“My oath is to the rightful king, and he is not that man. Thus, my honor is not spoiled, but elevated by my actions here.”
“Well said,” murmured General Leelin.
General Haratin sported a sour frown as he strode from his place near Gwyn’s chair. “I know of the Knight of Arnnor. You’ve lost several campaigns against the northern Fraeli Keeps. For what were you decorated? Feats of outstanding stupidity?” He barked a laugh and several seasoned generals joined him.
Bened colored and lifted his head to meet Haratin’s derision with a sneer. “My campaigns in the north were well plotted and executed. Had we more men and resources than the Crow King afforded us, we’d have taken Keep Montré. As to Keep Canad, it was an ill-advised effort. I told the Crow King as much. He was a fool not to heed me. As to my decorations, I was honored with them for different campaigns, no more or less worthy than my northern battles. A loss does not undo the glory of other days.”
“But losing lives in battle is the responsibility of he who commands,” Haratin growled.
“Indeed, General Haratin.” Bened’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “Such as at Suffon and Kender.”
Haratin turned a brilliant red and Gwyn feared he would explode in his rage. “How dare you broach a subject you know nothing—?”
“On the contrary,” said Bened in a low, calm tone. “I know a great deal. I’ve studied your shoddy war tactics since my infancy and found glorious sport in improving each one.” A smirk crawled across his lips.
Haratin charged forward, drawing his blade. Bened fleetly rose, pulling his sword to meet his challenger.
Gwyn pushed from his chair and raised a hand. A barrier sprang up between them, shimmering with a faint pearlescent sheen, harder than rock. Haratin’s sword met the barrier with a deafening clang, and he stumbled back, sword slipping from his fingers.
Lawen took a single step forward where he stood on Gwyn’s right side. “There will be no duel before the king, my lords. Contain yourselves and behave as sensible Simaeri soldiers under the Unicorn banner.”
Bened sheathed his broadsword and dropped to one knee, clapping a hand to his breastplate. “Forgive me, sire. I provoked General Haratin needlessly.”
“It isn’t my forgiveness you must seek,” Gwyn replied quietly, “but that of the man whose pride you’ve injured.”
A vein pulsed near Bened’s eye, but still kneeling, he angled himself toward Haratin and bowed his head low before the barrier. “My humblest apologies, General, for thoughtless words in a moment of heat. I failed to give you the proper respect afforded to an officer so long dedicated to the service of his country, no matter the ineptitude of its execution.”
Haratin’s eyes widened as splotches of red dotted his face. He spluttered and whirled toward Gwyn, stabbing a finger at his offender. “You see, Your Majesty? This uncouth pup has insulted me yet again! I demand satisfaction.”
Gwyn stepped from the dais. The hum of the barrier murmured in his ear as he stood before Bened. “You will have it, General Haratin, though it will not be by the drawing of blood. Sir Bened Arnnor, do you deny that your words to General Haratin have been intentionally injurious?”
“No, sire. I meant every one to cut.”
“Why?”
Bened shifted to bow toward Gwyn and raised his eyes. “Because he’s a fool, and every student of warfare knows it well.”
“Yet you said yourself that years of service to his country affords the general a certain level of respect, did you not?”
“I did, sire.”
“Are you a man of your word, sir?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And you have sworn your fealty to me,” Gwyn said quietly.
“Yes, sire. Wholeheartedly.”
“Then you will submit to my judgment?”
“Whatever it be,” said Bened, “I will view it as justice.”
“Then you will act under General Haratin’s command as his aide for three months.”
Bened’s jaw fell open. “B-but, sire—”
Gwyn spoke over his protests. “If during that time, you prove yourself as loyal as you say, and if I am satisfied by your efforts to place respect where it belongs regardless of your personal opinions, I will give you a contingent of your own and you will stand equally with Generals Haratin and Leelin at my war council. I have heard of your cunning and bravery. Let me see them, and you will be rewarded.”
Bened closed his mouth and bowed his head for several heartbeats. “Sire, your judgment is fair, but I fear for my wellbeing. General Haratin nearly cleaved me in two for my insolence. Will he not make my duties hard beyond enduring to be avenged?”
“Possibly he will,” Gwyn said, nodding. “And if that should happen, I will reverse your roles over the next three months, so that the general knows better the demands of justice.” He turned toward Haratin. “Do I make myself plain, General?”
Haratin scowled but inclined his head. “I’d not stoop to such a level, Your Majesty. I too value the knight’s cunning, and I will make full use of it.”
“Very good.” Gwyn looked again at Bened. “I would have a private word with you on another matter. This council of war will resume on the morrow.”
The armored men filed from the tent, leaving Gwyn and Lawen alone with the decorated knight.
Gwyn sighed. “Please rise.”
Bened climbed to his feet.
“I am sorry you had to provoke General Haratin that way,” Gwyn said. “I’d much rather have given you your own force of arms immediately.” His eyes narrowed. “But I will not allow pride and arrogance to run amok among my council. You should have held your tongue before a seasoned officer, Sir Knight.”
“I realize that now, sire. I fully understand your actions. They were just.”
“I’m glad you see sense. But enough on that. I placed you with General Haratin for two reasons.” Gwyn strode to his chair and sat. “First, to teach you some much-needed humility. But also, because General Haratin is not a competent strategist. His plans are simple to predict. He spreads his forces across a field in perfect rows to be picked off easily. You, Sir Bened, have a more unique approach to combat which may give us the edge we need in this war.”
Bened nodded, eyes bright. “Stealth, sire.”
“Exactly. Our tactics must carry an unpredictable element.”
“Such as with your dragon.” Bened grinned. “It was a brilliant stroke, sire. I was already on my way when I learned of your victory at Bayton. I came with greater haste after that, eager to serve a king whose cleverness is such as yours.”
“That was not my cleverness, but the heroic genius of one of my men. You see, Sir Knight? A war is not won by one man’s prowess, but by the careful blending of many minds. That is how we’ll win, if win we can.”
“Sire, we will win,” Bened said, “for I cannot long abide failure.”
Chapter 7
Two days later Gwyn received word that supplies would arrive at Bayton within the week. Relieved, he entered the port city again and rode to the square, now cleared of the remains of the dead. A tinge of dark magic still permeated the air; Aluem shifted as Gwyn studied the three men before him.
The city’s magistrates, Lord Breye, Lord Tull, and Lord Succunder, stood somber and silent in robes of scarlet bearing the crest of the Crow King.
Gwyn inclined his head. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
Lord Breye, eldest and senior of the three heads of Bayton, sneered. “We do so as prisoners. We do not acknowledge your claim to Simaerin, nor that you are anything more than a malcontent youth thirsting for power and blood. What right have you to bombard our city with your rebel forces and drive away the Crow King’s protection?”
“Protection? You astound me. He locked you within Bayton to starve, yet you declare his act a noble one?”
Lord Succunder scoffed. “He taught a valuable lesson to the rabble who would openly defy him. Those vile souls who wield magic brought the king
’s wrath down upon Bayton. We approved of his actions against such blasphemers.”
Gwyn’s hands curled into fists. “You approved of the death sentence the tyrant king sealed upon your city? Blind, foolish, heartless souls! Do you care one whit what happens to your fellows? Women and children have died these past fifteen months. Your trade has halted. Your food stores are used up. Even your fresh water is nearly depleted. Bayton dwells by the east sea, but you’re virtually cut off from its riches, and you approved it? Did you desire so much to die in the name of loyalty?”
Lord Breye raised his chin. “We die by Afallon’s will. Had you not invoked the Crow King’s wrath, this would not have gone on so long. It is at your feet that the blood of the fallen rests, Gwynter ren Terare! Your rebellion will quake Simaerin for decades to come, and what befalls your kind is no one’s fault but your own. Can you in good conscience plunge this country into civil war? Is the throne so important to you? Pah! You’ll never sit upon it, little boy. We loyalists shall never bow the knee to a usurper.”
Lawen urged his horse forward several paces. “Oh? How odd then to see so many doing just that. You are the fools. You’ve bowed to a usurper these many years. The Crow King is no Simaeri king. He’s not human at all. The Crow King is Ilidreth.”
Gwyn reached a hand toward his brother. “Enough. We’ve no evidence to present to them. Your words sound ludicrous.”
The magistrates stared at Lawen.
“Ahh,” said Lord Tull, speaking for the first time. He was a short, balding man, with sharp eyes and a viperous smile. “I see. A clever move, Lord ren Terare. Gather the madmen and lunatics to your banner. Use them to win your throne. Well played, but it will avail you nothing. The Crow King shall long stand watch over Simaerin, and none shall be his end.”
A chill raced through Gwyn, crawling like ants along his insides. “You’re a mage of Corvus. I know your kind well.”
The magistrate’s smile widened. “I am but a servant of the Crow King.”
“Just as Lord Traycen ren Lotelon was,” said Gwyn. “The Crow King’s mindless puppet, a mere extension of his hand. This is how he has slithered his way into the great cities of Simaerin. You already know the truth, Lord Tull. You know the Crow King’s blood, and you care not a whit.” He turned from the mage and caught Lord Breye’s gaze. “Food and clothes will arrive here soon from Charquae. You would be foolish to refuse them. Let your people eat at my expense and know that I freed Bayton not for my sake or yours, but for the oppressed people of Simaerin.”
He wheeled Aluem around and trotted from the square, Lawen, Haratin, Bened, and several other officers at his back. Along the street, Gwyn caught sight of a little girl leaning from a second-story window of a scarred townhouse. She waved at him, a shy smile on her lips, dark hair long and loose against her shoulders. Next second, someone pulled her inside and drew the curtain tight.
He smiled to himself, relieved children still survived here. The Crow King hadn’t murdered them all.
Part II
Crossing the Delesar
Chapter 8
Camped on the banks of the Delesar, Gwyn stared at the missives clutched in his fingers. He sat on a rotted-out log, listening to the rush of the ornery old river as it carried chunks of ice toward the eastern channel.
The two letters contained the second and third strands of unwelcome news in recent hours. The first had come last night, bearing a report that Charquae, seat of Gwyn’s greatest support, had fallen under attack. The Crow King had sent a dragon—a red-scaled, fire-breathing behemoth. Gwyn could only pray that Nox and Parsha, whom he’d sent out as soon as they’d returned from their daily scouting, would reach Charquae soon enough to stop the dread beast’s barrage. Even then, with two such warriors in the sky, what damage might descend upon the unprotected city? Were his mother and sisters safe?
The Crow King’s reply to Gwyn’s victory at Bayton had come at last. Even with a recent influx of new recruits to double the Winter Army, this boded ill for Gwyn’s infant forces. The Crow King’s trained and capable force of arms had far outmatched Gwyn’s present numbers already. Now, with a dragon on the Crow’s side, only a miracle would grant Gwyn the might to defeat such odds.
He prayed daily for such a miracle.
Once, he would have ridden to Charquae’s defense with Kive, for the fallen fae could order the dragon to retreat, but Gwyn suspected the Crow King wanted him to make such a move. Gwyn wouldn’t risk Kive’s life. Not now, not when the Crow King wanted so badly to destroy him.
Today’s news matched Charquae’s situation. His latest supply wagons had been ambushed and pilfered en route; that meant no food, no weapons, no clothes, and no money to pay Gwyn’s officers. Again. This was the third time Charquae’s supply wagons had been waylaid, and under the present aerial threat, nothing more would come from that city for the time being. Perhaps ever.
The last missive, sent by Captain Nathael en route to Crowwell, sank Gwyn’s spirits into the depths. The Crow King had allied himself with the Heshi, a mercenary army hired by the king to destroy Gwyn’s rebellion. The Heshi hailed from Hesh-Kasal, a prosperous country eastward, across the channel. The mercenary force fought upon the order of their prince, Freyder, who kept for himself what they earned in their service.
Nathael’s report revealed the location of several Heshi camps. The nearest lay across the Delesar, in a hamlet called Trayton. A force of some 1,500 men waited for Gwyn to cross the river.
The Winter Army couldn’t hide. Crow Loyalists reported regularly to the enemy. Gwyn had no advantage; only a desperate need to cross the river and march on to Crowwell. He must find a way to ambush the Heshi, but the mercenary force remained on high alert, ready for anything.
Gwyn could only sit and wait and pray.
“Am I intruding?”
He started up and turned to find Nathaera approaching, bundled in a ragged blanket, her nose red with the cold.
“Not at all. Please.” Gwyn motioned to the log. “I welcome the company.”
She sat. Together they stared at the raging river.
“Rumors are circulating in camp about the contents of your letters,” Nathaera softly said. “General Haratin is particularly agitated.”
Gwyn gripped the letters tighter. “I’m not ready to tell them yet.”
She nodded. The river rushed on.
Gwyn sighed. His breath misted before him. “Where is Kive?”
Nathaera wrinkled her nose. “Off eating something diseased, no doubt. I told him to stop doing that around Adesta. It makes the poor man ill.”
Gwyn smiled. “How is Lord Gilhan?”
“Fully mended, except when it comes to the eating of rats. And who could blame him?” She turned her head toward Gwyn. “I don’t want to talk about Adesta. How are you, Gwyn? You look pale and thin. Why do you always look pale and thin? You’re not eating enough.”
“Who is?”
“You’re not sleeping either.”
“It’s this blasted cold.”
She laid her hand over his. “Gwynter.”
He met her eyes: deep, gentle. “Yes, Lady Nathaera?”
“How might I help you? What pebble in your mountain of troubles might I hold to extend some measure of relief?”
He stared. This was no longer a girl, but a woman, slight but strong, beautiful, and brave. Warmth swelled in Gwyn’s chest. His lungs constricted against its pressure, and he leaned close to Nathaera’s face, eyes lingering on her lips.
She leaned close. Their lips met, shy, tentative. Gwyn pulled back, struck by the impropriety of his actions. He turned to the river, flushed cheeks aching in the cold. “Forgive me, my lady. That was—”
“What I’ve longed for ever so long,” whispered Nathaera.
Gwyn blinked and stared at her. Tears brightened her eyes. Her nose shone redder than before. “Nathaera—”
“I know you don’t love me,” she said, wringing her hands. “I’ve wished you did; I’ve even prayed yo
u would, but…why would such a man care for a little wisp like me? I’ve said that before, haven’t I?” She rose from the log and stood before him. “I told you once that I loved you, and I meant it. I still do. I ache for your kiss, Gwynter. Never have I met anyone I could love more dearly. But I expect nothing in return. I desire it, but I don’t expect it. Don’t think I do. This moment, whatever it was, I will always cherish.” She started to walk away, but Gwyn pushed to his feet and caught her wrist.
His mind reeled, heart hammering, limbs quaking. He pulled her close and embraced her. Her head rested against his chest.
“Nathaera,” he whispered. “I’m a fool. A blind, insensible, conceited fool.”
She laughed. “Oh, Gwyn, aren’t all men?”
“I, more than most.” He loosened his grip until she could tilt her head up to look at him. “Forgive me, Nathaera.”
“I can’t forgive you for something you’ve not done. I know you can’t love me. You need not apologize—”
“That isn’t what I mean.” He brushed his finger against her cheek. “I thought you were in love with Adesta.”
Her jaw dropped. “With him? Oh, Gwyn, I—”
“Sire!”
Gwyn released Nathaera just as a foot soldier appeared from the shadows, panting, breath clouding around him.
“What is it?”
“Forgive me, but you’ve received another, er, message.” The soldier proffered a thick package sealed and hastily addressed: To King Gwynter ren Wintervale of the Winter Army somewhere in the Wilderness.
Gwyn’s heart faltered. He recognized the handwriting as Towwen Brym’s. The printer dwelt in Charquae. Gwyn accepted the package and untied the string, broke the seal, and unwrapped the contents. Inside lay a slip of parchment and a tapestry carefully folded. Gwyn’s hands trembled as he unfolded the tapestry to find his own lineage through his mother, dating further back than he’d ever seen. It traced directly to the first Wintervale king of Simaerin, and even to that king’s father, King Cygmund of Fraelin. The slip of parchment stated: Try to argue against truth if you dare. -T. Brym.
The Complete Duology Page 32
