The Five Kingdoms: Book 04 - Crying Havoc

by Toby Neighbors

  “I shall not disappoint you. We will be ready to leave at dawn.”

  “Not dawn, no, that won’t do,” said Gwendolyn. “Have your men ready, but make it midday. That sounds much more pleasant.”

  Wilam was at a loss for words. He bowed and hurried from the room. He was walking across the long feasting hall on the way to inform his troops to gear up and prepare to escort their Queen to Blue Harbor when he was met by Keevy, the Castle steward.

  “I shall be leaving with you tomorrow,” he said, doing his best to sound confident.

  “Oh, no,” Wilam corrected him. “This is a military matter. Your place is here,” he said in mock sympathy.

  “I serve Her Majesty,” Keevy said angrily. “I’ll not leave her alone with you.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told, or we’ll find a new steward while your head decorates the Castle gates.”

  “No!” he shouted, his pudgy face red with indignation. “You’ve been trying to get rid of me since you arrived. I won’t let you. I won’t let you worm your way into Her Majesty’s good graces.”

  “Do not forget who you are talking to,” Wilam said in a low voice that was brimming with anger. “I have not forgotten how you went behind my back and told the Queen about the force from Ortis. You are a snake in the grass, and I’ll have your head if you cross me again.”

  “You can’t kill me. The lady Gwendolyn needs me,” he said haughtily.

  “Don’t test me.”

  “I’ll do more than that, I’ll slice your throat while you sleep. I don’t fear you. You’ve had everything handed to you your whole life. You’re nothing but a bag of hot air.”

  In most circumstances the entire exchange would have been laughable. Prince Wilam was not the kind of man who bandied words with anyone, and no one who knew him would ever accuse him of being lazy or spoiled. If anything, the Crown Prince was too dedicated and suffered from an inflated sense of responsibility to his people. But the steward’s constant scheming chafed Wilam, as did the steward’s access to Gwendolyn. His fist shot out so fast that Keevy never saw it, just felt his head snap backwards from the blow.

  The Castle steward staggered back and fell over the long feasting table. Even though he was much older than Wilam and had no experience fighting, he bellowed in rage and launched himself at the Prince. The fight didn’t last long. Wilam used the steward’s own momentum to flip him over, and Keevy landed on the stone floor with a bone-jarring crash. In any other circumstances the fight would have ended there, but Keevy was insane with jealous rage. He picked himself up off the floor, his face twisted in anger and pain. Wilam didn’t wait for the steward to launch another attack, instead he kicked Keevy hard between the legs. The older man folded over in pain and fell back onto the floor.

  The fight should have ended then, but Wilam was caught up in battle lust. He grabbed the steward’s head and slammed it into the flagstone floor of the feasting hall. The skin on Keevy’s forehead split, sending blood streaming from the wound. The man was unconscious as Wilam slammed his head into the floor over and over again, shattering Keevy’s skull and pounding his brains to jelly. When Wilam stood up, he was covered with blood and bits of gore. Several other servants had come running to see what had happened. They had heard Keevy’s bellow of rage and seen Prince Wilam beat him to death.

  Wilam was still angry and would have gladly continued fighting but Gwendolyn had come down when she heard the steward screaming in rage. As soon as Wilam saw her, his blood lust evaporated and he stood still.

  “Clean up the mess,” Gwendolyn said icily.

  Then she spun on her heel and marched back up to her rooms, her gown billowing out behind her and Andomina following silently behind. Wilam was unsure what to do. He turned and left the hall, stopping at a barrel of fresh water to wash himself. Then he sent word for his officers to join him.

  The next day their small army assembled in the courtyard. The cavalry from Ortis would lead the army, followed by Gwendolyn and Andomina in their carriage and then by the foot soldiers and supply wagons. Wilam had not returned to the Castle that night. He normally slept in a small anteroom outside of Gwendolyn’s quarters, in case she needed him in the night. But after killing Keevy, who had served as Gwendolyn’s steward since she arrived at the Castle on the Sea, he was ashamed. Even though he would gladly have killed any number of men just to get close to Gwendolyn, his sense of honor was shaken that he had given into his rage and killed a civilian as helpless as Keevy. He didn’t miss the steward—they had been enemies since their first encounter—but he had never lost control like that before and he didn’t like the result.

  He organized the army and then waited with his troops until Gwendolyn was ready to leave. When Gwendolyn and her sister finally came out of the Castle, they went directly into their large, wooden wagon, outfitted with thick drapes and padded benches. Gwendolyn didn’t speak to anyone, so Prince Wilam ordered the army to set out.

  They marched without stopping until sunset. It was a hot and dusty day, but they were traveling on the coastal road, and the wind off the Great Sea of Kings was cool. At dusk they made camp, pitching tents and starting fires. Food was taken to Gwendolyn’s carriage, but neither she nor her sister Andomina were seen.

  They broke camp shortly after dawn and continued their trek. It took three days to reach Blue Harbor, where the army of Ortis, a little over two full legions, was camped around the city. Wilam rode at the head of the cavalry, and ordered the column to stop when he could see the sprawling army from Ortis. He rode back to the carriage and gave Gwendolyn the news.

  “I need my horse,” she said from inside her wagon. “And have my tent set up where I can meet with the King and his generals.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Wilam, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  Prince Wilam was so afraid that even putting one foot in front of the other was difficult. Questions were swarming around his brain like a hive of angry bees. Would Gwendolyn reject him in favor of King Oveer? What about the generals, would she give them leadership of the army? And what if King Oveer or his troops weren’t convinced to join them? Their small army could be massacred, and Wilam might not be able to protect his Queen.

  Still, his sense of duty propelled him forward. He had Gwendolyn’s tent set up and made sure that a squad of his most capable men were set to guard it. Then he retrieved the horse that they had brought along specifically for Gwendolyn to ride. The horse was white all over. The skilled saddle makers in Lodenhime had crafted a fine leather saddle that was pale ivory. When Prince Wilam had saddled the horse and ensured that everything was just the way Gwendolyn wanted it, he led the horse to Gwendolyn’s carriage.

  “Your Highness,” he called. “Your horse awaits you.”

  Gwendolyn opened the door of her carriage and stepped out. She was wearing an ivory gown that showed off her figure. She moved her feet lightly from the carriage step into the stirrup and sat down gracefully on the saddle.

  “Let’s go meet the King,” she said playfully.

  Wilam rode beside Gwendolyn, and the Ortis cavalry soldiers fell in behind them, their armor, polished especially for this meeting, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. They rode along the path toward the army encampment and were met by a small group of knights who had been riding out to find out who they were.

  “We wish to see King Oveer,” Wilam told the knights.

  “Who wishes to see the King?” the lead knight said.

  “Queen Gwendolyn of Lodenhime,” Wilam said, “and Prince Wilam Felixson, of Yelsia.”

  The knight nodded and turned his horse. Then he led Wilam and Gwendolyn to the large tent where King Oveer had been lounging for the past week. They waited patiently as the group of soldiers around Gwendolyn grew and grew. She did not even speak, but the men jostled to get near her.

  “What is this?” came a frustrated voice from inside the tent.

  King Oveer was a short man with long brown hair and a full beard. His crown was
propped back on his head when he emerged from the tent, and his clothes were wrinkled. He wore a sword, but it was buckled too high on his hip to be useful, and the hilt was encrusted with precious gems.

  “Prince Wilam is wanted for treason,” King Oveer said loudly, as he looked up at Wilam.

  Oveer and Wilam had met in the Grand City, but the King couldn’t say for sure that this Wilam was in fact the Prince of Yelsia who had gone missing before the Council of Kings. Oveer rarely paid much attention to anyone but other kings.

  “Arrest him and send for the executioner,” he added, trying to sound more royal than he did.

  “No,” said Gwendolyn, “that won’t be necessary.”

  None of the men around her moved. Normally the order of a king, even one as pompous and unpopular as Oveer, would have sent men scrambling to obey, but Gwendolyn held them all in her spell.

  “And who exactly are you?” Oveer thundered, furious for having been countermanded. “There is no queen in Lodenhime, unless you’re Zorlan’s latest excuse for a wife.”

  The men around Oveer started to grumble, taking offense at their King’s insult, but Gwendolyn didn’t seem to mind. She slid off her horse and stepped in front of King Oveer, whose eyes narrowed angrily at first and then slowly relaxed.

  “I require your assistance,” Gwendolyn said. “I need an army and capable commanders. I was hoping you might be persuaded to join me.”

  “My lady,” Oveer stammered, suddenly at a loss for words. “I am sorry, please forgive me. I don’t know what got into me. An army, you say?”

  “That’s right, King Oveer. I want your army,” she said in a pouting voice. “Will you give it to me? I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “Of course,” Oveer said. “Anything you want, anything at all.”

  “That is so generous of you,” she said raising one hand and allowing King Oveer to bow forward and kiss it.

  The gesture made Wilam’s blood boil. As far as he knew, he was the only person to have touched Gwendolyn’s fair skin. She occasionally allowed him to rub her shoulders or her feet. The small gestures made him feel as if she cared for Wilam more than anyone else, and now she was giving her hand to the fumbling King of Ortis.

  “Gather your generals,” Gwendolyn told Oveer, “and meet me at my tent in one hour. Can you do that?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Oveer promised.

  “Good, then perhaps we can finalize our plans. I would like to move as soon as possible. Your camp smells dreadful.”

  “It’s the heat,” Oveer said in a lame attempt to excuse the stench of the army’s camp. “And Blue Harbor is full of raw fish. We shall ensure that not a breath of wind carries to your tent, my love.”

  Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed angrily in response to the King’s last endearment, but then she brought herself swiftly under control, although her voice carried an icy tone that was hard to mistake.

  “Good, that would be a welcome change,” she said. “Do not keep me waiting, King Oveer. I am not a patient person.”

  “We shall make haste,” the King said.

  Gwendolyn reached up, and Wilam extended his hand to help her back onto her horse. She climbed into the saddle lightly and then turned her horse. The men who had crowded close to see her now parted so that she could ride back toward the carriage and her tent. They cheered for her and called out for her attention as she rode. Their unbridled fervor to be near the witch made Wilam uncomfortable. He rode with one hand on the pommel of his sword just in case he needed it.

  When they arrived back at the carriage, Gwendolyn called to her sister, who came meekly from the wagon and walked behind her sister’s horse. They rode to the tent, which had been lavishly furnished during their absence from the camp. Food was being roasted nearby and the aroma was delicious.

  “I want you to join us just before the King arrives,” Gwendolyn said to Wilam. “We shall be making our plans, and I want you to lead the army. I trust that is a task you can manage, or do I need to find someone else who can fulfill my needs?”

  “No, I shall not disappoint you, my Queen,” Prince Wilam said.

  “Good. Make sure you are not late.”

  Then she slid off her horse and walked briskly into the tent, followed by her sister. Wilam spun his horse and set about ensuring that their camp was efficiently managed. He made sure that the men camped downwind of Gwendolyn and warned the men not to do anything to embarrass the Queen. He washed the grime of the road off his face and hands and made sure his clothes were neat and his weapons accessible before returning to Gwendolyn’s tent. She told him to wait on the party from the Ortis army, and, when they arrived, he escorted King Oveer and five of his generals into Gwendolyn’s tent. She had wine and cheese waiting for the men. Once everyone had a goblet, Gwendolyn sat down on a throne-like chair and waited while the men found places on benches around her.

  “Now,” she said. “I want a large army. How many soldiers do you have, King Oveer?”

  “More than two full legions here at Blue Harbor,” the King said. His lust was so profound he was almost drooling. He sat leaning toward Gwendolyn, and it took all of Wilam’s self control not to draw his weapon and attack the arrogant ruler.

  “Two legions?” Gwendolyn said, frowning. “That isn’t enough. Can’t you get more? Surely you have more troops than that.”

  “I’ll send riders north to rally our reserves guarding the border and the Wilderlands. It will take a few weeks, but we can gather another three legions.”

  Wilam saw the nervous looks the generals gave each other as they listened to their king. He was obviously overestimating his forces. Wilam didn’t mind; in fact, he saw the King’s exaggeration as a point in his favor. If Oveer couldn’t keep his word, then Gwendolyn would find out how untrustworthy he really was. In contrast, Wilam would seem all the more honorable, and, he hoped, attractive.

  “Good, but that still isn’t enough,” Gwendolyn said. “I want you to send your troops to Luxing City. We shall meet there after gathering troops from Falxis, and then march south to the Torr.”

  “That is fine, my lady, but I’m afraid you won’t find many troops in Falxis. King Belphan and King Zorlan are sailing to invade Yelsia as we speak. I doubt there are many troops left in reserve.”

  Prince Wilam’s chest tightened at hearing this news. His devotion was to Gwendolyn alone, but he couldn’t help but feel worried about hearing of an invasion in Yelsia, even if he couldn’t say exactly why it had him worried.

  “Why are they invading Yelsia?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “The wizard Offendorl insists that it must be done. He fashioned his plans with King Belphan to invade Yelsia. He thinks there is a wizard there, being harbored by King Felix. He sailed north with the armies to make sure he gains control of the wizard.”

  “The master is not in the Torr?” Gwendolyn said to herself. Her face had gone pale and Wilam waved for her servant to refill her wine goblet.

  Gwendolyn took a long drink and then stood up.

  “Did you hear that, Mina?” she said to her sister, turning her back on the men in the tent.

  Andomina was sitting in a camp chair, twirling the ends of her hair around and around. She made no sign that she heard her sister at all.

  “The master has left the Torr at last,” Gwendolyn said. “This is better than we had hoped.”

  She spun around and looked at Wilam.

  “We ride immediately,” she told him. Leave a few people here to gather what we can’t move immediately.” Then she turned to King Oveer. “I want all your troops, every last one, to march south to the Grand City. We shall take the tower and gather all our forces there. When the master returns, he will find that his house is no longer his own.”

  Chapter 23

  “These guerrilla tactics pose no serious threat to our efforts,” Offendorl said.

  “I did not say they were a serious threat,” King Belphan said defensively. “I said they were worrisome. We still have heard no news of the
attack from the eastern front. I did not come to this backwards kingdom to fight an all-out war. You said we would overwhelm them.”

  “And we shall,” said Offendorl. “I admit that you are right, we should have heard of our forces invading from the east. Perhaps we underestimated King Ricard’s ties to Yelsia. But our plans have not changed. We shall lay siege to Orrock.”

  “What about the dragon?” said Zorlan.

  “I’ll worry about the dragon,” Offendorl said in a snarl. “You are both beginning to sound like nagging old women. Act like men. We are here, and in any battle there will be things that do not go as planned. We must see things through. You act as if you want to run back to your kingdoms. What message would that send to Yelsia? They have broken three centuries of peace by harboring a wizard. What will they do next, I wonder, when they see you running home with your tail between your legs like a whipped dog?”

  “Do not dare to speak to us so, wizard!” said Belphan angrily. “We are kings, not your vile, tongueless servants.”

  “And I am Master of the Torr,” Offendorl said in a low but deadly voice. “Do not fool yourselves. I can kill you with a thought. I can usurp your throne and make your kingdoms worship me if I so choose. Neither of you has seen war; you do not know its horrors or hardships. I have seen battles between beasts and men and wizards. I have lived in these Five Kingdoms for over three hundred years. Do not dare to question my authority on this venture, or you will find yourselves in the same position as King Felix.”

  It was not the first time King Belphan and King Zorlan had complained. Offendorl had sailed to Yelsia on a separate ship from the kings so he didn’t have to listen to their constant complaints as they traveled. When they first landed in Yelsia, the excitement of war made them tolerable companions. But it hadn’t taken long for them to begin complaining. The food was not to their standards. They weren’t used to long journeys or living in tents. They were spoiled tyrants whose every whims were fulfilled in their kingdoms, but not on this campaign. So they whined like children and Offendorl grew weary of it.