Sianna’s eyes widened. “You’re from Coldshore? I hear the weather is truly wicked up there. A land of barbarians and giants, is it not?”
“Just so. In fact, one of those barbarians happens to be my father. My mother, who lived in Coldshore, gave me up to the orphanage when I was but a boy.” With his tall, rangy frame, pale-blue eyes, and fair hair, he was surely speaking truly.
“That must be exciting, living on the frontier of the northlands like that. Around here, nothing of interest ever happens, unless you count endless court gossip and petty squabbles demanding the king’s or, I should say, the queen’s attention.” She sighed.
Brother Horst smiled. “I was given over to the temple as a young boy, so I didn’t have much opportunity to witness the excitement in the wilds beyond the city walls. I was brought here to Llantry as an initiate, and I’ve lived here ever since. There’s something to be said for a tranquil, untroubled life, however, safe in Sol’s protective light. Be glad the war doesn’t reach us here, other than our thoughts and prayers being with those close to us who’ve marched off to battle.”
She knew he had the right of it. “Brother, I’ve been asking Sol for his blessing of late, due to these bad dreams… premonitions, I fear. I’m concerned that something awful might happen.”
Horst’s eyebrows rose. “I think King Clement and his commanders know their business quite well. What are these dark dreams that haunt you, Highness?”
She told him of seeing her father and brothers laid out on funeral biers side by side; of men cut down in battle, being routed and chased from the field by evil creatures with black wings and even darker magic; of blood running in the halls of Castle Llantry and assassins’ blades poised to strike from the shadows; and finally, of a more bizarre dream, one in which the entire world was slowly sinking, collapsing in upon itself as some infernal device leached the magic from the whole of Easilon for some malevolent purpose.
“Those are ill dreams, indeed. I doubt I’d get much sleep either, were they plaguing me. Take heart, Princess, for Sol shines his light upon his faithful. Keep your loved ones in your heart, and piously pray for their protection, and he will answer. You shall see. In a few months, after the winter snow is melted away and the flowers begin to bloom in springtime, your father will lead his army back home, victorious. Your brothers and all his lords and knights will return with great honor, having saved Ketania from these invaders. I shall add my prayers to yours that your father and brothers come through unscathed.”
His calm conviction helped to ease her worry, as did his warm smile. She realized he was quite handsome, and many a maid had likely been disappointed he’d chosen the cloth over a family. “Thank you, Brother Horst. Your wisdom is a balm to my troubled soul in these trying times.”
“That’s what I’m here for, Princess. Sol watch over you. And feel free to drop by any time to talk if these dreams persist.”
She thanked him and left the chapel to reluctantly go find her mother and spend some more long hours going over the business of the kingdom.
“Ahoy, Princess!” a familiar voice called when she was halfway across the bailey.
Sianna glanced around and saw a sodden cloaked figure hunched miserably against the pouring rain atop the walls.
“If this keeps up, we’ll be carried off to sea,” the guard said. “I fear these stone walls will make for poor flotation.”
“Rafe! I’ve missed you at practice.” Sianna could just make out the smile on the guard’s round face through the curtain of rain. She’d come to think of him as a friend although she was occasionally riddled with guilt, for Sir Colm seemed to vent his aggravation much more freely on the poor man due to her station, she suspected. Rafe, though, was good-natured and good-hearted, as eager to learn as she was. Once he’d gotten over his initial discomfort in interacting with her informally, the sparring sessions were enjoyable.
Both of them had improved considerably in their skills over the past months. Sianna took Colm’s water-trough lesson to heart, and as a result, with her greater quickness of hand and fleetness of foot, she gave as good as she got with Rafe. Neither of them would make an expert swordsman, short of many years of practice, but neither would they embarrass themselves in a confrontation, either.
“Aye, I’ve missed it as well,” Rafe replied. “Duties are keeping us stretched thin these days.”
The rain continued to pour down, and thunder rumbled. Cold droplets ran off the front of Sianna’s hood and onto her nose. She shook her head and pulled the cowl lower. “You must be miserable up there. I’ll have a servant bring you a hot bowl of soup or cup of mulled wine!”
Rafe’s face looked pained. “Thank you, Highness, but I’d rather you didn’t.” He glanced furtively around. “I catch enough ribbing from the other men from our sessions already. If I get any further special treatment, I’m liable to get pranked—perhaps carried out to the bailey in the night.”
“Say what?” Her eyes widened. She wanted to do a nice turn for her friend but realized he was right. It won’t do to make his life more difficult to satisfy my whims.
“One of the new recruits neglected to wipe his boots off and tracked mud all through the barracks. As a result, come the middle of the night, the men wrapped him tight in his blankets and carried him out to the pig sty and dumped him right there in the muck. Taught him a lesson about wiping his boots, I assure you.”
“That’s awful—poor man!” Despite herself, she had to fight back a smile at the image of the poor lad being dumped in with the hogs.
“Aye. I just hope to keep myself in good standing and hopefully promoted before too long.” Rafe glanced over his shoulder at another approaching guard, likely a superior making the rounds to check on his men. “Forgive me blathering on, Highness. I’d hate to see you catch chill out here as a result of me.” He bowed formally, a habit she’d broken him of—when they weren’t in public, at least.
“Stay dry, Rafe!” She waved and returned to the keep. Once inside the door, thinking of Rafe’s story, she scrubbed the mud off her boots with the stiff brush and bucket of water set just inside the door. Nobody would dump me in the pig sty, but no sense in treading mud all around like a slob so the servants have to work harder to keep the place clean.
***
“Ah, there you are, Daughter. I was hoping you would stop by. The council is about to hold session, and I’d like for you to join us.” Sianna’s mother smiled at her, standing in the hall outside the smaller audience chamber, where she preferred to conduct business rather than the drafty great hall.
“The council? Whatever for?”
The council hadn’t met since before her father raised the army and marched to war. They usually only met infrequently to discuss business of the kingdom and certainly not while the king was away at war.
Queen Marillee put her arm across Sianna’s shoulders and hugged her but quickly withdrew her arm, frowning at her damp clothes. “Nothing to be of concern, but Mayor Calcote and some of the lords of the city wish to enact additional defensive measures to protect Llantry. Nebaran naval vessels have been sighted by trading galleys near Bremsen and frequenting the Bay of Albalas. Simple prudence in case the emperor plans to try to insert troops nearer to the capital to wreak havoc along the coast in the absence of Clement’s forces.”
Sianna nodded, intrigued by the council session. This will certainly be more interesting than daily squabbles over inheritance rights, land claims, and petty disputes. “Yes, I’ll attend, Mother. When will the meeting be?”
“In about an hour.” Her mother wrinkled her nose at the sight of Sianna’s wet tunic and grass- and mud-stained breeches. She was used to the sight by now, but liked to remind her daughter of the proper presentation a princess must portray to the people. “I trust you will clean up and change into something more proper?”
“Of course, Mother.” Sianna squeezed the queen’s hand and went to bathe and dress accordingly.
***
“The
city guard is already reduced to a skeleton force with the king at war. Where shall we procure these extra men you want for patrols both within and outside the city?” asked Lord MacTaggert, one of the city’s wealthiest nobles and ranking councilman.
“We must raise a muster—conscript some common folk to backfill the soldiers. ’Twill be a simple matter for these conscripts to patrol the walls and man the gates while we use the true soldiers to provide security along the roads so trade won’t suffer,” said the mayor of Llantry, Ewan Calcote. “And also step up patrols within the city—a visible presence will boost the confidence of the citizens.”
Sianna rubbed at her temples. The meeting had started off interestingly enough, with reports of Nebaran ships being spotted at unlikely locations, along with rumors of bands of scouts deep within Ketania, wreaking mischief. However, the session had swiftly devolved into bickering and hand-wringing over the vague reports and unconfirmed information. After several cups of wine, several of the lords were getting louder and more heated in their dialogue.
“And what of paying and arming these men? Will the royal treasury open its purse strings, Your Majesty?” MacTaggart shot back, glancing over at the queen.
Queen Marillee caught Sir Colm’s eye. The old knight had been as surprised as Sianna at the abrupt summons to the hastily arranged council meeting.
“The treasury might be inclined to contribute, in collaboration with the nobility and mercantile houses if they are so concerned about the interruption of trade.” The queen ignored a couple of the lords sputtering at that. “Do you think it necessary to raise a muster, Sir Colm? Won’t the common folk be alarmed at a great conscription effort and fear the worst, especially with no word from the south as of yet?”
Colm nodded slowly. “I think it may be prudent, Your Majesty, to raise at least a small force. Certainly nothing large enough to alarm the city folk or unduly tax the coffers of the generous lords and mercantile houses. A beefed-up presence of patrols on the roads and in the streets won’t hurt and, in fact, may even provide a calming influence on the nerves of the city.”
Sianna smiled to herself. The bluff old knight could be quite diplomatic when the need arose.
“Perhaps Sir Colm is right about the size and scope of a muster,” grumbled MacTaggert. “What number are you thinking, sir? A thousand men? Two thousand?”
“I think half a thousand should suffice for the time being. As the mayor said, these conscripts will primarily be used to free up the seasoned soldiers from more menial tasks.”
Rafe should certainly be happy about that—he’ll doubtless get to see some “action” as he’s always yearning for. She sighed, suddenly a bit jealous of the guardsman. The prospect of somehow anonymously infiltrating a patrol and getting some actual experience with her sword fighting against brigands or the like tempted her, but she realized that was foolishness. Sir Colm and her mother would never go for it, and she could never try to impersonate a guard and get away with it. The few token female guards were all larger women than her and easily recognizable on sight.
As the discussions and bickering continued over how much each house would contribute, her mind wandered, and she tried to picture what her father and brothers were doing at that moment. Are they even now in the thick of battle? Surely, they should have arrived in Ammon Nor by now. And what of Sir Edwin? She hadn’t thought as much about the knight in recent days, to her surprise. She realized she’d been forced to grow up in the intervening weeks and no longer entertained such foolish daydreams as she’d once had. Certainly, he was charming and handsome and would prove a worthwhile match if the king allowed him to court her and they were to marry someday. Yet, with all the nightmares and ill thoughts plaguing her of late, she had been forced to come to the realization that such a day might never come. If it did, she’d thank Sol and be happy for it, yet if not, she would have to face the reality of what did come next.
Please, let us receive some good news soon.
Chapter 29
Ammon Nor wasn’t a particularly big city, but it was the largest in the southlands and was ancient—it had been a settlement in some form for a thousand or more years, or so legend had it. Ancient ruins had been razed hundreds of years earlier during some conquest or other, then they were built over, the cycle repeating itself several different times, until the city ended up in its present form. It didn’t impress much, in truth, but was simply a city that happened to have a strategic location at the only ford across the swift Black Channel for many miles. A palisade had been constructed around it, and recently at that, for workers were even now working with hammer and axe to raise the barrier, yet despite their efforts, gaps remained in the wall.
Elyas felt a stab of guilt at the thought of leaving his cousin to fend for himself. He was clearly traumatized by the death of Yethri, a girl he’d met but once yet was quite taken with. Her tragic death, combined with the shocking manifestation of Taren’s power, which had injured and killed a number of innocent townsfolk, had put him in a bleak mood on the road to Ammon Nor. To make matters worse, in his weakened condition, Taren had caught cold a couple days past from the persistent drizzle and chill of an unseasonably cold autumn.
Fortunately, once they’d left Ryedale behind, the road had been clear of Nebaran patrols. The journey had taken a few days longer than it would’ve, had Taren been healthy, but they made it safely after nine days. Refugees were clogging the roads, and by the time they came within a day of the garrison, they were passing Ketanian patrols on the road.
Elyas reported the incursion of Nebarans in the region to the first patrol they crossed, telling briefly of their encounters stretching from Ryedale back to Swanford, but the sergeant seemed unsurprised. He told them the southlands were swarming with the enemy and Ketanian forces had already clashed with the Nebaran vanguard. War had become a certainty.
The least they could do is spread out their patrols more and provide some protection for the helpless folks living in the region. He wondered if the garrison was desperately undermanned, hence the underwhelming troop presence.
Despite Taren’s illness and dark mood, he still insisted Elyas should enlist in the army as he’d been planning for years. “Cousin, I’ll not hold you back any longer. Sounds as if they need every strong sword arm they can get. It’s good that you stuck around to help out on the farm, but I think our paths lead in different directions from here. I’ll continue on to Llantry then take the portal to Nexus. The road is well traveled and should be safe from bandits and Nebaran invaders. I know what I must do now—seek out my mother. If she’s as powerful as Uncle Wyat says, then she should be able to help me understand and control my magic.”
Elyas hadn’t argued the point. He knew his own value lay in his physical strength and skill at arms. Taren was the thinker, the one with the heritage of powerful mages and deities, if his own father’s tall tales could be believed, and Taren was certainly bound for greater things. Elyas himself was content with his role in life, and he meant to fulfill it to the best of his ability. He’d already delayed his soldiering life after his mother’s passing, to help out around the farm. After weeks on the run, being chased and threatened by the Nebarans at every turn, he was ready to march out with like-minded fellows and destroy the foe on the field of battle. He meant to claim vengeance for the death of his father as well as the other decent, hard-working people of the southlands who had been slain, their homes and farms put to the torch.
He grew excited at the sight of drilling soldiers and workers reinforcing the palisade and erecting a barbican over the gate. He could already picture himself charging from the gates with staunch warriors to either side of him and cutting down the enemy, forcing them to retreat with tails between their legs.
Elyas and Taren followed a group of a score or so of refugees as they neared the gates of Ammon Nor. A deserter in a cage outside the city observed the cousins as they approached the gate. Elyas spat on the ground at the sight of the coward. He had no respect for men who
were oath breakers and too cowardly to bleed in the defense of their own hearths and homes.
Taren paid little interest to those around. He walked numbly, face pale, and occasionally would cough up some phlegm. He’d regained some strength following his magic use but, with his illness and the long days of travel, was struggling to stay on his feet.
“Want me to set you up at an inn, Taren? You look as if you’ll drop in the mud at any moment.”
Taren coughed harshly for a moment and spat. “I’ll manage on my own. There’s no reason to delay you any longer. Let’s find an officer to speak to.”
Elyas approached the guard keeping an eye on the criminal in the cage. “I’m here to join the army,” he said proudly. “Where’s a recruiting officer I can speak with?”
“Good on ya, lad,” the guard replied, glancing at him with minimal interest. “The army encampment is east of town. If ya cut around the front of the town just inside the wall, you’ll get there quicker and avoid the rabble. There’ll be more officers there than ya can shake a stick at.” His sour expression indicated what he thought of that lot, and he went back to surveying the travelers on the road.
Elyas thanked him, and they followed the flow of bodies through the gates. Just inside, they took a right turn to skirt the crowds in the streets. He could see the city was swollen to perhaps three or four times its normal size. Refugees packed the streets, camped out on every free space they could find, including a knot of them crowding the shortcut they were taking to the garrison. Down the main street, a patrol of soldiers was running a group off, to keep the lane clear.
They passed a mixture of both stone- and wood-framed buildings, the structures nearer the wall clearly newer than those deeper within the town. The sound of hammers from the city’s smithies rang out, filling the early-evening air as they presumably worked round the clock to outfit the army. After a walk of about ten minutes, they passed out of the palisade on the city’s eastern edge, which was still incomplete, and into the sprawling tent city of the Ketanian encampment. Hundreds of small two-man tents were pitched in neat rows, and men congregated around cook fires, drinking and dicing while meat sizzled on spits over the flames. Elyas’s mouth watered at the enticing smell of roasting meat. Food had been scarce the past couple of days. He turned his attention to the large officer pavilions ahead while his stomach grumbled in protest.
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