by David Estes
Chewing his lip in thought, Verner stood next to his father. Knight’s End was spread out before them like a miniature city, the people so small from this height they might’ve been figurines, moving hither and thither, conducting their daily business. Merchants hawking wares. Couriers delivering messages. Children running and playing. This was what they were fighting for, this way of life, unfettered by the exorbitant taxes and irrelevant laws of a ruler so distant he might’ve been on one of the moons.
Tomas spoke at last, his words placed carefully, as if each might break if uttered too close together. “I promised him I would never fight the crown.”
Verner was careful not to object too vehemently. This was a conversation that needed to be handled with care. The way his father spoke of his own father…he hadn’t just loved him—he’d idolized him. “Even if the Crimeans declared war on our people?”
Tomas shook his head. “Our conversation wasn’t that specific.”
“That’s because grandfather couldn’t predict the future. Had he known what we faced, surely he would tell you to fight. Surely he would fight with you.”
His father’s eyes met his, and the look he gave him seemed fathomless, his dark eyes filled with an eternal well of experience and history, much of which Verner could never fully appreciate. “You didn’t know him. He was the greatest man I ever knew. The bravest, too. But he was no soldier. The thrill of discovery was what drove him, as well as his family. He wanted me to live, not die for a cause that could be avoided. If he were here today, he would tell me to surrender, to make peace with the crown, to live.”
Verner could read between the lines. “But if it were up to you?”
Tomas smiled, but it was a sad smile, seeming to fall off his lips. “I was born a revolutionary. Even at eighteen, when my father died, I wanted Knight’s End to be independent from Crimea. That’s why my father made me promise him I never would.”
“He’s not here now. He’s been gone a long time.”
“His memory is as strong as ever. Time could never fade Heinrich Gäric. And when I made the promise, he was breathing his last breath. A deathbed promise should never be broken.”
Verner soaked it all in, finally understanding a part of his father he’d struggled with for a long time. Still… “You could be king, you know.” After Heinrich had died, King Streit had appointed Tomas as Protector of the Crimean Expansion, which is what he called these lands. Though he governed Knight’s End, along with the other colonies spread across the west and east, he did so under Crimean authority.
“I have no desire for such absolute power,” Tomas said ruefully.
“Which is exactly why you should rule.”
“Son, you have an independent spirit and a quick mind. You remind me a lot of myself at your age. I am proud of you. I will not force you to make any promises. You must follow your own heart, and I must follow mine. Now please, allow an old man his rest.”
His mother’s back was to him as he entered the room, but she saw him in the mirror. In the reflection, her eyes met his and she smiled.
Viola Gäric was twenty years younger than his father, though age was beginning to catch up with her too. A few years ago, she’d chopped her golden hair short, and now it was speckled with white that blended in like salt amongst sand. The most prominent lines on her face were around her lips, which were quick to smile. Her eyes were sparkling pools of blue that might’ve belonged to a woman half her age. She had a small button nose (which had saved Verner from inheriting his father’s hooked beak) and butterfly lips that seemed full of mirth even when she was angry. Though that was a rare occurrence, even during dark days like these.
She turned, her smile broadening even further. “My son. Give your mother a hug. Or are you too old for such affections?”
Verner immediately felt better, despite his conversation with his father. “I will be a hundred before I outgrow affection for you, Mother,” he said. She stood and they embraced. He lingered a moment longer than usual, relishing his mother’s warmth—as much in spirit as in body.
“You look troubled, Verner. The wars of men weigh heavily on you. I can see it in your eyes.”
Verner wasn’t surprised. His mother had always been able to see to the core of him—or perhaps he just wore his heart on his sleeve. “Father will not fight. He told me about the promise he made to Granpapa.”
She held him back to look at him, and he was surprised to see a darkness fall over her face. “Your father has lived in the shadow of Heinrich his entire life. The man even casts a shadow in death. He was a legend; a hero. Tomas doesn’t take promises made to him lightly.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. Your father is his own man, and you are yours. Would you have him make your decisions for you?”
Verner realized he hadn’t been fair. He knew his father loved Knight’s End as much as anyone—probably more. “I will fight.”
His mother nodded thoughtfully. “I know you will. But is that all you will do?”
Verner cocked his head to the side. “What else is there? We are under attack. We must fight.”
Her lips once more dancing with a smile, Viola said, “You have a mind for strategy, my son. You always have, since you were a little boy and defeated me in seven moves when we played Knights and Dragons.”
The memory made him smile. Verner had forgotten about that—he hadn’t played the game in many years, his handmade set gathering dust in a chest somewhere. But still… “This isn’t a game.”
“Isn’t it?”
“People’s lives are at stake.”
“All the more reason to be thorough in our planning.”
What was she getting at? “Father is a wise man,” Verner said slowly.
“There’s no disputing that,” his mother said. “Then again, I remember when you beat him in five moves.”
“A child’s game.”
“Grown men play for coin in the marketplaces.”
“A game then. For adults or children, it matters not. It isn’t real. I will fight. That is all I can do.”
“As you say. But know this, Verner Gäric, our independence may hinge upon the voices in the council room. You may choose to be one of them, or stay silent. But you must live with the consequences.”
Crimean trade had been cut off for only a week and already the people of Knight’s End were in an uproar. Of all things, it was cheese that was the problem. Most of the colonists had developed a strange, almost addiction-like affinity for Crimean cheese. Though Verner hated to admit it, he missed it as much as anyone, that pungent taste on his lips, so sharp it made his tongue tingle. There were other Crimean exports being missed as well, everything from sheepskin boots to silk scarves to finely woven rugs and tapestries.
It was causing dissension in the ranks. Already peacekeepers had been dispatched to break up three separate riots, and Verner knew it would only get worse before it got better. Even amongst the soldiers he was hearing complaints. They grumbled about the extra training hours. They grumbled about being ill-prepared for a war with the crown. They grumbled about old weapons and ill-fitting uniforms and the weather being too cold to fight, or too hot, or too wet, or too dry. Basically they grumbled about everything.
Truth be told, Verner was beginning to worry his grandfather was right. Maybe it would be easier swallowing their pride and maintaining peace with King Streit, who was now said to be more than ninety name days old. Eventually, the old man would have to die, wouldn’t he? Perhaps his sons would be more willing to grant Knight’s End its independence. What difference would a few years make?
“I’m as bad as the rest of them,” Verner muttered, staring out at the calm seas. He stood on one of the too-quiet docks nestled along the western shores of the Bay of Bounty. Typically, at this time of day the docks would be bustling with activity. Crimean ships would be docking, their goods being unloaded by burly salt-stained seamen anxious to finish their tasks before exploring the city, bringing
coin to the taverns and inns lining the cobblestoned streets. And local ships would be preparing to sail across the Crimean Sea with their own goods: casks of fine wine from local vineyards; salted beef and lamb from the outlying farms of the western plains; sturdy leather boots. And on and on. Instead, a single merchant vessel rocked and bobbed, waiting to raise anchor and set sail for the western settlement of Talis. The sailors went about their tasks with an air of boredom. Several out of work dockworkers napped against wooden pilons, their caps pulled over their eyes. Verner had the urge to march over to them and offer a swift kick in the ribs and a strong suggestion that they join the army.
Instead, he looked back at the water, which paved a glittering pathway all the way to the western horizon. The air was calm. The sky blue and clear. The sun shining pleasantly. Though he knew a storm was brewing out there somewhere, it was easy to believe they would be able to avoid it. The captain of the lone ship barked the command to raise anchor and a large chain began to lift from the depths. Clearly this man believed it was safe to set sail. Captains were supposed to have good instincts, after all.
The heavy clop of horse hooves pulled him from his childish revelry.
He turned to face the rider, who was clad in mail, waving an arm and shouting something. Verner frowned, wondering what would cause a soldier to act so erratic.
As he approached, his meaningless shouts became words. “Hold the ship!” he yelled.
Verner glanced at the captain, who was also watching the rider, but who didn’t seem to be able to hear his message yet. “Captain!” he said loudly. “Lower your anchor.”
The captain glanced at him, seemed to consider whether he was bound by an order from a Gäric while on the deck of his own ship, shrugged, and then issued the command. It took another moment for his sailors to comprehend what he was saying, and then the massive iron anchor—which was halfway from the water to the ship’s railing—dropped back into the water with a splash.
The rider charged up, pulling his steed to a stop so close to Verner that he could see the flare of its nostrils. “Why did I just halt this ship?” Verner asked.
“Riders arrived from Talis,” the soldier said. He was even younger than Verner, no more than sixteen if he was a day. His expression was half excitement, half terror, which, at that age, was much the same thing. Though Verner wasn’t much older, being so young seemed like a long time ago.
“What riders?”
“Soldiers,” the boy said, emphasizing the word. “Half were injured. One was dead in the saddle.”
Verner frowned. Talis was a hard three day’s ride from Knight’s End. It wasn’t the southernmost Crimean colony, but it was closer to Phanes than Knight’s End. “There was a battle?” The boy nodded in terror-excitement. “The Phanecians?” Though tensions with their Southron neighbors had remained high, there hadn’t been a major attack by either side in over a year.
The boy shook his head. “No. The Crimeans.” He said the last word like some kind of a prayer. There was no mistaking the reverence in his tone.
“What?” Verner was unable to mask his surprise. For one, he hadn’t expected an attack for weeks, at least. Secondly, he’d thought the first battle would be at Knight’s End as the Crimeans sought to slice a hole through the capital city. In fact, his father had already sent several fast warships into the Crimean Sea to patrol the waters and provide an early warning of an impending attack.
Instead, King Streit had circumvented their defenses already, making landfall further south. Realization spread like approaching dawn through Verner’s mind:
The attack will come from the land rather than the sea.
Verner was out of breath by the time he reached the castle’s main atrium. Though he’d borrowed the soldier’s horse from the docks, he’d sprinted from the stables through the various courtyards and gardens, comprising a total of two-hundred-and-thirteen steps, a number which the king of Crimea supposedly believed to be lucky. The castle had been built a decade earlier on command from King Streit, who said his favorite colony needed a proper castle. Verner was of the opinion it was intended as a bribe to his father to ensure his continued loyalty and obedience.
Little did the king know, his father cared little for gold and castles. All he cared about was peace and prosperity for his people.
In any case, the lord protector of the realm was sitting alone in his council room studying a map when Verner dashed up, sweating profusely through his thick trousers and linen shirt.
“Father…Talis…the Crimeans,” he managed to get out between breaths.
“I know,” Tomas said. “The rider stopped here first. I’m the one that sent him to the docks to stop the ship and to find you.”
Oh. For some strange reason, he was surprised. Sometimes he forgot his father was the ruler. He’d just been so…distant lately. Almost as distant as King Streit.
He approached, still breathing heavily, wishing he hadn’t run so hard. He leaned over his father, who’d gone back to studying his map. “According to the soldiers who”—his father swallowed hard—“survived the attack, the Crimeans made landfall here.” He pointed at a spot on the map even further south than Talis. From there they could’ve attached either Talis or one of the border colonies, Verner thought. Clearly, the king had wanted to keep his options open.
Finally, he managed to speak. “They will march on Knight’s End next.”
His father looked up sharply, as if he’d forgotten his son was still there. “Yes. They will. They left no fighting man alive, save for the few who managed to escape. They rounded up the women and children and elderly and imprisoned them. King Streit was hoping to take us by surprise from the south, but we got lucky.”
“Lucky? We lost our second largest city.” In reality, calling Talis a “city” was being generous. Though a wall was being planned, the town was naught but a series of ramshackle houses built with very little order or planning. Tomas and Verner had been considering a visit to the town for a while, but hadn’t yet gotten around to it.
“Yes. Lucky. If we were unlucky, the Crimeans would attack without warning while we’re staring at the sea wondering where they are.”
Verner knew his father was right, but it still hurt to think of all those soldiers killed because they hadn’t been better prepared. They couldn’t let that happen again, not in Knight’s End. His mother’s words came back to him. You have a mind for strategy. “We need to rally the troops, begin setting up a perimeter, and focus our forces to the south.”
“Already done.”
“Then we should send scouts along the coast, and also on the Western Road, just in case they try to surprise us again.”
“The command was given an hour ago.”
“We must dig trenches, fill them with oil that can be lit with flaming arrows when the Crimeans arrive.”
“Naturally. I had one of the captains appropriate fifty men to do just that. And the rest of the warships will sail from Bethany at first light. We will recall the scout ships, too, no sense in losing a single man before the real battle begins.”
Verner was dumbfounded. “But I thought you didn’t want to fight.”
“I don’t. And I won’t. But that doesn’t mean everyone else won’t have to. The rest of the city isn’t bound by a fifty-year-old promise.”
Verner felt foolish. Of course his father would protect the city. At this point, the Crimeans weren’t interested in surrender. They wanted to reinforce their dominion over these lands, and surrender wouldn’t be an option until blood was spilt in this very city. Then again, the defenses would be fairly standard—the Crimeans would be expecting them. Would it be enough? Several mad ideas floated through Verner’s mind, but who was he to second-guess his father’s commands? The city had survived this long with him as its protector. “What can I do?” he asked instead.
His father pushed away from the map, turning to face his son. His jaw was firm, his expression grim. “For the first time in my life I truly understand w
hy my father, why Heinrich, commanded me to leave the expedition into the Hinterlands. He probably saved my life when he did. And when he made me promise not to fight the crown, he was only trying to do what was best for me. But he was wrong. Not in his love for me, or his desire to protect his family, but in his belief that there weren’t things worth fighting for, that independence didn’t matter. I know what you believe in, son, and I won’t try to stop you from fighting when the time comes. You will serve under Captain Lewers, if you choose.”
“Thank you, Father,” Verner said. “I will protect the city. We will be victorious.”
“Is that all?”
His mother’s counsel came back to him: …the voices in the council room…choose to be one of them, or remain silent…live with the consequences. “Yes, Father.”
Tomas turned back to his map as if he hadn’t heard.
The Crimeans must have marched in sixteen hour shifts in order to reach Knight’s End by nightfall two days later.
In the shadows of the dying sunlight, Verner could just make out their green and black flags flapping in the wind, see the silver edges of their armor, glimpse the flashing edges of their swords and shields. He estimated their numbers at ten thousand strong.
The sound of their feet marching across the hardened plains was like thunder, and Verner felt it tremble through him. Several hundred of them rode mongolbeasts. Standing on four legs as thick as tree trunks, they snorted and shook their heads, which were flat from back to front, ending in a long, curved spike on the tips of their snouts. Verner had seen them before; every so often the Crimean merchants would bring a few across the sea and offer rides for a fee. But he’d never seen so many at once, each framed with large sections of plate to protect the vital areas of their chests and throats.
