food, nodded, smiled, and thought again of Wolfguard.
8 . Tor Silas
Havil pushed past the guards and slammed open the door of his father’s chamber unannounced. He threw his mail gloves and steel helmet onto the table with a clatter loud enough to wake the guard in the barracks below, and he barely had time to sit before the old man rushed from his bed chamber. King Raffin Hawkhand was dressed in no more than a loose gown, and barefoot on the cold stones, but he was not drowsy with sleep.
“What news?” he demanded.
“It has happened again, my king. Another patrol. Thirty-five men.”
“None survived?”
“None.”
Raffin turned to the window and looked out at the frosty dawn sky. He seized the back of his neck with his right hand as though to massage away the stiffness of slumber, but Havil knew that he had not been asleep. The king his father was a big man, broad at the shoulder, bull necked, with a flat, hard, uncompromising face. He stood now, still as stone but strung tight as a bow, frustration writhing within the stillness, anger boiling him to action.
“Damn,” he said. The word was spoken softly, and Havil understood. Some weeks ago a messenger had come from the Avilian duke in response to their complaint, a messenger who bore fair words, an avowal of innocence, and a thousand gold Avilian guineas. They had thought the words untrue, but the gesture a sign that the border troubles would end. Now they knew that it was not so.
“I do not understand,” Havil said. “Why did he send gold if he continues to attack our patrols?”
The king did not answer, but shouted for the guard. “Breakfast,” he ordered when the door opened. “Breakfast for two, at once.”
“Lord King,” the man responded, and was gone.
“What shall we do?” Havil asked. “Give the word and I will take a hundred of the Dragon Guard down to the border, and the killers will pay in blood.”
“I do not think it wise, Havil,” the king said. “It may be what they want, and we cannot afford war. You know the state of the treasury.”
It offended Havil that money should stand in the way of honour, but he knew that it must be so. Last summer had been a disaster for Berash. A great fire had kindled in the poor streets of Tor Silas, roared its way through the whole of the west side of the capital leaving two thousand dead and a third of the city gutted, blackened, and crushed. This was their first concern, and it had become their weakness. People had been unable to practice their trades. Shops and workshops were gone, tools were turned to ash and slag. Without help from the king thousands might have starved. They had been forced to buy in food from the provinces, to build new houses, to bring in new tools and materials from Telas and Avilian.
The threat of war could not have come upon them at a worse time.
“Then must we stand in the stocks, my king?” Havil was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.
The king sat beside him, placed one of his massive hands on Havil’s arm. “We must be cunning, my son. Our troops are better than Avilian’s but they are few, and open war will bring our country to its knees. We will become a vassal state, and I will die before I see it happen.”
“But if we show no will to resist they will grow ever bolder. We must do something!”
The king sat still, staring again at the watercolour sky beyond the window, his breath making small clouds, his eyes unfocussed. Havil stayed his voice, knowing that his father was deep in thought. As Raffin sat and pondered men came with trays of food and placed them on the table, but the king did not move to acknowledge them.
Hot drinks were poured. For Havil there was wine, watered, spiced and heated through. For the king they brought a tisane of Shepard’s Ear, Snowberries and Goldenroot, all dried, crushed and boiled in water. It was something that his physic had
8 . Tor Silas
Havil pushed past the guards and slammed open the door of his father’s chamber unannounced. He threw his mail gloves and steel helmet onto the table with a clatter loud enough to wake the guard in the barracks below, and he barely had time to sit before the old man rushed from his bed chamber. King Raffin Hawkhand was dressed in no more than a loose gown, and barefoot on the cold stones, but he was not drowsy with sleep.
“What news?” he demanded.
“It has happened again, my king. Another patrol. Thirty-five men.”
“None survived?”
“None.”
Raffin turned to the window and looked out at the frosty dawn sky. He seized the back of his neck with his right hand as though to massage away the stiffness of slumber, but Havil knew that he had not been asleep. The king his father was a big man, broad at the shoulder, bull necked, with a flat, hard, uncompromising face. He stood now, still as stone but strung tight as a bow, frustration writhing within the stillness, anger boiling him to action.
“Damn,” he said. The word was spoken softly, and Havil understood. Some weeks ago a messenger had come from the Avilian duke in response to their complaint, a messenger who bore fair words, an avowal of innocence, and a thousand gold Avilian guineas. They had thought the words untrue, but the gesture a sign that the border troubles would end. Now they knew that it was not so.
“I do not understand,” Havil said. “Why did he send gold if he continues to attack our patrols?”
The king did not answer, but shouted for the guard. “Breakfast,” he ordered when the door opened. “Breakfast for two, at once.”
“Lord King,” the man responded, and was gone.
“What shall we do?” Havil asked. “Give the word and I will take a hundred of the Dragon Guard down to the border, and the killers will pay in blood.”
“I do not think it wise, Havil,” the king said. “It may be what they want, and we cannot afford war. You know the state of the treasury.”
It offended Havil that money should stand in the way of honour, but he knew that it must be so. Last summer had been a disaster for Berash. A great fire had kindled in the poor streets of Tor Silas, roared its way through the whole of the west side of the capital leaving two thousand dead and a third of the city gutted, blackened, and crushed. This was their first concern, and it had become their weakness. People had been unable to practice their trades. Shops and workshops were gone, tools were turned to ash and slag. Without help from the king thousands might have starved. They had been forced to buy in food from the provinces, to build new houses, to bring in new tools and materials from Telas and Avilian.
The threat of war could not have come upon them at a worse time.
“Then must we stand in the stocks, my king?” Havil was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.
The king sat beside him, placed one of his massive hands on Havil’s arm. “We must be cunning, my son. Our troops are better than Avilian’s but they are few, and open war will bring our country to its knees. We will become a vassal state, and I will die before I see it happen.”
“But if we show no will to resist they will grow ever bolder. We must do something!”
The king sat still, staring again at the watercolour sky beyond the window, his breath making small clouds, his eyes unfocussed. Havil stayed his voice, knowing that his father was deep in thought. As Raffin sat and pondered men came with trays of food and placed them on the table, but the king did not move to acknowledge them.
Hot drinks were poured. For Havil there was wine, watered, spiced and heated through. For the king they brought a tisane of Shepard’s Ear, Snowberries and Goldenroot, all dried, crushed and boiled in water. It was something that his physic had
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