In Cadogan’s dream, he hadn’t been able to discern the crest upon the enemy banners, but he knew them now.
For 100 years, the Ilidreth had been fractured, disordered, mad.
Now they stood before the Crow Army, still and calm beneath the Swan banner billowing in the morning breeze.
“Open the gates!” Cadogan screamed.
“Londolin is a holy city. We cannot allow soldiers to—”
Cadogan drew his sword and pointed it up at the man in the window. “Open the gates, priest, or I will have my archers pierce your skull, and then I shall stand aside to let the Ilidreth defile your holy city. Let us enter!”
The priest disappeared inside. Within moments, the gates creaked aside to admit Cadogan’s scrambling force of arms. As the soldiers filed into the city proper, Cadogan weighed the implications of an Ilidreth army so near the sea, so near Londolin. Had they come to destroy the Silver City themselves? If so, why? If not, why had they come here? The Ilidreth weren’t organized anymore. They didn’t have the strength to defy Simaerin outright, not after all the Crow King had done to them.
So why?
Was entering Londolin the best move? Did the Ilidreth intend to trap them here? The city was impregnable. Fortified by the Crow Army, the Ilidreth stood little chance of taking it.
Yes, entering Londolin was Cadogan’s best chance. Caught on the plains, the Crow Army would suffer too many losses. The Ilidreth were ghostlike, swift, and silent, using the trees to conceal themselves. In such terrain, Cadogan’s disadvantages were too many. Best to let the Ilidreth try laying siege if they attacked at all. This might be only a bluff.
Inside Londolin, Cadogan ascended a steep staircase leading to the gate tower. He entered the room where the two priests had wasted so much of his time. Empty now. Cadogan rushed to the window and stared out at the forest. The Ilidreth remained there, unmoving, perhaps content to watch the Crow Army stream inside the city.
Why are they doing this? Only a few Ilidreth continued to defy the Crow King, and only ever in conjunction with Fraelin. Yet that was no Crane banner shimmering in the glowing sunlight, but a Swan banner: an emblem which had not been raised for over a hundred years.
The Ilidreth didn’t care about Londolin. It meant nothing to them. They didn’t believe in Afallon. Didn’t swear fealty to the Wintervale Kings of old. Didn’t claim the sea for themselves.
“So then, why?” growled Cadogan, pounding the stone windowsill.
The general whirled and left the tower to bark instructions at his men in the street below. “Set a watch. Get the stragglers inside. Be sure the gates are barred immediately afterward. Find the dratted priests. Don’t just stand there. Now!”
Soon his orders were fulfilled, including the rounding up of the two dozen priests who inhabited Londolin. The robed clergy stood in calm repose on the main city thoroughfare, unruffled by the threat beyond the walls. Cadogan eyed them with an equal measure of curiosity and annoyance.
“Well? Which of you is in charge now that High Priest Douva is dead?”
“No one, General,” answered a slim, balding man. “We await the word of the Arch Priest on this matter.”
“Then you have no leader?”
“We are led by Afallon,” answered a young man, barely grown.
Cadogan rolled his eyes. He really should have expected that answer. He paced before the priests. “All right. Can any of you tell me when the Ilidreth were first spotted on the forest border?”
“Three nights ago,” answered the balding priest. “High Priest Douva saw them during his nightly walk along the battlements. He mentioned it during morning mass, but he said it might be a mere trick of the moon. Those trees don’t seem natural ofttimes in the watches of the night.”
“You sound rather superstitious for a priest.”
The balding priest held Cadogan’s eye. “I follow the Light of Afallon, but there remains the Dark of Thiavos even so. For each rising sun, there is a rising moon also.”
“Never mind that,” said Cadogan, cross and tired and not in the mood for religious zealots. “High Priest Douva was killed two evenings ago, was he not?”
“He was.”
“Yet my army comes straight from Crowwell, and we’ve seen no trace of your messenger riding to report Douva’s end, or your need of instruction from your Arch Priest. Curious indeed.”
“We sent a messenger pigeon, General,” replied the youthful priest.
“Ah. Very well. It hardly matters anyway. The Crow King has sent us to Londolin to destroy the city. Your time here in exile has ended, and we will escort you back to Crowwell as soon as we’ve dealt with the Ilidreth.”
The priests shifted to exchange looks, but none appeared surprised.
Cadogan raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
“No, General Cadogan. We expected such an order would arrive soon. High Priest Douva prepared us for the possibility.”
“Will you object?”
The priests again exchanged a look.
The young priest spoke. “Would our objections hold any weight? You are following the Crow King’s will.”
“Excellent. Then you will stand aside while my men burn Londolin. Once the Ilidreth see the fires across the Silver City, whatever stirred them up will settle, and they should soon return to their forest dwellings.”
Again, the priests eyed one another. Calm. Irritating.
“If you have something to say, say on,” Cadogan growled. “Otherwise begone. I’ve important matters to attend to.”
“We have nothing more to say,” replied a tall, plain priest with a prominent nose. “Good day, General. May Afallon attend thee to the end.”
The priests turned and ambled toward the cathedral where they’d been found. It was a grand old structure, adorned by statues of holy men ordained of Afallon in ages past. Cadogan turned from the sight, fighting a wave of nausea. He hated to burn Londolin.
But I must.
“Light the torches. Burn every building.”
A cry sounded on the wall. Cadogan spun to watch as one of his guards tumbled toward the ground at the wall’s foot. The man hit with a sickening thud, an arrow jutting from his chest.
“They’re attacking!” shouted Cadogan, then he froze, eyes fixed on the top of the wall.
The Ilidreth didn’t attack from without. The Ilidreth stood inside Londolin, along the battlements, hundreds of them, all with arrows nocked and pointed down at Cadogan and his men. But how?
His eyes searched for some sign of weakness in the wall, then he turned toward the city spread before him, and his eyes fell on the two dozen priests hovering before the Holy Cathedral of Afallon. They stood watching, calm, composed, unsurprised.
“How?” whispered Cadogan. They were priests of Simaerin. The Ilidreth were the enemy. “Why?”
Chapter 13
The eve of Afallon’s Feast fell, painting a dense fog across the Delesar River. Gwyn stood on the bank, watching as his ragged men boarded the commandeered boats and started the painstaking crossing of the icy river.
Only so many men could fit into each boat, and the river took longer to cross and return for more soldiers than Gwyn had hoped. Still, he had little choice but to advance his forces toward Crowwell.
“Now, now, sire. Don’t look so grim.”
Gwyn turned to find Nathaera approaching, a cloak wrapped around her slim frame, eyes dancing with a light nothing could extinguish, not even the winter fog. Beside her strode Kive, immune to the cold in his tunic and trousers, barefoot despite Nathaera’s constant insistence that he wear the boots Adesta had gifted to him. The two came to stand at Gwyn’s side, and he smiled down at Nathaera.
She pulled her hood over her head to fend off the chill as she studied the river. “Ice chunks?”
Gwyn nodded. “Quite a few. But the boats are sturdy, and the rowers are careful. Hopefully, we’ll cross without incident.”
She nodded. “There will be incident enough on the
other side. How far is Trayton from the river?”
“Roughly nine miles.”
“Shall Kive and I cross with the next group?” She glanced up at Gwyn, smiling.
“Nathaera, it’s dangerous. Cross with the last party and by then we will have taken Trayton.”
“Nonsense. Kive is useful on the battlefield, and he won’t let anything happen to me. I won’t stay behind with the supplies.”
Gwyn turned fully to face her, and she turned toward him.
“Yes, Gwynter?”
“I want nothing to happen to you.”
She smiled. “With Kive I’m perfectly safe.”
“Kive is easily distracted.”
“No,” chimed in Kive, shaking his head. “Not distracted. Only Kive. Kive is Kive.”
“That’s what he meant,” Nathaera said, patting Kive’s arm. “Don’t argue with Shiny, Kive.”
Kive turned to eye the river and hummed tunelessly.
Nathaera met Gwyn’s gaze again. “I don’t seek danger for the thrill of it, but because I want to be near you. I can’t abide the thought of waiting out of sight for word of your safety. I had to at Dorshen Heights and the pain was unbearable. Don’t make me wait afar off again. I expect nothing more than that, sire. Only let me stay nearby, and I shall be content.”
He opened his mouth to answer but found no words for a reply. She stood before him, a fair and graceful maid of high breeding and intellect, eyes sharp, tongue sharper still, and all she asked was to stand at his side through whatever dangers lay ahead. Why? What did she see within him that persuaded her to risk her life on his behalf?
“My dear lady,” he whispered, “I could sooner command the river to cease its flow or the stars to disappear in the heavens than deny your request, so heartfelt as it is. But please do not make me regret this granting by losing you.”
Her smile brightened like a sunbeam. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my lord.” She caught up her skirt and curtsied low, eyes twinkling. Straightening, she placed her finger to her brow. “As I said before, don’t look so grim, sire. You’ll wrinkle here, and you’re much too young for wrinkling.”
Gwyn laughed and ran a hand across his forehead. “I fear this war will turn me gray very young indeed.”
Over the next hour, Nathaera hovered near Gwyn while Kive skulked along the riverbank, examining who-knew-what in the icy water. Lawen appeared in the fog and nodded to Gwyn.
“It’s time.”
Gwyn pulled his cloak a little tighter and smiled at Nathaera. “Come with me. It’s time to cross.”
She patted her skirt. “Come, Kive. We’re going.”
Kive bounded to his feet. “Yes, Fairy Wren. Coming, Shiny.” He followed Gwyn and Nathaera to the boats, slinking like a shadow against the night gloom. Sleet fell from the sky, bitter against Gwyn’s face as he helped Nathaera into the bobbing vessel. He staggered into the seat beside her, uncertain on the water. Kive leapt in next, and the boat violently rocked hither and thither until the oarsmen coerced it back into its natural motion.
Gwyn clutched the side as the boat pushed out into the current, filled to its capacity with his officers, save for Bened Arnnor who had volunteered to oversee loading the last of the soldiers. Chunks of ice battered the side of the boat, and the oarsmen rowed hard against the river’s incessant pull. Wind howled, flinging fog and sleet into any face that dared glance up from the protection of their cloak. Kive alone seemed oblivious to the cold, black hair whipping free in the storm, arms extended as he howled with the wind. Gwyn didn’t bother to silence him. No one could tell the difference between his cry and that of nature, and somehow Kive’s fearlessness heartened Gwyn.
It took an age to bring the ship into a natural harbor on the south side of the Delesar. When he stumbled from the boat, pulled ashore by Lawen’s sturdy hand, a thrill of gratitude for solid ground flooded Gwyn’s body, warming him a little. He suspected he’d have found the life of a sailor disagreeable.
Nathaera tripped onto the shore beside Gwyn, laughing a little. “Well, that was terrifying. Good thing Kive loved it, or we’d all have sunk in his panic.” She frowned. “What of Aluem, Gwyn? He can’t cross in the boats, can he? We must leave all the horses behind, too.”
Gwyn shook his head. “Aluem said he could get the horses across the river, but not in a conventional manner. I left him to it.”
“You don’t know what he’s going to do?”
“No.”
“Going under way,” Kive chimed in. “Going under way, Shiny.”
“Under way? Where is that, Kive?”
Kive pointed down. “Under way of the water. Thundering, thundering. Allll the horses are under way.”
Nathaera and Gwyn exchanged a look, and the girl shrugged. “There you have it. Aluem’s taking them under way.”
Gwyn nodded. “Beneath the river.”
“If he can do that for the horses, why not us?” asked Nathaera. She gathered her skirts and ascended the slope away from the river, toward the makeshift camp assembled for meager shelter.
“Horses are protected by unicorns,” said Gwyn, swiping water from his face as he followed Nathaera under a canvas lean-to. “Magic that might aid them won’t necessarily work for us. Perhaps for me, as I’m connected to Aluem, but not for any other riders, and not for the foot soldiers. That’s my guess, at least.”
Gwyn and Nathaera waited two more hours while the army crossed the Delesar, each soldier carrying his own weapons and his few possessions. It took longer than Gwyn had hoped it might, but night yet remained, and the march ahead was brief enough, they should arrive in Trayton in the wee morning hours. If luck allowed and by Afallon’s grace, the Heshi would still be slumbering in a drunken stupor.
When Bened Arnnor arrived with the last of the men, Gwynter divided his army in half and ordered General Haratin to take the direct northern route to the hamlet, while Gwyn and his force would circle around from the south to surround and contain the Heshi army. A report from one of Gwyn’s aides, an earnest man named Rohkye who had scouted out Trayton in the guise of a traveling cobbler, informed the War Council that a single guardhouse stood just south. Likely those on duty would be awake, if not alert.
Gwyn sent his other aide, Aleteer Hemonn, ahead of his force to dispatch the Heshi guards. Aleteer was a skilled swordsman, lean and agile, and Gwyn prayed he would be stealthy enough to silence the watch before an alarm sounded. Gwyn had contemplated sending Kive ahead for a midnight meal, but the fallen fae was too easily distracted, and Gwyn didn’t savor giving him verbal permission to eat people under any circumstances.
As Gwyn’s force took up the nine-mile march to Trayton, Kive walked beside him, staring wistfully ahead into the darkness where Aleteer had been swallowed by the night.
Gwyn had walked about ten minutes when he halted, spotting a white figure amidst the hammering sleet ahead. He smiled as he recognized Aluem drifting near, ghostlike against the storm.
‘Greetings, young King Gwynter,’ said the unicorn in his head. ‘Your horses await you in a glade just up the path. Follow me.’
He quickened his pace and soon found the horses standing near one another for warmth under the harsh elements. Exclamations filled the ranks, and Gwyn grinned as he mounted Aluem and ordered his riders to mount their own steeds. The foot soldiers looked on, shivering, barefooted, but grinning broadly, as though this had been Divine Afallon’s intervention.
Spirits lifted after that, though as Gwyn rode down the ranks, offering encouragement where he might, his heart throbbed as he found the snowy tracks of his soldiers stained by their own bloody feet.
Prince Fayett sae Marqwen rode toward the rear of the march upon a stallion of pure black. The prince inclined his youthful head toward Gwyn, smiling. “Your Majesty.”
“Your Highness,” answered Gwyn, returning his nod as Aluem matched the stallion’s pace. “Are you certain you wish to engage in this battle?”
“I have no doubts, but might you, Your M
ajesty?” asked Fayett. “And are those doubts due to my age or the matter of my Fraeli blood?”
Gwyn hesitated. “Your age, Your Highness. And your station. This war has already claimed too many lives of immeasurable value.”
Fayett nodded. “I well understand your concerns, Majesty, and they are valid. Nevertheless, I am resolved. I pledged my heart to your cause, King Gwynter, and I shall not betray it. If my lot is to die in Simaerin under the Unicorn banner, it is a worthy end. Far better than to die abed while the Crow banner still flies in the world.”
“But what of your father and mother? They don’t know where you are nor what you’re about,” said Gwyn quietly.
“Quite true. Nor shall I write them now or in the future, until at last this war is decided.”
Gwyn’s brow furrowed. “But they’ll worry themselves ill.”
“Unlikely. They think I’m away for my education. I have my letters routed from there.”
Gwyn stared. “But surely the academy has alerted them.”
Fayett laughed. “No, no. The professors there are quite under my thumb. I assure you, they’ll not spill my secret.”
“Not even to the king?”
“Especially not to him, else they might lose their heads. So they fear, at least.”
Gwyn shook his head, snared between laughter and wonder. “But if you’re killed here, surely the professors will lose their heads at that point.”
“I’ve made provisions for that as well,” said Fayett, but he didn’t expound. His eyes turned toward the marching soldiers ahead. “While I’m honored by your concern, Your Majesty, now is the time to focus on your next battle. The Heshi are not a force to take for granted, as I’m sure you know. Ride proud for your men, inspire them upon your exquisite white mount, and lead them to victory.”
Gwyn stroked Aluem’s neck and nodded. “You’re right. I must be present. Come, Aluem.”
He charged ahead.
The Complete Duology Page 36
