The Shadow Within

by Karen Hancock

  Warbanner tossed his head again and sidled into Simon’s mount, then hopped forward. This time, Abramm let him go, trotting slowly along the gauntlet of smiling, cheering men before him. Simon fell in at his right flank, while Shale Channon rode at his left. The remainder of his personal guard followed in their wake.

  Warbanner ensured that the rank and file kept their distance, but all eyes were on the king as he rode by, the men’s faces filled with admiration—and a rising hope. Simon had seen it before in armies. Those leaders who by their very person emboldened their men to new heights of courage and endurance. Maybe it was knowing the trials and horrors Abramm had endured—and emerged from unbeaten—that inspired them. Or the tales of his more recent exploits, spreading like wildfire even now across the countryside. Maybe it was just the way he carried himself, straight backed, sharp eyed, and unquestionably in command. Gillard, for all his size and ability and grandeur, had never achieved what Abramm did instinctively.

  The crowd increased as they neared the looming walls of Stormcroft—a bastion dating back to the days of Eberline. It had been built to guard the pass here against barbarian hordes seeking to go through the Eberline Gap en route to Springerlan. Constructed on the smallest of the valley’s seven peaks, it had two high guard walls, one inside the other, with the keep itself perched at the top. Men packed into the ward beyond the first wall and lined the wallwalks, cheering Abramm’s entry. He rode a dog-legged path through them, ascending the steep hill to the second gate and on to the Keep’s raised stoneworked porch. Stepping onto it straight from Warbanner’s back, he tossed the horse’s rein to young Philip Meridon and turned to face the men, his cloak tossing about him, his shieldmark—which he wore revealed as a matter of course now—glittering in the midday sun. When finally he had their silence, he spoke, his voice pitched to carry over the wind and the distance.

  “I did not choose this battle, but I will not run from it, either. Yes, we have dire enemies to face and should not be pouring out our lives and substance in petty squabbles amongst ourselves. But if in order to face those enemies I must resolve this internal conflict first, then resolve it I will. I am your rightful king, the one chosen to lead you through the dark days that are coming. “You are here today because you believe that, and I receive your loyalty with gratitude, regarding it a sacred trust. I will never take it for granted, nor will I spend your lives for no gain. But I will spend them if I must—for the good of the people who have been given into my charge. I believe Eidon is with us, and if that is so, then none can stand against us.”

  He paused, surveying the men before him, who seemed startled by his words.

  “Let my brother come,” he added. “Let him seek to do his worst. In the end, we will prevail!”

  The men burst into cheers at that, and waving at them, Abramm went inside with his lords and his generals and advisors. A long trestle table had been set up in the Great Room for the midday meal, and as they were sorting themselves out to take their proper places, General Callums leaned against Simon’s back and murmured, “He speaks well for a man untrained in such things.”

  “He’s had a prince’s training, Callums.”

  “But he was the sickly one. He may lack the backbone to carry this thing through.”

  Simon turned slightly to eye him. “Then what are you doing here, General?” Callums gave him a wink. “I came because of you, sir Duke. Abramm might be good with words—and with a blade, I hear—but he can’t know wools about running a war.”

  Simon cocked a dubious brow. “He may surprise you, friend.”

  “I hope he has the wit to recognize his lack and let wiser heads lead the way.”

  After they were all seated, the serving girls flocked into the room with bowls of savory venison stew, baked apples and raisins, and platters of fragrant, thick-sliced brown bread, warm out of the ovens. It was customary for men served thus to help themselves from the nearest bowl or platter and pass it on, but today they dined with the king himself—Gillard, ever careful to guard the “dignity of the office,” always dined only with his exalted favorites— and so must follow the king’s lead. As was his custom, Abramm waited until the food had been set out, and then, to the surprise of all save those who’d been traveling with him, offered up a prayer of thanks for both the food and the men who’d joined him in his struggle. It was a practice that had made Simon intensely uncomfortable at first, but to which, after four days, he was growing accustomed. While he still didn’t understand the need for it, he sensed Abramm did it honestly and couldn’t fault him for that.

  The prayer completed, Abramm looked up with a grin and invited them all to dig in. They did so with gusto, some of them astonished all over again to see their king helping himself and passing on bowls and platters along with everyone else. The room soon filled with the clatter of utensils and the chatter of the men, and before long the serving vessels required replenishing. Simon, sitting to Abramm’s right, happened to be looking round as one of the girls reached past the king to set a newly filled bowl of stew on the table in front of him. As she did, Abramm glanced at her and started visibly. She was already turning away from him, intent on hurrying back to the kitchen, and so was unaware that he watched her all the way, dark brows drawn together in an expression that could be either puzzlement or anger or both.

  Looking at her more closely, Simon thought she did look familiar but was unable to place her, even after seeing her several times throughout the meal. She wore a serving girl’s tunic and apron, her fawn-colored hair gathered into a single braid beneath her kerchief. Her plain, open face had seen more sun than was a noblewoman’s wont, freckles spattering her small nose beneath a pair of gray-blue eyes that seemed to watch everything in the room—except Abramm. Who, after that first show of surprise, ignored her, his attention focused on the conversations around him as his newly acquired war generals spoke of how they had come to be here and what they expected Gillard would do. To a man they believed the younger Kalladorne was at least two weeks away from moving on them.

  “He likes to take his time,” Callums said. “And we all know how indecisive he can be. He may give us as much as three weeks to prepare, during which our numbers should continue to grow.”

  “By then the weather may well have turned foul, General,” Abramm pointed out. “Gillard would be foolish to wait so long.”

  “Last I heard, he believes you’ve run away, sir, and don’t intend to fight. Even when word comes to him you do—likely it already has—he’ll balk at taking it seriously. Then there will be the question of who he can trust, how he should proceed, and whether he wants to attack you outright or wait for you to attack him. . . . As I said, I think we have at least two weeks and most likely three.”

  They went on to discuss possible scenarios for the coming conflict and, as was common in such gatherings, every man had his own ideas of what would happen and what would be best for them to do. Abramm listened to all of them, often questioning or disputing various points, but more, Simon thought, for the purpose of pressing the men to think about what they were saying than to persuade. Indeed, by the end of the meal even Simon was unsure where Abramm stood on the matter. Afterward, as most of them were dismissed and migrating toward the door, Callums suggested it was because Abramm didn’t know what he meant to do. “You have to give him your input, Simon,” he said. “You wait and see if he doesn’t do exactly as you suggest.”

  He left Simon in conversation with Laramor, Kesrin, and Blackwell before the great hearth fire, not far from where Abramm spoke quietly with Lieutenant Merivale. Behind the king, the serving girls hurried to clear the table and were nearly finished when, to Simon’s astonishment, Abramm turned abruptly from Merivale to step directly and deliberately into the path of one of them, stopping her in her tracks. It was the same girl who had caught his eye earlier, Simon noted, dismayed—even shocked—to realize the man who’d once taken vows of celibacy had a roving eye for the ladies. Worse was that he would even be thinking abo
ut such things when he had the campaign of his life to run.

  The girl looked up at him in surprise, dirty platters stacked in her arms, a smudge of soot on one cheek. She certainly wasn’t one of the prettier ones. It was then Simon realized he’d misperceived things, for Abramm wasn’t flirting, he was glowering, and though the girl faced him bravely, her eyes were wide and her face pale.

  “What the plague are you doing here?!” the king said quietly, his low voice almost lost in the crackle of the fire and the muffled clatter in the kitchen.

  The girl’s chin came up. “Trying to bring these platters back to the kitchen, sir,” she said primly, showing far too much hubris for a serving maid.

  “Put those blasted things down and come with me.”

  Before she could even start to obey, he took them from her, tossed them in a clatter onto the table, and pulled her none too gently to the deserted far side of the room, where they conversed privately. Whatever he was saying to her, he was clearly angry, looming over her in a way that would have intimidated most girls to tears. This one bore up under his displeasure sturdily, back straight, chin up, her gaze holding his almost defiantly as she answered him.

  As another girl picked up the discarded platters, Simon glanced aside at Kesrin and found him watching the couple with interest. “She looks familiar,” Simon said to him, “but I’m poxed if I can place her.”

  Kesrin flashed a dubious smile. “I don’t doubt it, my lord, as out of context as she is.”

  “You know her?”

  Kesrin turned again to the disputing couple. “That, sir, is Lady Madeleine, Second Daughter of the king of Chesedh.”

  Simon turned incredulous eyes upon the girl—Abramm was once more doing the talking—and saw at once that Kesrin’s claim was true. “Lady Madeleine? What is she doing here? And dressed as a servant girl no less!”

  “Researching her next song, she claims.”

  “You brought her?”

  “Not knowingly.” Kesrin turned back to him with a rueful smile. “You have to understand Lady Madeleine. She is very resourceful. And seemingly without . . .” He shrugged. “Well, she came disguised as one of my men-atarms, if that tells you anything.”

  Abramm had finished his harangue, the two of them now seemingly engaged in a duel of angry gazes. Then he spoke a word and she flinched, turning away from him tight-mouthed and pale. As she fled to the kitchen, Simon fancied he glimpsed a shining tear track on her cheek. He had no time to contemplate, though, for at that moment, Abramm bore down upon them, his anger unabated.

  “Were you part of this charade?” he demanded of Kesrin in a tight, low voice.

  “Not willingly, sir.”

  “You let her come, though.”

  “Only after the fact of finding her disguised among my men. I couldn’t very well send her back alone.” He paused. “Not that she’d have gone anyway.”

  Abramm grunted, paced to the length of the rug laid out before the hearth, then returned. “You’ll see that no harm comes to her, Master Kesrin. The responsibility lies with you.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “And you’ll see she stays away from me, as well.”

  Kesrin looked at him oddly. “I thought you were growing fond of her, sir.”

  “Fond of her?” Abramm’s eyes rounded and he repeated himself, his voice rising a notch with incredulity. “Fond of her? How could I be fond of her?She’s nosy, forward, headstrong, not very pretty, far too smart for someone with no sense of discretion—aye, no sense at all it seems—and she talks too much.” He shook his head. “She has always been irritating, but this—” He broke off and shook his head again. “Just see she stays away from me. The cellar might be an appropriate place to lodge her.”

  “You’re suggesting I lock her up?”

  “If you think it would do any good, yes!”

  He started to turn away, but Kesrin stopped him. “Sir, I know it’s a surprise to find her here, but really, it’s not as bad as all that. She can take care of herself quite well. And she can—”

  “I know what she can do, kohal. But her skills will not be needed here. And if we lose—” His frown became a scowl. “Well, let’s just pray we don’t lose.” With that he strode past them and jogged up the stair toward his private quarters, Jared scrambling after him.

  Kesrin watched him go with a look of surprise. After a minute, a slow smile spread across his face. “Well.” He glanced at Simon. “Looks like I was right, after all.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Why, the two of them, of course.”

  A ghost of foreboding swept through Simon. “What do you mean, the two of them?”

  But the Terstan did not answer him, for at that moment Ethan Laramor strode in with the news that another company of men had arrived, including, to the astonishment of everyone, Lord Temas Darnley, decked out in the most ridiculous of outfits and claiming he wished to fight with the rest of them.

  __________

  Two hours later, the war council began. Abramm presided at the trestle table in the Great Room, with Simon seated at his right, Byron Blackwell to his left. Lords Laramor, Foxton, Whitethorne, and Darnley, General Callums, and the three other high-ranking officers among the company ranged down either side of the table. Everitt Kesrin had also been invited to sit in.

  The king wasted no time getting down to business. “Gentlemen, I believe Gillard will come after me as soon as he can muster the forces,” he declared in a tone that brooked no argument. “I know some of you don’t believe that, but we’ll just have to trust to time to prove who’s right. Meanwhile, we’ll prepare as if he’ll be here within the week.”

  “Within the week, sir!” Callums burst out.

  “Thus we haven’t time for debate,” Abramm said firmly. “First, I want an intelligence network in place as soon as possible, all the way from here to Springerlan.”

  “We have one already, sir,” said Kesrin from his place at the table’s far end. He leaned forward to see around the man at his side. “Through the Underground.”

  “The Terstan Underground?” Abramm asked, more for the others at the table, Simon thought, than for his own comprehension.

  Kesrin nodded.

  “I want someone in charge of that—a focal point for the information.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d suggest Seth Tarker, sir.”

  “Very good.” From there Abramm moved directly to the matter of logistics, something they’d discussed much in recent days, for he understood well the importance of supplying the men and was adamant about not bleeding dry the people who lived in the immediate area. Normally the army had men in place to see to such details, but Abramm had only half an army, and that as yet unorganized. It was up to him to pull it together. To the surprise of everyone present, he assigned Darnley the responsibility of seeing the men were adequately provisioned.

  And to their further surprise, Darnley protested. “Please do not think I am unwilling to fight, sir. In fact, I came out here expressly to do so.”

  Abramm regarded him soberly. “No one will fight at all if they lack sufficient weapons or food. It is not an insignificant position I give you. However, if you feel your skills would be better used in combat . . .”

  Darnley frowned at him, clearly taken aback by Abramm’s seriousness. After a moment, he nodded. “I see you are right, sir. I will be honored to see the men are fed.”

  “There is also the matter of the latrines. And water supply.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Abramm continued to regard him with that sober, hawk-eyed gaze, then gave a clipped nod and went on. It soon became apparent that Abramm was running things, and more, that he knew what he was doing. Once he had all the details of logistics settled, he went on to his plans for the campaign itself.

  “I want scouts along the road and groups of men already in place when he comes through. The first thing will be brief strikes—hit them and disappear. Or never let them see you at all. But this won’t be about
killing. I’ve said before, we have other enemies to contend with, and I don’t wish to spill any more Kiriathan blood than we must. The first gambit will be to harass them. Let them know we’re out there, that we know they’re coming and we aren’t afraid. The point is to strike them in petty ways and not get caught at it.

  “Cut their cinches, loose the tether lines, and spook their animals. Foul their food, drain away their water, sabotage their supply wagons. Steal their weapons.” He held up a finger. “That in particular! We’ll use everything we can get our hands on. And any artillery he’s bringing, I want disabled, the cartwheels broken, axles snapped. If they fix it, break it again.” He had more: “Bridges destroyed, trees felled in the road, streams blocked so they back up and flood . . . whatever the situation lends itself to—all without letting ourselves be seen. Even things like cutting their tent ropes in the night work well.”

  Many of the men in his audience were frowning. “Sir,” said Callums, “that will only delay, not stop.”

  “True. But when they do get here, they’ll be ragged and disheartened, fearful that, if we can cut their tent and tether lines, we can also cut their throats, and wondering why we haven’t. It wouldn’t hurt to spread some rumors, too—particularly about how strong we are, how many men are joining us—that sort of thing. And any other way you can think to rattle them.”

  He fell silent, his gaze roving about the table, gauging the effects of his words on the men, and when he finally reached Simon, the latter couldn’t contain himself, “Where did you learn to wage war like this, sir? It’s . . .”