My Lord

LORD ELROND

THE SERGEI 5th ARMY

SERGEI OCCUPIED WEEDYIA

NEAR GILLENDUM

Elrond watched men loading the last of the portable battlements onto wagons. The bustling wooden citadel of the previous night was gone, replaced by an expanse of churned soil the colour of shit. It had been a decent grazing paddock until yesterday, but now there wasn’t a patch of green as far as a man could fire an arrow. He’d seen it all a hundred times before, of course, but somehow his almost child-like sense of wonder at the spectacle never waned. Only Sergeis and their allies sheltered in huge mobile fortresses. Other peoples looked on with envy, for they either didn’t know how to build them or couldn’t make them work. Not that the Sergeis truly needed such things: no had bested their field armies in over a generation. Small wonder they had the world by the balls.

The rattle and stomp of spearmen broke his reverie. Sergei main-forcers were pushing forward, a column of purple and steel that went on for a mile and more. A scar-faced troop captain barked orders to salute him. The men obeyed, but without enthusiasm. Elrond acknowledged them with the barest toss of his head before giving them his back. It was still more than they deserved.

He returned to his marquee to find Istome waiting near the entry. His bodyguard was lolling about, though as soon as he appeared they all stood to attention and pretended they hadn’t been gawping at Istome’s bare legs. He wanted to laugh but settled on a small, inward smile instead. General Virgilio was always saying that he should stop being too familiar around subordinates. He should strive to keep up appearances.

“Good morning, my lord,” said Pyrian, bowing and hauling aside the marquee’s entry flap in one fluid motion.

“Morning Pyrian,” said Elrond as he entered. Istome followed, stepping twice on the heels of his slippers. He winced, but refrained from commenting. She was improving, though.

A pair of attendants came to remove his silks. Another pair brought his war gear. He shrugged into his habergeon, grunting as the links settled on his shoulders. He raised his arms to allow a padded leather belt to be fastened around his waist. His black brigandine followed, then greaves and vambraces. He took a few moments to admire the brigandine in his bronze mirror. A recent purchase, its innermost layers were of hardened steel. The new metal was costly to the point of extravagance, but it was a beautiful piece of armour of which he was inordinately proud.

“Your blade, Lord Elrond.” Pyrian extended his sword belt with both hands. Elrond unsheathed the weapon and brought the edge up to his face. Seeing no flecks of rust along its length, he slid it back into the scabbard and Pyrian fastened the belt around his waist. He gave his dagger a cursory glance, and he waved his gauntlets, shield, spear and helmet away. Someone would bring them should the need arise.

“Very good, Pyrian,” said Elrond, his dressing ritual complete.

“A pleasure, my lord.” Pyrian bowed low. “As always.”

Istome poured his wine. No sooner had he put the cup to his lips, however, than a messenger arrived to say that his presence was required in the general’s tent. He thought about handing the wine back, but instead he drained it in three gulps and tossed the empty cup aside. “Let’s go,” he told her.

“Of course,” said Istome.

Virgilio’s attendants ushered them into the command tent. Istome veered off, vanishing behind a scarlet curtain. The general’s people thought her presence intrusive and unnecessary, but at least they knew better than to voice their objections. Their obvious discomfort warmed his heart.

Virgilio greeted him perfunctorily, gesturing at an empty chair opposite him at his conference table. An impressively weighty piece, that table. The top was a wooden slab as thick as a man’s thigh, scored and dark with age. He wasn’t sure of its history, but it looked like something out of a blacksmith’s shop. The general himself seemed not to care that it clashed with everything else he owned.

“I was just looking at those tallies you wanted me to look at,” said Virgilio, his rheumy eyes passing over a scrap of parchment in his hand. More were arranged in careful piles on the tabletop.

“Oh yes?”

“Mm. And they’re as bad as described.”

“Yes,” said Elrond, nodding. “They are.”

The general grunted. “So you really weren’t exaggerating, eh? You had me convinced you were, you know.”

“No.” Elrond leaned back in his chair. “I wasn’t. Any advice?”

Virgilio seemed not to hear. Elrond waited, and was about to repeat the question when the general looked up and said, “Eh?”

“I wanted your advice,” said Elrond, indicating the bits of parchment. “On the tallies. Any ideas about what I should do, you know, to rectify things?”

“No,” said the general, shaking his head. “No, not really.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

The general tossed the parchment aside and glanced up. “Yes. Nothing.”

“I see,” said Elrond. “It’s just that I thought you might–”

“Dear boy.” Virgilio’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “You seem ill at ease. Why? You didn’t think I’d be angry with you, did you? Were you expecting harsh words from me or something? Over tallies?”

Elrond shook his head. “Well no, not harsh words exactly, but let’s face it–these figures aren’t what you could call impressive.”

“Oh indeed! They’re not.”

“Which is why I was hoping for some advice on how to turn things around.”

“Oh, I understand, dear boy,” said Virgilio, bestowing a fatherly smile on him. “Really I do. But I wouldn’t worry about it too much. These are lean times.”

“Yes, they are, but–”

Virgilio held up a hand. “Let’s not make a big thing out of this, eh? Trust me, Elrond, when I say that tax revenues are down everywhere. It’s not just you. Bad harvests. Corruption. Unrest. Oh yes, everyone’s struggling. Those poor bastards in the western provinces, especially. You certainly wouldn’t want to be in their shoes now, would you?”

“No. Not particularly.”

“My word, you would not! Nasty business, insurgency. Bloody Romelians! Thank the gods none of your holdings are anywhere near that lot. Be grateful. And Eusebio’s happy with you, and that’s all you need to worry about. Believe me, of all the things that keep him awake at night, you are not one of them.”

Elrond nodded. “Well I suppose that’s something.”

“It is indeed. Better to banish thoughts of tallies from your mind.”

“Very well.”

“And better still to focus on the task at hand. I need you to be with me in the here and now. You understand me? We have a war to prosecute, do we not?”

“We do,” said Elrond, smoothing down his moustache with a finger and thumb.

Virgilio sniffed. “Besides, there’s really not a lot you can do about it from afar. Your regent brother is handling things in your stead, is he not? Concern yourself with matters of rule upon your return.”

“Very well.”

“I will say one final thing on the subject, though.”

“Which is?”

“You’re an honest man, my dear Elrond.”

Elrond made a face. “Am I?”

“Indeed, you are. However else they could be described,” said Virgilio, thumping the parchments on the table for emphasis, “these tallies reflect your honesty. Some of the other governors–nearly all of them to tell you the truth, although you did not hear it from me–keep two sets of figures. I think you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“But not you.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Elrond shrugged. “Why would I? It wouldn’t be right.”

“Exactly!” cried Virgilio. “See? As I just said–and as I’ve always said–you’re an honest man. A fundamentally honest man. That’s rare, Elrond. Oh, you don’t know how rare! I’ve always known it, everyone knows it, and that includes Eusebio. It is, of course, why he holds you in such high esteem.”

Elrond frowned. “Well, he still holds my eldest hostage, doesn’t he? Few other governors enjoy such incentive to keep on the straight and narrow.” Though he didn’t want to, he pictured Wes in the Bastion. How many years had separated them now? Twelve? But no more, not if everything went according to plan in the coming weeks...

“Hostage?” Virgilio cackled. “Hostage? Oh dear! You fiend! Oh, you do have quite the sense of humour, don’t you? Dry as ever. I never know when you’re kidding.”

“Hmm,” said Elrond. He hadn’t been. The Sergei Assembly had demanded he hand over the boy a week ahead of his fifth birthday. He’d known better than to refuse, of course. Never mind that it had marked the beginning of the end of his relationship with his wife…

“I do have some news of young Wes to share with you, by the way.” The general’s voice trailed off as Istome reappeared clutching a silver tray. She now wore a gown of sheer fabric, a flimsy thing that left nothing to the imagination.

“She’s really something,” said Elrond, suppressing a smirk as she placed the tray on the table. “Don’t you think?”

“Oh my,” murmured Virgilio. He took Istome by the wrist and gestured for her to turn around. She obliged him, smiling her practiced coy smile. “Breathtaking. This must be the pretty thing everyone’s talking about, eh? The one you’ve been deliberately hiding from me for so long?”

“I,” said Elrond, shaking his head, “have been doing no such thing.”

“What is she? A mix of some sort, yes? She’s Weedy, definitely, but what else?”

Elrond shook his head. “Nothing else. Just Weedy.”

“Really? Look at her... that bosom, the curve of her hip. And not a blemish in sight! She’s magnificent. Pure Weedy, though? Are you sure?”

“I am indeed.”

“Where did you get her?”

“She’s from Cired,” said Elrond. “If my source can be believed.”

“The islands? Truly? Ah, now, wait a moment… That’s odd...”

“What is?”

Virgilio looked the girl up and down, his brow wrinkling. “Where’s her mark, Elrond? For the life of me I can’t see it.”

Elrond chose not to answer straight away, instead letting the silence build until it verged on awkward. “Well, I suppose that’s because she doesn’t have one.”

Virgilio stared at him. “What? No mark? Why ever not?”

“Because she’s not a slave.” Elrond paused again. “She’s my second wife.”

The general’s mouth fell open, and he flung Istome’s hand away as if she were cursed. “What? You can’t be–!”

Elrond shook his head. “Serious? No, I’m not.”

Virgilio closed his eyes, sagged back against his chair and slapped his knee. “Oh!” he cried, hooting with delight. “Oh no, you got me again!” He pointed an accusing finger and laughed until tears ran down both cheeks. “You got me again, didn’t you? Ah, you slay me!”

“Heh,” said Elrond, his lips turning up slightly at the corners.

Virgilio sighed. “I just noticed the mark there on her thigh. Ha! Second wife indeed! Oh dear, that was a good one…”

“Heh,” said Elrond again, waiting for the general to compose himself again. Istome reached for a pitcher on the tray, but then paused and gave him a questioning look. He nodded, after which she took the pitcher and poured its contents into two goblets of opaque green glass.

Virgilio seemed to have difficulty concentrating on anything except Istome. It wasn’t his fault, of course, for in addition to the most enticing hips, she had tits enough for three women. “What’s her name, anyway?” he asked.

“Istome.”

“Well,” said Virgilio, at last managing to tear his gaze away from her, “back to what I was saying a moment ago. I wanted to congratulate you.” He reached for the nearest goblet and took a tentative sip.

“Congratulate me?” Elrond dismissed Istome with a gesture. “What for?”

Virgilio watched the girl leave. “Eh? Oh, on your firstborn, of course. You know, your hostage, as you put it?”

“What of him?”

“Ah. So, you’ve not had word from him recently, I take it?”

“No.” Elrond frowned. “I have not.” Not for years.

“Ah, I see. Well, that’s boys for you. I rarely hear from mine either, and they’re a lot older than yours. My daughters are another story, of course. They write all the time–too often if you ask me. And always complaining. But the boys? Not a word!”

Elrond’s frown deepened. “What news do you have of my son, lord?”

“Mm,” said the general, shrugging. “Nothing specific. Just that he’s well and happy, that’s all.”

“You’d think he’d write to tell me every now and again.”

“Oh?” Virgilio’s eyebrows went up. “Like you used to write to your father?”

“I… uh,” said Elrond, and they both knew he’d been bested. “I suppose you have a point.”

Virgilio waved a hand. “Ah, well. He’s distracted by his training, no doubt, and his friends. And probably by the city’s myriad delights as well. He’s a fine boy, and life there seems to suit him as much as it suited you.”

“And so... you’re congratulating me on that?”

“Yes. And why not? Why not congratulate you on having such a fine boy? He’s a credit to you, truly. Doing very well in the Bastion, too, apparently. Just like his old man...”

Elrond bowed his head, remembering. Wes hadn’t been the only hostage in the family. “The Bastion. Ha. Seems like a lifetime since I was there. Another lifetime.”

“I know how you feel, Elrond. Although it practically is a lifetime for me. You’re only thirty-six. Still a pup.”

“Mm.” Elrond reached for the other goblet on the tray. He took a sip, paused, and then drank it in one go. He set it back down with a thump that sent a sliver of glass skittering over the edge of the table.

“Glass,” said the general, following its path with his eyes. “Remarkable stuff, but so delicate. Actually, that reminds me. Now, if I should fall today–”

“Ugh, no,” said Elrond. “Not this again.”

“I should have you whipped for impertinence. Why not indulge me a little?”

“Perhaps because I indulge you every other day, lord? And also because I’m sure you have many years ahead of you yet?”

“I don’t.” Virgilio’s tone was melancholic. “I really don’t. I can feel it.”

“Oh, come on!” said Elrond, laughing. “You? You’re vigorous enough for a man half your age.”

Virgilio shot him an expression that was a cross between a scowl and a smirk. “I take back what I said before about your honesty. The truth is I don’t have long, Elrond. I realise how odd it must sound, but I can feel it.”

Elrond rolled his eyes. “This is a silly topic. Not worth discussing.”

“I will say, though,” said Virgilio, ignoring him, “there’s a small part of me that doesn’t mind so much. I’ve grown weary of this shell. Old age can be cruel, Elrond. A burden.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, look at me! Ugh. I’m fat and skinny at the same time. I can’t seem to digest anything properly anymore. I have to get up at least a dozen times a night to piss. And for what? I barely drink past sunset.” The general’s voice became a whisper. “Oh, and just between you and me, the sword on your belt gets heavier while the one under it gets lighter...”

Elrond grimaced. “I… could have done without knowing that.”

Virgilio jabbed the air with a finger. “Mark my words, you’ll see for yourself one day.” He wiped a hand over his mostly bald and liver-spotted pate. “I caught my reflection in a mirror the other day, you know. And just for a moment, I honestly didn’t recognise the wrinkled old bastard staring back at me. Did you know I used to have actual hair and not this wispy white shit?” He tore a few strands free and threw them away in disgust. “Ugh, let’s change the subject.”

“Gladly. I don’t even know why you keep bringing it up.”

“Hm. So, I meant to ask you earlier–what do you think of the title ‘Guardian of the Greater North’?”

“Well it’s not exactly original, is it?”

“No indeed. But that’s the Assembly for you, eh? A truly unimaginative lot. When I turned sixty-five they gifted me with the title The Old Lion. I mean, really? What was wrong with The Lion? Talk about a slap in the face! What will they call me should I live to turn eighty, eh? I shudder to think.”

Elrond chuckled. “I think whoever came up with my title has a very keen sense of irony.”

Virgilio drummed on the table with his fingers. “You sound bitter, Elrond.”

“Probably because I am. Guardian of the Greater North? I’ll be guardian of no such thing. Right now, I’m barely even the governor of Herena. I’m little more than a puppet and everyone knows it.”

“We’re both puppets, Elrond. Me, you, and everyone else besides! That’s what life in the League has become, though. And Eusebio’s Assembly openly mocks all its little puppets, or at least that’s how it seems. Having said that, you can’t be completely ungrateful for this particular opportunity though, can you? I mean, it goes completely against policy to allow–”

“Ah yes, that old chestnut–to allow an Weedy barbarian like me to lead an army against my own kind?”

Virgilio adjusted his robes. “You said it, Elrond. Not me.”

Elrond sniffed. “Well, plenty have said it before me. And anyway, how were you going to finish your sentence, exactly?”

Virgilio held up both hands. “Calm yourself, dear boy! All I meant to say was that you’ve been given an unprecedented opportunity despite the distinctly… xenophobic… climate prevailing in the capital of late. Need I remind you, though, that Eusebio has unwavering faith in your commitment to the League? Unwavering! And that’s the thing we don’t want to lose sight of here. Beyond that, very little else matters.”

“Really? Because I always got the distinct impression that he’d like to see me fail out here.”

“No,” said Virgilio, shaking his head. “That might be true for certain other members of the Assembly I could name, but not Eusebio.”

“You don’t think he’d like something to happen to me so he could put Wes in my place?”

Virgilio laughed. “No, I don’t. I don’t see how it would Bethelfit him in the slightest. Tell me, though, when did it become all about you? What about me? What about the sons of the hundreds of other Sergei houses here with us? We’re all in this together, are we not? We’re here to expand the northern frontier, and we’re of little use to the League if we can’t do that.”

“Expand it so someone else can rule it, you mean? And all the while everyone pretends that as the Guardian of the Greater North, I’m the boss?”

Virgilio’s gesture of finality told Elrond that he had pushed his point too far. For a while, neither man spoke.

At last Elrond stood up. “Well, at any rate we should probably get back to the business of warlording, then.” He peered at the refreshments on the tray before slapping a few dark grapes and a thin wedge of cheese into his mouth.

“Yes.” Virgilio grunted as he stood up. “I’ll lead again today then, shall I? The army will be yours tomorrow.” He offered the back of his hand, which Elrond kissed and pressed to his forehead.

“As you wish, of course,” said Elrond. He turned on his heel and left, but not before Istome reappeared with a curious smile playing about her lips. He wondered what secrets she’d managed to uncover this time.