The following nights passed the same way, except for the last one, when they hid in the brush as an entire village trudged southward, belongings thrown into hay wains or strapped to ponies. Soon after they saw flames, the village kraal burning like a fiery ring in the night.
Eventually the grasslands eased into hills covered with needle-leafed trees. Saafi had never been so far north and found pine cones weirdly fascinating. They came upon a toll fort an hour into the Swanlands, losing time on greetings and diplomatic niceties, but still reaching Uncle Waldrich’s castle before sunrise.
The toll fort must have sent a pigeon, for Uncle Waldrich waited outside his castle gates, along with his eldest son and several relief mounts.
“Little Kestrel!” he shouted as they drew near. “Good to have you with us.” He lifted her from the saddle with enormous hands and set her lightly to the ground. Lyle and Saafi dismounted and Helaena made the introductions.
“My boy has been jousting night and day with the quintain,” Waldrich boasted. “We even repainted the shield in Leax’s colors! Didn’t we, son?” The pimply lad nodded shyly.
“Then you know why we’ve come,” Helaena said. “Your family needs you.”
“Aye. Your grandfather won’t let anyone harm his girls.” He grinned, yellow teeth gloaming behind his beard. “If I know the man, he’ll personally shove a blade up Leax’s arse.”
They set out straightaway and practically lived in the saddle for the next week, chewing roasted kaif beans to stay awake and halting only when they began to sleep at the reins. By the third day, even Waldrich was too spent for conversation and each of them rode in silence.
The Swanlands were known for their fabrics, with Swanthorpe the center of the trade, and the closer they drew to the capital, the more fulling mills appeared. In the villages through which they passed, children scoured raw wool in tubs, while groups of women spun cloth or sat together embroidering.
By the time Swanthorpe appeared on the eighth day, Helaena was so tired and saddle-sore she nearly wept at the sight of it. The gates were open and a guard captain waved them through as soon as he saw giant Uncle Waldrich. The city was a brume of pale folk and gaily-painted buildings as Helaena struggled to keep awake during the final moments of the journey. In the city square, they passed a massive swan sculpture the family claimed was the largest fountain in the world. Cityfolk pressed around it, filling water jugs. Unless someone had seen all of Trosketh, how could they know? She was too exhausted to follow the line of reasoning further. Besides, Swans never let truth get in the way of self-flattery.
She remembered with a wave of relief that Grandfather’s palace was just a few minutes’ ride past the square. Thankfully, Waldrich didn’t have them announced as they entered the royal grounds, instead sending the horses off with stable hands and leading them to a quiet set of rooms in the East Tower of the castle. “You can sleep for now, while I go talk to my father. But first make yourselves presentable. I don’t know when the old man will call for you.”
Lyle had barely disappeared into the side room when Helaena and Saafi began unfastening their jacks of plates, slipping out of the armored jerkins like eels. Beyond that, Helaena barely remembered washing up, changing into proper clothes, and then passing out on the goose down bed.
Only torchlight shone through the window when Uncle Waldrich jostled her awake. “Come. Father calls you to his chambers.” Saafi was dead asleep, so Helaena and Lyle followed him blearily to Grandfather’s receiving room.
It was smaller than she remembered from childhood. Grandfather had redone the walls in blue-veined marble, and a new chandelier burned overhead, its silver canopy hung with cut glass. The room suited the man who slept there. He was intelligent, and refined in his tastes, but knew how to profit from life’s opportunities.
A thudding at the door announced Waldrich’ return. He stepped inside, giving a mock bow. “Make way for King Bertram, Third of His Name, Sovereign of the Swan Kingdom, Lord of Balstrom and Dannisfield, Grand Master of the Order of the Live Oak, and second-place finisher in the Herring War.”
The old man barely slowed as he passed by Waldrich, plucking out several hairs from the giant’s beard in retaliation for the Herring War jibe. “Granddaughter! You bring trouble with you.”
Helaena felt her cheeks warm but put on a brave face. “I bring a chance for expansion.” She stood and embraced him. He returned the gesture with one arm, a rolled map carried under the other.
They say down at a writing desk, and Grandfather spread out the map. It was old, stained with wax and wine, but the artist had been talented, rendering the Swanlands, eastern Belgorsk, and northern Jandaria in wonderful detail. Most importantly, an artist with a military eye had drawn it, with key fords and roads, marshes, water sources, and favorable ground all clearly marked.
“Show me where the Belgorshans are now,” Grandfather commanded. “And tell me what you know of their strength.”
Helaena traced a finger from the Belgorshan border down through perhaps a third of the Harlowe lands. “When we left Jandaria, reivers had ranged to Fairweather, but Leax’s main body remained in the north, investing Wicke’s castle.”
“And his strength?”
“Sixty thousand. Perhaps half rabble.”
“The other half more than makes up for it,” Grandfather said. “His mercenaries all traversed our lands, Helaena. We know about the dweorgs and the rest. The whole of Jandaria would have grave difficulty stopping them, let alone young Selwyn on his own.” He turned on Prince Lyle, white eyebrows rising in challenge. “What sort of king abandons his vassal to face an invasion alone?”
Lyle met his eyes steadily. “I stand with Selwyn against all his enemies, Your Majesty. If you’re asking what my father plans, I believe he waits for Selwyn to bleed the Belgorshans before jumping in.”
Grandfather shared a glance with Waldrich, both laughing mirthlessly. “Are you sure a Swan didn’t get into the Yates chicken pen? That sounds worthy of us.”
Ignoring the jibe, Lyle pointed to Harlowe Ford. “Selwyn won’t be alone. Now that King Randolf has pulled back, Dukes Killyngton, Mauntell and Shear will be free to join the Harlowes. If the Swans unite forces with him, we can match Belgorsk in strength, if not in numbers.”
Grandfather smiled in a way that could mean anything. “Agreed. And no matter the cost, I will advocate helping my grandson. Others, however, will count the cost and not give a shaved orrick for Selwyn’s hide. We need something else.” He turned to Helaena. “You mentioned expansion?”
“I did.” Helaena took a deep breath and wished that Selwyn had given her clear instructions. Well, he’ll just have to trust me. “Once the Belgorshans are defeated, they’ll cede territory. We are a horse people and have little use for forests and mountains. The largest share would fall to the Swans.”
Waldrich nodded enthusiastically, but Grandfather sat back and stroked his close-cropped beard. “It’s possible to win the war but lose the peace. We must carve carefully, or Emperor Dorian may rush in to save his vassal.”
He’s right of course, Helaena thought. If the Empire entered the war, the whole region would go up in flames. “What do you propose?” It was surreal weighing the fate of nations with her grandfather. She might be a lady elsewhere, but here she felt like a child playing a game.
“The Harlowes and their allies receive New Oster and its appended lands,” Grandfather said. “The Swans will take everything east of Little Neck River. This will give you a fortified city and us a river to shield us from Priest-King Leax, while leaving plenty of land for Belgorsk.”
“That’s fair. Will the Family Council agree to it?”
Grandfather shrugged, his shoulders moving a bare inch. “The Blacks will follow me. Many Whites will be happy about the territory. It’s the Reds that worry me. The Reds, and that damned Imperial emissary, Princess Clarice. Near as clever as the young Emperor himself and too many Swans are heeding her.”
“Selwyn mentioned
her writing. She’s quite a scholar.”
“Her pen and tongue have captured more lords than Waldrich has with his sword.” Grandfather downed the rest of his wine and poured another. “She’s enchanted half our bloody north.”
“She could enchant me with her tongue,” Waldrich said, then shrank under his father’s scowl. “Apologies. The girl is just well-formed is all.”
“Is the princess still in the north?”
“About two hundred paces to the north. Sleeping in the Wending Tower.”
“She’s here?” Helaena flinched inwardly.
Waldrich nodded. “And she’ll insist on addressing the Family Council right alongside you. Best be ready.”
CHAPTER 36
A fter a brutal forced march from Yozgelton, Selwyn’s army reached Nineacre Castle and encamped by the river. Once a watch was posted, most of the men went straight to sleep, but the leaders had no such luck. It was time to choose their next steps. Selwyn gathered his bannermen in the castle library, with its shelves of precious books and curios from across the wide world.
It had been his retreat during those rare visits home during his page and squire years, especially since Ardashir could barely read and almost never set foot in the room. He remembered his last, disastrous time there. Ardashir had been in the third seat, where Lord Filip Hewland now sat. Father had presided at the head of the table, just as Selwyn did now. Except Father had known what to do. How to rule.
Selwyn gripped the arms of his father’s chair, feeling like a fraud. If destiny was kind, Garzei Harlowe would still sit upon it; if destiny was wise, one of his three dead brothers would live to rule. But only he was left.
“Your Grace?” Hewland asked expectantly. “Do you agree?”
Selwyn pushed away morbid reflection and turned to Hewland. “Do I agree to abandon Wicke?”
“It is not that simple,” Batuhan Switt cut in firmly. “Wicke is doing what he should, buying time for the rest of us to prepare a defense. That is the sole reason his castle exists on the border.”
Reyhan spoke up from his post behind the chair. “They have a point, Selwyn. Wicke is stalling Leax long enough for our allies to arrive.” The envoys from Dukes Killyngton, Shear, and Mauntell nodded agreement.
“How long can Wicke hold?” Selwyn asked, looking to where his mentor’s castle stood on the map, six pewter warriors surrounding it, each representing ten thousand enemies.
Everyone turned to Lord Switt, the most experienced fighter in the room. He grunted thoughtfully. “Depends on Leax. The dweorgs will probably need another week to undermine the defenses, but he could just storm the walls at any time. Storming would bring heavy losses, of course, but Leax ain’t the type to weep over it.”
Images of trolls and stone men pouring over the walls of Wicke’s Keep flashed through Selwyn’s mind, his gentle mentor being torn to gory bits. He couldn’t allow it. “Give the men three more hours and then form up on the North Road,” Selwyn ordered the group. “We’re going to relieve Wicke.”
“Your Grace,” Lord Switt said flatly, “they outnumber us more than twelve to one. We cannot win this.”
“And my lord’s men will be here in just a few more days,” the envoy from Killyngton added. “That adds three thousand more. Can you not wait?”
Selwyn pushed back the heavy chair and stood. “We don’t need to defeat Leax. And we will not accept aid from the other dukes. Sir Chegatay, please send riders down the South Road with orders to turn away all comers.”
The room descended into a cacophony of voices, each competing to object the loudest. Lord Hewland won. “Why would we turn away support?”
“Half of Jandaria cannot hope to stop Leax, so we must not divide the kingdom. Our allies should join King Randolf.” The words were bitter on Selwyn’s tongue. “And if the Swans come to our aid, they should join him as well.”
“Then we should do the same.” Hewland slammed a palm into the table, upsetting the toy warriors. “This is not a poem, boy. Those are men of flesh and bone out there. Men with families. Don’t throw them away on a child’s whim!”
Reyhan loosened his sword in its scabbard. Selwyn wondered if it was meant for Hewland, or for him. “I have a plan, Lord Hewland. All of you listen.” He laid out his thoughts for them, trying to keep the self-doubt from voice. When finished, he didn’t wait for a response. “I will be on the road in three bells. Any of you who wish to keep your oaths may join me.”
From the library, he crossed the courtyard to the Lord’s Tower, ascending to his mother’s chamber. She opened the door before he had a chance to knock. “I’ve nearly paced a trench into the floor. What did the war council decide?”
“You could have joined us, Mother. The castle is yours while I’m afield.” Selwyn followed her inside and sat down wearily on an iron-bound chest.
“You are sixteen, Selwyn. Too many bannermen still see you as a boy. I was the last person you needed in that room.” She smiled and wiped a bit of travel grime from his cheek with a handkerchief. “Now what was decided?”
“We’re marching north. I know we can’t defeat Leax, but I mean to prise Wicke and his men free of the siege.”
“Why?”
That brought Selwyn up short. “Why what?”
“Why do this? Is it really the best thing for your people?”
“The men in that castle are my bloody people. I can’t just abandon them.”
“You lost one father to Leax,” she said, resting a hand on his arm. “Now Leax is threatening another. I know what old Wicke means to you, but a liege has to sacrifice his own happiness for the good of all.”
Selwyn pushed away the hand and stood. He was sick of her babying him and interfering. “A liege is nothing if he can’t protect his vassals. My plan will work.” He raised his chin defiantly. “I think you should gather your maids and ride for Chimkant. Once I rescue Wicke, Leax will march straight for Nineacre Castle. It will be better for all if you’re safely away.”
Mother rose to her feet, expression full of Swan hauteur. “And why would I do that?”
For once Selwyn would not give in. Not this time. “This isn’t your fight. Father is dead and you’re not really a Harlowe, are you?”
Rings caught the torchlight as the back of her hand slashed across his face. “Try and take me out of here.”
Blood poured from the furrows in his cheek, pooling in the hollow of his throat. He didn’t raise a hand to stem its flow until reaching the courtyard.
Three hours later, bleary-eyed soldiers gathered on the North Road, Lords Hewland and Switt at the head of the column. They were riding with him, but made it clear they thought Selwyn had piss for brains. Vassals might tremble before their lords in the East, but the Jandari were a free people, for better or worse.
Despite pushing man and beast to their limits, the army took four days to complete what should have been a three-day journey. As they traveled, riders split off in every direction, bearing orders from Duke Harlowe to the towns and villages of the March: “Every able man or woman with a horse must arm and ride to the defense of Jandaria. All others should flee south to Killyngton lands and find shelter.”
By the time they reached the standing stone at the border of Wicke’s fief, the five thousand men had swollen to fifteen thousand men, women and boys, many riding nags and carrying hunting bows or field tools.
“It’s not too late to turn ‘round,” Reyhan said, pitching his voice low. “Maybe send the villagers back? We could harry Leax with horse archers. Bleed him all the way to Harlowe Ford?”
Selwyn waved him off, afraid to discuss the topic for fear of changing his mind. He turned to Batuhan Switt. “Once this is done, we’ll rally at this stone. Now take the army west of Wicke’s Keep and draw up for battle. You know what to do.”
Switt nodded, his expression unreadable. Wheeling his mount around, he shoved fingers into his mouth and gave a horse-call whistle. Tithe and lance leaders had expected the signal and most of the army
peeled away, departing the road and riding off into open savanna. Dawn was still far off, and Leax would wake to find an army on his western flank.
Three centuries of heavy horse and a half-century of Bone Riders remained with Selwyn and Reyhan. As they approached within a league of Wicke’s Keep, the land took on more the look of Belgorsk, swelling with rounded hills. The heavy horse took shelter in a vale while their lighter cousins scouted ahead. If all went well, the Bone Riders would take down Leax’s sentries before they could raise an alarm. Bone Riders were an ancient tradition, men chosen from the best of the peasant warriors. Each had sworn an oath to his priest and been sky-buried, laying on the savanna for a night like a dead man. If any survived the war, priests would ceremonially resurrect them, but until then, they had nothing left to fear from death.
Selwyn’s men dismounted, breaking their fast on warthog biltong, figs, and the cold water of a spring they found trickling down the hillside. After an hour, Selwyn climbed the hill and found a tall blackthorn tree. “Give us a leg up?” he asked Reyhan.
“If you break your fool neck, I’m giving the order to retreat.” It was also tradition that hearthguards could speak their minds to the lord, as jesters did in Oberyn lands. Selwyn often regretted it. Reyhan squatted down and took Selwyn’s armored foot in hand. With a grunt, he lifted him to the first branch. Armor made it difficult to climb, but at least protected him from the vicious spikes covering the length of each branch. Selwyn climbed up and found a comfortable spot to settle in and watch. Wicke’s castle was nearly invisible, a dark mass besieged by flames. The enemy host sprawled out wider than most Jandari cities and their campfires formed constellations rivaling the night sky above.
Only the occasional shout carried to Selwyn’s vantage point, that and the never-ending clang of blacksmith hammers. Then a ball of flame arced from the Belgorshan camp, plunging into the darkness of the castle. Two more followed close behind. For several minutes he could see the castle walls, dark silhouettes in the flickering glow of incendiaries. The southernmost tower was missing half its crenellations and a curtain wall gapped where the top had given way. Eventually the defenders got the fire under control and the castle vanished. No more flaming orbs struck its defenses; Sargoshi flame was expensive and Priest-King Leax was probably just using it to keep the defenders from sleeping.
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 23
