“All of your monks are dead,” Yatol Wadon reminded.
“They were minor brothers, I assure you, and easily replaced. We must hold strong and pick our fights with this impudent wench of To-gai carefully until King Aydrian can come more fully to our side. Brynn may gain victories over small towns, but she will lose warriors with each win, and those will not easily be replaced. The strain on To-gai will prove too much, and she will turn for home, then we will send out a second army to ensure that Behren is secured, and then, when King Aydrian arrives, we will destroy the woman and her pitiful forces.”
Yatol Paroud was nodding, his eyes verily glowing as he listened to the promises of ultimate victory. But Mado Wadon was a long way from sharing that enthusiasm. Did Abbot Olin not even care that thousands of Behrenese citizens were surely to be slaughtered? Did he not appreciate the divisive power of the various Behrenese factions, ancient tribes, and bloodlines, that demanded allegiance to traditions that went beyond the kingdom or even beyond Chezru itself? For hundreds of years, Behren had been united as a kingdom in theory, but even in the last days of Yakim Douan, the political structure had often been more tribal in nature.
“The last reports put Brynn Dharielle near to Dahdah Oasis,” Yatol Wadon offered. “And moving eastward, toward Jacintha.”
“With how many warriors?”
“Perhaps a thousand,” Yatol Wadon answered honestly, and in truth, when he spoke the words aloud, they seemed almost laughable. It would take an army many times that size to have any chance at all of overpowering present Jacintha, with nearly ten thousand Honce-the-Bear warriors supporting their ranks. “And she has her dragon.”
“Then let her come on,” said Abbot Olin. “Let her grow too confident with that beast of hers and charge our walls. Master Mackaront brought a score more brothers on his return, all of them armed with graphite and serpentine, the stone of lightning and a shield that will defeat even dragon fire. Her confidence, if she approaches as you believe, will be her undoing, and horribly so. How tall will Yatol Wadon stand in the eyes of his countrymen when he emerges from Jacintha victorious over the Dragon of To-gai?”
Yatol Wadon considered the words, then nodded slowly.
“Our only vulnerability here is my fleet, and thus I have ordered Duke Bretherford to put out farther from shore and to the north, out of sight of Jacintha harbor. If Brynn and her beast pursue him into Honce-the-Bear waters, she will invoke the immediate wrath of King Aydrian, and not a flight of a hundred dragons could save her then.
“Fear not,” Abbot Olin finished as he headed for the room’s door, Master Mackaront in tow, “for Brynn Dharielle’s moment of opportunity is fast slipping away, and she knows it. She will run for home if she is wise, but she knows, as do we, that she cannot win in the end.”
“Whatever the cost?”
Abbot Olin turned as he reached the exit, showing Yatol Wadon his smirk. “Of course.”
“She cannot take Jacintha, master,” Yatol Paroud remarked.
“She can create great dissension,” Yatol Wadon warned. “She already has. It may take us months to regroup the remnants of Yatol De Hamman’s force, and without them …”
“We are even more dependent on Abbot Olin,” Yatol Paroud finished, and the words seemed to surprise the man even as he spoke them, as if a great revelation just then came over him. “My Yatol, you do not believe—” he stammered.
“That this is proceeding exactly as Abbot Olin had hoped?” Yatol Wadon interrupted. “No, I do not think this to be his design. I believe that he laments the defeat at Dharyan-Dharielle—he would have liked nothing more than to report to his king that the city had been taken.”
“Our spies were set in place behind the bookcase when returned Master Mackaront met with Abbot Olin,” Yatol Paroud reasoned. “They heard the edict of King Aydrian that the Bearmen were not to do battle against Brynn. Their inference from the tone and wording was that King Aydrian meant to strike an alliance with Brynn.”
Yatol Wado Madon turned to the window overlooking Jacintha harbor, his lips growing very tight. He tried hard not to believe Paroud’s suspicions, but he found it hard to make a logical argument.
“My master, is it possible that Abbot Olin came here to oversee the destruction of Behren?” Paroud asked, and Yatol Wadon winced. “Is it possible that he helped us in our fight with Yatol Bardoh only because he perceived Yatol Bardoh to be more of an obstacle standing before his King Aydrian?”
Again Yatol Wadon had no answer for the man. He knew that Behren was in serious trouble—more so than Abbot Olin seemed to believe. Yatol De Hamman’s army had very likely split apart into its tribal factions, and those bands of warriors were running free across the countryside, afraid and angry. It was possible that while he sat here in secure Jacintha, Behren was already beginning to tear itself apart across the desert sands.
And if the country fell into complete turmoil, particularly with Brynn Dharielle and her dragon running free about the land, Yatol Wadon would be powerless to put it back together—without the dominating assistance of Abbot Olin and his eager young King Aydrian.
Yatol Wadon continued to stare out at the harbor, where the Honce-the-Bear warships were still anchored. He almost hoped that Brynn and her dragon would swoop across his field of vision then, and lay waste to that fleet.
That foreign fleet.
Within the hour, Duke Bretherford’s warships unfurled their sails and pulled up their anchors. The half dozen Honce-the-Bear ships sailed northeast, going out from the coast and back toward the safety of Honce-the-Bear waters, while Maisha Darou’s pirate fleet headed out along the coast to the south, cut free of their duties for the time being. With bags of precious gems in hand, Darou set his course, as instructed, for the safety of the pirate shoals, and the promise of a well-deserved rest.
For Duke Bretherford, departing Jacintha was no hardship. The man had heard the reports of the disaster at Dharyan-Dharielle, and while the vast majority of that routed force had been Behrenese and not Bearman, some of the reports filtering in from the retreating forces spoke of retribution against the northerners by the fleeing Behrenese.
Duke Bretherford couldn’t care less for Behren; he was more concerned with the turmoil in his own land. He planned to stop at the island of Freeport to resupply, then to put into Entel for news of King Aydrian and Prince Midalis.
Early the next morning, just east of the easternmost peaks of the Belt-and-Buckle, word came to the duke in his cabin that a second fleet was sailing south to intercept. With news that these were caravels, Bretherford wondered if Aydrian was sailing to Abbot Olin’s aid. As soon as he arrived at the prow of Rontlemore’s Dream, though, the duke understood differently.
For this approaching armada sailed under the bear rampant of the Ursals.
“Battle sails!” Duke Bretherford called, and the message was relayed across the decks to the other warships.
The duke continued to stare out as more and more ships became visible.
“What are those?” asked the sailor at Duke Bretherford’s side.
“Alpinadoran longboats,” the old seaman replied. “The prince has brought some friends.”
The approaching warships similarly dropped to battle sail, except for one, a sleek schooner that Duke Bretherford recognized as Saudi Jacintha, the pride of Palmaris’ merchant fleet. “Captain Al’u’met,” he muttered, for he knew of the man, and knew him to be an old and dear friend to Queen Jilseponie.
Saudi Jacintha ran a white flag of truce up her guide line and continued her approach until she was within a hundred yards of Rontlemore’s Dream. There, she banked low in a sharp turn and tacked against the sea breeze, holding her position.
“Signal for them to approach under agreed truce,” Duke Bretherford told his signalman.
“We would expect nothing less from honorable Duke Bretherford,” came a voice from behind them, and the duke nearly leaped out of his boots and overboard. He swung about, as did everyone else in
the area, to see three people—a diminutive Touel’alfar, Queen Jilseponie, and Prince Midalis—simply step as if out of nowhere onto the deck. All three held hands, and all were covered with a bluish white glow.
The crew stumbled all over themselves, going for their weapons; from the back of the deck, several archers leveled their bows.
Pony held a ruby for Bretherford to see. “I could put your ship to the flame,” she said quietly. “Do not make me do that, I beg.”
“The flag of truce holds,” Prince Midalis added. “We are here to parley.”
Staring at the ruby, Duke Bretherford hardly heard the prince. He was not ignorant of Jilseponie’s prowess with the magical gemstones, and he well understood the devastation her fireball would wreak. He motioned for his archers to put up their bows, and for the rest of the crew to stand down.
“My cabin,” he said, motioning to the door across the deck.
“Right here,” Prince Midalis corrected. The prince looked at Pony, then stepped away from her, releasing her hand, and immediately emerged from the serpentine fire shield.
“I am Prince Midalis, brother of King Danube Brock Ursal,” he began powerfully, and he paced about so that he could look into the eyes of each man on deck. “You know me. You served my brother well. And you know, too, that this young man who has seized the throne of Honce-the-Bear is not your rightful king. I claim the throne as my own, and demand fealty!” Astonished looks came back at him, and more than a few doubtful whispers. From the front, Duke Bretherford heard the name of King Aydrian whispered more than once.
“Aydrian is king, by your brother’s own words,” the duke argued.
“Those words were twisted, and errantly spoken, and you know the truth of it,” Pony retorted.
The duke merely shrugged. To him, the point was moot.
“I will have your fealty, or I will have your surrender, Duke Bretherford,” Prince Midalis remarked, and when Bretherford squared his shoulders defiantly, he added, “I have fifty warships at my disposal, as well as Queen Jilseponie and her gemstones, Andacanavar, the ranger of Alpinador and his mighty warriors, and …” He paused and pointed to Juraviel. “And other allies whose powers you cannot begin to understand. Do not make me kill my misled countrymen, I beg of you.”
“Aydrian has claimed the throne,” Duke Bretherford replied. “The entire southland of Honce-the-Bear is his, and you cannot hope—”
“What I hope and do not hope is of no consequence to you, Duke Bretherford,” Prince Midalis cut him short. “As you were friend to Jilseponie and Danube, I offer you this opportunity to put aright your ill-chosen course.”
“He has Kalas and all the Allhearts, and all the Kingsmen, and a mercenary army that at least equals their size,” Duke Bretherford replied. “Do you believe that you have any chance at all of defeating him?”
“Was I given a choice in the matter?” Prince Midalis asked him. “Would you have me surrender my courage and virtue and all that I hold dear to acquiesce to this upstart usurper who has stolen my throne?”
“You cannot defeat him,” Bretherford said again.
“And you cannot defeat me, not here and now,” said Midalis. “Nor can you hope to outrun me. I will have your ships, or I will sink …”
Pony walked beside him and touched his shoulder, silencing him, then walked past to stand right before Duke Bretherford. “I know you,” she said. “I understand your sense of honor.”
“And you know your son Aydrian,” Bretherford argued. “You know his power!”
“I do, and perhaps all of this resistance is folly.”
“Then find another way.”
“No, and I beg of you to join with us! Aydrian has Honce-the-Bear, from Palmaris to Ursal to Entel to Pireth Tulme, but we own the sea.”
The duke began to shake his head slowly.
“Join us!” Pony said again.
“Am I to switch allegiance whenever a force mightier than my own comes against me?” Duke Bretherford roared at her. “I am a duke serving the king of Honce-the-Bear!”
“And that king is rightfully Midalis Dan Ursal!”
“What would you have me do, woman?” the flustered Bretherford cried. “Would you so demand dishonor from me?”
“I would ask of you only what I have asked of myself,” Pony quietly replied. “I would ask that you follow that which is in your heart.”
Bretherford leaned back against the rail and rubbed his ruddy face.
“If you fight me, I will show no mercy,” Prince Midalis warned. “We have not the time.”
“We sail to Jacintha to help Brynn Dharielle defeat Abbot Olin,” Pony explained, and the duke’s jaw dropped open with astonishment.
“How could you know?”
“The movements are not independent of each other,” Prince Midalis assured the man. Again, Bretherford could only rub his face and ponder.
Pony moved next to Prince Midalis and whispered into his ear. After a moment, the prince nodded his agreement.
“I grant you this alone, out of friendship and faith,” he told the duke. “Poll all of your men. Offer them the choice of King Midalis or King Aydrian. Those who hold allegiance to the line of Ursal will sail with me in glory. Those who side with the usurper, Aydrian, will be put ashore in Entel. All of your warships are mine in any case.”
“Follow that which is in your heart,” Pony said again.
“We cannot win,” Bretherford lamented, and he noted the smiles widening at his mention of “we.”
“Then we will die in a righteous cause,” said Prince Midalis, and he pulled a flag from a sack hung on his belt, the pennant of Ursal, and tossed it to the duke. “And five others inside,” he explained, and he took the sack from his belt and tossed it to the deck at Bretherford’s feet. “We await your decision.”
As he spoke, he stepped back between Pony and the diminutive elf, who held up his hand to reveal a shining emerald gemstone.
And then they were gone.
The startled Duke Bretherford spun about to regard Saudi Jacintha, which was even then finishing her turn in the water, swinging her sails to fill them full of wind, and moving away, while the rest of Midalis’ considerable fleet closed fast, with a line of Alpinadoran longboats swinging wide to the east.
“We will sink them all, my Duke!” one sailor cried, and others cheered and ran for their weapons.
Duke Bretherford looked at the flag in his hands, then up at the pennant of King Aydrian waving in the wind overhead. He ordered his sailors to stand ready and quickly moved to his private cabin, pouring himself a jigger of rum. He held the small glass up before him, swirling its contents about, losing his thoughts.
And then he swallowed the contents in one great gulp, and in frustration and rage, threw the glass across the room. It hit the wall hard, but at an angle that offered the strength of the thick glass, and so it did not shatter, but tumbled down to bounce across the floor. Then it went into a roll, and it seemed to Duke Bretherford like the roll of the uncertain sea below him, and like the uncertain emotions rolling within him.
Most of all, Jilseponie’s parting words echoed within his thoughts. Follow that which is in your heart.
For that was the truth of it, was it not? In the end measure, that was all that any man could do.
Duke Bretherford had never been taken in by the grandeur that was Aydrian, or by the resounding accolades of the young usurper offered by Duke Kalas. Duke Bretherford had known King Danube well, and had loved the man dearly. And Bretherford, above all the other of Ursal’s nobles, knew well that the temperament of Prince Midalis was akin to that of the dead king.
Bretherford looked down at the small glass, settled now and rolling no more, save the occasional shift as the boat rolled in the sea.
Settled, too, were the duke’s emotions. At long last settled, though he believed his epiphany now, his decision to follow Prince Midalis would likely deliver him soon enough to the netherworld.
So be it. He would die knowi
ng that he held intact his honor and his loyalty to the line of Ursal.
He would die knowing that he had indeed followed that which was in his heart.
“They will arrive soon after midday, by Duke Bretherford’s estimation,” Belli’mar Juraviel informed Brynn.
The warrior woman stood up and walked to the edge of the rocky outcropping. Below her to the southeast, Jacintha spread out wide. “This Duke Bretherford, he will prove a valuable ally?” she asked.
“Better that he fight with us than against us,” Juraviel replied. “The number of forces he brings with him is small—more than half of those who sailed with his small fleet opted to be put ashore in Entel, as per Jilseponie’s offer in the terms of surrender, to continue their service to King Aydrian. But he is a nobleman of Honce-the-Bear, and well regarded among his peers. Perhaps his decision will cause others to recognize their folly, or to find their courage.”
“You do not believe that,” Brynn remarked.
“No, I do not,” the elf admitted after a short pause. “My scouts place King Aydrian in firm control of the vast majority of Honce-the-Bear’s population and military. But with Duke Bretherford’s conversion, our allies in the north command the seas, and that is no small thing.”
Brynn nodded, not wanting to further a pointless argument. She and Pagonel had discussed this at length and had come to the conclusion that the cause in Honce-the-Bear was not promising. The numbers of the prince’s army could not carry him across the land, nor even very far inland. He seemed in danger of becoming to Honce-the-Bear what Maisha Darou was to Behren: a thorn and elusive irritation, and little more.
To their cause in Behren, though, and in To-gai by extension, Prince Midalis and Duke Bretherford might prove invaluable.
“Your journey through Jacintha last night was fruitful?” the woman asked.
Juraviel motioned for Brynn and Pagonel to follow around the side of a boulder, where the burning torch had been set, sheltered from any eyes looking out from the city. He produced the map of the city that Brynn had provided and carefully spread it out on a rock. “The stable and supplies,” he said, pointing to an area in the northeastern corner. “The soldiers of Honce-the-Bear brought tons of hay with them and the bales are piled floor to ceiling in several buildings.”
DemonWars Saga Volume 2: Mortalis - Ascendance - Transcendence - Immortalis (The DemonWars Saga) Page 231
