Free The Swordbearer by Glen Cook Page A

closer the aura and Power leaked away from him. He dwindled. He took his first step into a foreign land as Gathrid of Kacalief, a bewildered sixteen-year-old Gudermuther completely unhappy with the fate that had singled him out.
    Calculation replaced fear in the eyes of one Brotherhood observer. He was a fat man ail in red. He summoned his henchmen.
    Certain allied Kings did the same.

Chapter Six
    The Allies Rogala stared at the map Gathrid had drawn, committing it to memory. The youth said, "It's pretty rough. It's been two years since I studied geography. Right now we're about two hundred yards inside the Bilgoraji border, here."
    "It's good enough. The shape of the land hasn't changed, just the borders and names. Not much left of Anderle, is there?"
    "You didn't leave a lot to build on. The Hattori and Oldani barbarians came out of the north and overran what was left. They set up a lot of little kingdoms of their own. Those have been banging away at each other for centuries, trying to take each other over. There're only a few of the original royal families left. Then the Emperor plays one King off against another, trying to weaken them, hoping to resurrect the Imperium's old glory. All the Kings say, yeah, it's great to have the Empire around-as a referee in their squabbles-but they don't want it making a real comeback. When you add the Brotherhood to that already thick soup, you have a real devil's stew."
    They had been given a tent near the edge of the Alliance camp. Elsewhere, captains and Kings were trying to adjust to the presence of the Swordbearer and, perhaps, arrogating to themselves decisions concerning his fate.
    Gathrid had wanted to storm through camp raising hell because the Alliance hadn't rescued Gudermuth. Rogala had restrained him, had made him sleep, and now was trying to unravel an international political structure so confusing, so byzantine, that even lifelong participants became bewildered by its complexities. Gathrid's map demonstrated the schizophrenia of present-day boundaries and loyalties.
    "Whenever there's a wedding, cities and castles and counties are given as dowry, so all over you have these speckles of one King's territory surrounded by another's. Somebody is always at war with somebody else. Sometimes it looks like they're fighting themselves. Almost chaos, but not anarchy. And the Reds and Blues keep stirring the pot for their own reasons, which most of the time nobody can figure out. The Red Magister, Gerdes Mulenex, wants to be Fray Magister, or chief of all the Orders. A Blue has that job now. Klutho Misplaer. I don't think he'd just give it up."
    "How many of these countries belong to the Alliance?"
    "Most of them, directly or indirectly. Like, say, Ki-mach Faulstich is part, because this is Bilgoraj and he was one of the founding Kings. Even if they're not here in camp, everybody who's related to him, or protected by him, will get pulled in whether they want to or not." Gathrid leaned over, tapped the map. "The really complicated area is west of Bilgoraj and Malmberget. In Gudermuth we missed the worst of it. We minded our own business. Everybody looks west, mostly, toward Sartain. Anderle isn't what it was, but its capital is still the cultural wellspring of the west.''
    Rogala shook his head, muttered what may have been, "A classic case of feudalism gone to seed."
    Louder, "Somebody's coming. Let me do the talking."
    Gathrid listened. Several seconds passed before he caught the metallic rhythm of soldiers in cadence. The tramp-tramp stopped not far from the tent. One man moved closer.
    Rogala folded the map. "Just follow my lead," he said. "Try not to give away how green you are."
    "My Lords?" a voice called. "The Council of Torun has convened. Will you attend?"
    "Be arrogant," Rogala whispered. He threw the tent flap back. Gathrid slipped outside, stared at the knight who had come for them. The man was shaky and pale and avoided his eye. His men-at-arms were just as cowed.
    "So