No Mood for Games
"If I'm free, it's because I'm always running."
- Jimi Hendrix
"Hold still!"
Sweden clenched his fist into a tight ball, pulled back and rotating his fist jauntily in a comical parody of fisticuffs, he let loose a wicked right hook that took his adversary clean off his feet. The adversary in question was a short, rotund Poan conscript who had said something unsavory about Sweden's mother as he had entered the bustling canteen tent.
Sweden had never known his mother. He had listened to his father, Jordan speaking fondly of the woman and had formed a strong emotional connection with the idea of his mother. Strong enough to defend the honor of someone who he had never met, nor for that matter, even known by name. Jordan never spoke of who Sweden's mother was.
Sweden was fresh from a successful scouting mission and was the last person the little Poan should have goaded. The conscript flew almost ten feet back, landing in a crumpled heap at the feet of Cyprus as he ducked into the large tent that served as a canteen for the forward cohort. A sudden hush descended over the men who had been observing the fight. A few bets had been laid but the arrival of the steward meant all bets were off. All eyes were quickly averted and everyone was suddenly very interested in their food.
"Sweden, my lad. Why do you play so rough with the children?" Cyprus was jovial as he stepped gingerly over the prostrate conscript.
"Cyprus, old boy!" Sweden responded, rubbing his fist gingerly, "Sometimes I forget my own strength."
The relationship between Sweden and the old Steward had deep roots. Sweden and his twin brother Denmark had been raised, educated, and trained under Cyprus's watchful eye.
Cyprus was playing the long game. He cared about the future of the Poan clans. So much so, that he had sacrificed most of his life ensuring that their father did not squander the survival of the nation by neglecting the education of his heirs. Jordan was a formidable warrior and had the invaluable ability to maintain high morale and fierce loyalty from the men under his command. In his youth, it was this charisma that had enabled him to form the original bands of men that had quickly coalesced into a powerful standing army. Few of the local warlords had the will or the manpower to stand against him and the clans had quickly consolidated into the now dominant Poan kingdom. Morale and loyalty had carried him surprisingly far, but unfortunately, he was a terrible commander and an even worse politician. Jordan was quick to anger and incapable of empathy or tact, and could not put together a strategy or battle plan if his life depended on it. Cyprus had made himself useful to the fledgling Lord and had become the true intellectual strength behind the Poan empire. In devoting time to properly raise Jordan's children he had sought to ensure that they did not suffer from his character flaws, thus protecting the future of the empire.
The little conscript scrambled to his feet, white-hot rage screaming in his eyes. In his daze, he had not noticed the old Steward standing behind him.
"Fuck you, Sweden!" he raged, spitting blood as his anger frothed and bubbled uncontrollably, "I learned something about you today."
He came forward, waving an accusatory finger.
"You, that deformed prick of a brother of yours, and your beloved bitch of a mother are the reason that we're in this shit in the first place."
The steward pulled his rapier from beneath his cloak. He stepped towards the angry conscript and in the same motion pierced his heart with the blade. The diminutive Poan collapsed forward, dead before his head hit the ground. Cyprus pulled the blade from his back and wiped it nonchalantly on the poor fool's coat before spiriting it back into the folds of his cloak. He was in no mood for games and he knew that this action would command the level of attention he desired. He made a mental note to investigate the source of the little Poan's accusations. Someone knew something that should not be known, and that worried him.
Sweden stooped beside the conscript and checked for a pulse. He took a deep breath and sighed. He knew what was coming next. He knew Cyprus well enough to know when his behavior was being driven by something. Usually, something Jordan wanted. He was also well aware that his brother Denmark had, as yet, not reported back from his mission.
"Was there really any need for bloodshed?"
"When is there not?" Cyprus retorted, "life would be so much simpler if every conflict between parties was resolved with a death."
"Spare me the philosophy old man," Sweden replied. "What do you want?"
Cyprus did not respond. Instead, he turned to address the canteen.
"I've never known emberlight chow to be so quiet. Not even a clink of knife on plate. It’s unusual. Is something stopping you from enjoying your meals?"
Business returned to normal in the canteen with an audible whoosh.
The head cook, an enormous man whose width nearly matched his height, approached the steward waving his ladle at the body on the floor.
"I'm not dealing with this mess, sir." He said, stabbing his ladle angrily at the corpse, "That's the second body in as many weeks that has found its way onto my floor. I'm right in the middle of serving chow and cannot afford to have my men diverted to deal with a stiff."
"It shall be dealt with." Cyprus dismissed the cook with a curt gesture.
The cook had survived long enough in Lord Jordan's army to know not to press the issue with the Steward. He nodded, spun around, and rushed back into the thick of his busy kitchen, barking orders as he went.
"Your father plans to lead a search party at first light," Cyprus said as he watched the cook disappear into the maelstrom. He turned to look at Sweden.
"I would appreciate it if you would accompany him."
Sweden studied the old stewards face, he glanced down at the body sprawled out on the dirt beside them. He knew he was Denmark's best chance of being found, but something about the dead conscript’s words and Cyprus's instant reaction made him suspicious.
"You know you can't kill me if I say no." He replied, matter-of-factly. He understood a request from Cyprus was equal to an order from his father.
"This is true." The Steward acknowledged,
"However, that little execution was not for your benefit. Anyway, you know damn well that I have more useful forms of leverage I can bring to bear upon you."
Cyprus sighed before continuing.
"It makes me sad to think that I might have to resort to petty threats to motivate you. It is for your brother's sake after all."
"You no more care for my brother's well-being than you do for the corpse of that man beside you," Sweden responded, pointing sharply at the conscript’s body. "You are simply looking to have the issue resolved as quickly as possible and you know that I'm the only ranger here who has a hope of finding him."
Cyprus said nothing.
"You know he's probably dead, don't you?" Sweden continued.
The cold reality of what he had just said took Sweden by surprise. His brother probably was dead, at best, or in the hands of the cavers at worst. The thought of what the cavers might be doing to a live captive instantly settled his appetite. He looked at the Steward with tired eyes.
"My father is not a wise man. Everyone knows it is you who we should thank for the progress we are making in this campaign. I would have gone anyway, you old fool."
"You are yet to show wisdom yourself young master Sweden. You have misjudged me. I had intended only to request your assistance not insist upon it."
Cyprus waved the moment away. "No matter, you ride at dawnlight. The Swarming will soon be upon us. I for one would prefer that this campaign is wrapped up before then."
With that, the old Steward took his leave. He found the two menservants as they were returning from the pigsty and left them with instructions to dispose of the conscript’s body too. His last job for the evening was to locate a reasonably sober physician to administer to Jordan's ailments. Once that was completed he returned to his tent and spent the remainder of emberlight reworking his strategies to accommodate this new development.
