At the heart of this castle stands a tall limestone keep, and in the center of the keep is a great room, decorated in a rustic forester’s fashion, with an enormous fireplace in which a man might walk upright, two carved wooden thrones and several rough hewn tables with accompanying chairs. Many hands have polished the wood to a dark and shiny hue. Next to the fireplace on the wall is mounted the head of an enormous boar, a trophy of a hunt that took place in the same forest five years earlier. Each tusk in the beast’s open maw is as long as a man’s hand and as thick as his thumb, and his bristles stand like tiny spears.
On a cool autumn day in the latter part of Leath, a bassinet stood directly beneath the boar’s mounted head, and the uncrowned infant king of Mortentia lay within it, howling because he had shat his pants and not been instantly cleaned and diapered. He had kicked off his blankets like he always did.
In the footrace that followed the sound, Lanae Brookhouse just barely managed to beat Hagne O’root and Queen Eleinel D’Cadmouth to the boy, and she picked him up and carried him to the changing table in triumph, ignoring both Hagne’s dangerous scowl and Eleinel’s solicitous nervousness.
“He’s getting heavier.” Lanae observed with a smile.
“He’ll be a fine fat boy, your highness.” Hagne opined with an agreeable nod toward the queen. “Hangs on the tit like a hungry little bat.” Without being asked she had fetched the warm water and rags.
“He does seem very healthy.” Eleinel agreed reluctantly, worry creasing her pretty face and drawing her lips thin. “He’s healthy, don’t you think Lanae?”
“Oh yes.” Lanae agreed, pulling the dirty nappies off and wiping his butt with a proffered clean and wet cloth. “He’s as healthy as he can be. He’ll be very strong.”
“We will make him so.” King Otten Ottenson said, smiling as he walked over to the trio of women. “Even a Mortentian can become strong with the help of a good and honest Thimenian. His enemies will fear him when he comes of age.”
Queen Eleinel looked up at the giant king. “I don’t know how long we will be here, Otten. Maldiver will be looking for us high and low.”
“Bah, Maldiver. Let him come. His army will never find us, and if they do, they will break on this rock like any other. I do not fear your Mortentian king.” At a look in her eye he corrected himself. “Your false king, I mean. The real king is now ready to stand court.” Kaelen was dressed now, a thick warm gown covering him from neck to below his feet. At four and half months the boy looked older, for he had an endless train of admirers and caretakers, and every woman in the village wanted a hand in watching or feeding him. They called him the little king, for Otten Ottenson was not one to keep secrets from his people.
Officially, the Kingdom of the Green Hills was in alliance with the Kingdom of Mortentia, or at least such of it as Queen Eleinel held, which was really none at all. This was a new alliance, and not one that King Otten insisted on, for he didn’t really care. But Eleinel had wanted to show her gratitude for his taking them in, and she had nothing to offer but an alliance. He certainly was not going to be anyone’s subject, nor was his kingdom going to relinquish its independence. She had offered a promise, as the infant king’s regent and in his name, that the Kingdom of the Green Hills would never have to.
It had been over a month and a half since her husband Falante had died, assassinated at the hands of his successor and cousin Maldiver, and Lanae and Eleinel had been guests here since the beginning of Leath. They had arrived in the early morning, five days after leaving Walcox, for with the queen’s instructions it had taken Lanae only two days to find the hidden valley from Sentinel’s back.
They had landed together in the village square, exhausted from their journey and search, and when King Otten Ottenson had arrived amid the astounded circle of villagers, Eleinel had introduced herself as the ‘queen in exile’ and begged his protection. The king might have refused her, but Hagne O’root, apparently his advisor or chief witch or something, had spoken into his ear and he had grinned. “Aye woman.” He’d said to the old crone. “If you think it will help your plans, we’ll give it a try.”
They had been given spacious apartments in the keep, and the two eagles now nested in a large open room in one of its towers. For the first time in many months Lanae felt safe, and free of the burdens of a king’s eye. There were no missions to fly and no gentry to attempt to appease and no prying and crafty lord’s wives to avoid in the Green Hills. There was still much to learn, however, and Lanae was quickly learning what a morass politics can become, especially for a queen in exile trying to regain her crown.
“Word from Arker, Otto.” Captain Bandim walked into the keep’s throne room without being announced, and he spoke without introductions or any formality, a procedure that Lanae found to be a nice contrast to what she had seen in Falante’s palace. “The Baron says he’s got to see them both first to make sure they’re alive. Wants to see them there.”
Otten Ottenson shook his shaggy head, and his braids and beard waved side to side. “No. He knows my word is good, this Baron. He wants them there so he can show them off. Return this word to him: He may meet the queen and the prince here in the Green Hills only, and my men will escort him here. They are under my peace, and I will not risk them being killed by spies or assassins in the court of Arker.”
“He won’t like it.”
“And I don’t give a good long piss what he likes. That is my word, he may take it or not take it.”
“We need allies.” Queen Eleinel said, disagreeing. “I should go to him and tell him what Maldiver has done.”
“Every fool in Mortentia knows what Maldiver has done.” The Thimenian replied. “The Baron of Arker must decide whether to do right or to knuckle under to Elderest. And believe me, pretty queen, he will come here. He must.”
Her grandson Yender arrived at the castle later in the day and gave his report to Hagne. He was a good boy, Yender was, and everything one would expect from the Black Duke’s get. She listened to his account of how he had settled things in Root’s Bridge with great satisfaction. But even though he had settled the accounts with Malli Adkel and his cronies for daring to conspire against Hambar and her other kin, Hagne knew that the regent had been but the smaller part of the equation, and that he had only operated at the direction of Maldiver D’Cadmouth.
Hagne did not want a war with the D’Cadmouths. It wasn’t that she thought the Black Duke’s descendants couldn’t win such a war, for she had every confidence in her kinsmen despite their present lowly state, but the D’Cadmouths had always been very loyal to the Arouths in ancient times, a strong second family that was essential to the success of the first. She did not want to destroy them.
She thought back to a story she had heard about Andam D’Cadmouth when he was a boy, a story that epitomized the family. Andam was the Duke of Northcraven these days, but back then he had been a small boy, and he had enrolled at a finishing school down around Ioli in Elderest. All of the boys there had been high born lads, and one of Andam’s cousins, either Queltin or Maldiver, she didn’t recall which, had taken to tormenting Andam, and there had been a fist fight, and Andam soundly trounced. The next day Andam went after his cousin again, and again he was beaten, but every day the bold little lad had come back with his tiny fists and had another go, until finally they all decided he was crazy and let him be. Andam was the finest of the D’Cadmouth boys from that generation, and his courage and willingness to take a daily beating in the proving of it exemplified the best things about that family.
Then she considered her own get, and thought of a strikingly similar story, but with an O’root ending. Yender O’root had taken a beating one time from a much larger boy, and he’d come home angry and in tears, but unwilling to name his attacker. The lad who went after him, Bandic O’Arker, was the steelsmith’s son, and he worked the forge all the time, so he was a very strong lad and quite a bit older than Yender. He bragged it about town that he’d given Yender a thrashing, and
that was a terrible mistake, for Yender was an O’root, and such things had to be answered. They found Bandic down a well, and none to say who put him there, but no one ever troubled Yender again. That was what it meant to be one of the Black Duke’s get.
She thought about it again and remembered the first story better. It had been Maldiver who went after Andam and gave him his daily beating, for even then he’d been a little shit. Apparently he’d grown up to be no better, daring to go against his own kin, which was bad enough, but he’d forgotten who gave the D’Cadmouths their prominence in the first place. Maldiver alone was the problem in the D’Cadmouth clan, and once the Roots did for him, it was likely to be the end of their vendetta. If not, well, they could certainly handle more.
Aside from the news that he’d settled for Root’s Bridge, Yender had apparently had his ears open while he traveled. They learned from him that there was rebellion in Diminios, and that word was getting about that the queen and prince were alive, and various houses in various places swearing for Kaelen whilst others took Maldiver’s side. A full-scale civil war was shaping up in Mortentia, which would be a bloody bad business, but also an opportunity for the Black Duke’s get to regain their prominence. Already her keen mind was shaping new plans, even as she cut up apples and made pies.
She saved every seed, and already she had nearly a bucket full, for when properly ground, steeped in oil and bottled, the seeds of apples made a potent poison. She would add a few bottles to her collection. A hard wind was blowing thick and heavy snow by the time she finished, and she made her way carefully to her cottage in the village for the night.
Chapter 84: Aelfric, Redwater Town and Ugly Woman Hill, mid to late Leath
“Wave her away!” Aelfric shouted desperately, his eyes on the great eagle and its rider as they descended toward his Expanded Fort. “It’s not safe! Wave her off!”
Several men attempted to do just that, snatching up banners or stripping off their own tabards and swinging them wildly in the air. Archers leaped to the walls, desperately seeking out the forms of the Cthochi bowmen they knew were hiding in the forest nearby, knowing all the time that the Cthochi were likely out of range of arrows or shot, but wanting to save the king’s eye.
The reddish eagle swooped low in preparation for landing in the open space at the center of the fort, and as it skimmed the treetops half a dozen arrows, fletched in white feathers, shot from the forest below, and the bird was hit at least twice. It barely managed to wing its way over the wall, and when it tried to billow out its wings to slow its landing, one wounded wing gave way, causing the eagle to crash headlong into the ground, spilling its rider, who shot over the eagle’s neck and landed at a terrifying angle on the hard-packed rocky dirt of the parade ground. Aelfric was among the first men to reach her.
She was short and compact and pretty and young, like all of the king’s eyes were, with hair the color of pale birch bark, but now stained with blood from her impact on the ground. The men around her picked her up like a broken doll. “To the infirmary tent!” Aelfric shouted. “Go!”
He ran behind the men as they triple timed it to the physic’s tent. Busker O’Hiam was suddenly at Aelfric’s side. “What in the seven hells was she thinking? There’s no safe landing here!”
“I’m damned if I know, Busker. Get some men together and see what you can do for the eagle.” Aelfric turned from the tent entrance to look at the giant eagle, a reddish thing that seemed to hop about, dragging a broken wing and looking for all the world like a huge wounded pigeon. “But don’t get too close. That beak looks dangerous.” He warned.
“Aye, boss.” Busker said, then he returned to the parade ground and began issuing orders as men formed a wide and cautious circle around the wounded animal. By the time Aelfric reached the tent, the girl was lying on a stretcher, unconscious.
“Will she live?” Aelfric asked the physic, a man they’d picked up in Maslit by the name of Nulmin Wheatman. He was a short man, but solidly built, with strong hands and a round, homely face. His coloring was hundred kingdoms pale, but his hair and eyes were almost Aulig black.
“Can’t tell.” The man said shortly. “She’s broken her collarbone and taken a hell of a knock on the head, but I can’t tell if she’s more hurt on the inside. She might have injuries we can’t see. I’d say she fell at least ten paces, and right on her face. We’ll know by evening, I guess. Either she wakes and lives or she doesn’t and we bury her.”
Aelfric nodded. Ten paces sounded about right, and he knew the physic would do all he could for her without being told to. There were precious few women and girls around this fort, and none as pretty and wholesome looking as this one. She was pure Tolrissan by her complexion, and her hair was so blond it was almost white. The doctor handed Aelfric a scrollcase, sealed with dark red wax and marked with a Lionic seal he didn’t recognize. It was a letter to the bishop, although not by name. “Found this in her belt.” The man explained.
Aelfric decided he would deliver it to Weymort later, for at the moment he was extremely busy, laying the groundwork for a battle that could well decide the fate of Northcraven City.
Aldrid Faithborn assembled his captains before the large map he’d had made of the territory where the battle was to happen. A large shape, like a bent starfish with two upper arms longer than the others, was depicted on the two-pace square of vellum, stretched out on a wooden frame. The shape was a detailed depiction of a land feature that Eskeriel the Aulig scout called ‘Ugly Woman Hill,’ an elevation some five leagues northwest of Redwater Town and about the same distance southwest of the Earthspeaker’s camps at Northcraven City.
“Tolric, I’ll want your fyrdes here, here and here in equal groups, and five fyrdes with the hostages. Lord Aelfric doesn’t want them killed unless they get in the way, but don’t let them slow your men down with their hesitation. If you need to cut one loose to get out of that pocket, you do it, but you leave her body there.”
Captain Tolric paled at the words, but nodded. He did not like the orders, but looking at the overall plan, he saw the necessity of them. “Do you want the men to actually ...” He struggled to complete the question.
“Fuck them? No.” Faithborn said. “We just want to give that impression. The idea is to make them bait, but bait so obvious that the Cthochi sense a trap. It’s a double trap, really. If the Cthochi actually bite on the obvious trap and attempt a rescue, that’s wonderful, but we don’t think they will. What we want is for them to try to flank the spears here.” Faithborn pointed out a wide slope between two slopes rising on the west side of the hill. “If they do that, the real trap is sprung.”
Lord Captain Faithborn deliberately expressed more confidence in the overall plan than he felt. In truth there were several ways it could go wrong, but if Lord Aelfric was right about the effect the lessons they’d been giving the Cthochi would have, the battle would be decisive. If Lord Aelfric was wrong, it meant the loss of half of his strength and a forced retreat for the rest, with heavy losses. It was a roll of the dice, and if the pips fell the wrong way, their campaign of aggression was over, and Northcraven would have to look elsewhere for relief.
Still, he told his men where they were to assemble, and in what formations, and the archer and spear captains under his command went to their fyrdmen. His five thousand men began making preparations to march, and he knew that Busker’s sword fyrdes, Anbarius’ engineers and Aurix’s lancers were doing the same. Eleven thousand men, the bulk of the Silver Run Army, would be in the battle.
Smiley Ahtain had drawn special duty again, but this time he hadn’t volunteered for it. It wasn’t crash, it was much worse, really, and he wondered if any of the Blackhill Gang would walk away from the coming battle. Baldy Barliman sharpened his sword and sat at his bunk, looking serious but hopeful. Baldy had an almost religious faith in Lord Aelfric’s judgment and planning, and he would go and fight where and when he was told without question. On top of that was Busker O’Hiam, an experienced veteran
who had been in many battles. If he approved the deployment of his swords, Smiley had to agree.
Every loose fur in camp had been stripped from bed linens or rugs or wherever it could be found, and most of it was now in the swordsmen’s packs, for this battle meant sleeping outdoors for at least one night, and it had turned cold. A storm was building up to the west, and Smiley reckoned there would be snow before it was all said and done.
Kalliner was griping in his usual way, but truthfully the Third Swords was ready for activity. They’d been three weeks now in the Expanded Fort west of Redwater, and a week since the bridge was made, and there was nothing to see or do in the town that they hadn’t already done. The camp, even as large as it was, had grown crowded with so many new soldiers from Maslit and Redwater Town, and when the lancers brought their horses over, it was positively bursting. Many of his men had been swapped out for new ones, and they’d taken to calling them new blues, for their tabards were dark blue, freshly dyed, and bore a black griffin instead of a hammer or a tiger on them, some sort of family thing from Lord D’root, who was still just Aelfric to Smiley. Smiley had only had a few days to drill them into fighting form, and they were desperately slow to learn and pathetically soft. He knew that if they had to make a quick march his piss-purples would wind up having to carry some of them.
Still, every time a dark blue tabard caught an arrow or a spear or a sword, that was one less stroke aimed at Smiley, but he wasn’t putting any of them next to him in the new shield wall formations they’d been learning. Yesterday he’d been drilling them, and they had struggled to hold up their shields, hastily crafted things of plain wood that lacked even an upper iron guard to reinforce them. If this battle was going to be as bloody as the captain’s hidden looks indicated, most of the new blues wouldn’t be going home.
Most fyrdmen were conservative, and there was a lot of bitching about the new shield walls. People weren’t inclined to try new things, even when the Privy Lord came up with them, and the idea of staggering a shield wall into several ranks so that tired men could be pulled back and fresh ones put in their place sounded dangerous, for the wall would have to be broken and reformed every time. The fact that they were being taught this technique frightened Smiley a bit, because it bespoke a long and bitter battle fought in lines, which meant a lot of men dead on both sides. Smiley had seen the Cthochi army and how bleeding huge it was, and he knew the Silver Run army couldn’t afford to swap men with them.
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 110
