Love and Sacrifice: Book Two of the Prophecy Series Read online

  “And that, my dear little frog, is exactly what education is for – to help you, to enhance your life. That’s the way we educate my girls, in ways that make sense. Why have them memorize and then gabble over some endless poem? They need to learn things that help them to be independent women.”

  “Don’t your girls learn literature, Aunty Glad?” Katrin asked, looking over the top of her current favorite book.

  Menders had to smile. In the three days of Gladdas’ visit so far, Katrin and Borsen had begun calling her Aunty Glad, while Hemmett, when off duty, referred to her as Sweetheart. It was hard to believe the affable, interested and outgoing woman who obviously enjoyed spending time with the young people had been the scourge of many a Mordanian assassin, Menders included.

  “Of course they do. It’s a vital accomplishment. Did your dear Pappa force you to memorize and recite long sagas?”

  “Of course not,” Katrin replied.

  “Because?”

  “Well… because I wouldn’t like it.”

  “And that’s the only reason?” Gladdas’ eyebrows were inching up her forehead.

  “No,” Katrin ventured. “What point is there to being able to recite sagas? To understand them, to be able to analyze them, yes, but just parroting them accomplishes nothing.”

  “Absolutely. Tell me, does your Pappa have you learn things you don’t like?”

  Katrin colored slightly. “Of course,” she said. “I don’t care much for mathematics or grammar, but I have to learn them.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy,” Gladdas replied. “Borsen, what do you do that you don’t like?”

  “Sew on buttons, make sheets and kill chickens,” he answered instantly. Katrin laughed out loud at the incongruous list, but Borsen didn’t.

  “Are you the chicken executioner here?” Gladdas smiled at him.

  “It’s supposed to be shared,” he answered levelly. Katrin stopped laughing. She hated killing chickens and made sure to disappear whenever Cook wanted chickens slaughtered for dinner, leaving the nasty task to Borsen.

  “So how do you deal with your distaste for these jobs, my little frog?” Gladdas put a hand over Borsen’s.

  “Best to get it over with. Do it well, do it with dispatch,” he answered crisply. “Buttons will always need to go on clothes, people will always need sheets and if you want to eat chicken, someone has to kill a chicken. I can sew a button on so fast you can hardly see me do it and I’ve worked out efficient ways to sew sheets by machine. I use my pistol to dispatch the chickens. It’s cleaner and the chicken never knows what hit it.”

  Gladdas smiled and patted his hand, then engaged Katrin in conversation over her book, effectively defusing any discomfort between the young people.

  Menders, who had been listening from the next room, smiled and looked over at Eiren.

  “Impressive,” she mouthed. Menders nodded. Gladdas, in a fairly innocuous conversation, had just learned a great deal about both Katrin and Borsen. Doubtless she would store it away in her prodigious memory and use it if she ever needed to analyze the actions of either of them.

  ***

  Menders waited while Gladdas took her time sauntering down the aisles of one of The Shadow’s greenhouses. It was ablaze with roses borne on very young plants. During his sixteen years as Head of Household at the estate, Menders had researched and implemented many improvements, among them three greenhouses. They not only provided a head start for spring plantings, but also housed a small assortment of fresh winter vegetables, most welcome during the bitterly cold, snowbound months of Old Mordania’s winters. Having a controlled growing environment sparked his interest in developing rose cultivars. This brilliant display was the result of many years’ careful planning and cultivation.

  Gladdas paused by a very dark red rose and inhaled.

  “Man of many talents,” she pronounced. “This is exquisite. Have you named i?”

  Menders raised his eyebrows.

  “I was actually considering naming it after you,” he answered.

  She shook her head.

  “As lovely as that would be, I want no light on me right now. It’s unlikely a cultivated rose would draw attention, but not entirely so. Call her Dark of the Moons. Dark and very rare.”

  “Perfect,” Menders answered. It was apropos. Eirdon’s two moons were almost never dark at the same time.

  He leaned against a potting bench, crossing his ankles and arms.

  “Why are you here, Gladdy?” he asked.

  “Multiple reasons.”

  “When is anything you do for a single purpose?” he smiled.

  Gladdas laughed to herself. Then she turned to him and he knew she was ready to stop playing the role of unexpected houseguest.

  “Who will you have as your second here while you and Kaymar are away?” she asked bluntly.

  “Haakel.” Erlen Haakel was a longtime friend, an ex-assassin as were many of Katrin’s unofficial guard, known at The Shadows as Menders’ Men. He was one of the senior men and had been at The Shadows since Katrin was four years old. Before that, Haakel had been one of Menders’ study mentors at the Mordanian Military Academy when he’d arrived there at the age of eleven, sadly behind his contemporaries thanks to a series of incompetent tutors. Haakel was a widower, devoted to The Shadows’ family, brilliant and dependable.

  “Not a bad choice,” Gladdas said quietly. “But not entirely what you’ll need.”

  Menders waited, saying nothing. Gladdas was akin to his cousin Kaymar, tending to fill silences in conversation.

  “You need me here,” she continued. “I need to be away from of Artreya for an extended period. I couldn’t be here all the time, of course, since I’m moving my school to Samorsa indefinitely and will need to be there at times.”

  “And why do I need you here?” Menders asked levelly.

  “Erlen Haakel is a good man,” she responded. “Normally he would be all you require, along with my people who are going to stand in for you and the rest of the family. But he’s not equal to something out there right now.”

  “Our friend Therbalt?” Menders felt a cold sweat breaking out under his shirt, despite the heat of the greenhouse.

  Gladdas snorted.

  “That freak has gone to ground somewhere far, far away,” she answered. “No money, no network. No trace of him. What I’m talking about is in Artreya. They aren’t actively after Katrin, not as of yet, but the best thing you can do is get her anonymously away from here. I would need to be here to support her double. She’s one of my best operatives. I don’t want to lose her and I don’t want your home endangered.”

  Menders pushed away from the bench and began to prowl up and down the greenhouse. Gladdas waited.

  “Individual or group?” he finally asked.

  “It’s a group,” she answered. “Their goal is to have Artreya invade Mordania, but that’s some time off. In the meantime, they have their sights set on the Queen and Princess Aidelia. They know of Katrin’s existence but they’re not interested in her at the moment. If they should manage to eliminate the Queen and Aidelia, they’ll come after her.”

  Menders stopped pacing, shook his head and removed his glasses, massaging his eyes wearily for a moment. Then he looked up at her.

  Gladdas had seen his eyes before. They were such a light grey that from a distance they appeared to be entirely white except for his pupils. Even so, they were always a shock, as he wore darkened spectacles almost constantly to protect them from the light. They were a continual trial to him and prone to infection. They frequently ached and his vision was poor in full light. Conversely, he had night vision a langhur would envy.

  “Do you know their timeline?” he asked.

  “A couple of years out from any assassination attempt on the Queen. I’ve informed Thoren Bartan at the Palace, of course – and now you. Between the three of our networks, we can put a stop to this in time. But I wanted to speak directly to you – as well as meet this marvelous family of yours
.”

  Menders started prowling again. He was startled when she put her hand on his arm. His hearing was sharp, but she had moved soundlessly.

  “Aylam, you’re about to make some terrible decisions because your emotions are running away with you,” she said briskly. “Do not do this. Take a breath and use your brain, not your heart. And if you get stubborn with me, I’ll throw you on the ground.”

  Menders had to laugh and shook his head.

  “Yes, Mama,” he responded. “You are correct. Now, there must be another reason why you want to be here and why you came here secretly.”

  “They know who I am.”

  Menders blinked.

  Gladdas Dalmanthea’s true identity was an incredibly well kept secret. She had a plethora of aliases and names. She moved entirely in the shadows and always had, both when she was an active assassin and afterwards, as she built one of the largest and most effective spy and assassin networks on Eirdon.

  “One of my girls has gone over to these people,” Gladdas explained. “That’s why I’m moving the school to Samorsa to protect the girls. She knows everything – locations, people. I need to disappear. Considering how well you disappeared sixteen years ago, I thought this might be just the place to start.”

  “It is,” Menders said firmly. “Let’s go talk to Haakel.”

  Artrim, Mordania

  2

  Progress

  M

  enders and Doctor Rainer Franz sat astride their saddle mounts, watching a train shunting at the new Artrim Station. A railroad spur had recently been extended to Artrim, the closest village to The Shadows. It was one of the last Mordanian trains they would see for a while. With Gladdas Dalmanthea’s operatives settled at The Shadows, preparations for the family’s departure to Surelia were being expedited in the face of the information she had given Menders.

  Their interest had been drawn by the locomotives, which were new and larger than any they’d seen before.

  The world was changing and Mordania was changing with it. Here in this isolated corner of the country, change was perceived as something remote, experienced through letters and newssheet articles. It was not something affecting daily life.

  “Nothing like those pretty little green engines that used to haul the trains,” Doctor Franz said with a smile, looking intently at the steaming locomotive. “This is impressive, but I was fond of those little toys, with the spoked wheels and copper trimmings.”

  Menders nodded silently. The small, dark green engines that had carried him with Katrin and a household of six to The Shadows sixteen years ago were no more. In their place rumbled larger, workmanlike locomotives with black iron boilers trimmed with gleaming bronze, their wheels and underworks painted a uniform dark red. They moved at enormous speed, leaving behind the lingering smoke of chabron, the hard, hot-burning coal mined only in eastern Mordania.

  The Northern Mordanian Railroad was expanding rapidly, bringing rail travel and commerce to formerly isolated villages and communities. Mechanized industry had arrived in Mordania, rising from burning coal and boiling water, propelled by great iron wheels. Cities reverberated to the pulse of machinery while coal smoke smudged the skies the color of old lead.

  Although Menders was impressed by these recent technological advances, he was not innocent enough to believe the rapid progress was entirely positive.

  “We’d best get on,” he said as the locomotive was coupled with the rearranged carriages and boxcars. “I’d like to be home in time for dinner.”

  “Indeed. They assured me that everything is ready,” Franz replied, reining his big bay gelding around.

  Demon, Menders’ farlin, snapped at the big, gentle horse as a matter of course. Menders dealt out a slap to the animal’s serpentlike neck, but Fatboy, Franz’s gelding had matters well in hand. He bared his teeth at Demon and shook his head, as if remind the evil-tempered animal of the day he’s finally had enough abuse and grabbed that slender neck in his teeth, shaking his head viciously.

  “You’ll bite that bastard sheep if he ever nips you again, won’t you?” Franz laughed, patting Fatboy’s shining neck.

  Menders couldn’t help smiling. Franz babied his horse like nothing he had ever seen – overfeeding him, doting on him, grooming him until he gleamed.

  As if he’d read Menders’ mind, Franz said, “I’m going to miss this fellow while we’re gone.”

  “I thought of bringing all our saddle mounts, but it would be a terrible process for them,” Menders answered. “I don’t even want to think of how Demon would carry on.”

  “Gods no,” Franz said fervently.

  Menders laughed to himself. Doctor Franz was one of the original household sent to The Shadows on the night Katrin was born. He was Katrin’s personal physician but also cared for the entire household, as well as for all The Shadows’ tenant farmers and many other families spread out across the district. He was courageous and infinitely caring in his medical practice but he could find no love for Demon, a rangy, wickedly intelligent, slope-backed farlin with jaggedly sharp teeth and a fiendish temper.

  As they neared the village square, their errand to pick up medical supplies was pushed to the back of their minds. Red and black bunting hung about the square. A small military band played marching tunes and the latest example of mechanized warfare was the focus of all eyes. Franz and Menders reined in their mounts and watched the rally from some distance away.

  The machine was roughly shaped like an oversized suit of iron armor, riveted together and articulated at the joints, with large metal tracks turned by multiple wheels where the feet of the suit would be. It towered thirty feet above the square. Gun sponsons bristled from the front, sides and top. Steam and smoke rose from twin funnels on the back and from inside came an occasional hollow clanging, like the metal of a cooling stove. A small knot of weary, oil-stained engineers fussed and swore about the machine, clambering up, into and out of it again through many hatchways.

  Menders had heard of these contraptions. They were officially called ‘Land Tanks’ but were commonly referred to as ‘Steam Soldiers’.

  Mechanized industry had spawned mechanized warfare. Guns of increasing size, with the ability to hurl an explosive shell as far as forty miles, were lauded as a great step forward for all mankind. They were hauled into battle by steam tractors, not horses. Contraptions with no purpose other than causing mayhem and death were turned out by the thousands in the newly built factories. There was no end to human ingenuity when it came to thinking up novel ways to murder by mechanical means.

  “That’s right, lads!” a much decorated Regimental Sergeant-Major boomed from a small wooden dais beneath the machine. “Step up and feast your eyes upon the latest mechanized marvel in the history of warfare! By taking up the Queen’s florin, you could captain one of these fearsome fighting machines! Strike fear and terror into the hearts of Mordania’s enemies as you roam the battlefields in command of the very latest and most modern method of killing yet invented!”

  “That’s for those of you who are tired of killing with guns, grenades and poison gas,” Menders muttered with obvious distaste.

  “You don’t care for modern warfare, then eh?” Franz replied, lighting a small cigar. “Odd attitude for a military man.”

  Menders gave him a look.

  “Special Services operatives are hardly drum-beating military types,” he answered. “I don’t care for any form of warfare. There are people who will look upon this monstrosity as a great and good thing. Those same people would call me a barbarian because I’m an assassin.”

  “You mean were an assassin, don’t you?” Franz enquired.

  “Do you stop being a doctor if you stop practicing medicine?” Menders asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Exactly.”

  Franz thought about this, then said, “I think people have trouble with the idea of assassins, because they make killing so… personal.” The big, blond man had never been able to become blasé
about assassins, though he was Menders’ closest friend and lived at The Shadows surrounded by men who had been either spies or assassins.

  “Of course we do,” Menders replied, watching the crowd pressing closer to the Steam Soldier, oohing and aahing at the bronzed barrels of the fire throwers and the gaping muzzles of the cannons. “That’s the whole point. I never had to destroy a town and kill countless people to get one man. I could slip up to him and hand him death. He’d never see me coming and probably not feel a thing. But let the army take this thing here and go kill ten or twenty or a hundred or a thousand and so long as it’s impersonal, then that’s all right.”

  “I see your point.”

  “The old ways were better,” Menders continued sourly, turning Demon and riding away from the square. “Sometimes I read about the new mechanization and think we’re verging on a new age of wonders. Then I see something like this contraption and I wonder what in all the hells we are doing to ourselves? What sort of a world will Katrin inherit, if she becomes Queen?”

  “I think all we can accurately predict about the future is that it will be different from today,” Franz said.

  “Yes. That’s what worries me.”

  The Shadows, Mordania

  3

  Villison

  “A

  nd that’s all of them, with one exception,” Hemmett said, sitting back in the chair across from Menders and crossing his legs.

  Menders looked closely at the young man.

  Hemmett had come to The Shadows at three years of age. He was the son of Katrin’s official Guard, Lucen Greinholz and his wife, Zelia. A rambunctious and strong-willed child, he was overindulged by his aging parents to the point of being extremely unappealing to anyone else. He had gravitated toward Menders, who gave him structure and standards for his behavior. Over time, Hemmett had become a son to him.