Chapter 15 - Fighting Like Dogs

Fifteen

Estrid

Dujaro, Tharghest-Kalduran border

10th of Tournus

Apparently Endarion’s insomnia was contagious.

After her brief conversation with him, Estrid found it impossible to sleep. She could easily blame it on being in a strange room, trying to sleep on a strange bed in a strange stronghold, but she would’ve been lying to herself. She didn’t want to confront the maelstrom of emotions that man had whipped up in her. Didn’t want to admit how childishly happy she’d been to see him, how angry he’d made her, how much she’d wanted to kiss him in the moment and how much she regretted actually doing so.

She waited until the fiery break of dawn before leaving her room and wandering the corridors threading Kalduran’s side of the stronghold. It was an unnatural place, eerie for how it went mostly uninhabited. Before the dissolution of relations between the Imperium and Kalduran sixteen years ago, when Dujaro had been in use, it had possessed the rowdy atmosphere of a popular tavern, where people from all nations came not only to trade wares, but stories and jokes and laughter.

Nothing of that remained but the bare rock of the walls and floor.

Her heart leapt into her mouth at the sight of a dark silhouette lapping into the hallway ahead. In her frightened state, she imagined a demonic outline, but closer inspection showed her instead the familiar face of Elek Danukos, the only other kandras Aladar had brought with him.

Elek smiled hollowly as she drew near. He was lean and wiry, built like a ratting terrier, and at least ten years her junior, though his lack of aasiurmancy meant they looked of an age. He had the blonde hair of a northern Drasken citizen, cut severely short, though his slim frame spoke of a comfortable life in the southern parts of the empire, where it was much warmer and extra padding wasn’t necessary. He commanded Kaldurani Prime which, at almost sixty thousand soldiers at full strength, was six times the size of her own paltry army.

Before her arrival into the military ranks of the Drasken Empire, everyone believed Elek would be named Aladar’s successor, and she knew her inadvertent usurping of this title had rankled the younger kandras.

“You’re an early riser too?” Estrid asked.

Elek shrugged. He was, she realised, already donned in his red-trimmed silver dress coat, its buttons gleaming, as if he’d been awake for a while. “Never went to sleep.”

“Understandable,” she replied. “Not the finest bed I’ve ever slept in.”

“As if you would know.”

She frowned at the accusation in his tone. “Excuse me?”

He nodded towards his room and dipped inside. Estrid stared at the open doorway for a few seconds, crooked mouth ajar in confusion, before she followed. There were equal chances he was propositioning her or luring her to her death; she didn’t know the man well enough to guess his intentions, and the fact he’d been waiting for her so early in the morning confused her.

When she entered, she found him leaning against his desk, facing her with his arms folded. He gestured to the door, and she kicked it shut behind her.

“Are you going to kill me, Elek?” she asked, not entirely joking.

He snorted. “And deprive the Baltanos of his favourite?”

She let her shoulders relax. “Were you waiting for me?”

A nod. “I knew you’d be wandering the hallways soon enough.”

Indecision weighted her tongue as she decided how to respond. As she opened her mouth to spout an uncertain reply, Elek thrust his words into the space between them.

“I saw you last night, coming back from the Imperial side. You looked flustered. I wonder why.”

She forced a chuckle. “I had trouble sleeping so I stretched my legs,” she said. “Didn’t realise I needed to get permission from you first. I’ll remember that next time.”

“Skip to the part where you tell the truth.” He shifted his posture, trying to make himself bigger. A futile gesture, with her a full head over him thanks to her Imperial tallness.

Beneath her earlier confusion, a bubble of anger rose. “As if I owe you an explanation.”

Elek unfolded his arms and braced them against the desk behind him, gripping the edge as if he meant to launch himself from it. “You would owe the Baltanos an explanation for a midnight visit to the enemy camp. I know he favours you, but do you really think he’d not see the treason in that?”

She stepped towards him, felt a shiver of satisfaction when he flinched. “What do you think happened, then?”

He kept her stare for an admirable handful of seconds before looking away. To cover his submission, he straightened his posture again until they were looking eye to eye, though he had to tilt his head up. “Either you went for a quick dalliance with an old lover, or you went to plot with the enemy.”

“Or,” she hissed, “I did neither.”

“We could let the Baltanos decide.”

She backed away from the desk and he flowed to his feet as if pulled by her.

“I went to talk to the Iron Wolf. Just talk,” she said, raising her hands with a flourish. “I haven’t seen him in years and thought this might be my last chance. I had things to set straight.” It chafed to have to justify herself to this man, who’d done nothing but ignore her since she’d defected, who, like most of the rest of his colleagues, refused to accept her as one of them. In fact, before now, she wasn’t certain they’d swapped anything more than perfunctory greetings at infrequent meetings.

“You should have left him behind when you joined us,” Elek said. “You’ll betray the Baltanos for him, I think.”

Her turn to snort. “You think I’m such a devious bastard, go and cry to Aladar.”

“No point. He’d believe you over me.”

“So, what? You called me in here to warn me, or threaten me? But not really, because you won’t do anything about it. I’m missing your angle here, Elek.”

He shook his head, soft brows notching down in a frown. “I just wanted you to know you’re being watched. I know you’re not as loyal as you pretend to be, and when you make an inevitable mistake, I’ll be there.”

She lifted her hands back up and quivered them in mockery. “I consider myself dully warned.”

Before he could reply, she spun on her heel and wrenched the door open. She didn’t bother to slam it behind her, settling instead for leaving Elek on the angry sounds of her boots slapping the stone floor as she departed.

His words didn’t cow her, nor did she fear any reprisal from the Baltanos if Elek decided to say anything, but she didn’t like the feeling of having someone so close opposed to her. When she’d served the Imperium, several of her fellow arch-generals, Dobran chief among them, had undermined her or outright attacked her, and her unpreparedness to fend off what she’d thought were allies had almost resulted in her death. She didn’t want Elek trying something similar.

―

The two sides were barely assembled for the second day of negotiations when Warmaster Khian spoke in his grating, imperious voice. “Last night,” he began without preamble, “an assassin attempted to take the life of Paramount-General Boratorren. The killer’s tactics mirrored those employed by Novissa’s killer and has led us to the obvious conclusion the Drasken Empire is guilty of the murder it so fervently denies.”

“Ah,” Aladar intoned, splaying his hands atop the table. “Do you have proof the assassin was ours?”

The Warmaster motioned to Endarion, who tried to stand as solid and immovable as he usually did. Estrid saw beneath his pretence, though. Saw the way he leaned slightly, favouring his injured leg. Saw the lines on his face deepened with controlled pain. Saw the way Daria bowed in towards him as if ready to steady him. “The Paramount-General admitted that Kandras Elerius trespassed onto our side of Dujaro to confront him. Mere moments after she left, after she threatened him, the assassin struck.”

The Baltanos, rather than allow such a sudden accusation to throw him, cocked a brow. “You’re accusing one of my kandras of aiding in the attempted murder of a rival general during a negotiation held on neutral ground?” Aladar clarified.

“Yes.” It was Endarion who answered, his voice dead stone.

She looked at him with surprise, let a sliver of anger turn her mouth down. In truth, she’d noticed as he’d walked in that his limp seemed more pronounced, but hadn’t thought anything of it. For him to even accuse her of collaborating in an attempted murder suggested the attempt had indeed happened, but she’d left him last night and returned straight to her chambers, despite what Elek might suspect.

And he was accusing her in front of witnesses. He’d apparently told the Warmaster not only of the attack, but that he believed her guilty. As if he thought her capable of wanting him dead.

“I did not arrange the assassination,” she said, trying to match her tone to Endarion’s.

“Well, then the facts paint you as a liar in addition to a would-be-murderer,” Khian replied, though she ignored him.

She locked her eyes on Endarion, on the man she’d bared her soul to last night, on the man she’d once been certain she’d spend her life with. On the man who’d betrayed her confidence once on the first day of negotiations, when he’d told Nazhira of her rescue of him on Shaeviren, and again just now, by naming her his attempted murderer.

Her mind scraped back over last night, searching for hints, dissecting everything she’d said to him to locate what had made him so certain. I should kill you. Coldness seeped into her chest as she recalled the way she’d pressed her fist to his chest and uttered those words, then glanced at his dagger.

But that had been a hollow sentiment murmured in frustration. Surely he understood that?

She let her hand drop to the pommel of the arming sword sheathed at her hip. After her lapse with Elek, she’d decided not to go anywhere unarmed. “I demand retribution for this slight against my honour.”

“I didn’t think a turncoat possessed honour to slight.” Khian again, trying to provoke.

Estrid kept her gaze steady on Endarion’s, demanding he not look away. “Would you be willing to support your accusation with your blade?”

Nazhira’s turn to intervene. “A duel during a negotiation? Is that appropriate?”

“I would be willing,” Endarion said, loud enough to drown Nazhira out. The Castrian woman and her son weren’t a part of this confrontation, and they didn’t exist in this moment. As far as Estrid was concerned, nothing and no one else did.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“We needn’t fight like dogs over the matter,” Dobran said, no doubt feeling he had to contribute.

Daria flicked a wide-eyed glance between Endarion and Estrid, though said nothing. Clearly her father had shared his suspicions with her, though Estrid didn’t want to believe the young woman would think so ill of her. Beside Daria stood Endarion’s expressionless, silent cavalry-general, though she offered no reaction at all to the direction this negotiation had taken. She was the newest of Endarion’s officers, unfamiliar to Estrid, and so likely uninvested in the antics of her general.

Endarion shucked his greatcoat and tossed it aside, then the boiled leather jacket beneath it, leaving him in only a plain white shirt with his arming sword belted at his hip. Though Estrid raised her brows at his refusal to protect himself, she copied him, answering the wordless challenge he’d just made: to first blood.

Blood would show up far starker on their white military shirts than their darker coats. Estrid supposed it was preferable to a duel to the death, though she couldn’t see Endarion offering such an ultimatum, nor anyone present allowing it. He didn’t want her dead, she was sure. Just as she didn’t want him dead, hadn’t sent an assassin after him.

Wordlessly, and because the Imperials had made no move to do so, Aladar, Tanas, and Elek pushed the table out of the way, clearing the hall for their fight. Estrid faced Endarion now.

She watched Daria move up beside her father and whisper to him, “Why are you doing this?” In lieu of an answer he shook his head at his daughter, then paced out to meet Estrid, his stride faltered by his limp and the metallic creaking of his leg brace.

He hunched his shoulders, she noticed, and held his blade in a loose grip. She remembered their very first bout, thirty years ago now, when he’d swaggered up to her, all youthful confidence, having surely been told by everyone he encountered that he was the best swordsman they’d ever seen. He’d seen her sparring in a courtyard at the Howling Tower, when her parents had met with his, and decided to challenge her in a bid to impress her. Though she’d allowed him the first few offensives, she’d soundly thrashed him in the end.

Even in their prime, and through all their later spars, he’d always been second best to her by a slim margin, no matter how hard he trained. Having accepted her challenge today, he had to have remembered that. Had to also remember his torture, which had irreparably weakened him and further widened the gap in their skills.

“If we’re going to debase ourselves in such a fashion,” Khian drawled from the side-lines, “should we not set terms?”

Before anyone else could answer, Aladar cleared his throat. “I think it’s rather simple. If Kandras Elerius wins, she is innocent of the crime. If Paramount-General Boratorren wins, we can consider her guilty.” His words were callous, as if he had no stake in the outcome, but he took a moment to meet her gaze and, his head turned away from the Imperials, smile with confidence.

“No magic, though,” Khian intoned. “Elerius’s fire gives her an unfair advantage over Boratorren.”

Untrained as her pyromancy remained, she almost scoffed at the implication that she planned to utilise her magic against Endarion.

Here, away from the formal constraints of a duelling arena, there was no one to officiate, so Estrid waited until the spectators had retreated to the far ends of the hall before glaring at Endarion, daring him to make the first move. When he didn’t, she flung herself forward from her leading leg and swiped her blade out in a wide arc meant only to test his reflexes.

He lifted his own arming sword in time to meet hers, the clash sending seizing ripples up her arm and into her shoulder. Angling his body to follow her blade, Endarion flowed with her strike, letting his unbraced leg lead the pivot. He slid her weapon outwards and away. As easy as that, some of his infirmity had been shucked with the ease of his discarded greatcoat, and the fighter had emerged to face her.

Rather than use his momentum to dance away, which she knew he’d expect, Estrid threw herself into a graceful turn, her blade flashing like sunlight as she brought it around at his head. He barely raised his blade to deflect, the force of her blow pushing him back a step onto his weaker leg. She pressed her advantage, keeping their swords locked and leaning her weight into their bind.

Though the lighter fighter, Estrid knew how to utilise her strength. Her arms throbbed with the effort of holding Endarion down and her wrists flashed with agony as she clutched the hilt of her blade in a death-grip. She saw his braced knee start to bend, and his lips peeled back in a pained grimace. With a final small shove, she forced him to drop his block and fall backwards as she attacked with a lightning-quick follow-up slash.

Her wrists sighed with relief as she waited for her opponent to recover, and she extended her blade towards him, aiming the tip at his face. She smiled at him, flushed with the early exhilaration of a challenging duel.

Easy to imagine they were back in the duelling circle at the Howling Tower all those years ago. That the face staring back at her from the other end of her blade was young and unlined, bolstered with a cockiness she’d found charming. That their fight was a playful thing, her gliding round the ring without care, him full of bravado and the desire to dazzle her. That, after she beat him, she’d pull him to his feet and hand him back his blade with a smug smile and flushed cheeks, as she’d done that first time.

Too easy to know it wouldn’t end like that today.

It was almost fitting that their involvement in each other’s lives had begun then with the crossing of two swords, and would end here, thirty years later, in the same way.

She stepped back and waited, offering the offensive. He took it, his blade sweeping in from the right towards her head. She met him, thrust him aside, met him again when he dove in from the left. From the right again, meeting him at every strike, turning him away with the ease of a master facing their untrained student. They fought close to one another, almost within each other’s defences. Their arming swords, of an identical length, offered little in the way of reach. Neither of them had ever moved on to larger, longer, heavier weapons, having preferred the manoeuvrability and speed of the one-handed blade which, during their youth, had been the weapon every young soldier was first trained with.

“You think I tried to kill you?” she asked between blows. She was barely out of breath and pleased with the fact. “The assassin was nothing to do with me.”

He huffed his reply out between tired breaths, face flushed with exertion. “You came to my room.”

She met one last strike and shoved it aside with such ferocity, she almost knocked the sword from his hand. “I came because there were things I needed to say. I needed to know where we stood, after you betrayed me.”

“I had to,” he replied, too loudly. “They thought I was still involved with you, plotting with your empire. I had to give them proof.”

“I get it,” she said as she traded a lazy blow with him. The clang of their blades almost drowned her out. “That rancid old Caetoran is more important to you than I ever was. He clearly makes you happier than I ever could.”

When they clashed again, she delivered her blows with enough anger, enough force, enough raw strength, to prise his defences wide open. She planted a foot into his midriff and kicked him backwards.

Momentum dragged him to the floor, but ingrained instinct ensured he cushioned his fall by rolling into it and forcing himself to his knees. Estrid heard the hiss of pain that escaped clenched teeth as his brace groaned. As hurt and unprepared as she was with his accusation, something or someone had certainly worsened his crippled knee.

She approached, blade held aloft for a blow that would crack his skull. He snapped his sword out to hold her back, and she swept it aside lest she impale herself on it.

She backed away long enough for him to gain his feet, though he balanced his weight chiefly on his right foot, wary of the pain in his left knee. “The assassin repeated your words,” he said.

“That was likely deliberate. Whoever was sent to kill you overheard our talk, used my words against you to convince you I was to blame.” She cut out and he blocked shakily. “Did you consider that? That way, if the assassin failed, you’d turn against me.” She cut again, forcing him to dodge. “I never wanted to kill you. Never wanted to fight you. Never wanted to go to war against you. I wouldn’t ask you to come to Kalduran with me if I wanted you dead.”

Another slash, and she stepped in close as his defences opened again. She drove her shoulder into his, pushed down, yanked his arm over her and shoved him into a half-tumble. He rose, breathing in loud, ragged gulps now. Like a starving wolf, she went in for the kill again, throwing her sword towards his face with such speed that, for a full two seconds, she thought she’d hit him. He caught the blow, though, their blades in a bind. He wavered, almost buckling.

“You looked at my dagger, Estrid,” he huffed, “after telling me you should kill me.”

“Empty words, Wolf,” she replied. “Should is a world away from could. I should kill you, but I can’t. I thought you knew that.”

A hiss whistled between his clenched teeth as he pushed down, forcing her arms into an awkward angle. His elbow snapped out, catching the edge of the jaw and snapping her teeth together. Before he could press the attack, she skittered backwards, free hand reaching to her face to check for blood and finding none. Concern crinkled his brow, smoothing when she presented her unstained palm to him.

“Can’t is a strong word,” he said. “Maybe Estrid Elerius cannot kill Endarion Boratorren. But can Kandras Elerius afford to spare Paramount-General Boratorren if given the chance to remove him from the field?”

She discarded her smile, replaced it with the cold, uncaring expression of a veteran warrior, telling herself he was just another enemy. She hated that he was right, that the positions they inhabited and titles they laid claim to should supersede any existing connection between them as mere people. His accusation against her had been dealt not by the man, but the general, the politician, the figure who understood the benefits of a quick and quiet assassination on the eve of war. The Paramount-General might believe she had tried to kill him, even if the Iron Wolf didn’t.

She’d been naïve, approaching the situation as the woman, not the kandras, not the heir to Kalduran’s military might.

If she’d been Kandras Elerius last night, she might’ve planted that dagger between his ribs. “We aren’t two separate entities,” she countered, knowing how weak that argument was.

“We have to be,” he replied, punctuating his words with another flourish of attacks.

Perhaps thinking he’d wrongfooted her, he locked them into another bind. Red rage flared bright, and she sliced along the length of his sword, aiming to nick at his fingers, but he reversed the attack, turning their locked blades over. Before he could sweep the sharp edge of his sword down to her hilt, she dropped it, letting it clatter to the stones between them. In his millisecond of distraction, she punched him in the stomach and swept his legs out from under him.

As he toppled, his head colliding with the floor, she retrieved her weapon and pressed the tip to his unguarded throat. Not hard enough to break the skin, but positioned to puncture his neck if either of them pushed. He looked away and wheezed around the gut punch she’d gifted him.

“If I—woman or kandras—truly wanted you dead, would I not skewer you right now?”

They waited there for the agonising passage of mere seconds warped into eternity. She knew he tensed for the feeling of metal sliding into his throat. Just as she waited for the strength to kill him. The sheer, primal urge to dispatch of this opponent in the most complete way. The bloody-mindedness to cut his throat and watch him choke to death on his own blood.

It never came.

“I do not want you dead. Both versions of me never did” she said, spitting the words. Her sword wicked against the side of his neck, just enough to coax forth a slim line of blood to satisfy his earlier challenge. “I wanted you with me.” She threw her blade down beside him and presented her unguarded back to him, facing the Imperial party.

Only now the fight was over did she care to recall they had an audience.

“I did not try to have the Paramount-General assassinated,” she shouted. “Just as we did not arrange the Warmaster’s death.”

She glanced back to Endarion, who had yet to get up. She wondered if she’d proven herself innocent to him, if he now regretted his accusations and understood how deeply he’d wounded her by spouting them.

“You cheated,” Khian announced, jutting his anvil jaw out.

Estrid scoffed. “I beat your champion in front of witnesses of both sides. I proved his accusation false when I beat him, and false again when I spared him.”

“You used your aasiurmancy,” the Warmaster said, his impetuous features firming until he resembled a grim-faced judge. “The Kaldurani didn’t see it because you were turned to us, but you used your magic when you punched the Paramount-General. That is what kept him down. That is what allowed you to win.”

“I’m a pyromancer,” Estrid snapped. “If I’d used my magic, the Paramount-General would be burned, not winded.”

Endarion clambered to one knee, still breathing hard. He opened his mouth to speak, whether in her defence or not, but Nazhira undercut him.

“You cheated in an honourable duel on neutral ground, in front of witnesses. This alone makes your claims of innocence unfounded. This alone makes it clear Drasken is a deceptive and dishonourable nation. This, coupled with your murder of Warmaster Boratorren, is enough to allow us to declare war safe in the knowledge we do the right thing.”

Estrid barked a forced laugh. “Sound reasoning, but you don’t speak for the Imperials.” She shifted her focus to Dobran, who’d remained annoyingly silent throughout. If only the duel had been with Dobran, then she would’ve leaned down on her blade where she hadn’t with Endarion. “What about you, you murderous, slimy old bastard? Did you see my pyromancy strike your cousin down?”

She’d expected him to answer in the affirmative without pause and had only called on him to vent her anger and insult him, because she knew he’d stand against her in any matter, contrary cunt that he was. Dobran’s creased brow and his slowness with a reply was therefore notable, and Estrid cocked her head at him.

Khian trampled over his father’s silence before it could be interpreted as anything dangerous. “I speak with the Caetoran’s voice here, Elerius, not Arch-General Tyrannus.”

Aladar clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, his face betraying nothing. “This duel was to answer the slight against Kandras Elerius’s honour. It was to have no bearing on the negotiations.”

Khian let his eyes linger on Estrid, before flicking over to Endarion, who remained on one knee in defeat. Then he fixed Aladar with a shit-eating grin. “It makes no difference. Let it be known the Imperium, under the exalted leadership of Caetoran Janus Tyrannus, formally declares war on the Drasken Empire.”

“The Varkommer is uninterested in your games, boy,” Aladar replied, jaw bunching with distaste. “If you want your war so badly, you wage it against the province of Kalduran.”

Khian gave a sarcastic bow. “Kalduran first, then. After you’ve been reduced to dust, the Varkommer can reconsider its stance on my boyish games.”

He turned away and signalled for his parents to follow as, at the other end of the hall, the Kaldurani party waited for Estrid to re-join them. When she walked past Endarion, she extended her arm to him. For the briefest moment it seemed he would refuse her aid, but eventually took her forearm in an iron grip and let her haul him to his feet. He was lighter than he’d once been, she noted, but still considerable.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured when they let go of one another.

“You always are,” she replied as she bent to retrieve her discarded sword. “It doesn’t change anything.”

She put her back to him, tried to cast him from her mind and went wordlessly to join her colleagues. Dujaro’s hall was now eerily quiet.

War, the first major conflict in sixteen years, began not with a clamour, a brawl, a tempestuous negotiation spiralled into madness.

It began with uncanny silence.