Benjamin Ashwood Box Set 2

by A. C. Cobble

  “That man has probably had the best year of business in his lifetime,” complained Ben. “Everything he had left in stock was marked up four times what it should cost, and I’d bet all the silver in my pouch that it will be gone by next week. What is he so upset about?”

  “He’s selling for four times what everything is worth,” explained Amelie, “but so is everyone else in this town. Prices on everything from sewing needles to eggs are inflated. He’s taking in more coin, but he’s got to go pay it right back out to the farmer, and that’s only if he can find a farmer who still has produce to sell. The soldiers are cleaning these places out. That merchant may have more coin in his purse than he’s ever had, but he has less food in the larder. His children can’t eat gold coins.”

  “There’s also the concern of what happens next,” mentioned Rhys, standing in the center of the dirt street and looking around the village. “When food cannot be bought at any price, these soldiers aren’t going to peacefully go hungry. They’re going to take what they cannot purchase. The villages won’t be able to do anything about it except hide what they can. The soldiers have the muscle, the armor, and the swords.”

  Ben frowned, looking at a group of armored men who were ducking into the village’s small tavern.

  “Even worse is what happens when the battle is over,” continued Rhys. “Win or lose, many of these men will be heading home along this road. They’ll be footsore and starving. They’ll be jaded from seeing the horrors of war. Their officers will no longer have a hold over them, as most of the recent conscripts will be dismissed from service the moment they get to Whitehall. What do you think they’ll do, then? There may not be food in the cellars or ale in the taverns, but there are still farmer’s daughters in the fields. If those women are smart, they’ll be far out of the way of the returning soldiers. If not…”

  “Surely the local highborn will do something.”

  “Who?” asked Rhys, gesturing around. “There’s no highborn within a hundred leagues of this place. The Merchant’s Guild in Fabrizo is the closest thing they have, and their power is financial and political. They have no large standing army that can enforce order around these little towns. This village might have a mayor, and he might try to raise a militia to deal with unruly strangers in town, but what could they do to stop a well-armed company of men? Nothing, Ben. There’s nothing they could do.”

  “Maybe we could… do something,” said Ben lamely.

  “Let’s worry about stopping the war first,” suggested Amelie.

  “First,” declared Rhys, “we should stop in that tavern and see if they have any ale left. It’s a long walk to Murdoch’s Waystation, and with the bulk of the Alliance’s army nearby, I’m guessing it’s going to be as dry as a bone. We should drink what we can now.”

  Amelie rolled her eyes but didn’t object when the rogue shuffled toward the tavern.

  “Wait,” said Prem.

  Ben turned and saw she was looking to the edge of town. A man was standing there, bent over, hands on his knees. His face was red and he was drawing ragged breaths. A crowd of soldiers was gathering around him. Other soldiers ran off, shouting for companions or officers.

  “I think we should see what this man has to say,” suggested the former guardian.

  Rhys sighed and then followed when the party moved closer. They were careful not to draw so close as to raise the notice of the soldiers, but close enough they could hear when the man finally stood and raised his voice over the crowd noise.

  “All men of the Alliance are instructed to march immediately,” he said between ragged breaths. “You are to march without pause to Issen.”

  “Hold on,” protested a man who looked to be one of the officers. “We were told to head for a place called Murdoch’s Waystation. The army is supposed to be marshalling there.”

  “They’re moving,” explained the messenger. “They were packing up as I left. They’ll be to Issen in three weeks. With a small company, if you hurry, you can catch them. The king has demanded everyone make all haste.”

  The officer frowned and glanced to his fellows. “Why the change? We have forty-thousand more men coming from Whitehall. Without them, the Coalition has an advantage over us in the field. Without Northport, we’ll need every sword we can get to take the keep at Issen.”

  “The highborn in Issen have rebelled, throwing off the mantle of the Coalition,” responded the messenger. “It’s unclear who will rule. We expect Lord Jason will march immediately from Irrefort. Whichever army makes it to Issen first and is able to take the city will have an enormous advantage when the war begins. From behind Issen’s walls, we won’t need those forty-thousand.”

  “How’d they throw off the mantle of the Coalition?” wondered the officer. “Lady Selene still lives, doesn’t she? She’s the rightful heir, and I can’t imagine any of those highborn in Issen would betray her and Lord Jason. Bastards’ll be short a head if they did.”

  “Some old fox named Lord Dronson found an ancient law saying the ruler of Issen may have no title in another land. Lady Selene married the Black Knife and became Queen of the Coalition. So, they stripped Lady of Issen from her. No one knows where her heir is. The way I understand it, it’s all a bit uncertain right now. Rumor around camp is that there is supposed to be some meeting of the highborn in Issen, but half of ‘em are dead or fled, and the other half don’t know which way to go. King Saala’s figuring that if he can get there before Jason, the city’s amenable to Alliance rule. If not, why’d they strip Lady Selene of her title?”

  “Probably some power play by this Lord Dronson,” muttered the soldier. “He figures if he has control, he can negotiate himself a sweet piece of the spoils.”

  The messenger shrugged. Clearly, he wasn’t concerned with the intricate political maneuvering of Issen’s highborn, and neither was Saala. The Coalition had held a major advantage by occupying Issen. With it in play, the Alliance could steal the upper hand.

  The officer turned to the men standing around the runner. “Well, boys, you heard ‘em. Pack up. We leave in two bells!”

  Soldiers began to scatter, and the runner unstrapped a water skin and turned it up.

  Amelie charged through the departing crowd of men and confronted the messenger. “Lord Dronson, has he declared Issen for the Alliance or not?”

  The runner shrugged. “This is military business, girl.”

  “Was Issen declared an independent nation?” pressed Amelie. “Did Dronson merely strip Selene’s title, or did he remove her house from the rolls of nobility? This is important, man.”

  “I wasn’t there,” said the messenger, hanging his water skin back on his belt. “Look, girl, I’d tell you more if I knew it. All I know is the orders to march and the rumors that were flying around camp when I left. I don’t know all that political stuff. From a military perspective, if we can gain Issen, we got them bastards in the Coalition beat. Now, girl, I got other towns to alert before dark.”

  The messenger trotted off, heading south toward Fabrizo.

  Ben came to stand beside Amelie. Under his breath, he said, “Your mother married Lord Jason after all.”

  “Of course she did,” responded Amelie, staring north, her brow furrowed in thought.

  “If what the messenger said is true, Saala’s already left Murdoch’s,” said Ben. “We won’t be able to catch him there. Maybe if we hurry, we could get to him before he makes Issen, though.”

  “Ben,” said Rhys.

  Ben frowned at his friend. “What?”

  Rhys nodded to Amelie.

  Her eyes were still fixed north, and she was ignoring the discussion between Ben and Rhys.

  “What did I miss?” asked Ben.

  “If what the messenger said was true,” explained Rhys, “Lady Selene was stripped of her title because she cannot be both Queen of the Coalition and the Lady of Issen. It doesn’t sound like her familial rights were terminated, though. Any heirs of Lady Selene would still be in line to rule Iss
en.”

  Ben frowned at Amelie and scratched his head.

  “I am the Lady of Issen,” she murmured. “Saala, Jason, they’re marching on my people right now. My people. Even if we catch Saala, how can we stop Lord Jason?”

  “Amelie,” Ben said, his mind racing. “There’s something you’re missing. If Saala just left Murdoch’s Waystation a few days ago, with an army that size, he’s what, three weeks from Issen? Irrefort is three weeks from Issen as well.”

  “We could beat them there,” breathed Rhys, his eyes going wide.

  “If we hike fast and don’t stop except when necessary, we can do it,” agreed Ben. “Amelie, if we get you there, will they recognize you?”

  “Lord Dronson knows me,” replied Amelie slowly. “He was always loyal to my father and a stickler for protocol. If we can get to him, I think he’ll recognize me and support my claim, but what good will that do us? Issen has an army but not one that can stand against the Alliance or the Coalition. The city would have been weakened under Coalition rule, and my mother would have brought some of its strength as an honor guard to Irrefort for the wedding. Opposing both the Alliance and the Coalition may get everyone inside Issen killed. Even though I am within my rights to rule the city, I won’t force my people to fight a battle we cannot win.”

  “Prem,” asked Ben, “can you contact your father and find out where he and our forces are? They were moving east along the highroad. If they can scramble to make Issen before the armies…”

  The former guardian nodded, and a far-away look stole into her eyes. They waited a moment while she communicated with her father. Finally, Prem regained focus, and she smiled. “They think they are three weeks from Issen.”

  Ben looked to Amelie. “We won’t have nearly as many men as the Alliance or Coalition, but we’ll be on the walls. We’ll have the blademasters and rangers from Venmoor, Jasper’s group of mages, the guardians, and all the recruits from the north they’ve been collecting. It’s a ragtag one, but it’s an army. What do you think?”

  “If we only have three weeks,” responded Amelie, “we’d better start walking.”

  Feeling exposed, Ben and his friends climbed the hill to Murdoch’s Waystation. The log buildings that made up the complex looked the same as Ben remembered, but on the hills around the place, the grass had been trampled into the dirt. Scores of broken wagons, discarded tents, clothing, abandoned cookfires, and other debris littered every open space for as far as he could see. The smell of rotting food and human waste permeated the air. He was glad they weren’t planning to stay.

  They’d decided the risk was worth it to poke their heads into the inn, though. Most of the travelers they passed were heading north, following the army just like they were. They’d been making good time, a small party unencumbered by supplies and gear for war, but they were uncertain how far ahead of them Saala’s forces could be.

  If they could get an estimate of how long since the troops had left, they’d know when it was best to strike out across country so they could skirt around the main force. The Alliance had no reason to want to detain them, but there was no sense risking a confrontation either.

  With the new information about Issen’s potential independence, they decided they wouldn’t attempt to meet Saala directly until they’d made it into the city, linked up with their own forces, and could negotiate from a position of strength. They also had Jason’s men to worry about. If they could show the Alliance and the Coalition there was nothing to be gained from the war, then maybe the armies would both turn back. Tactically, fighting on two fronts, with one of those groups behind the high walls of Issen, was a terrible idea. Saala and Jason were both savvy enough commanders to see that. Ben hoped they would agree to a peaceful solution.

  “Are we sure this is a good idea?” questioned Prem, glancing at the handful of ragged figures who were picking their way through the fields of refuse outside of the waystation.

  “Camp followers,” said Rhys. “Desperate men and women who don’t feel they have any other options. Once the fighting starts, there will be more of them.”

  “Let’s go in and get something to eat. Then, we’ll be on our way,” suggested Ben. “It’s worth a short pause if we learn any news.”

  “And if they have any ale left,” agreed Rhys.

  Ben ignored the rogue and led the way up the creaky, wooden steps to the tavern. The last time he’d been there, a group of wagon guards had been playing a rough game involving leaping an open fire and drinking. His sister Meghan had been assaulted by one of them. Now, the place was almost empty, just a dozen men clustered together in one corner.

  The first time they’d been in the waystation, Ben had been excited about the adventure ahead of him and nervous about the dangers that lurked in the world. Now, he knew more about those dangers than he ever could have imagined, but he wasn’t nervous about what he’d find in the tavern. Drunk wagon guards, thieves, those were simple problems.

  A tired-looking serving woman wordlessly gestured to a table, and Rhys asked, “Any ale, or did the army drink it all?”

  “They did,” replied the woman, “but we got more yesterday. Couple barrels from one’a tha mountain towns. Fresh livestock too. Goat on tha spit and potatoes on the boil if that suits ya.”

  “Good enough. Bring a couple of pitchers of that ale, please.” Turning to the group, the rogue grinned. “Fresh ale.”

  Since Fabrizo, they hadn’t found a place that still had drink. The soldiers had bought up every drop on their march north. Rhys had not taken it well.

  A short time later, the serving woman plonked down empty tankards and full pitchers. Rhys greedily filled his tankard and then settled back in his chair, taking a long sip.

  “This is good!” he exclaimed. “Almost as good as the stuff you used to brew, Ben.”

  Ben tried his, the familiar mix of hops and barley rolling over his tongue.

  “It does taste like mine,” he murmured. He leaned to the side, looking around Rhys.

  “Best ale I’ve had since we left the City, however many months ago that was,” announced Rhys, pouring himself another mug.

  Ben stood and walked around their table, heading for the group in the corner. Behind him, he heard Rhys asking where he was going, but he didn’t pause to answer.

  “Brandon, Serrot?”

  “Ben!” shouted a familiar voice, and all of a sudden, the group was scrambling, leaping up from chairs and knocking over drinks in their rush to smother Ben in hugs.

  It was overwhelming, the press of flesh, the frantic questions and excitement. It took a bit, but he finally extracted himself and glanced over his friends. They were only a year older, but it appeared they’d been through a lot in that year. He supposed he might look the same, and their eyes confirmed it.

  “Ben, it’s been so long,” said Brandon, his step-brother. “When we got the letter from Meghan, we thought you’d be gone for good. You’d started a brewery in the City, she’d said. We could barely believe it!”

  “I was a brewer there, for a while,” acknowledged Ben.

  “It didn’t work out?” asked his old friend Serrot. “Your brewery is still going strong in Farview, Ben. Better than ever, thanks to all of those soldiers who were camped here. I’ve been maintaining it, brewing the ale with your recipes. The last few months I’ve been making more coin than I know what to do with! There have been more soldiers in the region than there are barrels of ale. I’ll give you your cut, of course, and you can take back over whenever you’re ready, Ben. I enjoy the coin it brings, but I don’t have a flair for brewing like you do. Also, we’ve been… we’ve been busy with some other things.”

  “Demons,” confirmed Brandon. “Ever since that first one, they’ve been coming, more and more of them. The last two months, though, it’s finally started to slow down. Wherever they were coming from has been closed off or something. No one knows how they get here, least, no one in Farview. How… what happened in the City, Ben? We haven’t heard
from Meghan in so long. Is she here, too?”

  Ben grimaced. “Maybe it’s best we sit down, Brandon.”

  “We’ll buy you an ale,” replied his step-brother, trying to make it a cheerful reunion and avoiding the look he must have seen in Ben’s eye.

  Ben glanced back at his friends. Amelie waved him to stay, so he settled down at the table. Brandon, Serrot, Blevin Beerman, and several others he recognized huddled around him.

  “Meghan,” he began. He paused and met Brandon’s eyes. “Meghan passed away, Brandon.”

  His brother’s smile faded. “How?”

  Ben scratched at the scar on his arm, thinking of what he should say. “She died in Northport. There were demons there. The entire city was overrun.”

  “Northport…” murmured Brandon, struggling to comprehend that his sister was dead and that she’d died in a place so far away. “You say it was overrun, but are you sure she didn’t escape? She was always a fighter.”

  Ben winced. “I-I saw the body, Brandon.”

  His brother shook his head. “We’d hoped… We’d hoped that as bad as it was here, maybe it was better elsewhere in the world. I thought the Sanctuary might be safe, but a mage, huh? I guess she was out there on the front lines, battling those things just like we were. She always wanted to do what was right, and was willing to fight for it. You remember that, don’t you?”

  Ben rubbed the back of his hand across his lips and then responded, “She fought until the end, doing what she thought was best.”

  Brandon raised his ale mug. “That’s something we can be proud of. To our sister.”

  Ben lifted his mug as well and thumped it against Brandon’s. “To our sister.”

  The rest of the men murmured kind words.

  Brandon leaned closer to Ben. “Alistair passed as well, some months ago. The house is there, and it’s empty with just me in it. There’s room for you, Ben, if you want to stay with me. I know we didn’t always see eye to eye, but it’s important to look out for your family. I understand that now, more than I ever did before. Before the demons, you know?”