A monk of Abelle arrived then, soul stone in hand. "Too late," Prince Prydae said to him, and he placed the boy's hand on his chest.
The monk stared at the Prince of Pryd. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was tending another…" He started to point back along the gully, but Prydae stopped him-and when he grabbed the monk's arm, the prince saw that his own hand was dripping with blood.
"You could have done nothing for him anyway," he said as if it did not matter, and in his heart, Prince Prydae knew that he could not allow it to matter. "The wound was too great."
"I am sorry," said the monk, and Prydae nodded and rose. He started to walk away, but hesitated there for some time, looking at the dead boy, remembering his own past adventures a decade before, when he was more slender, when his eyes held a youthful luster, and when he thought he could conquer the whole world.
"We lost seven more, though it could go as high as a dozen," reported Bannagran, coming to his side. "And I am thinking that we should surrender that eastern ridge and pull back to the west, for we're out in front of the rest of the line."
"The southern men did not advance?"
"Laird Ethelbert retreated as soon as the last of the dwarves went out over the eastern ridge," Bannagran explained.
Prydae scanned to the west, his lips going very tight.
"And probably wise that he did," said Bannagran. "None of the other lairds saw fit to advance, and we'd all be sticking out like a spur begging to be clipped."
Prydae looked at him.
"Those powries are not fools, my liege. They could use the same twist on us that we just used against them. Sweep in behind us and cut us from our kin."
Prydae looked all around and heaved a frustrated sigh. "Make sure that all the wounded and the dead are brought back behind Laird Ethelbert's lines," he ordered. "Then bring our charges all back to the crest north of Ethelbert. A fine fight, but no ground gained."
"No ground lost, either," Bannagran reminded him, eliciting a strained smile from his friend.
And a short-lived smile, as Prince Prydae continued to scan the rocky area. Wet, cold, and aching from head to toe, he was weary of this campaign. The combined armies of Honce had chased the powries to the coast in short order, but it had been day after day and week after week of fighting since.
"One ridge at a time," he muttered.
"That was among the most daring maneuvers I have ever witnessed, Prince Prydae," came a voice that drew both Prydae and Bannagran from their private thoughts. The two turned as one to see Laird Ethelbert walking his warhorse down toward them. He cut an impressive figure on the armored stallion, but it didn't escape Prydae's notice that the old man was not covered in the blood of his enemies nor in mud. Prydae had to wonder if Ethelbert had even drawn his sword. Was there a single nick along its iron edge?
"I grow weary of advancing one ridge and then retreating to the previous," Prydae replied.
"Three forward and two back," Laird Ethelbert agreed, for that was a fairly accurate assessment of their progress over the last three weeks of fighting. "But still, more than a few bloody caps met their end this day, thanks to the daring maneuver of the men from Pryd Holding."
"If Laird Grunyon and his men had closed from the south, more would lie dead."
Ethelbert shrugged. "Night is falling, and it will be a dark one. After this rout, the dwarves will not return before dawn. Take supper with me in my tent this night, my friend Prydae, and pray bring your champion with you."
Prydae watched the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel as he turned and casually paced his mount away. Ironically, it was exactly that steadiness and solidity that for a moment unnerved Prydae. He couldn't dismiss the stark contrast of Ethelbert, in his shining and clean armor, so calmly walking his warhorse past the torn bodies of fallen men, some dead, others grievously wounded, some even reaching up toward him desperately. That's what it was to be a leader among men in Honce, young Prydae decided, the godly separation between laird and peasant, between noble and common. A rare gift it was for a man to be able to shine above the mess, beyond the touch of blood and mud and rain. Laird Ethelbert then stepped his horse right over one wounded peasant and paid the man no notice at all as he went on his way.
Ethelbert was above them, Prydae could clearly see.
The prince thought of the boy who had just died.
A peasant, a commoner.
Prydae shrugged and put the boy's dying words out of his mind. Prince Prydae marveled at how adept this army had become in cleaning up after bloody battles. The Samhaist clerics accompanying the force went about their work with the dead, consecrating the ground in their ancient traditions before burying men of Honce, damning the ground below the bodies of powries, which would be left unburied. All of this was done under the judgmental eyes of the brothers of Abelle, who busied themselves with the wounded, not the dead, using their magical gemstones to bring some measure of relief.
The struggle between the two sects, a battle for the hearts of men, was not lost on Prydae. Nor were the various effects the two sects were having on the common soldiers. Those hopeful of returning home some day seemed to be favoring the brothers of Abelle, but as more and more died on the field, the Samhaists' promises and warnings of the afterlife seemed to be resonating more profoundly among those remaining.
Prydae looked to the west below the defended forward ridge, where screams and moans and sobs came forth continually, and he shook his head in amazement. For not far above the tents of the wounded sat a pair of Samhaists, staring down like vultures. The brothers of Abelle wouldn't give up the corpses easily to the clerics of the ancient religion, but they were too busy with those still living to prevent the taking.
The tug for hearts became a tug for bodies, a battle from birth that tore at every Honce citizen throughout his life, and even after, it seemed.
Neither Prydae nor Bannagran spoke as they crossed from the forward lines to the rear. They entered Laird Ethelbert's tent with little fanfare and, to their surprise, found none of the other lairds within.
Ethelbert smiled widely and warmly, bidding them to enter and to sit opposite him at the opulent-relatively speaking-dinner table that had been set out. To either side of the laird sat his four military commanders, accomplished warriors all, men whose reputations had preceded them to this war.
"I am so pleased that you could join me, Prince of Pryd," Ethelbert said when Prydae and Bannagran had taken their places. Attendants moved immediately to put their food-a veritable feast-before them.
Prydae was too busy staring at the cutlery of shining silver and cut glass goblets filled with rich wine to even answer.
"A proper laird must always take his accoutrements with him," Ethelbert explained. "We owe that to our peasants, you see?"
Neither of the men from Pryd questioned that aloud, though both their faces, especially Bannagran's, asked the obvious question clearly enough.
"What the peasants need from us is the hope that their own lives might not always be so miserable," the Laird of Ethelbert dos Entel explained. "Or that their children will know a better existence. That is always the way, do you not understand? A miserable peasant with hope is a miserable peasant placated. We walk a fine line between breaking them altogether, which would lead to open revolt, and teasing them just enough to keep them happily working."
"Happily?" As soon as the word left Bannagran's mouth, Prydae jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.
But Laird Ethelbert seemed to take no offense. He grinned and held up his hands.
"There is so much to learn about ruling the common folk," Ethelbert said at length. "I have spent forty years as leader of Ethelbert Holding and still I feel as if my initiation has only just begun. But the people of Ethelbert are happy enough, I would guess, and healthier than those in many other holdings, Delaval in particular."
Prydae perked up at the disparaging reference to the largest and most populous holding in all Honce. Set at the base of the great river that cut the main region of Hon
ce off from the vast northern forests, Laird Delaval's city was more than twice the size of Ethelbert's. The river teemed with fish, the fields to the east of Delaval City were rich and fertile, and the wood brought in from the west allowed the Laird Delaval to build wondrous sailing ships that even Laird Ethelbert had been known to grudgingly purchase.
Laird Delaval's army, and his warships, were battling powries up the coast in the north, and with great success, by all reports. That success of his rival seemed to grate on Laird Ethelbert, from what Prydae could tell.
It all began to make sense to the warrior prince from Pryd Holding. The roads had brought the holdings of Honce closer together, had greatly increased trade and communication between them. Several lairds were rumored to be in secret alliance already. During this campaign, with so many armies marching side by side, Prince Prydae had come to envision a time, in his lifetime perhaps, when Honce would become a united kingdom under a single ruling laird. Of course, that presented the question of who that leader might be.
"We are scoring the greatest victories of all against the powries," Laird Ethelbert went on. "More of the vicious dwarves have died here than in the north, and I attribute that to the finer coordination between our forces." He lifted his goblet in a toast, and all the others followed suit.
"In the north, of course, there is little cooperation and a more-hierarchical command," Ethelbert went on, predictably now to Prydae, who hid his knowing smile. "Laird Delaval is not interested in the plans and movements of his peers, unless those movements follow his precise instructions."
Prydae thought to point out that Delaval's force was many times greater than the combined armies of the other lairds up in the north beside him, but he kept silent.
"This battle will be done soon," Ethelbert remarked.
"We can hope for that," said Prydae.
"Indeed." Ethelbert held up his goblet again. "And when it is done, we must all be aware that Honce will emerge a different land than the one of scattered holdings which began this campaign. The roads are nearly clear of powries and goblins, from the gulf to the mountains, and our people will be able to trade even more vigorously outside their communities.
Thus, we must anticipate the changes, my friends. We must prepare ourselves for the new reality that will be Honce. Smaller holdings, such as your own, will need allies, or perhaps even an overseeing laird of a greater holding to secure your defense."
So there it was.
Prydae felt Bannagran's stare upon him, and he turned to offer a comforting nod to his excitable and uneasy companion.
"An overseeing laird?" the prince calmly echoed.
"Various cities joined together in a greater and more powerful holding," Ethelbert explained.
"Are you asking permission to annex Pryd, Laird Ethelbert?"
The blunt question had Laird Ethelbert's commanders bristling and brought a slight gasp from Bannagran. But if Ethelbert was at all discomfited by it, he hid the fact. Again he seemed the calm man on a great horse, unbothered as he walked past the broken bodies of his inferiors.
"I am suggesting that you and your father begin to give consideration to your future," Ethelbert replied.
"We ever do. That is the duty of an independent laird above all, is it not?"
"Be reasonable, Prince Prydae. When this messy business with the powries is done, the world around you will be changed. You cannot deny that. Roads carry trade and they also carry armies."
"And Honce will no longer be a collection of separate holdings?"
"A few perhaps, or perhaps a single kingdom. We all see that. And you must understand that in the end, it will be Ethelbert or it will be Delaval. I offer you a peaceful alliance."
"You mean a subjugation."
"Not so. For all purposes, your land will remain your own and under your control, though, yes, I will speak for you in the greater affairs of Honce. I will require some taxes, to be sure, and your share of the men to serve in the forces who will defeat all challenges. But for the family of Pryd, life will hardly change, and certainly not for the worse."
"And if we refuse your generous offer?"
Ethelbert shrugged. "Who can say what will happen? Will an army from Delaval march upon you?"
"Will an army from Ethelbert?"
The commanders bristled again, one even rising, but Laird Ethelbert merely laughed. "Of course not," he said. "We are comrades in arms, joined in common struggle. I admire your independence, young Prince of Pryd. It is one of the reasons that I come to you so early with my offer and the reason I do not wait until you have more wine inside of you to openly make this offer." He shrugged and laughed again. "The plague and the sea took my offspring, you have no doubt heard. I am childless. The line of Ethelbert will end with my passing. If I had a son as worthy as Prydae, I would die content."
Prince Prydae tried hard to keep his emotions from his face. Was Ethelbert hinting at a greater alliance here? Did he imply the lairdship of his holding would pass to Prydae?
"But enough of speculation," Ethelbert said jovially. "We have fine food to share and a fresh victory to better consume our conversation. Drink heartily and eat until your belly rumbles with content, I pray you!" He held up his goblet again.
"To Prince Prydae the Bold!" he declared.
Prydae noted that two of the four Ethelbert commanders seemed less than thrilled at that though they did lift their goblets to him.
15
The Stork Bransen Garibond consciously thrust one hip forward and then the other, rocking his frail body so that his legs alternately dropped in front of him. He was small for his age and desperately thin. His unkempt hair was black as a raven's wing, and his eyes, too, favored his mother's southern heritage, showing so brown as to appear black. His skin was more brown than most in the region, but not enough to show that he had the blood of Behr running through him, particularly in a land where the peasants were almost always dirty. Besides, no one ever looked closely enough to notice, for the more obvious distinctions of Bransen-like his awkward walk or the purple birthmark that circled his right arm-separated him from the folk of Pryd more than the nuances of his heritage ever could.
Over the years, the young boy had learned to give a hasty glance at each footfall, to determine if the foot was firmly planted so that he could continue. He couldn't feel the ground beneath his feet, and if he stepped on an uneven surface or put his foot down on an edge, he would stumble and fall. Bransen hated when he fell in a public place, for pulling himself up from a prone position was no easy task, and showed little in the way of grace to the gawking-always gawking-onlookers.
Fortunately for the boy, he knew every step of every road in the eastern reaches of Pryd Town, and all the way out to his father's house by the lake. He rarely fell these days, unless of course one of the other boys ran over and knocked him to the ground, just so they all could laugh at him while he flopped around.
I don't like to drool. I can't feel the drool. I don't know when I'm doing it. But they laugh, and even the men and women stare or turn away in disgust. The drool and the snot. Always it is on my face, and crusting my sleeves. I don't like it!
He heard someone cry out, "Stork!" and he knew he was doomed.
That's what they called him.
Bransen locked his eyes forward and forced his hips to rotate faster, propelling him along at a great pace for him, one jerking, stiff-legged stride at a time, his head lolling and his arms flailing all the while. But still, within a minute or two, he heard the footsteps behind him, a pair of boys running up close behind, and when that rhythmic trotting changed suddenly, Bransen knew that they had taken up a mocking "stork" gait behind him, falling into line.
He didn't stop his forward-leaning walk. He had come into town to buy some grain for Garibond, and he was determined to push through this inconvenience. He brought his arm up in a jerky motion and wiped it across his face, and though he unintentionally smacked himself quite hard, he didn't blink or show it at all.
Af
ter another minute, the two boys apparently tired of imitating and ran around him, blocking his way.
"Hello, Stork," said Tarkus Breen.
Bransen kept moving, but Tarkus bashed him in the chest with his open palm.
Bransen stumbled and had to work his hips frantically to keep from falling. "Leeeave…m-m-me…alone," he cried, his mouth contorting painfully as he tried to form the syllables.
Both boys laughed. Most people did when Bransen spoke.
"I…have to…b-b-b-buuy…"
The laughter drowned him out, and Tarkus slapped him across the face, silencing him.
Bransen narrowed his eyes and stared intently at his nemesis. In that moment, standing perfectly still, face locked in a determined and hateful grimace, Bransen did manage some measure of intimidation, did seem, for just an instant, as formidable and normal, as anyone else.
Tarkus sucked in his breath and even backed off a step. But the other boy came forward and shoved Bransen hard.
He wobbled and he scrambled, his hips swaying wildly, and then he fell, facedown to the dirt. He hadn't even been able to close his mouth as he hit, and now tasted dirt and blood.
Bransen fought hard against the tears welling up. He didn't want to cry; he tried not to cry in front of anyone anymore, other than Garibond. He could cry in front of his father; his father often cried with him.
I won't cry, he told himself over and over, but some sobs did bubble out. He heard someone shouting, but he was too upset to register the speaker or the words. He did take note of Tarkus mocking, "B-b-b-b-bye." Then he heard the boys run off.
His father, Garibond, had told him that his life would get better as he got older, but in fact, the last year had been the worst. Most of the menfolk, including the older boys, were away at the powrie war. Those older boys had never been kind to Bransen, but their abuse was usually more verbal than physical. Since they had left, though, the boys of around Bransen's age had taken free run of the town without restraint.
Bransen settled back down in the dirt, allowing himself to relax for a moment to get past his crying. He had to get up now that they were gone, and that was going to take all his attention and determination.
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