Shapers of Darkness: Book Four of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by David B. Coe

  Brienne was waiting for him in the corridor outside his door, but he ignored her, reaching for the door handle with his eyes fixed on the stone floor.

  “Father.”

  He opened the door.

  “Father!”

  He chanced a glance at the girl, then blinked and looked again. It was Affery, not Brienne. She was frowning at him, looking more peeved than hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Affery. I . . . I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and pulled her close in a quick embrace. “What is it you need?”

  “Mother was asking for you. We felt the castle shake and I think she was afraid.”

  He brushed a strand of hair from her face. She’d be beautiful, too, just as her sister and mother had been. “How is she?”

  Affery shrugged. “Not too bad. She sings with us, which she hasn’t done in a long time. And she’s been eating. I know that you worry when she doesn’t.”

  Clever child, like her brother. She’d make a fine duchess someday.

  Who will marry a girl from a disgraced house?

  “Tell her not to worry. The Aneirans are using their hurling arms again, but we’re sending out men to destroy them. Can you remember all that?”

  “Yes, but she’ll want to hear it from you.”

  “I know. I’ll come to the cloister later.”

  “When?”

  “This evening. I’ll try to be there for dinner. Tell her that.”

  Affery nodded, looking terribly sad. “Yes, Father.”

  Aindreas knew that he should say more. Perhaps he should have gone with her immediately back to the cloister, but all he could think about was his wine and the Qirsi and what a mess he had made of everything.

  “That’s a good girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  She gave a half smile before walking back down the corridor toward the cloister. Aindreas watched her go, waiting until she had turned the corner before entering his chamber, bolting the door, and pouring himself a cup of Sanbiri red.

  By the time the prior’s bell sounded in the city, Aindreas had gone through two flagons of wine and was well on his way to finishing a third. He wasn’t drunk—he had consumed so much wine in the year since Brienne’s death that he wasn’t certain he was capable of getting drunk anymore—but he had grown sleepy. Sitting by his window, his goblet in his hand, he nearly dozed off, but was pulled awake again by a knock at his door.

  His first thought was that it must be Jastanne, and he kept silent, hoping that she would leave him. But then he heard Villyd calling for him.

  The duke stood, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, and crossed to the door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, but then retreated to his writing table, not wanting the swordmaster to smell wine on his breath.

  “Report,” he said, sitting once more. “You sent out the raiding parties?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And?”

  As if in answer, the castle shuddered, and cries went up from the ramparts.

  “Our men managed to destroy one of them, my lord, but they were driven back before they could do more.”

  “How many did we lose?”

  “Fourteen, my lord. And eight others wounded.”

  “Demons and fire.” The fortress shook again. “Do we dare try again?”

  “We can, my lord, but I doubt we’ll be any more successful.”

  “What if we tried at night? Give the men flints to light their arrows so they wouldn’t need to carry torches.”

  “That might—” Villyd stopped, eyes narrowing.

  Aindreas heard it as well. More cries from the walls, though these were different from those that had come before. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  The duke stood and together they strode to the closest tower and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Kentigern’s men were gathered at the eastern end of the outer wall, and several of them were pointing toward the lower edge of the wood. For a moment, hurrying toward the east end of the walkway, he wondered if the Solkarans had returned, but they would have had no reason to do so.

  Reaching the wall, looking down where his men were pointing, the duke felt his stomach heave. A tremendous column of soldiers was approaching the tor—at least three thousand men. Some marched under the green and white banner of Labruinn, others under the tawny and black of Tremain. Even from a distance, the duke recognized the sigils on their banners. But his eyes were drawn to the lead group, all of them dressed in purple and gold, all of them marching under the flag of the realm. These were Kearney’s men, the King’s Guard.

  “They’ve come to save us!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing cheers from the others.

  Aindreas wanted to believe this, but he had defied the king at every turn, refusing to pay his ducal fees, ignoring Kearney’s demand that he journey to the City of Kings. He had even allowed Jastanne to murder Kearney’s emissary in his chamber. Had he been king, he wouldn’t have sent his army to aid such a duke. He would have sent it to destroy him.

  Gershon had pushed his men hard since leaving the City of Kings, and to their credit, the dukes of Tremain and Labruinn had done the same with their soldiers, matching the King’s Guard league for league even though neither house was known for its military prowess. Lathrop, the duke of Tremain, who was a good deal older than Gershon and Caius, had been particularly impressive. He was a heavy man, and he looked too soft to command an army, much less travel with one covering nearly thirty leagues in but five days. Yet this was just what he had done. Caius, one of the realm’s younger dukes, had actually journeyed twenty leagues farther than had Gershon, crossing both the Thorald River and Binthar’s Wash before joining the swordmaster outside the walls of the royal city.

  Gershon had long dismissed Eibithar’s minor houses as being of little consequence when it came to matters of state or war. The Rules of Ascension gave the minors only a small role in the selection of new kings, and all military men knew that the strength of the realm came from its major houses—Thorald and Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr. But marching with these two men and their soldiers, watching how Caius and Lathrop shouldered the burdens of leadership, the swordmaster found himself wondering if the distance between the houses might not be nearly so great as he had thought.

  He had also feared that one or the other of the two men might challenge his leadership of the army. True they ruled minor houses, while Gershon was the king’s man, but they were both noble born, educated in the courts, wealthy. The swordmaster was none of these things. Yet from the beginning, both men deferred to him, willingly placing their armies under his command, and following his instructions without question. Even more improbably, the swordmaster and Caius quickly developed an easy friendship. The duke was at least ten years Gershon’s junior, but despite their different ages and upbringings, it seemed they had a good deal in common. Like Gershon, the duke was a quiet man. He had studied combat under his father, long renowned as one of the realm’s finest swordsmen, and had obviously taken an interest in all matters related to warfare. Each day, as they rode at the front of the armies, the duke peppered Gershon with questions about swordplay, military tactics, and weaponry. At first Gershon had thought that the young duke was merely making conversation, but his lines of questioning quickly revealed a thorough understanding of the subtleties of all matters related to battle. Labruinn’s swordmaster, who was even younger than his duke, rode with them as well, listening intently to their discussion, and occasionally asking questions of his own.

  Sulwen would have teased Gershon mercilessly about their conversations. “You’re like little boys playing at war and ogling fancy blades,” she would have said. “How can you not find it tiresome talking about the same thing day after day?”

  The fact was, Gershon didn’t find it the least bit tiresome. The march from the royal city to Tremain, which the swordmaster had expected to be endless, went by all too quickly. After spending the last several turns consumed by talk of war an
d the conspiracy and the archminister’s attempt to draw the Weaver’s attention, Gershon could not help but enjoy himself, even as he marched toward battle.

  After reaching Tremain and adding Lathrop’s army to their force, Gershon and the duke of Labruinn grew more sober. And with every league they covered, drawing ever nearer to Kentigern Tor, the swordmaster’s apprehension grew. His scouts had informed him of the siege and its progress; from all they had told him it seemed that the Aneirans were exacting a toll, but that Kentigern Castle was not in imminent danger of falling to the enemy. They couldn’t tell him, however—they had no way of knowing—how Aindreas and his men would receive them. Would he and the dukes reach the tor only to find themselves under attack from both Kentigern and the Aneirans?

  Lathrop, it seemed, harbored similar fears. “Forgive me for asking, swordmaster,” he said, as they rode in the shade of Kentigern Wood, less than a full day’s ride from the castle. “But are you and His Majesty certain that Aindreas will accept aid from the King’s Guard, or, for that matter, from the armies of His Majesty’s allies?”

  “He’s fighting the Aneirans, Lord Tremain,” Caius answered before Gershon could say anything. “Of course he’ll accept our aid.” He glanced at Gershon. “Don’t you agree?”

  “I wish I did.”

  “But all the realm is at risk. Surely Aindreas can see that as clearly as we can.”

  Lathrop gave a small shrug. “I don’t know if Aindreas cares about the realm anymore. He’ll do all he can to save the tor, but if it comes to keeping the Aneiran army from advancing beyond Kentigern, I doubt very much that he’ll try to stop them.”

  “Then why should we bother with him at all?” Caius demanded. He passed a hand over his yellow beard, rage in his dark eyes. “I hope you won’t think me disrespectful for saying so, Sir Trasker, but I wonder sometimes if our king isn’t too kindhearted for his own good.”

  “We’re not here to defend Aindreas,” Gershon said. “We’ve come to keep the Aneirans from taking Kentigern and striking deeper into the heart of Eibithar.”

  Caius said nothing, his lips pressed thin, but after a moment he nodded.

  Not long after, they began to smell smoke. They were getting close. An uneasy silence fell over the army, the dense wood muffling the sound of the soldiers’ steps and the jangling of their swords. Gershon would never have thought that over three thousand men could make so little noise.

  Even after they first smelled the fires, which the swordmaster assumed had to be burning at Kentigern, it was several hours more before Gershon and his army emerged from Kentigern Wood.

  “Damn,” Gershon muttered gazing toward the tor. Smoke rose from Kentigern Castle, which he had expected. No doubt the Aneirans had used hurling arms to assail the fortress with burning oil and fiery projectiles. However, he hadn’t thought to see the smoldering remains of farmhouses and crop fields.

  “Do you think Kentigern has fallen already?” Caius asked.

  Gershon shook his head, staring up at the castle. They were a long way off, but he could see banners of blue, silver, and white flying atop the castle’s-towers. “No, Aindreas still holds the tor.”

  Lathrop glanced at the swordmaster. “Has he made a pact with the Aneirans, then? Did he let them pass?”

  Gershon was wondering this as well. But even as he opened his mouth to answer, he saw a flaming ball rise from the south side of the tor and arc across the sky toward the battlements.

  “It seems they’re still under attack.”

  “Then what happened to those farmhouses?”

  “I don’t know,” Gershon said. “But that can wait. His Majesty sent us to break the siege, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  At the swordmaster’s signal, the army started forward again, advancing on the tor.

  “When we reach the city walls, we’ll turn to the south and follow them to the Aneiran camp. I want your archers ready as quickly as possible.”

  “Shall we divide the army?” Lathrop asked. “Half of us could cut toward the river and flank them if they try to withdraw.”

  Gershon shook his head. “No. I want them to withdraw. Our force is a good deal larger than theirs. I’m hoping that when they see this, they’ll retreat across the Tarbin without much of a fight. Our aim should be to lose as few men as possible, so that we’ll be near full strength when we join the king on the Moorlands.”

  “And if Aindreas turns his bowmen on us?”

  The swordmaster glanced at Lathrop. “I’m hoping he won’t.”

  The duke nodded. If he thought Gershon a fool, he had the good grace not to say so.

  They soon reached the city walls, and encountering no resistance from the men of Kentigern, they turned southward, advancing on the Aneiran army. It even seemed to Gershon that he heard cheers from the castle, though he wasn’t certain, and he wasn’t about to place any faith in Kentigern’s goodwill. As they drew nearer to the Aneirans, the captains brought the archers forward, instructing them to be ready to loose their arrows as soon as they were within range of the enemy camp.

  Before the bowmen could fire, however, cries reached them from the castle and Gershon shouted a warning to his men. The Aneirans had turned one of their hurling arms so that it faced his army, and they had launched a huge vat of flaming oil in his direction. Men scattered in all directions. Gershon and the dukes spurred their mounts trying to escape the fiery mass plummeting toward them.

  By sheer good fortune, much of the oil fell short of the king’s army, and most of Gershon’s men were able to avoid the rest. A few soldiers fell, writhing in the flames, but losses were minor.

  “Archers!” the swordmaster called. “Quickly! Before they can ready another attack!”

  The bowmen surged forward, arrows nocked, and when they were close enough, they fired. Screams rose from the Aneiran side.

  “Again!”

  The bowmen let loose with a second volley.

  “Swordsmen!” Gershon called. “Attack!”

  With a deafening cry and the ringing of three thousand blades, his army rushed the Aneiran lines. And raising his own blade, the swordmaster kicked at his horse’s flanks, plunging into the fray with his men.

  He saw flames jump to life in the distance, and for a moment Gershon feared that the soldiers of Mertesse would manage to send another mass of flaming oil at his army. But his warriors closed the distance too quickly. In only a few seconds they had crashed into the Aneiran army, the ground seeming to tremble with the impact. It appeared briefly that the enemy would hold their ground, but Gershon’s force was simply too vast. The men of Mertesse began to give way, slowly at first, then more quickly. When a large raiding party emerged from the castle and swept down the tor in their direction, the Aneirans broke formation and fled toward the river. Those who remained, including the soldiers manning the hurling arms, were overrun. Many of the rest perished under a hail of arrows and crossbow bolts.

  Kentigern’s men let loose with a cheer that threatened to topple the fortress, and Gershon’s soldiers shouted triumphantly in response. For that moment, at least, it was easy to forget that the realm still tottered on the cusp of civil war.

  Then the moment passed and a tense stillness descended on the armies.

  “Where’s your duke?” Gershon called to the nearest of Aindreas’s soldiers. “Is he still alive?”

  “Yes, my lord. He’s in the castle.”

  Gershon didn’t bother to tell the man that he wasn’t anybody’s lord. In this instance, it behooved him to have Kentigern’s soldiers think him more than he really was. He looked at Lathrop and Caius, both of whom had come through the battle unscathed. They nodded in return. “Take us to him,” he said, facing the soldier once more.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Aindreas’s man started up the road, along with at least a dozen of his comrades. Gershon and the dukes followed warily, accompanied by a small contingent of the king’s soldiers.

  Another cheer went up behind them
and Gershon turned to look. The hurling arms had been set ablaze. It was hard to distinguish Kentigern’s men from his own, but it seemed that they had done this together.

  “Should one of us go back?” Caius asked quietly.

  Gershon shook his head. “No. Let them have their fun. Who knows when they’ll have cause to celebrate again?”

  They continued up the road, finally reaching what once had been the famed Tarbin gate. The drawbridge lay in charred pieces by the side of the lane, and two of the portcullises had been destroyed, the iron twisted into grotesque shapes, the wood splintered and blackened by fire. The third portcullis had been damaged as well, though it still stood. The fourth had not been touched.

  The soldiers led them through the wicket gate and into the first of the castle wards. Aindreas awaited them there.

  It had been nearly a year since Gershon had last seen the duke. The turns had taken their toll on the man. He was still huge; indeed, if anything, he looked heavier than he had at Kearney’s investiture. But his eyes were sunken, his skin blotchy, unnaturally flushed in some places, ghostly pale in others. It seemed to the swordmaster that the duke was being consumed from within, as if his grief and hatred had loosed a demon in his heart.

  The duke didn’t move as Gershon and the others approached. His sword was sheathed on his belt, and his feet were firmly planted in the grass, as though he were daring his guests to step past him.

  “Trasker,” Aindreas said, his voice taut. He eyed the dukes. “Tremain, Labruinn.”

  Gershon gave a small bow, though a part of him felt that the man didn’t even deserve that much. “Lord Kentigern.”

  “Have you come to take my castle?”

  “Had it been up to me, I would have. But Kearney sent me to drive back the Aneirans and to offer what aid we could. Are you in need of provisions, healers, arms?”

  Aindreas narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting from Gershon to Caius to Lathrop and back to the swordmaster. “Kearney told you to do all that?”

  “He did.”

  A man approached the duke, his face bloodied, his uniform torn and stained. He was powerfully built, like the duke of Labruinn, but shorter of stature. It took Gershon a moment to recognize him as Villyd Temsten, Aindreas’s swordmaster. He whispered something to the duke, who eyed him briefly before nodding and dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Villyd hesitated, then walked away.