Chapter 6:

Betrayals

The darkness was absolute. This realization alone would have been enough to send him into a desperate panic if not for his awareness of his absolute agony. "Wh…" His voice was nearly gone, hoarse and useless. There was blazing pain in his back. He couldn't see. It took only moments for the absolute panic to set in.

Blind… He tried to drag himself forward, but he was too weak. The pain shrieked more loudly than ever as he tried to move. "Uhhh…" He tried to summon a burst of will, but as he looked inwards, he found nothing. That was the worst of all. For if he looked in and found nothing, then who was he? In contrast to the nothingness he could find of himself, did he truly exist? "Hhhhhoo…" He lost control of the word, but it was an improvement.

A prickling of light burst along his senses. He could see shadows! He could see at all. He would have wept could he find the tears.

"Shhh," whispered a voice. "Shhh. Commander, don't strain yourself."

"Hhho…Hhhoooow?" The word burst through his lips, but to him it sounded only a feral snarl.

"Shhh, no, don't worry." He could feel a hand steadying him on the back of his neck, a cool liquid trickling past his lips, cooling his throat, smoothing his voice out. With a monumental burst of strength, Gerhalt reached up a clawed hand, seizing the shadow in front of him. "How. Happened." His chest was so tight with pain that he could barely get the question out.

The shadow strained ineffectually against his iron grip. "Commander, I don't think…"

He shook him. "Where! Answer. Wine. Get. Me. Wine."

"Alright, alright. Take it easy, Commander." The shadow started easing backwards. The strength abruptly left him, and he allowed his hand to slide back to the ground. More of the world was starting to take shape in his eyes though.

"It was… do you remember the sword, Commander?"

Sword… It took him a few moments of heavy thought, but then Gerhalt realized. The blazing pain. The sword. Of course. "Ambushed," he muttered thickly. "Betrayed."

"Commander…" The shadow was looming over him again, and this time Gerhalt could make out something of the features. A thin-faced young man with shining blue eyes and lank blonde hair. Only who was he? Where were they? There had been the sword, that much was true, that much Gerhalt remembered… But… had it always been this blue-eyed young man here? He thought he could remember another face right there, stern, dour…

"Recruits," he rasped, the memory coming back to him. "Ambushed."

"Shhh, Commander, you're very weak. We barely managed to fight them off and get to this cave. You've got to get your strength back, Commander."

He hawked up a glob of blood. A cave… yes that explained the shadows, the silence, the secluded atmosphere. But this man hadn't always been there. "Not… there…"

The man looked him over anxiously. "Commander…" He swallowed. "It was Clovis, Commander. He betrayed us all, the sick bastard. He attacked you from behind. We'll get him, though, Commander. We'll get vengeance on all of them."

Clovis… The memories began falling fast and thick. The mission. The honor Bowie had shown him. His scouts. Jellik and Clovis. The scarred man. The sword. The revelations, the remembrances were nearly staggering in meaning. But, curiously enough, Gerhalt could find no immediate response to knowledge of his situation.

He might have wept for his wounds; the deaths' of his young charges, the betrayal… but the pain would not relent. He could not weep if the pain would not retreat. Tears took too much strength, and he had too little of that. He could rage. He could find just a little of that in himself, but it was weak, pale diluted. It hurt too much to rage. The scarred man who had deceived and killed the men Bowie had given him charge of…

That stirred a little of something. Bowie. The thought made the pain notch down just a little. Bowie. He trusted me… Or he had betrayed him. Gerhalt did not have the strength to care which was true. Why was there the unease? Groaning in the effort, he forced his hand forward, dug his claws at the unyielding rock. He dragged himself slightly forward.

Jellik's voice greeted him. "Commander! Don't try to move. You…"

Why could he see a darker shadow in his mind? He could hear Clovis's dour voice even now. "Don't worry. I'm with you now."

"No." The word came out, hoarse, weak. He could not move. He could not remember. In remembering he merely grasped words that were sharp as knives. Whimpering, Gerhalt lay there, tried to curl up, to shut out everything else. "Betrayed," he rasped. Betrayed.

"Two, three more sessions perhaps," Jellik announced, smiling. "He becomes more confused by the hour."

Forsyth stroked his scar, but his face might have been hewn of rock for all the expression it showed. "Our aims have altered."

Jellik's smile tightened. "All I require-"

"Is time," Forsyth interrupted. "That we do not have."

Jellik stood there for a long hot moment, his hand twitching on the hilt of his knife. "Captain knows best," he whispered, hand still twitching. "Captain always knows best."

Clovis glanced warily at him, and then back at Forsyth. "What is our new aim?"

"We must needs take a more direct approach," Forsyth declared loudly. "Our play with the wolf pup no longer is a priority. We'll leave him to die. He's no longer important enough to worry about."

"Captain knows best," Jellik whispered, his shoulders jerking. Gerhalt had been his to work on and it infuriated him more than he could say to just have to leave his work undone. He flipped his knife out, furiously digging in the dirt with it. The old captain had been a god in human form, until Forsyth had killed him.

That fascinated Jellik. He hated the queer cold northerner that now leaded them, but he was in awe of him at the same time. To have slain the captain… Forsyth one day. But the Galamani first. Always the Galamani. Scum.

As the others were breaking camp, Jellik broke off abruptly, whistling happily. He'd stabbed an ant. He watched the insect writhing in agony, not quite slain. Glowing with a smile, the assassin regained his feet. The ant would die here, just as the wolfman would. It was enough to brighten the day.

The rain was ice-cold, and it filled his saddles. Zellar pulled his cloak tighter about himself, glaring at the elements, the muck his horse was churning up. His circuit of the city was almost done, but that thought alone was not enough to cheer him. It was a misty rain, and even though he'd just moments ago reentered the city, Zellar was still unnerved by the way a man's mind would lie to him. "Bloody paths," he muttered.

He scowled uncertainly at the sky, as his horse shied away from the street he was directing it down. His temper nearly snapped. "Bloody hell! We're almost there. You want a stall or don't you?"

He had been assigned the very last of the watches to be drawn tonight. All because Bowie was taking the field again, it had been deemed that another watch be drawn. It had been deemed that Zellar should do it. He shivered roughly against the rain. "Why do I have to do this," he grumbled. "I'm the second best sword in the city; I should be in the field." He pushed a hand through his soaking wet hair. "I'm a colonel dammit!" Why had Bowie insisted on making this his watch?

"Oh yes," he sneered, remembering. "Because Bowie is a bloody bastard." He laughed bitterly. He was tired of the rain, he was tired of his uncertainties, he was tired of his own company, and he was tired of being assigned tasks that were beneath him. But most of all he was tired of his bloody arrogant superior. Might as well call him 'general' for the authority that he wields.

Zellar nursed that slight in silent anger, huddling miserably in his cloak. He was soaked through and mud-spattered besides, but the reflex almost felt warmer. Almost. Nearing the castle always put the old tumult in his mind. Zellar could hear the voices even now; he could relive the years as though no time had passed. His mind was a long hall in that old house, filled with rewards, successes and more failures than he cared to count. And the cold-eyed portraits of all his ancestors.

They were always there, looking down on him. Zellar hated being looked down on. Because the truth of the matter was that he hadn't done enough. Never enough to satisfy those old portraits and never enough to satisfy his father. Zellar's father had been a man of small compassion. The only thing he had ever seen in his son was the potential to carry on the family honor, and the failure implicit in being less than the very best.

That old man had put a sword into Zellar's hands at an age where most boys were still being weaned. And even now, years later, even after all Colonel Zellar, a commander of the war, an occasional councilor to the highest levels, despite all he had accomplished, he could still hear his father's booming judgmental voice.

It cried out in his soul, demanding ever more. Zellar drew the cloak even closer about himself. Not as good as Bowie. That had been the worst. Not as good as Bowie. His father had never seen anything else in him.

The first years hadn't been so bad. Most of his father's friends had had the words of praise that his father had never found in himself, and that had sustained Zellar for a while. But no matter how well he did in tourneys, how many ribbons from impressed young girls he'd tied around his arm, how much better he performed at sword, lance, and bow when fighting the other young squires, no matter how well he did any of that, his father had demanded that he do more. Too weak. Not as good as Bowie.

Bowie had risen like the sun on the castle, but he'd never set. He'd only recently risen to his dazzling new heights, but all Zellar's father had ever cared about was that some stripling of a boy was better than his son. Not as good as Bowie.

Zellar halted his horse, and vaulted off of its back. He glared at the stable boy on duty. "See that my horse is fed." He turned without another word, his long-dead father, still his most ardent critic, whispering through his mind.

Zellar had accomplished much in his life. He had risen to heights that were great for his age, but not as great as Bowie's. He had fought for the championship in more tournaments than he could count. But Bowie had always won. And while Zellar had taken much admiration from women over the years, women of class, refinement, culture were kept from him. And Bowie was being considered for the hand of the princess, where Zellar had once hoped for that very honor himself. And the unworthy, arrogant bucket of puss can't let any good-looking woman go past him. The king's golden boy…

Zellar nursed his anger with the thought that he might take his mistress, Dia, tonight. The woman loved him, and that made it easy enough. She would allow it regardless of the circumstances, wishing to please him. Zellar had beaten her for that once or twice. It was a weakness he recognized from his own childhood.

Shivering and dripping wet, Zellar stopped at the central gatehouse, stepping inside. Seated at the massive desk was General Mrell. It was a formality. All guards retiring their final assignment of the day had to report to the gatehouse and the commanding officer on duty. In his advanced age, it was Mrell more often than not.

Zellar hated reporting in. He hated Mrell. Ordinarily he would have just put his head in and gone off immediately, but it was too bloody cold to go immediately tonight. "Nothing, sir," he started to say, but Mrell talked right over him, red-faced and smiling.

"Zellar, my dear boy." He nodded happily at him, fumbling with a goblet in his hand. "Have a seat. Have a cup of wine. From the king's personal stock. A gift."

Only a fool would turn up a chance at such good wine, and so Zellar sat, though he immediately resented the fact of it. Nobody ever gifted him with anything. What did one have to do to curry such favor? "That's good," he said instead.

Mrell nodded, scratching his moustache. "Indeed, indeed. Tell me now, boy, how much did they tell you, eh? You're practically senior staff these days! Young for it, eh?"

"Oh, you know," Zellar replied, the corners of his mouth turning downward. "It's nothing as prestigious as all that. Anyway sir, if you really don't need me here for anything…" It would be good to go to Dia, tonight, he decided abruptly. Nothing put him more in the mood for sex than the thought that he could take pleasure from what a man like Mrell could no longer pursue.

"Colonel. Drink some wine with me. It was a gift from the king."

Zellar curled his fingers into a fist. "A gift, you say?"

Mrell scratched his moustache with one hand the other fumbling beneath the desk. "It's my birthday." His left hand produced a cup. A few gentle glugging sounds later, Mrell pushed the cup across the desk.

Zellar lifted the cup, sniffing suspiciously. A strong, heady vintage. "How ancient are you, then? It must be your hundredth."

"So witty." Mrell yawned, lifting his own cup. "Be happy for me, Colonel."

Zellar drank. Ah. Sour wine, easing his throat. But the flavor of it recalled his father's spartan habits to him. There was a man who only drank wine when it was boiled and poured into a wound and then only if some happened to splash into his mouth.

"More?" Mrell held forth the flagon, grinning. "Tell me, Colonel, how is your arm? It seemed to take quite the blow during the tourney."

Zellar stiffened slightly. "A glancing blow, no more."

"Ah, but glancing blows can be so very disorienting. You'd better aim though, this year. You were practicing in the orchards? Early mornings of course, so as not to be seen, hmm?"

His teeth came together. Those veiled insults were as much meant to offend as they were ingrained habit, Zellar supposed. He certainly could not recall any time in his life that Mrell had been able to resist a few cheap digs. "Actually, General," he said, choosing to return his attention to Mrell's earlier interest in his duty, "the city is remarkably quiet. Almost as though it's in mourning. Folk are indoors. I suppose that it's for the coming war as much as for old Astral."

Mrell frowned. "War?"

"I enjoy some confidence in the castle." Zellar's voice was bit sharper than he'd meant it to be.

Mrell arched his brows, the momentary fluster gone. "More?" He held up the flagon in offer.

Zellar glared at the general, hating and requiring him at the same instant. All he'd accomplished in his life, younger soldiers listening to him, respecting him, even Mrell talking to him like this, it was enough to help soothe Zellar's spirit and quiet his father's voice.

But in Mrell's case, it was only the slightest bit of relief. He hated Mrell. The old general had known his father. What better reason did he need to hate him? "What do you want, General?" Zellar was a suspicious man by nature, and he was adept at reading faces. Mrell had been waiting, and for him especially, he was certain. It intrigued and disgusted him at once.

"Oh nothing, nothing Colonel," Mrell told him, smiling and drinking.

Zellar almost laughed aloud. How big a fool did the old man think him? He finished his wine, slammed his goblet down onto the table. "More." Mrell was only too happy to oblige.

Zellar relaxed a little, drinking the wine, as Mrell chatted with him, occasionally asking a question about his personal life. Zellar was getting drunker, but he could still think straight, and he was nearly insulted in the transparency of Mrell's plan. The old general had been waiting for him, and was plying him with wine. Clearly the questions would start soon, that was why Mrell had started asking any in the first place, just to get him used to answering.

Well, what did it matter to Zellar? He was hardly stupid enough to fall for such a ploy, but the wine was free, and so was Mrell's conversation. "Why so many questions about my personal life, General?" Zellar asked, purposely slurring his voice more than it actually was.

Mrell shook his head and smiled at Zellar. "Oh, no reason. I'm just happy for you, Colonel."

"Ha!" Zellar slammed his goblet back down, waiting for Mrell to fill it back up. "You've never been happy for me before."

Mrell laughed. "Did you know that a Galamani was once found sitting on His Grace's throne? Oh, this was years ago of course, before the war. This was old Lord Koroll; we fought together against the Yeeli often. Anyway, the Yeeli once managed an attack that penetrated into the castle with the intent to kill His Grace. Some of us were still out in the field, but we rallied a counter-attack that proved decisive. And there was Lord Koroll, bold as you like, sitting on the throne, the Yeeli general at his feet, blood drying on his throat. And there we were, Graig and I and one or two of the others—yes, even Graig could swing a sword in those days, can you imagine?" Mrell guffawed. "Never well, though. Watching Graig fight is rather like watching a butcher's apprentice chop meat, as likely to slash his own fingers than not. Never follow that man's orders till you've thought them through for yourself. Now where was I?"

"Was my father with you?" Zellar heard himself asking.

"Not in the throne room. He probably would have killed Koroll for the impertinence of it. But anyway Koroll rises and says, "Killing Yeeli is thirsty work and this was the only chair in the room!"

Zellar laughed openly. He was enjoying himself far too much not to. Mrell was a thoroughly charming man. But, even as he realized this, it occurred to Zellar that in all the years he'd served under the general, they'd never actually talked as they were right now.

He'd reported to the old man, passed a word here or there, fought with him occasionally, but they'd never actually talked. He blamed Mrell for this. Was it his fault? Absolutely not. Zellar had always been available for conversation, more than available. He reveled in the new reason to hate his general.

"You were waiting for me," he said abruptly.

Mrell just smiled at him, filled his goblet again. "Toast my health, Colonel."

Zellar did so, but he silently resented it. Mrell was using him for something, or wanted to. Well, they were both getting good and drunk, and after all these years he'd tell the old man exactly what he really thought of him. But not just yet. Not while they were still talking like old friends. Just a while longer yet. Mrell's face was growing redder as well though, and the general was making less and less effort in masking his own interests. The conversation turned to one of the only points of common ground between the two of them; Zellar's father whom Mrell had known and never especially cared for. Zellar resented the prying.

Even so, the wine, the company, his ability to admit anything he wanted to this man he hated, were making Zellar's inhibitions slip far away and out of reach. He lurched forward, abruptly. "My father," he announced, his voice slurred in truth this time, "was a bastard. The only thing he ever cared about... the only thing" he repeated, signaling Mrell to not fill his cup completely, "was what other people thought. Their opinion was the only thing to bloody well matter to him."

Mrell nodded his face comically tragic. "And you hated him for that."

"Yes…" He was drunker on admitting these things to Mrell than he was on the wine. "Always pushing, always more tourneys…" Zellar closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temples. He opened his eyes again. "I was never good enough you see. No matter what I did, it was never enough. I was so glad when he finally died. I thought I was rid of that kind of thing forever." He clenched his teeth. Remarkably, he felt like weeping. "For a while it wasn't so bad… but then there was Bowie." He spat the name like a curse. "My new competitor."

Silence greeted the words, and he still felt like weeping. His rage stirred, black and hot. He would not let this horrible little man see him cry. He had already told Mrell enough. More than enough. More than he deserved to know.

He glanced up, his gaze full of poison. "What's the problem?" he hissed. "Surprised to hear me say his name?"

Mrell blinked. "A little. I didn't think you'd ever actually say that."

"And why should I?" Zellar jerked up in his seat, gesticulating wildly. "Bowie's legend has to be stopped, but it'll take years. I know, I've already tried. He can't think strategically, he barely even got the most important points of our battle with Galam right. But they all follow him!" He was getting more frustrated just thinking about it. "Well, he's an undeserving bucket of scum," Zellar roared. "Why should I talk about him?"

Mrell whistled softly. "You do wrong to wound him," the general told him. "Lord Bowie is a young man, and a dangerous one, but he's honest. He's done all he could for Granseal. You should have tried to know him befo-"

"And how could I know him," shouted Zellar. "How was I supposed to get to know him?! He and his little group are so tight together I couldn't even get a fingernail between them! He has more respect for you even, than for me! Was that my fault? Was Colonel Zellar ever invited to share the fun?"

Mrell only looked at the desk, and Zellar snorted in bitter satisfaction. "As I thought. Zellar was never bloody good enough for you lot either."

Mrell finally said, "I do not support Lord Bowie."

"Ohhh," drawled Zellar, "we're getting to the point now."

"He must be shown the error of his ways." Mrell nervously pulled at his moustache. "He has gone to give battle to the Galamani. The more extreme solution… I do not agree to that, by any means. Still, we agree that one thing must be done. Colonel, we will close the gate to Lord Bowie. He is on his own in this war. It will teach him."

Zellar squeezed his fist shut. "… Was this what you were sounding me out about with the Delegation?" Mrell nodded mutely, and the jealousy reared its head again in Zellar. He had not been trusted enough to be offered a role in this business until now. And yet, what Mrell proposed was treason.

Not as good as Bowie…His father's voice was echoing in his ears again, booming down the corridors of his memories, lacing each defeat he'd suffered with a dose of contempt. Zellar closed his eyes, willing the voice away. He was better than Bowie. He would be better than Bowie, defender of honor.

"Your kind is obsolete," he said, resolving to revel in his opportunity to admit even more to the corpulent old general across the table from him.

"What?"

"You heard me." Zellar laughed. "You don't count anymore, General, that's what you care about. Bowie's come along and replaced you. You don't matter as the military face of Granseal anymore. Well, I'm just that much better than you too!"

Mrell's eyes went flat, icy. "I think you've said enough, Colonel."

Zellar laughed mockingly, rising to his feet. "I'm right, though, aren't I? A shame I have to be going and seeing to those gates isn't it?"

Mrell rose to his feet as well, slightly unsteady, coming around the far side of the table to open the door for Zellar. His hand reached the handle, jerked it open and Zellar took a step forward, abruptly spinning back around, his arm outstretched. It caught Mrell in the throat, slamming the old man down to the floor, his neck broken with the one blow.

Zellar put a foot out, leaning his leg forward as he looked into the horrified eyes of General Mrell. The old man was red-faced, barely able to breathe as he stared vainly up at his murderer. "Obsolete," hissed Zellar. "You hear me, General? You're nothing! It's me they're going to be listening to from now on. They'll follow me and respect me in a way they never did you or Bowie."

He reached over, picking up Mrell's flagon of wine, sloshing it slowly around. There was still wine in the bottom of it. He dropped it next to Mrell's twitching hand, moving his boots back before the wine could flow onto them. He stood there a while longer, looking at the dying general. Finally he whispered, "You should have been nicer to me, Mrell. How sad for you. It wouldn't have been hard."

He turned and swept away out of the gatehouse muttering to himself, "Drinking alone… that's how accidents happen."

The candle was nearly burnt out. Graig sighed, scratching away at the parchment in front of him. After another moment or two, he finally stopped a look of tired satisfaction on his face. It had taken time, but with each word chosen… The letter would need to be sent as quickly as it could be, but it could wait until tomorrow.

Graig slumped back in his high-backed chair, massaging his neck. He was very tired. It was late, and these plans had taken a long time to come into being.

Graig felt no regrets that he had embarked on this course. He understood the mainland much better than the rest of the council ever could; King Granseal had left it to him to deal with Thornwood for years. A show of strength was the only guarantee of safety. The mainlanders could always be intimidated by a show of strength, and then they'd negotiate better terms.

And that was the basic thing that made him feel justified in his current action. Lord Bowie's idealistic peace would destroy Granseal. The other clans would betray him, without a doubt. The Galamani were treacherous by nature and the Yeeli little more than beasts.

And if the mainlanders thought that Grans's endless wars had ended… somebody would try to suppress them all immediately, so that Grans could not rise up as a true power. Grans was tolerated because it was not a threat.

Graig sighed, shook his head, rubbed his eyes. Lord Bowie had condemned himself, and the Lord Minister did not regret that the gates would be closed against him. Lord Bowie would be proclaimed a traitor. Graig had enough circumstantial filth to destroy Bowie's character. The people would revile him as a traitor, and the Galamani would destroy him.

Master Slade had confirmed enough of what Graig had suspected that he had been able to plan for the possibility of a Galamani attack at the feast without contacting them, themselves. This next stage of the plan, however…

If anybody ever came nearer the truth than Slade had, history would revile Graig as a traitor to his country. He stood, folding his letter and sealing it. After a moment, he picked up the pen again. It was a sacrifice, but it would save Granseal. It would curtail King Granseal before he could destroy any hopes for the future. If only General Mrell had been willing to support the full scheme… Well, what Mrell didn't know was not his affair.

If it is treason to serve one's country to the fullest, then I will gladly accept that title.

After another moment of thought, he scrawled out on the front of the letter, To the lords ruling Galam…