Shield and Crown

by Michael Jason Brandt

  Leti might just forgive him yet.

  Then Koblenzar delivered his own report in person, speaking with a rare excitement that Nico never expected to see in the older man.

  “You have the luck of a devil, My King. We couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity.”

  “I agree it sounds promising, but I think something as important as an attack requires a little more forethought. Don’t you agree, General?”

  “What is there to think about?” the older man asked, raising his voice in defiance. “We came to attack the Dauphi, and we find them in disarray. What other signs do you require?”

  Nico turned to the other person in the tent. “Lima, how soon can we be there?”

  “One day’s quick march, and we can be on them by nightfall.”

  “A day of quick march will wear out the infantry.”

  “Aye, Third.”

  Koblenzar watched the exchange with wide eyes. “The enemy lies vulnerable, and you worry about tiring?”

  Nico sighed patiently. “It’s one factor of many. As is the reason for their disarray. Can you tell me that?”

  “As I mentioned, they appear to be reinforcing their western flank.”

  “Even though General Boisson knows we’ll come from the east and south? Does that not strike you as suspicious?”

  “It strikes me as foolish. Only a greater fool sees a mistake and thinks it a trap.”

  “General, you overstep yourself.”

  “Forgive me, My King.” Koblenzar stopped to compose himself, and the flush of his face began to ebb away. “You are right, I’m sure. We should be prudent. Prudent, but decisive. We could perhaps destroy the Dauphi army entire, with properly decisive action.”

  What the man suggested was true enough, but Nico remained skeptical. The main body of Dauphi was invested south and west of the besieged city, deployed in a way to defend from attacks originating either from the direction of Neublusten or from Allstatte itself. It was possible they did not yet know how close Nico’s army was, but even so weakening the east in favor of the west bordered on imbecility.

  Judging by reputation, General Boisson was no imbecile.

  Attack might indeed be the best option, but at the very least there were other advantages to the change. Whereas Allstatte had been fully encircled, the eastern sectors were now uncovered. Not only was the enemy exposing their flank, direct access to the city was possible for the first time in months.

  “I must know why they are shifting their lines,” Nico announced. “Lima, prepare a horse.”

  Koblenzar stared at him with open mouth. “You should be ordering the march.”

  “We’re already marching, General. Have you not noticed?”

  “Yes, but we should be marching on the quick. No, the double.”

  “These soldiers cannot double march all day and fight a battle at the end of it.”

  “Bah. Excuses. A good general does not question opportunity, he seizes it.”

  “Not excuses, considerations. Considerations matter, General. As do reasons. Why does our enemy behave so? What more can you tell me? When did the movement begin? Perhaps that would tell us the cause. Have we picked up any prisoners that know anything? Or anyone else? What about these Dauphi travelers I hear about?”

  “Mindless gossip, no more. Times of war always bring out the worst superstitions in ignorant commonfolk. They had nothing practical to tell us. Nothing of General Boisson’s numbers, dispositions, strategies—”

  “What did they speak of, General Koblenzar?”

  “Monsters and demons, My King. Where are you going?”

  Nico was already sticking his head from the tent. He was not surprised to see Lima standing nearby, patiently attending. And probably listening in.

  “Lima, is Lancer ready? Good. Find Captain Mickens. Ready the Kingshields. We’re riding forward.”

  She nodded, and he turned back to Koblenzar. “General, I will consider your advice, but I am not yet ready to order the attack. I must know more of—”

  “You err, My King. Is it timidity? Should I ask Reikmann to hold you by the hand?”

  Nico felt his temper flaring. His father never would have tolerated even the hint of insolence. Yet other matters demanded full attention. He ignored this trespass for now, though he began to look forward to the day he could replace the spymaster with someone less truculent.

  “Petty insults are beneath us, General. I will take your advice into consideration. It may be as you say, and by later today I may order an attack. But remember, the destruction of the Dauphi is not my ultimate goal. It may be we need them in the months ahead.”

  “May I remind you that they killed your brother, and handed Akenberg its greatest defeat in a generation?”

  Nico sighed, trying to restrain the bitter emotions that memory released. “My duty is not just to punish, it’s to protect from all dangers. It may be that the Dauphi are themselves at risk.”

  “You put the people of Daphina ahead of your own?”

  “The needs of the two may well be aligned, General. The desire for vengeance must not outweigh the welfare of the empire.”

  “Your father would not behave so, My King.”

  “That is something we agree on, General.”

  As the spire of Allstatte’s chantry came into sight, so too did increasing numbers of stragglers. They traveled in disorganized groups, most in twos and threes but many as large as several dozens. Altogether, hundreds of people were scattered about the fields just ahead, and Nico did not doubt that many more were coming.

  That they were civilians and not soldiers was immediately clear, for he saw mothers and fathers carrying small children, larger children helping their elders, even barking dogs dancing about excitedly.

  Lima rode up to him following a hurried discussion with one gray-bearded man dragging a weary mule by the neck. “Refugees, Third.”

  He nodded. “Just so.” The only question was what to do about them. “Captain Mickens.”

  “Aye, Third?”

  “Dispatch some of your troopers to organize this mess. Help these people to last night’s bivouac, and get them tents and food. Use some of what we brought for the Allstatians.”

  “Aye, My King.”

  “And get me a reliable messenger. I need to send word to General Boisson. There isn’t going to be any battle today.” His lips curled in thought. “At least not with them.”

  A nearby commotion caught his attention. He saw one middle-aged man deep in discussion with one of the Kingshields, waving animatedly with one hand while the other clung to that of a frightened small girl. His companions, of mixed ages, watched in silence as the trooper shook his head in negation.

  Nico spurred Lancer closer. “Private Kopek, what is amiss?”

  “This one says he wishes to speak to the king, Third.”

  Nico nodded, pleased at the soldier’s discretion. Kopek was giving him the opportunity to reveal or conceal his own identity as he saw fit.

  “And why is that?” he asked, studying the unkempt traveler, revising his first impression. Perhaps not so old as I thought. The beard grew thick and dark, the face was hardened by strain and responsibility, but the whole person emanated the energy of youth.

  “He won’t tell, Third. Says he’ll speak only to the one in command.”

  The stranger looked from trooper to king, and their eyes locked on one another. “I’ll tell you…My Third,” he said at last. “If we can speak privately.” He glanced awkwardly, almost apologetically, at his companions.

  Nico nodded. “Lima, bring this man a spare courser. What is your name, stranger?”

  “Henrikson...the Scholar, My Third.” At his side, the little girl grew disinterested in the conversation of adults. She dropped his hand and reached hers out, tentatively, to touch the quivering nose of Pim’s mare, Arura.

  Pim allowed the powerful animal to pull closer to her admirer. The animal whinnied once, softly, as the girl rubbed. Then Arura remained as st
ill as a statue, letting the child become accustomed to her. The gentle, patient gesture was wonderfully akin to a groom tending to a skittish horse, but in reverse. If only there were more time to appreciate such moments.

  “Henrikson and I will ride on. Tell me what you will while I see how far these refugees stretch.”

  Expecting the stranger to be pleased, Nico was surprised instead to see a look of trepidation.

  In a moment, the reason became apparent. By contrast to the little girl, Henrikson the Scholar shied away from the spotted stallion being offered by Lima. In return, the horse sensed his reluctance and snorted dismissively.

  Impatient to move on, Nico intervened. “On second thought, we’ll have more privacy if you ride with me.” He reached his hand down.

  The scholar stared at it a moment before allowing himself to be scooped into the rear of the saddle. “Hold tight,” Nico commanded—unnecessarily, as it turned out, for the man already clung to his shoulders as if it were a matter of life or death.

  “Lower.” The hands shifted, and Lancer leapt forward.

  Just as expected, the trail of refugees went on and on. Nico ceased attempting to count, knowing that Lima would do so for him as she and Pim followed a respectful distance behind.

  “Well, Henrikson the Scholar. Now that we are away from prying ears, tell me your true name.”

  “My true name, My Third?”

  “To begin, yes. You’re no nobleman, that much is certain. Your etiquette is incorrect, your demeanor too deferential, and you’re shy of horses. Any one is possible, but not the three together.”

  The next words came as no surprise. “Can we both drop pretenses? You are Akenberg’s king, aye?”

  Very good. This one sees things. “Just so, I am King Nicolas. And you?”

  “Jak, My King.”

  Nico nodded. The incorrect address was a common mistake for those unaccustomed to Imperial courts. “And why do you hide your background, Jak?”

  “Because I need you to believe my story, and the words of a thrall are easily dismissed.”

  Nico nodded again. “True enough. But not here, not now. Circumstances are unusual, would you not agree?”

  “Indeed, My King.”

  “Speak openly, Jak.”

  “Aye…yes, My King.”

  “I’m not your king, Jak. And do not concern yourself about formality. Concern yourself instead with brevity, for we haven’t much time. Why do you need to speak to me?”

  “You know of the Veldt?”

  “The what?”

  “The demons. The reason so many of us flee Falkenreach.”

  The Veldt. A name Nico had not heard before. That fact alone was convincing reason to listen to this man’s account.

  “Woefully little. What do you know of these demons?”

  The hesitation was palpable. “More than I wish. I’m the one who brought them here.”

  “That’s a remarkable story, Jak.”

  The past hour had been informative, to say the least. Nico even slowed down the pace of the ride in order to give the stranger more time to speak.

  Nico wondered how much was truth, and how much fiction. At times it seemed closer to a childhood fable than reality, though Nico did not question the sincerity of the narrator. Whatever aspects were untrue, or incomplete, he was inclined to attribute them to superstition and misconception rather than deliberate deception.

  Not that he doubted the existence of demons, of course, for even Arturo had spoken of them as a credible threat. But somehow, paradoxically, Nico had also believed there would turn out to be a mundane explanation for everything. Now he was not so sure, and the prudent thing to do was see more for himself.

  Assuming even half of this story were true, the account also raised as many new questions as it answered. First and foremost was how large had this Veldt grown, both in numbers and geography? Had all of Falkenreach fallen already? That seemed impossible to believe, for surely the population centers such as Varborg would fight back against the spread.

  And what of these corruptions? Of people and animals physically changed by some supernatural curse? How widespread was this evil taint, and who was susceptible? To hear it described, anyone might be corrupted, and often able to hide it until too late. The implication of that alone was terrifying to conceive. What if Lima or Pim were to be cruelly affected?

  Or what if he were? Would he simply make an announcement, knowing the reaction meant death? Or would he try to hide it and hope for the best?

  One of the few certainties, based simply on the existence of so many refugees, was that the empire was in more peril than he thought.

  “You believe me then, My King?”

  “I believe your sincerity, Jak. More than that, I’ll need to consider. But you’re right about one thing. We can’t have everyone disbelieving you, just because of your station. I suggest you remain Henrikson, for now. I’ll see if I can’t think of a better solution. Perhaps a title…”

  Nico trailed off to allow his thoughts to race ahead of his speech.

  “A title, My King?”

  “Yes, Henrikson. Scholar, as you used. That will do until we think of something else.”

  “A title?”

  Nico chuckled. His companion’s worried tone brought back the image of his face upon seeing the horse. Such petty things to be worried about, yet so frighteningly inconceivable to a thrall.

  “Yes. Like it or not, you are a valuable asset now, Jak. Your role in these events is not over… What’s this, then?”

  Two riders approached, one each in the livery of Akenberg and Daphina. Nico recognized the trooper Captain Mickens had dispatched, though he castigated himself for forgetting her name. Recent fighting had inflicted no small number of casualties on the company that had evolved into the King’s personal guard, but there was also no shortage of volunteers to serve as replacements. This woman was one of many that he should come to know, as soon as time allowed.

  “General Boisson accepts your offer for parley,” she said proudly. “In fact, he begs you to come immediately.”

  Nico looked at the rider in Dauphi uniform. Rather than protest the characterization, he nodded affirmation.

  “Well, Scholar Henrikson. You will be joining me for a negotiation, it seems.” He nodded to the messengers. “Lead the way.”

  “You are in no position to demand anything,” he told the Dauphi commander.

  Nico was of a mind to be lenient toward the enemy, but did not wish to make that apparent just yet. He hoped starting with a firm position would lead to the best results.

  Boisson was an aging veteran with a thoroughly bald pate but a handsome, finely-trimmed gray beard. He stared back for quite some time, taking the measure of the much younger man seated across the table. Then he sighed. “King Nicolas, surely you see the need for a temporary cessation of hostilities. The refugee crisis alone warrants our collective action. No, our cooperative action. To say nothing of this horde bearing down from the north and west.”

  “General, I will remind you that your kingdom, not mine, initiated the hostilities you are suddenly so eager to quiesce. That you gambled all on seizing the city before relief came, a gamble that failed. That the bulk of the refugees are your burden, not mine, and that this horde—if indeed a horde exists—is an imminent threat to Daphina, not Akenberg.”

  Nico cast a sideways glance at Jak, hoping the other would remain silent through this exchange. The young man had convinced the king that the threat was real enough, though its exact size and capabilities remained undetermined. But this was a negotiation in a war for the very existence of his kingdom, and every concession needed to come with calculated reluctance.

  Boisson stared at him coldly. “You place these people at risk for the sake of your selfish aspirations,” he said at last. “Just as your father would do.”

  The words stung Nico more than he might have expected. Yet he dared not let that show. “You opportunistically wage war on my citizens, you mur
der my brother, and you dare tell me about selfishness?”

  He felt a touch on his shoulder, and was surprised to see that Lima had stepped into the discussion, away from her usual position in the shadowy background. He felt a squeeze from her hand, just once, and realized that she had come to understand him far better than he knew.

  The rising heat dissipated as quickly as it had come. Nico lowered his voice to one more suited to a king. “Fine. I can offer you the ceasefire of which you ask, General. I can also offer the assistance of my army for dealing with the refugees, along with supplies from our stores—once the needs of Allstatte have been met, naturally.

  “Moreover, I am prepared to release some of my troops, in conjunction with yours, to face the threat from the northwest. On one condition—you and your soldiers hereby agree to lay down arms against the kingdom of Akenberg for one year’s time. I will not ask for your surrender and we do not have time for a formal parole, so I ask only your consent, in plain view of those who witness.” He cast an arm about, indicating the dozen or so aides and observers.

  Boisson frowned. “This is irregular, King Nicolas.” He began to chew on his lower lip thoughtfully.

  It was irregular, Nico agreed. But so, too, were the circumstances. He knew that this man could not speak for his queen, could not negotiate peace for the kingdom entire. And agreeing to have his army—the bulk of Dauphi’s current fighting forces—turn their weapons away from Akenberg amounted to much the same thing.

  Yet the general was in an impossible situation, as they both well knew, and the offer provided a solution to the immediate problem. And did so with terms more generous than he had any right to expect.

  Boisson could not fight—or, at least, could not do so with any hope of winning. Nico could certainly demand a more formal surrender, which would cause a loss of prestige and possibly command. He could demand the taking of hostages—standard collateral for such negotiations—up to and including the general himself. Surely, the people of Akenberg would revel in the trial and imprisonment of the man who once defeated Prince Markolac.