“We have accomplished all that we hoped,” Kirren Howen remarked, bowing in admiration for his laird’s cleverness.
Ethelbert nodded but then addressed another of the scouts who had not yet offered his report. “What news from the north? Has Milwellis pivoted?”
“No, my laird,” the man replied, stammering nervously. “I mean, yes, my laird, but not toward us. He went north to Chapel Abelle and the coast. From there, he marched east but then back to the west as if unsure.”
“And now?”
“Back east of Chapel Abelle, along the north reaches of Felidan but still west of the Mantis Arm,” the scout replied. “He has not sought engagement since his victory at Pollcree.”
“Because he thinks his legacy safe,” said the smiling Ethelbert. “And thinks the war nears its end. He paused because he expected the battle to commence here, an obvious rout for Delaval. And while I was in retreat to the southeast, Milwellis could move east with ease, against holdings unsure of their allegiance to my, obvious losing, cause.”
“Obvious, my Laird Ethelbert,” said Kirren Howen, and several others snickered. “But the battle will not commence here, as Milwellis anticipated. And our withdrawal will not be retreat.”
Ethelbert was nodding, but his expression did not show agreement. “Delaval’s forces slide away. They are confused and demoralized.”
Kirren Howen looked at the man slyly.
“Perhaps the battle should commence here, and now,” Ethelbert said, grinning at his old general. “We had thought to make the attempt and withdraw posthaste, but since we have been more successful than we ever deemed possible, is it possible that Pryd Holding is within our grasp?”
“They maintain a sizable garrison, but they are in confusion,” said Myrick the Bold.
“Do we dare?” asked Kirren Howen.
“Do we dare not to seize the opportunity?” Ethelbert replied. “What might be the gain, I wonder?”
“Pryd Holding,” said Myrick the Bold.
“And Prince Yeslnik suing for peace on our terms,” added Kirren Howen.
“And Bannagran,” said Ethelbert, nodding, his eyes gleaming, for he knew that one well and suddenly understood the potential prize here. “Can we do it?” he asked his most trusted soldier.
Kirren Howen didn’t answer. He looked around questioningly at the scouts. “I can know by this very evening,” he finally assured Ethelbert.
“Calculate then,” Ethelbert bade him. “We must act quickly if we are to act at all. Before Yeslnik’s advisors-Laird Delaval’s old competent warriors-mitigate their confusion and protect their flanks.”
Ethelbert grinned widely at Kirren Howen as he finished. “I believe we can do this. We have struck a mortal blow, but only if we press the wound before it is tended.”
Kirren Howen nodded and bowed then went fast to the scouts, and not a man or woman on that field thought for a moment that they would not attack Pryd Holding within the next two days.
Y
ou see their eyes?” Lady Olym asked her husband as they were hustled through the streets of Delaval City, toward the main keep, where Laird Delaval lay in state. “They revere you.”
Prince Yeslnik had indeed noticed the many stares-hopeful, pleading, wounded all at once, their intensity nearly stealing his breath and the strength from his legs. Laird Delaval, King Delaval, was dead. Only then did the implications of that reality truly hit Yeslnik, the favored nephew, the Laird of Pryd, the Prince of Delaval’s Honce.
Now they all looked at him. No, not at him, but to him!
He carried in his every step the hope and desperation of a wounded people. His words now, his every word, would hold great importance and power. His every whim would become edict; dozens, scores, hundreds would clamor to fulfill his every wish.
A smile and squeal of joy would not be appropriate, so the prince managed to hold his somber demeanor as he continued on his way, reminding himself that the weight of Delaval’s office, the reality of the war and all the rest, now fell upon his shoulders.
His private giddiness turned to terror when he entered the audience chamber, the hall of state, to see his mentor, Uncle Delaval, laid out upon a stone sarcophagus. The man appeared serene in death, his face chalky but relaxed, arms crossed over his chest.
“I wish for more privacy,” Yeslnik said, and immediately the guards began clearing everyone from the room. Yeslnik didn’t wait but staggered over to the body and fell to his knees beside it, overwhelmed. He had never thought of Delaval in any terms other than the good the man could do his fortune and ascent to power. He couldn’t deny his feelings of guilt now as he knelt by the corpse of the man who had treated him as a son. Never before had the self-absorbed Yeslnik allowed such feelings to invade his consciousness. Never before had he troubled himself with empathy or guilt.
Now it hit him like a shield bash, a great jolt to his sensibilities, a shocking intrusion into the bubble that was his private domain, and it carried with it a rush of emotion the man had never before felt, a great wave of regret, as if his whole life had been a meaningless thing.
He fell over Laird Delaval, weeping. He grabbed his uncle’s hands and squeezed the cold flesh. Delaval’s robe opened enough for him to see the wound, still torn open, for in cleaning the man the dried blood had been washed away.
Howling, Yeslnik slapped his hand over the open gash and then pulled it away with a start and a yelp. He stared at his hand in horror, seeing a cut on his palm, his own blood dripping from the wound.
“It is the sword tip, my laird,” explained one of the attendants, rushing over with a cloth.
Yeslnik’s eyes went wide with shock. “You left it in him?”
The attendant colored. “It is customary to disturb the body as little as possi-”
“You left it in him?” Yeslnik repeated, standing up tall. “The sword that killed him? Take it out! Take it out this moment!”
“My laird,” said Pendigrast, the father of Chapel Delaval.
“Take it out!” Yeslnik yelled at him, pointing at the ugly wound.
Pendigrast glanced around nervously. “This is hardly the time, my-”
“Now!” Yeslnik demanded and stamped his foot. “Now! Now! Now! Take it out of him! Now!”
Pendigrast saw the horrified expressions worn by the people still in the room. The father of Chapel Pellinor moved hastily but awkwardly to the body of his fallen laird. He looked around again, his gaze settling on the still-fuming Yeslnik, and then he focused on the wound, working his fingers to widen the gap in the torn skin. He felt like he was pulling against tough leather, but he managed to wriggle his hand inside enough to grasp the back edge of the broken weapon.
He started to pull, but it would not come free. Sweating now, Father Pendigrast glanced anxiously up at Prince Yeslnik again. The man stood resolute and unblinking.
Father Pendigrast took a deep breath and moved his hand in more forcefully to get a stronger grip on the blade. Understanding now the stubbornness of the unyielding flesh and bone, he pulled with all of his considerable strength.
A sickly, crackling sound accompanied the slide of the blade. Pendigrast grimaced, as did everyone in the room, with more than one in attendance giving a horrified gasp. But the monk didn’t relent. An edge of the jagged blade cut him, but he continued to pull the item forth.
Finally he freed it and moved quickly to use his voluminous sleeve to try to mitigate the mess on Laird Delaval’s chest. He turned at the sound of Yeslnik’s approach, showing the obstinate prince the blade as he did.
The slightly curving, etched, and decorated blade.
Prince Yeslnik’s eyes went wide and he found himself gasping for breath, his eyes locked on the bloody spectacle. Misreading him, Father Pendigrast moved the blade away, or started to, but Yeslnik reached out and grabbed him by the arm, holding it fast. Ignoring his own wound, an action which in and of itself would have astounded anyone who knew the oft-whimpering man, Yeslnik grabbed the blade, takin
g it from the surprised father’s grasp.
Yeslnik held it up before his astounded eyes. He wiped it fast on Pendigrast’s sleeve then held it up again to study it, his expression dumbfounded.
“What is it, my prince?” Pendigrast asked.
“I… I know this blade,” whispered Yeslnik, twice the victim of the man called the Highwayman.
Castle Pryd loomed above the tree line behind them. They had been pushed back to the very edges of their town, their backs literally to the walls of their outlying farms.
One after another, the defenders of Pryd glanced back at that keep, their last refuge, and it seemed to offer little hope against the ferocity of the advancing men of Ethelbert dos Entel.
And on the southerners came, roaring in anticipation of victory, charging across the snow-covered field with abandon. A few stray arrows and spears reached at them but proved inconsequential and did nothing to slow them.
A group of defenders took a position at the corral rail up on a bluff. “Hold that spot at all costs!” they had been ordered by the field commander, who had then promptly retreated past the farmhouse and across the back field.
Grim-faced, knuckles white as they gripped their weapons, the proud and battle-seasoned warriors of Pryd Town intended to do just that. This would be their glorious stand to turn the tide against the surprising and ferocious charge of Ethelbert.
The first force came against them, a disorganized mob of Ethelbert’s leading line, seemingly oblivious to the defenders crouched behind the bluff. They came on almost casually right to the fence.
Up jumped the defenders, spears stabbing wildly, and behind them came a cheer from the men of Pryd Town. In a day of constant retreat, these warriors had held; the men of Ethelbert scrambled away or fell bleeding to the mud and snow.
Before those retreating few had even crossed the field, however, Ethelbert’s main line came out of the trees across the way. Now with the defenders’ position clearly defined, the attackers gathered in a tight group in the center and sent out lines to flank, left and right.
Without delay, they came on.
The defenders of Pryd Town kept glancing left and right, kept looking for support, for if the invaders passed their position, where might they flee?
Many broke and ran. Those others who stood their ground held for only a few moments as the full weight of Ethelbert’s center came against them, pressing and stabbing and slashing. The attackers dislodged the rails and tossed them aside, then pressed over the bluff, driving the valiant defenders of Pryd under the sheer weight of their numbers. Splashing through mud and blood, they came on.
Across the back field the next line of Pryd defenders looked on in dismay, knowing that they were next.
“Fight them from the trees!” the field commander yelled, though neither he nor the men he led were sure of what that meant. They had few range weapons, few arrows and spears, remaining.
On came Ethelbert’s hundreds, seeing the tower of Pryd before them, not so far, seeing victory, not so far.
The men of Pryd Town broke ranks and ran.
The men of Ethelbert shouted all the more eagerly and ran ahead even faster.
“Where is Bannagran?” one fleeing defender cried. “Will the Bear of Honce come to our aid?”
“Where is Laird Yeslnik? He has deserted us with his army and now we are doomed!” cried another. Many of those in full retreat made it to the road and turned fast for Pryd Town with men coming from the trees along either side, scrambling and stumbling, terror clearly stamped upon their faces.
Ahead of them all, the shouting started in the town. Alarm and confusion echoed from the walls, followed by shrieks of surprise.
Among those retreating along the road arose fears that Ethelbert had a second force pressing Pryd from the north. What else could incite such commotion in the town so far ahead of the retreat?
What else, indeed.
Out of the gates of Pryd Town, he came, dressed all in bejeweled bronze armor and driving the chariot of Prydae, a cart of war not seen since the former laird’s demise. A rack of spears beside him, his legendary great axe waving high above his head, Bannagran came on in splendor, unafraid, eager for battle. Behind him surged the rest of Pryd’s garrison, some on chariot, most just running and waving pitchforks and clubs, rallying to the call of Bannagran.
Those on the road parted as he neared, for he showed no sign of slowing. “Charge ahead!” he cried, his voice strong and resonant. This man, so long the hero of Pryd, the champion of its lairds, shamed those who would flee before Ethelbert.
The road behind him crowded with soldiers, now running back to the south, back toward Ethelbert’s approach. All along the sides, among the fields and the trees, cheers went up for the Bear of Honce. “Charge! Charge!” replaced the fearful “Run away!”
Bannagran rushed in front of it all and showed no sign of slowing the fabulous chariot and his mighty team. Ethelbert’s leading line loomed before him now, but he didn’t make any move to veer or halt. To those before him, he seemed in the grip of suicidal glee, but to those behind him, he appeared as the heart of Pryd, the champion, the warrior.
Ethelbert’s men in Bannagran’s path set their spears for his charge, digging them in to skewer the team.
But Bannagran dropped his axe to the flooring beside him and took up a spear, veering his team as he neared and letting fly one missile after another. As one man fell mortally wounded and a second lurched aside, Bannagran turned the chariot back in line and plowed ahead. For now the integrity of the block was gone, and now the armored team and the spike-wheeled chariot crashed through, scattering men. Another spear flew from the driver, another of Ethelbert’s men spiraled down to the ground in agony.
Bannagran had his axe in hand in a flash and chopped across to drop another man, then stabbed its pointed tip back to fell yet another. He turned his chariot, rambling right off the road, crashing through brush and men alike, the horses trampling everything in their path.
So great was the spectacle that few of Ethelbert’s men remained focused on that which followed Bannagran, the weight of Pryd’s garrison charging with renewed hope and eagerness.
The chariot crashed through a thicket and nearly broke apart as the wheels caught on some roots. Never slowing in the least, Bannagran merely leaped from the cart, great axe in one hand, spear in the other. He rushed at a group of ten men and noted which was giving the orders. That commander fell, Bannagran’s spear deep in his chest.
In leaped the wild warrior, his axe slashing with great and powerful strokes. No man would stand against him; his roars stole their strength, his axe sheared their limbs and crushed their bones and let their blood. He ran back toward the road, calling for his men to rally behind him, cutting down enemies with every step, it seemed.
The center of Ethelbert’s line collapsed; the men of Pryd, working in a wedge formation with Bannagran at their tip, pressed through, widening the breach, splitting Ethelbert’s forces asunder.
Bannagran kept looking for their leaders, kept listening for their commanders. Whenever he spied one, he rushed that way, cutting his path to the man. Enemies struck at him from the side but from afar, throwing stones or knives or small spears, with none daring approach the man, the possessed and crazed warrior.
A dozen wounds marked Bannagran’s body, but if he felt any of them he didn’t show it. Every hit of stone or knife seemed to spur him on further, more furiously, as if the pain was only granting him greater, almost supernatural strength.
And the spectacle of Bannagran, the great Bear of Honce, commanded too much attention of the men of Ethelbert, allowing the charging forces of Pryd to cut deeper, to gain more strength and momentum.
It was Ethelbert’s line that broke that day, the old laird and his forces retreating fast to the south.
Ethelbert knew his folly as he fled. He should have waited for Affwin Wi and the others to return to him before making his move against Pryd Town. He should have had some counter t
o the strength of this demon warrior from Pryd, a man he had seen in battle a decade before. He had gambled to gain the center and strengthen his hold, and he had lost, but he was not forlorn as he and his forces regrouped that night, several miles south of Pryd Town, with no intention of turning back to the north.
For his greatest foe, Laird Delaval, this man who would be king, was dead.
SEVEN
Abelle’s Win
Silent as the shadow he crossed, Jameston Sequin moved along the line of pines, circumventing the drifts of snow with practiced ease. He knew this place, this tended grove, and knew, too, that he was likely being watched. He knew the watcher, though, and had come to see that very man.
Still, he kept his caution and covert manner, unsure of who might be gathered around the one he expected was more than aware of his presence.
A large raven flopped onto the branch of a nearby pine, looked right at him, and cawed loudly.
Jameston straightened and stared at the bird, smiling knowingly.
The bird hopped down and before it ever landed on the ground transformed suddenly and with a bright flash of light into an old man, bald and with a beard braided by clumps of dung, dressed in light green robes, a heavy fur cloak, and open-toed sandals. Only a Samhaist priest could keep his feet from freezing to black with those feeble shoes.
“One day I’ll catch you unaware,” Jameston said to the man.
“Or I’ll grow tired of your trying,” the Samhaist replied, but Jameston knew it to be a good-natured threat. Despite all their differences, despite Jameston siding with Gwydre against the troll and goblin hordes of Badden, despite Jameston’s obvious disdain for the Samhaist religion, Wisterwhig was not an enemy. Not a friend, perhaps, but not an enemy.
The Dame sotfk-3 Page 9
