Ciaran locked eyes with him and shook his head. “I told my sister to keep her distance from you.”
Martin threw his head back and hooted. “That common harlot? She’d spread her legs for anyone who wandered by. You can keep her.”
Ciaran shrunk at that and took a step backward.
“You are a fool,” Roald said, stepping toward Martin, his sword still hanging from his hand. Martin saw his grip tighten on the haft. “You’ll be the end of all of us.”
“What has happened to the both of you? Am I the only one who isn’t afraid of this western scum? I care not for Hake or the widow or anyone. Only us, our men, our business.”
“You are a fool,” Roald said again, the cords in his neck sticking out, as he said the words, the muscles on his arms tight. He looked poised to strike, though Martin doubted the generally cool-headed man would do it. Even so, he took a few steps backward.
“So be it,” Martin said finally, nothing better coming to mind. “So be it.”
Chapter Seventeen
WILLIAM
They rode northward, hard, with a regiment of two hundred men. Half of those were horsemen, having full plate armor, lances, swords, and shields. A quarter were archers, their tall longbows over their shoulders, and the last was comprised of foot soldiers, good men, with iron helms and well-scoured chainmail. They were enduring the gray skies, wind, and rain, with good spirits, despite the damp setting in. Will could only think that they were embarking on an errand of madness, but there was no stopping Byron, who rode ahead of him, Lewin Laswick and Allister Caldridge on either side.
“We go and quash the bastards, eh?” Lars Valken said, coming up to his side, astride his chestnut stallion. He was a tall man, with a thin face, some forty years of age, with long, straw-colored hair, pale eyes, and a nose like a falcon’s beak. A lesser, landed man, from the outskirts of Lyle. A loyal man by all accounts.
Will’s own mount, Mari, was faring well, and he patted her on the neck, as he thought of something to say in response. “Yes,” was all he could think of in the end, and he nodded to emphasize his point.
Lars threw his head back and cackled, then slapped his reins and pushed his horse forward, no doubt looking for someone more jovial to talk to.
They were a week into their two-week march toward Galde. Word had come to the Privy Council that Lord Deiron Dolan, Earl of Galde, was fomenting rebellion from his northward perch. Lord Laswick had insisted they call the bannermen and head there immediately, to put an end to it, quick and decisive-like. That only made Will all the more suspicious of where the information of the uprising had come from. He’d tried to question it, using his new standing and place on the Council, but he had been overshadowed by forces clearly allying with Lord Laswick. Byron did listen to all who spoke, but then gave the orders to proceed. Will had barely had time to talk to him about Featherstone and The Coven. Byron had dismissed it as a fanciful tale, though Otollicus had been intrigued enough to come back with him to Lyle, and was currently pillaging the keep library for more information.
Will had been trying to find a chance to speak to Byron alone ever since they left, but they had been marching hard, stopping only for brief respite to rest and eat, and with the rain, tents were quickly pitched and those that were fortunate enough to have them disappeared inside with few pleasantries exchanged. Now, he had grown inpatient, so he kicked Mari forward and pushed his way between Byron and Lord Caldridge.
“Byron,” he called in a harsh whisper, when he was by his friend’s side. They were moving fast enough that it was difficult to keep pace and start a conversation.
“Will,” said Byron, a genuine smile coming to his face when he saw his friend. “This weather, right?” He was clearly coming into his element, enjoying this foray to the north, his first official action now that he all but ruled Hyrel.
Will nodded. “Yes, quite wonderful. Listen, I wanted to speak with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, as it were, I mean, what are we doing?”
Byron’s grin widened. “Riding north. To stop the rebellion.”
“Yes, but, ah, is it really likely Lord Deiron plots against you?”
“We have it on good authority, Will. Our reports were strong, to be believed. You remember, you were there when they were read.”
Reports from Lord Laswick, received by him, delivered to his own hand and only then to the Council. Will didn’t trust it, but said, “Assuredly, yet, he was always loyal to your father.”
“Many are likely to seek advantage amidst all of the upheaval that’s been created. You know that.”
Will narrowed his eyes and looked back to Lord Laswick and Lord Caldridge. “Yes, I do.”
Byron grinned ever the more and leaned over to clap Will on the back. “Come on,” he said. “Northward!” He kicked his heels into the side of his mount then and spurned it forward.
Will shook his head and allowed Mari to slow. Men on horseback began to push past him, as he lagged. He wasn’t sure at all that what they were doing was right.
That night they made it to Warrenhold, a large keep of rounded clay domes stacked upon each other, in the middle of a grassy expanse. Another fifty horse and fifty foot joined them from Lord Ceiron, Earl of Warren’s, bannermen. Lord Ceiron himself mounted his own stallion, dressed in burnished plate, and a black fur cloak. It was cold to the north he said to Byron, best they all be prepared for it. It was fortunate that they undertook this campaign now, he went on, for in a few more weeks the snows would be coming, and then those already encamped in their keeps would be at far greater advantage
What Will took most from their exchange was that it did not appear to have taken much to convince Lord Warren of Lord Dolan’s guilt. Then again, with Warren lands adjacent to the southeast of Galde, he may be seeing conquest in his future. Will’s suspicions only grew when Lord Warren fell into step with Lord Laswick, and the two began to converse with each other. Will was almost ashamed at these thoughts, seeing the worst in everyone, but then it entered his head that perhaps he was but becoming wise to the ways of the noble Houses of Hyrel.
They set up camp for the night outside of Warrenhold. It was raining again, and the lords and nobles had pitched tents of fabric that mirrored their house colors. Byron had a grand canopy of blue and white which bore the silver falcon of House Lyle, and several lords attended him to eat of roasted quail and imbibe from casks of fine red wine taken from the large supply chests that had been brought along for them.
Will was welcome of course, but instead he headed toward the small gray tent that had been provided for him. When he reached the gray folds of cloth however, he instead moved past, and headed down the sodden slope of grass and mud ahead. At the bottom of the hill the army was splayed out, and Will moved in and out of men and women huddled about flickering campfires, shoulders hunched, cloaks or furs pulled tight around themselves, trying desperately to keep their warmth in, and the damp out.
He looked back to the top of the hill where the noble tents sat arrayed around each other and shook his head. Above they spoke of strategy, battle, triumph. Of land and honor to be had. Below, he heard a different sort of talk. Through bites of roasted rabbit one man complained of the cold, or of aches in elbows or knees, now enraged by the wet. He spoke of home, of hoping to see his wife and children again. A woman complained of hunger, despite the recent meal afford them as part of the journey, and spoke of aging and sick parents at home, and of the hope for a better place to lay her head at night, when she returned to Lyle.
Will wandered for some time, listening to their stories, but fearing to join their fires and share in the conversation. Then he heard a familiar voice booming above the rest and headed toward it. Red flames cast off the red face of Lars Valken as he finished some story or another, a grand thing from the chorus of laughter that came from the men seated around him. He had a mug of ale in his hand, which he waved about, unconcerned at the golden liquid that escaped the rim and went flying into
the air, before plummeting to the already soaked ground.
“Aye, that’s the tale,” Lars was saying, when Will got near. “And best you believe it. For I am a king’s man, I am, loyal and true. For there was no other braver and stronger in all the realm.” He raised his mug again then and continued, “To the King, may Rook guide his journey, and to Prince Byron!”
The others in attendance cheered and raised their mugs as well at that, and then they all downed the contents.
After more drink, laughter, and stories, everyone went to sleep, and quiet settled on the camp. They were up again with the dawn, and the camp was broken down, dirt kicked over fading coals, tents folded, and everything packed back onto carts. When they left the green field outside of Warrenhold they were now three hundred soldiers heading north.
The land of Galde was bleak, barren. Gray rock and bare earth. They passed farmhouses of stripped ashwood boughs, pale and weathered. The rain had stopped, but it had left a stark white sky in its place. No one was in sight, not people nor oxen or fowl. It was odd and eerie, and a wholly discomforting feeling was rising up in Will’s gut. They moved slowly through these lands, horsemen and soldiers alike, looking uneasy as they scanned the open land around them, hands tightly gripping reins or spear hafts.
When they came upon Erimstaad even Byron looked shocked at its sheer side. A monolith of carved, gray stone, rising out of a sea of parched grass, surrounded by a circle of six smaller towers. All surfaces appeared rough and uneven, but not a joint or seam was visible amongst them. There were ample slits in the smaller towers for archers, and high up on the main keep, windows were plentiful, but all in all it made for a neigh impregnable looking fortification. They had ropes and hooks, could fashion ballistae and rams from what trees were nearby, but it seemed like it would do little good. The only entrance to ram was a thick wooden drawbridge that looked to be at least fifteen feet in height, and there was not much a hook might grab hold of.
An empty series of trenches appeared around the smaller towers, and another around the central tower, all some four feet deep, and six feet wide, and all seeming freshly dug. It would make approach all the more difficult, and only increased the height of the towers. As it were no guardsmen or soldiers were in sight, a good sign perhaps, that they had arrived ahead of any concerted effort to raise Galde forces.
About a hundred feet from the keep the army stopped. Byron, Lord Laswick, Lord Caldridge, and Lord Warren, stood arrayed in the fore. Will hung back behind them with Lars Valken but could see that Byron had adorned a golden circlet atop of his neatly combed red hair and wore a blue velvet tunic beneath a polished breastplate. The falcon of House Lyle stood proudly chiseled into the steel. The other nobles were similarly attired in their House colors and wore fine armor. Will had donned a set of platemail that Byron had gifted him for the occasion and had a newly forged longsword at his side. Still, he felt fear rising up in him, his arms and legs tingling with the anticipation of what was to come.
At the topmost parapets of the center monolith a figure appeared. He was dressed in a gray battle armor of hides and fur and iron. The haft of a massive double-sided axe was in his grasp. His hair was long and gray, his face appeared well-worn, creased with wrinkles where his beard didn’t hide them. This was Deiron Dolan, and he stood looking out at the arrayed forces before him, with little apparent concern. Merja Dolan joined his side, younger than her husband by at least a decade, with black hair going to gray, dressed in a long, black, gown.
“So,” Deiron said, his voice booming throughout the valley, an effect that did not seem unintentional. “This is what centuries of loyalty to the realm earns House Dolan?”
Will saw Byron shift uneasily in his saddle. He nodded to Lord Laswick, who stepped forward and unrolled a parchment he had in his hands. “Lord Dolan, you stand accused of sowing discord and rebellion in the realm, invoking a direct threat to the Crown of Hyrel. You are hereby ordered to lay down your arms and surrender to Prince Regent Byron of Lyle. If you go peaceably, great mercy will be shown to the land of Galde.”
A low laugh began to roll out into the valley, growing in volume and intensity. Soon Lord Dolan had his hands on his belly and his head in the air, letting loose a deep, hearty, roar. As quickly as it started it stopped, and Lord Dolan raised his axe, pointing it at Byron. “You will bleed for this.”
Byron said nothing, his eyes trained on Lord Dolan, his face having gone pale. Lord Dolan disappeared from the parapet, quickly followed by Merja. There was a grating of iron on iron and then the wooden drawbridge fell without hindrance, slamming to the ground with a large bang that shook the earth beneath Will’s feet.
A thundering of hooves followed as armed and armored horsemen spewed forth from the castle, spears at the ready, the ground between Erimstaad and the Lyle army chewed up at a quick pace. Byron swallowed hard, his eyes wide. Lord Laswick looked surprised himself but had enough wits to move close to the Prince Regent and whisper something in his ear. Byron nodded slowly and then Lord Laswick signaled ahead with a raised hand and two pointed fingers.
The Lyle archers moved forward and nocked arrow to bow and, when commanded, fired. The first bevy fell short of the charging horses, but then they nocked again, and fired. A few were wounded this time, but the horsemen were coming so quickly, and the archers were so close, that soon the gap between them was closing. Lord Laswick ordered the Lyle horsemen ahead then, with the foot soldiers bringing up the rear. As the two armies neared one another, arrows appeared in the air from the tower slits and walls of Erimstaad. They arced expertly over the Glade army and slammed into the charging forces of Lyle.
Horses reared and men were thrown to the ground. Another bevy of arrows came and reaped just as much damage as the first. Then the two armies met together on the field in a tangle of horses, men, and iron. Arrows continued to soar in from both sides as well, and there were roars and screams, the clash of steel on steel, and blood flowing freely to the ground below. An unimaginable number of men had issued forth from Erimstaad, the Earl of Galde well-prepared for confrontation despite Will’s initial thoughts. Yet the Lyle army still outnumbered House Dolan three to one. Despite this fact the two opponents almost appeared evenly matched at times, as the Galde horse, foot, and archers, tore into House Lyle with greater practice and ferocity.
Will found himself moving his horse back and forth, trying to get a better view of the action. He could see the colors of Lyle houses on the ground, stained with dirt and blood. He rode over to Byron then. “What should we do?” he asked his friend.
Byron didn’t look away from the field but answered. “Lord Laswick has it under control.”
Things didn’t look under control to Will. Despite every fiber of his being telling him to stay safely where he was, he took one last look at Byron and then found himself spurring his horse onward, into the fray. His sword was out as he met the mass of combatants. He gritted his teeth and he swung his blade. It was in that chaos that Will saw Lord Dolan in the thick of things, swinging his axe with wild abandon. Lars Valken was there as well, no longer astride his horse, wading through the struggling masses, his sword and shield flying about, his pale hair stained red.
When the battle was done, the clash of man and weapon died away, and only the cries and moans of the injured remained. Will had managed to stay atop his mount, but his tunic was torn, a greave was missing from his leg, and a bracer from his forearm. His sword was covered in blood.
Lord Deiron Dolan, the Earl of Galde, was brought before Byron and his lords, bleeding from a gash in his side. He couldn’t walk well, so they had dragged him over by his arms. Two Lyle soldiers forced him to his feet, and the older man winced despite apparent efforts to remain quiet.
Byron looked haggard, worn, tired. His hair was out of sorts, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Lord Laswick stepped forward, a grin on his face. “What do you say now, Lord Dolan?” he asked.
Lord Dolan laughed then, the same laugh of earlier, though
with less strength. He spit bloody phlegm which landed on Byron’s breast plate and trailed down the falcon etched there. Then he issued a groan and fell limp in the soldiers’ arms.
Lord Laswick laughed nervously but then stepped back and patted Byron on the back, the large man looking more than pleased with the outcome. Byron managed a smile, but it looked forced. Lord Warren and Lord Caldridge appeared in good spirits as well, despite the blood and life lost, a fair enough amount from their own Houses.
“I shall have it now,” Byron said, his expression still pale and vacant. “Coronation at Valis. No more delays. We head for the city. Straightaway.”
Lord Laswick grasped Byron’s forearm and shook it for emphasis as he said, “Yes, my Prince, I believe the time is now right. We shall set to making the arrangements post haste.”
Byron nodded silently in response, still looking off at the battlefield beyond.
Will followed his gaze to the bloody bodies, Lyle and Galde men both, and Deiron Dolan dead now as well, a longtime supporter of House Lyle and the west. So many lives lost and all of Myren. His gaze fell back to Byron and the sycophants around him.
The Earl of Galde said he would make Byron bleed, and bled he had. But who had really borne the blade?
Chapter Eighteen
JETHRA
Jethra woke up an unknown time later in a copse of bushes on the side of the road from Rathborne to Novak. The harsh light of morning made her eyes water, and her nose was still filled with the scent of smoke and charred wood. It was cold, and the wet of dew had soaked into her clothes. Every bone in her body seemed to ache, every muscle was sore. There was a large bruise twice the size of a fist on her stomach, and the wound on her arm and leg were both purplish and crusted with dry blood. The strips of cloth she’d ripped from her tunic had staunched the flow for the time-being, but to make matters worse, she was quite certain she had broken her ankle, for if she put any weight on it the pain was excruciating.
The Hawk and the Falcon Page 14