With every trot Swift took, the mountains of La Zandia in the far distance grew larger. Nialls clenched his pain away. He was angry he could not take Cael Barr’s offer for pagan help to save his son—being High King had prevented it. Now, as High King, he had nothing. Rage filled him as Cael Barr’s smug assurances permeated his thoughts, and he knew he would take that rage with him to La Zandia. Time would reveal a reckoning.
Men surrounded him in their battle gear, ready to follow their High King to war. It was a small consolation to Nialls. In his heart, Nialls knew he was risking oblivion. He had grown cold after he let go of his son. The crumbling of his Kingdom mirrored what was taking place within. Nialls was gravitating toward the same wellspring of sorrow to have plagued his former First Warden, and the precipice yearned to pull him into its void and destroy the man he used to be.
Thomas rode behind the High King, a spectral presence in the sea of the army. The old knight had not said much since his return, preferring to remain outside the group of advisors, but for the first time, Nialls could relate to the pain Thomas had endured. They were now kindred.
At that moment, Rowen rode close to Nialls, bringing his horse alongside Swift. “We will reach the La Zandian border and our encampment by nightfall, Your Majesty.”
“How are those from Godwyn Keep holding up?” Nialls asked.
“They are tougher than even they know, I bet. Being unused to travel has strained some of them, but Pontiff Erol and his two Pontifices are seeing to their needs. In my opinion, the ride is merely toughening them for the trial ahead.”
“Does the Pontiff believe it will be an issue once we arrive?”
Rowen shrugged. “The force he sent as a Pontifex has been there for weeks. They have warded off the few skirmishes of witchcraeft the Marcher Lord sent at them and will be able to maintain any assault as long as it isn’t too sustained. That will give Godwyn Keep’s reinforcements time to rest before we bring a front on Laver Herid with our current battalions.”
Nialls frowned. He knew Rowen had been biting at the chance to illustrate his prowess as First Warden of the Kingdom. With Thomas returned from the wilds of Blackrhein Reach, it only increased Rowen’s desire to do so.
“Have you spoken to your brother yet?” Nialls questioned.
“No, and I have no wish to do so,” Rowen said simply, his eyes scanning the plains.
“He is now an advisor, like you. He will be a great help during this time of strife.”
“He is nothing like me,” Rowen grated. He looked around to see if anyone had heard him. “As long as he stays out of my way, everything will go as planned, Your Majesty.”
Rowen wheeled his mount and rode back to speak to two of his captains. More than a thousand warden and priests from Godwyn Keep had joined the seven thousand men of the Aris Shae army, and it was one of the largest hosts in recent history. Protected by his Aegis Guard, Erol rode somewhere on the far right flank with his contingent, discussing possible strategies with his High Captain. Two Godwyn Council members—Pontifex Valarie Reu and Pontifex Geoffrey Lonoth—had also joined, both talented in the arts of their Order. Despite all of the men and resources at his disposal, Nialls could not dispel the feeling it was all for naught.
“Thomas,” Nialls requested.
The old knight cantered his chocolate stallion forward. “If you are going to ask me if Rowen is doing the correct thing, you already know the answer. He was trained by the same man as I was.”
“I have faith in him,” Nialls said. He pointed at Thomas’s horse. “I see a farm horse has risen in the ranks to become a military mount.”
“Sorin trained him well,” Thomas said, patting Creek. “He carried me from the Reach, and his speed is unparalleled. To repay him I thought I would bring him to a war.”
Nialls’s frown lifted briefly, but he grew serious again. “After being there, do you still honestly believe Sorin can accomplish what he was sent to the Reach to do? The Reach is a very dangerous place, and he only has the Giant and Arianna to guide him. Can he still save the Hammer before it is used against us?”
“I don’t know, Nialls, but I do know this,” Thomas said, capturing the High King with assured sincerity. “If Sorin is even half the man Arvel Westfall was, you couldn’t have put your faith in a more appropriate place. And after knowing Sorin for a short time, I think he is very much like his father.”
Nialls thought of Arianna. Sending her was one more decision he was now unsure of. If Sorin acted in any way as though he were adopting evil as Kieren had, Nialls had ordered Arianna to kill Sorin. But after hearing Thomas speak of Sorin, he prayed Arianna would not carry out her errand unless she was absolutely sure and had given Sorin every benefit of doubt.
The High King turned back to Thomas. “How do you do it?”
The pale blue eyes squinted at Nialls. “What do you mean?”
“My son is dead. I have lost everything my heart held dear. How did you go on living after the tragedy of your family?”
“I didn’t go on living, Nialls. I died the moment they died,” Thomas said, pointing at Nialls. “I am a different man now, less than a man in many ways. You, however, must be strong now. You had Rowen when I left to fill in the vacancy of my position; the Kingdom does not have another High King to govern it. It may be in this way you redeem yourself to me.”
“Every instinct I have tells me to run, to find solace in the fleeing.”
“I know that feeling,” Thomas grimaced. “But again, I was not the High King. You have a greater responsibility than anyone. You cannot leave and return whenever you wish; you wear the crown, and only death relieves a High King of his duty.”
Nialls took a deep breath. Thomas sounded like Nialls’s father, and he had always been right when it came to matters of the monarchy. Nialls took a steadying breath. These were the times to try men. He had to persevere or all could be lost.
“My children would have been parents by now,” Thomas said, staring into the distance. “I would have been a grandfather. Soon I will go to join them, and I too will be at peace.”
The hills had grown closer, and the High King could make out their definition—trees, boulders, and the shape of the land—when he saw a speck moving on the horizon toward them. Peering closer, he could tell it was a rider approaching from La Zandia. The diamond-starred pennant of the Kingdom blew in the breeze from a lance thrust high into the air.
At that moment, a loud cheer leapt into the air from the host at Nialls’s back, and his men knew their long journey was over.
“Let’s get this over with,” the High King said to no one in particular.
* * * * *
The next morning, Nialls did not waken to the brightening of his large tent but to the sound of metal clanking and waking grunts.
He had slept fitfully, the arrival to the La Zandia border town of Tuzia coming late in the evening, and the meetings with Rowen’s captains had dragged long into the night. Traveling the long distance had wearied him, but sleep had defied him as well. He was alone in the world, and that knowledge spun in his mind as his only companion, unwilling to give him a reprieve.
He stepped out of his tent to see men already preparing their breakfast, bracing their armor, sharpening their weapons. A page sitting next to the tent’s entryway came awake with a kick from one of the Wards guarding the High King, and the boy ran to retrieve Nialls’s breakfast. The eastern sky was pink and orange, the sunrise sneaking beneath the night’s cloud cover. Behind him over the ridge, Tuzia lay in the bowl of a valley, its inhabitants vanished with the knowledge of the forthcoming conflict; they had either joined Laver Herid or traveled deeper into the safety of the Kingdom.
The wine merchants had been hit hard during the seasons of drought, but the conflict had stalled all wine production. Nialls shook his head as the grey clouds choked the morning of its pastel sunrise; it would take a great deal of effort to restore what had been lost.
After his breakfast, Nialls requested to
see his advisors. The lack of sleep had worn off of his visage, but his weariness remained, a shackle about his heart.
Pontiff Erol, accompanied by his two Pontifices and Godwyn Keep’s High Captain Rook, took seats in woven chairs. Shortly after them came Rowen and his three Captains. The ground of the tent was flat, covered in dark rugs, and the chairs they sat in offered a little comfort so far from Aris Shae.
“It is now,” Nialls began, looking about the room at each face. “Now we face a threat that has been festering in La Zandia for a very long time. I want this meeting to be brief as we have plans to initiate. After all of the preparation, I want to hear from you—my commanders—if this is again the best choice we have before us and your unwavering support to see it through.”
“It must be done,” Pontiff Erol answered. “To wait longer only lends strength to the Marcher Lord and his allies. The pagan influence breeds contempt for the Kingdom’s peaceful life, and we are what stands between their ideology and terror.” The men and women around the room nodded.
Nialls locked eyes with each person in the tent once more before conceding. “Very well. After speaking to Biship Arvus, what have you learned this morning, Pontiff Erol?”
Pontiff Erol leaned forward, eager. Erol suffered from the same disease Nialls’s First Warden did—the overwhelming need to prove himself—but there was a ruthless cunning behind Erol’s eyes Rowen did not possess. Nialls would have to keep a sharp watch on the Pontiff and ensure he did not step into the realm of genocide.
“The Marcher Lord and his host are several valleys away,” Pontiff Erol said. “Their scouts watch our scouts, and there has been relatively little movement to attack our forces. Those I sent from Godwyn Keep have kept the First Warden’s soldiers safe from the Marcher Lord’s witchcraeft. The battle should be easily won based on the First Warden’s training and the faith Godwyn Keep’s priests have brought with them.”
“We must keep in mind, however, these Kingdom people have been lied to,” Pontifex Lonoth interjected. “They have been brought under the sway of the Marcher Lord and his words, and most are nothing more than farmers or townspeople. We cannot know how many innocent lives may have been swept up in this rebellion. I agree with Pontiff Erol’s estimation of the events here, but we must tread carefully, and therefore caution is necessary.”
Pontiff Erol sat in his seat, unmoving, but it was plain he wanted action that contradicted his Pontifex’s warning.
“From what you have now seen, Rowen, do you have a plan of attack?” Nialls asked.
“I do, and Pontifex Reu, High Captain Rook, and my own Captains are willing to carry it out when the order has been given. The time is now, while the days are still relatively dry and winter is still almost a season away. We do not want to be hassled into a long-term war so far from Aris Shae when the rains of autumn begin.” Rowen sat a bit straighter. “The force we bring to bear is unequivocally stronger than what the Marcher Lord has gathered. La Zandia will once again be within Kingdom control in a week, maybe less. If the Keep can suppress the witchcraeft and maintain the neutrality on the battlefield, it is an assured victory with few Kingdom losses.”
“Your Majesty,” Pontiff Erol cut in. “It will take Godwyn Keep time—perhaps two generations, if not longer—to eradicate the pagan scourge from the province. Those roots are deep. Once the First Warden and the Kingdom forces have done their duty, Godwyn Keep will need additional resources to ensure this never happens again.”
Nialls nodded, concerned only with the battle preparation. “Are the Witches there?”
“They are,” Pontifex Reu replied, her face hawkish in the light of the tent’s orb. “They seem to be the only authority of witchcraeft in the pagans’ midst, the others able to a far lesser degree. On another note, Laver Herid has not made many appearances.”
“And Herid’s advisor?” Nialls asked Rowen. “Has he been sighted recently?”
Rowen looked to High Captain Joral, a man who had been in La Zandia since the outset of the province’s problems. The High Captain cleared his throat. “We have not, Your Majesty. It is as though he has fled or vanished entirely. He could be hidden and only comes out at night, but that is highly unlikely.”
Nialls thought about it. Had Nialls and the Kingdom stumbled into a trap? Had the All Father’s wayward son fled once the board and its pieces had been set? Was it even Kieren? Once the Kingdom’s First Warden quelled the rebellion and they captured those responsible for its action, the High King would have the advisor searched for.
“That’s it then,” Nialls said, rising to his feet. “Finalize your plans with Pontiff Erol, Rowen. I will leave you all to your separate duties. I will visit the warden and let them know I am here with them as well. When you are finished, find me. We march at noon.”
The tent’s occupants rose and bowed to him. Nialls was already striding out.
* * * * *
The sound of thousands of marching feet rose into the afternoon air, but Nialls’s attention was fixed on the swarm of men and women who moved over the hills toward his army. The Kingdom’s forces had left their campsite as planned and moved to intercept their enemy in a broad, long valley that gave the army clear view of their adversaries. Grape vines grew on two of the hills, and a rare, dense forest comprised of oak trees—sprinkled with ash and wild plum—rose above a dense thicket of blackberry and poison oak at the back of the valley. The hills were golden even beneath the gray skies, the broad leaves of the grape vines changing to their autumn mantle. The land was beautiful, and it saddened Nialls he could not take pleasure in it with thousands of men meeting their destiny at his command.
First Warden Rowen and his High Captains had formed three separate lines. Each consisted of a light cavalry, hundreds of wards and priests from Godwyn Keep, and thousands of foot soldiers braced with all manner of weaponry, armor, and determination. Rowen sat with the High King, eyeing the progression of each unit with a critical eye, and Pontiff Erol was to Nialls’s right, his white robes denoting his office. Thomas was behind them with a contingent of Wards to protect their rear. Thousands of men walked or rode past their High King, entering the valley with the clank and grunts of men ready to die.
Across from them, the Marcher Lord waited on a black steed, his host milling about him in an effort to become organized. Laver Herid had come out of his military tent wearing the red armor of his forefathers as the might of the Kingdom entered the valley. Beyond the host, Laver Herid’s campsites and supply trains remained. Rowen had sent scouts out into the hills surrounding the area, and no other forces were waiting. The Marcher Lord and his Witches had brought their entire force here to make their final stand against the tyranny they felt they had to fight against.
“I cannot believe they have come to the field,” Nialls said aloud, shaking his head. “How has it come to this?”
“They are stubborn and prideful,” Erol replied from the High King’s right. “They choose to die for a faith that has been responsible for death ever since the Kingdom’s foundation. Remember, it was their inability to coexist with the All Father that placed them on this path with the Kingdom in the first place. It is the need in their religion to dominate and turn to evil that has led us here today.”
What Erol said only discomforted the High King more.
“I’m amazed at you, Your Majesty,” Erol said, pulling Nialls back from his reveries once more. “You invited a traitor back into your ranks?”
Nialls turned to view the one Erol spoke of behind them. Thomas sat astride Creek, the old knight’s eyes scanning the Marcher Lord’s host. The former First Warden had not heard the question, and Nialls realized with a clear certainty he did not like Pontiff Erol Tal. The man was arrogant and presumptuous beyond his years.
Before Nialls could say anything, Rowen leaned forward in his saddle to face Pontiff Erol, the First Warden’s eyes flashing. “Do not speak of what you do not know, Your Grace. It is not your place to judge the High King or events that transpired b
efore your ascension to the position of Pontifex, let alone that of your current role as Godwyn Keep’s Pontiff.”
The Pontiff was about to reply when Nialls intervened. “He is right, Pontiff. Despite our differences in the past, Thomas has returned at a time when the Kingdom is most at need. You would do well to embrace his return, for he is one of only a few people I trust.”
“I see,” was all Erol said. Nialls saw the Pontiff understood the double meaning laced behind the High King’s words. He hoped Erol would not soon forget his place.
Nialls was pondering how Rowen had defended his estranged brother when shouts came across the space in the valley. A volley of arrows soon followed, their arc slicing the sky toward the forefront of the Kingdom’s forces with purposeful death. To Nialls’s left, a chorus of song shattered the valley and a wind arose to send the arrows from their projected paths spinning backward in the air. The projectiles fell to the grassy valley floor, impotent. The three groups of Kingdom forces cheered at the display of Godwyn power.
A horn blew then, deep and resonant like the hoarse roar of a bear, and the Marcher Lord’s host began moving forward to meet the Kingdom. From his vantage, Nialls peered at his foe. Several thousand people walked down the side of the valley like a swarm of ants, carrying pitchforks, swords, axes, and cudgels—any weapon they could find. They lacked organization. Only a few horses were visible and those matched their owners—untrained, unprotected, and unsure. The passionate fire of conviction radiated from them, and it was daunting to see so many people unwavering in their obvious defeat. The pagan forces of La Zandia were not men trained in the art of war, protected in suits of armor, and hardened by conquest; the pagans were men and women Nialls would have passed in the streets of Aris Shae on any given day, wholly unknowing of battle. It would be a slaughter.
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