“It is. And I don’t make it lightly. Has it occurred to you that Princess Viviane might not have had a choice?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know nothing for certain just yet, but I know Princess Viviane well, and don’t believe she would have done this for mere ambition. I have a feeling Empress Teodora is behind it somehow and perhaps coerced Viviane into acting against her will.”
“I don’t believe she would have cooperated with Teodora, and certainly not in this.” The prince appeared to be working himself into a rage.
“Perhaps not.” Gwynneth needed to tread gently if she was to get what she wanted. “But I must find out. And I will not have Braeden Terris executed for a crime he didn’t commit. I plan to go to Isenwald at once and learn the truth.”
“But that might be very dangerous.” The prince still seemed less than convinced.
“If it’s as you say, and Braeden was the killer, then I’ll be safe. Your wife told me he sits in Princess Viviane’s dungeon.”
“True,” Prince Dristan admitted.
“I would appreciate it if you could provide me an escort to Isenwald.” Gwynneth forced herself to offer a charming smile, praying it didn’t appear too grotesque.
“I suppose I can. You’ll need one to get you home in any case.”
“Yes, I will. I promise to send them back as soon as I reach Terragand.” She forged ahead. “Might I have a thousand?” She planned to make a good show upon arriving at Kronfels.
“A thousand?” The prince frowned, though he no longer seemed angry. “I wish to keep you and the children safe but that seems nearly an army.”
“It is. But if Princess Viviane is dealing with some other trouble we’re not aware of, I might be of help to her with a force of that size.”
“True.” The prince nodded. “How about eight hundred?”
Gwynneth smiled again. She’d hoped for four hundred at the most. “Thank you so much. I’ll pay for their upkeep.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The prince waved his hand. “I told you I’d help, and I’m doing it. Just promise me you’ll make no untoward accusations against a fellow Kronland ruler, all right?”
“I promise,” Gwynneth said, doing her best to look meek.
Lennart
As always, the gods protected Lennart. Musket-balls struck the dirt around him, pinged off his helmet and cuirass, while he remained untouched. The troops behind him were taking a beating, but they were many, and would win through.
Lennart saw the musketeers straight ahead now, huddled in a shallow ditch. He fired his pistol at one, and the man disappeared in a puff of smoke. While shoving his pistol back into his belt, Lennart swung his heavy broadsword down on the next man, already trying to get away. He didn’t, and Lennart pulled his sword from the body while slicing through another in one motion.
Now the rest of his force joined him, and the enemy musketeers were scrambling out of the ditch, though most weren’t fast enough. The guns above had fallen silent.
Lennart hoped Trystan had taken them, though they might have been adjusting their aim. Lennart was so close now, he wouldn’t give them a chance.
“Ladders!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with dust and smoke.
Dozens of soldiers came running. Most of those first carrying the ladders had fallen, but others picked up those that weren’t badly damaged.
Lennart waited at the foot of the wall, breathless, while the ladders went up. He already had one foot on the bottom rung, when Leyf Lofbrok tugged at his arm.
“You mustn’t go first, Your Highness. It’s too risky.”
Lennart scowled at him. “I can’t ask anyone else to go first.”
“You don’t need to.” Lofbrok nodded at the other ladders, already swarming with soldiers. “Let me go just ahead of you.”
“I won’t—” Lennart paused, opened his mouth to shout at Lofbrok, order him to stop, but he’d already shouldered past Lennart and was climbing, rather rapidly too, for such a stocky fellow.
So Lennart shrugged and went after him. He’d be damned if he let one of his generals have all the glory.
Defenders still manned the walls, shooting down with muskets and pistols, throwing down rocks, barrels and anything else they got their hands on. Debris bounced off Lennart’s helmet, and he had to grip the ladder tightly to keep from being thrown off.
But he was close now, Lofbrok just ahead of him, gripping the edge of the parapet. Then he was out of sight, over the top, and Lennart scrambled after him.
Lofbrok had plunged into a cluster of enemy soldiers, his bulk knocking down two of them, pistol shots taking two more.
Lennart emptied his remaining loaded pistol into the cluster, then drew his sword again and set to work. All around him, the fight raged at the top of the wall, but more and more of his troops came over.
A large group of enemy soldiers still held the castle courtyard and the tower, but they were being attacked from both sides. Lennart couldn’t see well in the smoke, but glimpsed Trystan Martinek’s golden banner fluttering across the courtyard. Lennart didn’t know how he’d gotten in, but was glad he had.
But until they took the tower, the fight was far from over. Enemy muskets manned every opening inside, and the tops of the towers; even a few crossbow bolts flew between musket-balls. Lennart knew he was taking terrible casualties, but also knew he’d win.
He’d lost sight of Lofbrok, but plunged into the crowd of enemy ahead, his broadsword slicing through bodies. Armored or not, it didn’t seem to matter. Once he’d taken down a few big men, most of the others ran rather than face him.
There was nowhere to run, except into Martinek’s force. But then he saw an opening in the wall, enemy soldiers streaming out over the piled rubble, like ants.
Lennart paused and looked around for an officer. He spotted a young, familiar-looking lieutenant with a bandaged arm and said, “The enemy is getting away. Take your men and chase them. Likely they’ll go for the river.”
The officer nodded, shouted an order, and several dozen Kronlanders ran for the gap, chasing down the retreating troops.
Lennart turned back toward the fight. Getting through the courtyard was difficult—so many bodies littered the ground. He stepped around them, enemy troops running away from him as he held his sword high.
He saw Trystan Martinek himself, his face bloody, covered in dust and smoke, looking as happy as Lennart had ever seen him.
“Now this is a good fight, Your Highness,” he said with a grin. “We’ve picked off everyone up high. All that’s left is the tower.”
“Let’s take it together,” Lennart said, clapping Trystan on the shoulder.
To his relief, Trystan didn’t squawk about the risks. He shouted at some of his troops to follow him, and they headed for a door to the tower. Made of heavy wood and banded with iron, it had already been severely battered.
“We lobbed a few mortars in here before coming through the gap in the wall,” Trystan said. He shot at the lock with his pistol.
It gave way, and Lennart pulled the door open.
It was dark in here, and dangerous, but there couldn’t be many defenders left. Lennart’s soldiers outside knew to fire at anyone in the windows, so they’d be distracted. The winding stone staircase was narrow, so they went one at a time.
“Please let me go first,” Trystan said.
“Haven’t you already covered yourself in enough glory for one day?” Lennart griped, but let him. “Let’s not shoot in here, with these walls so close.”
Being taken by a ricochet would be a disappointing way to go. Everyone drew their swords and started up the stairs.
The enemy was nearly out of ammunition, so those they met tried to defend themselves with blades, but mostly, they surrendered.
At the top of the tower, Lennart approached an officer who handed him his sword, looking resigned.
“Where’s Bosek Komary?” Lennart had hoped to capture the enemy general, but had seen
no sign of him.
The officer shrugged. “Run off most like. He was the first to leave when he saw that great hole in the wall.”
Lennart winked at the man. “With any luck we’ll catch him anyway.”
Now he had the castle, he could turn its guns on the town. He expected Prince Herryk to surrender within the hour.
Braeden
Escaping his prison wouldn’t be that easy. Maybe the guards had decided Braeden looked more dangerous by daylight. By the time they brought his evening meal, a whole cluster of them filled the corridor around the door.
He’d stood in the middle of the room, ready to run at them, but torchlight flickered up and he counted a good eight spear-tips. He would probably need help, and didn’t see how he’d get it.
He spent a great deal of time probing the room for weaknesses, but found none. It might not have been a dungeon, but it was a sturdy stone-lined room with no weak spots. The floor was of flagged stone as well, and when he managed to pull up a chipped corner, he found only earth below. That at least told him he was on a ground floor, which he had suspected, judging by what he could see of the gardens.
He spent a lot of time looking out the window. He wished he’d had a chance to walk the gardens before being imprisoned, so he could know where he was in relation to the palace. He knew he wasn’t inside it, considering how few people walked around nearby.
Aside from the occasional gardener, he saw only guards as their shifts changed, and within a few days, could estimate how many watched him. Fifteen worked twelve hours at a time, so thirty in all. About half guarded the outside, and he guessed the rest were stationed at his door and in the corridor, and at his door at mealtimes.
The food continued to be good, and of decent variety, and Braeden learned it was brought from elsewhere; perhaps the palace kitchen.
The number of guards shouldn’t have been insurmountable with help, but they were too many for him alone and unarmed.
He wondered at how much time passed with nothing happening, but appreciated the extra days of life given him. Maybe there was a reason for it.
He’d been there nearly ten days when he had a visitor. In the middle of the day, the door opened, and a slight, dark-haired young man in priest’s garb walked in, flanked by four guards.
“Can you lot stay out?” he asked. “I’m not worried.”
He turned to Braeden with a smile. “Do you promise not to kill me?”
“Sure.” Braeden welcomed the company, and hoped he might get some information.
The guards left, and the door slammed shut.
Braeden gestured to the barrel, and the priest sat down. Braeden took a seat on the table nearby and waited for him to speak.
“Officially, I’m Father Vico, of the League of Aeternos, here to take down your confession before your trial. Unofficially, I’m a friend to Edric Maximus.”
Braeden frowned, confused. “I’m not confessing to something I didn’t do. And I thought all of you here in Isenwald were Quadrene to begin with.”
“Officially, yes.” The young man turned warm brown eyes on Braeden and smiled. “But Princess Viviane has found it difficult to abandon the old faith herself, so I was sent to be her personal priest.”
“By Edric Maximus?”
“Now you’re getting the idea. Though as far as the princess knows, I work for Livilla Maxima. Of all of King Lennart’s purported allies, Princess Viviane is the least enthusiastic. It seemed sensible to keep someone close to her.”
“By the Father’s balls.” Braeden forgot he shouldn’t swear in front of a cleric. “So I can assume you’re friendly?” He dropped his voice. “And more important, can you get me out of here?”
“I’m friendly, yes,” Father Vico said. “I’m not sure I can get you out, though I can send a message to friends of yours.”
Braeden wanted to say Kendryk was his nearest friend, then had to remember for the thousandth time he was gone forever. He cleared his throat. “Can you tell King Lennart what’s going on? I’m sure he’s heard the official version, though I hope he doesn’t believe it.”
“No one who’s ever met you does,” the priest said, “though that might not help you. Princess Viviane is keen to part your head from your body, but I’ve been counseling delay. I doubt I can manage more than a few weeks while all of the unlikely and hard-to-find functionaries I’ve told her are essential for the trial trickle into Kronfels.”
“Thanks for that,” Braeden said, and meant it more sincerely than just about anything in his life. “I never expected I’d last this long. I’m not surprised the princess wants to get rid of me, considering how she was involved.”
The priest tilted his head. “Do you mind telling me what happened? I suspected the princess was in it up to her elbows, but she wouldn’t speak of it, even to me.”
“No confession then, eh?” Braeden shouldn’t have been surprised she’d be false in her religion, along with everything else.
He told Father Vico what had happened in the study, including Countess Biaram’s presence at the end. “I’m sure Teodora was behind all of it,” Braeden added.
Father Vico frowned. “That makes the situation even more dangerous. We need to get you out of here but I can’t do it alone. I hoped you had friends nearer than Lennart who might help you. He’s very far away, and I doubt I can delay long enough for him to do anything.”
Edric Maximus was another possibility, but also too far away. Natalya and Gwyneth were in Galladium.
“I can’t come up with anyone right now,” Braeden said. “But I’ll think about it. Can you come back?”
“Certainly.” The young man stood, and put his hand on Braeden’s shoulder. “Think of everyone you know who might be able to help and don’t give up hope just yet.”
Anton
After receiving the king’s order, Anton waved his troops to his side, and once Trystan saw what was he was doing, he ordered a few more to follow him.
By now, hundreds of the enemy were running down the hillside, or sliding when it got too steep. Anton let them go for now, since from his vantage point, he could see where they were headed, and realized they wouldn’t get far.
A large stone bridge crossed the river about a half-league before the city gates. Those were shut tight, as everyone flooded toward the bridge. But traffic across the river had halted.
It looked like the baggage train had been trying to get across for hours now, but once it became clear things were going badly, the retreat turned into a panicked jam of wagons, horses and people. No one could get through.
A few cavalry and dragoons were hurrying east along the riverbank, but they were too few to worry about. Anton went after the infantry, heaving in a great mass at the bridgehead and spreading out along the riverbank. Some were flinging themselves into the river; a bad idea since the water was fast, and few could swim, from the look of it.
Anton ordered his troops after them, to kill or take prisoner those who surrendered, but a commotion at the bridgehead caught his eye.
An elaborate carriage was trying to force its way through the crowd. From the look of it, it held someone important. Even with several mounted and armed guards hacking at the panicked crowd, the carriage only crawled forward.
“To the bridge,” Anton shouted at Sergeant Mader, who grabbed a few more soldiers close by. Once Anton pointed, he saw the carriage as well.
By the time they reached it, the crowd had made things easy for them. The mounted guard had become separated, a few pulled off their horses and disappearing into the crowd. The only thing left to worry about was being trampled by accident.
Anton waded into the mess, using a pistol butt to crack heads. He didn’t want to kill any camp followers trying to get away, but he kept an eye out for armed men. Only one tried to stop him at the carriage’s rear wheel, but Anton distracted him with the pistol in his bad hand, then ran him through with his sword.
He worked his way forward, until he reached the panicked horses
hitched to the carriage, relieved there were only two.
Mader had knocked down the driver and taken his seat, while the rest of Anton’s troops surged around the carriage itself.
Anton grabbed the harness of the largest horse, stroked its nose and whispered into its ear. Its eyes rolled, and it snorted, but it calmed down enough for Anton to pull it around.
The other horse followed, and gradually, the carriage turned away from the bridge while the crowd flowed around it. Anton walked the horses to the side of the road and handed them over to another soldier.
Grabbing his pistol again, he opened the carriage door. “You’re surrounded by King Lennart’s army,” he said, leaning toward the door, but staying well back, in case the occupants tried something. “Come out with your hands up.”
Everyone outside held their breaths until a short man, with a long, droopy mustache and plumed hat poked his head out. “I surrender,” he said, handing Anton his sword, bejeweled hilt first. A sobbing woman in a lacy dress followed him.
Anton had a feeling about this, but he wanted to be sure. “State your name and rank,” he said, doing his best to sound haughty and serious, rather than gleeful.
The man sighed, his mustache drooping still further. “Bosek Komary, General of the empress’s army,” he said, sighing again.
Anton nodded at the woman, still crying. “And Madame Komary ... or Miss ...?” She seemed young to be the general’s wife.
“Er, yes.” The general looked furtive. So neither.
Anton held back a grin and said, “You’ll be King Lennart’s guest, as soon as he’s finished mopping up.”
The general nodded, his face grim. Anton had him wait in the carriage, well-guarded, while he went in search of the king.
Lennart came down the hillside, at the head of a great horde of soldiers.
Anton waited for him at the foot, and approached him at once. “I have urgent news, Your Highness,” he said, brushing aside a protesting officer.
Lennart’s face was covered in sweat, blood and grime, but he laughed at seeing Anton. “I thought that was you up there,” he said. “Looks like you picked up a pretty sword on your way down.”
Winter of the Wolf (The Desolate Empire Book 4) Page 23
