Conquests and Crowns

by S E Meliers

  His energy stores were sourced from the human offal his skeletons retrieved from the city streets. The longer the siege lasted, the longer he had to maintain the skeletons, the fewer citizens of Lyendar there would be that met his particular dietary requirements. There would be a time when disease and starvation would provide bodies, if the siege lasted long enough and the King’s men did not come to the rescue, and he could safely reduce his skeleton force confident in a supply of citizens to restock with, however would that time come before he had to make some dubious moral choices in order to maintain his power supply?

  There were rules to being a necromancer, many of which were a walk on a very fine line, and he had been lucky enough to have been able to keep his feet firmly on one side of that line so far. Crossing that line would have consequences he did not know he would have the stomach to handle. However, as long as he did not use necromancy, he could walk across that line as a human without the same repercussions. It often made for some interesting decisions. For example, he could kill, or cause to be killed, an innocent, as long as he did not use that innocent’s energy or remains for necromancy.

  Knowing there were loopholes did not necessarily lead to knowing how to use the loopholes to his advantage.

  He got up, drawing a robe around himself, and walked to the balconied window to look out over the city. His gaze travelled across the city sprawl to the wall that separated Rhyndelians from Shoethalians. The city curtain wall was quite simple in comparison to that surrounding the castle itself. Where the castle’s curtain walls were up to twenty feet deep and had walkways fortified by crenulations, machicolations and arrow-slits for the archers, the city wall was only a few feet deep at most, and not as tall, it’s only defensive mechanisms the corner towers and that it necessitated the use of the heavy siege ladders. In the fields surrounding the castle, his skeleton army was a ghoulish sentry never at rest. Their constant shifting had worn paths in the greenery, like lacework or the trails left by snails.

  Just beyond the furthest point that Lyendar’s most skilled longbow archer’s arrows could shoot, the Shoethalian army had set up camp. They had appropriated materials and livestock from abandoned farms, and created a homely and efficient site that mocked the Rhyndelians with its luxuries. Already the Lyendarians were feeling the pinch of siege – meat was heavily seasoned and overcooked to disguise its age, fruit and vegetables had the withering and sprouts of winter stock when the people should have been feasting on the seasons finest, and many of the poorest people were showing signs of the onset of scurvy.

  The Shoethalians demonstrated their prowess daily with patrols and mock battles amongst their men, and it was not uncommon for the Rhyndelian soldiers and nobles to watch from the castles curtain walls, trying to find a fault in the Shoethalians’ techniques that would give them advantage. ‘The problem is,’ Honesty had commented with surprising shrewdness, ‘that they could be deliberately exhibiting weakness in their one on one defence in the hopes of luring us into a trap.’

  Shade leaned against the balustrade and examined the enemy camp. Something was different. ‘Song,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Come here – what is different about our friends’ camp?’ She strolled out in a loosely tied rose over-gown, her dark hair curling over one shoulder, and a horsehair brush in one hand. She ran the brush through her hair thoughtfully as she scrutinized the camp then set it carefully on the balustrade. She enclosed a space in her two hands and then widened it by spreading her fingers and bringing the hands apart. ‘Bigger?’ he said. ‘I thought so, too,’ he agreed. She picked up the brush, kissed his cheek, and returned into the chamber. ‘Why bigger?’ he wondered. ‘Reinforcements?’

  As he watched, a messenger rode out from between the tents, and came to the edge of the campsite. He displayed the green flag traditional for a peaceful exchange of words, before riding slowly out into the no-man’s land between Shoethalian invaders and the walled city of Lyendar. The messenger rode to a midway point, and there stopped, waiting until a Rhyndelian, also flagging green, rode out to meet him. The two spoke briefly and then separated. ‘This will be interesting,’ Shade commented with a sense of relief. ‘Hopefully things will be brought to a head soon.’

  He left the balcony and cleaned his face and hands in the basin of warmed water Song had left there for that purpose. She was no longer inside, having left on a mysterious errand of her own. ‘Hopefully to get me food,’ he grumbled, disgruntled to find that he had been speaking to himself. She had left a clean shirt and trousers on the made-up bed, with his boots set neatly on the floor below and a leather tunic ornately branded and with silver buckles across the chest, to one side. ‘Evidently I am going somewhere,’ he raised an eyebrow. The tunic was reinforced with a fine steel mesh between a padded cloth lining and the ornate leather exterior. It was armour disguised not to look like armour, and something that had proven quite handy in the past. It was not a light garment so wasn’t something he wore casually and for her to set it out indicated her anticipation that he would be going somewhere that armouring against attack would be wise.

  He dressed obediently and had settled back in a cushioned chair with a goblet of wine when the door opened admitting Song and Honesty. Song carried a platter. ‘Oh, delightful,’ Shade was pleased to eat. She set the platter on the table – a flat unleavened bread, some preserved figs, sundried grapes, a blue veined cheese, and some jerky. ‘Hmmm,’ resigned, although the fare was somewhat lacking, he popped a piece of fig into his mouth and chewed, raising an eyebrow at Honesty.

  ‘The Shoethalians have sent a messenger,’ Honesty took a seat and helped himself to wine and a piece of cheese. When Shade did not respond with the expected astonishment, the lord sighed irritably. ‘The Shoethelian Prince wishes to speak with me before sunset today.’

  ‘Any idea about what he would like to converse?’ Shade enquired. ‘His unconditional surrender before the might of your necromancer, no doubt,’ he chewed the flat bread.

  ‘No doubt,’ Honesty replied drily. ‘I imagine it will be more in regards to the terms for our surrender.’

  ‘Is surrender a subject you wish to discuss with the Shoethalian Prince?’ Shade enquired.

  ‘Is surrender ever a subject that a person wishes to discuss?’ Honesty mused. ‘My scryers assure me that a force gathers at Guarn, and yet, they have not begun to march. Our rations dwindle, our crops rot in the fields, our people fail in health. We can hold, but what are we holding? And yet, to surrender only for the King’s forces to swoop upon Lyendar too late… It is an unbearable thought.’

  ‘So?’ Shade prompted when the lord fell silent. Honesty shrugged. ‘So, forge a third path,’ Shade suggested tearing a mouthful of jerky with his canines. ‘Meet with the Prince, see what he says. Tell him you need time to consider. Have your scryers confirm the force from Guarn again. Then evict all refugees from the city and in their midst, plant a messenger. The Shoethalians will either let the refugees return to their fields in order to benefit from their labour, or will slaughter them. If they let them go, your messenger can sneak off to Guarn and hurry them up. In the meantime, we have less mouths to feed and can hold out that much longer.’

  ‘And if the Shoethalians kill the peasants, messenger included?’ Honesty pondered.

  ‘Then raid the city for food, and close off the city from the castle. Let the city fall – but hold the castle. Whilst the castle stands, and the Lord with it, Lyendar survives. Sooner or later, the King’s forces will come. Guarn will push for it. If Lyendar falls, then Guarn is next.’

  ‘It is ruthless,’ Honesty shook his head.

  ‘It is necessary,’ Shade replied irritably; he did not like the role he was forced to play.

  ‘History will write me as a monster,’ Honesty voiced Shade’s own sentiment.

  ‘History is written by the victor,’ Shade shrugged with feigned callousness. ‘What will you be?’

  Honesty considered. Finally, he stood. ‘I will meet the Prince. At best, he wil
l have good terms for me. At worst, I will stall for time. The other… option, if such a foul deed could be considered such… that option we will keep in reserve.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Shade approved dusting his hands of food and rising. ‘Timidity is so often the cause of great error, so let’s be audacious. Come on, my friend; let us go stonewall the barbarian Prince.’ He kissed Song in passing. ‘I will be home in time for supper,’ he said cheerfully, then sobered and added in a low voice, ‘let there be some roast meat and potato I beg of you.’ She smiled serenely.

  They rode out under a green flag and surrounded by armoured knights. Honesty was distinguishable from his fellow knights only by the crown emblazoned on his surcoat. He had offered Shade a shield and a helm, but Shade declined: he had his own form of protection should it be required, and his chainmail tunic. ‘Remember,’ Honesty cautioned, ‘we will consider his terms, or appear to do so. Do not take action, any of you.’

  ‘Although prepared for death,’ Shade added, ‘I prefer that it be postponed for the time being at least; so let us keep things pleasant.’

  Just short of midfield, Honesty drew his company to a halt to allow the Shoethalians to take a similar position. The Shoethalian Prince rode forth from the body of his company, with just one companion, so Honesty did likewise. Almost dead centre, they met. The Shoethalian Prince’s eyes were darkened by his helm, his features obscured by the mesh of a metal faceplate. ‘You are the Lord Honesty?’ he demanded. His voice was younger than Shade had expected, but carried confidence and authority.

  ‘You are the barbarian Prince?’ Honesty replied firmly.

  ‘I am Cinder, Prince of the Unified Shoethal.’

  ‘I am Honesty, Lord of Lyendar,’ Honesty confirmed.

  ‘Do you hold true to the virtue of your name, I wonder,’ the Prince commented.

  ‘As much as a man in my position can,’ Honesty retorted quickly.

  The Prince laughed, in true humour. There was a ripple of surprise in both of the flanking companies. These meets did not usually abound in humour. ‘Indeed,’ he approved. ‘Interesting. I seek a mutual solution, Honesty. Your food sources are dwindling and your King’s forces dawdle at Guarn.’

  ‘Perhaps that is so,’ Honesty fenced. ‘But when those forces do come, you will be trapped between my stone walls and their army.’

  ‘You will not last that long. I have water wizards in my company. They have found the true source of your internal water supply. It is only a matter of time before my miners reach it.’

  That was a blow; Honesty’s eyes flickered. ‘Then it is a race between the forces at Guarn and your miners,’ he countered with a deceptive calm.

  ‘My miners will win,’ the Prince was confident. ‘I do not stand to gain much by the destruction of Lyendar. It is far more valuable to my people as a functioning stronghold, than a shell acting as a graveyard for unburied masses. I offer you this: surrender and turn to the Monad, swear allegiance to me, and you will retain Lyendar as your own. Defy me, and you will force my hand.’

  Honesty clenched his teeth, unclenched them. ‘I would need time to consider. To discuss with my council.’

  ‘You may have until noon tomorrow,’ the Prince acknowledged with dignity. ‘Take what I offer, Lord Honesty. Truen and Amori stand testament to my goodwill.’

  ‘The Lord of Amori is dead, I hear,’ Honesty responded.

  ‘Of his own cause,’ the Prince replied. ‘The battle led him to the cliff top. He chose to jump. I have been most considerate of the Lady Patience. Her son, Charm, currently remains heir to Amori.’

  ‘And Truen? His wife was due to give birth,’ Honesty was disgruntled.

  ‘A strong and healthy daughter, that they have called Thankful,’ the Prince announced, with benevolence. ‘Heir to Truen. I can be merciful, you see, Lord Honesty. Save us both the need for bloodshed between our people, and make the responsible choice for your people.’

  ‘In the time that I have to consider you will cease action with your mangonels,’ Honesty required.

  The Prince bowed his head in assent; ‘I will, to promote goodwill.’

  ‘Lyendar has crops rotting,’ Honesty pushed. ‘We face starvation if my peasants do not return to the field. I would release them immediately in return for your goodwill with the war machines.’

  ‘Thus releasing the pressure of your supplies?’ the Prince was canny. ‘I cannot allow that.’

  ‘How about a compromise: a small party of peasants?’ Shade spoke up. ‘The release of a handful of peasants may save us a day, or two, worth of food for the city. In return, they can gather at least some of the harvest – which if Honesty chooses to retain the siege, your troops will be glad to receive, no doubt.’

  The Prince considered. ‘I will allow the release of a small number of peasants,’ he conceded after thought.

  Honesty bowed his head. ‘I thank you.’

  ‘Until tomorrow noon,’ the Prince reined his horse around and returned to his company.

  ‘Well, my friend,’ Honesty turned his horse back to Lyendar. ‘Your thoughts?’

  ‘I am impressed,’ Shade acknowledged. ‘You are cleverer then you look, my Lord Honesty.’

  ‘Am I?’ Honesty pondered. ‘Or was my ploy transparent to the Prince and he playing a more skilled game than I?’

  ‘We shall see,’ Shade was pleased either way. ‘We shall see.’

  Chapter Five

  Patience

  Patience was idle, and the feeling sat ill with her. It felt as if she were sitting waiting for disaster, instead of being proactive in its avoidance. Malevolence was a foul stench on the air that had become as commonplace to her as the scent of the cesspits wafting up from the garderobe on hot days. She could feel Gallant’s enmity like cold fingers on her neck, and she had only the most minor defences against his plots. Three times a day, she searched both her public and private rooms, and her children’s rooms, for possible entrapments – letters supposedly written by her or to her involving her in plots, poisons, tokens indicating affairs with other nobles, religious texts and icons of sacrilegious gods, mysterious keys or boxes – and destroyed what she could, hid what she could not destroy. This act both gave her a sense of security and shook her to the core with the very instability of her position in her own home.

  Her searches had amassed an interesting array of poisons, or supposed poisons. She and Rue spent some time experimenting with them through the simple expedient of placing some of the liquid or powder into food, and placing the food under their beds. Eventually a rat would come to sample their wares, no castle ever being short of the vermin, and they would see what resulted. Did the rat die immediately? Did the rat sleep but awake eventually, or act as if intoxicated? Some mixtures seemed to have no effect, in which case, they were thought to be ruses – there to imply she was a poisoner, but not actually filled with poison. One, they found out, was an abortifacient when one of the cats, heavy with her litter, ate the scraps left for the rats. Patience was unsure how she felt about the drug; the death of the little kittens weighed heavily on her for several days so she was certain she could never use it on a person, most definitely not on herself, however having it felt oddly empowering.

  Of course, some rats which seemed to take no affect may have been slower to die. Not being inclined to handle the rats herself and not sure how to explain it if someone discovered a caged rat beneath her bed, Patience had to simply had to leave these vials in the ruse pile just in case. She could see that a poison which took time to take hold could be very handy – enabling the murderer to be some distance away and innocently employed at the time of death therefore escaping accusation – but it was not possible for her to make this distinction.

  Rue had the distasteful job of discarding any of the carcasses of rats that died immediately down the various garderobes. To do so, she had to wrap the rat in a rag and hide it in her skirts, then, on the pretence of using the garderobes, unwrap the rat and let it drop where everything else
went. Each garderobe went to a separate cess pit thus preventing a sudden influx of rat bodies which might raise queries of the cesspit tenders – those unfortunates who emptied the pits, taking the barrels of human waste to the tanners for pennies a day. A few rats in the cess pits were not uncommon and were considered a bonus; separated to go to the soap makers for an additional earning.

  These intrigues aside, Patience found herself disenchanted with being the Lady of Amori. Her former life had involved long walks in the courtyard gardens with her entourage and children, consultations with the clerks and housekeeping staff in charge of household expenditure and employment, approval of the daily menus, sewing in the solar with her ladies, charity work in the city, courtly functions and entertainments, carriage rides, and visiting dignitaries from Rhyndel and traders from beyond the great seas. These occupations now were either no longer available, no longer in her control, or no longer of interest to her. More and more, she longed to simply take her children and escape. A life of no consequence seemed very peaceful.

  She worried about the effect that their altered lives were having on Charm and Joy. Charm was old enough to understand more than Joy, of course, but Joy, now toddling around on her own feet, sensed the unease of her mother and aunt, and the tension of the castle. Charm’s additional comprehension was disturbing as he was exposed to an instability that no child, at least in Patience’s opinion, should have to experience at such a tender age. He was also old enough to miss and ask for his father.