Cormoran peered through the undergrowth and whispered, “We’ve got two guards in front. They don’t look particularly wary—they’re watching the battle and pointing as if they’re betting on a tournament.”
Gravelhorn grunted. “All the better for us.”
“Indeed. Come.” Cormoran slid to the left, deeper into the copse of trees, edging his way around to the rear of the pavilion. He squatted, moving more quickly than a man should in full armor, and more quietly. The copse came to an end just ahead, and Cormoran saw an open distance between the trees and the pavilion of about twenty yards. He also saw his brother, his black-clad backside turned toward them, peering through what appeared to be a hole in the tent.
“There’s the bugger,” Gravelhorn said, drawing alongside. “What in the Dark Field is he doing?”
“Trying to get himself killed, dammit,” Cormoran spat. His mind reeled at how livid his father would be if he let that happen.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. Look.” The dwarf pointed to a place a few yards in front of the truant prince—it looked like the grasses had been trodden down, and as Cormoran squinted, he could just barely make out the crumpled figure of a man. Some of the grasses were smeared with crimson.
Cormoran blew a gust of air through his cheeks. “Oh, my brother, what are you doing?”
“He’s trying to single-handedly win the battle,” Gravelhorn suggested.
“By flouting the most sacred rules of military propriety,” Cormoran agreed. “How can we expect our enemies to fight honorably if we do not?”
Gravelhorn grunted.
“Do you see anyone else? Anything amiss?” Cormoran asked. Dwarfish eyes were sharper than human eyes, having been fashioned by the oyarsu to see in the dark.
“All looks clear to me, lord.”
Cormoran drew his sword and held it at the ready before him. “Then let us go.” He stepped out from the cover of the copse and moved quickly over the brown grassy stretch toward the pavilion. He was almost upon Ealon when the prince, sensing movement, whipped around, dagger drawn. Ealon’s eyes went wide at the sight of his brother, and Cormoran saw a series of emotions taking the field of his face in rapid succession—surprise, fear, anger…opportunity.
Wordlessly, Cormoran came up beside his brother, and signaled behind him for Gravelhorn to halt. Ealon turned back toward the pavilion without a sound and pointed at a small rip in the pavilion’s fabric. His chin was inclined, as if daring Cormoran to question him, or challenge him, or—oyarsu forbid—judge him.
Cormoran looked back at Gravelhorn, who stood close behind, ax at the ready. Were they alone, Cormoran would have hesitated to bend and put his eye to the hole. It would be as good as showing his brother his neck, and he did not trust Ealon not to take the opportunity to slit his throat. The thought made him sad. But he knew Ealon would try nothing with the dwarf standing guard. So he bent, exposing his neck to his little brother, and peered through the opening into the large tent.
At first, it took Cormoran a moment to figure out what he was seeing. He had expected generals gathered around maps, issuing orders to various runners, and arguing over strategy and tactics. Instead, he saw a fair-haired young man, dressed in ill-fitting armor, sullenly swishing a rapier from side to side.
“No, no, my young sir,” came the weary voice of an unseen man. “Less elbow, I beg of you. Turn at the wrist. Always with the wrist. You must hold the blade in balance; it should feel an extension of your arm.”
Cormoran shook his head in disbelief. A civilized country would have used such a pavilion to benefit its soldiers. There should be couches for relaxation, whoring for entertainment; yet these backwoods, rustic cowbedders were wasting it to train one imbecile child.
Rising, he moved away from the tent, gesturing for his brother to follow. Ealon reluctantly submitted, and the three of them crouched in the grasses not far from the body of the murdered guard. Cormoran could plainly see where the man’s blood had spilt out onto the soil.
Cormoran removed his helmet and fixed his younger brother with a steely gaze. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Cutting off the snake’s head,” Ealon said with contempt, as if it were obvious. “Did you see the boy?”
“I did. Who is he?”
“He is the scion of the pretender, Avantir.”
Avantir was the client king of Wybrook, and it was his army they were facing on the field that day. Wybrook was considered small, but its location up the coast, between Uther’s land and the northern mountains of Untwold, gave it great influence. Two months ago, Avantir had declared its independence from the high king’s throne. Obviously this was tantamount to a declaration of war. Battle had been inevitable.
“What’s he doing here?” Cormoran asked.
“Not much at all, from what I could see,” Ealon replied wryly.
“Let me rephrase,” said Cormoran. “What are you doing here? What is your plan? If you have a plan.”
“I was planning to cut through the fabric of the pavilion and slit the boy’s throat from ear to ear.” Ealon permitted himself a grin, but Cormoran saw little humor in the situation .
“And when the boy noticed you sawing away and cried for help? When the two guards out front rushed in? What then?”
Ealon’s face fell. “Two guards?”
“You didn’t surveil the front of the tent?” Cormoran asked, narrowing one eye. “And would slitting the boy’s throat have been worth it, after the guards ran you through with their steel?”
Ealon said nothing. He looked mildly quizzical. Cormoran had rarely seen him at a loss for words. Gravelhorn buried his face in one hand and groaned.
Ealon brightened. “But you are here, now, brother. You and…your little friend there.”
Gravelhorn looked up at Cormoran, an expression of shocked disbelief on his face. “My lord, would you remind my lord the princeling here that I am the Earl of Härgaladr?”
Ealon ignored him. “Between the three of us, we can take them easily.”
Cormoran ground his teeth and balled his hands into fists inside his armored gloves. He concentrated on his breathing to still the storm of rage brewing within him. Finally, he fixed his brother’s eye with his own and spoke in a measured and noble tone. “We might. But we won’t.”
Ealon’s mouth worked, but no sounds came out. He pointed at the pavilion.
Cormoran continued. “We won’t because such actions are ignoble. They violate the sacred trust of warriors. We will not do this wicked thing because even the thought of it dishonors our house.”
Ealon opened his mouth to protest, but Cormoran held up his hand to stop him and continued. “The elder god was powerful, but he was evil, and the worship he demanded was evil. The oyarsu defeated him by honorable means, and the conduct they require of us is honorable as well.”
“You speak of fairy tale and myth,” Ealon spat. “I speak of victory.”
“What you intend would bring down our house every bit as much as defeat in battle. Which is itself all the more likely every minute Orfek and I are away from the fray.”
“I do not understand you, brother. You are almost as young as I, and yet you cling to the ways of ossified old men.”