by Jeff Wheeler
Etayne’s eyes narrowed coldly. Her voice was just a whisper. “But remember this, Owen. I am loyal to you.”
We anxiously await news. The king’s army has faced Iago Llewellyn at the village of Taunton. They fought during a blizzard. We have no word yet who won the battle. Some have said the king was betrayed and fell. Not since Ambion Hill has such uncertainty hung over this realm. If the Duke of Westmarch had been at Taunton, what would have happened? But the duke has joined forces with the army of Occitania. The betrayal of Owen Kiskaddon to his king will live in infamy.
—Polidoro Urbino, Court Historian of Kingfountain
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Queen of Ceredigion
Staring at the map, Owen felt his pulse quicken and his stomach twist with dread. Although he was physically tired from the hard journey back to his army, the news awaiting him was ominous. He stared at the map again, wishing the situation were only a dream. Like one of those nightmares that forced him to blink awake, heart hammering in his chest.
“How many does Chatriyon have?” Owen asked again, swallowing thickly.
“At least twenty thousand,” Captain Stoker said. “We have four . . . almost five thousand. They continue to hammer away at the defenses of Averanche, but the Occitanian army is poised for battle. Their camp is disciplined, and they have guards day and night.”
Owen stared at the map. Surely Chatriyon was not leaving things to chance. He was bringing the brunt of his army into action following his defeat. This wasn’t a border skirmish. This was a full-out war.
Owen tapped the map, which was covered in metal markers to indicate the size and composition of the various forces at play. “And the Brythonican troops, you say they have blockaded the harbor as well and have troops encamped here . . . and here?”
“Aye, my lord. Marshal Roux leads them.”
“And his soldiers are right there, betwixt us and Chatriyon’s? He could be on either side,” Owen added darkly. “Have we had any messages from him?”
“Only one. The lord marshal sent his herald with the missive that Brythonica stands with you. My lord, if you attack the Occitanian line, it would give Roux the perfect opportunity to flank us.”
“I see that plainly,” Owen grunted. “How many men does he have?”
“Two thousand. Possibly three. And he may have more soldiers in the ships in the harbor.”
Owen gritted his teeth. “And there’s no way to tell?”
The Espion in charge, a man by the name of Kevan, shook his head. “We can’t get close enough. Roux’s fleet is preventing us from providing any relief to Averanche, and if there are additional soldiers on board, they are rotating them with the crew so that we do not know. My lord, this is clearly a trap. Ashby’s men are cut off in Averanche. I advise we draw back to Westmarch and choose the ground we defend. Better to lose five hundred than risk losing them all.”
Owen looked at Kevan and scowled. “I won’t abandon Captain Ashby.”
Captain Stoker looked angry. “Nor do I recommend it, my lord. If the king’s army were coming up the road behind us, perhaps we would stand a chance, but he isn’t.”
“The king is facing Iago Llewellyn amidst a storm,” Owen said, rubbing his lip. The tent flap moved and grim-faced Farnes entered, looking as if he had been blown in on an ill wind.
“What is it, Farnes?” Owen asked his herald.
“The Occitanian herald just arrived. You remember him. Anjers.”
The last time they had faced each other, Anjers had tried to bribe Owen into relinquishing his campaign. The soldiers in his tent scowled. He wished Etayne were with him, but she was guarding Eyric in another tent, making sure he was not privy to their plans.
“Send him in,” Owen snapped.
In a moment, Anjers arrived, ducking low enough that he did not smack his head on the tent flap as he’d done before. He wore his garish Occitanian finery and had a sneering look on his face as he approached.
“Back so soon?” Owen quipped.
Anjers flushed with anger. “Still so smug, Lord Kiskaddon?” he replied in a saucy tone. “Then surely you have not yet received notice of your king’s death at the Battle of Taunton.” He rubbed his hands together, giving Owen an imperious look. “Her Majesty Queen Elyse is now the lawful ruler of Ceredigion. She bids me command you, on pain of death, to join your forces with ours as she marches on Kingfountain to seize the city.”
Owen could see the troubled looks on his captains’ faces. He kept his own expression carefully neutral. “I find it incongruous, my lord, that you would hear of this before I did. Whence came this sorry news?”
“It came,” Anjers said disdainfully, “from our poisoner. You know the man, I am sure, for he duped you in Atabyrion. Birds travel faster than horses, my lord,” he added condescendingly. “We will march with you or through you. If you wish to preserve your rank and your lands, then you will submit to Queen Elyse’s authority at once. To do otherwise would be an act of treason.”
“Is she truly amidst your army, Anjers?” Owen asked. “Perhaps I would be persuaded of this fanciful tale if I could actually see and speak with her.”
“By all means! You are most welcome to come with me to see her,” Anjers said. “But do not think us mad enough to trust her amongst those who would wish to do her harm. Or pretend to be her,” he added with emphasis. “What is your answer, my lord? I grow impatient with this dallying. Will you submit to your rightful queen?”
“I will gladly submit to my rightful queen,” Owen replied with a bow. “When there is one to submit to. Thank you for your pains in delivering the message. You will receive our response shortly.”
Anjers sniffed, clipped his heels together, and bowed to Owen before departing from the tent. As soon as he was gone, Owen let out a pent-up breath.
“Is the king truly dead?” Stoker asked in a strained whisper. “I cannot believe he would lose to that Atabyrion peasant!”
Owen put his fists down on the map. He had studied warfare since he was a child. He had read the accounts of all the major battles in the last few centuries. All of his instincts screamed that this was a trick. If Severn had died, the Espion would have gotten him a message. But with Mancini dead, it made sense that there would be confusion and chaos in the way messages were handled and delivered.
He stared at the pieces on the map, looking from his small cluster of pegs to the Occitanians’ enormous army. In a straight battle, the odds were not in Owen’s favor. He had not chosen the ground. His supply lines would get longer and longer the farther he went from Tatton Hall. Owen grimaced, feeling the weight of the decision on his shoulders. If Severn were dead, then continuing to fight would be construed as treason. Besides, Elyse would make a better ruler than Eyric, a man who no longer knew his country or his countrymen. He would submit to Elyse, but only after he had seen the king’s corpse.
“What should we do, my lord?” Stoker pressed anxiously.
“Out,” Owen said sharply. “I need a moment to think. All of you—out!”
The captains abandoned his tent, leaving Owen in the muddled silence of the camp. He stared down at the map and opened himself to the Fountain’s magic. How could he turn this situation to his advantage? A nighttime raid would be predicted and prevented. Chatriyon would not be duped the same way twice. He could try to send Etayne into their camp to murder the king, but they would undoubtedly be expecting it. He rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling the trickle of the Fountain as it rushed into him. He stared at the emblems on the map representing the Brythonican forces. If the alliance with Brythonica were real, then having Marshal Roux there would actually help his cause. But he could not trust that the lord marshal was a true ally. He had been involved all along, working toward his own unknown motives, ever since Owen’s first encounter with the Occitanian army. And then there was the uncanny way he always seemed to know where to be and when . . . No, Owen could not trust him. But he could test him.
The Fountain filled
Owen’s mind. It was like he saw a Wizr board mapped out in his mind. It almost felt as if Ankarette were there in the tent with him, leading him from the Deep Fathoms. He felt his throat catch and thicken with tears. She was the one who had taught him about Wizr, who had shown him how to defeat an opponent quickly and decisively. But she had given him another lesson in the game. When an opponent threatens you, the best way to respond is not by reacting to the threat but by turning the game around and delivering a new threat.
The way you won a game of Wizr was by capturing the king.
The strategy unfolded in Owen’s mind, blooming like a flower kissed by the first rays of the sun.
Owen watched Etayne’s face for her reaction as he explained his plan to her.
As she grasped the full scope of it, her eyebrows lifted. “You’re going to march against the capital of Occitania, the city of Pree?”
Owen nodded. “I won’t need supply lines, because my men can feed off the wagons that Chatriyon is sending to support his own army. More importantly, it pulls him after us, away from Kingfountain. It buys Severn time.”
“But what if Severn truly is dead?” Etayne asked, still dumbstruck.
“I don’t believe he is,” Owen said, shaking his head. “We would have heard. We need to give the king time to bring his army down here. Then we will have caught the Occitanians between us. And by marching on this side,” Owen said, pointing to his map, “we keep the Occitanians between us and Roux’s men. There’s no opportunity for him to flank us. If he’s on our side, it actually pinches the Occitanians between us. They won’t be expecting it.”
“But we only have a few thousand men,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “This plan is full of risks, Owen.”
“A smaller force defeated Occitania years ago at Azinkeep. Surely they won’t have forgotten that. I’m going to leave behind a column to block the road, then I’ll have the men come around in circles to make it seem like reinforcements are arriving constantly. War is all about deception, Etayne. If we’re going to face this army, I want to do it on ground we’ve chosen. On our terms, not theirs.”
“You are either mad or brilliant,” Etayne said, shaking her head. “When will you do this?”
“Now,” Owen said. “Roux always seems to be one step ahead of me. I hope to catch him off guard this once. Tell the captains to come in. We’re leaving camp right away. We’ll leave all the tents up to disguise what we’re doing. I want to start marching while there is still daylight left.”
The captains were amazed to learn that Owen was planning such a bold maneuver, but they assured him the army would be ready to move quickly. Clouds from off the coast began to churn in the sky, promising fog or a sea storm. Owen strapped his sword to his waist, wearing his hauberk, and nodded to his flag bearer. Farnes had been sent ahead to advise the Occitanians of Owen’s decision not to join forces. But he would give them no warning as to his plans.
His stomach churned with worry as he watched his army begin to march in thin columns. There was movement in the Occitanian forces—the troops were lining up for battle, assembling soldiers to form the vanguard. The wind whipped up, making the pennants and flags flap sharply. The air smelled of mud and filth. Owen could not remember the last time he had bathed.
He led the column with his captains, some mounted archers going off ahead to clear the way. The Espion had chosen a road through a small wooded area where the army could divert from Averanche and join the main road to Pree.
A few splattering drops of rain began to strike against Owen and his steed. The clouds were black and roiling in the skies overhead. Soon it became a downpour. Owen marched on grimly, trying not to let the weather foul his mood. The roads became muddy and clogged within the hour, and the men began to grumble.
Lightning forked across the sky in the distance, followed by the distant rumble of thunder.
They reached the main road to Pree, which was able to accommodate a much larger column. They were now at the flank of the Occitanian army, cutting off their supply lines and blocking their way to their capital. Owen felt as if a giant hand were looming over his head, releasing a Wizr piece and saying in sepulchral tones, Threat.
Moments later, a soaked and bedraggled Espion came riding up to him from the road to Pree, having scouted ahead. “My lord!” he called above the torrent. His face was spattered in mud.
“What news, man?” Owen shouted.
“The supply wagons are stuck in the mud yonder,” he replied, pointing down the road they traveled. “Enough of them to feed us a good while. But there’s a problem, my lord. There are several thousand Occitanian soldiers coming up the road from Averanche right now to stop us from claiming it! They’ll be on us within the hour!”
Owen felt the queer sensation that the next move would be against him.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Battle of Averanche
Owen’s first battle was amidst a rainstorm in a valley near Averanche. The Occitanian army had not stood still while Owen’s men had marched past them on another road. The tiles were starting to fall, and there was no way of stopping them now. Owen had his archers line up to block the road and send volley after volley at the advancing troops. Rain may have dimmed their vision, but it was nearly impossible for the archers to miss with so many coming against them. Behind the archers were his spearmen, row after row, ready to charge.
Once the battle began, it was impossible to control or predict the course of it.
Owen felt the sick reality of combat, all the glory of it reduced to angry men trying to bash in one another’s brains. The number of Occitanians seemed unending, wave upon wave of them hammering a rocky shore. There was no going back, no retreating. The muddy road was stained crimson with the conflict. These were not men; these were soiled wretches who cut and smashed against shields and pikes. Owen soon lost count of how many he had killed, but his sword felt like it was part of him. The years of training, the grueling hours in the yard had finally come to fruition. He was exhausted, but he was relentless, urging his men to continue on and on, to endure the hardships that rain and steel inflicted on them. His throat was burning for a drink, but there was no time. He had to be everywhere at once. Whenever someone charged at him, he would focus on the attacker for a moment, use his magic to read the other man’s weaknesses, and then parry his blow and dispatch him quickly. He felt power surging inside him each time he struck, and his blows seemed to wield an unbelievable power.
Owen wiped the mud and rain from his face, staring at the onslaught that continued down the road. His men were grim-faced and terrible as they held their position on the road amidst a field of corpses and wounded men.
“My lord!” someone shouted, coming up behind him. It was Captain Stoker. The captain’s sword was dripping with blood.
“How many are there?” Owen snarled as the next phalanx approached. His horse shied from a groaning man, and Owen had to cling tightly to its reins as it almost reared.
“My lord!” Stoker said, his face jubilant. “The Brythonicans! They’re attacking the Occitanians from behind! They’ve trapped Chatriyon between us! That’s why we’re being hard pressed. We’re all that stands between them and safety!”
Owen coughed with surprise. Marshal Roux was attacking? Attacking Chatriyon’s army?
“Be you sure, Stoker?” Owen asked forcefully. He wanted to believe it. But he didn’t trust it to be true.
“His banner is the Raven!” Stoker said, nodding. “His men are in the field! They started as soon as Chatriyon turned on us. It helps even the odds a bit, my lord! In this tempest, it’s difficult to tell friend from foe!”
Lightning split the sky overhead, sending crackles of thunder across the heavens. Owen raised his arm up to shield his eyes and an arrow struck his arm. Pain exploded from his elbow down to his wrist. His entire arm went numb, but his mind reeled in shock as he recognized that if he hadn’t lifted his arm at exactly that moment, the arrow would have pierced his neck . . . or worse.
“My lord!” Stoker shouted in surprise.
The arrow shaft felt like a hot poker in his arm, and he swore in pain. Was his arm broken? He was thankful it wasn’t his sword arm. An archer had singled him out. Then a strange numbness started to stretch down the length of his arm and move up to his shoulder. He felt his body start to stiffen.
Poison. It was in his blood.
Owen turned to Stoker, blinking rapidly. “Etayne! Get me to Etayne!”
A shroud of black seemed to drape across Owen’s face, and he felt himself tipping out of the saddle. He was falling. He struck the muddy ground face-first and began choking in it.
It sounded to Owen as if he were amidst a hive of bees. There was light beyond his lids, and he felt tugging and jostling. Suddenly all of those bees were stinging his left arm. There was something in his teeth, and he bit down on it as the needles of pain in his arm worsened.
He shook his head, trying to rouse himself, and then opened his eyes. Etayne was crouching over him, and they were inside a small tent filled with the rattling sound of rain striking the canvas. The sensation of being in the beehive faded as he came awake.
“Hold still,” Etayne said, working feverishly on his arm. He looked down and saw that the needles he imagined to be figurative were literal—she was stitching his arm with catgut thread and a needle that looked as blunt as a shovel.
With his other arm, he removed a half-bitten arrow shaft from his mouth. “That hurts!” Owen rasped, his voice so thick with weariness it croaked.
Etayne shot him a concerned look. “It was moonflower,” she said. “The arrow tip was coated in it. Enough to kill you . . . and quickly. Thankfully, I know the cure.”
“What has happened?” Owen said, trying to sit up, but she shoved him back down on the cot.
“The battle is over,” she said, giving him a private smile. “You won.”
“How could I have won if I wasn’t even there?” Owen said, shaking his head. He tried to sit up again, but she pushed him back down.