Parno's Peril Page 19

  “I suppose they will,” she agreed.

  “I need to go see how Harrel is doing,” he changed the subject just as abruptly as he'd raised it. He suddenly reminded her of a caged lion, testing the strength of the bars that held him.

  “I will walk over there with you,” she decided. Rather than object, he merely nodded. Edema was wearing wool pants and a matching shirt rather than her normal frilly women's clothing. Clothing more suitable to camp living. Comfortable, serviceable and practicable.

  The two walked in silence to the tent that had once been used as Parno's command tent. They stopped outside rather than step inside. One of the guards stuck his head inside to announce them. Less than a minute later, Stephanie herself stepped outside.

  “Good afternoon, dear,” Edema spoke for both of them. “How is he?”

  “He's developed a fever,” Stephanie sighed. “That's not unexpected but it is undesirable. The problem is trying to find the cause of the fever. Fever normally is a sign of an infection somewhere, but I can't locate the source. It may be a piece of his uniform we missed during his surgery, in which case there's nothing I can do about it now. I thought we had gotten it all but it's possible we missed something and it doesn't take much.”

  “What else could it be?” Parno asked.

  “It could be something those damnable knives were coated with,” she admitted. “I don't know. If it was then there's nothing I can do about that, either. Without knowing what was on it, I can't treat it.”

  “I need to go,” Parno said suddenly. “I’ll be back shortly.

  -

  The as yet unnamed surviving assassin was chained hand, foot and neck to a tree and under constant guard by four members of the Black Sheep. Three times he'd attacked them and each time been handed his ass, and in one case a tooth. He had learned that attacking them was not the way to freedom.

  He straightened from his position against the tree as he saw his target coming toward him, along with an oriental man and a tall, dark skinned man dressed in gray and black.

  “Your knives are unique,” the Prince said at once with no pretense at a preamble. “Designed only as weapons of murder. What do you coat them with?”

  The assassin smiled up at him but remained silent.

  “I have no time for frivolity,” Parno warned. “You and your friends have killed already and a good man lies sick even now because of you. I want to know what you coated those damned blades with!”

  “Your friend is dying?” the assassin spoke for the first time. “I am his only help, no?”

  “No,” Parno said. “Merely his fastest. One last chance; tell me what coated that blade.”

  The assassin remained quiet, studying the Prince carefully as he turned to his associates.

  “Find out what he's using,” he said simply and then walked away. The oriental looked down at the assassin and smiled slightly.

  “I wish to know what it is that your knife is coated with,” he said simply. “You will tell me.”

  -

  Screams were heard throughout the camp but word spread that it was nothing to be concerned about. Merely the last Norland assassin paying for his crime. The screams didn't last long. Fifteen minutes at most. Soldiers within hearing distance exchanged money in many cases after having made bets on how long the screams would last.

  -

  “Nightshade,” Cho Feng reported twenty minutes later. “The blades are coated with the juice of a plant that is commonly called Nightshade. Bittersweet to be exact. A coating of the juice of berries that is allowed to dry on the surface of the blades before use.”

  “Nightshade,” Stephanie almost spat the word. “Perfect.”

  “What is it?” Parno asked.

  “Bittersweet can cause convulsions if given in large dosages, but wouldn't necessarily account for his fever. It might, but it's not certain. There's not much we can do for it except keep him hydrated. I'm trying something I learned from ancient texts, but our methods are crude compared to theirs,” she pointed to a hanging bottle with a line running to Harrel's mouth.

  “In ancient times, they would have done that through a needle into his arm,” she explained. “We don't have that ability, at least not yet, but we have run a long tubing down his throat to his stomach and are continually giving him water. Hydration at this point is all we can do. Try and combat both the fever and the poison. This particular toxin is not deadly except in large doses, at least not normally. While coating a blade would ensure someone who didn't know what was done to them more likely to perish, it isn't a sure thing. Normally you would be more concerned with the damage done by removing that horrid blade.”

  “But thanks to you, we aren't,” Parno nodded. “Stephanie, I can't thank you enough for being here,” he said softly. “While Harrel may yet die, he'd already be dead if not for you.”

  “I'll do my best to save him in return for his saving you,” she said just as softly. “There is no one who means more to me.”

  “Even now?” Parno asked, eyebrow raised.

  “Forever,” she nodded. “There will never be anyone who matters more.”

  Parno was stunned to hear her say that even though Edema had already mentioned it. He turned and walked out of the tent and back to his quarters, where he simply sat down on the bed. He sat there for a long time, thinking. Not looking for answers, but just thinking.

  Just thinking about everything.

  -

  “His fever has broken,” Stephanie reported when Parno next went to check on Harrel. It was early evening, the camp preparing to retire other than those on duty.

  “His fever began going down late this afternoon for no reason I can find,” she admitted. “I don't know of anything we did that would have helped other than the cold water baths. That is proven to help, but usually not so rapidly. It may simply be that whatever caused it was not as serious as I had first believed. Whatever the cause, so long as it's not some more serious underlying condition, I'll just be happy with the result.”

  “I have to trust your judgment there,” Parno said with a nod. “I don't know enough to make an informed decision one way or another.”

  “That's what you have doctors for,” Stephanie smiled thinly. “If anyone could do it then we'd be out of a job.”

  Parno laughed lightly at that, but in truth there was very little humor.

  “You need to get some rest,” he told her, seeing the dark circles beneath her eyes. “You're no good to him if you're too tired to make decisions.”

  “I was going to tell you the same thing,” she raised an eyebrow. “You have to rest so your mind is clear to make good decisions.” She was sitting next to him and suddenly laid her head over on his shoulder as she had many times in the past.

  “I admit I am tired,” she stifled a yawn. “I don't remember how long now I've been awake.”

  “Then it's time for you to sleep a while, wouldn't you say?” he asked her, a bit of mirth in his voice. When she didn't answer he looked down only to see she was sound asleep.

  “Looks like I was right,” he said to himself. He looked up at that guard.

  “Is that young physician that's been helping here?”

  “Arrived about fifteen minutes ago, sir,” the man nodded.

  “Then tell him that Lady Stephanie has retired for the evening unless there is an emergency,” Parno ordered, gathering the sleeping young woman in his arms. “I'm taking her to her tent. Lady Edema can see to her wellbeing.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Parno was careful not to disturb her as he carried Stephanie across the short way that separated the VIP quarters from where Harrel was being treated. One of the guards on that tent saw him approaching and called a warning within which saw Edema emerge, throwing on a shift.

  “Is-”

  “She's fine,” Parno said softly. “Just exhausted. I left word that she would be retiring for the evening barring an emergency.” He slipped inside and Edema pointed to a bed. Parno careful
ly eased Stephanie's sleeping form onto the soft bed and stepped back.

  “I'll leave it to you to... well,” he motioned to where Stephanie lay sleeping and Edema nodded.

  “I can take care of her,” she promised. “Good night, dear,” she kissed Parno on the cheek and received one in return.

  “Good night.”

  Parno made the solitary walk back to his tent still thinking about all that had happened in the last two days. What had passed between he and Stephanie, the things Edema had told him, the time spent with Jaelle, all of it.

  His head was in such a swirl by the time he returned that he had no idea how he would ever sleep. He never remembered lying down, let alone drifting into slumber.

  -

  Therron was not accustomed to discomfort but he'd had to learn on the fly. Riding until dark and then stopping only for lack of light left little in the way of amenities in camp. His men cared for their horses and his along with the two pack horses they had. There wasn't much selection in the way of provisions, really. Some jerked meat, dry cheese and some bread that had begun to mold three days into the trip. They had gathered a bit of wild fruit along the way and one Marine who was skilled with a bow had taken a very small deer which they had cooked over a fire. Therron had wanted to object to the fire but ten hungry Marines who were already in a sour mood made a good argument.

  Another three days, he figured, and the lieutenant agreed with him. Three days until they were well inside the Coastal Province territory, and another ten perhaps until they were in Norfok. What happened between now and then was anyone's guess.

  Therron had been out of the loop for a long time and had no idea what news there was from the palace of the war front. For all he knew his inept brothers had already lost the kingdom to the Nor.

  No, he shook that thought away. No, say what you would about Memmnon, he would never allow the Kingdom to fall without a fight, even if he had to kill Parno himself. For that matter, his father was not an idiot. While Parno might have 'won' a single, small engagement, that alone didn't mean he could manage an entire military apparatus. Tammon would see that even if Memmnon did not. There would still be a Kingdom, of that he was sure.

  That meant his work had to concentrate on removing Tammon and proving Memmnon unfit. Eliminating Parno would not prove difficult once those things were done as no one would defend the youngest McLeod, including the family. So, moving Memmnon out of contention was the main thing. With that done he could ease Tammon into retirement and assume the throne. Tammon was already in ill health so doing something along those lines would work.

  So long as he could get the assistance he needed.

  A single division of CPC cavalry and he would be King Therron inside a month. Probably less. Sherron would bitch and moan about being 'traded' to Picon, but tough. In four or five years, once she had taken firm control of the CPC and perhaps birthed a son, then she could 'negotiate' for charitable terms by which the Coastal Province Coalition could be incorporated into the Kingdom of Soulan in its entirety. Their commercial contracts with foreign powers alone would be worth making any number of concessions to get them folded into his rule, essentially returning his sister to him once Picon suffered a fatal heart attack. Or whatever.

  But all of that was in the far future. Right now, he was leaning against a log somewhere in what he believed to be the Lower Calina Forest. If he was right then he was already inside the CPC, but still well within reach of a Soulan horse unit. It was a gamble, but a good one as most of the best troops were gone north to help with the invasion. It would work. It had to work.

  No one but he was fit to be King, Therron told himself as he settled in to try and sleep. His kingdom needed him. So, for their sake it had to work.

  -

  “Are all our men in position?” Allen asked.

  “Yes sir,” a dozen voices answered at once.

  “This is how I want this to go,” he drew a diagram in the dirt with a fire-burned stick. The fire they were gathered around was the only one allowed, and it only by necessity. “Walt will attack first from the east,” he made a rough arrow in the dirt. “Once he is engaged, Coe rides in from the north and Vaughan from the south. We hit them just as they're waking up and starting their day. They'll be at their worst. That General we killed this morning had orders to relieve this outfit and send them back to the lines on a three-day forced march.”

  “It is entirely possibly that there's another infantry division on the way up this road, or will be by the time we get half way home. If there is, we can hit it, too, and do the same thing to them. I don't think anyone is opposed to our returning to the Prince to report three Imperial Infantry divisions destroyed in their entirety, are they?”

  Feral grins around the fire were his only answer.

  “All right. Catch regiments here, here and here,” he outlined where back stopping regiments from each division would be posted. “No one escapes to the east. I want no warning of what's happening to get back to that bunch until it's too late. Preferably no one escapes at all, but it's war; shit happens. Let’s just do our best to make sure it happens to them, not us.”

  “Black Flag?” Vaughan asked, more from habit than need.

  “All the way,” Allen nodded. He looked around the fire and found no more questions.

  “You have your orders, gentlemen.

  -

  “Your mans say you want talk at me.”

  Wilson looked up to see Blue Dog standing before him, bow in hand. The savage stank to high heaven but Wilson was used to that by now.

  “Yes, I did ask to see you if you were available,” Wilson tried to sound as if he considered Blue Dog a near equal. “I was wondering if your men had been scouting any to the west of our position?”

  “Saw your mans go out, followed them there,” Blue Dog nodded. “Hard move in rain with so much. They did okay.” The compliment sounded as if it had hurt him to say.

  “Well, that is part of their training,” Wilson nodded casually. “What I was wondering was if you had seen any movement among the Soulanies to the west. Have you seen any of their horsemen that far out?”

  “Not go far or see much, but no Southmans,” Blue Dog shook his head. “Southmans would make battle anywhere they see us.”

  “What if you outnumbered them?” Wilson asked.

  “Southmans still give battle,” Blue Dog remained solid. “Unafraid of Painted Warriors.” Only proven warriors among their people were allowed to wear more than the basic face paint of their unique tribe, Wilson recalled.

  “I was wondering if I could persuade you to make a large showing of yourself in this wide area,” he made a circle of about twenty miles around Unity. “Be seen, skirmish the Southerners, raid anyone still there, whatever you choose to do, but make a strong showing.”

  “How long?” Blue Dog asked, considering. “Moon come soon. Better for night raids.”

  Wilson thought of that. They were on the new moon now so moving at night meant using torches and lanterns.

  “Can you move in daylight for a few days waiting on the moon, and then move at night?” Wilson asked, suggesting a compromise. “That would put you in position already when the moon comes full.”

  Blue Dog stepped forward and surveyed the map. Suddenly a finger came up and stabbed a spot to the southwest of Unity.

  “No here. No tribe go here,” he said it quietly. “Here, long ago, many die. Something wrong with land, or maybe water, but many die. No reason, no sign, just death. Some go to see, they die too. All who go there die. We not go here.”

  “Do you know what-”

  “Blue Dog say 'no reason',” the Chieftain sounded irritated. “No sign. We ride, we look, we fight if look good, but we not circle. Stay away from here,” he stabbed the spot again.

  “Very well,” Wilson nodded, making a circle on the map to inform his staff of what Blue Dog had said. “When will you go?”

  “Two days, no more,” Blue Dog replied at once, already moving tow
ard the door. “We go.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  -

  “I'm riding in the carriage tomorrow,” Winnie said as she gingerly sat down on a log around the fire.

  “Why is that?” Case asked innocently. He had tried to get her to ride the carriage earlier.

  “My as-, my backside says I'm going to,” she shot back and he laughed.

  “I told you riding every day is something you have to work up to. Just because you're in good shape doesn't mean you can ride all day, every day.”

  “I can run further in a day than we're moving,” Winnie complained. “Why is riding so much harder?”

  “First of all, when you're running what are you carrying?” Case asked.

  “Well, my bow, quiver, my knife and possibles bag. That's it I guess,” she shrugged.

  “So, not much of anything then,” Case nodded. “Now how far and fast could you run carrying just what your own horse carries for you? Bedroll, bags, whatnot.”

  Winnie didn't answer but nodded her head slowly as what Case said made sense. She spoke after a minute of thought.

  “Still don't explain why I hurt so bad.”

  “Different muscles,” Case informed her. “You use an altogether different muscle group riding than you do running. Particularly your thighs and buttocks. Not to mention the strain on your lower back if you aren't used to riding.”

  “How do I get rid of the soreness?” Winnie wanted to know.

  “You have to work through it or have it massaged out,” Case shrugged. “In your case, I'd say you're going to have to work through it. Well,” he paused, clearly thinking.

  “You better not be thinking what I think you're thinking,” Winnie said glaringly and Case's face flushed slightly in anger.

  “I'll pretend for both our sake you didn't just say that,” he told her flatly. “I remembered that at least four other women are riding and likely to be in the same shape. It's possible you could trade with them. Scratch each other’s back, so to speak. And I’ll thank you, milady, not to speak to me so informally in the future if you are then going to take offense to informal speech. I shall make sure you're notified when supper is ready, and I remind you now to check with the wagon train before dark to see if there are any problems. Good day.”