"Stubborn," Brother Braumin dared to interject, breaking the tension.
Again the King laughed. "But in a manner suited to heroes," he said. "A pity that you'll not change your mind, and truly a loss for both of us, eh, Abbot Je'howith?"
"Indeed," the old abbot said unconvincingly.
Pony continued to alternate her gaze between the King and his two secular advisers, and neither of them stopped staring at her for one moment.
"Palmaris will be in firm and fine control," the King went on, addressing the whole of the gathering again. "Duke Kalas will stay on as ruler, for as long as he feels necessary. Also, because of the continuing hostilities outside of Palmaris' wall with the powries, goblins, and even reports of giant bands roaming the region, he will keep half the AUheart knights. That should suffice to allow the folk of Palmaris some peace of mind."
Pony glanced at Francis and Braumin and the other young monks, their distress showing her that they understood well the meaning of the King's decision. Danube didn't fear any goblins or powries or giants, for Palmaris' garrison had proven itself time and again in the war against them. No, when the King spoke of potential enemies, he was subtly referring to those enemies Duke Kalas might face from within, particularly from St. Precious. The Allheart knights would make Chasewind Manor a veritable fortress and would strengthen Duke Kalas' influence tremendously.
At first, Pony, too, was more than a little distressed by the news. Privately, at least, she found herself siding with Brother Braumin; she did believe in the man and his cause. That admission nearly made her speak up then, announcing that she had changed her mind and that she would accept an offer to join the Church, not for the position of mother abbess but as an adviser to Brother Braumin in his new position of abbot of St. Precious. Almost-but even as she considered the action, Pony thought of Elbryan and her lost child, thought of the futility of it all, the waste of effort to battle enemies that seemed to her, at that moment, eternal.
She kept silent; indeed, she turned inward through the rest of the meeting. No further surprises came forth, from either Danube or the monks, and their business was quickly concluded. Pony did note the glare that Constance Pemblebury bestowed on her as they were leaving the audience hall, a scowl that deepened tenfold when King Danube took Pony's hand and kissed it, expressing his gratitude yet again for her actions and her sacrifice and proclaiming that Honce-the-Bear was a better place by far because of Jilseponie and Elbryan, Avelyn Desbris and the centaur, Bradwarden, Roger Lockless, and-to Pony's and everyone else's absolute surprise-because of the quiet working of the Touel'alfar.
And then Danube and that moment of gratitude were abruptly gone; the King, Constance Pemblebury, and Duke Bretherford rode forth to the docks and the waiting ships. The reality of the still-gloomy day settled over St. Precious.
A temporary moment of truce, Pony thought as she considered the King's last words to her. A brief shining moment, unlasting in the gloom. Like all such moments.
Pony was on the roof of St. Precious's highest tower again later that day. The spectacle over at the dock section-with the tall ships unfurling their sails, the crowds cheering, the trumpets blaring-did not hold her attention for long. Rather, she found herself looking north, beyond the city's great wall, beyond the farmhouses and the rolling hills. Looking in her mind's eye to Dundalis and her past-and perhaps, she thought seriously, her future.
Chapter 3
Joined by War
The icy rain drummed heavily against the bare trees, blowing in sheets through the forest, soaking Prince Midalis and his army. They had hoped for snow, a great blizzard as so often blasted Vanguard, a storm gathering strength over the Gulf of Corona, drawing up the water and then dumping snow thigh deep throughout the region. But it was just rain this time: icy rain, and miserable to be sure, but nothing that would drive the goblin horde from their entrenched positions around the large, solitary stone structure, St. Belfour, on the small, bare hill amid the trees. The cowls of their cloaks pulled as low as they could go, the young Prince and his closest adviser and confidant, Liam O'Blythe, the Earl of Tir-Mattias, made their cautious way to the rocky ridgeline that afforded them a view of the abbey and of the monstrous army firmly encamped about it.
"There's two thousand o' the skizzes if there's a dozen," Liam remarked, surveying the scene before them. He was a thin fellow, all gangly arms and legs, freckle faced with red hair and gray eyes, as was common among the Vanguardsmen. "They got us five to one, even countin' that them monks'll come out and give a hand."
"A bolt of lightning would be better welcome," Midalis replied with just a hint of the Vanguard brogue creeping into his Ursal court-trained diction. His crystal blue eyes peeked out from under the edge of the hood, sparkling brightly despite the dullness of the day. When he stood in a room with native Vanguardsmen, it was obvious that Midalis was not from the region. He was of medium height and build, but with a darker complexion and dark brown hair. Anyone who saw Midalis standing beside the older Danube would guess that they were brothers.
"If they got any o' the magic left to 'em," said Liam, and he pulled off his soaked hood and shook his unruly mop of red hair, running his hand through it to get it out of his eyes. "They ain't tossed a bolt or a burst o' fire out at the goblins in a fortnight."
"They've got it left," Midalis answered with confidence. "But they know that if they use their magic, they'll just bring the goblins on in full against them. The goblins understand how much the monks have got to throw, and if those in the abbey grow weary from using their magic, they will find a difficult task in holding back the horde."
Liam nodded, but his expression remained doubting and grim. "Well, they better have a bolt or two for throwin' when we go against the horde, or we'll be chased off or cut down."
Prince Midalis did not doubt the man's observations. Vanguard was having a much harder time in the aftermath of the war than the rest of Honce-the-Bear, because in Vanguard, the war wasn't over. The minions of the demon dactyl had hit the region hard, both along the rocky coast and with a force marching across the land. South and west of the Gulf of Corona, the lands were cultivated, and much more heavily populated; and there, the King's army had been able to push the hordes away. But here, where the land was much wilder, where forests predominated over farmland and the population of humans was measured in hundreds instead of tens of thousands, the powries and goblins had not so readily retreated. Always, Vanguard had been the roughest region of Honce-the-Bear, its forests full of huge brown bears and hunting cats, its northern border continually crossed by the warlike barbarian tribesmen of Alpinador. The folk of Vanguard had known goblins and powries as more than fireside tales to scare children long before the demon dactyl had awakened to remind the more civilized regions that such monsters did exist.
And though they were certainly outnumbered by their monstrous enemies in the region, the people of Vanguard knew how to fight such foes.
Still, this was a battle that Midalis did not want; this particular army of goblins was too large and too skilled, and the ground around St. Belfour of Tir-Mattias was too rugged for the Prince's troops to fully utilize their greatest advantage: horses. Thus, Midalis had hoped the dark clouds they had seen gathering over the gulf would bring a killer blizzard, a storm that would weaken the goblins' resolve to continue their siege. "The weather won't be holdin' so warm much longer," Liam remarked. Midalis shook his head, his expression grim. "The monks haven't got much longer," he explained. "The goblins have held them in there for near to two months now, and with all the folk who came running before the horde, they've not the food to hold on." He paused there and stood staring long and hard at the windswept rain slashing against the abbey's stone walls and at the dozens and dozens of sputtering, smoking campfires of the goblin army encircling the place. "Ye're to go to him, ain't ye? " Liam asked. Midalis turned to regard him. "I see no choice," he answered. "Abbot | Agronguerre came to me last night, in my dreams, begging for our help. They've a day mo
re of food, and then they'll be going hungry. We cannot j wait any longer."
Liam's expression showed that he was less than enthusiastic about the j prospects. |
"I'm no more happy about the possibilities than you," Midalis said to J him. "In another time, we'd be fighting the barbarian savages, and now I am asking them for help."
"Help for the Abellican Church," Liam reminded him, which only made the prospects darker still.
"Aye, there's no friendship between the barbarians of Alpinador and the Church," Midalis agreed; for indeed, the Church had made many forays into the wild northern kingdom, usually with disastrous results, particularly one not so distant memory of slaughter in a small town called Fuldebarrow. "But I've got to try, for the abbot and his brethren."
"And I'll try with ye, me Prince," Liam said with a nod. "And all yer men'11 fight beside the demon hisself, if Prince Midalis' naming him an ally!"
Midalis put his hand on Liam's elbow, grateful, as always, for the unyielding loyalty of his hardy men and women. The folk of Vanguard had survived all the trials, the killer storms, and now the invasion, by standing united behind their beloved Prince Midalis, younger brother of King Danube Brock Ursal. And Midalis' loyalty was no less heartfelt and intense. As Danube's brother, he could have ruled whatever duchy he chose. He could have taken the Mantis Arm and its prosperous trade, or the Yorkey region between Ursal and Entel, with its gentle climate and rolling farmlands. He could have even been named Duke of Ursal, as was usual for a lone sibling prince, ruling the mighty city beside his brother in the luxury of Ursal's bountiful court.
But Vanguard had held Midalis' heart ever since his childhood, when his father had sailed with him into the Coastpoint Guard fortress of Pireth Vanguard on a trip to hunt the huge northern elk. Something about the nature of the place-untamed, seemingly unconquerable-had touched a spiritual chord within young Midalis, had shown him an alternative to the bustle and the dirt of the cities. His brother had been leery about letting Midalis come up to this wild land-would the nearly autonomous people accept him? Or might he meet with an "accident" on a hunting trip?
Those fears had been dispelled the moment Midalis had stepped off the boat onto the low dock of Pireth Vanguard, when a host of folk from all the neighboring communities had arrived to set out a huge feast of venison and fowl, with pipers playing tunes both melancholy and joyous all through the day, and all the young ladies of Vanguard taking turns dancing with their new Prince. Truly, Midalis had found his home, and so when the minions of the demon dactyl had arrived in force, Midalis had not only called out the militia and sent a message to his brother for aid but he had personally led the Vanguard forces. Never could it be said of Prince Midalis that he sat on a horse in safety at the back of the battlefield, commanding his troops into action.
Thus, when the barbarian Andacanavar had come to Midalis' camp that night a week before and Midalis had agreed to meet with him, other Vanguard men and women, traditional enemies of the barbarians, had deferred to the judgment of their heroic Prince without complaint.
Still, it was with great trepidation that Midalis and Liam made their quiet way over the forested hills to the field where Andacanavar and his fellows had set up camp. Might the huge barbarian have baited him, feigning friendship so that he could decapitate the Vanguard forces?
Midalis swallowed that distrust and forced himself to focus instead on poor Abbot Agronguerre and the other forty monks of St. Belfour and the three hundred commoners holed up within the abbey's walls.
At the edge of the field, the pair were met by a trio of huge muscled men, the shortest of whom stood nearly half a foot taller than the nearly six-foot Midalis. Huge spears in hand, the barbarians walked right up before the horses of the visitors, one going to each horse and grabbing the reins just below the beasts' mouths, pulling down forcefully.
"Which is Midalis?" the third of the group, standing back a couple of steps, asked.
The Prince reached up and pulled back his hood, shaking the wetness from his straight brown hair. "I am the Prince of Honce-the-Bear," he said, noting that all three of the barbarians narrowed their eyes at the proclamation.
"Your leader bade me to come to him," Midalis went on, "under a banner of alliance."
The barbarian in the back nodded his head quickly to the side, indicating that the pair should dismount; then, while his two companions walked the horses away, he motioned Midalis and Liam to follow him.
"They should be unsaddled and brushed down," Prince Midalis remarked.
The barbarian turned back on him skeptically.
"They're not knowin' much about horses," Liam whispered to his companion. "The folk of Alpinador ain't much for ridin'."
"But we have eaten more than a few," their huge escort promptly added. He looked at Liam and snickered, for Liam's voice, like his frame, was quite delicate.
Midalis and Liam exchanged skeptical glances; this wasn't going to be easy.
They were led to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Both noticed that few eyes were upon them throughout the march, and when their escort pulled aside the flap, they understood why.
More than three hundred barbarian warriors-all tall and most with long flaxen hair, some with braids, others with ornamental jewelry tied in-filled the tent, hoisting great foaming mugs and making such a general ruckus that Midalis was amazed that he and Liam hadn't heard them a mile away or that the goblins outside St. Belfour hadn't taken note and sent scouts to investigate.
Or maybe they had, Midalis realized, when he looked to the side and saw a row of goblin heads staked out like macabre party decorations.
"Tunno bren-de prin!" their escort cried above the tumult in his native tongue, a rolling, bouncing language that the Vanguardsmen jokingly referred to as "bedongadongadonga."
Almost immediately, the hall quieted, all eyes turning toward the two smaller men at the entrance. The Prince heard Liam swallow hard, and he shared that nervous sentiment completely. Though it was late fall, and cold, most of the barbarians were wearing sleeveless tunics, revealing their huge, muscled arms, as thick around as Midalis' thigh.
The barbarian ranks slowly parted then as an older man, his face weathered by more than fifty winters, scooped up an extra pair of goblets and started to walk slowly across the tent. He was huge, his muscles taut despite his age; and though there were others his size or even larger, and though most of the men in the hall weren't half his age, from his balanced gait and stern visage, from the obvious respect he commanded from everyone in the hall, Midalis understood that this man Andacanavar could best any two of the others, perhaps any three, in batde.
Without a word, without a blink, he strode toward the pair of visitors, but stopped some dozen paces away. He lifted his own flagon and drained it in one huge swallow, then took the other two, one in each hand, and came forward slowly, the rustling of his deerskin breeches the only sound in the hall-other than the heavy breathing of both Midalis and Liam.
Right before the pair, Andacanavar stopped again and slowly brought his arms out wide and high above his head.
And then he closed his eyes and howled, turning it to a roar, primal and feral and as frightening a sound as either of the Vanguardsmen had ever heard.
And all the others took it up with vigor, a deafening communal roar that shook the tent walls and sent shivers coursing down the spines of the two visitors.
Continuing to roar, Andacanavar now opened his eyes and winked to the two, a signal that Midalis did not miss. Up went the Prince's arms, and he, too, loosed a tremendous bellow; and Liam, after an incredulous glance, did likewise, though his sounded more like a squeak. That only seemed to spur the barbarians on to greater heights, their shouts reaching a thunderous crescendo. Andacanavar dropped his arms suddenly, foam flying everywhere, and all cut short their howls-except for Midalis and Liam, who didn't understand the game and kept howling a few embarrassing moments longer. Both met the powerful gaze of Andacanavar, and the three stared at o
ne another a few moments longer, before the imposing barbarian came forward and thrust the mugs into their hands, then reached back and called for another drink.
Liam started to bring the mead-filled mug to his lips, but Midalis, catching on, held him.
Then Andacanavar had a mug of his own, presenting it to the pair. "Ah, but we have a bunch of goblins to kill, now don't we?" the barbarian ranger asked.
Midalis took a chance. He raised his mug above his head-even splashing some mead on Andacanavar, though the man hardly seemed to noticeand shouted, "To the death of the goblins!"
Andacanavar slapped his mug against Midalis' and held it there, both men eyeing Liam, who quickly smacked his mug up there, too, while all the gathering took up the toast, "To the death of the goblins!"
Andacanavar drained his mug, as did Liam, for none in Honce-the-Bear could outdrink a born-and-bred Vanguardsman, and Midalis got his close enough to empty to call for more.
"Drink hearty, my friends," said Andacanavar.
"But not too much so," Midalis replied. "We've important business."
Andacanavar nodded. "But my men are wishing to see the truth of you both," he explained. "When you have taken enough of the mead, you will wag your tongues honestly, and let us see if we have a bond that can be forged."
Midalis considered the words and glanced to his friend, and then both held their flagons out as younger barbarians, barely more than boys, rushed about with bulging waterskins, refilling each mug in turn.
"This is Bruinhelde, who leads Tol Hengor," Andacanavar explained, holding his arm back and sweeping forward another imposing, stern-faced man, his blond hair tied with feathers and ornaments, his jaw square and strong. It occurred to Midalis that if he ever punched that jaw, he'd do more damage to his hand than to Bruinhelde's face. His eyes were the typical Alpinadoran blue, burning with inner fires.
"Your closest neighbors, they are," Andacanavar continued. "Far past the time for you two to meet as friends, I say."
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