Weight of the Crown

by A. C. Cobble

  In the open square, between the two walls of Snowmar and the mountains of the pass, more and more soldiers were gathering, some peering into the mess hall to figure out what was happening, some eyeing each other suspiciously. Clearly, the tension between the groups had been brewing for a long time.

  Toward the eastern gate that led to Whitehall, Ben caught sight of a solitary figure striding away into the night. Moving the opposite direction of the rest of the people in the square, the figure seemed out of place. Ben watched as it approached the gate, but then an angry stream of curses drew his attention. He saw a middle-aged man storming across the square. He was furiously barking commands and shouting questions. The soldiers and around him snapped to attention. The leader of the Snowmar garrison, guessed Ben.

  “What is going on here?” snarled the man, stomping closer to the mess hall. “Who started this!”

  A man stumbled out of the mess hall, blood streaming down the side of his face, a glistening dagger clutched in his hand. The commander charged up to him and grabbed the front of the man’s tunic.

  “If I find you bastards from the 17th started this,” yelled the commander, “then every one of you that was in that mess hall is going to hang!”

  The bloody man blinked at the commander, and then slammed the tip of his dagger into the older soldier’s gut. The commander stumbled back, clutching the wound, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. Behind the bloody soldier, more men from the 17th started to appear out of the mess hall. Ben could see flickering flames growing behind them.

  “No witnesses,” screamed the soldier, shoving the commander over and glaring at the scattered men behind him. “If even one of them lives, we all hang.”

  “Oh damn,” mumbled Rhys.

  The square burst into chaos. Civilians began running in every direction, soldiers started to attack each other, and Ben saw the men around the merchant caravan forming up, backs toward their wagons.

  “There!” shouted Ben, gesturing for his friends to follow him to the caravan.

  He led them toward the merchants, shoving a confused soldier out of the way. When they drew close, the wagon men raised their weapons, unwelcome glares painted on their faces.

  “Give us a ride to Whitehall and we’ll watch your backs on the way out of here,” offered Ben.

  “Do it!” growled a plump, frantic-looking man. His hair stood straight up from his head where he must have been tugging on it. He was trying to kick the chocks out from under the wagon wheels, but it was clear his skill was in the counting room instead of beneath the wagon.

  The wagon men glanced at the chaos enveloping the square, and they broke, clambering over their wagons, hitching horses, knocking off brakes. It seemed none of them wanted to battle Whitehall’s soldiers on the way to Whitehall.

  “That soldier was right. If they leave any witnesses to this, they’ll hang,” remarked Rhys, drawing his sword and turning to watch the chaos in the square. “It’s a fight to the death for every member of that company. Ben—”

  “I know, I know,” grumbled Ben. “Next time, though, we’re going to avoid killing.”

  “These taverns you like so much seem to be dangerous places,” commented Prem. “Down in Venmoor, here—”

  “They are occasionally dangerous,” conceded Rhys. He winked at her. “That’s the fun of it.”

  “Concentrate,” warned Ben as a cluster of soldiers broke off, heading toward his party.

  Behind them, the wagon men were still furiously preparing to travel.

  “We’re friends!” called one of the soldiers. “We’re with the Snowmar Company, unlike those murdering bastards from down the hill. Take us with you. Someone has to let King Saala know what happened here.”

  As the man spoke, a second group, twice the size, closed on the approaching soldiers.

  “Watch your back!” called Ben.

  Cursing, the soldiers turned.

  “We need information,” mentioned Rhys. “No one will know the troop movements better than a soldier.”

  Warily, the two groups of men sized each other up, and seeing they had superior numbers, the men from the 17th raised weapons and advanced.

  “Ah damn,” muttered Ben.

  He charged forward, Rhys and Prem lunging to join him. Together with Snowmar’s soldiers, it was an even fight, numerically, but Ben had sparred with Whitehall’s soldiers before. He knew his friends would have little trouble with them.

  He brushed past a Snowmar guard’s shoulder and spun his longsword, smacking it down on an opposing soldier’s blade, letting the impact bounce his own sword back to where he thrust it into the chest of a second man.

  The first man’s weapon, forced down from Ben’s blow, caught in the dirt of the square. Ben felt a momentary flash of guilt and then slashed his sword across the man’s throat, opening it wide and spilling a waterfall of hot blood down the soldier’s white tunic.

  “If you want to go, we’re going now!” called a voice from behind.

  Ben saw his friends had finished the remaining soldiers, and the merchant was standing on the bed of his lead wagon, gesticulating for the driver to start moving. One by one, the wagons started to roll, and Ben and his friends raced after them, leaping to catch one and scrambling over the tailgate. Behind them, the soldiers they’d saved caught another, tossing weapons into the bed and then flopping over the sides. Three soldiers. Three men from the Snowmar Company. As Ben watched behind them, he wondered if those would be the only three to survive the night.

  “Onions,” muttered Rhys, holding up one of the vegetables. “Why couldn’t we find an ale merchant?”

  “Just be glad for the ride,” advised Ben.

  Behind them, soldiers from the 17th Company noticed the wagons moving, and they ran to catch them. The merchant was driving his team hard, though, and the wagons rumbled across the flat dirt, picking up speed.

  Soldiers shouted after them, but with arms and armor, they couldn’t move fast enough to catch up. Within moments, the wagons passed through the open gates of Snowmar Station and started down the slope toward Whitehall. Atop the walls, guards looked down, confused about what was happening. Moving downhill, the merchant was able to increase speed, and quickly, they left the soldiers behind.

  Ben knew the wagons would have to slow once they made it into the narrow, twisting road that led down the mountain, but with any luck, they could gain enough distance from the soldiers that it wouldn’t matter. Above them, the moon hung in the black night sky. Stars shimmered in the clear air. Shouts of anger and pain faded as they pulled out of Snowmar Pass and moved into the winding canyons on the way to Whitehall.

  He looked for the shape that had vanished through the gate before the fighting started, but he didn’t see anyone after Snowmar’s wall passed out of sight. Whoever it was, they were hiding, he guessed. Smart.

  “It will be bells before the merchant allows a rest,” said Rhys.

  Glancing behind them at Snowmar’s watchtower one last time before it disappeared behind a rocky ridge, Ben responded, “Let’s get some sleep then, if we can.”

  “I’ll stay on watch,” offered Towaal.

  “Wake me when you get tired,” instructed Ben. Then he settled down, shoving a pile of onions to the side to make a lumpy bed for himself.

  Amelie curled up next to him, resting her head in the crook of his arm and staring up at the sky. “It’s a beautiful night.”

  “Perfect night to sleep in a moving onion wagon while fleeing a gang of bloodthirsty soldiers,” murmured Ben.

  Amelie smiled at him, and he laid his head back, glad to have her warmth next to him as they passed deeper into the cold night.

  4

  Whitehall

  The thick walls and steel gates of Whitehall rose in front of them as they rumbled over the bridge that led to the only landward entrance of the city. On top of the walls, armed soldiers patrolled relentlessly, moving beneath giant white streamers emblazoned with the red mastodon of the Alliance. T
he gates were wide open, but scores of armed men watched the incoming traffic and directed the long line of wagons that awaited entry.

  “Provisions for the troops,” speculated Rhys. “They must be digging up every tuber and plucking every leaf in Sineook Valley.”

  “They’ve a lot of men to feed,” responded Amelie. “Besides, we saw the farmers arguing with the soldiers. Those men would rather send their produce than their sons. I don’t blame them.”

  “Do you think he’s still here?” wondered Ben.

  “He was when Snowmar’s soldiers were last in the city,” answered Towaal. “Typically, though, a general would move with his advance forces and oversee the staging of his men. That’s the critical activity when mobilizing an army, and lieutenants can handle dispatching the materials. In this case, Saala just recently took command of the armies and the city. He’s an outsider, and while he may have gained the support of the majority of the lords, surely there are some who resent his rise. It would be dangerous for him to turn his back while his reign is so fresh.”

  “Ignore the army and the upcoming battle with the Coalition, or ignore the potential backstabbers,” remarked Amelie. “Neither one is a good choice.”

  In front of them, the soldiers from Snowmar Station had already clambered off the wagon and made their way up to the city’s gates. They were animatedly discussing their situation with the guards there.

  “Maybe we should have separated from the merchant and those men before now,” worried Ben, watching the alarm on the faces of the guards at the gate.

  “There wasn’t a way to slink away without raising suspicion. If we passed up a free ride, they would assume we have something to hide,” reminded Amelie. Men began shouting, and Ben saw several dart back inside the city. Worry passed up and down as nervous merchants and travelers tried to guess what caused the uproar. “Though, perhaps we should have risked it.”

  From the gate, a squad of men was marching down the line of wagons, their eyes fixed on the merchant who led their train.

  “Time to go,” muttered Ben.

  He slipped over the side of the wagon, away from the approaching soldiers. His friends dropped down after him. Fighting the urge to crouch lower, Ben began walking casually toward the gate, acting like he was merely arriving on foot and passing the slower-moving merchants.

  “You! Are you Ben?” barked a voice.

  Ben’s heart sank, and he turned to see a soldier ducking underneath the neck of a horse and stepping out behind him.

  “I-I am,” stammered Ben, unable to think of a convincing lie on the spot.

  “Come with me,” instructed the soldier.

  “What is this about?” asked Ben.

  “The events that took place the night you left Snowmar Station, of course,” answered the soldier. The man eyed Ben strangely. “The soldiers you traveled with told quite the tale. They said Ben Ashwood, the leader of a small band of adventurers, could verify everything they said. Our commander will need to talk to you about it, and the merchants as well, but you’re the one who saw how it started. An open revolt in one of Whitehall’s most important outposts, surely you expected to be questioned about it?”

  Ben swallowed and nodded.

  “You thought you’d enter without having to talk to anyone, didn’t you?” guessed the soldier.

  Ben shrugged sheepishly.

  Shaking his head as he turned on one heel, the guard gestured for Ben to follow. When they fell in line, he added, “We’ll have to send three or four companies back up the mountain after those bastards in the 17th, if what was said is true. Troublemakers since they were recruited, if you ask me. That’s what you get for bringing in dock workers, sailors, and the like. They’re barely a step above pirates, every one of them. The generals didn’t want to take most of them, you know? They caved, though. Politics, like it always is. Some of those companies could have been sent by Lord Jason himself, and it wouldn’ta surprised me. The 17th was worse than most, constantly getting into scuffles and trouble here in the city. Rumor is, that’s why the commander sent ‘em up the mountain to Snowmar. Figured there wasn’t much trouble they could get into there. I guess he was wrong.”

  Ben and his friends didn’t respond. The soldier looked over his shoulder, “Is what those boys said true? Did the 17th go crazy?”

  “They did,” affirmed Ben, realizing that the quickest way to be done with it was to simply tell the truth.

  The soldier gave a satisfied nod and led them through the gates, taking them into Whitehall and presumably where his commander could question them.

  “Well,” said Rhys, his voice low so as not to be overheard by their escort, “at least we should be able to find out quickly if Saala is still here.”

  “Ben?” asked a startled voice.

  Ben looked up from studying his feet, which he’d been doing for the last three bells. He was sitting on a bench that wasn’t any softer than the walls in a bare, stone-encased hallway. They weren’t exactly detained in a prison, but it felt like it. Down the hall, he saw a young man wearing the stark-white tunic of Whitehall. Two knots of red graced his soldier, marking him as a captain. The man looked familiar, but Ben couldn’t place him until he strode closer and spoke again.

  “Benjamin Ashwood, what are you doing here?”

  Blinking in recognition, Ben responded, “Seth, is that you?”

  Smiling, the uniformed man walked up to Ben stuck out a hand, “It’s good to see you, Ben. What has it been, a year?”

  Ben stood and grasped the man’s hand, pressing it firmly. “A year, yes, that sounds about right.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Ben Ashwood,” called a voice from the other end of the hall.

  Both Ben and Seth turned to find another man, also with the two knots of a captain, marching toward them.

  “We witnessed a disruption up at Snowmar Station,” Ben told Seth.

  “You were there?” exclaimed Seth. “Rumors have been flying all over the barracks. Is it true? Did the 17th turn?”

  Ben nodded.

  The new captain arrived and eyed Seth. “I’ve got some questions for them as well, if you’re finished, captain.”

  Seth stared at the man a moment and then replied, “I think I’ll sit in while you ask your questions.”

  “This is a matter of the city’s defense,” protested the new man. “This has nothing to do with you. Isn’t your unit supposed to be leaving any day now?”

  “As soon as a vessel becomes available, we’ll sail,” confirmed Seth.

  “Then I suggest you see to your men and make sure all is in order,” responded the captain, iron lacing his voice. The man set his hands on his hips and he adopted a wide-legged stance. A bureaucrat’s battle pose, Ben supposed.

  “These people know General Brinn,” said Seth, placing his hands on his hips and turning to face the other man. “Brinn personally offered this man a place in the guard a year ago. I heard the offer myself. I’ll sit in on your interview, and when you’re finished, they will not be spending the night in your gaol. They’ll be coming with me.”

  “That’s not how we do things,” complained the captain.

  “I know how you do things,” snapped Seth. He gave Ben a quick look and then turned back to the man. “That is why I’ll sit with them during your interrogation.”

  Frowning, the captain glared at the younger man. “Look, sometimes witnesses are asked to stay here for a period of time to ensure we’ve gotten everything we can from them. In a case like this, where they’ve made an accusation that amounts to treason, well—”

  “We didn’t accuse anyone of anything!” protested Ben.

  The captain ignored him, keeping his eyes fixed on Seth.

  “I’ll sit in with them, and escort them to the Citadel once you are done. Unless you want to take it up with the general?” asked Seth, arching an eyebrow.

  The captain’s jaw clenched. “A young man like you, with so much potential, it’d be a
shame if you wasted it on stupid feuds. The general has you under his wing, for now. That won’t always be the case.”

  “When it’s not, come see me,” replied Seth.

  Ben spared a glance at Rhys and saw the rogue mimic a surprised whistle. The conflict they’d witnessed at Snowmar wasn’t the only dissent amongst the ranks. The army was breaking apart from within, all on the verge of an outright war with the Coalition.

  Muttering under his breath and attempting to ignore Seth, the captain led them to a windowless room where he snapped questions at them one after another. Ben and his friends answered honestly about what they’d seen, if not about their reason for being at Snowmar. The man expressed doubt and disbelief at their tale, but when he aggressively began to press them, a cough from Seth pulled him up short. They were interrogated for two bells about a moment which had taken a fraction of that time.

  Finally, the captain exhausted himself and admitted, “It seems your statements match those of the merchant and the guards from Snowmar Company.”

  “No reason they wouldn’t,” said Ben, unable to keep the tired frustration from his voice.

  “You can go,” said the captain, “but do not leave Whitehall.”

  “Sure,” agreed Ben, standing and stretching, his body sore after spending the entire day sitting on the uncomfortable benches and chairs in Whitehall’s gaol.

  “Come with me,” said Seth.

  Ben followed his old friend out the door and breathed a deep sigh of relief when they exited the heavy stone confines of the gaol house. The bright sunlight and fresh sea air blowing in from across the Blood Bay perked him up considerably.

  “Are you here to see Saala?” asked Seth.

  Ben stumbled and almost pitched face first onto the cobblestones.

  “I-I… what do you mean?” asked Ben.

  “You were traveling with him when I saw you before, weren’t you?” inquired Seth, reaching a hand to steady Ben. “I assumed that’s why you were here.”