The Column of Ash [Epic Fantasy]

A Welcome Return – Chapter Forty-Eight


Voivode Iarek Kostuveski stared at him from his chair before the tapestry room's large hearth; warm light reflected off his falsely martial, age-worn face caught between alarm and self-control. He shifted back, interlocking his fingers, staring down past Laczlo into nothing, a statue as still as those outside his home. Laczlo was standing, having told most of the story while staring into the fire, back partially to the other voivode, his hands clasped tightly behind him to keep them from shaking and gesturing in awkward emphasis at his scarcely controlled concern. At the end, he'd turned to watch the other voivode closely, trying to read his reactions, to see past the mask of control.

Kostuveski rubbed his jaw, shaking his head in something akin to disbelief. "And where is the prince now?"

"He, Marion, and the two serpents are aboard the ship with my other druzhina, ready to be moved."

"And he admitted to it? Karnys Vestille?"

"It is as I said. And we have papers to further prove it." He tried not to think of the vellum note, possibly from his wife, hidden away on his person, but then, that was hardly the first lie he'd told Iarek. The voivode didn't know the priestess was in Nova, nor that she was joined by Oskar and a band of mercenaries. Laczlo also left out a good deal about Vida, saying she was merely a useful spy who continued to help.

"Rotaal above, this is larger than I suspected."

"What will you do now?" Laczlo asked.

He snorted, shaking his head. "Indeed, the question which must be answered. Caution is the word, I believe. With a prince in hand, consider the diplomatic ramifications, all else aside. This could mean war with Rodezia should those Rutenian guards tell their petty king of their failures. We must hope they don't. Even so, we must be cautious."

"What do you suggest, Iarek?"

The voivode looked up at him, something changing in his stare. A shifting consideration of sorts. "I suggest that after such a long journey, you deserve some rest. Please, go home and see your wife and children. We can speak of this matter later."

Delaying. Why? Thoughts of plots of subterfuge and grand deceptions tumbled through Laczlo's mind as he looked upon Iarek. The man was up to something. But what, exactly? "I can help with whatever comes next. If you approach the tsar, it might be useful to have me present."

"Of course… We may discuss the matter. But good work, Laczlo, truly." He stood with a smile, putting a hand on his shoulder. "But you've also earned rest. So please, don't make me force you to go home. Your family will have missed you."

Laczlo nodded, some relief mixing with worried anticipation. "Very well."

"I will send men to the docks to retrieve your prisoners. Please arrange for the documents to be transferred over then as well."

Does he wish to claim this as his discovery? "I shall."

"Good. Good." Iarek sat back down, chin propped up upon his palm, fingers strumming at his cheek. Laczlo turned and went to go in the awkward silence, but before he could reach the door, the other man said, "And just to be clear, this doesn't escape to anyone else's ears. I know your men know, but contain it best you can. A great trial is coming—one that accompanies change. We need to ride this wave safely and in control, and for that, we need to manage the information. Do you understand?"

"I do."

"Excellent. I'll be counting on you in these next few days. I trust I will have your support?"

Something twisted Laczlo's guts at the words. Maybe it was his tone, maybe something else, but whatever it was, it made him feel sick. Like he knew something was coming that he wouldn't like one bit. A secret to be revealed. A plot to come to fruition. But he merely nodded, pushing away those thoughts, and muttered, "You do, Voivode."

The other man seemed contented by his answer, remaining silent in his chair, faced away, a fixture of the gaudy, sophisticated chamber. Laczlo turned and left, wanting to throw up.

He exited Kostuveski's estate, finding Isak and a few other select druzhina, Mikha, and Vida outside waiting where he'd left them. "Voivode Kostuveski will retrieve the prisoners today. We must ensure they are ready for transport. The bag too. Oiir? Vida? Can you ensure this is handled?"

"Voivode," the druzhina replied.

Vida looked him in the eyes, some concern there, but nodded. "I will."

He knew she didn't want to leave him, but he also knew she would understand being sent away before he returned home. At least temporarily. And for that, he was thankful for her acquiescence. Before their groups could separate and he could mount the fetched horse to return home, Vida swept close and whispered, "When will we speak?"

"Soon." He offered a weak smile.

She didn't seem placated, frowning back at him with clear concern. "I don't trust Iarek. Neither should you."

"I know."

"Yet you want to hand over the prince. Without him, the pirates, or the notes—"

"I know," he cut her off. "Is that all?"

Vida pulled away, lips flattened into a tight frown. She said nothing more as he turned from her and mounted the horse. And with that, he departed with his small party of druzhina. She's a spy, and one manipulated by Iarek at that; of course, she will be paranoid about him, he thought as they parted ways. Yet, as it was, Iarek had little choice but to side with the tsar. With all Laczlo had done, all the commander had done against Gorodenski, Iarek Kostuveski couldn't simply change sides or something so absurd. Could he? Was that what Vida was getting at?

Laczlo paused, looking back at the estate. "Mikha," he muttered, "fetch the documents. Return to my hall with them. Ensure you have a guard, and don't stop for anything."

"I shall do so immediately." His head servant rushed off after Oiir and Vida. Laczlo watched him go, fingers working at the stitching in the leather reins. Before he could change his mind, he led his retinue away from Kostuveski's home and toward his own.

The city, forever in its awful din of humanity, was quiet so far removed upon the hill of estates. He could look south and see the sea out beyond the expanse of homes and shops and temples. On the other side of the hill, the height of the Column rose high, and with it, thoughts of Emalia and the others' mysterious mission. But it was in this steady trot through the cobble streets, past vast estates in such sharp contrast to the isolated expanse of the sea he'd grown used to, in this moment of peace between the chaos he was sure to expect, that Laczlo's mind wandered. Caught between anxiety and peace, time passed as a blur. He hardly knew he'd even arrived until he was stopped before the gated entrance of the low curtain wall. His guards in front looked upon him in surprise and moved into action, opening the gates with all due greetings.

He hardly noticed.

In the small stables of his courtyard were horses of his many druzhina, his own wonderful mount, and something odd: a massive warhorse and three smaller ones as well—all unknown to him. Close by, three men he didn't know. They wore armor and weapons.

"Isak," he muttered, dismounting a few dozen paces away, feeling his gut twist and tumble. "Find out who these men are. Do not let them leave until I allow it."

"Voivode." Isak went forward with the handful of druzhina, hands near blades.

The men stiffened and exchanged glances. One went to go inside.

"Hold there," Isak commanded.

The man stopped near the doors leading in. Reluctantly, as Isak neared, he retreated, standing with the two others near the odd stabled warhorse. "Who do you serve?" his druzhina asked.

No one replied.

"I'll ask again, lest you want your tongues cut out: who do you serve?"

Laczlo dismounted, hand on the hilt of his own blade, and approached. He looked from them to his hall, then left to go inside without a glance back. He slipped through the doors, walking on the balls of his feet, stalking through. Soon, he heard voices. A gruff man's voice—one he vaguely recognized, coming from his own study, rarely used, relegated mostly to storage. He went closer. No servants nearby. She must have sent them away. The thought was a clear one, unadulterated by the fear and anger battling for dominion in his heart. He advanced, controlled not by himself but by something else. As if the hand of Deus moved his limbs ever so subtly, so the floor made not a sound, and he was as silent as the breeze. A thing carried forth by nature, by eventualities. Part of him knew what he might find. Part of him still held out hope. His mouth was dry, eyes wide, skin prickling with sickening adrenaline.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"—not an argument of loyalty and honor, but life and death. You are a wise woman. You should see the truth in my words. I speak honestly, plainly—you know this. There can be no more stalling, no more consideration. He is coming to Nova and likely knows of everything. The end is near, my heart—"

"Do not call me that." Kapitalena. Her voice, always so harsh upon Laczlo's ears in his frailty and weakness, gave him strength and tore the will from him. A gust into a too-full sail. A charge down a steep hill. Too much momentum to stop.

"Why not? You know how I feel."

"And you know how I feel."

"I wish to see you protected, woman!" His voice reeked of hurt and anger. Whose was it?

"I ask again that you leave. I will not repeat myself. My previous answer should have been sufficient."

"Are you happy? Are you proud of your station? How he treats you? How he travels with another woman? Gorodenski's whore, you know."

"Enough."

"Do you truly believe you are better off facing this alone? Because you will be. You promised consideration time and time again, now this is your chance! There is no more time!"

Laczlo wanted to enter, to interrupt this vile man and whatever scheme he was spinning, but the words gave him pause. He listened closely.

Kapitalena paused, then answered, "You ask me to abandon my children, to lie to them about their father, to discard all I've worked for, all that matters to me. I would rather die a thousand deaths than go with you." Laczlo smirked, chest swelling. Of course, she would not betray him, his family. What was this fool thinking? "Now leave, please."

The rustling of movement. Him coming closer, perhaps? "You're making a mistake. Listen to me—"

"You should be grateful I do not report you to the man you claim to serve under oath."

"He is weak. They all are." His voice dropped. No longer begging, appealing, but threatening. "The tsar will fall, and more shall rise. You are choosing the side of death. Is that what you wish, Kapitalena? I cannot protect you or your children when they come for you."

The sharp crack of a slap. A hiss of anger. "Do not threaten them!" Quick movement of stamping feet, snatching of clothes.

Laczlo opened the door and stepped inside.

The man was broad with a warrior's build. He bore a scarred face—brutal, in a way, yet handsome all the same. Commander Voiakh's champion, Ygon. The warrior's face lit in surprise, confusion, and then anger. Kapitalena jerked from his grasp. Her furious eyes widened, snarling lips opening in shock. She was beautiful, even then, in so horrid a moment. She wore a simple dress of white wool, the sleeves and neck outlined with red and gold embroidery of eastern arches and looping, forked patterns within a rectangular perimeter of thickly woven thread. A thin belt of soft leather with a gold clasp clung to her waist, holding down a long mantle of similar designs. Her headdress was simple, with white, fine wool and a silk band of an embroidered serpent winding its way along. His heart ached for her, the mother of his children, their protector—far more than he ever was.

Kapitalena, frozen in shock momentarily, blinked and rushed over to him. But she did not hide behind Laczlo—rather, she stepped in front of him almost protectively.

Laczlo's eyes flicked to Ygon. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword.

Ygon had no weapon, but his fists curled and shoulders tensed. Even unarmed, he was intimidating, thick with muscle, and reeking of potential violence. "Drawing that would be a mistake."

Laczlo drew Kapitalena aside, moving in front of her despite her protests. He and Ygon were only a few paces apart. Could he have his sword out before the bastard was on him?

Ygon scowled at him. "Let me go, and no one dies tonight."

Kapitalena put a hand on Laczlo's shoulder. "We will step aside, won't we, Laczlo?"

"I have your men held outside," he found himself saying, voice an empty, cold rasp in his throat. "They're not leaving. And neither are you."

"What are you doing?" his wife demanded.

"Don't threaten my soldiers." Ygon's strong brow twisted, eyes lighting in anger. Muscles in his cheeks twitched under the skin, making his scar ripple.

Laczlo stared back, unmoved. "They're traitors to Vasia. I'll put their heads upon my walls. Right next to yours."

Ygon's jaw tensed, nostrils flared. "Leave, Kapitalena. I don't wish you to see this."

Laczlo replied before she could, "I do."

Ygon rushed forward. Laczlo yanked his blade free. It slid from the sheath without sticking, rasping from leather, glowing in the rays of late sun filtering through dusty air. As bright as the whites of Ygon's eyes. He was a step away when Laczlo cut into his left arm. The blade stopped at bone, thunking in, sticking. He went to tug it free, but Ygon had a hand on the crossguard, nails biting into Laczlo's fingers. His other hand flew forward, squeezed into a tight fist, smashing into Laczlo's face, battering him down. His vision wobbled after the burst of light. Legs feeble as if sick at sea. Before falling, Laczlo brought up his knee and jammed it in Ygon's groin, making the other man wheeze, toppling forward, slamming into him. They both went down, sword pinned between flailing limbs. Laczlo hissed out as he shoved his way up, wrestling for control. Ygon had a knee on the flat of the blade, pinning it to the floor, hands seeking out Laczlo's throat. Enough pressure to make his head swim, eyes pop. He scrambled to tear the hands away, clawing at skin, snatching up a finger, snapping it back.

Ygon grunted in pain and jerked the hand away before Laczlo could rip it entirely from its socket. The warrior battered him with hammer fists like a horse's galloping hooves. Kapitalena flung forward with a scream, ripping at Ygon's face with her nails. He fended her off with one arm until he could pin Laczlo down with his other leg, punching her in the stomach, doubling her over. He shoved her away with enough force to send her crashing into a nearby table, knocking it over, and sending her to the floor in a heap.

Laczlo yelled as he pushed Ygon off him, managing just enough space to scramble up as the other man took to his feet. The sword was still between them. Laczlo went for it but caught a foot in the shoulder, knocking him aside. He lunged again, wrapping a hand around the blade, wrestling it from between them. Ygon took him by the arms, trying to pin him down, but Laczlo pressed the sharp edge into his forearms, sawing. Ygon roared and jerked back, bashing him across the skull with a wild fist. Laczlo nearly fell to the floor in a daze. His vision swam. Hands on his sword. Trying to pry it away. Another strike hit him in the chest, then stomach, once, twice. He wheezed out as all air fled him. Choking on nothing.

Ygon pushed him against the wall, fighting over the sword, wrestling it close to Laczlo's throat. He felt the bite of blade. Blood trickling down. Warm and wet. Dribbling into torn silk. Rich robes he hardly needed or wanted now scarcely covered his upper chest. He strained for purchase on the blade. It split the skin on his palms. Ygon's eyes were wide and wild, veins bulging on his red face, his neck. He moved to grab the hilt. Laczlo lunged, shoving the sword from his neck, biting into the fucker's face. He got a piece of cheek and ripped back. Ygon screamed and swung his forehead down, cracking Laczlo across the side of his skull, but not before a chunk of skin came free from his cheekbone. Blood splattered over both of them, spraying from the open wound weakly, getting in Laczlo's eyes and mouth. He spat and wrenched the sword from both of them, then thrust fingers into the bastard's open wounds, prying at the flesh in his arm, scratching against exposed bone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kapitalena struggling to stand, dazed, weak. She came to her feet and went to intercede.

"Stay back," Laczlo hissed, ripping at Ygon's arm. He felt veins and chords of muscle as he tore with his nails and pried with his fingers. Flesh gave way in pops like snapping ropes. I will kill him myself, alone, he thought, lips curled back to expose his gritted, bloody teeth in a smile as wicked as the Dead's.

The warrior screamed, punching wildly with his free hand. Laczlo turned and hurled them both to the ground, falling out the doorway, coming out on top of the other man. He curled his cut and bleeding hands into fists and smashed Ygon in the face, ignoring the weakening hits to his body that scarcely registered anymore.

One eye squeezed shut, covered in blood, the other wide in mindless rage, Laczlo pounded down, turning the man's face into mashed meat. He screamed as he did, spittle and blood flying from his split lips. Ygon, with some summoned strength, heaved Laczlo off. He crawled from him, dragging his ruined arm, puddles of blood sopping to the floor around him. Laczlo wheezed in a big breath and went after him, grabbing the tangle of dark hair and heaving it back before slamming his face into the floor.

The crack sounded like that of a meaty limb snapping under a butcher's cleaver. Grotesque, wet, and heavy. Ygon stopped struggling. He coughed out a raspy spurt of blood, head falling to the side, wild, dazed eyes meeting Laczlo's. He tried to say something, maybe, but his mouth wasn't working right, and his words were mumbled mush. Not that Laczlo cared. He grabbed the weak, broken creature and dragged him by his shirt down the hall. After a few steps, Ygon came to himself again, weakly grabbing at the wall as they went but holding on to nothing.

Aching, burning, stinging, half-conscious, Laczlo managed to wrench the fucker outside into the courtyard. The sun was a harsh glare to his eye. He wiped the blood from his face and spat out a wad from his swelling lips as he took in the scene before him.

His druzhina had swords on the three men, who were now unarmed and on their knees. They stared at their champion, mouths open in horror. One struggled, but Isak kicked him down, keeping him on the ground with a boot on his neck.

"Laczlo," Kapitalena said from behind. He looked back and found her offering him his sword. Her head was bleeding, leaking a trickle of blood down her face over her bruised jaw. The sight lit his stomach with righteous fury, horrid and deliciously invigorating.

He took the sword. It fell to his side, weight almost carrying it free from his hand, he was so weak. Laczlo turned, facing the gasping, beaten man beneath him. Ygon was trying to push himself to his hands and knees, shaking, trembling, wheezing.

Laczlo swallowed, took the sword in two hands, lifted it, and swung it down on Ygon's neck. He missed the first strike, cutting sloppily into the man's upper back, knocking him down. Laczlo swung again, connecting with his neck. As much as he'd already bled, Ygon's neck spat arcs of crimson still, soaking the dirt wet and gory. It took four more hacks to separate the head from body. Ygon stopped moving by the second hit, just empty tremors of a dying man. The last cut stuck the blade in wet dirt, and Laczlo almost fell over with it, stumbling. Kapitalena caught him, heaving an arm over her shoulders, keeping him up.

"What did you do?" one of the captured men asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He squinted out, finding them through his hazy, darkness-rimmed sight. "More traitors than what's on the list," he managed. "Interrogate them. Any who resist… I want their heads next to his." Laczlo kicked Ygon's head so it rolled from his body. It came to a stop a few strides deeper into the courtyard. All stared at it. Laczlo put his sword down into the ground, bracing himself on it as if it were a cane. "This is war."

Kapitalena propped him up again, holding him close against her.

He looked at her, face a blur in his waning vision. She was staring at him.

"The children?" he asked.

"Hidden away." She shifted so she was in his wandering gaze once more, eyes narrowed in fervent admission with all gravity. "It was never my intention to abandon our home. But I had to find a way to stall under the pressure. When I learned of their plot—"

"Don't." He leaned on her, pulling her closer to him, eyes fluttering shut. Strength finally fading. "We can speak of this later." His vision swam. World swaying, fading in and out. The only thing he could focus on was Ygon's head, caked in bloody dirt. Eyes wide and empty.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.


Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter