by AC Cobble
“M’lord, m’lady, Senior Ranger,” he babbled. “What are you—ah, come with me. The baron will want to see you.”
10
“You’re back,” murmured Baron Worgon, peering at Raif and Cinda over steepled fingers. He wore a doublet covered with thick embroidery and topped with a waterfall of lace that spilled from beneath his jowls. The garish ensemble did little to hide his protruding belly and the white of the lace only served to contrast how red the man’s cheeks were. Purpled veins swarmed around his nose, like a map to the ravages of too much drink and not enough exercise.
You can have one, but not both, Rew had always believed.
“We are back,” acknowledged Raif, his voice tight.
The big youth shifted his feet, and Rew wondered if the young noble was reconsidering the decision to announce themselves to Baron Worgon. It was too late now.
“Why did you leave so quietly in the night?” wondered the baron. “My men spent days looking for you. I sent my best scouts and trackers, but they found nothing. It was as if you vanished into the air.”
“W-We…” stammered Raif. “Ah, we heard of a plot against our father, so we rushed to Falvar to warn him. We got there in time to see him but not in time to foil the attack upon our city and our family. Have you heard what happened?”
“Rumors and outlandish tales,” said Baron Worgon, nodding slowly. “I’ve pieced together what I could. I knew Duke Eeron was plotting against your father. I sent messengers to warn Fedgley, but I don’t know if they got through or if when they did, it was already too late. You mentioned you were present and could not stop the attack, yet it seems you’re in good enough condition now. Tell me, what did you see?”
Raif worked his jaw, chewing over what they could tell the baron.
Cinda spoke up before her brother had the chance. “M’lord, our father was taken by a man we believe to be a minion of Duke Eeron. We have intelligence that our father is being held in Spinesend by one of Duke Eeron’s arcanists.”
“Intelligence?” asked the baron.
Cinda nodded at Zaine, who was standing near the back of the party as if she hoped not to be noticed.
“The girl is trustworthy?” asked Worgon, leaning over to peer at Zaine.
“Ah, yes,” mumbled Cinda. “Yes, of course she is.”
Rew forced himself to keep his face blank and not roll his eyes at that.
“And you, Senior Ranger, what is your role in all of this?” asked Worgon.
“I’m here to see to the safety of the young nobles,” stated Rew. “They appeared in Eastwatch after leaving Yarrow, and I took responsibility for them. Their well-being is the only reason for my presence in Yarrow.”
“They speak the truth of what occurred and that their father is being held in Spinesend?”
Rew nodded. “I was in Falvar when the attack happened, and we’re confident the baron was moved to Spinesend. I think it likely he’s still there, being held for when he’s needed.”
Worgon studied him, bobbing his head slowly, his loose jowls shaking with the motion. He opened his mouth and sucked on his white mustaches, a disgusting habit thought Rew, but he remained quiet, letting the baron assess him.
After a moment of watching the old toad gnaw on his hairs and ponder, Rew added, “I have no interest in the Investiture, Baron, except for seeing Raif and Cinda through it.”
“I see,” rumbled the baron. He stood, putting a hand on his bulbous paunch, and asked, “Care for a pipe?”
Rew shook his head. “Too early for me.”
The baron did not make the offer to the children or to Anne, which was just as well since they would have said no, but the baron didn’t let his guests’ declination stop him from enjoying his own pipe. Worgon waddled in front of a small, crackling fire in his study and retrieved his leaf box from the mantle. They waited while he thumbed a long pipe full of leaf and then lit it. He turned, puffing thick, white smoke.
“You’ve broached the subject, so I think there’s no harm in speaking openly,” said the baron. “The Investiture has begun, and risks are all around us. I am sorry to hear about the attack on Fedgley. I truly thought he meant to do as I and hide behind his walls, but it seems he had more ambitious plans. Hiding and staying uninvolved is how both of our baronies made it through the last cycle undisturbed. Of course, we didn’t increase our holdings during that period, either. Some men cannot be content with what they already have.”
“Duke Eeron means to take the entire duchy,” growled Raif. “He’s not content with Spinesend. He wants Falvar and Yarrow as well!”
The baron gestured at Raif with his pipe. “Lad, he already has Falvar and Yarrow. Both your father and I are his bannermen. Duke Eeron is not acting because he wants the lands we control or even our people or our gold. If that’s all he wanted, he could raise our taxes, and we’d have no recourse. The duke could maneuver us into a corner and force us to grant him whatever he desired, if his wants were so simple. He’s our liege, and we owe fealty to him. You think the king would have an open ear for us protesting against the man he appointed to rule the Eastern Territory? Vaisius Morden is no fool, and the last thing he wants at any level in this kingdom is a vassal complaining about his liege.”
“Why is Duke Eeron attacking, then?” asked Cinda. “He abducted our father!”
“Aye, so he did,” murmured Worgon, taking another draw on the pipe and then slowly releasing the smoke. It drifted up, wreathing his head, blending with the wild fringe of white hair that stuck out above the man’s ear and looped around his head. “I can only surmise Duke Eeron wants something from your father that no man owes his liege, so it must be taken by force.”
“Are we speaking openly, Baron?” asked Rew.
“Of course,” responded Worgon.
“Then you know very well why Duke Eeron took Baron Fedgley,” stated Rew, thinking to test the man, to see how he reacted. “It’s the same reason your patron allied with Fedgley. It’s the same reason your patron is after Cinda.”
Worgon stuck his pipe in his mouth, his jowls flushing, the smoke puffing quickly from the lit bowl in his fingers.
“Let us lay our cards on the table,” continued Rew. “I have little patience for the games of nobility. Raif and Cinda want to rescue their father. I aim to protect them, no matter who attempts to harm them. What is it you and your patron want, Worgon? Do you mean for the Fedgleys to trade one captor for another?”
“Ranger, all I want is to survive the next months with my head on my shoulders and my barony intact,” claimed Worgon.
“Why did you ally with Valchon?”
“I didn’t,” grumbled Worgon, shrugging uncomfortably, hot ash spilling from his pipe as he did. “I told you the truth. My plans were to lie low and solicit no notice from the players in this grand game. The prince came to me just a week past. He portaled right into my throne room. I’d never met the man, but I suppose you have. He demanded my assistance and instructed me to use my relationship with the young Fedgleys to earn their trust. If I was unwilling to perform this task, he strongly implied that my son Fredrick would be more than capable of doing so when he took my place on the throne. It was left unsaid that Prince Valchon could snap his fingers and make that happen. He was here only a few minutes, and that was it.”
Rew grunted in response. If he took the man’s word for it, then Worgon truly did know nothing of what was occurring. That was all they could hope for.
“Exactly,” continued Worgon, acknowledging Rew’s grunt. “It wasn’t my choice, but it seems I’ve been pulled into the whirlpool, and there is nothing to do but try and swim the current. I don’t know what Duke Eeron’s plans are for Baron Fedgley, and I don’t know why Prince Valchon wants the children.” The baron turned to Raif and Cinda. “He demanded my assistance earning your trust. That is all he told me. I will say, he is an ally of your father, and has always been a friend of the Fedgleys. In times like these, you cannot do better than to join with him.”
“By telling you the truth,” replied Worgon. Raif and Cinda looked nervous, but Worgon waved his pipe to calm them. “Don’t be afraid, lass. The Investiture is a scary time, there’s no doubt, but victory is secured through loyalty, not betrayal. I know that. Prince Valchon knows that. The prince with the most loyal followers will gain the crown, as they always have. Loyalty is what this kingdom is built upon, and there’s no reason we should not follow the same path. You fostered with me. You know me. I’ve come to know you as well. What say we trust each other?”
“Trust each other with what?” growled Cinda.
“Your father and I both pledged our support to Prince Valchon,” continued Worgon, gesticulating with his pipe but not meeting the young noblewoman’s stare. “He swore before I did, but lass, we’re on the same side. Your ranger friend here says you plan to rescue your father, and I can help with that. Once Fedgley is free, we can all give Prince Valchon what he wants. We have a history together, and we share the same goals. It’s as good a foundation for trust as any.”
Nodding, Raif remarked, “I can see it the same way.”
“That’s only if what Prince Valchon desires is also what we desire,” retorted Cinda, shooting her brother a warning look.
“The first thing we must do is rescue your father,” said Worgon to Raif, ignoring Cinda’s comment. “I won’t lie to you, lad. That will not be easy. Duke Eeron has more spellcasters than I and far more men. Unless he does something foolish, I’m afraid—“
“His men are marching to Falvar,” said Raif. “We saw them on the road. They’ll be over a week before they return to Spinesend.”
Worgon’s hand dropped, threatening to spill the embers of his pipe across his carpet. “What?”
Raif turned to Rew. “How many of them were there, Ranger? Two thousand, I think you said?”
Sighing, Rew agreed. “Could be. Those men were marching to Falvar, but we’re not certain—”
“King’s Sake, that’s our opportunity!” declared Worgon. “How long ago was this?”
“Two days,” muttered Rew. “We saw them in Umdrac two days ago.”
Baron Worgon’s eyes burned with excitement.
Rew held up a hand. “They were marching to Falvar, Baron, but we don’t know if they kept on or turned around. They were searching for the young nobles. We escaped, but—”
“How did you get away?” interrupted Worgon.
“On the water,” mumbled Rew, grimacing. He knew what the baron was thinking.
Worgon frowned. “Did they see you escape?”
“We don’t think so.”
He hated to tell the bulbous baron the truth, but he wasn’t sure lying would be any better. Could they gain Worgon’s assistance while keeping Prince Valchon out of it? Rew thought frantically, but there was too much he didn’t know, too much he’d have to guess at. In the end, in the face of uncertainty, he decided it was the truth that would serve them the best. Deceit and treachery were the games of nobles, not his.
Worgon raised his pipe to his lips and drew a lungful of smoke. He exhaled and said, “Where would Duke Eeron and his men believe the children fled, except to Falvar?”
Rew didn’t respond. Raif and Cinda were going to insist upon going to Spinesend, with or without Baron Worgon’s help. If they slipped out of Yarrow again, the man would forget whatever loyalty he professed to the younglings, and he’d hunt them just as assiduously as Duke Eeron. Now that they’d presented themselves, the safest way forward was beneath Worgon’s wing. And if they wanted that wing to fly toward Spinesend…
Worgon raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for a response.
Rew grunted. “We escaped unnoticed, and we do not believe Duke Eeron’s men know the full scope of our plans. You’re right, Baron Worgon, they would have assumed we fled to Falvar and the safety of its walls.”
“Two days ago?” asked Worgon, rubbing his hand with his face. “From Umdrac, hrmph, they’d still be a day from Falvar, then? Two thousand of Duke Eeron’s men, now a week from Spinesend? They’ll search Falvar once they get there. Of course they will. They have to. Even with two thousand men, conducting a thorough search to determine the children are not there… Duke Eeron’s captains won’t risk returning to Spinesend unless they’re sure.”
Rew frowned but nodded.
“Spellcasters, war hounds?”
“There were spellcasters,” said Rew. “We weren’t close enough to see any details, but there were at least three men in robes at the head of the column.”
“What color?”
“The leader wore the black of an invoker,” said Rew. “I saw blue and green as well.”
“Duke Eeron only has one invoker of any talent,” murmured Worgon, staring into his fire. “Cavalry?”
“Yes, the cavalry was on the march,” responded the ranger. “Two hundred, I’d guess. Plus what had to be his elite advanced scouts.”
“Interesting,” said Worgon, raising his pipe back to his puffy, purpled lips. “The duke still outnumbers us, but without his elite troops and his most skilled casters… Perhaps we could bring surprise onto our side. I’ve a thought that’s been nagging me ever since Prince Valchon appeared in my throne room, but I couldn’t risk it with so many men around Spinesend. Certainly not while Duke Eeron kept his cavalry close.”
The baron moved to a wide table at the other end of his study and began shuffling through maps and arranging documents covered in rows and columns of figures. Whispering to himself, he would read a line and stab a fat finger onto the map, seeming to lock some imaginary factor into place, then go back to his charts. The party watched him quietly, unsure what he was calculating and not wanting to interrupt the portly man’s thoughts.
Finally, Worgon looked up and declared, “I think it may work.”
“I’m Captain Graewald,” declared the man, his gruff voice booming in the stone room. “I’ll be responsible for your safety while you are in Yarrow.”
“I don’t recall seeing your face around the keep before, Captain,” remarked Raif.
The big man drew himself up and explained, “I spend most of my time out in the field, m’lord. I find life in the keep doesn’t suit me.”
Rew studied the man, frowning. A seasoned campaigner as he claimed, no doubt. He had wavy, blond hair that hung over his ears. Rew thought it could have used a trim, though he suspected that was the way the man preferred it. Graewald had a short beard, also blond, that did little to cover the pale white scar rising along one side of his jaw or the knotted pucker on his other cheek. Rather than hiding his old wounds, the beard seemed to show them off.
Ignoring Rew’s scrutiny, the captain turned, glancing around the tower room they’d been deposited in, and nodded appreciatively at its defensive nature. He gripped the leather-wrapped hilt of a wide-bladed broadsword on his hip. Beneath the man’s gloved hands, Rew could see the hilt of that sword showed evidence of use, but without seeing the blade, he couldn’t tell if it was from battle or from practice. The man’s chain hauberk looked in good enough repair, as if he rarely took a strike to the body, and his boots were in great shape, though Rew doubted they were the ones the man wore in the field.
It was the captain’s trousers that gave away his profession. The seat of his pants and the insides of his legs were worn from contact with the leather of his saddle. Graewald embodied a typical cavalry commander. A simple look identified him as a man used to sitting on the back of his horse, dishing out death as he rode high above it.
Rew had never trusted cavalry men.
If you meant to fight someone, you should fight them standing on your own feet. Worse, while cavalry were always eager to brag about how quick they were into a fight, they never seemed to mention how quick they were away when it turned against them. They enjoyed blooding their swords and then trotting off bef
ore the fighting got hot. Cavalry, more often than not, were men who made sport of war. They were always wealthy, as no one else could afford the horses that gained entry into the divisions. Third or fourth sons of nobility or first or second sons of the wealthiest merchants. The nobility because their parents had no place for them in the keeps, the merchants because valor on the battlefield was amongst the few ways to earn one of those keeps. Cavalry were men who sought glory but were never the ones you trusted to plant boots and hold a line.
Graewald was returning Rew’s study, eying the ranger up and down skeptically. Rew asked him, “Related to Baron Worgon, are you, Captain?”
The man shifted, a slight frown curling his lips down and pulling at the scar on his cheek. “No, I hail from Spinesend, and since you’re about to ask, I am a cousin to Duke Eeron.”
“You’re a cousin of Duke Eeron?” asked Raif, suddenly losing his fawning look and replacing it with one of shock and anger.
“I’ve no loyalty to the duke, lad,” stated Graewald. “He had no place for me, and I left when I was young. Baron Worgon has taken me in and given me all the opportunities a man could ask for. I’ve risen to captain in his most prestigious unit, and that’s more than I ever hoped when I arrived in Yarrow.”
Raif nodded, satisfied, but Rew wondered. Nobles were rarely content with their lot in life. They always wanted more. Unless Graewald simply enjoyed spilling blood, which Rew admitted was quite possible, then he doubted the captain had all that he truly hoped for.
But Worgon had trusted their safety to the man, and despite his reservations, Rew had to acknowledge Graewald was an experienced and capable seeming sort. The captain had quickly surveyed the chambers they’d been assigned to. He’d commandeered more men to post outside of the rooms, and he’d given the two young nobles specific—and firm—instructions on where they could go and when. Graewald had requested that if they needed to deviate from his schedule, they should clear it through him first. The man had left nothing for Rew to complain about, except that the captain had also lumped the ranger into his instructions.
