Emissaries had started to arrive from some of the larger villages strung out to the east and west of Solwyn, and even a few from sizeable hamlets and small villages to the south, along the edge of the tundra and forest that marked the boundary between Wesolk and the officially unclaimed north.
Wynter made sure the heralds of these towns were appropriately welcomed and shown how much had been accomplished in Solwyn in a year. He met with each emissary in his throne room, regaled them with the story of the Fourteen, and impressed upon them the opportunities available in a growing kingdom such as Solwyn, and the need for men with political aspirations. He made sure they and their servants spent time in establishments where stories of his abilities were told and exaggerated so much he was himself doubtful he could perform the feats credited to him.
For a month, each minor functionary who visited was feted and charmed and sent away with a small token to placate their disgruntled lords. But the stories they took back were the weapon Wynter counted on to bring his enemies to his doorstep. By summer, word reached Wynter some of the lords would visit the Cobalt Tower to, as the letters grandly stated, “wish well upon the North’s new shining star.”
“Do they think I’m stupid?” Wynter scoffed at the first such letter and threw it on his desk, looking at Nethyal for an opinion, not an answer.
“They are careful with their words, and they come as a group, each with his servants and men at arms. A large force will come upon this place.” Nethyal stopped his thought short and paused for a moment. “When the Eifen have need of a new chief, a leader is called forward. Then, the people may decide to put forward another, or several others to be considered as chief as well. When this happens, the people must agree on how the new chief will be chosen. In the past, this was often accomplished by combat.”
“Often, you say, but not always?”
“Not always. It is rare for a challenge to be made, but the man who is first named chief is traditionally offered the right to choose the challenge.”
Wynter looked at Nethyal and smiled. The space of his missing tooth soon showed again, and he started to laugh. “Well, then Nethyal, we shall give them a challenge. Prepare stables and billets for the men and begin preparing for a mid-summer feast. I shall prepare a letter of welcome and we shall need a walled arena to hold all our guests and some of our town as well.”
Throughout the spring the Kelmen worked from dawn to dusk - even as the days reached into the evenings. On the northeastern side of the castle, opposite the bulk of town, a new building was emerging, a single-story rectangular series of walls that could be closed at one end with a giant gate. Where most of the townspeople expected to find lists and targets and the paraphernalia of combat or a contest inside the building they instead found nothing, simply an open field. As the walls went up benches were added along the two long sides and a wide platform raised on the closed end. In the middle of the field, more benches filled about half the space until it looked like the entire town could easily find a seat. Even Nethyal was not entirely sure of what Wynter had planned.
The arrival of the lords did not disappoint. They entered town a full week early hoping to test Wynter’s resourcefulness, but they were met and welcomed as if they had arrived as agreed. There was more than score of standards flying in Solwyn by the time the last group staggered into Solwyn from the town of East View, on the shore of the great eastern sea. The lord there had made a fortune on fishing and, some said considerably more on coastal raiding. Far to the west was the large town of Brookfield that sat under the shadows of the Frostspine Mountains, and other smaller towns that were large enough, or had resources enough, to warrant a titled ruler.
The lords brought men at arms, servants, slaves, animals, priests, what tradesmen they had remaining – everything, Wynter believed, designed to overextend the resources of his small town.
Wynter and Nethyal met the newcomers outside the castle while the Kelmen met with squires and servants and slaves and took away horses and baggage quickly and efficiently. With more than twenty nobles and their advisors, Wynter thought the odds were falling into his favor.
“Welcome, Lords and Ladies, to Solwyn. On behalf of the Kelmen people, I, King Wynter, welcome you to the Cobalt Tower.”
Wynter’s words had the desired effect. While they all stared openly at the blue collar on his neck, some still laughed quietly at Wynter’s use of king, an honorific that would place Wynter above themselves and in direct contention with their benefactor in Wesolk. While none of the towns of the north were officially part of Wesolk, many had accepted Ahlric as their king, to facilitate trade and stave off would-be conquerors who wouldn’t dare incur the wrath of Wesolk. Effectively, the nobles gathered in Solwyn were the heads of territories that belonged to Ahlric in all but deed.
Wynter inclined his head in a gesture of equanimity toward the outbursts while Nethyal took careful note of who did not laugh and who, if any, may have inclined their head in recognition of Wynter’s claim.
“Would you please join me in the great hall so that we can become acquainted and be refreshed,” Wynter said before turning his back on the group and heading toward the castle gates.
Since its construction, gates had been created from black oak that had traveled for months from a kingdom bordering a desert far away to the south and west. Wynter had been there once and was struck by the hardness of the wood and its durability against fire. To fell a black oak often took days and required special tools and skill. As such, crafting such large and magnificent doors was slow and expensive. The effect, however, against the blue-green ice walls, was stunning. When the castle was lit from inside, the doorway looked like a mouth of darkness from which none could escape.
The sight of the massive doors caused a small murmur from those who understood the woods’ value, but it was nothing compared to the gasps that greeted Wynter’s ears when they entered the great hall. “So, it is true” was a phrase that resonated from the mouths of several lords.
“My Lords and Ladies, it is my pleasure to introduce to you, the Fourteen. The men and women who gave their lives so that Solwyn might be fortified by life itself.” Wynter made a show of bowing and throwing his arms out to his sides as a gesture that invited his guests to move about the space freely. They needed little encouragement to mingle and without exception they all ran their hands along the perfectly smooth pillars, some walking completely around them, their hands never leaving the surface.
“They look like they’re still alive,” one of the ladies commented to no one, but close enough to Wynter that he believed she meant it for his ears. Moving closely to the woman and leaning in so he was sure no one else could hear, he whispered, “they are.”
***
Every attempt to discuss politics or the resettling of people to his kingdom was waved off for the better part of a week. Wynter instead spent his time engaging each of his guests in turn and answering questions about the castle, the tower, and his unusual collar. He answered each inquiry with patience, as if it were the first time he’d been asked a question he longed to answer. He was thoughtful and companionable, and he spent as much time as he could with his guests, until, by the end of the week, everything was in place.
On the morning of the eighth day, Wynter gathered the dignitaries in the shadow of the Fourteen and said, “My Lords and Ladies, I know you have all traveled a great distance and that we have business to discuss. As much as it pains me to put aside this pleasantness, I fear we must at last move on to the reason for your visit, and to the political necessity at hand. However, I’m sure we can quickly come to agreeable terms and continue our festivities.”
His speech was well received and when he suggested making their way to the arena, the entire group cheerfully filed out of the castle toward the enclosure. Solwyn had begun a festival that very day, with stalls selling treats and delicacies from the north. Banners and bunting were draped across posts and buildings leading the way to the arena where, as Wynter and the lords e
ntered, they were greeted with cheers. The benches were filled with men and women gaily dressed and those who couldn’t find seats inside stood in the space of the open gate. Banners representing the twenty lords were hung along the walls and chairs had been placed on the stage at the closed end of the arena.
Nethyal and Wynter walked to the stage as the nobles and their wives were escorted to seats in front of the stage.
“My Lords and Ladies, thank you for coming,” Wynter began. As the audience settled, he lifted and extended his hands out and drew them toward him as if telling unseen workmen to close the great gates. Those standing in the space moved inward and as Wynter’s hands fell to his sides and the massive wooden gate closed almost silently. The arena was now enclosed, and all attention was on Wynter.
“My Lords and Ladies you stand here today in the court of Solwyn accused of crimes against your people. Of causing suffering and anguish on others to the aggrandizement of yourselves. You stand charged of the ownership and or unlawful servitude of your people, the unjust taxation of those entrusted to your care, and the inability to provide for those who look to your leadership. How do you plead?”
TWENTY-NINE
Wynter’s proclamation brought cheers from the crowd and looks of abject horror from the front rows. For the men at arms, servants and other members of the lords’ households who were left outside the arena, the cheering sounded as if a great contest were underway. Men roamed the lines of benches to randomly encourage cheering, but Wynter’s announcement needed no such goading.
The assembled lords and their ladies rose almost as one and started clamoring for Wynter’s attention. Their noise was pitiful amidst the din of the town.
Nethyal who was by Wynter’s side for the entire theater, whispered to him the name of a lord who had given a signal of allegiance when the nobility first heard Wynter call himself king. Wynter pointed and called him forward.
“Belarth, do you believe you are a good lord to your people?”
“Yes, sire.”
The honorific was immediate, and its tone of obeisance was not lost on Wynter. “Why, then, do they leave you in droves to come to a cold, desolate place?” The arena was quiet now and a row of Kelmen spearmen had herded the nobility back to their seats where they understood silence was all that stood between their life and a blade in the throat.
“Because they have found a truth here, sire. They say they have found a place where people can live together, none richer or poorer, and all well fed and cared for.”
Wynter looked to Nethyal, surprised the lord had spoken to his people who had moved to the town. The Eifen lifted an eyebrow and nodded, confirming Belarth had spoken to his former subjects.
Belarth was the lord of East View, the largest town of the north and the last to arrive. He, more than the rest, had much to lose and was in a constant struggle to maintain his station, living as he did on a seaside town that could be the target of everything from storms to pirates. The loss of his people would hit East View more significantly than most.
“You will take your men and go back to your town. If there are those who wish to go with you, they go so with our blessing and with our assistance. East View will become the capital of the Eastern Reaches and you shall be Governor of the Eastern Reaches. No other title shall you, or anyone else have lest it be given by me. There is one king and one lord of the North, and he stands before you. Do you agree to these terms?”
The man knelt at once and waited for his king to bid him stand. Wynter raised his voice to the crowd. “Join with me in congratulating Belarth, Governor of the Eastern Reach.” The applause was thunderous, and the assembled nobility looked at one another in grave concern. By giving this man title to the Eastern Reach, they were sure several towns, their towns, would now fall under his governance, begging the question of what would become of them.
“Governor, before you take your leave, which man among this group do you feel is most worthy of being granted governance over his people?”
The question came as a shock and the governor’s lip twitched as he realized the significance of what he was being asked, but he looked across at his former peers and considered each conscientiously, before offering his answer.
“My liege, if I may speak openly, there is no man here who is most worthy of such an honor. Rather, there is a woman who ensures the people of her village are cared for and babes not go hungry even during the cruelest winter. Grettune of Goose Landing has looked out for the people of her village since the passing of her father. When crops fail, she opens her kitchens; when winter is fierce, she has space by her fire. She does it all under the nose of the so-called lord who does nothing for his people.”
Wynter asked him to point the woman out and he looked to her. She was still quite young with red hair and a fair complexion hidden beneath too much face paint and outlandish clothes. Her husband, if indeed that was who he was, was at least twenty years her elder, soft around the middle, bald of head, with thick jowls and bad skin. No one who lived in these northern conditions should be so well fed they go to fat in this way, Wynter thought.
Calling the woman forward he pronounced Grettune Governess of the Western Reaches to be situated in the western town of Brookfield under the shadow of the Frostspine Mountains. The announcement was met with more thunderous and genuine applause. To those few more who had not scoffed at the king, Wynter awarded new lands in the southern crescent, a series of hamlets and farming villages that ran in an east to west string south of Solwyn between the Eastern Sea and the Western Reaches. These former lords would become earls and report to the governors who would report directly to Lord Nethyal.
These small posts would be given priority for men and equipment for they were to be the eyes and ears of Solwyn as well as the larder of his kingdom, inhabiting mostly arable land with forests and space for grazing. When the time came, Wynter thought, they would also be his fodder, slowing the advance of the enemy Wynter hoped would be on its way.
When the cheering had died down for the earls, they along with the governors, were escorted to the rear of the arena. Wynter looked to the rest and slowly shook his head.
“You were given control of men and could not control yourselves. What should a king do with such miserable subjects?”
The lord who had openly laughed loudest when they arrived spoke quickly, his voice quavering, “exile us, oh, king.” The others around him nodded solemnly. Exile, they thought, was an excellent way to spare their lives.
“You do a grave dishonor to the memory of the Fourteen Pillars. Who among you would so willfully give yourself for the betterment of the rest?”
The question was met with silence and uncomfortable movement. The crowd erupted in applause again, maintaining the illusion of sport. Laughter was prompted at some point and all the noise only added to the discomfort of those on trial.
“Do you have champions?”
The question drew hopeful eyes from the floor. “Do you believe that’s wise,” offered Nethyal into his king’s ear.
“Oh, very much so. Killing these few would be easy but there are several hundred armed-men outside these gates. I would like to keep as many as possible. Our people will fight, but we also need real soldiers.”
Wynter returned his gaze to the twelve faces staring at him and called out the first, a lord who was weak, pale, and had most likely inherited the estate of his father. He was sallow, reeked of perfume and wore more face paint than his wife – probably to conceal a skin disease, Wynter noted. His was also the largest remaining holding with the most men at arms. Wynter and Nethyal left the platform and stood in front of the man.
“You are Grummond?”
“Yes,” was all the man said before Nethyal’s blow to his unprotected stomach buckled his knees causing him to gasp out a, ‘yes, sire’ as he knelt before Wynter, vomiting his breakfast, and plotting a revenge he would never see.
“I make you an offer Grummond.” Wynter did not give any indication he realized the man
had been hit or that he was nearly prone. “Send for your champion. When he arrives, he will choose whether to fight me. If he fights and wins, that is, if he kills me, you will become King of Solwyn. If I kill him or spare his life, then you shall die.”
“If I refuse?”
“I shall kill you now. There will be no exile.” Wynter raised his head as he made the statement, being sure to catch the eyes of the remaining lords.
“I offer now one chance for the consorts and households of those who stand accused to step away, renounce their relationships, and stay here in Solwyn to take up the profession that best suits them and be useful members of our kingdom. If you have children, they will be brought here to join you. Who will join us?”
Laughter and cheering spontaneously erupted among the benches as the consorts, wives, lovers, butlers, servants, and households of all the remaining lords rose as one and moved to the back of the arena with the governors and earls. Mostly they cried, and only a few made anything approaching a loving parting with their spouse. “Maybe their husbands will join them again after they’re dead. Do you think so, my love?”
“I wouldn’t wish it on them. Go away.”
Wynter and Nethyal moved back to their seats on the platform and twelve chairs were brought up and arranged on either side of the two men. The former lords were encouraged to climb the stage and take their seats and a runner was sent to gather the men at arms of each lord. They marched into the arena fully armed and armored and formed ranks in front of the benches along the arena walls. The large end doors remained open and a crier called forward a champion to represent each lord and the rules of engagement were read allowed for all to hear. The lords, each in turn, agreed to the conditions of the contest and an enormous shout went out again from the arena as Wynter rolled up his sleeves and walked to a cleared space in the center of the field to await his first challenger.
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