Tyrcamber blinked. Was there a tiny bit of jealousy that Sigurd had been with Tyrcamber first? Perhaps one small enough that Ruari herself wasn’t even aware that it was there?
Best not to dwell on it, he decided.
“He does,” said Tyrcamber, and he took Ruari’s arm and led her downstairs.
***
Chapter 5: A United Realm
High King Arandar Pendragon stopped for the night, and the Duxi and Comites of Andomhaim began to gather for the council of war.
Ridmark had already ridden south down the line of march to speak with Sir Niall and Sir Ricatus and make sure that the two men hadn’t come to blows. They had gotten along through the simple expedient of Niall riding at the back of the column and Ricatus at the front, and communicating only with messengers. Ridmark made sure they had a place to camp, and then rode south another half-mile and spoke with Hhazakar. That was more of a formality. The business of the Anathgrimm was war, and Hhazakar was as competent as every other Anathgrimm centurion that Ridmark had ever encountered. The centurion would go about his tasks with the same grim efficiency the Anathgrimm always showed. Yet it would have been a slight not to speak with the Anathgrimm, and for all their prowess and strength, the Anathgrimm were still men, still had morale that needed to be maintained.
With his soldiers in hand, Ridmark rode back north to Arandar’s camp. He passed several parties of mounted lords and knights, no doubt proceeding to the council of war. Ridmark followed them, looking to the west, and he saw the sun starting to dip towards the horizon, painting the river the color of fire.
He also saw the towers and walls of Rhudlan rising from the far side of the river. Save for Cintarra, the town of Rhudlan was perhaps the strongest position on the River Cintarra. A bend in the river created a peninsula, and the town occupied the entirety of the finger of land formed by the bend. Water surrounded Rhudlan on three sides, and its walls were tall and strong. The Dragon Cult had made a good effort to take the town, but Rhudlan had held against the attack thanks to Sir Rufinius, Sir Niall, and Moriah Rhosmor. That would prove useful in the coming campaign, since Rhudlan guarded the easiest place to cross the river, save for Cynan’s Tower and the city of Cintarra itself. It would take several days to ferry the army across the river, but at Rhudlan, they would have a secure place to do it.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, Ridmark saw one of the large rafts that Rhudlan used as a ferry resting against the bank, a party of about a dozen horsemen heading towards the road. Some of the men wore the blue surcoats and red dragon sigils of the royal forces, while others had surcoats with the green dragon sigil of the Prince of Cintarra. Accolon Pendragon rode at their head, and he paused when he saw Ridmark.
“Shield Knight!” he called, raising his hand in greeting.
“Lord Prince,” said Ridmark, turning his horse towards them.
“Come, join us,” said Accolon, and Ridmark fell in with them. He recognized most of the men with Accolon. There was Sir Owain Redshield, the Constable of Cintarra, who had accompanied Accolon north to the fight against the Dragon Cult. The scar-faced knight with a graying beard was Sir Peter Vanius, the commander of the royal forces the High King had sent to support his son. Caelmark’s bastard son and Ridmark’s nephew Sir Rufinius rode with them, the soulblade Starflame at his belt. The solid-looking middle-aged man in Ridmark’s own colors was Vegetius, a decurion of his men-at-arms he had left at Rhudlan to look after the Prince. “What news from the south? We haven’t been flanked by the Dragon Cult, so I assume Cynan’s Tower held?”
“Aye, it has,” said Ridmark.
“Good,” said Accolon. He looked a great deal like his father – the same hard features, dark eyes, and hawk-like profile. Accolon’s hair was still black, and there were far fewer lines on his face than his father’s.
But more than there had been a year ago.
“We had sharp fighting,” said Ridmark. “The Mhorites have thrown in with Merovech, so we dealt with them.”
“We had the same problem here,” said Accolon. “Mhorite warbands came to reinforce the goblins and ogres. The enemy didn’t attack Rhudlan directly, but they tried to harass our patrols.”
“Merovech also hired dvargir mercenaries,” said Ridmark. “The ghost orc scouts spotted them. They flung some kobold slaves at the line of march. We fought them off with light casualties, but I expect we’ll have more trouble with them soon.”
“Damnation,” said Accolon. “Merovech pulled the bulk of his forces back to Castra Melidern, and it’s not hard to see why. The longer he waits, the stronger he becomes. More and more goblins, ogres, and gnolls are coming through the gate from the Frankish Empire. I suspect Merovech wants to have as large of a force as possible when he finally faces us.”
“That would be a sensible strategy,” said Ridmark. “But we have advantages. The Swordbearers and the Magistri. And the Anathgrimm, who are better soldiers than anything Merovech has. Your father also had a letter from High King Kothlaric. Two hundred Arcanius Knights are on their way to join the fight.”
“That is good news,” said Accolon. “I didn’t think Owyllain would have any strength to spare. We may need every sword and every wizard we can find.”
“Has there been any news from Cintarra?” said Ridmark.
“Some,” said Accolon. “No sign of the Heptarchy. The red orcs are the last thing we need at the moment. The Dragon Cult keeps sending spies into the city. One of them influenced some discontented nobles to attempt the kidnapping of Prince Tywall, but our spies put a stop to it.”
“You chose your spymaster wisely, I think,” said Ridmark, thinking of Moriah Rhosmor. For all her sour demeanor and her distrust of authority, she had a valiant heart.
“Aye, that I did,” said Accolon. “I will have to convey my thanks when we return to Cintarra. How did Sir Niall and Magistrius Decimus fare during the fighting at Cynan’s Tower?”
“Quite well,” said Ridmark. “Sir Niall was a bulwark of the defense and came through the fighting unscathed. Decimus helped Calliande with the work of healing the wounded. I’m not sure where he is at the moment – one of the other nobles had wounded men, and Decimus went to help with the healing spells.”
“That is well,” said Accolon. “I think both Sir Niall and Magistrius Decimus are men upon whom I can rely. A rare thing, alas. Sir Niall might find himself with more lands and titles before much longer.”
“I’m sure he’ll be horrified,” said Ridmark.
“The only sensible response to the prospect of more responsibility,” said Accolon. The Prince frowned. “Though there are those rumors about him and Lhanwyn Corinium’s daughter.”
“I suspect she seduced him and tried to use him as a weapon,” said Ridmark. “When that failed, she poisoned him and opened the gate.”
“We’ll need to find him a wife,” said Accolon. “Else he’s going to get himself into trouble with a woman or…what?” Accolon gave him a suspicious look. “You’re smiling. That’s unusual.”
“The same could be said,” said Ridmark, “of the Crown Prince of Andomhaim.”
Accolon let out a long sigh. “I assume this is a preview of a speech I’ll receive from my father?”
“Aye, but I’ll be blunter about it,” said Ridmark. “You need an heir. The sooner you have a wife and she births you a child, the better.”
Accolon grimaced. “Yes, it’s just that simple.”
“It really is,” said Ridmark.
Accolon’s mouth tightened. “Didn’t you marry for love?”
“Twice, as it happens,” said Ridmark. “My first wife was murdered. The woman I met after her was also murdered. So, if anyone understands your hesitation, I do.”
They rode in silence for a while. The others hung back, no doubt recognizing the importance of the conversation.
“How did you get over it?” said Accolon at last. “I asked you that before, but…”
“I never really did,” said Ridmark. “But I live
d long enough. There were eventually things in life other than grief. I regret that Aelia and Morigna were murdered, yes. But I would also regret it if I hadn’t married Calliande and had children with her.”
“What do you suggest?” said Accolon. “That I seduce the next woman who hints she would like to be the Crown Prince’s mistress? God knows there’s no shortage of them.”
“Not really,” said Ridmark, “but it’s still better than the alternative. A bastard heir is better than no heir at all. Your father is also going to tell you that your sister Nyvane is betrothed.”
Accolon flinched as if he had been slapped. “Nyvane? But she’s just a girl. She’s not old enough…”
“She’s only a few years younger than you are,” said Ridmark. “But she could have been married five or six years ago. Your father wanted to find an acceptable match.”
“Who?” said Accolon. He seemed caught between outrage, surprise, and resignation. Accolon had probably gone through a dozen lovers before he had met Caitrin Rhosmor, but the idea of his sister marrying had stunned him.
“Aridain Martel, the new Dux of Caerdracon,” said Ridmark.
Accolon opened his mouth, closed it, thought the idea over.
“She could do worse,” said Accolon at last. “Martel’s a good soldier and a decent ruler. A little belligerent. I think Nyvane always got on well with him when he visited the court.” He scowled. “Though Martel’s had a couple of bastards.”
“Which means he can father children,” said Ridmark. “And if he weds Princess Nyvane and gets her with child, she’ll be the mother of the heir to the realm until you have a son.”
Accolon blinked several times.
“I didn’t think of that,” he admitted.
“Do you want to inflict that on her?” said Ridmark. “Bearing the heir to the realm? Every ambitious nobleman in Andomhaim will try to get close to her. Aridain would be able to protect her from some of that, but not all of it.”
Accolon shook his head. “You’re damned persuasive when you put your mind to it, Shield Knight.”
“I learned from Calliande,” said Ridmark.
Accolon huffed out a short laugh. It was one of the few times Ridmark had heard the Crown Prince laugh since they had left Castarium. “All right. No doubt I will soon hear this same argument from my father. I shall agree with him, and then I would like you to ask Lady Calliande to start looking for a suitable wife. She’s rather good at matchmaking.”
“She’ll enjoy that,” said Ridmark.
“I suppose I should listen to you and do my duty,” said Accolon, “and impregnate the most beautiful woman I can find.”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” said Ridmark.
“Then perhaps you should have been clearer,” said Accolon with a laugh. “You can consider this practice for when Gareth and Joachim are old enough to notice girls.”
That, Ridmark reflected, would likely be sooner than he might wish. And Rhoanna was still a toddler, but in another fifteen years or so, she would be old enough to draw the eye of potential suitors. A wave of melancholy went through Ridmark at the thought. Time seemed to pass faster and faster as he grew older, and soon enough, his children would have families of their own.
Ridmark wished that he was with his children now, rather than upon what would soon be a battlefield. But it was for the sake of his children that he had come here. He did not want them to grow up in an Andomhaim ruled by a tyrant like Merovech Valdraxis or a vengeful madwoman like Aeliana Carhaine. For that matter, Merovech and Aeliana were only servants of the Warden, bearers of the dark soulblades. Whatever the Warden sought, whatever he intended with his plan, Ridmark could not let it come to pass.
“No further counsel for me?” said Accolon with a half-smile.
“Not yet,” said Ridmark.
“I’m sure more will occur to you before much longer,” said Accolon. His faint mirth faded. “But I can guess what you’re thinking.”
“Oh?” said Ridmark.
“You’re thinking that we have to first win the war,” said Accolon in a quiet voice, “or else all this is in vain.”
He wasn’t wrong.
###
As evening fell, the lords and knights of Andomhaim gathered in the war council of the High King.
Calliande stepped to her husband’s side, and he looked down at her and smiled, the hard planes of his face relaxing for a moment. Ridmark looked older than he had when they had first met over fifteen years ago when he had been a young exile, the wound in his heart left by Aelia’s death still raw and bloody. The years had put some gray in his hair and deeper lines into his face. Yet in some ways, Ridmark looked just as he had on the day he had rescued her from that dark altar all those years ago.
Certainly, Calliande felt the same way as she had on the day they had first kissed, the day the wyvern had almost killed their friend Kharlacht. There had been dangerous times and many losses between that day and the day their marriage had begun, but Calliande was still grateful, so grateful, that their lives had come together.
Serving as the Keeper of Andomhaim was hard. Without Ridmark, it would have been hard and lonely. Calliande had been so devoted to her duties as the Keeper that she hadn’t even realized how lonely she really was until she had met Ridmark.
“How are the children?” murmured Ridmark.
“Well,” said Calliande. At least as far as she knew. “I used the Sight to check on them when we stopped for the night. They’re all safe and healthy.” She let out a long breath. “But I miss them, Ridmark. I even miss the way Gareth and Joachim squabble about nothing.”
“I know,” said Ridmark. “Perhaps once Castra Melidern is taken, and the Heralds are slain, we can use Oathshield’s power to return to Tarlion for a quick visit.”
“The High King will want to learn how his city fares in his absence,” said Calliande with a smile she did not feel. She knew they could not leave the army. Merovech and Aeliana might attack at any moment, and Calliande’s magic and Oathshield’s power were the best defenses the army had against the powers of the dark soulblades. “I hope they can forgive us someday.”
“Who?” said Ridmark.
“Our children,” said Calliande. “For how much time we’ve spent away from them.”
“I think they will,” said Ridmark. “Once they’re grown and have children of their own. Some duties are too stern to be refused. I don’t think I really understood my own father or Dux Gareth until we had Gareth. Our Gareth, I mean.”
Calliande started to answer but fell silent as the High King and his son approached.
The chief lords and knights of Andomhaim had gathered in a large ring before the High King’s pavilion, the great Pendragon banner with the red dragon sigil flying overhead. The sun slipped away beneath the horizon to the west, outlining the towers and walls of Rhudlan across the river with red light. The stars were just starting to come out in the east, and Calliande could make out the pale shape of three of the thirteen moons.
“My lords!” called Arandar Pendragon. “Thank you for coming. I have called you to arms to face the threat of the pagan Dragon Cult and their Mhorite allies.” A quiet rumble went up from the lords at the mention of the Mhorites. Not all of them had known that Merovech had allied himself with the orcs of Kothluusk. “The so-called Duke Merovech has overrun half of the lands of the Prince of Cintarra. Together, we will drive him from the soil of Andomhaim and crush this pernicious Dragon Cult, just as we once purged the Enlightened of Incariel from our realm. My son Accolon has led the defense of Cintarra against the invader. Accolon?”
Calliande looked around the circle of lords. She knew almost all of them. Many of the nobles of Andomhaim had died during the civil war and the war against the Frostborn, and Calliande had advised Arandar on finding suitable replacements. There was Dux Tormark Arban, Ridmark’s oldest brother, who looked like Ridmark with the addition of fifteen years and sixty or seventy additional pounds. Calliande would have loved Rid
mark no matter what he looked like, but she admitted that looking at Tormark’s corpulence made her appreciate Ridmark’s muscular form all the more.
She found herself looking at Aridain Martel, the Dux of Caerdracon. Calliande knew him, in fact probably remembered Martel better than he remembered her. She had healed him of three severe wounds during the war against the Frostborn. The last had been during the final assault on Tarlion, when Martel had held the line against the medvarth warriors, wielding the warhammer that had become his family name. Aridain himself looked like a combination of a blacksmith and a sculptor, stocky and barrel-chested, with a thick brown beard and a brooding look in his dark eyes. Calliande suspected he would make a good match for Nyvane. The Princess Nyvane was a gentle, quiet woman, with none of her brother’s commanding nature. She was the sort of woman who wanted a strong husband behind whom she could shelter, and Martel might make that husband.
Accolon stepped forward, and Calliande put aside thoughts of matchmaking, which she enjoyed far more than thoughts of battle. Aridain had to survive the war before he could marry anyone.
“My lords,” said Accolon. “I came to Cintarra to address the injustices of the land enclosures and to deal with the Drakocenti cult that had infected the city.” A few of the Cintarran nobles gave him flat looks. The Drakocenti were dead, but not a few of the Cintarra nobles resented the loss of their flocks of sheep. “Once we did, the Dragon Cult emerged from magical gates, as the Frostborn once did, and I had to rally the Cintarran lords and commons to fight off the invader.”
Accolon sketched out the course of the war against Merovech – the rift ways, the Dwyrstones, the siege of Rhudlan, and the fighting at Cynan’s Tower. A few knights glanced at Ridmark, who remained impassive.
“It seems that both Merovech Valdraxis and Aeliana Carhaine, the daughter of the usurper, are servants of the Warden of Urd Morlemoch,” said Accolon. “They seek to seize control of an ancient artifact buried beneath Cintarra. My lords, you know the reputation of the Warden. We cannot allow him to claim that artifact. Our path to victory is clear. We must destroy Merovech’s host, retake Castra Melidern, slay both of the so-called Heralds of Ruin, and destroy or secure their corrupt soulblades.”
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