“There is no hope of shelter along the eastern coast. A garrison of the enemy stands between Dilian and Keep Hathoss. They would slaughter us.”
“Talbethé will slaughter us faster,” said Fayett, heart quickening.
“Not necessarily. Consider, Your Highness: You feel certain that we would be crushed if we attempted to take Keep Talbethé.”
“Aye, because we would.”
“You are convinced of this?”
“Most assuredly.”
Gwynter’s smile appeared again, stretching slyly across his lips. “That is why we shall stand a chance. The Order of Corvus knows this is how we feel. They wouldn’t dream any more than you do that the Winter Army would march on Keep Talbethé, stronghold of Corvus. The element of surprise is on our side.”
“Surprise, sui, but nothing more,” said Fayett. “No level of planning will give us an edge sharp enough to overwhelm Keep Talbethé. Forgive me, Majesty, but this is folly. The fortress is impregnable. And—and even should you take the keep against all odds, that would shatter the very defenses you seek to gain for your army.”
“True, if I marched my army to its front gates and announced my presence. A siege would fail.”
“You intend to sneak inside the keep?” The implications, all the problems Gwynter wasn’t stating, the improbability of success, flashed across Fayett’s mind. “You must have some other scheme, not mere infiltration.”
Gwynter nodded. “I realize that a frontal assault will not penetrate the keep. I also recognize that taking a handful of men inside the keep by night and attempting to assassinate or overpower the Order is next to useless. I intend to sneak inside, but my plan isn’t murder at that point.”
A spark had ignited in Gwynter’s eye, and Fayett found himself drawn to the flame of quiet enthusiasm burning there. A yearning to believe that this man’s scheme could work swelled up, though it was madness. “What do you intend?”
Gwynter’s smile deepened further. “Trickery, Your Highness. I intend to fool them into believing we’ve already won. However, there is one other matter I must see to first.”
“No,” snarled General Haratin. “I will not be party to such reckless, disgraceful, foolhardy plots! I say again, sire, no. You go too far.”
Gwynter ren Wintervale looked up from the table splayed with maps, eyes flickering in the candlelight. Rohkye stared between his liege lord and the officers assembled, each hooding their feelings as best they might, except General Haratin, red-faced, nostrils flared.
“You will not obey my orders?” asked the Winter King, tone soft and laced with warning.
“Nay, young king,” said Haratin. “I cannot. Any effort to take Talbethé will fail, no matter how clever you think yourself. We haven’t the strength of arms, we haven’t the provisions, we frankly haven’t anything. Charquae is fallen by now. Your source of support is ended. We’re a mere phantom army, haunting the barren winter fields until at last the men disband or worse—turn on their leaders! Well, I’ve had enough of starving and freezing in the name of a mere pup, ambitious and overeager to prove himself. I’m finished pretending.”
“What will you do, General Haratin?” asked Gwynter.
Tension crackled in the air, every face fastened between king and general, breathless. Rohkye didn’t dare to move, though he’d been pouring out diluted ale for the officers. Now didn’t seem an appropriate time to serve drinks. Or to twitch.
“I shall retire to my estate, Your Majesty—unless you intend to stop me. But, by Afallon, if you try, I shall fight my way free or die in the effort.”
The Winter King considered Haratin for several heartbeats, eyes dark as a stormy sea. “Would you swear an oath, Haratin, not to betray our plans to the enemy? On pain of death and by your very soul, would you swear to keep silent?”
“This is madness, sire,” piped up Mershen, hands raised in a placating gesture. “Haratin can’t well go back home unmolested. The Crow King knows of his acts of treason. Surely you recognize the danger, Haratin. If you return, your life is forfeit. We’re all committed to this fight, whether or not the circumstances are ideal.”
Haratin sneered. “Ever the faithful lapdog, Mershen. Laying siege to Talbethé is tantamount to suicide. I’ll have no part in it. I won’t lead my men to death for this, this whelp who calls himself a monarch!”
Lawen slammed his fist against the table. Rohkye nearly leapt out of his skin and sloshed ale down his ragged front.
“Firstly,” said Lawen, green eyes as dangerous as Nox’s dragon, “Gwynter has never declared himself king, yet other men have called him so, for that title was inherited at birth. You’ve seen the proof. We all have. Whatever claims you make, let them be truth at the least, Lord Haratin. Secondly, do not use protecting your men as an excuse for your cowardice. Say aloud what you think: You’re afraid, General. Talbethé scares you spitless.”
“I admit it! Keep Talbethé is impenetrable. None can breach its walls. Only madmen would consider taking it, and none would succeed.” Haratin turned back to Gwynter. “I won’t march on Talbethé. I won’t march on Crowwell. I denounce you. You’re a weak and inexperienced fool. What glory is there in this mad crusade? I say none!”
“And you shall say no more,” said Gwynter firmly. “Go, Haratin. Leave this camp, leave my men, leave your honor, and begone from my sight before dawn, or I shall burn you as a traitor.”
General Haratin raised his chin to look down his nose at the king, but Gwynter stood taller than him. Rohkye turned back to pouring ale. The other men resumed studying the maps across the table. For a moment longer, Haratin stood in defiance, but when King Gwynter rested a hand on the sword strapped to his hip, the general stepped back. He hesitated, then sniffed, and spun to storm from the tent.
Silence ruled long after hooves thundered away outside. Gwynter turned to Rohkye. “You may serve the drinks now. The men are thirsty.”
Rohkye shook himself and handed out the tankards, two at a time, as Gwynter motioned to the maps.
“Gentlemen, now that we’ve rooted out the rat, which would no doubt delight Kive…”
Nervous laughter trickled through the officers.
Gwynter tapped the dread spot against the canvas map. “We must take Keep Talbethé. We all know it, whether or not you can admit it to yourselves. Should we march for Crowwell, assuming we first survived this winter in the cold, the Order of Corvus would undoubtedly send forth the forces of Talbethé to hinder us. Likely, that would result in complete annihilation. Can anyone dispute me?”
No one spoke. Several officers sipped their ale.
“I thought not.” Gwynter sighed. “I cannot dispute that Talbethé is a terrifying specter. We took Bayton because only a handful of the Order of Corvus oversaw its barricades. They underestimated us. Again, just now in Trayton, we overpowered the Heshi—alleged strongest army in the world—not because we were stronger, but because they underestimated us. But if we march on Crowwell, the Crow King will not underestimate us, especially after these victories. He will send a wave great enough to crush us where we stand. That wave is gaining momentum even now. The defeat of the Heshi has guaranteed that.
“This leaves us just one option. We must take Talbethé before the Crow King can conjure his reply. We must strike a third chink in the enemy’s armor, or we lose all. And besides, Talbethé is the only fortress large enough to imprison our Heshi guests, which we must do before they gain enough courage to stab us in the back.
“I spoke of besieging the keep with our full force of arms. That, gentlemen, was a lie. Haratin has long doubted my plans and his motivations have been self-serving. No matter what scheme I presented to this council, I knew he would protest loudly and likely withdraw his support. That won’t surprise anyone here, very likely. Thus, I knew I must present a false plan, one that would tip the scale at last and show Haratin his own true colors. In this I have succeeded, and I ask you to forgive my subterfuge.
“We will not be laying siege
to Talbethé. We will instead infiltrate it to topple its defenses from the interior. General Haratin was correct in one regard: we are as a phantom force, but that will lend us strength. Let us become as specters, stealthy, unseen, powerful. This is our advantage. We shall conquer Talbethé, we shall dethrone the Crow King, and we shall give rise to a new nation built for the people and not for the tyrants of ages past. This we can do, by Afallon’s grace.
“Gentlemen, I ask you to ride with me even through madness. What say you?”
Silence answered.
Lawen clapped a fist to his chest. “My liege, I will ride with you into the very pits of Hell, should you ask it. And i’ truth, I believe this time you do.”
Laughter, nervous but strong, rippled through the officers. One by one they clapped their fists to their armored chests and bowed their heads.
“Into the fray we ride, sire,” said Mershen.
“Come what may,” added Bened Arnnor.
General Cluv lifted his tankard. “Let us take Talbethé, that the Crow King may understand what fear truly is!”
“Hear, hear!” cried the officers in unison, lifting their ale to drink a toast.
King Gwynter looked on, grim and silent, his ale untouched. Rohkye wondered what thoughts swirled in the young king’s mind: guilt, fear, pride? Did he think his army stood a chance? Would Talbethé hold or would it topple?
Either way, what would the Crow King do in retaliation?
Chapter 17
Storm clouds settled over Crowwell, reflecting Kovien’s mood. He had conjured them to do so, for though he was born an Ilidreth, and the fae couldn’t control weather patterns, he was also born human, and thus he was a mage. The combination endowed him with magic fiercer, more awesome, than had been seen in any age since Afallon.
Once, long, long ago, he’d hated his power. Hated his blood and birthright. In truth, he still did. But now he was much more than High Prince Kovien had ever been. He ruled Simaerin; he had vanquished Ilid; soon he would raze Fraelin to the ground. Such had been his plan; and from there, every isle, every peninsula, every tiny nook in the wide world would become his.
But now, seated on his throne, eyeing the bowing messengers at his feet, cramped, and confined to this tiny chamber, in this tiny kingdom, with tiny, incompetent human creatures—
Kovien stamped down hard on a swelling urge to shatter the castle walls around him. He must maintain control. He must remain calm. The Crow King never grew angry. Never became upset. He was the pinnacle of right, justice, truth. His cause would never fail. There was no reason to panic…
“You have heard nothing of General Cadogan since his capture?” asked Kovien, keeping his voice low and level. Good, he sounded calm. Not a trace of panic, not an ounce of anger… “The Ilidreth invaders have not displayed his remains upon Londolin’s walls?”
“No, sire. They hold him and his entire army within the Silver City, but beyond that we know nothing.”
Kovien’s heart constricted. The Ilidreth had come, here, to Simaerin—and they flew the Swan banner. Unthinkable, unbearable.
But the Crow King must be calm, unruffled, long-suffering…
Kovien nodded. His face remained a mask, unreadable. “And the so-called Winter King. What progress has he made? Still trapped on the banks of the Delesar, yes?”
“No, Majesty,” answered another man bowing before him, wearing the tabard of a royal courier. “Your spy sent a missive, but it reached Keep Hathoss too late. The Winter Army has crossed the river and taken Trayton. They attacked at dawn on the Feast of Afallon. The Heshi were abed and only one escaped to send a letter by pigeon, else we would know nothing of their defeat.”
Kovien closed his eyes. Rage surged through his veins like fire; hot, harrowing. “Very well.” His voice drifted out as a whisper, tinged with icy anger. At least it was cold, though his bones were melting. “Any sign of which road the Winter Army is taking?”
“None yet, sire. We hope to learn their plans soon.”
Kovien opened his eyes. “My spy would not fail me deliberately.” His gaze slid to the third prostrating figure. “What of Charquae?”
“The dragon continues her torment, sire. The people there must be cowed by now.”
“What of the enemy’s dragon? Any sign?”
“None, sire.”
Kovien frowned. Odd that Gwynter ren Terare found a dragon, used it once at Bayton, and then never again. But then, dragons were difficult to capture and harder still to keep. Likely, whatever bargain he’d struck had run its course. But there was still the chance Gwynter was playing a game; that the dragon lay in wait for some greater purpose.
“Very well,” Kovien said. “Send word to Arianwen. Tell her Charquae must fall now.”
“Yes, sire.” The man lowered his head more, then rose from his knee, and scurried from the room.
Kovien turned to the second messenger. “Londolin is lost to us but dispatch an army of 3,000 foot soldiers to keep the Ilidreth contained there. We do not need them joining the Winter Army in their efforts to reach Crowwell.”
“Yes, sire.” The messenger also bowed then left the throne room.
“You.”
The last messenger lifted his head. “Majesty?”
“Bring me Windsur ren Cloven. Tell him to hurry.”
As the messenger left, Traycen ren Lotelon moved from the side of the throne to bend his knee at Kovien’s side.
“What is your will, my master?”
“My spy is only human, and his word reaches me slowly. Find out what young Gwynter plans next.”
Traycen nodded. “Yes, my king.” He vanished on the spot.
The courtiers and servants who remained in the throne room kept silent. Kovien could hear the whistling wind beyond the walls, high and eerie. Not long ago, he had feigned that magic belonged only to heretics, but since Gwynter’s betrayal, all that had changed. Now, of necessity, Kovien had revealed the truth. The Order of Corvus was his personal army of mages, and Simaerin must accept that fact. Many nobles were uncomfortable with that revelation, but Kovien hardly cared. He must use every tool in his arsenal, or he could lose this war. Indeed, he could lose everything.
In proper Traycen fashion, the mage returned within moments, and not alone. Clutched by the hair, sniffling and trembling, knelt a man in armor.
“General Haratin, formerly of the Winter Army, sire,” said Traycen, and he yanked the man’s head back until he elicited a whimper.
Kovien propped his elbow against the arm of his throne and rested his cheek against his palm. “Greetings, General Haratin, senile fool in the flesh. But what is this of a former rank? Have you been thrown out of the enemy camp? Release him, Lord ren Lotelon. Let him speak.”
Haratin fell forward as the mage unhanded him. Gathering himself up, the general held his chin high as he met Kovien’s gaze. “I was on my way to see you, Your Majesty. I have not been thrown out of Gwynter’s camp. I left of my own volition.”
Kovien’s lip lifted in a snarl. “How commendable. So, you only had a brief bout of madness, and now you think better of betraying your liege. I’m touched, Haratin. Quite touched.”
The man paled. “Forgive me, my king. I was weak, and—”
Kovien lifted a hand. “None of that, if you please. Lord ren Lotelon brought here you because you have news of Gwynter’s next move. Supply it to me, and I may spare your life, though treason is punishable by death.”
Light caught in Haratin’s eyes and he leaned forward. “Yes, my king. Just before I rode from the Winter Camp, Gwynter shared his next plan of attack. His goal is Keep Talbethé. He intends to lay siege to it.”
Kovien stared at Haratin. He threw his head back and laughed. “Talbethé? Truly? Does the fool think he could conquer that fortress, now or in a hundred years? He lacks the men, the arms, even the magic to accomplish such a feat. Was this not some jest at your expense, Haratin?”
“Nay, sire. He was deadly serious and set upon his goal. I argued l
ong with him about the folly of his scheme, but he remained resolute.”
“And thus, you left, at last seeing his recklessness for what it is.” Kovien canted his head. “But where do you stand now, General? Not with Gwynter seemingly, yet you have betrayed me as well. Where does that leave a man, I wonder? Forsaken, I think. I said I would spare you, Haratin, and I keep my word. Your life remains yours, but I cannot tolerate traitors. You must leave Simaerin. I doubt Fraelin will offer sanctuary, for they are allied with Gwynter. You also helped with the taking of Trayton, and so I suspect the Heshi will not extend an invitation. Across the sea may be your only recourse. But that I leave to you. Goodbye, Haratin.” He turned his head away.
“S-sire, please. Have I not redeemed myself in some degree? I would serve you faithfully. I would swear an oath—”
“As you did once to me, and once to Gwynter? Yet you expect me to believe you a third time? I am no fool, Haratin. Oaths and honor mean nothing to you. You disgust me. Begone. Should I see you again, I will not stay my hand twice.”
Kovien looked up and pinned his gaze on the figure striding from the back of the long chamber, head held high, arrogance rolling from his frame like smoke from a dying fire. Kovien smiled. The proud ones were so easy to bend and mold.
“Ah, Sir Windsur ren Cloven, I am glad you could come so swiftly. I have need of you.”
Parsha bade Nox to remain within the walls of Charquae, but that seemed a pointless exercise as the dragon himself had stated that should he fail to obtain a truce from the she-dragon, all would be lost. When Nox told Parsha as much, the man-dragon shrugged his shoulders and started off for the city wall. Nox took that as a sign that he could follow, so he did. He doubted he would be any use, but he couldn’t stand back and twiddle his thumbs while his beloved city stood between two opposing dragons.
Parsha strode through the brittle grass, not taking the road. He returned to where before, as a magnificent beast, he’d lain in plain sight, hiding. Glancing at Nox, Parsha offered a fanged smile, then pulled the velvet pouch from his robe pocket, and upended it to drop the diamond into his palm.
The Complete Duology Page 39