An Imperial Gambit (Wardens of Issalia Book 3)

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

  Quinn looked toward it as the wagon ahead of them continued past the intersection and continued north, toward Vingarri. “While it’s not a primary road, it does appear recently used.” She looked down at the map following the curled line that ran from Vinata to their destination. “The route to Corvichi appears to be as long as our trip was from Sol Polis to Vinata.”

  “Yes.” Brandt folded the map. “Worse, this one leads into the mountains, not through an easy pass like our journey here.”

  With a sigh, she headed down the hill with him at her side. “Best to get going. We have many miles ahead of us, and we’ll want to find a safe spot to camp for the night.”

  “I agree,” Brandt said, each footstep heavy as he tromped downhill. “Tomorrow, we can scout the area, watch for patterns, and come up with a plan.”

  The clouds rolled in, growing thicker and darker as the day dragged on. By mid-afternoon, the threat of rain became apparent, if not imminent as thunder rolled in the distance. The open view of the surrounding hills had long faded, now obscured by wooded hillsides that enveloped the narrow road. Worse, the wind had increased from a breeze to gusts that would, at times, howl through the surrounding forest. Quinn began to realize why this castle in the mountains might have been abandoned. The distance from the shore and the lack of surrounding civilization left her wondering why Corvichi had chosen such a remote location in the first place.

  Brandt stopped, frowning as thunder rumbled.

  She turned toward him “What is…”

  He held his open palm up, stopping her in mid-sentence. Then, beyond the howling wind, she heard it – a deep rumble coming from the road ahead, the sound drawing closer. It wasn’t thunder.

  “Quick. Hide!” He scrambled off the road, squeezing through the brush.

  Quinn scurried after him, looking toward the bend in the road with trepidation. She passed beyond the outer layer of shrubs and ducked beside him as a wagon rounded the bend.

  Drawn by two workhorses and driven by a young man with a soldier seated to each side of him, the wagon rolled past, the trio oblivious of her or Brandt. After the wagon passed by, she stood and spied the barrel of a flash cannon poking out from beneath a tarp in the wagon bed. Judging by the size and shape of the object beside it, she assumed it was two cannons. The wagon faded from view, leaving only the dust stirred by its passing. The forest fell quiet, the blowing wind now joined by the soft patter of raindrops.

  Brandt looked up with a grimace. “I hope it doesn’t rain any harder or this trip is going to be a slog through mud.”

  She pushed her way through the brush. “At least we now know we took the correct route.”

  He returned to the road, brushed some burrs from his cloak, and raised his hood as they resumed their journey. “True. Yet, rather than being reassured, I now have a bad feeling about this mission.”

  Lightning struck, a strobe of flickering light joined by a teeth-rattling rumble of thunder. The sky opened and the sprinkling rain became a downpour.

  Quinn was wet. Everywhere. Wet and cold. The combination made her grumpy – angry that she had no choice but to endure the suffering. Brandt squatted beside her, the two of them peering over a gray rock atop a saddle between two peaks. Despite the lessening rain and the dimming light, their position made it possible to see their destination.

  A valley lay before them, surrounded by mountain peaks, the modest peak in the center topped by a pale castle. The brown strip of a single road ran up to the castle, winding through the dark green trees that surrounded it. At the valley floor, the road intersected with another that ran in the opposite direction and then faded from view.

  “That other road appears to head west,” Brandt noted. “I’ll bet it leads to Yarth,”

  “This is stupid.” Quinn wanted to scream at someone. She hated being wet and cold. “How do we get up there without being seen? Do we do it at night? Can we make it in without being heard or injured or worse?”

  Brandt shook his head. “Not tonight, we don’t. I’m freezing and exhausted.” He looked at her, his eyes widening when he saw her glaring back. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you feel the same way. We both need to warm up and get some rest. That will give us time to think”

  She held her hand out, sprinkles striking her palm – much better than the flood of drops that had doused her for the previous three hours. “The rain is dying out and should end soon.”

  “I agree,” he said. “It’ll also be dark inside the hour. Let’s move farther away from the road and find a low area to camp, hidden where they won’t spot a fire. We’ll wait until dark so they can’t follow the smoke.”

  He turned and began weaving his way through the forest. She followed, ducking beneath branches and twisting around a thorn-covered thicket. The undergrowth, and everything else, was wet. Each brush up against leaves added to the wetness that already covered her clothes.

  “How are you going to start a fire?” She grumbled. “Everything is soaking wet.”

  Pausing, he turned toward her with a small smile on his face. “You sound awfully grumpy. Admittedly, I found rain unfortunate, but you downright despise being wet, don’t you?”

  She glared at him. “What’s your point?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to be warm and dry?”

  “Of course, but we are alone in a forest that is as soaked as we are. Wishing for it won’t change a thing.”

  “Oh, how easily you forget. You are with me.” His grin widened. “I can do magic that will make your wishes come true.”

  For some reason, his glib attitude stirred the testy beast inside her. “Get moving, or I’ll wipe that smile off your face with my fist.”

  “Wow.” His smile slid away. “Sorry.”

  Quinn sighed. “No.” She grabbed his arm before he could turn away. “Don’t be sorry. That was…unfair. I’m just irritated about being cold and wet and hungry.”

  “Apology accepted…and noted.” The corner of his lip turned up in a smirk. “I was wondering if it were even possible for you to admit you were wrong.”

  “Don’t test me, Brandt,” she growled.

  “Um. Never mind.”

  He turned and resumed his route down the hill, through a copse of tall pines, and into a sheltered clearing with a boulder at the center, joined by a lonely tree, nearly bereft of leaves.

  Brandt pulled his hood back and surveyed the area, nodding as he spun about. “This is perfect.”

  She scrutinized the clearing, turning his statement over in her head. Knee-high grass and brush surrounded them, the bare tree leaning away from the boulder as if it feared the thing. The boulder itself was nothing special – an ordinary chunk of gray rock that stood chest-high and had a similar diameter.

  “Why is it perfect?”

  “You’ll see.” He turned and walked toward a fallen tree, fifty feet away. “Look around and find branches and loose wood we can use for a fire.”

  After a moment of consideration, Quinn did as requested, heading back into the trees. She spent the next few minutes collecting an armload of sticks and branches that dotted the forest floor. By the time she returned to the campsite, he had a pile as well, and nightfall was upon them.

  “Throw yours beside mine,” Brandt said, pointing toward the pile beyond the tree. “That should be far enough away.”

  After throwing her collected wood atop his, Quinn pulled her hood down and realized that the rain had stopped. Turning, she found Brandt kneeling beside the boulder, drawing a symbol with a chunk of glowstone. The pale blue lines glowed in the dimming twilight. Quinn recognized the rune and realized what he intended. I should have thought of that.

  He stood back, closed his eyes for a long moment, and opened them to reveal crackling red sparks. The rune bloomed with a crimson hue and Brandt backed away, pulling Quinn with him. When the glow settled, the rock burst into flames, flaring white-orange with an inferno that burned fifteen feet high. Even standing ten strides away, Quinn felt the heat from the inten
se blaze. Brandt took his cloak off and hung it from a bare branch of the tree beside them.

  Quinn frowned when he began to undo the buttons of his coat. “What are you doing?”

  He looked toward her as he continued to undress. “We need to get dry. We are in the mountains and far from the sea. It will get cold tonight – cold enough to see our breath. Believe it or not, we could die if we can’t stay warm.”

  “Okay. I’m with you so far.” She undid her cloak and lifted it toward a branch, flinching from the heat when it forced her to move closer to the fire.

  “The fire’s intensity will last an hour before it begins to fade. Drying our clothes now will allow us to wear them when we sleep, when the fire is far smaller and much cooler.”

  “You want me to take my clothes off?”

  He pulled his coat off, revealing the thin tunic beneath. A grin crossed his face. “While I can’t deny that it aligns with my personal desires, this is for your own good – your survival. It’s not exactly the romantic moment I might have wished for, but yes, I want you to take your clothes off.”

  She stared at him as he pulled his tunic over his head and turned toward the tree, the ripples of his damp torso glistening in the firelight. He then leaned against the tree for support while he unbuckled his boots.

  Shrugging to herself, Quinn began unbuttoning her leather jerkin. She found herself wondering if Brandt had somehow planned the whole scenario with this end in mind. Surprisingly, she realized that it didn’t bother her either way.

  28

  Surrender

  “Thank you, Master Beldon,” Ashland said, dismissing the minister.

  Beldon bowed his head. “Until next time, my Queen.”

  The man turned and ambled down the throne room aisle with Wharton as his escort. The door opened, and both men faded from view. Ashland glanced toward the door at the side of the room, her gaze briefly meeting the blue eyes of Ran, the latest elite guard recruit.

  Tall, muscular, and tanned, Ran was undoubtedly the youngest of her guards and likely among the youngest recruits ever to accept the position. Her gaze shifted to the markings that graced the exposed portion of his arms, between the metal bracers on his forearms and the rounded plate that covered his thick shoulder. Body art was a rarity outside of vocation runes. The symbols marking him were even more atypical.

  I see much of his parents in him, Ashland thought. The calm demeanor, his quiet manner. The unspoken threat of violence, should the situation demand it.

  The door opened, and Wharton entered with a young woman trailing him. Her blond hair was tied back in a tail, her plain clothing covered by a long, dark cloak. Wharton stopped five strides before the throne and gave Ashland a shallow bow. The woman beside him mirrored his action.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Your Highness. A messenger just arrived, and I thought it best if you heard her report yourself, should you have any questions.” Wharton moved aside and gestured for the young woman to take over.

  She shuffled forward, her downcast eyes flicked up, met Ashland’s gaze for a moment, and then returned to stare at the dais. The woman could be no older than twenty-five summers. A Cognitio rune graced her forehead, marking her old vocation path as someone who sought knowledge.

  The messenger cleared her throat and spoke in a quiet voice. “I just heard about what happened…I am so sorry about your husband and son.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Ashland said. “However, I must set my grieving aside, for I have a kingdom to manage and citizens to protect. I assume you have a name and you are here for reasons beyond offering condolences.”

  “Yes. Of course. My name is Samantha, Samantha Brine. I was assigned the role of recorder and messenger for Captain Marcella. I have spent the past four months with her at the Hipoint Garrison.”

  The messenger paused and glanced toward Wharton, who nodded for her to continue.

  “We spent the bulk of that time repairing and fortifying the garrison while the miners with us dug an escape tunnel. A few weeks back, we were joined by a small party of special fighters who had come from Fallbrandt.”

  Samantha paused while staring at Ashland, who nodded that she understood. Wardens.

  The woman took a deep breath and continued.

  “When we learned that an enemy attack was imminent, we evacuated the village and prepared for battle. All that remained were five hundred soldiers in the garrison, a single ship, and Baron Rhone, himself. The baron refused to leave his manor, despite our pleas.

  “On the day of the battle, Marcella sent me with this note and bade me to wait upon the ship until the last possible moment. The battle began mid-day. When the enemy drew close, we crushed two of their catapults with an incredible landslide. Even that event was nothing but a delay for the inevitable.

  “Night fell, and my ability to monitor what transpired grew limited. Yet, I waited in hope of a miracle that would not come. When green flames and explosions lit the night, it soon became obvious that the garrison would fall. Upon the cliffside, orange fires burned, providing light for the horror to come.

  “Fearing my message would not reach you should they attack our ship, I gave the command to set sail. Even as the ship drifted out to sea, I watched thousands of Imperial soldiers storm the breached garrison walls. There were shouts and screams and cries of people dying in the fracas. As we reached the breakers, another explosion, this one appearing as if red lightning had struck, blasted the garrison walls away and everything on the coast fell black.”

  Samantha leaned forward and held a message out toward Ashland. She accepted it, unfolded the note, and read in silence.

  King Brock,

  You assigned me the task of reclaiming the Hipoint Garrison and restoring it to the best of my abilities. With the soldiers I was promised, exceeding thirteen hundred in total, I was to hold the garrison and prevent our enemies from advancing up the coast. After pouring every bit of our energy into preparation for an attack, I now realize that we cannot prevent the inevitable.

  We face a far superior army, for the reinforcements Duke Chadwick was to send never arrived. Instead, a force of five-hundred Kantarian soldiers will confront an army of thousands. Worse, our enemy is armed with explosives and weapons unlike any we have ever seen. Rather than sacrifice hundreds in a fruitless pursuit, we intend to make them pay deeply for the ground we give.

  By now, the garrison has inevitably fallen. If our tactics play out as hoped, a significant portion of the enemy army has fallen as well. I only pray that the price was high enough to make them cautious to advance further.

  We plan to regroup and will again face them at the Kantarian border. Please send additional troops, for I fear an attack on Wayport is imminent.

  Honor, always,

  Captain Marcella Urig

  Ashland lowered the note, her gaze shifting first to the messenger, and then to Wharton.

  “We have lost Hipoint.” The words came out of Ashland’s mouth as a statement.

  The captain of the guard nodded.

  Ashland sighed. “While that is regretful, it is not the worst thing to occur. Until recently, the village, and the garrison, had been on Kalimar land. The advance removes another port from our cause, but it was a minor port at best.

  “I am more concerned about the reason behind Chadwick’s forces not arriving at the garrison as planned.”

  The door burst open and Magistrate Filbert strutted into the room. His arms were crossed over his chest, his black robe flowing behind him as he strode down the aisle.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Ashland demanded.

  Filbert stopped and raised his brow at the messenger before glancing toward Wharton.

  “I thought it best to inform Your Highness that there is an angry mob out in the receiving hall.”

  Wharton’s brow furrowed. “What are you going on about, old man?”

  “Don’t believe me? Go on and see for yourself.”

  Shouts came from beyond the closed
doors, trailed by the distinctive clang of steel on steel. Wharton drew his sword and started down the aisle when the doors burst open and Nels staggered in. The man was covered in blood, holding the side of his neck with one hand, the gruesome remainder of his other arm dangling as blood dripped on the floor. He fell to his knees and choked before falling face first. Dead.

  Soldiers, all dressed in the black, red, and gold of Kantaria, ran into the room, stepping on and over the dead guard. With weapons drawn – some of which were covered in blood – the guards fanned out, raised their shields and faced Wharton from across the room.

  During this process, Filbert had climbed upon the dais and stood to Ashland’s left.

  “Stop!” Filbert bellowed. Everyone froze.

  When the magistrate turned toward Ashland, he wore a grin upon his face – a smile bereft of humor.

  “Queen Ashland, as Chief Magistrate of Kantaria, I find you unfit to rule.” Filbert’s voice was firm, as if he were presiding over his court. “You face a decision. Surrender, abdicate the throne, comply with my will, and you will depart this room alive. Any action contrary to this demand will result in your death in addition to those who choose to support you.”

  Ashland glared at Filbert while she considered his words. Her gaze shifted to Wharton, who stood at the midpoint between her and more than twenty guards. Wharton held his blade steady, his gaze affixed on her as he waited for her orders.

  “Well,” Filbert said, “what will it be, my Queen?” He sneered, the last word thick with contempt.

  The study of lore had been an area of interest to Ashland. She knew the course of history often teetered upon decisions such as the one she faced. One choice might yield years, or decades, of tyranny and oppression. The other choice might be even worse. Then, again, sometimes, one finds a third path.

  Her gaze shifted to the messenger, the girl’s eyes bulging with fear – the same fear clawing at Ashland, demanding her surrender. Surrender, she told herself. Yes. I must surrender to my fear.