by S E Wendel
“Poor Father,” Essa whimpered.
The conquering Lowland troops seemed to take little pride in the sight. Perhaps it was too early in the day for celebrating decapitated heads on spikes.
Once they passed through the Gate, they descended a slight slope onto a broad terrace, Highcrest opening up before them. Highcrest sat upon three peaks, the castle claiming the whole northernmost one. A series of polished bridges connected the three peaks, the dark waters of the harbor not far below. Just days before the city had been bright and bustling, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the sun, its cobblestone streets and promenades swept and clean. People meandered the streets, boats sailed around the harbor or made their way past the outer wall rising from the water itself, where they could catch a canal to the De’lan. Ennis saw the city had fared just as well as the castle. She and her sisters were the heirs of soot and rubble.
As they crossed the wide Starling Bridge towards the eastern peak, where they would catch the Iron Road south, Ennis’s eyes were drawn to the masses of survivors grouped along the edge. Most were old women and children.
She heard whispers as the people turned their heads to look, asking one another if it truly was Courtnays who’d just passed.
Ennis caught up with Manek. “What will happen to them?”
“Those who haven’t been gifted will stay to continue mining and fishing.”
“There aren’t enough left!”
“Workers from the southern villages will be brought in.”
“Then who will bring in the harvest?”
Manek shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and didn’t answer, his mouth drawn into a grim line. She shuddered looking at her people. They had reason to look so forlorn, condemned to suffer through a whittling existence. Highcrest’s true sorrow had only just begun.
They at the vanguard had barely made it across the bridge before those in the back lines began hurrying out of the way of several horsemen. A call went up, and Manek and his captains reined in their horses and waited.
Larn rode at the head of a dozen men, armed as if charging an enemy line. All except the Lord of the Midlands wore their helmets. His scarred face contorted into a dogged smile as he approached Manek.
“I order you to stay, and you leave,” he said quietly. Ennis found this more frightening than when his voice boomed.
“I was in Highcrest when the sun rose.”
“And what of the Highlands?” Larn hissed.
“It’ll be here in spring.”
Larn’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “It’s here now and so are we.”
“My men are tired,” Manek said, his tone firm but his eyes weary. “They long for their wives and homes, not a frozen death at Dunstan’s door. You’ll have the Highlands—in the spring.”
Larn snorted. He leaned across the empty space between them, his disfigured face as menacing as he could make it. “Such ungratefulness from my Lowland dog. I give you everything—power, a seat at my table, a chance at conquest. And now you—” He stopped at the disgruntled grumbling of the Lowland dogs surrounding him. Clearing his throat, Larn sat up straight, looking at Manek from down the line of his nose.
“I don’t forget offenses, Manek; nor do I suffer them.”
“You’re stretched too thin! You can’t take the Highlands!” Manek said in a fit of exasperation. Running a hand through his windblown hair, Ennis couldn’t help but be curious, watching him take a breath and try to calm himself. What control he must have to have, to deal with Larn so. “You have the Midlands and Highcrest. You’ll have the Highlands soon enough.”
“I have the Lowlands, too,” Larn spat.
Manek’s expression soured. There were more grumbles from the surrounding soldiers, and Ennis heard whispers being passed back down the columns.
“Even you must respect Anona when she unleashes winter, Lord Midland.”
Larn’s lip curled into a snarl. His eyes narrowed to slits, the left all but consumed in scarred flesh, he growled, “I will call upon you and your Lowland horde—see that you’re ready.”
Larn spurred his horse and kicked Lowland soldiers out of the way as they scrambled back.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Midland horses riding away. Then Manek’s men stepped back into line. He looked out over them, a long crease running underneath each eye.
Thrusting his fist into the air he cried, “Home!”
His men responded in kind, fists thrust to meet the morning sky, hot breath clashing with the cold mountain air in cloudy puffs. And with that, their long march back to the Lowlands began.
Ennis wouldn’t let herself look back.
Five
Here first stepped Ma’an, the Stone-Bearer, into our mortal realm. Here we unworthy first gazed upon his stone face and shuddered in awe. Here shall he lie when this world turns to darkness.
—inscription above the Highland House
Adren Dunstan, King of the Highlands, Eleventh of the Dunstan Line, chewed on his right thumbnail as he gazed out into the inky black night. Ells was dark and quiet save for a few flickering kitchen fires, small glowing dots rimming the moonlit harbor below. He didn’t know what to make of the blackened sky and shadowed stars—all day he’d felt cold, the hair on his arms raised. His gaze kept drifting west.
Turning from the paned window, Adren looked about his war hall. It was a boundless room, its vaulted timbers housing such history. Highland banners hung from the rafters, colors of clans that had long since vanished. Finely carved stone blended with intricately etched wood, all converging on the great fireplace, large enough to stable a warhorse in. The crackling fire and clusters of long candles helped illuminate the great hall, but shadows pooled in the corners.
The men gathered there came from strong stock, and though he didn’t like all of them, he thought each one of his best. Some had come adorned with gleaming breastplates, others in thick hoods with bearskins slung across their shoulders. All were unshaven and windswept, having arrived throughout the day. They were all there, had all answered his call. He couldn’t ask for more.
But one was still missing. He nipped at his thumb again.
Ehman Courtnay had his greatest ally and friend for over thirty years. When he’d had few friends to rely on, Ehman stood at his side. He’d brought the east, Ehman had brought the west, and the clans in between were forced to reconcile.
Adren had known as a boy that he would be king; his father had told him so, but more, he had felt it, had had a knowing of it for as long as he could remember. He’d been raised, trained, and tutored to be king, and now, finally, he’d taken his rightful place. It’d felt like truly coming home, and he knew then that the boy he’d been was right. But Adren wouldn’t have gotten far without friends like Ehman; he owed the golden circlet digging into his forehead to him more than anyone else, and it was for this reason he kept a constant vigil at the window.
Scouts were posted along the Hillside Road even now. Adren need only have a report of Ehman’s standard to put his suspicions to rest. Until then, he would be uneasy.
“Is Courtnay still not here?” asked Galen Aric sourly as Adren made his way to the main group. He ignored Aric’s tone, attributing it, as he always did, to Aric’s disappointment with Asa Dunley. Ehman Courtnay had had the honor of marrying her, and poor Aric still bore a wounded heart some twenty-five years later.
Though he stood now with his men, he felt very apart. He watched the fire distractedly as they continued to talk.
“Ehman always did have a horrible sense of time,” said Aric.
“That he does,” another agreed.
“Perhaps he brings his daughters,” said Colm, Adren’s son. The soft glow of the fire cast shadows over Colm’s wide, handsome face, his eyes suddenly glittering at the prospect of Courtnay girls. Colm’s words brought a small smile to Adren’s lips, though he continued to gaze into the fire. He knew which daughter in particular Colm spoke of.
There were many sounds of agreement.
“Your brother’s a lucky bastard,” said another, ribbing Arion Morn. “I didn’t think Ehman would ever let one of his daughters go.”
Morn smiled good-naturedly, here now in his brother’s stead. Arek, the elder brother, was away on marital business in Highcrest.
“Well,” said Hammel Winwood, his gangly arm resting on one of his captains’ shoulders, “I pity the man who’s stuck with Ennis Courtnay.”
A hard scowl crossed over Colm’s face.
Another man groaned in agreement. “The second one’s a bossy thing.”
“Ehman dotes on her so,” said Aric.
“You say these things,” said Adren, drawing attention, “but you all know Lady Ennis would best any of you in a duel.”
Winwood turned a violent shade of purple, his freckles almost popping off his skin. As he stared down the young man, Adren was struck by how much he missed Parnell Winwood, Hammel’s much more even-tempered father, despite having killed him himself on the battlefield not five years ago. Hammel didn’t know who’d killed his father in battle, and Adren could only pray that when the son found out, the Highlands wouldn’t suffer another violent split with the Winwoods.
“She couldn’t,” Winwood spat.
“She would,” Adren said, grinning at the memory of his last conversation with Ennis Courtnay. Wilier than a fox, she’d been fresh from reorganizing Highcrest’s harbor and wondered aloud if Ells’s could be improved as well.
Winwood crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “I’d never let a daughter of mine strut about as she does.”
Colm gave Winwood’s shoulder a shove, his face sharp. “You’re just sore because she refused you.”
The men laughed at this, but it ended on a stale note. Deep lines ran under all their eyes. Adren would’ve been happy to send them off to awaiting bedchambers were any of them to ask, but all stuck close to the fire, waiting. They had come for a grim purpose. Though war was a lifestyle, it was never easy. Nor was asking men to forfeit their lives.
Aric looked at his king and clapped him on the shoulder. His grin still held its youthful roguishness, which never ceased to annoy Adren. Adren, Courtnay, and Aric had been friends since boyhood, forming a strong backbone for the Highlands, though the friendship was tempered when Asa Dunley chose Courtnay, not Aric. Despite this rejection, Aric had remained loyal to Adren, answering every summons, every command. This loyalty had come at great cost, claiming his eldest son, and Adren knew Aric yearned for peacetime. He hadn’t the resources to continue waging war like Highcrest did. He hoped his friend could weather one last storm.
“Should we start anyway?” Aric asked.
Adren didn’t like it, but the men all looked to him. Nodding slowly, he turned to take his place at the head of the great table behind him. The back of his chair was a grandly carved thing, all interlocking knots and tree branches wrapping around the five stars of the Highlands. He ran his fingers over one of them before sitting.
Clearing his throat, the men grew silent. A map, crinkled here and there with two long folds running across it, sat waiting before him. Some men looked at it, others to him; all their faces were half cast in deep shadow.
“I’d hoped these new days of ours would be ones of peace, but it seems this Larn of the Midlands has other plans,” he started. “These long years of war have driven many away from our lands, and now, rather than rejoin us in peace, they turn against us.”
“Let the whoresons be damned!” Jorran Farlan called down the table.
Adren’s gaze drifted begrudgingly to Farlan. Eyes gathered on the gnarled warrior, sitting leisurely at the far end of the table. A man from an older age, the sight of him always reminded Adren of the dark times only just in their past. The scars littering his body told Highland history better than any bard could.
None had been more opposed to Adren’s kingship than Farlan. It’d been only three years since last they met on the battlefield, and Adren wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t again. The Farlans had been unruly for two hundred years, and, having gotten used to an empty throne, they plunged the Highlands into another seventy years of war when Adren’s grandfather reassumed the title. Jorran was the last standard-bearer of their family, with only one sickly grandson to boast of. In all honesty, Adren was happy the name would die with them.
“We can damn them all we want,” said Adren, standing with his hands splayed on the glossy table, “but that won’t stop them. We must decide where to make our stand.”
“We take the fighting to them!” echoed down the table.
All looked at Winwood. His face, always ruddy, lit up as bright as the candle before him at the prospect of war. Young and ambitious, always a dangerous combination.
“And leave our cities undefended?”
“I didn’t say that. But we take a force—everyone sends their best men—and we—”
“And who would lead such a force? You?” scoffed Colm.
Winwood slammed his hands upon the table. “Happily! It’d be damn well better than sitting here waiting for Larn to stick us—”
“We make our stand,” Adren interjected, “in the Highlands. We defend the Highlands. What Larn does in the Midlands is no concern of mine. But he threatens our homes.” He looked to Winwood when he said, “We cannot leave them undefended, not with his horde growing every season.”
Winwood paled and sat back down.
The rest of the men said nothing. Stories were sweeping across the Highlands almost as quickly as this Midland horde. Warriors in black cloaks with bloodstained broadswords had already pillaged most of the villages south of the De’lan and pushed the outer garrisons across the river. Now Dannawey stood as the only salient point.
The impinging Midland horde weighed heavily on the solemn Arion Morn. Already a quiet man, Adren couldn’t recall hearing him speak that night. Arion’s shoulders sagged as if something was pushing down on them, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. For generations the Morns had been the southernmost outpost of the Highlands, the vanguard of the kingdom. Fierce, shrewd, warlike, they had defended the Highlands for as long as anyone could remember. Though they were respected and feared by all the other Highland clans—none more so than Adren himself, for the Morn’s loyalty was a crucial gem in his crown—centuries of devastating conflict had left them and their stronghold of Dannawey exhausted. But now it seemed the fate of the Highlands would once again rest on their weary shoulders. Should Dannawey fall, the only thing left standing between the Highlands and the Midland hordes would be the De’lan. Adren knew Adain, the river god, was too fickle to be relied upon for that.
Adren pushed the gold ring on his middlemost finger around with his thumb. “Ells,” he said, “has stood by Dannawey before and we will again.” Morn looked up at this. “That’s where we draw our battle line. That’s where we stop them.”
Several men thumped their hands against the table in agreement, but it was late and subdued. Nodding, Adren decided the rest could wait until morning. Taking up his goblet, he raised it above his head.
“The Highlands!”
The men took their cups.
“The Highlands!”
They all threw their heads back and drank through the dregs. The hall rang gloriously as cups smacked down onto the table.
“We will—”
Though he was only a lad, one of the stable boys threw open the great hall doors with such force that their hinges creaked as they banged into the wall.
“It’s been taken—Highcrest’s been taken!”
The boy collapsed before Adren, the great hall echoing with the sound of his gasps. Adren took the boy by his shoulders.
“What did you say, boy?”
“The riders—they just came—they—they said Highcrest’s been sacked!”
Adren couldn’t breathe. He released the boy and fell back into his chair.
“Everything’s destroyed—they…they killed or took everyone,” the boy said as Adren’s head sank into his hands.<
br />
The world was spinning, crumbling, and he didn’t want to believe what he heard.
Colm appeared beside him, bleak devastation hollowing out his face. “No! It can’t be!” he cried, hot, angry tears pooling in his eyes. He raced from the great hall out into the night, no doubt headed for the stables. He’d ride to Highcrest if Adren didn’t stop him, but he was suddenly so tired he could barely lift a limb.
Colm had hoped to be betrothed to Ennis Courtnay next year.
“I…” Adren pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He had to stop his heart from beating so hard it rattled his ribs. He had to summon legions of the army, to assess how much of the west had been taken. He had to send word to those in the High Mountains. He had to send someone after Colm before the heartsick boy made the Hillside Road.
“In the morning, you will head for your cities,” Adren said, looking to each lord. “You will fortify your walls, train your men—make ready everything and everyone. Bring in your people—in Ceralia’s name, shelter them behind your walls. If…if Highcrest can be taken, then…” He needn’t finish.
Six
Though my might is terrible,
Though my temper shakes the sky,
You are mine own
And I will be kind.
—from The Song of Themin
On the fifth day of marching, they left behind the soft rolling hills of the Westerlands for the windswept Barren Lands. Its name never disappointed the world-weary traveler, especially with the ice winds coming. Though the first snows hadn’t yet fallen, the somber mounds of dirt and dust seemed frozen already.
Manek couldn’t ask his men to venture into the wasteland with the day waning and their feet weary from jagged mountain paths, so he gave the order to make camp. The men fanned out, finding suitable patches to make their home for the night.
As tents were raised and carpets lain, his men’s efficiency were a solemn reminder of how long they’d been away from home. Saddened by their heavy eyes and downturned mouths, Manek nodded reassuringly and grinned empathetically each time a man met his gaze.