore was not looking at. The other hand gently tugged at a strand of unruly blonde hair, pensive.
Lore perked up the moment the Ira exploded out of the double wooden doors that separated the barracks from the main castle. Ah. Here her go.
Ira was a big man: handsome, muscular, and athletic with a serious face, long black hair, and dark, intelligent eyes. Today he was dressed in soft leather armour over cotton, with the cloak of his office swirling behind him. He looked, as he always did in public, every inch the military commander. His proud bearing made him seem even larger than he was.
He took up space, both physically and in personality, Lore reflected. He had a magnetism about him that Lore (and everyone else, apparently) had a difficult time resisting. It made Lore intensely curious.
And another thing. Although Lore had been trained since childhood to accurately evaluate other people, he found Ira annoyingly unpredictable. He was impossible to read. He could be hot-headed and arrogant in one moment, and then affectionate and soft in the next. As a whole, the most that could be said of the man was that he was mercurial and intensely distrustful. And yet his people loved him.
The combination, in Lore's professional opinion, was extremely dangerous.
He had wondered, since meeting him, what the man was like in private when he had his armour (physical and mental) fully off. It was the reason he’d approached Ira last night – hoping to get a glimpse at who the man was beyond his cold, military exterior. It had proved ill-advised, as it turned out. But at least now Lore knew where he stood with the man.
Lore’s eyes tracked Ira with interest as horses and men alike scattered from his path as he strode across the yard toward Miko. Even from high above, Lore could see the set of his jaw under its stubble and the flash of irritation in his dark eyes.
So. Ira had finally learned the plan. And, further, found out that Rov had made the decision without him. And Ira was angry.
The assassin leaned forward to get a better look. Now he would see something interesting.
Since he had arrived in Cairn Lore had been astonished by the lack of politics present in the power hierarchies of the city state. Lore’s southern home was rife with intrigue – power could change hands within the span of hours, given the right circumstances. Assassinations and coups and negotiations were a familiar part of political life. For this reason, the southern city states were also the location of a booming economy in hired agents with a variety of clandestine skills. He had been sold to a school for assassins as a young child and brought up to serve this system. It was the only thing he knew.
Here in the north there was little apparent disagreement or bitterness between people, and almost no grappling for power. Hiring assassins was rare. The mountain kingdoms had no assassin schools of their own. Lore had been deeply surprised to experience this difference for himself, and wondered if it was an act, or if he was simply too unfamiliar with northern culture to see it.
Now he wondered if he was about to finally see the dark side of Cairnish politics. Would there be open dissention in Rov’s perfect ranks? Would Miko defy Ira if he told her to disobey their queen? Was this the fault line in Cairn’s air-tight military order?
He couldn’t wait to find out. A dark smile lifted the corner of his mouth.
Miko was busy tightening the leather straps of a pack on the cobble-stones as Ira approached, so she didn’t see her leader until the last second. When he stopped in front of her, arms crossed, she winced and straightened, looking uncomfortable. The corner of Lore’s mouth twitched in amusement. She knew what was coming.
Lore couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged, but he could imagine them. He had studied these individuals and their characteristics in great detail, and made extensive notes on their communication styles. Ira would be reserved but annoyed, torn between anger about Rov’s decision and fear of embarrassing both of them in front of Miko’s soldiers. Miko would reply lightly, appealing to their normally playful relationship. She might blame Rov for the choice, but above all she would be conciliatory and sensitive to Ira’s rage, hoping to avoid open conflict. Lore did not know if this strategy would hold up in the face of Ira’s emotions. Miko would be conciliatory to a point, but Lore knew from his observations that she could be impatient and prone to the occasional blow up. Lore wondered if she’d be able to hold her temper long enough to placate her commander.
There was some tense gesturing below. Miko put her hands on her hips. Ira crossed his across his chest. Things looked like they might be about to get openly hostile.
Then, as if noticing all the soldiers around them for the first time, Ira looked around, jaw still a tight line, and pointed to the officer’s quarters. Miko gave an order to a man nearby to deal with her half-closed pack, and jogged after Ira. He had turned and walked away without waiting for her. They disappeared together into the officers’ quarters.
Lore sighed. Too bad. They were going to have their little spat in private.
Lore sat back. So it wouldn’t be public. But could they come to an agreement? Ira disliked Rov’s plan deeply. Lore knew Ira thought that Rov was not thinking defensively, leaving the city vulnerable. Both Lore and Rov thought that Ira was being too conservative. Rov needed to get ahead of Tavish if she wanted to protect her people.
Adding intrigue to the situation was the fact that Miko and Ira frequently disagreed, and it was common knowledge that Ira thought his youngest captain too hot-headed and impulsive to be trusted on her own. This caused (mostly) good natured bickering between them, with Ira playing the part of the over-worried mother hen and Miko the rebellious teenager. It was obvious that this was a pattern they had fallen into with each other over a long period of time. Habitual, comfortable, and based in their mutual love for Rov and for Cairn.
But now Rov was using it against them, and with the stakes so much higher a miner disagreement could easily become open dissent.
Lore thought back to the distrust in the eyes of Rov’s personal guards when he had entered her chambers the night before. As much as Ira tried to hide his dissent, Ira’s soldiers picked up on his dislike of Lore. Or maybe Ira had even given them orders to watch him. He wasn’t sure. What was certain was that the the disagreement between Rov and her warlord was causing fractures in the smooth façade of Cairnish authority.
All of this was at stake in the conversation going on behind closed doors in the officers quarters. With its details obscured from view, Lore tried to guess how the exchange between Ira and Miko would end.
Lore accepted that he couldn’t get an exact fix on Ira’s personality, but Miko was easier. She was the kind of person form whom most skills came easily. She could not understand incompetence. She was optimistic and energetic, and did not know how to take “no” for an answer. She was also fiercely independent and rebellious by nature. Her strong character had seen her rise quickly through the ranks, but also led her to ruffle feathers among Rov’s cohort of generals. She had learned to temper her opinions, but could be abrasive and overly brash.
Knowing all this, Lore was surprised when the two emerged from the doorway a few minutes later looking companionable and walking side-by-side. Miko was explaining something, gesturing with both hands, and Ira was listening thoughtfully. The line on his jaw was softened. His gaze had lost its hardness.
Lore leaned forward a little more, trying to catch the subtleties of the warlord’s expression. Relaxed? Resigned? Triumphant? The only observation that Lore came away with was that Ira was a shockingly handsome man, when he wasn’t scowling.
The soldiers, without Miko, had finished packing and were nearly ready to leave. Miko’s man brought her packed horse to her, passing her the reigns. The horse followed Miko placidly as she walked at Ira’s side. Around them, girths were being tightened and saddle buckles checked. The final preparations for leaving we well underway, and the soldiers eyed their commanders, ready for the order.
Ira and Miko stopped in the middle of the courtyard, still talking. Lore could not imagine the subject. Technicalities, perhaps? Miko grinned suddenly, and Lore thought he saw the trace of a smile dart across Ira’s lips. Some inside joke perhaps.
Then Ira – the grand warlord, second only to the Queen, caught Miko in an embrace, surprising his general, whose laugh floated up faintly through the glass of the library window. Miko hugged him back and the two held on to each other for a long time.
The display of affection took Lore by surprise. He knew that Ira had trained Miko personally, and that the two had worked closely together. Looking carefully, Lore could see that Ira was speaking into her ear as he held her. Miko nodded, and thumped Ira on the back in affection. When they finally pulled apart, they held each other’s gaze for a long time. Around them, people were swinging into their saddles and getting ready to depart, but Ira and Miko took no notice. They were in their own world.
Ira took Miko’s face in his hands, leaned close. Lore couldn’t tell if anything was spoken, but something passed between the two of them. Be careful, perhaps. Miko smiled, placing her hands over Ira’s and nodding. Ira released his general, dropping his arms to his sides.
Lore couldn’t tell for sure, but some of the mirth that had been in Ira was gone. Ira had physically folded in on himself. He seemed almost defeated. He would miss his general, for all the trouble she gave him. And he was worried about her. It was almost sweet. Lore felt his opinion of the warlord warming slightly. If he was consistently cold and distrustful to Lore, his relationships with others indicated a man devoted to his people on a deeply personal level. For all Cairn’s efficient militarism, this was not a people who sacrificed emotion and caring for discipline.
Released from Ira’s grasp, Miko swung effortlessly into her saddle. Her horse shifted impatiently beneath her, ready to be off. Around them, the others were moving out, and the clatter of hooves and the shouting of soldiers drifted to Lore’s ears. It only took a few moments for the whole group – 40 soldiers and horses – to assemble. And then they were off, trotting toward the big double gates that were swinging open to the farmland beyond Cairn.
Lore watched as Ira stood in the courtyard. The warlord watched them go. His expression was invisible. He arms hung at his sides, his shoulders slumped. He waited until the gates closed behind the group, shuttering his view of retreating horses for the last time. Then he turned back to the castle and disappeared back into its depths.
Lore let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, turning his gaze back to the manuscript at hand.
There was a complicated man, he thought. Complicated, full of unknown motives, and overly suspicious. Not the kind of man Lore needed hanging around. He would only make things more difficult.
~*~
With Miko gone, Ira took control over more of Cairn’s day-to-day life and Lore observed him, trying to get a handle on the man’s personality and motives. There wasn’t much else to do, now that Miko was gone. Below him, day in and day out, Rov’s army sparred, trained recruits, worked with horses, sharpened weapons, drilled. It was an endless rotation of men and women in leather and chainmail, competent, orderly, and serious. At the centre of it all was Ira, like a gear in a great machine or a composer directing a grand orchestra.
It was not unpleasant work. Lore increasingly found that Ira was good to look at. He was attractive and charismatic and funny. He often worked with his shirt off, steaming like an overworked horse in the cold late-autumn air. He moved with a surprising grace, for a man so large and muscular. And his rapport with his people was flawless – he knew all of them well, and could discipline them and tease them and make them feel at ease with a simple look or well-placed word. He was a natural leader, and watching him work his magic was intensely enjoyable for Lore.
One of the great mysteries Lore had faced when he arrived was how this little society, perched so precariously among its rocks, had remained undisturbed for so long. In the south, castles and crowns traded hands swiftly with the shifting of loyalties and fortune. But here Cairn had stood for generations, more or less undisturbed, its lineage going back in time generations. Attempted coups bounced off it. Invaders seemed able to muster little enthusiasm for conquest, even when they possessed vastly superior forces. Siegers gave up and went home after one winter. Nothing seemed able to shake the unwavering stability of the city.
Watching Ira and his people, Lore began to understand why. Rov’s ancestors had built a tradition of discipline, loyalty, and fraternity which underpinned every aspect of life. Duplicity was rare. Cowardice unheard of. Injustice utterly untolerated. People held their relationships to each other in the highest regard, and their duty to their queen was absolute.
At the centre of the steadily turning cycles of duty and fraternity and loyalty in the heart of Cairnish life was its lynchpin: Ira, Cairn’s warlord. He embodied all of these values and executed them flawlessly in his daily life. Lore found him obnoxiously perfect, and wondered if the man’s sense of morality and duty ever faltered.
Everyone had vices, imperfections, and weak spots. Lore was sure Ira had them. Jealousy? Anger management? Greed? Sexual perversion? But they remained stubbornly hidden from his view.
Some days Ira would be soberly seated at the edge of the yard, leaning on his sword, watching as the youths sparred under the direction of some captain. The youngsters worked harder with their warlord there, fighting for his notice and approval. He gave both generously.
Other days he was leading drills on horseback as a group of thirty riders wheeled and spun in perfect unison, imitating the flow of battle. If things were not completely smooth, he stopped them, wheeled them through the motions again, until man and horse moved like river water.
Other times he wrestled bare-chested with his equals, of which there were few, or sparred with a shocking variety of weapons. He was unafraid of humiliation and defeat, and treated everyone with equanimity.
His regard was returned. Wherever he went, his people had eyes only for him. They adored him. They would follow him, as they would Rov, to their death. They never questioned him, just loved him. His charisma was part of this, but it was also just part of it was the character of Cairnish people, for whom duplicity was a foreign concept.
Ira himself seemed oblivious to his place at the centre of things, but loved his people back with the same intensity that they loved him. It was a complete cycle of which Lore was not a part. He could only observe from the outside, with admiration and, perhaps, some jealousy.
Yet Lore knew that Cairn’s loyalty and love for Ira and Rov was the city’s strength as well as its weakness. If anything happened to Ira or Rov, Cairn would be crushed. They would not be able to function. They would fall apart completely.
Lore especially enjoyed watching Ira in the evenings. after the dust had settled and darkness had begun to cloak the yard from view. Every night almost without fail the warlord could be seen below, spinning slowly and deliberately through a series of drills with his great longsword. Sweat would dampen his hair and steam would rise from his body as the air cooled. Lore, transfixed, watched him dance the length of the courtyard and back again – a perfect symphony of strength and agility. A god of love and war. Deadliness personified.
And then one night he noticed something.
He sat up abruptly.
There.
A fault.
~*~
As was his habit in the evenings, Ira was drilling with his greatsword alone. There was a storm coming. He could feel it in the air. The sound of his breath was the only noise disturbing the quiet evening as he completed the last series of movements in his drill, his sword flashing in the dusk as he rotated up on the balls of his feet, pulled the haft neatly to his hip, pushed out again in a stab, spun again, his heel swinging long behind him…and came up short as he realized he was being watched.
The assassin stood calmly at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression impossible to read in the low light.
Ira recovered from his surprise, completed his interrupted movement, and lowered his sword without sheathing it. He said nothing, waiting for the other to explain his transgression on Ira’s time and space.
When it came, it was not what Ira expected.
“You have a habit of dropping your eyes before you turn, warlord,” the assassin said softly. “you should be careful.” Here the assassin paused for emphasis, a long finger reached up to touch a curved lip.
“It could get you killed.”
Was that a threat? Ira turned his head and spat into the dust. His breath was still rising and falling rapidly with the effort of his dance, but now it quickened again with anger.
“Would you like to try me, assassin?” He demanded contemptuously.
The other man shrugged. “I watched you. You do it every time. It is a common problem when a man drills alone.”
“Then join me. Or do you fear fighting a man face to face?” Ira had meant this as a jibe, but it appeared not the land. There was no dishonour in a sneak-attack from an assassin’s point of view.
The southerner considered for a moment, and then shrugged and began removing the loose linen shift and cloak.
Underneath, Ira saw his body was much thinner than he had expected. Being from closer to the sea, Lore’s skin was bronzed. But now it was hollow over the belly and dropped sharply over each rib, and Ira could see him shiver a little in the cool air.
“I’m not warm,” Lore observed a bit sheepishly, “but I still think I can show you. And you are tired, so it will even the playing field.”
Ira said nothing, evaluating him.
“Are you going to put down the sword?” The assassin asked finally. “Otherwise you will almost certainly kill me.”
Ira looked down at his sword and considered his options. His breathing had calmed after his effort, and his anger has sharpened into readiness.
He was fully aware that the assassin could possibly kill him if he wasn’t careful. Indeed, perhaps this was the opportunity he was waiting for. With Miko gone and Ira dead, there would not be much between the assassin and Rov.
“I’d rather not,” Ira concluded, finally. “Since I am sure you are hiding weapons.”
The observation appeared to startle the other man, who paused, staring, and then laughed.
“Fair point, warlord. You are right not to trust me, as it happens. But I meant no deception. I just forgot.” He fingered at his belt until a long blade came free of a hidden sheath inside one pantleg. He flipped it casually. It was a long dirk, forged in black steel - a strange and deadly looking weapon. He held it at the ready position, pointed directly into Ira’s eyes.
“There, now we are on equal footing,” he said, and Ira detected a mocking tone.
Greatsword to long knife. Equal footing indeed.
“Is that all?” Ira asked flatly.
“I can go naked if it would make you feel better,” the smaller man said lightly, “but its cold and I’m shy.”
The wind had picked up a little, and it made the assassin’s black silks flutter and press momentarily against his body. Ira shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. There was a chance the man was still hiding weapons somewhere, but Ira was annoyed and ready to take the risk. Besides, he knew that they were about to engage a style of fighting where he already had an advantage.
The assassin preferred to attack from behind, with unfair surprise.
Here there would be no sneak attacks.
Besides, the other man was much smaller than Ira, and skinny. Ira doubted it would be difficult to overpower him, especially if he could get in close where he could use his weight to his advantage.
Ira gestured with his blade. “come on then. Show me the legendary ability of your southern assassin’s school.”
Lore grinned and bounced up on the balls of his feet, ready. Ira stayed motionless, waiting.
“Keep in mind that I’m trying to help you improve warlord,” the assassin said lightly, “so pay attention. When you turn with the greatsword, you drop your eyes. That is an opening for an attacker.”
Ira suspected the observation was true, but would not give the other the satisfaction of acknowledgement. “You are an attacker,” Ira replied softly, “so try me.”
Lore shrugged, and then darted in without warning, the knife flashing toward Ira’s ribs.
Ira drew in a breath. The assassin was fast. But Ira had no trouble countering the attack with his heavier weapon. There was a hissing of steel as the two blades came together once, twice, three times – Ira parrying neatly as his opponent came on, staying light on his feet, wary and conservative.
Lore’s attack suddenly changed, the smaller man slipping smoothly toward Ira’s left, forcing the warlord to turn his body or leave his side exposed. Ira matched the movement easily, using the change in the tempo of the fight to step forward into Lore’s space, hoping to push the other man onto his heels.
Instead, Lore danced backward, out of reach, laughing. Ira pressed his lips together in irritation.
“Its not fair,” Lore said lightly, “Now you’re self-correcting. I should not have told you anything.”
“It was a drill,” Ira growled. Perhaps he had looked down once or twice while practicing. A real fight was different.
Lore laughed, and Ira was startled by its openness. “You sound just like a student at the school. They tell me the same thing. ‘Teacher I won’t do it in a real battle!’ But drills build habits! That is their point, after all. And if you build a habit of looking down then it will show up in a real battle, sure as the rain.”
Ira said nothing to this, annoyed at being compared to a student assassin but unable to formulate a clever reply.
The smaller man came in again, cautiously now, the dirk held low. He began to circle Ira, just outside the range of the greatsword. Ira turned smoothly to follow him.
An attacker on the outside of the circle always had a longer distance to go, and Ira could wait all night if necessary. Even in the gathering darkness he could see the glint of the assassin’s dark blue eyes.
The attack eventually came, in the opposite direction of Ira’s turning, but he was ready and defended his open side easily against the snaking black knife.
Lore continued to press the left side, forcing Ira to turn into him, which Ira did, obligingly, for a few strokes. Then he switched the tempo suddenly on the assassin, pressing in with a sudden burst of strength and speed. He had the satisfaction of seeing the other man’s eyes widen in surprise as he was driven back under the flashing greatsword until he was forced to break completely away and out of reach. Ira let him retreat, keeping his expression neutral.
He wondered how long the assassin would want to play before giving up.
Lore had no clever quips this time and came in again, still cautious. His blows landed with increasing speed as he pushed Ira into the same turning defence he set up before. Ira countered, relaxing into the rhythm, and let his muscles do the work. He turned with Lore, turned again…
And suddenly found himself on his back on the cobble-stones.
The impact knocked the breath out of him, and his gaped for air.
Then he felt the ice-cold edge of the black steel blade on his throat.
Lore straddled his chest. Graceful as a dancer, he had pushed one leg extended out to the right, and used the muscular foot to press hard on Ira’s splayed sword arm. Ira’s other arm was pinned uselessly at the wrist under Lore’s firm hand, and Lore’s knife-hand was busy holding the dirk to Ira’s throat.
The assassin’s face was inches from Ira’s, the bright blue eyes huge and excited, breath coming quickly and shallowly. He blonde hair tumbled around his face.
“There. I knew it would happen eventually.”
Ira couldn’t believe it.
The assassin had been right. His eyes had dropped the moment he had relaxed his guard and let habit take over. And then…
And then Lore had moved, faster than Ira had ever seen a human being move.
He felt rage rising up inside of him and tried unsuccessfully to push it down. It was a feeling he had not experienced for many years. Not since he had been a young man training to be a warrior in Rov’s castle - when he had been brash and proud and overly competitive and quick to humiliation. His training, he had thought, had rid him of such conceits, which served a soldier poorly on the battlefield. And yet here they were, rising up in him like a tide. Embarrassment. Anger. Fear.
Ira had caught his breath, and struggled now to control himself, to think clearly.
The assassin had him pinned, but had not killed him – so there was that, anyway. The other man’s grip was firm, but the assassin was light – underweight, even, and so perhaps lighter than he knew.
Ira took a chance on the assassin’s good will. If he hadn’t killed him yet, he would probably continue to refrain from doing so. Ira heaved upward, suddenly and forcefully, flipping his attacker onto to his back with momentum. Lore hissed in surprise as he was launched from his perch, the dagger coming away from Ira’s throat. Now it was Lore’s turn to hit the cobble-stones on his back as Ira rolled on top of him, using his greater weight to pin the assassin.
But Lore was fast, and avoided Ira’s grip, slipping out from under his arms and pinning he greatsword to the ground with his dagger in the process.
With the weapons both immobilized, the sparring match became little more than a scuffle. Ira released his sword rather than struggle to pull it free. Instead he grabbed for the other man’s body with his bare hands as he slipped away, following with relentless speed. Lore landed a punch to his face, but Ira was in battle mode and didn’t even feel it.
He found a grip on the other man’s hip and using it to pull himself upright while unbalancing his opponent. Lore stumbled, then ducked Ira’s swung fist.
Ira knew that he had the advantage in close combat. If Lore had space he would be able to use his speed to his advantage, but if Ira kept their bodies close he could use his superior strength to gain the upper hand. So he followed the assassin relentlessly, using his arms to push away a well-aimed kick and pressing his body in close as he sought to find a grip that would immobilize the assassin.
He found it as Lore came up hard against the courtyard wall, his retreat abruptly arrested. Ira wasted no time in taking advantage of his luck, pressing a leg between Lore’s thighs, pinning the man’s wrists with one hand, and pushing a forearm into Lore’s throat.
There Lore froze, his breath coming fast and hard in the cool night air. Ira pressed perhaps a little harder than he needed to, leaning in close and enjoying the Lore’s flinch of pain as his bare back pressed into the rough stone under Ira’s weight.
“Be careful, assassin,” Ira hissed. “Don’t pick fights you can’t win.”
Anger flashed across Lore’s face. It was the first time Ira had seen any sort of malice from the man, and he felt satisfied knowing he had caused it.
“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked, voice tight. Ira shrugged.
“Rov trusts you. I don’t.”
“Oh congratulations, warlord,” the assassin replied sarcastically, sounding somewhat choked under Ira’s arm. “You’ve caught on to my cunning plan where I come helpless to Cairn begging mercy, pass over all my knowledge and confess my whole past, swear fealty to its lord, and then what? What could I possibly do to you?” There was a real bitterness there, but Ira was deaf to it, certain of the accuracy of his assessment.
“You’ve had her send Miko to scout,” Ira replied, knowing the truth of it even as he said it. “Miko, who has no experience with subterfuge. With a force of forty of our best men and women. You are trying to weaken us.”
“Miko was her choice!” Lore roared, pushing back against Ira in helpless rage. “I had no say in the matter! And she wanted to go! You were there when she said it!”
“You encouraged her,” Ira replied, “Rov would not have sent her if you hadn’t. But you saw your opportunity and you took it. I’m not stupid, assassin. You are safe for now because of Rov, but I am watching you.”
Rather than reply, Lore brought his knee up, hard, between Ira’s legs.
White stars burst momentarily behind Ira’s eyes. His grip weakened in surprise.
Lore ripped his hands free and shoved the warlord in the centre of his chest, pushing him backward, stumbling.
Ira considered grabbing him again, but let the idea go. The assassin had lost all of his mirth, and had become hard and prickly and dangerous. The weather was worsening. The wind blew steadily now, and the faint light from the stars had been obscured by scuttling clouds.
Ira tried hard not to show the pain he felt as he stepped back, yielding a path back to the abandoned weapons lying a few feet away on the cobblestones.
Lore was still breathing hard, glaring at the warlord.
“You’re a fool,” the assassin snarled. Ira said nothing. The rage he had felt earlier had cooled into steely resolve. He felt no need to entertain conversation with the other.
Moving stiffly, Lore picked up the dagger from where it lay next to Ira’s greatsword. He jammed it hard into the hidden sheath on his leg before storming from the dark courtyard, rage radiating from him. Ira waited for the wooden doors to close behind him before picking up his own weapons and retreating to his own quarters to lick his wounds.