While sipping cold water flavored with apple cider, Reeves regaled an enraptured audience of the future duke, Captain Jaques and a half dozen Burwyck army lieutenants with tales of the glorious victory. Magrane’s counterattack had come as a complete surprise to the enemy. Within half a day, the enemy force had been cut in two, with one half attempting to retreat across the River Fasse, and the other half encircled by troops from the Royal Army, Anschulz and LeVanne. Magrane had ordered the sinking and burning of as many of the enemy’s boats and rafts as could be reached. Because of this, many of the retreating enemy were forced to swim across the Fasse, discarding their weapons before plunging into the wide and swiftly-flowing river. Those that did not drown were swept downstream, and found themselves set upon and killed by their own forces when they reached the west bank of the Fasse. The enemy did not know how to retreat, and the enemy commanders did not tolerate failure.
As Reeves fielded questions about the battle, a cheer arose from the riverbank. The first of the barges were coming around a bend in the river. Jaques sent his lieutenants away to oversee preparations for loading, then changed the subject. “Lieutenant Reeve, what of the situation in Demarche?”
Again, her face reddened. “I though you knew, Captain, Your Grace. As Duchess Rochambeau did not support Ariana in the vote for the Regency, Her Highness has withdrawn the Royal Army east of the Turmalane mountains in Demarche. Duke Falco is sending you to support the army of Demarche along the Fasse, in anticipation of the enemy shifting their focus to Demarche.”
Kyre could not believe that Ariana would be that petty and stupid. “Ariana is abandoning the western half of Demarche, because Duchess Rochambeau voted against her?”
“General Magrane has been ordered to pull back east of the Turmalanes, and to set up a new defensive line there,” Reeves confirmed.
Kyre and Jaques looked at each other in astonished disbelief. “Where are the Demarche forces?”
Reeves almost squirmed where she was seated, so withering was the glare from Captain Jaques. “Along the River Fasse, Captain.”
“Captain? Can they hold the Fasse, with our help?” Kyre asked, fearing that he knew the answer.
“It is doubtful,” Jaques’ face was grim. “I expect the duchess will order her army to fight a delaying action, up through the mountain passes.”
“The Royal Army is evacuating civilians as they retreat back through the Turmalanes,” Reeves offered as cold consolation.
“Your Grace, we will need to discuss strategy,” Jaques warned. While Duke Falco had ordered the battalion to assist Duchess Rochambeau, the army captain could not believe his duke wished the Burwyck soldiers to sacrifice themselves in a hopeless battle. “With the enemy pushed back in Anschulz, surely their attention will turn south to Demarche.”
Kyre looked to the river, where three barges were now in sight. “There will be time to talk strategy on the river. I need to send a message to my father, I think.” He had the codes to send a secret message, the question was, what to put in a message? What did his father expect of the battalion, and of Kyre? There was not a telegraph nearby, he would need to send the message while on the march, after they left the river behind. Suddenly aware that Reeves served the Royal Army and was potentially a spy in their mist, Kyre stood, and forcing Reeves and Jaques to do the same. “Lieutenant Reeves, thank you for bringing the message to us so quickly.”
“You are welcome. Oh, Your Grace, I have been remiss; I should offer you congratulations,” Reeves said stiffly; her body language suggested that she was merely following formal courtesy, and did not think congratulations were in order at all.
“Ariana,” Kyre said with a sour expression.
“What of our princess, Sire?” Jaques asked.
“I am now engaged to marry our future queen,” Kyre explained bitterly. To Reeves, he added “I did not think the arrangement was common knowledge.”
The Royal Army lieutenant’s face reddened. “There was a rumor, Your Grace, then a formal message was sent only yesterday. It arrived just before I set out to bring you this message,” she pointed to the paper held by Jaques.
“My congratulations to you, Your Grace,” Jaques said in a neutral tone. His enthusiasm was tempered by not yet knowing exactly how this stunning news affected the Falco family and the duchy of Burwyck. And it was also tempered by the pained rather than proud, expression on Kyre Falco’s face. It was likely, Jaques thought to himself, that Kyre Falco resented being used to fulfill his father’s dream of putting a Falco back on the throne of Tarador. By virtue of being Duke Falco’s eldest child, Kyre was already in line to inherit the duchy of Burwyck. Now he would also become Prince Consort of the realm. According to the law, Kyre’s first child would someday become king or queen of Tarador, and his second child would become duke or duchess of Burwyck after him. While others may envy Kyre, Captain Jaques knew marrying the crown princess would only cause more headaches for the Falco heir, and bring more pressure from his father.
Jaques did not envy Kyre. As he had risen through the ranks of the Burwyck ducal army, he had seen enough of politics to know he wanted no more of it.
Kyre Falco watched the Royal Army messenger ride away, wondering if he had been too hasty to offer protection to the new Regent and future queen. If Ariana’s first act as Regent was to surrender the western third of Demarche province, in an act of childish spite because Duchess Rochambeau had voted against her, then Kyre’s faith in Ariana was misplaced. Ariana Trehayme was not the steady leadership Tarador needed; she was a silly, spiteful girl. And Kyre was leading the battalion into a battle they must surely lose, at great cost.
What other mistakes had he made?
Kyre Falco considered that perhaps his father was right, in striving to take the throne of Tarador away from the Trehaymes. Ariana’s father the king had gotten himself killed in an act of foolish bravado. Her uncle Leese was lost in alcohol and whatever substances he could get his hands on. Her mother had been a weak, indecisive and ineffectual Regent. And now Ariana was allowing her personal feelings to overrule her common sense, and the advice of her generals.
Kyre hoped he could think of a way out of the awful mess, before he got the entire battalion killed for nothing.
It had been a long, tough march to Demarche, even though the land was mostly open and flat. For a full day, the battalion had marched on a road alongside a river, and with every step on the hot, dusty road, the soldiers winced at their sore, aching feet and wished they could be lazily floating along the river. But they couldn’t, for the river flowed in the wrong direction. If it had flowed toward Demarche, they still could not have spent an afternoon being carried along the water. There were no boats, no barges and no rafts to be had in that part of Tarador. And no one to guide boats or barges or rafts, for the population had fled when Acedor’s army crossed the River Fasse in Anschulz. Kyre rode at the head of the battalion, all the way to the border with Demarche, where they found the border station empty.
As they turned west and approached the valley of the River Fasse, the march slowed, because they ran into masses of refugees coming the other way. Kyre’s horse was forced off the road, giving way to wagons grossly overloaded, as farmers brought with them everything that could move. Those who had fewer possessions either rode horses and even oxen, or walked. With the main roads clogged, the battalion split up and took a longer path toward the Fasse. Kyre noted that traffic on the roads thinned as they descended farther down into the river valley, until the river itself was a broad, silvery ribbon in plain view across the farm fields. The civilian population closest to the river had been the first to be evacuated, and all that remained now were stragglers. Royal Army cavalry ranged about the region in groups of two and three, herding the civilians along as best they can, and warning the reluctant that the Royal Army had already pulled back. Brief conversations Kyre had with the cavalry confirmed that the army of Demarche was all that remained between the foothills of the Turmalane mountains to the east,
and the River Fasse to the west. On the west bank of the Fasse, a host of the enemy awaited.
Three days behind schedule, the battalion arrived at the rally point to find confusion, and far fewer Demarche soldiers than Kyre expected. And hoped for.
Under Barlen’s direction, the group buried the dead bandits, then took Lekerk’s body back to the Farlane army post to collect the reward. It took a full day of messages going back and forth on the telegraph, and a lot of arguing and threats by Barlen before the reward money was paid out from the thin coffers of Duke Bargann. But paid out it was, and Bjorn Jihnsson took his rightful share. While in the village, the entire group was treated to a feast at the finest, and only, tavern, with most people and two of the dwarves indulging in too much beer, wine and stronger drink. Right after the reward money was paid, Barlen insisted on riding north because he was wary of his companions having full purses and access to a tavern. The three other dwarves grumbled somewhat before getting on their sturdy ponies, and setting off on the road, with Koren and Bjorn riding behind them. “Good idea that we move now,” Bjorn commented quietly to Barlen.
“My fellows like to celebrate with a good drink. Or more,” Barlen frowned.
“Aye,” Bjorn agreed. “And, the longer we wait, the more time people up ahead of us will have to learn there are six people traveling with pockets full of reward money.”
Barlen’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that, Bjorn.”
“Lekerk’s band may be scattered to the winds, but you can be sure there are other bandits eager to take over Lekerk’s territory. I’ll bet my whole purse there is someone in this village who reports to bandits on likely targets.”
Barlen unconsciously checked that his battleaxe was securely attached to his belt. “It is good then,” he grinned, “that we are well set for weapons.” Out of his own pocket, Barlen had purchased a fine new bow for Koren, and a much better sword for the young man. Everyone had a full quiver of arrows on their backs. Every single arrow had been personally inspected by Koren, and Barlen was grateful for that. The young man had rejected three out of four arrows that were offered to them, explaining the rejected arrows were either not straight, not sound, or they simply didn’t ‘feel right’. “Bjorn, where did Kedrun get his skill? I’ve never seen anyone shoot an arrow like he does.”
“You haven’t seen him with a sword. He could cut lightning out of the air before it hit the ground,” Bjorn boasted about his friend. “He told me he was apprenticed to a weapons master, and I didn’t ask further.”
Barlen was silent for a few minutes, considering what Bjorn had said. Barlen did not like unknowns, and Kedrun was an unknown. An unknown that Barlen had agreed to vouch for, so the young man could pass the border into Barlen’s homeland. The dwarf reflected that, if Kedrun’s intentions were not good, the young man would have tried to sneak across the border, rather than going through a border gate on a road. “Do you know why he wants entry to my homeland?”
Bjorn shook his head with a glance back at his companion. “No. I didn’t know he is going there to speak with someone, until he told you.”
“You have no business of your own with us?” Barlen asked, curious. “Why are you following him, then?”
“He saved my life. Although,” Bjorn mused, “he didn’t know it at the time. Then he saved my life again.”
“Ah,” Barlen nodded with understanding. “You have a debt to pay.”
“Aye, there’s that, to be sure. Also, I have a feeling this is where I’m supposed to be. I can’t explain it.”
“I know why I’m here,” Barlen snorted. “The reward money. You won’t see me or my crew risking our necks for nothing.”
“Ha,” Dekma laughed. “It was either this, or fighting orcs up in the mountains. They’ve been crawling all around our border like rats seeking cheese.”
“Be quiet, Dekma,” Barlen snapped. “Don’t you go telling strangers about our affairs.”
Bjorn took the hint. “I’m dropping back. I need to speak with Kedrun.”
Bjorn did not actually speak with the young man he knew as ‘Kedrun’. Koren was not paying attention to where they were going, which left Bjorn to watch the road for signs of danger. The ponies of the dwarves plodded along, and Thunderbolt walked behind them. While the great horse would usually have expressed is frustration at the slow pace, that day Thunderbolt sensed his master’s mood, and merely walked along silently, avoiding potholes in the road so as not to jostle his rider.
Koren did not say much the rest of that day, nor when they stopped at an inn or the night. He did not even complain when he and Bjorn had to share a room with Dekma, who snored loudly. Halfway through the following morning, Bjorn cleared his throat. “You didn’t know your parents had died?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Koren mumbled with anger.
“No you don’t want to talk about it. You need to talk about it,” Bjorn insisted. Koren did not respond. “Kedrun, listen to me. You can talk about it to your horse, or to the trees, but you do need to talk about it; the sooner the better. Listen to me. Are you listening? I suffered a terrible loss, and I blamed myself,” Bjorn referred to when the king had been killed. “I should have spoken about it to my wife, or my fellow guards. I didn’t, because I let my stubborn pride rule me. Instead of talking about it, with someone, I let a bottle do the talking for me.”
Koren looked at Bjorn and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Bjorn understood the young man likely did not know where to start. “The wagon,” Bjorn said as a way to start a conversation. “Why did you ask whether the wagon was,” he tried to remember what question had to posed to Lekerk. “Was north of the crossroads or not? Why does it matter which direction the wagon was traveling?”
Bjorn’s ploy worked; Koren had to respond in order to be polite. His mother would have wanted him to be polite. “Because,” he took in a deep breath. “If the wagon had been headed south and east from the crossroads, my parents were leaving me behind. They were not doing that. They were going north, to get me. That’s where I was. They were coming to get me, to bring me back.”
“Because you ran away?”
Koren saw not need to tell Bjorn the full truth; that would come too close to the man possibly figuring out who he really was. He did not know how far the story had traveled throughout Tarador; the story of Koren Bladewell who had rescued the crown princess. Of Koren the jinx. Of Koren, who had nearly killed Ariana Trehayme, and was now hunted by the Royal Army. Telling Bjorn that he had run away was close enough to the truth. “Yes. I thought my parents didn’t come after me because they didn’t want me. They did want me, even after what I did. They were coming to get me, to bring me back. And then,” his hands tightened on the reins until his hands turned white, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. Unashamed, he wiped them away. “He killed them. I hate him. I hate him,” Koren gritted his teeth and looked at Bjorn. “I don’t know whether to thank you for killing him, or not.”
“You should thank me. Kedrun, if he had surrendered, could you have killed him in cold blood?”
“I could- I don’t know. I want to. I want to bring him back, and kill him, over and over again! Bjorn, I thought my parents abandoned me. Lekerk made me think my parents didn’t want me. He made me think I was worthless. I hate him. Now he’s dead, and I can’t even get the satisfaction of imagining killing him. I feel, empty. Cheated.”
“Kedrun, don’t think about it. That kind of thing can eat you-”
“If I see more bandits, I’m going to kill them.”
“You say that now,” Bjorn cautioned.
“I mean it, Bjorn. They are all murderers. The bandits out there may not have killed my parents; I am sure they killed someone’s parents.”
Bjorn did not reply. His companion did not need a lecture, he needed time. And, perhaps, Bjorn thought, Kedrun did need another battle with bandits to give himself a measure of release. If that happened, Bjorn would stay by Kedrun’
s side. He hoped Kedrun’s need for revenge didn’t get them both killed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
General Armistead unrolled a map of western Demarche and held down the corners with weights against the breeze blowing through the tent. It was a warm late summer day; without the wind it would have been stiflingly hot under the campaign tent. She took off her helmet and set it on the table, pulling back her matted hair and tying it behind her neck. Using a dagger as a pointer, Armistead illustrated the situation on the map. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said to Kyre, “I do not know how familiar you are with the terrain in this area of Tarador.”
“In Burwyck, I know every stream and hill,” Kyre said without resorting to a boast. “Here, I am lost,” he admitted with no shame.
“The River Fasse here in Demarche cuts more deeply into the land on both sides than it does farther north. There are no bridges across the Fasse here, of course,” she traced the line of the river on the map from Winterthur, down through Anschulz and Demarche to the seacoast. What bridges had existed had been destroyed when Tarador split from Acedor, and only ancient remnants of their crumbled piers now testified to where the bridges had been in ancient times. “Because the bluffs on the east and west banks are tall and steep, it is only possible for the enemy to cross into Demarche in two places. Here, where the Urel flows into the Fasse,” she pointed down close to the seacoast. “The enemy will not attack up along with Urel, because the valley of the Urel is narrow and steep; they would be trapped after they crosses the Fasse. Here is the only place they can cross successfully.” She pointed north, halfway from the seacoast to the border between Demarche and Anschulz. “The Little Fasse, or Fasselle, joins the Fasse from the east. The lower part of the Fasselle meanders back and forth before reaching the Fasse; it forms a broad, shallow valley in Demarche. There are marshes where the rivers join, that makes it impossible for us to fortify the area. Because the lower Fasselle splits into multiple channels, the enemy has many points to land boats, and the gentle current this time of year will allow enemy boats to travel up the Fasselle before landing.”
Transcendent (Ascendant Book 2) Page 33