A House of Glass

[Aloisia Novenski]

---- A House of Glass -----

Aloisia strode through the halls of the manor’s living quarters on the heels of one of the staff, running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to comb it into a semblance of order. She had been summoned to Lord Sigvar’s study right in the middle of her bath and could still feel the dampness in her hair practically catching the cold in the air. It mattered little though; the benefit of having her hair cut like a man’s was that it dried quickly, and took very little effort to maintain. Besides, she had had more than enough time in the hot spring to wash the day’s sweat and grime from her body when the girl had arrived with the message. At that point she had merely been lazing about in the water, so perhaps it was for the best that the call came when it did; she didn’t want to get soft, after all.

The maid was a young woman, little more than a girl really, but she carried herself with an air of quiet professionalism as she walked through the manor without pause, the green and silver skirts of her uniform swishing with each step. Aloisia could appreciate that much, at least, even if the idea of servants waiting on her needs still threw her for a loop. It was also hard not to appreciate the fact that she was a very pretty girl with big eyes and full lips; in a few years she would break no small number of hearts here. Oh, she was too young for Aloisia’s tastes, of course, but some people had fewer reservations about such things, especially when it came to people beneath their station. Aloisia did not believe Sigvar was such a man, but perhaps the fief’s chamberlain was. She grimaced at the thought, and fervently hoped that that was not the case. As they reached a door at the end of the long hall, the woman turned to Aloisia and said, “Wait here for a moment, if you please. I’ll see if his grace is ready for you.” She knocked on the door, waited for the muffled “Come,” and slipped through without a sound.

Aloisia stood patiently in front of the door, straightening the tabard beneath her belt as she examined one of the hanging tapestries. History was not her forte, and she did not recognize the battle depicted in the threads, but she was on equal footing with the artist; clearly the weaver had not understood combat. At the center a lone warrior bedecked in heavy plate armor with more frills than a debutante’s ball gown was standing in the middle of a stone bridge over a river. The men behind the figure were leaving as the ones in front of him were advancing. It was clear the heavily armored man was supposed to be covering a retreat. Aloisia scoffed in derision. Give me a single crossbowman, or hell, a shortbow at that range, and I’ll take that bridge in a heartbeat and mop up the remains. She shook her head. Last stands were all well and good in the stories, and they made the girls swoon over the valor, but there was only one minute detail everyone seemed to conveniently overlook: they were called “last stands” for a reason. She had no doubt that, in reality, there had been an entire company of men left behind to guard the bridge, and like as not it had been the fool in the armor’s fault that they had had to retreat in the first place. Blue blood alone did not a general make.

The door opened with a soft click as the maid returned, and she offered Aloisia a quick curtsey. “Lord Sigvar will see you now, if it pleases my Lady.” Aloisia bit down on the impulse to roll her eyes, and instead turned away from the tapestry, offered the young woman a quiet "thank you," and crossed into the room. Nobles, she thought with a small smile and a rueful shake of her head. It does please “my Lady,” thank you very much!

The study was Spartan and clean, as befit a former soldier. Aloisia had heard stories about the time the staff had attempted to decorate the room, only to find all of their new additions piled neatly in the hall outside the door with a note on top that read simply, “No.” Sturdy bookcases lined the walls like sentinels, their shelves filled with row after row of books. She remembered giving a low whistle at the sight the first time she had come here, much to the chagrin of the butler who had brought her; books were not cheap, requiring either a very expensive press and a skilled printer or else needing to be painstakingly hand written by scribes, and for one man to have so many spoke to his wealth more than perhaps anything else on the grounds. Still, they were of only passing interest to her. She had learned how to read bit by bit over the years, but with the exception of poetry and the Great Cycle sagas she found reading to be a taxing affair. Useful, of course, but she preferred a more hands-on approach to life and learning than could be found in a book. The small clock on the mantelpiece above the hearth gave a small chime marking four past noon, and brought her back to the present. She sketched a quick bow, and asked, “You called for me, your lordship?”

Lord Sigvar Pastok, High Seat of House Pastok and General of the Army of the Holy Church, looked up from the papers on his desk and stared at her pointedly over his glasses with a deep frown creasing his face. “Aloisia, for the last time: if I have to put up with everyone else bowing and scraping at me like I was one of the Sway incarnate, I want you at least to treat me like a man. Saints above woman, there’s still a soldier just like you under these wrinkles and grey hair.” A smile ghosted across his visage, taking the bite out of his words; they had played this game many times before, and no doubt would again.

“As you say, my Lo—general.” She gave him a cheeky grin, and Sigvar chuckled.

After the moment passed, the elderly lord sighed tiredly, carefully pulling the wire frames from his nose and gently placing them in their tooled leather case atop the desk. He looked pensively at the box, and mused aloud, “Say whatever else you will about the Alerites, their technology is quite marvelous.” He barked a laugh, “I just wish I didn’t need to spend a fortune on lenses to even see the words on a page anymore.” He stood up with a soft groan, stretching he back until it gave an audible pop. “Don’t ever grow old, Aloisia; it was the worst decision I’ve ever made.” The general pushed back his chair and walked over to a small table next to the bookshelf behind his desk where he perused the selection set out on a decorative platter and grabbed one of the crystal decanters full of a deep, carmine liquid. Lifting the stopper, he ran the container under his nose and hummed appreciatively at the smell. As he poured the wine into a silver chalice, Aloisia caught the heady scent of florals and berries; no doubt it was a fine vintage. Sigvar looked over his shoulder to her, and raised a brow. “Can I offer you a drink? This cask was particularly fine…” He paused and shook his head before smiling remorsefully at her. “Apologies… I’m growing forgetful in my old age. Water then? Or tea?”

“Water would be wonderful, thank you.” She wasn’t actually thirsty, but she did not want to spurn the offer entirely. She respected Sigvar immensely, both as a soldier and as a man; not only was he an adept strategist and tactician, he also understood the importance of maintaining a personal touch with his forces. Oh, he was a born and bred noble from his head to his toes to be sure, but he had walked through the camp frequently during the war, not just performing inspections but also stopping by the cook-fires and sparring rings to chat with the warriors about their lives and homes. Aloisia remembered one night when the two of them had chatted for an hour about fishing of all things after a bloody ambush had killed several of her friends. The man understood soldiers – no, he understood people – and she loved him for it. Salvar be damned, she would follow Pastok to Haida and back.

Aloisia nodded and murmured her thanks as he handed her a second goblet, this one filled with crisp spring water. The two stood there in companionable silence for a moment, each savoring the drink in hand, before Lord Sigvar motioned her over to the chair across from his desk. “We have a problem, Aloisia. Over the past few months little things have been brought to my attention that point to a thief in our midst, or to someone stealing from our supply caravans. Everything looks to be in order upon arrival, but the numbers just aren’t adding up; you and I both know that the quartermaster is meticulous in her bookkeeping.” Aloisia nodded; the manor’s quartermaster was a parsimonious woman with a rat like visage and a tendency towards hoarding to match. She fought tooth and nail over each and every copper spent, even when it came to the bare necessities of a soldier’s kit; one would think she would rather give up her firstborn child than open her purse strings. No, meticulous wasn’t the word Aloisia would have chosen. More like "anal," or "miserly," she thought with a mental grin.

As though he could read her mind, the wizened general shot her a look that made her shuffle in her chair. “Just today the quartermaster pointed out the discrepancies relating to this month in particular; the missing property has taken a sharp turn for the worse. It seems the earlier thefts were only meant to test the water, and now that they are sure we’re not paying attention, they’ve increased the scope of their project.” He looked towards the window where the sun could be seen beginning its long decent towards twilight. “This is not a small operation, Aloisia; these people know what they are doing and whose palms to grease to keep things quiet. I’m afraid it could be another noble House making their preliminary aggressions in a larger campaign against me. Sway above, but many of them do have reason to hate my guts.” As he shook his head sadly, Aloisia heard him mutter, “You would think they had had enough of killing to last a lifetime.” He shifted his attention back to her with a stern, calculating look that made Aloisia see the proud warrior in his flashing eyes. “I have few people I can trust these days inside of the manor, and even fewer still beyond my walls. You, however, I trust implicitly, and that I why I want you to…”

Aloisia sat up and nodded, listening intently to the Old Goat’s instructions. A smile broke out across her features as he laid out the plan before her. She could not wait to get started.

[Aloisia Novenski]

Aloisia crept cautiously through the dark, careful to avoid patches of dry grass that might rustle and give away her position; even a sound as commonplace as that would be a warning that might draw unwanted attention to her. She could see the outline of the building in front of her, a black mass standing out against the backdrop of the starry, early morning sky. She could see the faint shine of the windows as they reflected the wan light, and was pleased to note they were all dark. Good, she thought with a predatory grin, they’re all still asleep. She had assumed they would be; the sentries assigned with guarding the walls were far away and would have been able to give ample warning to the occupants had trouble arisen. Unfortunately for them, they were not expecting a lone woman sneaking in, and that would be their undoing. Her right hand clenched tightly around the handle and her left around the haft. The smooth wood was solid, comforting. There was no time to rest on her laurels though; Aloisia would have to move quickly to make this plan go off without a hitch. She closed the final few yards to the door, and very, very carefully pulled it open just enough that she could slip inside. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she noted the sounds of deep sleep: here quiet breathing or a snore, there a soft shuffle of someone shifting in their sleep. She raised her arms above her head in a ready position. It was time.

Clang clang clang! Aloisia beat the stick on the cowbell with all the enthusiasm of a toddler as she waved it over her head. A soldier’s day started early, but it was still hours before the sun would even think about shyly peeking over the horizon; the men and women housed in barracks two were – or had been – sound asleep. “Rise and shine, boys and girls, rise and shine! I’ve got work to do, and you’re just the sorry lot who get to help me!” A chorus of groans and muttered oaths answered her shout. “None of that, now! Up and at ‘em! Let’s go, let’s go!” One of the armsmen must have had a lamp on an endtable by their bed, because after a brief flick! flick!, light filled the barracks. That was met with almost as many groans and hisses as her wakeup call.

One of the men who had been cursing a blue streak moments before sat up and slid out of his bunk with a yawn that cracked his jaw. He blinked a few times to clear the haze of sleep from his eyes and smacked his mouth. The warrior looked absolutely pitiful as he peered at her with a hangdog expression on his face and whined, “But Sergeant, it’s still dark out! What are we doing that can’t wait till morning?”

Aloisia set the cowbell down on one of the tables pushed up against the wall, and slid her arm around the bleary-eyed warrior’s shoulder. “Well, I’m so glad you asked cadet. We’re going hunting!”

----------

Feeling her mount shift to and fro as it plodded along beneath her over the dips and rises in the terrain, Aloisia winced in anticipation of the bruises on her rear and the bowlegged gait that would no doubt be waiting once they stopped to camp for the night. Horses, she had long ago decided, were all well and good for cavalry, but she preferred to keep her own two feet planted firmly on the ground instead of dangling some three feet in the air thank you very much! After all, her feet would never get a mind of their own to go haring off at the first thing to spook them, they did not eat a fortune’s worth of feed, and they certainly did not make the camp reek like a barnyard. Well, hers did not anyway. She did take some small comfort, at least, in the fact that they had left the paved roads behind several hours ago; iron shoes were a marvelous invention, but demons take her if they did not make a racket in the streets. Especially, she thought sourly, when their riders were puffed up like strutting peacocks under the attention a mounted column inevitably drew from the peasantry, making their mounts prance like show horses. The recruits had yet to realize that the staring was not all from awe; all too many serfs could well remember their hamlets being raided by companies just like hers not so many years ago, and no small number had been squeezing the shafts of their hoes with unsettlingly neutral expressions. The gelding tossed his head against the reins and whickered, sending a cloud of fog into the chill air. Aloisia eyed the beast askance, double-checking that her feet were in the stirrups and that the butt of her bardiche was firmly set in the repurposed lancer’s cup. She had survived far too many battles to be killed by a fool animal breaking her neck or jostling her weapon into her!

Aloisia reigned in her mount – carefully, so as not to frighten the fickle thing – and held up a gauntleted fist, calling the column to a halt as she scanned their surroundings. The radiant midday sun, unhindered by a single cloud, caught the windswept waves of auburn and gold sedges, transforming the vernal tundra into a rolling blaze as far as the eye could see. Every so often small patches of green, the first growth of the new year, could be seen poking tentatively through the swell of red, but it would be months yet before warmth truly returned to the plain. The specter of frost still clung to the air, and those brave shoots would likely die before spring truly arrived. Far in the distance she could make out what she thought were a herd of caribou grazing placidly by a still partially frozen lake, though several of them had already caught notice of the interlopers and were eyeing them warily. There was life on the steppe, abundantly so, but it was not human. Out here in the no-man’s-land, hours from the nearest settlement worthy of the name, it was hard to imagine that a nation claimed, or even could claim, sovereignty over the land. This was a feral place, yet untouched by the iron plow or the paver’s stone, and judged men just the same as any other creature.

The spangenhelm tethered loosely to her saddle provided a decent enough armrest as she took in the sights. Her gaze, however, was far from passive admiration; Aloisia searched the brush carefully for the glint of metal, or for irregular movement that might indicate a waiting ambush. The Salvic tundra was a wild place indeed, and the men who operated there often plied a trade as uncivilized as their home. With a sword and a few desperate men and women at his back, a bandit could as good as make himself a king out here, and one could bet gold to dirt that his law would be kept at the tip of a spear. More often than not, even when his “subjects” obeyed they would meet that fatal point. Aloisia’s mood turned dark as she remembered more than one ransacked caravan she had come across in these parts. Power, however limited in its scope, gave people funny ideas about their need to follow even the most basic of human laws. Seeing nothing for the moment that hinted at ill intent in the immediate vicinity, she turned in the saddle and glanced back at the cadets behind her. Aloisia was pleased to note that most of them were at least making an effort at being aware of their surroundings, though a few were far too at ease for her taste. She frowned at them, but if there were not looking for danger beyond the column they certainly weren’t looking for it within. I know who’s drawn latrine duty tonight… “Corporal!” Aloisia barked back to the raven-haired woman halfway down the line. “Front and center!”

Her second in command dutifully kneed her mount forward, sidling up next to Aloisia at the head of the group. She was a large woman with more than a bit of padding on her frame, but beneath the weight was a hard core of muscle that she knew how to use. Aloisia was also pleased to note that her eyes never left the tundra until she was immediately next to her; the corporal was a seasoned soldier, and she was not one to let the mundanity of a simple patrol lull her into a state of complacency. “Yes, Sergeant?” the woman asked in a smoke-roughed voice that seemed to match her appearance perfectly; hardly a night went by that the woman was not puffing on a pipe or rolling tobacco.

“Tell me, what do you see there?” Aloisia jerked her head over her gelding’s towards the lone hill breaking up the otherwise level terrain about two miles from where they were currently stopped.

The corporal’s lips grew tight as she frowned sideways at the rise, but she wisely followed her superior’s lead and did not stare pointedly. “Perfect spot for an ambush, ma’am, least as close as you’ll get in these parts.”

Aloisia nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking, corporal. Exactly what I was thinking.” On the otherwise open plains, the mound stuck out like a sore thumb to a seasoned soldier, but most greenhorn travelers and would-be merchants would likely not have thought anything of it, making it an ideal spot for raiders. There was no smoke or other signs of a camp waiting on the far side, but that didn’t mean anything; anyone stupid enough to literally give off smoke signals would soon find his or her ambitions of a “free state” on the plains crushed beneath the boots of a rival or of the lawful authorities. “How much do you want to bet we’ve got company waiting for us?”

The hefty woman raised a surprisingly delicate eyebrow at Aloisia and deadpanned, “No thanks,” before she chucked and patted the side of her pack. “With all due respect Sarge, I’m not an idiot; I’ll keep my coin right where it belongs: in my own purse.” As she looked back to the waiting soldiers, she called, “Sigurd, Roman! Go check out the far side of that hill. Quiet like, mind; Sergeant Novenski thinks we may have some friends over there.” The two men who gave crisp salutes and immediately dismounted from their horses could not have been more different in their appearance nor their upbringings but both were excellent scouts. Roman had grown up on the steppe, the son of the semi-nomadic horse breeders who provided a great deal of the stock and riders for the Salvic cavalry, while Sigurd was city-born in Knife’s Edge, a pickpocket and thief who had escaped the noose by enlisting in the army. Aloisia watched them make their way across the field until, quite suddenly, they seemed to disappear from sight as though by magic. She exhaled softly and settled back into her saddle. And now we wait.

Several tense minutes passed before the two scouts returned, both of them looking sheepish about something. They hadn’t made a bet against her hunch either, so something told the druzhina that sheepish was bad. Very bad. Roman trotted up in front of Aloisia with Sigurd immediately behind. “You were right, Sarge; there’s a group of them over the hill. Maybe fifty in all,” Roman muttered in the slow-spoken accent of his people that seemed to draw out every word just a hair too far. He scratched at the back of his head and broke eye contact before continuing. “They saw us though, damned if I know how they did.” Aloisia’s hand immediately shot for her bardiche as she peered into the vegetation behind the men, looking for signs that they had been followed, before Roman waved his hands in front of his chest. “Nah, it ain’t like that, ma’am! They uhhh… well, they want to parley with you.”

Aloisia stared at the two soldiers, taken aback by the turn of events before she turned her gaze back towards the hill in silent contemplation. Going to a parley with people who did not give a whit about any other form of decency was like sitting down to chat with a rabid dog. Something wasn’t right about this, and it didn’t take a Church Scholar to know it.

[Aloisia Novenski]

The sergeant stood with her corporal some distance from the arranged meeting place, watching the hustle and bustle of men and women preparing. Despite the call for a parley, it seemed that the actual event was to be more of a feast than a meeting of two hostile camps, though something told Aloisia it would be just as tense, no matter the affectation of fellowship. Her jaw dropped lower and lower in shock as more and more items were brought to the field, ranging from trenchers of game and smoked fish, platters of bread and pitchers of wine to the intricately woven rugs favored by the steppe peoples. Either their camp was a very large one, or their lair was close enough at hand that they could grab the items and return quickly. Two men were even struggling under the weight of an enormous chair – a throne, really. It was crafted from rich wood so dark it was nearly black, with armrests carved in the semblance of crouching wolves ready to pounce and a rack of antlers that must have come from a truly impressive buck fastened to the back so as to make it appear as though the person sitting in the chair had horns. The two grunted and cursed as they awkwardly maneuvered the massive thing across the uneven ground to the pile of furs others had laid down and carefully positioned it facing her company. She struggled to keep the grin off her face as she watched. I wonder what poor bastard has to lug that thing around for the “warlord?” For that matter, where in all the Realms did he find such a monstrosity? It wasn’t unusual for these sorts to believe themselves rulers, but to actually have a throne was just absurd. Aloisia looked around, but saw that none of the other… servants? were carrying chairs, and she shook her head in amusement. Her party was to stand, or sit on the ground during the event. Whoever this person was, he had delusions of grandeur for sure.

Aloisia’s amusement fled faster than a hare before the hounds though when she saw several other “freemen” carrying standards to fix next to the chair. Even from a distance she could see that the things hanging from the crossbeam were bones, and she would bet all the lost gold in Raiaera that they were human. The grim totems were arranged in such a way that the skulls sitting atop the post seemed to hover over wings made from humeri, ribs and finger bones. When the wind caught them, they clattered and it sounded like the laughter of a fiend. Her hand itched for the comforting firmness of her bardiche’s haft, but as a sign of good faith she had left it back with the rest of the company. She heard the soft creak of leather next to her as the corporal shifted on her feet and muttered “Fuck me sideways with a knife…” Aloisia could only nod in silent agreement at the crude exclamation. Anyone who felt confident enough to use such macabre symbols in a meeting with soldiers of the realm was either utterly insane or had the power to back up the implied threat. She frowned as she watched the bones swaying in the breeze. Perhaps he was both; sometimes fortune favored the madman, and that was rarely good for anyone else.

The sound of horses whickering behind her drew Aloisia’s attention away from the scene and back towards her band. There had been a great deal of dissension among the cadets about whether or not they should accept the invitation, but she quickly shut down the discussion; if their “friends” already knew they were there, her soldier’s might be able to get away safely, but if the bandits had horses as well… She shook her head as she stared hard at the line. Several of them were fingering the hilts of their swords or the staves of their bows a little too eagerly. She didn’t put much stock in the Church or their Sway, but she offered up a quick prayer nevertheless that none of the recruits would get spooked and fire an arrow into the meeting. If they did, it would result in a massacre, and she was certain that she would not make it out of the improvised feast-hall alive. As it was it would be a miracle if the other party wasn’t put on edge by the hard looks the recruits were sending their way.

A robed figure holding a rough-hewn staff strode down the hill purposefully until he stood next to the throne. His face was shrouded by a deep hood, but hanging over his shoulders and down his chest was a wide band of cloth embroidered with swirls of color done in abstract shapes of wolves and elk. Behind him came five warriors who had, as per the terms of the parley, left their weapons behind as well. The rest of their equipment was of middling quality, did not match and was in various states of repair. Even so, she could recognize several of the insignias sewn on the breasts of their tunics, faded as they were, as belonging to one lord of the realm or another. Here the hawk in flight of House Ladok, there the bear’s paw of Rornikov. Deserters, she decided. Definitely deserters. It was all she could do to keep herself from shaking with rage. She had met commanders during the war who were so incompetent or cruel that mutiny would be deserved, but more often than not deserters were simply disillusioned with the reality of life in the army and decided that banditry sounded more to their liking. How the warlord had managed to wrangle all of them together was another thing to ponder. The corporal must have been thinking along the same lines, because she exhaled slowly in a low, quiet growl. Before Aloisia could hush the woman, the robed man thumped the butt of his staff against the ground, and called out in a deep, loud voice, “The Wolf of the Steppe, the Mighty Hunter! Dmitry Nakovalnya!”

The man who came over the hill next was not what Aloisia had expected. Far from being the hulking behemoth she had imagined, he was actually rather diminutive, shorter than her for certain. His steps were light, almost jovial, and he stopped to pat one of the deserters on the back and whispered something to him that made the man bray with laughter. Dmitry’s dark hair was parted neatly on the side and his goatee looked to be waxed to a fine point. He wore no armor, and in fact hardly looked as though he had ever picked up a weapon a day in his life. For all she knew, perhaps he hadn’t. After the initial surprise, Aloisia settled back into wary watchfulness. Some men were gifted with a silver tongue and used it for deeds as dark as any performed by one with a sword; a well-groomed, well-spoken bandit was still a bandit. Mighty hunter indeed! It’s not so hard to play the wolf when the real hounds are at your beck and call now is it? Dmitry sauntered over to his throne and plopped down into it carelessly before throwing a leg over one of the arms and grinning at Aloisia and the corporal. “Salutations, friends, Be welcome at my fire! We are all free men and women here, so no bowing and scraping; we owe allegiance to no one save ourselves!” Aloisia nodded and smiled at the man, but inside she was seething. Well, you’re “free,” of course, though I don’t think the same can be said of your warriors; they owe allegiance to you. The rouge flourished a hand towards the women and asked, “So, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Now more than ever Aloisia cursed her simple upbringing. For want of a nail? Try for want of an education![i] The dandy looked the type to enjoy all the pageantry of court life, and she for one neither knew nor cared to know the proper protocol in engaging a foreign leader – to use the term very, [i]very loosely. Still, Dmitry seemed to be almost blasé about the entire meeting, utterly unconcerned about the soldiers a quarter of a mile away, so perhaps he really did mean that he did not expect such supplications. She noted that despite his cheerful nature, his eyes were sharp and flickered between her face and her hip before doing the same with the corporal. Neither of them had more than a dagger on them, but the fact that the man had checked spoke to his worldliness and sense of self-preservation. So he’s not a complete fop, Aloisia thought. A good thing to be aware of if things went south. She nodded to the man, a duck of the head low enough for respect but not so far as to be a bow. “I am Aloisia Novenski, of House Novenski, druzhina of the realm in service to Lord Sigvar Pastok, General of the Army of the Holy Church, and this is Corporal Uliyana Vernin, in service to Lord Sigvar as well. We have no quarrel with you and humbly ask for passage across your lands.”

Dmitry sat up in his chair, his carriage completely changed to one of wary readiness, and looked at Aloisia with a small frown. “Sigvar Pastok…” He said the name – without title, Aloisia noted; perhaps he really did believe his talk of equality – slowly, as though giving himself time to mentally do the math. “I know of him. His lands are near Pestovo, yes? Days from here. So what are you doing out on the steppe then?” It wasn’t surprising that the man had recognized Pastok’s name; he had been rather famous during the war, but the rest of what he had said hinted at a knowledge of the noble families of Salvar. What in the world was he doing out here then?

The corporal took a step forward before Aloisia could catch her shoulder, and hissed, “Lord Pastok’s business is his own!” The druzhina looked at Uliyana with murder in her eyes. The woman was loyal to a fault, emphasis on the fault. The warriors behind the throne had begun to mutter aggressively, and a few were shifting into fighting stances until Dmitry held up a hand and stilled them.

The warlord stared at the corporal flatly. “Yes, well, be that as it may, when Sigvar’s business brings armed soldiers to my lands, it becomes my business.” He leaned back once more adopting his casual posture as he looked to Aloisia for elaboration. “Well?”

Maybe the situation could yet be salvaged. Maybe. It seemed as though Dmitry was not offended by her subordinate’s outburst, or perhaps he had simply come to expect it; the man did live in the wilds with a host of supposedly free men and women, so she had to imagine disagreements came up frequently. Aloisia coughed into her hand and the corporal backed up once more, her face crimson with anger and embarrassment. “The General,” she started, hoping that that title at least would not bring ire from either of the two, “is looking into some trouble he believes originated with another House. We truly are just passing through.”

Eyes focused on his nails, Dmitry tsked quietly. “Fine, fine. Go. I don’t have any real issues with you either, and I can’t say I particularly enjoy needless bloodshed. Especially when my men could be hurt in the doing.” He looked up at the two women and grinned. “I’m not a barbarian, after all.” It was all Aloisia could do to not stare at the clattering bones next to the man on the throne. The feast went on for a tense few hours, and a few more points had to be negotiated before they could leave, but the other soldiers were invited down and even managed to be friendly with the bandits. She made sure none of them partook in too much wine, however; they would have to ride on for a while after this. Dmitry may not think himself a barbarian, but it was plain as day to the rest of the world.

[Aloisia Novenski]

Aloisia sighed and counted to ten very slowly in her head. Again. It seemed like she had been doing so all day, and she was getting rather sick of those numbers. The cause of her frustration was riding a sleek, chestnut steppe pony halfway down the column, and seemed to be doing his level best to get himself left in a shallow grave. One of the terms hashed out in the parley had been for the young man named Matvei to accompany them to the edge of Dmitry’s “lands.” He was a scout by profession, or so the warlord had said, one of the ones who had caught Roman and Sigurd as they tried to sneak up on the bandits’ camp judging by the murderous glares her own scouts sent his way. She had hoped, though not really expected, that Matvei might be a fool she could ignore, but the lithe, leathery-skinned man was anything but. He studied the column of soldiers, her, and everything else about them with the intensity of a hawk, his sharp brown eyes flitting from one thing to the next. He carried his bow, a composite thing of horn and glue the steppefolk favored, slanted across the pommel of his saddle with one hand while keeping the other loosely on the string next to the arrow nocked there. At first she had wondered how he could ride with both hands occupied as they were, but she noticed that he was able to guide his horse with only the pressure of his knees. The thought alone made her stomach flip; why on earth would you trust a horse not to throw you to the ground the second you let go of the reins? The nomads of Salvar put far, far too much stock in the beasts by her judgment.

Admittedly, he was quite polite, referring to her as “my lady,” and accepting her orders as well as any other soldier under her command and better than some; she had had none of the problems she expected from a “free man” from him. So, in reality, the mounting frustration she had been dealing with all day had been less about him and more about the recruits. Every time Matvei’s gaze passed over the corporal, the woman frowned and her hand shifted unconsciously to clutch the hilt of her sword at her hip, and the rest of her command was no better; they met his stare with hard, challenging ones of their own. Matvei had tried to strike up a conversation with Roman about the horses, both having come from the steppes, and the sergeant had been afraid that she might have to physically restrain her scout from trying to stab the man. Aloisia could empathize with her band; she did not trust the outsider either, polite words or no, but she was able to bite her tongue and put up with the situation for the day or two it would take to pass through the area. She needed to keep them moving before someone did something they would… well, probably not regret, but it would certainly cause her problems.

The corporal had taken to riding at the front of the row with her, and when Aloisia had called for a break to see to the horses, Uliyana had stayed at her side. “I don’t like this, sarge. Why’s the little bastard with us in the first place?” She looked furtively over her shoulder, but the scout was still examining his horse’s hoof for loose nails in the shoe and rocks. “We don’t need another guide, and one man’s not much of a watch on a force like ours. Not like he could run off and report if we were to kill him.” Aloisia frowned and opened her mouth to tell Uliyana off, but the black-haired woman overrode her. “Not that I think we should, mind, but it just doesn’t make sense.” Her expression darkened and she furrowed her brows in anger. “Swords make sense. Horses are stupid beasts, but they make senses. Men,” she paused to jerk her head back towards their guide, “men don’t; they’ll smile all the while before they stick a knife in your gut.” Aloisia glanced over the woman and found Matvei meeting her gaze. As if on cue, he gave her a small grin and a wave with the hand not holding up a hoof. She nodded in acknowledgement, but admitted to herself that the corporal had a point. It was strange.

“I know, corporal, I know. But what else would you have me do? It was either this or risk foundering the horses or breaking their legs out here on the steppe while we ran.” She ran her hand down her gelding’s nose, careful to avoid its mouth; horse bites hurt, and the demonspawned thing was probably just waiting to take off a few of her fingers. She knew she would want to if someone tried sticking a saddle and bridle on her! As the soldiers mounted again and set off on the last leg of their journey, Aloisia pondered her words to Uliyana. What else can I do indeed…

----------

“My lady druzhina, if I might have a word with you alone?” Aloisia nodded to Matvei and gestured to her right as he heeled his mount forward. The corporal muttered something about seeing to the men and nudged her horse away from the pair; she may not have trusted the scout, but she would not risk her commanding officer’s anger by denying his request for privacy. Besides, the sergeant knew she would be keeping a close eye on their conversation just in case. Aloisia and Matvei sat side by side as she stared out over the last of the steppe, watching it to morph into the fields around the fort. Several of the serfs working the field had noticed her group, and at least one was running up the hill towards the palisade that dominated that area. She nodded to herself as she watched, but made no move to get the column moving again. It was good that they had seen her and were notifying the lord; the last thing she wanted was to anger whoever owned the land this was by bringing an armed force in without permission. That was a surefire way to be “mistaken” for brigands. The silence stretched until Aloisia began to wonder what game the man had been playing at by asking to speak with her, but as she turned in her saddle she found him staring at her. His brown eyes were sharp and calculating as they bored into her own, but she thought she could pick up on something else. A pained twist in his lips, a slight draw of his brows. Was he concerned? The last thing she would have expected was for the man to express worry at the end of their time together. If twenty-odd hot-blooded cadets did not make the man sweat, their departure should hardly even be worth noting.

The scout broke the contact first as he shifted in his saddle and leaned forward to scratch his pony behind the ear. “Have a care, my lady; the road to hell is paved with good intentions and populated by men and women saying, ‘I was just following orders.’” That grimace came back for only a moment before it slid behind that serene mask again. “You’ve been good to me these past few days, and more than that, you’re good with your soldiers. I would hate for you to get mixed up in something that doesn’t concern you.”

Aloisia whipped her head towards the man and scowled. “Is that a threat, freeman?” The hand on her reins was close enough that, if necessary, she could reach her trench knife in time. Maybe. The scout was a skilled fighter in his own rights, and certainly he had the advantage on horseback.

Matvei shook his head and grunted. “No, my lady, only a warning. You’re new to the game, but some of these families have been playing for centuries; their plans run long, their grudges deep, and their audacity knows no limits.” He turned from the manor to stare pointedly at her. “Some of them hate people like you on principle, but any of them would tear you down in a heartbeat if they thought you were an obstacle in their way.”

She nodded slowly, mulling over his words. Nothing he said came as a surprise to her; she had dealt with her fair share of nose-in-the-air bluebloods in her time, but the man clearly wasn’t speaking in generalizations. What had she gotten herself tangled up in? Whatever it was, it was a knotted mess for sure. “Thank you, Matvei, I’ll keep it in mind. You’ll always have a place at our fire.” It was a traditional goodbye between friends among the steppefolk to offer hospitality should they return, and if the scout wasn’t a friend, he was at least a good sight more decent than most.

“You’re welcome, my lady, and you as well; you’ll always have a place at my fire.” Aloisia watched as the man wheeled his pony around and trotted off the way they had come. The sound of hoofbeats drew her focus back towards the fort ahead of her. A column carrying a standard whipping in the wind was approaching, and she needed her attention there. Still, even as she rode forward to meet the newcomers, her mind drifted back to the scout. Would that the world had more of his sort and fewer nobles.