Broland reined in his horse and dismounted. Two soldiers climbed down to join him while the others fanned out in a half-circle facing the farmhouse. Removing his helmet, Broland shook his head to free the sweat-slicked hair from his forehead.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud to reveal it now well past its apex. By all accounts, the day was beautiful – mild weather lacking the oppressive humidity he had heard about during warmer months. This far south and near the sea, winter’s touch was light with chilly nights and pleasant days. To the north, up in the mountains, he was sure things were different.
Without a word, Broland walked toward the farmhouse while two guards shadowed him. He lifted his hand, his knuckles rapping on the door with authority.
“Please come out. We mean no harm,” he said in a loud voice.
He waited. Nothing new. His other visits had been met with fear and doubt. The people didn’t understand what was coming. If they did, their fear would have made sense.
The door opened to reveal a middle-aged man holding a scythe. Behind him, the boy gripped a crossbow, the bolt loaded and aimed toward the door. A woman stood beside the boy, kneading her hands as if they were dough.
“Good afternoon,” Broland said, bowing his head slightly. His helmet remained tucked under an arm, his other hand resting easily on the pommel of his longsword. “Please put your weapons down. I would hate for anyone to get hurt.”
“Who are you, and why are you on my land?” The man asked, his eyes flicking from Broland to the guards and back. The scythe remained ready as did the boy’s crossbow.
“My name is Broland Talenz, Crown Prince of Kantaria. I represent my father, King Brock.” The man’s eyes widened as Broland spoke, his jaw dropping. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I come with a warning and to make an offer.” His tone grew more firm. “Put your weapons aside.”
The man blinked, nodded, and set his scythe down, leaning it against the wall. He turned and waved at the boy in an urgent, jerking motion. “Put it away, Yuri. Now.” When the crossbow was lowered, the man turned back toward Broland. “I apologize, your Grace. Um…your Highness. My Prince. We are simple folk and unused to armed men on our land.”
“Completely understandable.” Broland reached inside the pouch on his hip and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He found the last name and read it aloud. “Gilbert Forness?”
The man nodded. “That’s me.”
Broland replaced the paper with a nod. “Wonderful.” The list is complete after this stop. “Master Forness, I am here to ask you and your family a question.”
“A question? Um. Of course. What is it?”
“Would you prefer to live or to die?”
The woman gasped and grabbed the boy, the man backing away a step as he struggled to reply.
“Before you jump to conclusions,” Broland said. “I reiterate, we mean you no harm. However, an army will soon arrive. I can’t say exactly when, but they will come. When they do, you will die. They come from the east with a thirst for blood and distaste for citizens loyal to the Kantarian crown.” Broland gave the man a heavy look. “You are loyal to the crown, right?”
The man’s eyes flicked to Broland’s sword. He nodded eagerly. “Yes. Of course. We have always supported King Brock.”
“Very good.” Broland reached into the pouch and withdrew a small sack, tied at the top. He held it toward the man, the sack dangling between two of his fingers. Despite the small size, it had a good weight to it. “Take this.”
The man reached out, and Broland dropped it into the man’s palm. “There is gold and a writ inside. Show this writ when you get to Wayport, and they will let you in. You may stay at the shelters inside the citadel walls or use the gold for passage to Kantar.”
“Wait. What?” the man appeared confused.
The woman rushed forward, dragging the boy with her. “You are taking our farm?”
Broland shook his head. “I am not taking your farm. I am doing what I can to spare your lives. When this army comes, your farm and everything within is at risk. They bring death and destruction backed by a lust for conquest. Your King, my father, wishes you to avoid such a fate.”
“This farm has been in our family for generations,” the man said, his voice thick with sadness. “If it is destroyed, what will we do? Where will we live?”
“We cannot protect your home, nor can we protect you unless you are within the walls of Wayport. Even there, the risk will be great.” Broland reached out, his hand landing on the man’s shoulder. “If you remain, you are unlikely to survive. When the threat is gone, you may return and rebuild if necessary – something you cannot do if you are dead.”
The man put his arm around his wife and nodded. “Thank you for the warning. We will take heed, but we must discuss this…as a family.”
“There is one more thing I must request.”
“Yes?”
“Your food stores, whatever you can take when you leave, deliver them to Wayport. We may face a siege and will lack the means to bring in food once it begins. Consider the coin pouch as payment for the people you will feed.” Broland held the man’s gaze, ensuring he understood the gravity of what he was about to say. “Be sure to decide soon. When the army comes, we will destroy Gramble Bridge and crossing the Gramble River to the west bank will become far more difficult.”
“Why would you destroy the bridge?”
“It is but one among many precautions we must take to protect the city.” Broland stepped back and gave the family a nod. “May Issal watch over you. Good day.”
He turned and walked back to his horse, hearing the door close behind him. Placing one foot in a stirrup, Broland climbed into the saddle and slid his helmet on.
“That was the last farm on the list. Let’s return to Wayport.”
They rode down the narrow drive at a trot. When they reached the road, Broland kicked his horse into a gallop. It felt good to have the wind in his face, the trees slipping past in a blur as his stallion stretched its legs. The miles passed quickly and the river appeared to the west, running parallel to the road as they approached Gramble Bridge.
The bridge was built of brick and mortar, supported by a series of arches large enough for small craft to pass beneath. Broland led his horse onto the bridge and slowed to a trot as he surveyed the view – a view that had changed much over recent days.
The river flowed south, skirting the eastern city wall and expanding as it approached the bay. Spires from the Wayport citadel jutted above the wall, overlooking the river. The area along the west bank had been cleared of trees and was now a field of trampled yellowed grass amid the remaining stumps. At the western edge of the new field, soldiers were stripping the felled trees to bare trunks and planting them into the ground, creating a twenty-foot high palisade that ran from the city wall to the woods, bounding what would become the battlefield. Those Torinlanders know how to clear away trees, Broland thought, as men in the brown and green of Torinland chopped down the last of the designated trees.
At an intersection, Broland turned south toward Wayport. Here and there, he found people dressed in civilian clothing, sitting near freshly cut stumps. Other stumps that had already been infused now glowed with a faint blue hue, even in the sunlight. At night, those stumps would light the battlefield and prevent any surprises in the dark.
Near the midpoint of the new field, Broland passed a rock formation bigger than a house. Locals called the massive rock pile Irongrip’s Rock, named after a famous pirate who had frequented Wayport centuries earlier. That rock formation would be the only obstacle north of the city by the time the enemy arrived.
When the horses approached the north gate, Broland slowed to a stop and his escort gathered behind him.
“Ho, the gate!” he shouted. “It is Prince Broland, returning to the city.”
Two guards stepped forward. “The password, your Highness?”
“Tipper,” Broland replied.
Using the name as a password had be
en Broland’s father’s idea. It was part of the plan to retain control of the city, requiring it for anyone armed or dressed as a soldier.
“Welcome back, your Highness. You and your escort may enter.”
Broland rode through the gates and into the city. He was greeted with an unlikely sight.
All normal activity of Kantarian citizens had been relocated to the heart of the city, leaving only a military presence along the north wall. The houses in the area had even been evacuated, some of the residents moving to the city temple while others camped in the citadel square. With the citizens removed, soldiers now lived in those houses – at least until the fighting began.
At a walk, Broland and the other riders crossed the square, passing ranks of soldiers before entering the narrow streets. They passed shops – a butcher, a baker, and citizens standing to the side, all staring nervously at the procession. It was no secret that Kantaria was at war – a war they expected to come to the city. The situation had created a high level of anxiety despite his father’s promise to do everything possible to protect the people of Wayport – everything short of surrender to the Empire.
The city center was busy, filled with wagons being emptied for food stores, all paid for and controlled by the Kantarian Army. You will not starve, King Brock had said in his speech. We will feed and protect you, Issal willing. Broland doubted a siege could last long, not with the weapons involved. No. His fears were in a different direction as he imagined flashbombs destroying the city, setting it ablaze, and leaving nothing but charred rubble in the aftermath.
Turning, he rode toward the castle overlooking the city, built on top of the hill in the southeast corner. Another wall surrounded the citadel, divided by two square lookout towers with the gate between them. He passed through the gate and crossed the tent-filled square as he rode toward the stables situated between the castle proper and the north wall. There, he dismounted and removed his helmet.
“Thank you,” he said to his escort. “Get yourselves some food and rest. Morning will come soon, and I’m sure my father has another task planned for tomorrow.”
Handing the reins to the stable hand, Broland headed into the castle, nodding to the guard as he entered the dark halls. He passed through corridors adorned by tapestries and paintings, some beautiful, some elaborate, some obnoxious – all worth more than the farm he had just visited. The collection gave him added insight as to what kind of ruler Chadwick had been. I begin to understand why the people had little love toward the man or his wife.
He climbed the stairs and emerged into the expansive hall outside the throne room. Two guards, a man and a woman, stood beside the door, both nodding to him as he approached.
“I would report to my father. Is he inside?”
“Yes, your Highness,” the female guard said. “King Pretencia is with him.”
“Very well,” Broland pushed the door open, not waiting for approval.
The throne room was empty save for two men seated beside a table near the front. They spoke quietly to each other, the sound muffled by the distance. Light from the late afternoon sun shone through the stained glass windows, casting beams of red, green, yellow, and blue upon the rows of benches that filled half the room. Upon a dais at the fore, stood two empty thrones. Broland imagined the peacock, Chadwick, and his pretty, conceited wife, Illiri, sitting there, as they had done for years.
The former duke and duchess were now nothing but a memory, both having discovered the steep price of betrayal. While Illiri’s suicide had been out of Brock’s control, Chadwick’s execution still surprised Broland. Carrying out the act was out of character for his father. The crown is heaviest at times like this, his father had said. However, treachery requires the harshest of responses, if only to discourage others from taking the same path. The image of Chadwick swinging from the gibbet resurfaced as it had in more than one nightmare in the nights since his execution. Broland prayed he had the strength to make the hard decisions should he become king.
Reaching the front of the room, Broland’s gaze swept across the three tables his father had added, each covered with a different map, every map marked with arrows and notations.
King Brock, looked up and asked, “What news do you bring?”
“It is done, father. I visited the last six farms today, including the one at the eastern edge of the wood.”
“Good. The city is already receiving some of the farmers. The food stores will soon be overflowing – a problem I am willing to accept.”
“Yes. I passed wagons being unloaded when I rode through Central Square.”
“How do you intend to bring down the bridge?” Pretencia asked. “We don’t have any flash powder and the bridge was well built – made of brick and mortar if memory serves me.”
Brock sat back. “Don’t worry, Dalwin. I have a plan.”
Pretencia chuckled. “You never change.”
A snort preceded Brock’s reply. “I wouldn’t say that. When I first took the crown, I doubt I would have handled some of the less savory decisions the same way. However, time brings wisdom and alters one’s perspective.”
Broland, again, recalled the execution – the hard look on his father’s face as he denounced Chadwick and then called for the platform to drop. He wondered if the scene haunted his father as well.
“True words, Brock.” Pretencia said.
Broland cleared his throat, reclaiming their attention. “If you have nothing else for me, I could use a hot meal, warm bath, and a soft bed.”
“Nothing else today, son.” Brock stood and looked Broland in the eye. “Meet me in my room at first light. I have another task for you. We must continue to prepare, right up until scouts return with word of the enemy’s advance. Additional steps are required to complete the defense General Budakis and I planned, all those weeks ago.” Sorrow reflected in his eyes. “I wish Gunther were still here with us.”
Sadness washed over Broland as he recalled discovering Budakis murdered in his bed – an act of betrayal. The fact that his friend had killed the man still caused Broland’s insides to twist in discomfort. He closed his eyes, banished the painful memory, and focused on the present.
“I still don’t understand why you are so sure the Empire will attack Wayport.” Broland muttered. It would almost be a shame to prepare so hard and not have the enemy attack. Almost.
Brock turned toward the window, a window that had been recently replaced – the same window Tenzi had broken during her escape weeks earlier and then, again, by Broland’s father while capturing Chadwick. In the light coming through the window, his father glowed as if he were some heroic legend of old, risen from the pages of a book.
“I know these enemies, son. I know Varius. I know Kardan. I know The Hand. They cannot suffer my survival, nor will they accept losing Wayport. The city is too important. Without it, they dare not press north and take Fallbrandt, for it leaves their south flank undefended. They also need Wayport before they attempt taking Kantar. The ports in between matter little, but Wayport is the gateway to the west and among the busiest ports in Issalia.” He shook his head. “No, they cannot allow me to hold the city. They will attack.”
“And you are sure they know what happened here?” Broland asked.
Brock nodded while still staring out the window. “They are aware. Of that, I am sure. Our takeover was a very public act as was the subsequent execution. The Empire undoubtedly had spies in the city to watch Chadwick – to ensure his loyalty to their cause. Word of what transpired here has likely reached Sol Polis by now.” He spun about. “They will surely attack. When is the only question. I believe the answer is soon, for the more time we get, the stronger our position will become. The Empire knows this.” He picked up a letter from the table. “Besides, a scout arrived with news late last night.”
Broland glanced at Pretencia, who was sitting back, watching Brock. “What news?”
“Additional troops and war machines have arrived at Hipoint. The messenger estimates ove
r four thousand infantry, dozens of catapults, and at least thirty wagons filled with supplies now occupy the area. Undoubtedly, flashbombs are among those supplies.”
“No cavalry?”
“Not yet. They are likely coming up the coast. Perhaps that is why the troops linger at Hipoint.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Brock said loudly.
A guard opened the door and admitted a woman dressed in brown riding gear.
“Sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty,” the guard said. “But she says it is urgent.”
“Don’t worry about it, Dillard,” Brock replied
The guard nodded and pulled the door closed, leaving the woman alone. She crossed the length of the room, glancing at Broland before facing his father.
“What news do you have, Shilla?”
“It is as you suspected, my King. An army comes this way, down the coastal road from Hipoint.”
“Where are they now?”
“I left them late this afternoon and rode hard. At the rate they travel, the army won’t reach the river until tomorrow evening, the next day at the latest.”
“Thank you, Shilla. Get yourself a hot meal and relax. I need you back out in the morning to rejoin Ronald. I want to keep eyes on the enemy to limit surprises.”
“Yes, Sire,” with a bow, she turned and walked toward the exit.
With her gone, Pretencia said, “So, it begins.”
“Yes,” Brock reclaimed his seat with a sigh. “One day. We have one day left to prepare. I pray we haven’t missed anything.”
28
Doubt
Iko rode in silence, lost in thought.
The dozen cavalrymen lent by Commander Korbath were also quiet. None had spoken to him since the capture of the two spies.
The first night, the cavalry had camped at the edge of the wood just east of the destroyed road. The next morning, Korbath and the main force began searching for an alternate route west while Iko and his entourage began the long ride back to Yarth.
A Kingdom Under Siege Page 19