“Thank you, soldier,” said Gwyn, refolding the tapestry. “Where is the rider who delivered this?”
“In your tent, sire. He insisted.”
“Has he any word on Charquae?”
“None, sire. He didn’t ride from there. He comes directly from Fraelin.”
Gwyn hurried past the soldier. Nathaera followed.
General Haratin and Bened Arnnor stood before the tent.
“What is all the news?” demanded Haratin.
“Not now,” said Gwyn, pushing past them. He entered his tent and faltered. He’d expected to find a soldier in armor, but he found a youth, thirteen years of age or less, dressed in the ornate garb of a Fraeli nobleman.
The youth smiled. “Greetings, King Gwynter of the noble line of Wintervale. I am Fayett sae Marqwen, Crown Prince of Fraelin. I am most honored to meet you at last.”
His accent wasn’t as thick as Adesta’s. He held himself with such dignity that Gwyn felt like an awkward, gangling stablehand before him.
“Your Highness,” said Gwyn, inclining his head. “I had no word of your coming…”
“I sent no word,” said Fayett, smiling brightly. “Not to you, nor to my father. Only Towwen Brym knew of my coming, and only as a messenger from Fraelin, not by name. He sent his package via Fraelin to avoid unwanted attention, and I took it upon myself to deliver it to you. But I do bring a promise from Fraelin which may bolster your heart in so turbulent a time. My father, Crane King of fair Fraelin, has agreed to send our fleets to your aid. They will be needed for the siege against Crowwell if you are to succeed. Such will not be possible until the spring thaw, but Fraelin is your ally, King Gwynter.”
The Crow King’s troops held the nearest bridge with a force of 4,000 men, and there Gwyn lost one of his generals. He received word of General Leelin’s capture near dawn, two days following Prince Fayett’s arrival from Fraelin.
Several days before reaching the Delesar, Gwyn had sent General Leelin ahead with 800 men to scout the only means of crossing within a hundred miles unless they could secure boats. If possible, the general was ordered to seize control of the bridge, and then hold it until Gwyn’s arrival. The general never reported back, so Gwyn sent his aide, Aleteer Hemonn, to find out what happened.
Aleteer bowed on one knee before Gwyn now, a frown carving lines around his eyes. “He left his men camped one mile east of the bridge and stayed in a tavern along the highway, sire. The enemy captured him while he ate breakfast, according to the lass I questioned. He put up no resistance.”
Gwyn closed his eyes as his stomach twisted. “The general’s resolve has been long wavering. No doubt he finds the Crow King’s prison more hospitable than our present famine.”
Aleteer didn’t hide a scowl. “Mayhap he’ll change his mind when his head is severed from his body, sire.”
“Likely,” answered Gwyn, “but there is no cause for wishing that upon any man.”
“The general is a coward, sire. He abandoned his post to sleep in a tavern and dined on pheasant and cheese while his men starved and shivered in the cold.”
Gwyn sighed. “Aye, but he reaped his reward. See to your own flaws, Aleteer, and let Afallon judge your fellows for theirs.”
Aleteer colored. “Yes, sire. Forgive me.”
“No need. You’ve done me no injury. Now, stand. Call for my remaining generals. They’d best know the fate of our missing ally.”
The aide rose, bowed at the waist, and hurried from the tent. Gwyn took the chance to throw off his cloak to dress, then bundled himself in the ragged cloak again. Soon the generals assembled: Lawen, Haratin, Mershen, Grene, along with Colonel Cluv and Bened Arnnor.
“Forgive the early hour, but word has reached me of Leelin’s fate,” Gwyn said. He explained what he’d learned and then fell silent. His eyes lit on the candle flickering upon his desk. “I’ve been contemplating our options, and there are few. To the east, we’re cut off by a force of Crowsmen and by the Delesar, which is impossible to cross without boats. To the west, our means of crossing by bridge is made treacherous at best and fatal in the most likely case. It’s too well guarded. We’re virtually cut off from the south, which is where we must head, or we will starve.
“Prince Fayett’s promise of aid from Fraelin has offered us a chance to win this war, but only if we survive until spring. To do so, we must cross this river, but more than that, we must procure the supplies we so desperately need. General Mershen?”
“Yes, sire.”
“As a physician, what is your opinion on the condition of our men?”
“Most are ill, sire. Few are properly shod, and our rations are little better than a thin soup once a day. We’ll run out before two weeks are up, and then starve, unless those supply wagons reach us.”
Gwyn sighed. “Those wagons won’t come, and Charquae can ill afford to send anything more.”
“You make our situation sound very bleak, sire,” said Grene.
“Rather fatal,” Haratin said shortly. “Are you proposing we surrender, Your Majesty?”
“Nothing of the kind.” Gwyn moved to his desk and tapped a map. “We are here, my friends. Here is the bridge along the highway, thirty miles west. And here,” he slid his finger across the river and southeastward to a tiny dot, “is Trayton, nine miles away. It is in this tiny hamlet that the nearest troop of Heshi make their camp, no doubt to discourage our crossing of the Delesar by any means other than the bridge.”
“Rightly so,” said Haratin. “We would be mad to face the Heshi as we stand now. They are the most disciplined and skillful warriors in the world. The Crow King was wise to hire them.”
“Sire, what are you suggesting?” asked Grene.
Gwyn sensed eyes probing him. He looked up to meet his brother’s gaze.
“You mean to cross the river by boat,” said Lawen.
Gwyn nodded. “We must. There is a harbor three miles eastward on this side of the river where a brewery stands. There, large boats are docked between shipments sent downstream to Phinion, where the bridge stretches across the Delesar. I mean to commandeer these boats and take our army across at nightfall on the eve of the Feast of Afallon. The Heshi will have celebrated all night and will probably be in a drunken sleep if we attack at dawn.”
“Forgive me, sire,” said Haratin, “but this scheme is madness. We can’t possibly secure enough boats to cross in one night and arrive in Trayton by dawn to surprise the Heshi. Apart from that, surely not all of them will be asleep!”
Gwyn smiled grimly. “We can but try. There is no other course.”
“The Feast of Afallon is still a week away,” said Mershen. “We’ll barely have enough supplies to subsist on, and no strength. When we reach Trayton, our men will be too exhausted to fight. And if they learn that they’re fighting the Heshi, they’ll desert before we can cross the river.”
“If we can take Trayton,” Gwyn said, “then we’ll have the supplies we need. The Heshi are well provisioned, and we will take what food, weapons, and blankets we require. I know this is madness, but we have no choice. We cross and fight or we sit and starve. Or we surrender. But should we do so, gentlemen, our lives are forfeit, and the liberty of Simaerin is lost before it is won. What say you? Will you cross with me? Shall we take a leap of faith, believing in Afallon’s mercy?”
Chapter 9
Voices clambered for Kovien’s attention. He stood before the window of the highest turret in Crow Castle, staring down on the city below, where thousands of mindless Simaeri milled about this mild winter day. Leaning out, Kovien tried to ignore the voices and dwell instead on Gwynter.
He camped out there, somewhere along an ice-filled river, trapped between Simaeri and Heshi forces, starving.
Starving.
One of Kovien’s favorite tactics. He used it often to cow those who opposed him.
“But it’s such an ugly death,” said a faint voice.
“Hush,” said another. “He’ll starve you next.”
/> “Too late,” Kovien whispered. “I already did.” He glanced behind him, but today the tower room stood empty, his ghosts invisible, merely voices. “You’re much too loud today. Leave me.”
“We’ll never leave you,” replied a deep, musical voice, horribly familiar. “You’ll never let us go.”
“Go,” whispered Kovien, closing his eyes. “You, at least.”
“I cannot, my son.”
Kovien clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I am not your son, but the Crow King of Simaerin. You are dead. Long dead. I watched you die.”
“But I remain.”
“Be silent, please. I cannot hear over all your shouting.”
“I’m not shouting, Kovien. I’ve never shouted.”
Kovien softly laughed. “No, not even once. Not even when I killed you.” He turned again toward the empty room, disappointed when he couldn’t witness the wounded expression on King Roth’s face. He turned back to the window. “Never mind. You whisper loudly. Leave me.”
A chill ran across Kovien’s cheek, like icy fingers brushing against his skin. The Crow King yelped and stumbled sideways, rubbing his face where his skin burned. “Enough! Enough. Leave me to my solitary torment. You’ve haunted me long enough, demon king.”
“I am not the demon,” whispered the dread voice.
Kovien chuckled, bowing his head. “You’re right. You’re right. The demon is out there. Beyond the castle. He marches to steal my throne. My throne. Why? Have I not paid the price for peace? Are my sacrifices not sufficient? Foolish child! He knows not what he unleashes upon the world. All that I’ve done to protect it from its own miserable failings. But he will learn. He must learn. I must teach him.”
“Why, Kovien?” whispered the dead king. “Aren’t you sick yet of death and war?”
Kovien returned to the window and glowered at the city far below. “Sick of them? Why would I be sick of my cleansing? Soon, King Roth, soon I shall finish my work.”
“Do you even know what your work is anymore, my son?”
Kovien hunched away from the voice behind him. “I am the Crow King. Not your son. Your son is out there.” He jabbed a finger to the north, the faraway north, where Gwynter kept the fallen Ilidreth close at his side. “Soon, very soon. They think to spare him, but he is mine. Yours. Not theirs. And he will finish falling. After that, I will cleanse the world.”
“Too late, Kovien,” said the king’s gentle voice. “Kive is waking to himself. It is evident in the broken seal. Magic is flooding Simaerin again. You’ve already lost.”
“Never,” hissed Kovien, whirling to face what he couldn’t see. “Never. Kive is mine. I am his master. I broke his mind, and what is broken will not be mended.”
“The Winter King defies you,” said the ghost, and a howling mass of voices echoed him, drumming into Kovien’s ears. He defies you. Defies you!
He doubled over and covered his head. “Hush. Enough. ENOUGH!”
The voices ceased. The wind outside died. All the world fell silent.
“I am the Crow King of Crow Castle,” he said, straightening to defy the voices, though they were still. “I alone rule Simaerin. I alone command the Ilidreth. I shall burn Fraelin to the ground and swallow Hesh-Kasal in the sea. These oaths I will keep, and no boy king shall stand long to oppose me. Kive will fall. Fall from the last of his grace, into the deepest wells of despair, where hope can never blossom. Magic will fail and fade. And then, at last, at last! I shall find peace.”
“No, Kovien,” whispered the familiar, deep voice. “There is no peace for the damned.”
A sob escaped Kovien’s lips before he could steel himself. He whipped around to the window and slammed a fist against the stone frame. “Burn! Burn, Simaerin! I shall show you my displeasure. I shall show you the wrath of the damned!”
He spun and stalked across the dusty room, snatched up his feather-lined cloak from the floor by the door, and flung it across his shoulders as he strode from the tower and descended the winding stairs. At the bottom of the steps, waiting in perfect solemnity, stood Traycen ren Lotelon, head of the Order of Corvus.
“With me,” Kovien whispered, and the man followed, perhaps a little stiff in his movements. Resurrecting the dead was difficult and disturbing, but Kovien had done it for Traycen, for the man was loyal as few others. Besides, the pact Kovien had made with the Order of Corvus granted long life. The others would lose faith if their leader remained dead.
Traycen didn’t behave quite the same as he had in life; though he responded to commands, and spoke and ate as he had before, he was not strictly the same nobleman. The soul remained, but the body…That had been tricky. Gwynter and his little band of heroes had buried Traycen somewhere in the True Wood, and Kovien didn’t wish to dig up a rotting corpse. Instead, he borrowed another body, one freshly killed, and stowed Traycen’s captured soul there, then wove magic around the man’s features to make him appear as the nobleman had.
Securing the soul had been the simple part of his work. The Order of Corvus belonged to him. Their souls were his, by magical contract. The soul had returned to Kovien here in Crow Castle shortly after his death, as the contract had specified.
Sticking the soul to a different body became tedious, even frustrating, but Kovien knew how to be patient. It was solid work. Only two or three mages in the world would be skilled enough to see through the deception.
“Londolin,” Kovien said aloud.
“The old capital, sire?” said Traycen, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes. Burn it. We’ve no need of ancient relics. The line of Wintervale is dead, no matter what dubious sources might claim. Best we put to rest any ideas of reestablishing the old world. Gwynter will never find a throne.” He smiled. “Except perhaps in his Afallon’s heaven.”
General Cadogan ren Silverard mused over the northern map on his desk, finger tracing the Delesar to his best estimation of where the Winter Army camped. The army lay virtually pinned, but when last the Crow Army had assumed as much, the blasted rebels produced a bloody fire-breathing dragon. Cadogan would never again underestimate the resourcefulness of his enemy. It shouldn’t surprise him. He’d been Lawen ren Terare’s commanding officer for four years, and he’d seen the lad’s skill for himself. He’d also noted Gwynter’s war tactics and his ability to inspire the men under his command. Cadogan recognized a lethal force when he saw one. The brothers together made such a force, drat them both.
A knock tore Cadogan’s gaze from the black ink strokes beneath his finger. He sighed. “Come in.”
Traycen ren Lotelon entered, expressionless and grim. “Might you spare a moment, General?”
“Like it or otherwise, yes.” Cadogan gestured to the chair before his desk, then leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his flat stomach. “What does our king instruct?”
“He has commanded that Londolin be destroyed,” said Traycen, taking the proffered seat.
Cadogan hesitated for a heartbeat. The order made sense as he considered it. “Destroy a symbol the rebels might try to use to insight the people.” He nodded. “It’s a good move.”
“Naturally. The Crow King is wise.”
“He is farseeing.” Cadogan leaned forward to pull a map from the bottom of his stack. He laid it out to study the ruins by the Vaymeer Sea, west of Crowwell: Londolin, last relic of the reign of Wintervale, last of the ancient realm of kings. It was almost a pity to burn the city. According to theologists, Afallon Himself had walked the length of that hallowed place, when it had been only a seaside village. The Blessed God was born there, and so the line of Wintervale claimed it as a holy site and raised up a city to worship Afallon long after the God ascended to His divine throne.
“I assume he desires this to be done as soon as possible.”
“It is your priority,” said Traycen.
Cadogan nodded. “I’ll assemble my men this very day. We’ll march at first light for the holy city.”
Traycen rose to his feet. “See t
hat no stone is left standing. Destroy it, Cadogan.”
“I understand. His Majesty’s word is law.”
Traycen excused himself, leaving Cadogan to consider his march against the abandoned city. He would lament his part in its end, but he understood well the need of such extremes. Should Gwynter ren Terare march there rather than to the well-fortified present capital, he might inspire legions of Simaeri to follow his cause. There was something about Londolin that drew out faith, or perhaps superstition. Cadogan didn’t know which had greater power.
One thing was certain. The church wouldn’t be happy, Crow King’s orders or not. It was at the church’s behest that Londolin remained standing in the first place, and the first Crow King had allowed it.
First Crow King. Who was Cadogan fooling? He knew the truth. Had known it long. This Crow King was the first, his life prolonged by the blessing of Afallon…
Yes, that was why. Cadogan rose from his chair and began rolling up his maps. Londolin stood several hundred leagues from here, much closer than Gwynter’s distance from the holy ruins. Even should the boy consider changing his destination, he’d not make it ahead of Cadogan. At least, not with his army. Only alone, upon his unicorn’s back.
Chapter 10
“Shiny?”
Gwyn looked up from the rushing river. “Yes, Kive?”
“South.”
Gwyn blinked. Did Kive now know directions? How had Nathaera managed that? “South, Kive?”
Lawen shifted in his ragged blanket where he sat on the rotted log under the waning moon. He rose to join Gwyn and his fallen fae, breath misting before his face. “Do you think something is happening in Crowwell?”
Gwyn shook his head. “I’m not sure. Kive, what is south?”
The Complete Duology Page 33
