War of Princes | Chapter Thirteen | "Manbreaker"

As Connal delays his return from Gallodel, Tassach takes the throne of Creigeirann and forges an alliance with his people’s ancestral foes.

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THE SKY WAS dark over Cregeirann. The light of summer had given way to autumn’s gloom, and a dark chill crept over every home and every heart. It stalked through the tall windows of Rigtalla, bathing the inner hall with its murky light.

Inside the hall, Tassach sat upon the throne, lit by the rush-lights mounted along the beams. He watched the roaring fire dance in the hearth.

He had done it. The impossible—the task he had dreamt of for so many years. The crown was his. Every ounce of his cunning, every fiber of his being, he had poured into that ambition, and now it was finally realized. Craedon’s family dynasty was broken.

Tassach was king.

Brona and Ruarc had worked their magic on the Suid, pulling their enormous weight, convincing them that to wait for Connal was madness, that they needed a king in the here and now. The Elders had needed little convincing, feeling their vulnerability and seeing in Tassach a familiar, comforting presence. A wise, trusted ruler.

Some had objected, it was true. Lady Enna, Craedon’s widow, the most vocal of these. But she was no Elder. However much the people loved her, she had no vote in the Suid. He had easily outmaneuvered her, taking the throne despite her protests.

As he stared at the gleaming flames, he heard the door creak and looked up to see Igan, the captain of his guard. He was a loyal warrior, one of the few who had not sailed with Connal. Formerly members of Craedon’s household guard, both he and his brother Drogan had been quick to see which way the wind blew, swearing their swords to Tassach as soon as the Suid made their proclamation. And Tassach rewarded them, cultivating their ambition, holding them up to the rest as a model of what wealth and favor the loyal would receive.

Igan bowed low, sweeping his cloak as he did so in a suitably dramatic gesture just as Tassach had instructed. Such performance was alien to Craedon’s court, one of many proprieties Tassach had observed on his visits to the lavish princedoms of Breviny. The practice suited him nicely.

Tassach nodded to his captain.

“My king,” Igan said, “Lord Nalgrim has arrived with a crew of warriors. He waits outside, seeking audience with your highness. Shall I let him in?”

“Yes.” Tassach waved his jeweled hand in yet another gesture he had learned among the Brevin princes. “But only he may enter.”

“As you will, sire.” Igan bowed again and strode to the door, swinging it open.

Through it marched a towering giant of man. He wore a suit of gleaming mail, polished and shining like a mirror, over which a cloak of black fur draped, the hide of a slaughtered bear. His long black hair was wiry, and his beard reached to his barrel chest. At his belt a long sword hung as did a whip of six thongs, its iron ends jangling as he stepped towards the throne.

A chill ran through Tassach’s veins. He shuddered despite himself. Nalgrim Manbreaker. Here was one of the Iarlir’s most notorious pirates, a heathen of the cruelest sort. Dark were the tales men spoke of him, of the bloody gods he worshiped, the gruesome deaths of those he conquered.

Another man was with him, despite what Tassach had instructed. The contrast between the two was stark. The other was short, slight, and unassuming, his red hair balding at the crown.

“Lord,” Nalgrim said in his booming voice. “King Ganwae sends his greetings and congratulations. And he looks forward to many years of peace between Bròn and Cregeirann.”

“His highness is kind,” Tassach said stiffly. Fear checked him from asking why Nalgrim had brought a companion with him. “I too look forward to the peace between our people.”

Nalgrim nodded. Though the warrior stood about six feet from the throne, Tassach felt unnerved in his presence. His mind filled with the image of Nalgrim’s hands around his throat, choking the life from his body.

“I have other news for you too,” Nalgrim said. “Consider it a coronation gift.” He looked questioningly at Igan, who hovered by the door.

“Lord Igan is to be trusted fully,” Tassach said. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “And your companion?”

Nalgrim laughed. “Bothi, my skald. He goes wherever I go, witnessing my deeds. One day, he will write my saga.”

“I see.” Tassach would have scoffed at the warrior’s arrogance, did he not find his presence intimidating. “But you were about to say something, my lord. What is your news?”

“King Ganwae has received word of Connal,” Nalgrim almost spat the name. “It seems he is still in Gallodel, a guest in Orthen’s court.”

For a moment Tassach said nothing. So Connal lived. He had hoped by now that death had found him, his life’s thread cut by an Eburnean sword. Yet he had always known that was a wild hope. Fortune seemed to favor that warrior; his unplanned plans seemed always to prosper. It would take more than a fool’s quest to kill him.

“A guest?” Tassach said at last. “Do you mean he is Orthen’s prisoner?”

“No, I mean he is a guest. He is well-treated and well-fed, like a royal hound. Ganwae’s spies say he spends much time with the king.”

The fool! Tassach thought, smiling to himself. While Connal dallied, Tassach’s hold on the country would only grow stronger.

“This is indeed good news,” Tassach said, his smile widening.

“King Ganwae thought you would find it so. And he says he is sure a man of your talents will know how to spin this to your advantage.”

“Indeed.” Already the plan was forming in Tassach’s mind. He had urged the notion that Connal was unstable, a brave warrior, to be sure, but no wise ruler. He had pressed the importance, in these uncertain times, of calm, effective leadership. But still, many held loyal to their Beastmaster, and he had feared the day when Connal returned. But now, now he would brand him as a traitor, as the son who betrayed his homeland, serving the wicked Eburnean prince who shed the great Craedon’s blood.

There was so much to be done. It made his head spin. He turned his attention again to Nalgrim.

“And has King Ganwae given thought to my other question? Cregeirann has need of the protection of his valiant warriors.”

Nalgrim grinned, showing a set of filed, grooved teeth. “That is why I am here.”

“And will your crew be enough? You brought only the one ship.”

Nalgrim’s countenance darkened and he narrowed his eyes. “My crew is the best in all the Iarlir. With one ship, I’d challenge Gaillag herself!”

“Ah, but didn’t Connal beat you at Feóthán? Are you certain one crew is enough to defeat him?” Tassach felt his palms sweat and his knees tremble. Yet it was necessary to goad the pirate, to inflame his rage. Like the baiting of a starving bear.

“Connal did not beat me! The cowardly shit attacked at night, and slunk off before my crew could slaughter him!”

“But not before killing Halgar.”

At the mention of his brother, Nalgrim spat, the thick gob of his saliva splattering against the wooden floorboards. “And for that he will die. Slowly. I have sworn before the ruthless gods. The blood of eight bulls and eight slaves I have poured upon their altars. I will break him as no other man has broken. Like a woman in labor he will wail, and still I will make him drink the cup of pain, till he has swallowed every last agonizing drop!”

Tassach shivered. It was all he could do to remind himself Nalgrim was an ally.

“I will leave Connal to you then,” he said, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “And I am grateful for your assistance.”

Nalgrim nodded again. His breathing slowed, as the surge of wrath passed. “Consider it a token of Ganwae’s good will. The beginning of a long and fruitful alliance.”

“Indeed,” Tassach said, feeling a little more at ease, his sense of authority returning. “If Connal returns, he is sure to pass by the isle of Aire. It serves as an outpost. You will take your men there and wait for him.”

Nalgrim met his gaze with a challenge. “I think not, lord. It may be a long time yet before he returns, and I would not wait on some cold rock for him. No, I think we’ll be much more comfortable here. When your men catch sight of his ship, we’ll go out to meet him.”

“You wish to stay here?” Again Tassach felt a surge of panic.

“Surely you won’t mind? Food, ale, and a warm bed in exchange for your safety—not a bad trade at all!” Nalgrim grinned, showing his marked teeth again. “And we won’t make too much trouble.”

Tassach cursed himself for not considering this possibility. He had assumed Nalgrim would simply take his men away from Cregeirann and lie in wait for Connal. Somehow, he had not expected him to demand quartering.

It was not the cost he minded. Tassach could afford to feed and house far more than a ship’s crew. It was the trouble their presence would surely bring. Bròn was Cregeirann’s ancestral foe, and many would resent the bond he was forging. He had hoped to keep the alliance a distant, abstract thing while he worked on the people with gentle, soothing rhetoric, bringing them round to see Ganwae as a friend. But with Nalgrim’s crew among them, a visible, noisy reminder of their new pact, he feared backlash. So new was the crown upon his head, he could little afford any unrest.

But on the scales of his consideration, a greater fear outweighed even this. He dreaded the day of Connal’s return, the crazed fury of his vengeance. To prevent this, to preserve the throne, he would do anything. Nalgrim’s presence was a small price to pay if it kept the wolf at bay.

“Of course,” Tassach said at last, contorting his face into a bright smile. “You and your men are most welcome here! Tonight we feast, raising horns of ale to Cregeirann and Bròn, to your gods and mine. With merrymaking let us honor the new alliance.”

♚ ♚ ♚

Tending the sick did not diminish the lady Ada’s beauty. If anything, the long nights she spent in the company of the wounded and the dying had made her skin paler, her features more delicate. She was as enchanting as she was fragile.

Through the open door of the infirmary, Tassach watched her. The long locks of her golden hair, the delicate white of her porcelain skin—she was all his soul desired. The king’s daughter, Connal’s sister, she had always been beyond him. But now, now he was king. And, what was more, having drunk his share of heady wine at the feast, he came armed with two bottles of Milianese courage.

“Ada,” he whispered.

She gasped and spun around as if waylaid by a criminal.

“Tassach. What are you doing here?” Though she knew him now, the look of fear did not fade.

He frowned. “Just ‘Tassach,’ eh? Not, ‘my king?’ Not ‘sire?’”

“I meant no offense.”

He smiled, choosing to ignore that she did not correct the oversight. “I only jest with you, of course. The mistress of my heart may call me anything she wishes. In her eyes, I am no king, but a slave.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Love throws over the highest kings. It binds the arms of the strongest men. The delicate eye of a beautiful maiden is more powerful than iron chains.”

Ada looked at him with puzzlement and worry. “What is it you are saying?”

Tassach frowned. Why was she being so obtuse? This was the way of romance. He had learned from the best of teachers, the famed troubadour, Moriet of Viton. Love was a game, he knew, and both knight and maiden had their parts to play. Tassach was performing his role perfectly. Why did she not play hers?

He fell to one knee. “I am saying, my lady, that you have captured me.” A hundred different sonnets came to mind, and in his addled state he reached for their pitiful language, their long, tortured similes. “Alas, I am like a deer struck full with the hunter’s arrows. In deepest agony, I labor on, yet there is no rest can cure me, no balm can soothe my mortal wounds…”

“Tassach…”

“Ada, my mistress, stay, do not reprove me. Only you can cure this illness. Only you can heal my pain-wracked body.”

“Tassach!” She backed away. “Stop this at once!”

“My lady?” his voice wavered.

“You insult me.” Her body shook with passion, though not the kind he had hoped to inspire.

“Perhaps you do not understand. You see, in Breviny—”

“I understand all too well! You hope to woo me with this pathetic charade?”

Tassach felt the blood rush to his cheeks. “I assure you this is no charade.”

“What else would you call it? You were not so meek and humble when you seized the crown. When you defamed my brother before all of Cregeirann. And now you invite one of Ganwae’s captains to eat and drink in my father’s hall? How dare you come to me with your empty flattery and call me ‘mistress’? I am not your mistress.”

Tassach swallowed. All at once, the warmth of wine and desire drained away, leaving him sober and ashamed. Naked.

Pathetic, she had said. Pathetic!

It seemed she would not be won by knightly courtesy. Another tactic then. He rose to his feet. “As you will.” You are not my mistress and I am not your slave. I am, in fact, your king. So treat me as one.”

“You are not my king.” Ada’s eyes blazed with the same wild pride and reckless defiance of her damnable brother.

“Oh, but I am. I hold all power now.”

“Is that a threat, Lord Tassach? Do you so quickly abandon your courtesy?”

He winced. But he would not relent, not let this stubborn girl have the better of him. “Not a threat, my lady. I tell you only what is true. I am king. A sensible woman would see what folly it is to mock me, what honor to be my queen.”

“Your queen will fast become your widow. Connal will return. He will wrest the crown from your head, even as he takes that head from your shoulders.”

“Careful, girl!” Tassach hissed, grasping her wrist. He knew he hurt her when she flinched, but he only tightened his grip. “I have the power to make or unmake you!”

“Lady Ada? Everything alright?”

Tassach’s hand darted from her wrist, as he looked to see a man stumble from out of the darkness. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet weak and pale. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump, but his right hand clutched a long knife. He must be a veteran of the Battle of Gallodel, one of the useless cripples Ada spent so much time doting upon.

“Thank you, Deom,” she said. “All is well. Lord Tassach was just about to take his leave.”

Tassach nodded at the maimed warrior, unnerved by the violence in his feral, protective eyes. “You’ve a loyal watchdog,” he muttered. He would have to deal with this Deom at a later time.

Ada said nothing, yet the venom of her gaze spoke loudly enough.

Tassach gave a gallant, awkward bow. “Farewell, Lady Ada. Think on what I’ve said.”

He departed the infirmary, into the black of night.

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