They met the captain on the terrace, where he handed Piro a message. She broke the seal, reading quickly. ‘Oh...’
‘What?’ Florin and Isfynia asked at once.
Piro lifted her head, meeting Isfynia’s eyes. ‘Byren says Elenstir and Istyntir Estates are safe, but—’
‘Father’s dead.’ The young woman swallowed audibly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Piro said.
Isfynia shook her head. ‘It was only a matter of t-time.’ She pushed on. ‘If we don’t want to be turned out of our home, we need to speak with Queen Isolt, so I can inherit and marry Rishardt. Is there news of Rhodontir Estate?’
Piro indicated the message. ‘Byren was marching there when he sent this.’
Isfynia nodded, obviously thinking of Lord Rhoderich’s third son and the coming battle. ‘I should tell Mother.’
‘And we should tell Lord Dunstany.’ Piro made sure the captain had food and drink, then went to see Old Gwalt.
As soon as they were alone she whispered, ‘We haven’t heard from Fyn. I hope he’s all right.’
‘WE ARE NOT going to die here,’ Fyn told his men.
The dozen survivors of the ill-fated Ulfr Spar campaign watched him with hope. They crouched in the ravine not far from Rhodontir Pass, where the fort had been captured by spar warriors, preventing their return to Rhodontir Estate.
They should never have come over the Divide. Fyn had advised against it, but Lord Rhoderich would not listen.
Twelve days ago, he’d arrived to find the lord secure in the great house, while his heir hunted down fleeing spar warriors. Fyn had been ready to set off for Elenstir Estate, until Rhoderich revealed that the warlord of Ulfr Spar had ambushed Rhoderich’s second son, killing him and all of his men. He’d claimed the estate’s goldmine, along with the seven-year slaves. Rhoderich had sent his third son to lay siege to the mine.
Putting aside the fact that every second spar warrior was calling himself warlord, Fyn was faced with another siege. And this time, the warlord had chosen a highly defensible position.
While riding up to inspect the mine’s fortifications, Fyn met Rhoderich’s youngest son, Rishardt, riding back with the wounded. Another contingent of spar warriors had come over the pass and attacked them. Seizing the opportunity, the warlord had opened the mine gates and struck from the other side. Rishardt and his men had been lucky to escape.
On hearing this, Lord Rhoderich had declared his youngest son incompetent and ordered him to ride onto the spar to chase down the spar warriors. It was suicide.
Then Rhoderich had compounded this by telling his eldest son to storm the mine. Another suicidal order.
But both Rhoden and Rishardt felt they could not disobey their father. So they set off for the mine. Along the way Fyn won a promise from Rhoden to hold off attacking until he and Rishardt returned. Fyn had a plan to lure the warlord out.
Then he had ridden over the pass with Rishardt and sixty men, leaving twenty men in the fort.
On the spar, they found every cottage deserted. The people had fled into the thickly wooded ravines, taking their animals and food with them. The locals knew every valley and ridge, and used them to their advantage. Spurred on by the determination to defend their homes, they laid ambush after ambush.
After being harried and hunted until his men were reduced to a third of their number, Rishardt had admitted the spar raid was costing more than it achieved and returned to the pass. Only to find that, despite Fyn’s precautions, spar warriors had captured the fort.
‘We can’t stay here, trapped between the fort and the spar,’ Fyn said. ‘We have to attack.’
Rishardt shook his head. ‘Half of us will die before we get over the wall.’
‘We’re not going over the wall.’ Fyn indicated the natural chimney in the cliff. ‘We’re going to attack from above.’
‘You’re mad. No one can make that climb!’
‘I’ve climbed sea-hound masts in high seas. Nothing can be harder than that.’ Fyn unlaced his boots, took off his sword and tied a rope to his waist.
There was rubble at the base of the chimney; it had formed recently. With his back pressed against one wall and his feet against the other, he edged upwards.
At the top he found a ledge and worked his way along the ravine wall towards the fort. He made a couple of false starts, but eventually found a series of ledges that took him to a point above the fort.
During the two hundred years of peace, the walls had been allowed to fall into disrepair, but the tradepost, stables and storage sheds had been maintained. The defenders had shored up the walls and maintained a vigilant watch.
Fyn made the rope secure only to discover it wasn’t quite long enough. He figured they could drop onto the tradepost roof. With the light fading, he needed to get his men in position before dark.
After climbing down the chimney, Fyn’s thigh muscles and back protested. ‘The rope’s in place.’
‘Good. But not everyone has a head for heights,’ Rishardt said. ‘We’d have to leave the injured behind anyway, so some have volunteered to stay and protect them.’
Fyn nodded. ‘Be ready when you hear the fighting.’
Then he climbed that chimney again. In the rapidly fading light, they crept along to the ledge directly above the fort. Several of the men looked pale and queasy. The sooner they were on the ground, the better.
‘I’ll go first,’ Fyn said. ‘There’s a bit of drop to the tradepost roof. I’ll guide the next man down. When we’re ready, we’ll deal with the gate guards and let the others in. If we’re quiet, we’ll all be inside the fort before the spar warriors know what’s going on.’
They nodded.
Fyn climbed down. When he got to the end of the rope, he let go, praying he wouldn’t slide on the mossy slates.
He landed well and only slid half his length before catching himself. Heart thundering, he lay still, sprawled on the roof, waiting for someone to sound the alarm.
Nothing.
Looking up, he signalled the next man, who began the climb. Fyn steadied him as he landed.
Still no alarm. A third man made the climb, then a fourth.
As a fifth man dropped, the tradepost roof gave a high-pitched creak and Fyn felt it shift under their feet. Next thing he knew he was falling along with everyone else, amidst broken slates and roof beams.
They landed in a first floor bedchamber. Choking dust filled the air. A great beam pinned Fyn’s leg. Someone moaned.
Shouts. Boots running up the stairs.
He shoved the beam with his free leg, felt it roll. Heard a high pitched scream that cut off abruptly and realised he’d made it worse for someone else.
With his bad leg threatening to give way, he pulled himself upright against the wall by the door, and not a moment too soon, as three spar warriors charged into the chamber.
‘Another bloody rock fall,’ one of the spar warriors said.
In the dusty twilight, Fyn realised his injured men were lost amidst the jumble of ruined roof joists, splintered oak beams and broken slates. Then someone moaned.
One of the men stepped forward. ‘What...’
Fyn tripped him, shoving him towards a sharp piece of timber. Catching the second man from behind, Fyn stabbed him in the back. By then the first had rolled over with a splinter of wood through his shoulder.
The third man stared at Fyn as if he was seeing a ghost. Before the man could gather his wits, Fyn stepped in, but his bad leg gave way and he lurched, taking them both down. By luck he fell on top of the man. His knife slid between the spar warrior’s ribs. Someone hauled Fyn upright and spun him around.
Fyn tackled the man, driving him back onto the rubble. His hand closed on a slate and he slammed it onto the man’s skull. He felt the warrior’s body go slack and staggered to his feet.
‘Is anyone still alive?’ Fyn whispered.
‘Over here.’
‘And here.’
‘I think me ribs are broke.�
��
There was no response from the fifth man.
Fyn hauled two men out, bleeding and bruised. The fourth man was right, he did have broken ribs. They propped Grufyd against the wall, where he winced with each breath. The fifth wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Come on,’ Fyn said.
‘What about them?’ One of his men pointed through the shattered roof to the ledge far above, where three men still waited to make the climb.
‘They’ll have to go back.’ Fyn limped through the door into the hall. Light and voices came up the stairs.
‘Come on, dinner’s ready,’ someone yelled. ‘We can fix the roof tomorrow.’
Going along the passage, Fyn came to a door. This chamber’s windows opened onto the stable roof and he gestured his men over. ‘Everyone out.’
While he was crawling across the roof, Fyn spotted someone carrying a couple of bowls towards two guards near the spar-side gate.
Fyn signalled his men and whispered, ‘I’m going to lure the gate guards over here. You drop down on them from above, then throw open the gate.’
The others nodded. Hopefully Rishardt would be ready.
Before Fyn could do anything, shouting from the inn told him their arrival had been discovered.
‘Poor Grufyd,’ one of the men said.
The gate guards ran towards the tradepost.
‘Spar warriors,’ Fyn muttered. ‘No discipline.’ He shoved the nearest man. ‘Get down and let the others in.’
A few moments later, Fyn met Rishardt at the gate.
‘You’re covered in dust,’ Rishardt said. ‘What happened?’
‘The roof collapsed under us.’
He gave a bark of laughter.
Then the defenders poured out and it was kill or be killed. Fyn didn’t try anything heroic. He took a defensive position at the rear, swiping at any spar warrior foolish enough to come within range.
By full dark, the fort was theirs.
As they were seeing to the dead and injured, a forlorn voice called from the ledge. ‘What about us?’
Fyn leant on his make-shift crutch and tilted his head to see three pale faces far above. ‘You can climb down tomorrow.’
Tomorrow, they would go to the mine.
BYREN HAD ARRIVED at Rhodontir Estate to find Lord Rhoderich had recaptured his great house, then marched up into the Divide to besiege the spar warlord, who had fortified the gold mine. When Byren learned that Fyn had gone over the pass to hunt down spar warriors he was horrified. ‘Why would he do such a foolish thing?’
Rhoderich stiffened. ‘They had to be taught a lesson. We cannot risk more warriors coming over the pass.’
‘Then rebuild the fort.’
Rhoden glanced to his father, who did not comment. Byren suspected Fyn had made the same suggestion. ‘So you sent Rishardt and Fyn over the Divide?’
Rhoderich nodded.
‘Fyn recommended we sit tight until he returned,’ Rhoden said. ‘He had a plan—’
‘But I didn’t want to waste time,’ Rhoderich said. ‘So I ordered a frontal assault.’
‘And how did that go?’ Byren knew the answer.
Rhoderich glanced to his son. ‘It was rebuffed.’
Byren was heartily sick of Merofynian lords. ‘This is what we will do. A little before midnight, you’ll sound the alarm. Your men will run about, yelling that spar warriors have come over the pass and attacked from behind. They will be my men, but the warlord won’t be able to tell in the dark. He’ll open the gates and send his men out. We wait until they are fully committed, then we overwhelm them. Any questions?’
‘Why would the warlord come out?’ Rhoderich asked.
‘Because he doesn’t know I’ve arrived, and Rhoden here tells me that when he ventured out last time, he routed Rishardt.’ Byren rubbed his jaw. ‘Orrade?’
‘That should do it.’
FYN REACHED THE gold mine to find everyone celebrating. Apparently, his brother had arrived the previous night, saved the mine and returned to the great house. When Fyn heard how Byren had lured the warlord out, he cursed. It was exactly the ploy he had intended to use.
He sent another thirty men to reinforce the fort at the pass, before borrowing two horses and setting off for the great house with Rishardt.
When he arrived, hundreds of seven-year slaves, including the men he had brought with him from Benetir and Travantir Estates, were camped around the house, celebrating in Byren’s name. Meanwhile, Fyn limped into the great hall looking like a failure. He spotted Byren at the feasting table, Lord Rhoderich on one side, Queen Isolt on the other.
And in that moment, he hated his brother.
Orrade looked up. ‘Fyn?’
‘Fyn?’ Byren strode over and swept him up in a hug.
And he was little Fyn again, safe in the arms of the older brother he trusted more than anyone in the world.
‘I’m that glad to see you,’ Byren said. He frowned and turned Fyn’s face to the light. ‘Where did you—’
‘The duel with Elrhodoc. He provoked me by abusing Piro.’
‘I didn’t know. No wonder Piro...’ Byren glanced down to the makeshift crutch. ‘And the leg?’
Fyn shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘One I’m looking forward to hearing.’ Byren leant closer to Fyn to whisper, ‘When I heard that fool lord had sent you over the pass onto the spar, I was ready to throttle him. Why did you agree to go?’
‘I had to keep Rishardt alive. He’s worth two of his father.’
‘Eh, Fyn, you’ve grown up.’ Byren grinned, and called for another chair.
While a place was set for him, Fyn lowered his voice. ‘Be on your guard. The Merofynian nobles would rather see one of their own married to the queen.’
‘So I gather. You’ve been having a rough time and it’s all my fault. I was so fixed on ousting Cobalt, I didn’t think...’
Fyn shook his head. He wasn’t fishing for an apology. ‘Watch out for Elcwyff, he thinks I murdered his brother. And Neiron—’
‘Him?’ Byren dismissed the lord with a snort. ‘He’s all talk. I had to come to his rescue twice, after he botched breaking the siege on his own place and then nearly got him and Elcwyff killed in the pass. He doesn’t have the stomach for battle.’
Fyn flushed and held his tongue, as Byren offered him the seat on the other side of Isolt. Pinned between them, she was contained and quiet. It broke Fyn’s heart to see her revert to the wary Isolt of old.
Of course Byren was not a bully like her father, but his careful courtesy towards her was almost painful to watch. It was clear to Fyn that Byren did not know what to make of her.
‘Chandler will march my army around the coast to port,’ Byren said. ‘Meanwhile, we’ll make the journey by ship. I’ve already sent word to Piro and Florin. There’ll be a big celebration.’
And he’d marry Isolt and that would be the end of it.
A roaring filled Fyn’s head. He’d missed his chance. He should have seduced Isolt and run away with her. They would have been happy no matter how poor. As far as he could see, a king’s life revolved around defending the throne and dealing with self-important nobles. Why would anyone want a crown?
Chapter Sixty
PIRO TOOK HER place beside the queen’s dais. After meeting with Isfynia and Rishardt, Isolt had consulted with the abbess and called a lords’ council in the great hall. The chair beside Isolt was empty, to symbolise that, for the time being, she was a queen without a king.
Isolt had offered Byren the chance to sit beside her, but he had refused, saying that until they were married, he would stand behind the chair. It had been a pretty speech and Piro suspected Orrade had had a hand in crafting it. She wished Siordun was here so they could compare observations. But the mage’s agent was currently sailing back from Ostron Isle, which meant Lord Dunstany had not made a miraculous recovery in time for the lords’ council. At least there was no sign of Duncaer, for which she was grateful.
&nbs
p; Isolt signed the decree naming Isfynia and Rishardt Lord and Lady of Istyntir Estate.
Piro beamed, wishing she could resolve Fyn and Isolt’s difficulties with a sweep of a pen.
BYREN STOOD BEHIND Queen Isolt’s chair. If truth be told, he wasn’t ready to sit beside her. He did not know what to make of the young Merofynian queen. Unlike Piro, whose every emotion travelled across her face, Isolt was controlled and polite. She didn’t laugh at his sallies. In fact, if he didn’t know better, he’d think she didn’t like him.
His army of ex-slaves would arrive in port soon. Now that he was finally in a position of strength, he wanted to sail home and teach Cobalt a lesson.
He found his gaze going to Florin. She stood near the entrance to the hall with his honour guard and the queen’s guards. A hundred times a day during the spar campaign, he’d caught himself thinking of her.
Since arriving in the palace, he’d only spoken with her once, and only in the company of others. Like strangers, he’d asked after her health and she’d called him ‘my king’. But her voice hadn’t held that familiar teasing lilt. He’d experienced an almost overwhelming urge to pierce her formal façade. He really should avoid Florin, especially here in the palace of his betrothed.
He owed Isolt that much.
But even as he thought his, he caught himself seeking out his mountain girl again. She was an itch he could not scratch.
FYN STOOD ON the left of the queen’s dais, careful not to let his gaze stray to Isolt and Byren. Seeing Byren by her side was like prodding a bruise.
The spar invasion had given him the opportunity to win over the heirs of Travany, Rhodontir and Istyn Estates, but their fathers still supported Neiron, and Elcwyff was barely civil to Fyn. As much as Fyn hated to admit it, Byren and his army of freed Rolencians had cowed the Merofynian nobles.
The lords stood on each side of the grand hall, revealing the divide in their alliances. In his capacity as elder statesman, Yorale stood next to the dais on Isolt’s right. Ranged along the right side of the hall were Neiron and his supporters.
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