by AC Cobble
“And if the mere presence of my army doesn’t incite the duke to attack,” declared Worgon, gesturing at Raif and Cinda, “then certainly the presence of these two will. How could he not come after us?”
“Bait, again,” muttered Cinda.
“Indeed, my dear,” admitted the baron, “but for a good cause. You do want your father back, don’t you?”
“They’re just children, Worgon,” said Anne, speaking up for the first time that evening. “You gamble with their lives.”
“A small gamble,” claimed Worgon, “and my own life will be just as much at risk as theirs. If I was not completely confident we have the better of Duke Eeron, I’d still be barricaded in Yarrow, hoping he would expend himself against Falvar, Prince Valchon, or in some other far away conflict. And if he did not injure himself elsewhere, then I would support him. I’m a proud man, but not too proud to kneel when I’m beat! We’ve got an opening, though, so we shall take it. When we’re successful, the young Fedgleys will be reunited with their father, and I will secure the seat in Spinesend for House Worgon. In months, when Prince Valchon ascends the throne, we’ll all be swimming in more spoils than we ever could have imagined.”
Raif and Cinda looked hopeful as the baron continued to describe the future of the eastern duchy with him at its head and the Fedgleys restored to their proper place in Falvar. It was obvious Baron Worgon had become enamored with his own sparkling vision of what the future could hold.
As Rew sat and watched the man, his worries began to grow. The backing of Prince Valchon would be significant, but the fact was, the prince was not with them. Perhaps he’d promised to meet them outside of Spinesend, but Baron Worgon was experienced enough to be doubtful. It was as if he’d completely thrown caution to the wind, which did not match with what Rew knew of the man’s history or what he’d seen the last decade they’d been neighbors. It was simply unlike Baron Worgon to proceed so recklessly and expose his own neck.
Hours after full dark had fallen across the camp, the soldiers around them continued to revel. Rew stood and waved Anne over to join him at the edge of the candlelight around Baron Worgon’s table.
“Tired of his buffoonery as well?” she asked in a low voice.
“Baron Worgon has always been a rather staid man,” said Rew. “He struck me as practical on the occasions I had an audience with him, and the younglings described him the same way. Does this… ranting sound like the voice of a practical man to you?”
“The Investiture remakes us all,” said Anne.
Rew shook his head, scratching at his beard. “I’ve been thinking these last hours… Could it be a glamour?”
“What?” Anne laughed.
“I’m serious,” said Rew. “Could someone have cast a glamour on the baron and he’s now seeing a future which has no chance of coming to pass? Do you think someone could have bewitched him strongly enough to draw him out of Yarrow and onto the road to Spinesend?”
“A glamour that powerful would be highly unusual,” said Anne. “I’m sure the baron takes precautions against such. Any man in his position would have a skilled low magician in the court.” Anne frowned. “His son, in fact. That man we saw, Fredrick. He’s rumored to have incredible skill at low magic. It’s why the baron has never loved him, I was told. Worgon believed Fredrick’s mother laid with a commoner and that’s how he never obtained the same skill as Worgon himself. I’m not sure how he explains their similar appearance… Whatever Worgon’s disappointment with Fredrick, though, it’d be unlike a noble not to make use of any available resource. It was clear Worgon does not like him, so there must be a reason he hasn’t sent Fredrick away.”
“How do you know this?” wondered Rew.
Anne smiled at him. “I wasn’t always an innkeeper in Eastwatch.”
“But is it possible?” asked Rew, frowning. “Can you determine if it was done? If Fredrick is the one who watches for such chicanery, and he isn’t here…”
“When showing a man what he wants to see, even massive illusions are possible,” admitted Anne. “Such a glamour would have taken time, though, Rew. It would take weeks, if not longer.”
“But it can be done,” said Rew, looking back at the table where Baron Worgon was gesticulating grandly. “Can you tell…”
“To be certain whether or not the baron is affected by a glamour, I’d need to establish a bond with him. With a man of his talent, it’s likely he could sense something of me just as I gain a sense of him. It’s risky, Rew. Even drunk, I think he’d realize what I was doing.”
Rew grimaced, thinking how desperately far the baron was willing to go to assess Anne’s skill. “Too risky, then.”
“What would even be the point?” asked Anne. “Baron Worgon assembling an army and marching must be the last thing that Duke Eeron wants to happen, and it may very well play out to our advantage.”
“Unless Duke Eeron has the exact same plan as Baron Worgon,” argued Rew.
“You think Duke Eeron means to catch Worgon in the open?”
Rew shrugged and did not respond.
They returned to the table and watched as Baron Worgon steadily worked his way through a second carafe of wine. Rew and the rest of the party had begun drinking, but as the night wore on, they all stopped. Rew couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, and the others picked up on his nervousness. After the scene earlier with Captain Graewald, all of them had already been on edge. Around them in the camp, the last of the soldiers had arrived and were still dipping their rations from the ale barrels. Singing, shouting, and blustery laughter was rising like a tide around them, nearly drowning out their own conversation.
“How much ale did you give the men?” asked Rew, frowning at the dark, smoky camp around them.
Worgon burped and shrugged. He patted his prodigious belly. “I gave them plenty. It’s the last night of fun some of them might have. Our plan is a good one, but in war, there are always dangers. Not all of these lads will make it home, Ranger, so let them have their merriment. It’s a few days of hard marching after this and then the serious business of conquest. Maybe if you had a little drink yourself, you’d loosen up. It is the Investiture, but that doesn’t mean it has to be all darkness and gloom.”
Rew did not respond.
Baron Worgon poured himself another wine and then reached over and filled Rew’s glass to the brim. Rew scowled at him, and the baron winked, evidently forgetting about the nastiness earlier in the evening.
Down at the base of the hill the baron was camped on, a fight broke out amongst the soldiers. It was lit only by nearby cook fires, and it was over quickly as other men jumped in to pull the combatants apart.
Raising his glass, Worgon bellowed, “That’s the fire we need, lads!”
He chided the soldiers below to let the two men back at it, but either they could not hear him or they were ignoring him. Amidst the chaos, it could have been either way. The revelry continued, and Rew began suggesting it was time to retire. Worgon nodded, his jowls trembling with the motion and yelled for his servants to set up a tent for the party.
Rew opened his mouth to object, to claim they could do it themselves or, even better, sleep out in the open, but he settled back and sighed. The camp around them was a swirling mass of noise and smoke, and there’d be no falling asleep in that chaos anytime soon. And with so many drunken soldiers about, it was only sensible for the women to have a tent.
Anne looked across the table at him and shrugged.
In the distance, Rew heard a thin wail and peered out over the camp. The soldiers were stumbling amongst the tents, raising their ales and toasting each other. Thick clusters of them glommed around the ale barrels. Rew saw no disturbances, but given his earlier suspicions, he was nervous. “You hear that, Baron?”
“The men are getting excited,” said the baron with a wave of his hand. “Spirits are high before a fight, and hungry dogs are going to bite, Ranger. Mix in enough ale and there’s always a scuffle that goes too fa
r on campaign. The captains and my commander will sort it, and if necessary, I’ll sit in a quick judgement tomorrow. Could be a good lesson for the rest of our march. In my years, I’ve found it’s best to let the men blow off a little excess steam before they settle down to the business of war. A wild night steadies the nerves.”
“Done a lot of campaigning, have you?” retorted Rew.
The baron poured himself another glass of wine.
“How are we to sleep with all of this?” complained Raif, waving his hand around to encompass the carousing soldiers.
“Should have drank more wine, lad,” said the baron, chuckling deeply. He raised his own glass. “I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.”
Captain Graewald suddenly emerged from the darkness like a lich stumbling out from some foggy moor. Rew reached for his weapon but stopped when Graewald scowled at him. The captain turned to his liege and said, “Baron Worgon, the men have had their fun, and I think perhaps we ought to stop up the ale barrels for the evening.”
Worgon leaned back toward the dining table and grasped a nearly empty carafe of wine. His glass was still half-full, but he topped it off, shaking out the last few drops and then set the carafe down with a hard thud that threatened to shatter the thick crystal. The baron grinned at the captain and declared, “We’ve hard times ahead of us, Graewald. Let the men enjoy themselves.”
“M’lord, I’m afraid we’re going to have a difficult time getting the men marching tomorrow,” worried the captain. “A lot of the men have gotten sotted already, and if we go much longer, we won’t be able to stop the barrels without open warfare in our own camp. Let’s batten down the hatches, so to speak, before it’s too late.”
“The men are ready to fight!” said Worgon, raising his glass.
Grimacing, the captain opened his mouth to reply when another shrill cry cut through the general revelry.
“See!” said Worgon, a grin plastered on his red face. “This is what we need, Graewald. That’s the spirit we want boiling inside of these men as we face battle. I want them thirsting for blood!”
“You know I never back from a fight, m’lord, but these men are acting like they’re marching to a tavern brawl,” said the captain. “Passion is good but keeping your wits about you is better.”
Worgon drank his wine.
Graewald shot Rew a glance and raised his hands as if to ask for help. The ranger shook his head. He certainly wasn’t going to assist the belligerent captain.
“Do you have physicians in the camp?” Anne inquired.
Graewald nodded, but added, “Of course, if they’re as drunk as the rest of the men, I’m not sure how useful they’ll be.”
“Maybe I should go…” began Anne.
Rew reached over and put a hand on her arm. “No. We stay together.”
“You heard that scream,” said Anne. “Someone out there is hurt. They could use my help.”
“Your help, eh?” slurred Worgon. “I’ll stab one of ‘em myself just to see what you’re capable of, Empath.” He winked. “I want to know if the rumors are true. My physicians don’t believe it, but I… I’m a…”
Rew glared at the baron, whose sentence had trailed off half-forgotten. The portly man was swaying slightly and had a sly grin on his face.
Another cry rose on the night air. From down below them, Rew heard a nasty laugh as someone thought it amusing a peer had been injured or killed. It was madness, the drunkenness happening around them. So many men, all of them heavily armed, allowed to get so intoxicated… Even if they weren’t marching to war, it was terribly irresponsible. It’d happened so quickly, as the sun had set, gone from… Rew frowned, looking around at the camp.
There was another cry, and Captain Graewald bit off a strangled curse. The big blond man glared balefully at the baron. Fortunately for the captain, Worgon was too far gone in his own cups to see the disgust in the captain’s stare. “M’lord, if this continues, we won’t have men left to fight for us when we reach Spinesend.”
Baron Worgon, his wine cup at his lips, waved a hand dismissively.
Rew clambered onto the table, turning slowly, looking out past the hill they were situated on.
“Ranger!” barked the baron, trying to sound angry as Rew’s feet disturbed his plates, but a giggle spoiled the effect.
“What is it?” Captain Graewald asked Rew.
“I don’t know, but this night is not right,” replied Rew. “Can you feel it?’
Graewald gripped his broadsword and clenched his other fist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ranger, but I know we’re making ourselves trouble we don’t need. King’s Sake, I tried to find the commander, but he’s nowhere near the tent, and he’s not up here. If the Baron won’t—What is it, Ranger?”
“A glamour,” said Rew, looking from the baron and then out to the darkness around their camp.
“What?” asked Graewald. “I don’t understand.”
“Are you sure, Rew?” asked Anne.
“There are no stars,” said Rew suddenly. “There are no stars, no moon, and I can’t see a damned thing past the edge of our encampment. Graewald, what is the watch rotation?”
“Two dozen men rotating every two hours. Half of them posted, the other half walking in pairs in a circuit around the camp,” answered the captain.
Rew grunted. It wasn’t a terrible system, except… except someone had blocked the stars. Someone had cast a glamour over their entire camp. Before that, they’d gotten to the baron, drawn him out from behind his walls and into the night where the fool had allowed his entire army to drink themselves into a stupor. Grimly, Rew wondered if that had been part of the glamour, or if the man was simply an imbecile.
“Captain Graewald,” said Rew, “I expect an imminent attack. Prepare your men.”
“Hold on!” blurted the baron. “Hold on right there. These are my men, my army. You can’t command them!”
Graewald, ignoring his liege, asked Rew, “What will we be facing?”
“I don’t know, Captain,” responded Rew, his voice tight with worry. “The only magic they’ve shown is low. It’s of little use for offensive spells, but Captain, if they’ve cast a glamour wide enough to cover our entire encampment…”
Captain Graewald nodded and turned, shouting to the men below, looking for his fellow captains, and trying to find the horn player who should be stationed near the baron. When he found the man, a boy really, Graewald gripped him by the scruff of the neck and demanded the boy begin playing ‘to arms’.
The hornblower, shrinking from the giant, heavily armored captain and looking nervously at the portly, drunk baron, quickly decided to comply with the captain’s orders. Thin notes barely pierced the cacophony of the brouhaha down in the camp.
Rew, still on the table, watched as the closest soldiers laughed, thinking it was some joke or that their hornblower was drunk, too, until they saw Captain Graewald’s face. Slowly, the nearby men began to scramble about, stumbling from the ale barrels as the captain charged into the thick of things, shouting encouragement. The men, feet clumsy from drink, careened about, falling against tents, scrambling for their weapons. Farther out, past the range of the captain’s voice, the revelry continued unabated.
“It’s too late,” muttered Rew, jumping down off the table. “We’re too late.”
“Too late for what?” asked Cinda.
“Gather your things,” instructed Rew, moving to the base of the hill where the servants had been erecting their tent. Luckily, they’d been invited to the baron’s table immediately upon arrival at the camp, and none of them had taken time to unpack their things. Rew warned the others, “Weapons out. No matter what happens, follow me.”
Nodding, the rest of the group gathered their weapons and packs. They stayed on his heels as he climbed back to the top of the hill. Even Raif, it seemed, had decided that for once, staying behind the ranger was a good idea.
Baron Worgon snapped at them when they reappeared, his jowls shaking w
ith rage, his wine glass sloshing in his trembling fist. “What is the meaning of this, Ranger? Are you attempting to take over my army?”
“Any moment now, Baron…” said Rew, looking around and realizing that not a man was coming to the baron for instructions. “Any moment now, we’re going to be attacked.”
Down in the camp, he could see the wave of activity that frothed in Captain Graewald’s wake. There were other spots of loose organization where other captains must have heard the horn and begun calling to their men, but the bulk of the army was still lost in their cups and their amusements.
Around Graewald, some of the soberer soldiers began peeling off, headed to the outskirts of the camp, and the captain turned to go toward the command tent. Rew could see the large soldier’s blond hair bobbing as he pushed his way through the men. At the command tent, a cluster of officers stood, arms over their chests, confusion on their faces as they looked toward the hornblower, who was still furiously blasting out the alarm.
“Worgon,” said Rew, “your commander will need you.”
“Need me?” slurred the baron. “He doesn’t need me, Ranger! I’m the one who needs him.”
Rew blinked at the baron, thinking that perhaps in his intoxicated state, the baron had just accidentally said the truest thing since they’d met him. Rew shook his head and pointed to the command tent. “He’s down there. You should go to him.”
Spluttering and stumbling to his feet, the baron hissed, “I’ll do that. I don’t know what you’re up to, but—“
Rew gave the baron a gentle shove to the back to get him started, and the round man tripped over his own slippers, fell, and rolled down the side of the hill.
“Oops,” said Rew as the baron flopped to a stop two dozen paces below them. Some of his guards bent to help him, but most of them cackled uproariously at the baron’s flailing attempts to stand.