War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  Kerrick looked at the young man, not catching his meaning for a moment. In his mind envisioned a map, and he pictured a line of forts stretching from here to Walcox, running like dots along the length of the Redwater River. Each of the forts was fortified and entrenched with siege engines and vigilant archers, and a good road between them. And then he knew. He knew what the commander was telling him.

  “I understand.” Kerrick said at last, with a sigh that he hoped did not sound defeated, for he did understand, and he was. The line of forts was a spear cutting in half the Aulig invasion of Mortentia. Like a fisherman’s spear caught in the guts of a great fish. The Aulig forces might strike to either side, but the Mortentian fortresses would hold them, no matter how they twisted and squirmed about, and the Mortentians could use that guarded road to bring however many armies and men and weapons they wanted from south of the Whitewood Forest all the way to Northcraven City, and there was not a thing he or any other Aulig could do about it.

  Kerrick foresaw horses and knights and endless legions marching down that road, and assembled against them an ever-diminishing host of Auligs, for winter had come, and the plague and a great storm, and there would be no more reinforcements from the sea. East and west of that road the Auligs would be endlessly and hopelessly flanked, and the end would be inevitable.

  It was inconceivable that this man, this boy really, had with ten thousand men broken an invading army that at its peak numbered nearly half a million spears, but he had. He had beaten them at every turn, then finally pinned them here like an otter’s hide to a tree. Kerrick’s eyes fell on the city, then to the ground, wondering how the Earthspeaker and all of his wise men of war, himself included, had failed so utterly.

  “I’m sending you to tell the Ghaill, Kerrick. Tell him that it’s over. He’s lost. You can see that, can’t you? Any battles beyond today are just wasted lives, don’t you agree?”

  And Kerrick did agree, as much as he hated to. Tactitian that he was, he saw that the boy general had beaten them all. This was the final strike in the heart of winter, the building of this fortification. He nodded at last. “I agree.” He said. “You’ve beaten us.”

  Aelfric allowed himself a small smile, and Kerrick saw it and did not begrudge it. All of the months of battle and planning and battle and marching and death, and this was likely the very end of it. “I will give you a horse and an escort with banners of parley, Kerrick. Go and tell the Ghaill what you see and what you know. Make him understand if you can. I will await his word in the city.”

  Chapter 97: Elderest Duchy

  Fat Mamin himself brought the roast to table, a fine side of beef liberally spiced and peppered, and he was proud of his work, for he’d overseen every moment of the cooking of it, and let it rest proper before cooking it. He used a long, thin knife of Arker steel to shave off thick slabs of the beef, for the men he was serving were not the kind who liked their meat thin. Each dinner plate at the long and meticulously oiled and polished table gleamed, and every bit of silver was highly polished. The people at table had already whetted their appetites on bread and sweetmeats and carefully hoarded candied fruit, but it was the meat they wanted most.

  The table was wider than most, with room at head and at foot for two place settings. King Maldiver and Queen Elsinora in a lovely green gown sat side by side at the head of the table, with Denjar at the king’s right hand and plain faced Berla O’Hiol, his taster, to the left of the queen. Bishop Dasalt of the Lighthill Cathedral sat next to Denjar with two of his priors, and facing them were Thyram D’Cadmouth, lately confirmed as Duke of Dunwater and his man, Ranben. Rounding out the bottom of the table were four of Elderest’s merchant princes, and standing around or walking among the tall curtains were the household guards of both Dunwater and of Elderest. It was an august occasion, they were all dressed finely, and Mamin had sweated every detail to ensure that his guests did not lack for fine food or have more than a moment with an empty wine cup. Fifty candles of fine wax burned in nine candelabras around the room, as brightly lit as the space could be on a dark night in Arianis.

  On a raised platform about ten paces from the table sat Benni Aleman, the bard of Elderest, strumming a quiet tune on his lute and occasionally singing a bar or two, but Mamin didn’t know the song. It was something old and respectable, Mamin was sure, and the only parts of the meal that were in the least bit scandalous were the blouses of the serving maids, for Denjar had specified that they be sheer and a bit clingy. “Duke Thyram has a taste for cunny.” The man had frankly explained. “If he wants a bit of arse after dinner, make sure the girls you find for the job are full-willing. We want to make our guests proper happy.”

  Mamin noticed that it was the bishop who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the girls, however, but that little surprised him. The girls were pretty, young, and like Denjar specified, full-willing.

  “It’s troubles and troubles, sire.” The duke was saying. “Rebellion in Diminios, rumors afoot about Eleinel and rebellion and war north of the Whitewood. Dunwater stands behind the crown, of course, but it’s no good pitting family against family.”

  “Every transition of power brings such things.” Maldiver said dismissively. “Add the transition on top of an ongoing war that has been going badly, ‘tis little wonder the lowborn are restless.”

  “Lack of faith.” The bishop said abruptly, his voice already half-slurred with drink, and the main course not even finished. He certainly would not appreciate the effort that had gone into the pairing of the proper bottles of Alidis red with the spices in the beef. “The High Prelate has spoken as to the legitimacy of the succession, and that should be the end of it. There is a general lack of respect for the church in Diminios. Always has been. Comes of there being no proper cathedral in Silver Run.” Even Mamin recognized this as a plea for money from the king, but nobody had the temerity to point this out.

  “Certainly there is need of more respect for the church.” The king replied, nodding in agreement with the bishop. “Tell me, have you had word from the bishop who was with the godsknights before the D’root boy ordered them to their deaths? Did he survive the occasion?”

  The bishop shook his head angrily. “Not a word, but there are those among their army that have sent letters, and Bishop Weymort is assuredly alive and still in company with this Aelfric. They have marched all the way to Redwater, I’m told.”

  “Undoubtedly the Auligs have not put up much of a fight there.” Duke Thyram said. “This Lord Aelfric is getting far too much credit since the disaster at Walcox. The people speak of that matter as a great battle, but I doubt it was much more than a raid, and the Auligs vanishing into the night after. The stories crediting him with forty-thousand killed can hardly be believed. I think he’s a glory seeker, and his refusal to impose justice on the murderer of my father is unforgivable.”

  The king turned to the duke and smiled grimly. “You may rest assured, Duke Thyram, House D’Cadmouth stands united in that matter. If the war has deprived us of our blood claim against this Captain O’Hiam, we shall have justice against his commander.”

  After an hour of such discussions, in which cook Mamin heard far more than he cared to know about rebellions and Arkermen and admirals and generals and war, half of the meat was still on the bone, but half of it had been eaten quite happily. Queen Elsorina had even gone so far as to compliment him on the quality of the roast, but king Maldiver had not been so kind.

  “T’was passable, Mamin. I am sure you made use of one of our best cows, no? I should imagine you could do much better had you chosen a better cut.” Mamin’s ears had gone red at this, for he felt it was a right proper bit of meat, and better than he could have afforded with a month’s pay, but he said nothing, merely bowed respectfully.

  Back in the kitchen he demanded the pie be pulled from the oven and served. “Get it out there before it burns.” He muttered angrily at the woman at the oven, a white-haired old crone that they’d taken on mere days ago. She was probably too
old to be hired full-time, but he’d been glad of her, caught short-handed as they were. She had an awful accent and a face like a banshee, but the woman could cook.

  “Yes milord.” The crone replied, opening the stone door on the oven and reaching in with a long handled wide spatula like a boat’s paddle to deftly remove the pie. It was topped with a crispy whiteberry-laden crust, and the apples were finely aged. “They’ll be happy to have some pie now.”

  Benni Aleman had dressed in his finest for this occasion, a tooled leather half-jacket of forest green on top of a linen tunic of the purest white. His pants were thick wool, a concession to the weather, but still among his very best. His boots were knee high and black, a mediocre item, but polished to a high sheen. On is knee he held his lute, although it was a fine instrument and light, and he could have held it by the neck as easily. His beard was neatly trimmed and his long graying hair tied back with a red ribbon, and he sang the easy songs to which everyone knew the words, saving the complicated works for a more attentive audience.

  It was a high honor, to play before a king, and the business of a bard was as competitive as any archery contest. For ten years he apprenticed, carrying lute and dulcimer for Gabbard O’Rockwall and learning all that the man would teach him, which wasn’t a terrible lot, as Gabbard was overfond of drink. But he had practiced at every spare moment, and competed in the many contests that were held at fairs and tourneys. After the first ten years he was twenty-seven, and there was an affair with the daughter of a Lord Mayor that ended badly, if famously, and after tempers had cooled and there was no longer talk of hanging him, Benni Aleman returned to Elderest to find that he was sought after.

  He knew that his first performances in those days had been more about curiosity than anything, and he spent half of his time avoiding questions about ‘the scandal’ and half of it dodging advances from less lofty, if no less forward maidens. The burned hand teaches best, they say, and Benni never again reached for cunny beyond his station, no matter how appealing.

  His infamy turned into plain old fame after a while, because despite the scandal he was actually quite a talented musician and a gifted storyteller, and recommendations went from mouth to ear across the Dunwater River Valley.

  In time he found himself in the enviable position of actually having to refuse engagements, although one did not dare refuse the king. And so he sat on a raised dais, playing music that did not challenge him in the least, and to a disinterested collection of nobles who were much more interested in plotting and conniving than in his music.

  With half an ear he listened to Bishop Dasalt, a self-important fat man with ambitions to be High Prelate, it was said, and he was yet young enough to get there, perhaps. Benni never smiled unless it was a part of his performance, but he smiled to himself when he thought of Dasalt. The man might well reach the heights of his ambition if his cock didn’t get in the way. Benni knew of at least three peasant girls in Pulflover, Elderest and in the Dominion who had babies by the man. Doubtless the bishop had been sent here on the direct orders of the High Prelate, for his mission was to deliver a two part message. The first being that this king was on shaky ground, and the High Prelate knew it, else why would he send an underling to an important dinner in the home castle of his liege? The second message was also quite clear, although not directly stated, and that was that the church was behind this king, but only for so long as the church received its due, and Benni had no doubt that the sums for a cathedral in Diminios would be forthcoming soon. The Lord of Diminios wouldn’t like that, but he had a rebellion there to manage, and he’d better get used to the idea of taking what he didn’t like.

  Maldiver was a canny king, Benni thought, but heavy handed and too sure of himself. When he should have been bending over backward to appease the bishop he was instead dismissive, and then daring to ask the man about the other bishop who was ensconced with the Privy Lord up in Northcraven? That was brazen indeed, and almost a slap in the church’s face. As well accuse the church of being unable to handle its own folk.

  As he sang his gaze followed the men and two women around the table, and he took mental notes, for one never knew when one might observe the basis of a good song or story. Elsorina, the once fair and sturdy Weymore girl from Flana, looked broken, as if some terrible worry ate at her, and no matter how fine her clothing and manners, nothing could conceal her bitten nails and the nervous titter that passed for laughter from her. Benni could see that she was afraid of her husband, and Maldiver knew it and liked it.

  Benni dismissed the king’s bodyguard Denjar, for he knew the type. Every nobleman above a certain station employed such a man, a ruthless type who would get things done in the shadows as needed. Across the table from the king’s man sat the duke’s man Ranben, and from the way the two of them avoided each other’s gaze they might have been staring at each other, assessing and weighing to see who was the most dangerous, like a pair of tomcats.

  The three merchant princes at the bottom of the table were local to Elderest, and doubtless invited for no better reason than to fill out the board, to make this get together a banquet instead of a dinner. Doubtless they were important supporters of Maldiver’s, perhaps men who funded him in some way, but again, not key components to the story.

  The newly raised Duke of Dunwater was a different story. Thyram D’Cadmouth was broad of shoulder and thick of face and arm. He was a physically strong man and tall, and the stubborn set of his jaw and brows made it plain that although young, he expected to be treated with respect by the king as a man who knew his own worth. With Northcraven and Diminios in open rebellion and Arker wavering, at least according to rumor, the throne in the Regency was becoming a hot seat to sit in. Maldiver needed Dunwater behind him at all costs. Thyram plainly knew it, and he was asserting his independence tonight.

  “I don’t understand, your majesty, how the former queen can still be rumored to be alive after all of this time.” He was saying, talking with his mouth half full. “There are those who have sworn they’ve seen her alive and well, and at liberty. Wouldn’t her kidnappers have done away with her by now?”

  “One hears all manner of wild rumor these days, cousin.” The king answered brusquely. Rumor was that Thyram was one of Maldiver’s least favorite relations, and he’d pressed for the appointment of his younger brother instead. “I am sure that people have seen someone, and I am sure that she resembles the former queen. Perhaps those who plotted to take her are conniving to join the rebellion, or perhaps they are its originators. Either way, setting up a false queen and an infant to rally their cause behind is certainly a clever maneuver.”

  “P’raps it is the real queen.” Slurred the bishop. “P’raps they’ve taken her and bewitched her mind. There are them as say the dark one is capable of doing such.” Benni noticed that the drunker the bishop became, and he did appear to be quite drunk, the more his speech reverted to his native Pulflover brogue.

  “I’m sure the church would know much more about such things than I do.” Maldiver replied testily, and Benni figured he found the topic of the conversation uncomfortable. Benni had heard all of the rumors of course, for such things came to a bard, and he wondered if Maldiver’s testiness came of a guilty conscience. “I’m sure that … Oh. Here’s the pie.”

  Benni Aleman was glad later that he had a good memory for detail, because what happened next was an event to make a bard famous. The head cook Mamin cut into the pie himself, a thick golden crusted thing that brought the smell of baked apples and cinna into the room with it. The pie was large, and there was enough of it so that everyone at the table got a goodly slice and some leftover in the pan. The king’s taster ate first of the pie, a little middle-aged lump of a woman who looked perpetually nervous, like a bird in a house of cats. Once she had eaten of her slice the king took a single bite of his.

  At that signal all of them commenced to eating, but the king put a napkin to his mouth as if wiping it, and it seemed that his bite disappeared into it. The king�
��s bodyguard Denjar also seemed to rid himself of that first bite, but the queen dug in, much to the consternation of the nervous little bird, who nearly swooned.

  “Why are you not eating?” Demanded Denjar Leetham harshly, staring at the woman. “Your majesty, your taster, she does not eat!” Every eye fell on the little woman, and before she could reply Leetham had risen from his chair and come around the table with such speed as only a blademaster could exhibit.

  The little bird made a squawking sound, and by then everyone at the table had risen up, spitting out the pie and staring aghast. Plates and glasses tumbled to the floor and shattered, leaving a confusion of shards and bits of food and spilled wine. “We are poisoned!” The bishop cried, and the dozen or so armsmen standing at the wall rushed forward. Leetham had the woman by the throat and was rummaging through her clothing. In triumph he produced a small glass vial.

  “Is this the antidote, woman?” He demanded angrily, and when she nodded, he slammed her head into the floor, flicked the stopper out of the vial, and took a small drink of it. Then he handed it to the king.

  “We’ve all eaten of the pie!” The bishop protested. “We must share the antidote.” Meanwhile the duke was standing before the king, who put the vial to his mouth and drank, holding out his hand.

  “Cousin!” The man cried. “The vial. Quickly.”

  “I’m sorry, Thyram.” The king replied in a cold voice. “There’s not a bit left.” Then he let the vial fall to the floor. Queen Elsorina was staring at him with eyes full of shock and horror, and she fell to her knees and began looking for the fallen vial.

  “You drank it all a’purpose! ‘Tis treachery!” Thyram said, but when he would have gone for his sword, Denjar leaped in front of him, in a single motion interposing himself between the duke and the king and drawing his own weapon. When Ranben went for his own blade, Leetham took him under the chin, laying open his throat.