His foot suddenly sank so that he lost his balance. He slumped to one knee, his sword still extended upward to block another round. The move was instinctive, though, and desperate. He held the sword too high, leaving too much of himself exposed. Hunold saw his opening.
The head of his halberd swung under Symon’s sword, straight for his neck.
There it held.
Everitt’s sword stood in the way. The Right Captain had not yet put his helm back on, disregarding his own safety for a chance to protect his sovereign. Hunold, his chance thwarted, withdrew his halberd and struck out with both his weapons at Everitt. The knight answered with blocks and glances before another joined their bout.
Dawkin.
Still in his disguise as a Voiceless, Dawkin jumped into the fray with an arcing strike down on Hunold. The Warlord blocked it and stepped back toward the center of the ford, fighting both Everitt and Dawkin at once. With two upon him, the Warlord now had his guard up. He ground his teeth as both cut in large arcs to force him back as hastily as possible.
Hunold moved to his right in a flash, pitting Everitt in between himself and Dawkin. Having lost the two-to-one advantage, he sped toward the Right Captain with both his blades bared. Everitt, undeterred, wielded his sword with precision and grace, having not lost his courage by having to face Hunold alone. His large strokes and cuts continued to keep Hunold at bay, until finally, the tip of his sword open a gaping wound across the center of his chest.
Hunold leapt back, more from shock than from pain. The Lewmarians, who up until then had been watching, encircled the Warlord to form a protective barrier between him and the Right Captain. Everitt, seeing his advance cut off, fell back. Hunold, looking down at his fresh cut, seethed.
The line of Lewmarians before Hunold stepped forward.
Only to be met by the cries of Marland. From every soldier on the opposing side that had suddenly felt a swell of hope in the battle.
Archers abandoned their cover. Pavisers picked up their battered shields. Infantrymen and knights alike descended onto the narrow passage of shallow water to come to their countrymen’s aid.
Symon, regaining his composure, hurried to the front. Only this time, he was not alone.
Dawkin fell to his left side. Everitt to his right. And every other Marlishman fell all around and between as the lines on both sides of the ford formed again.
“Defend your Prince!” Everitt commanded as the enemy laid before them. “Defend your King!”
In line with his men, Symon rushed forward, sword raised. The Lewmarians answered the blitz in kind. Steel brutalized steel. Armor dented. Mail separated as it was pierced. The fighting became a back-and-forth of power and momentum, the tide of battle favoring no one and punishing all.
The protective line between the two commanders saw the fiercest exchange. Dawkin and Everitt proved just as wild – at times more so – as their Lewmarian counterparts. Those around Hunold were the most savage of his warriors, baring teeth and wild eyes as they swung and thrusted their weapon heads forward, desperate for any injury they could inflict and every drop of blood they could spill. Hunold, removed from the fighting by his men, could do nothing more than glare at the Prince until the melee gave way.
Symon, in the same awkward position, breathed deeply. The stench of sweat and the rancor of the dying pummeled his senses. Through it all, he meditated through the chaos. He pushed and shoved as needed. He offered a block or a stab when gaps between his men allowed. The core of his focus though remained on the Soulthief, the one he knew he had to defeat.
His opportunity came when one of Hunold’s men fell. Leaning over, the Warlord saw his chance. He shuffled back, then jumped atop the back of his fallen to leap toward Symon.
Symon shoved Everitt to the side so that his Right Captain would avoid being knocked to the ground. He blocked Hunold’s halberd and axe head in the nick of time. The two exchanged strikes and stabs once again.
This all seems so familiar. The shouts. The blood. The steel.
I’ve had my share of skirmishes. I’ve protected villagers from raids. Ships from pirates.
I have read of many more battles. Epic in scope.
It seems familiar. And different.
The histories spoke of the courage. The prestige. The glory.
No accounts tell of the longing. The wait. The impatience.
I want all this to end.
I want to end this now.
Symon dove forward.
The crowd on either side of Hunold was such that he could not extend his arms much, thus allowing Symon to plow into him. The two commanders collapsed. The river – with all the dirt and blood and debris of the skirmish – washed over Hunold, nearly suffocating him.
The impact knocked the sword from Symon’s hand. The move had given him the upper hand, as he now laid on top of Hunold. His hands instinctively wrapped around his neck. He choked the life from the Warlord, who splashed and struggled under the pressure of Symon’s grip.
The trance overtook Symon. The Warlord, shaking, laid moments away from dying.
Out of the corner of his right eye, he saw the sword in Everitt’s hand break. As the blade whirled through the air, a boot kicked in his chest. The Right Captain fell back as the Lewmarian he was fighting aimed a war hammer straight at his head.
Symon suddenly found himself face to face with that same warrior. On his feet, he struggled to pull the war hammer – which he had stopped inches from hitting Everitt – from his grip. The two shifted and shoved. Securing his stance and adjusting his weight, Symon rammed his forehead into the warrior’s. The warrior, thrown off, sank back before Symon took the hammer to his temple.
The rush Symon felt did not stop there. Taking two swords from the fallen, he charged into the right flank of the Lewmarians, which was sparsely defended. He broke through the line easily to suddenly find himself behind enemy lines, taunting his assailants with a sword in each hand.
“Come on, you fools. You bastards. Face me.”
The Lewmarians answered as Symon’s own men looked on, aghast. Jumping to his feet, Everitt pulled a dirk from his back sheath and repeated his initial battle cry.
“Defend your King!”
If the Marlish ranks had never before responded to the call, they did then. They pushed and shoved forward in unison, ignoring the cuts and strikes they endured. Symon, edging toward the woods, waved them forward.
“Onward!” he shouted.
He turned to face Lewmarian after Lewmarian. Most yelled and screamed yet Symon could tell from their brutish and imprecise strikes they were the least skilled among the warriors. He deflected them easily, all the while moving toward the woods.
Those few Lewmarian archers who had not stood with their brothers on the ford drew their bow strings back and aimed at Symon, who caught five of them in his sights.
Two loosed bolts whizzed past him. One flew straight for his chest.
Symon blinked. Opening his eyes, he found a lone paviser had knelt before him, shield in hand.
“Do not do that again!” Everitt called as he came beside them.
Symon looked back, a number of Marlishmen had broken through the Lewmarian lines to overwhelm the enemy. Many were chanting a battle song that grew in popularity among them.
“What are they saying?” he asked Everitt.
“They are saying, ‘Rue the ford!’” his Right Captain replied. “What is your command?”
“Rue the ford it is. And end that Warlord once and for all.”
Symon turned and scanned the battle ford. He spotted Hunold as two Lewmarians lifted him from the Chesa. Hunold, coming to, looked about. Then, in haste, he made his way from the ford to the deeper waters of the Chesa, removing his garb as he went.
“Everitt,” Symon called. “He means to get away.”
Symon fought through the Lewmarians as they eyed the Warlord disrobing to all but his fur skin trousers. He waded out to the Chesa with a few men in tow, who themselves were too
weighed down by leather and armor to follow suit. With Everitt close at hand, Symon cut through his opponents one by one until he reached the edge of the ford, just before the lip of the river bottom beneath dropped a few feet. From there, the shallows became depths, capable of drowning any man in armor.
Hunold had avoided such a fate. He swam downriver, floating over on his back once to catch sight of Symon looking after him.
The gaze of the two met. The distance between them was such that Symon could not read whether fear or anguish or rage reflected on the visage of the man he had almost killed.
“Sire,” Everitt said, as though to console his loss. “We won. The battle is ours.”
Symon nodded, feigning approval. He glanced over his shoulder to spot the expanse of the ford, his men outnumbering those opponents still present, many of whom fled to the forest.
He turned back to Hunold, whose head bobbed up and down, the Chesa threatening to consume him. It never did though, with Symon only losing sight of the Warlord as he disappeared past the bend of the river.
No. We have not won. It has only begun.
Chapter 32
“It doesn’t seem right.” Ely shook his head.
“Justice must be had,” Symon insisted.
“I’m not saying we spare him. Far from it. What is in store for him is too lenient, is all I’m saying.”
“Must we all watch?” Gerry asked.
“Aye,” Dawkin confirmed. “All of us.”
“And Grandfather?”
“He’s the one who insisted on the time and place.”
Ely considered. The time? The dead of night. Away from the prying eyes of those servants or peasants who may chance upon the makeshift gallows by the lakeside. Not that many uninvited would even know of the location. The place? The smallest of the lakes belonging to the summer residence of Kin Saliswater on the Ridge of Tarns.
Ely shot a look at his brothers as they rode beside him. Symon, always the soldier, sat in his saddle looking straight ahead. Though to a novice it would appear he was lost in thought, Ely knew better. Every clop of hoof, every noise, and even the stretches of silence was being processed by that militaristic mind of his. The recent battle on the ford had only deepened his resolve to be aware of his environment.
Between Symon and Dawkin rode Gerry. Ordinarily, a night ride such as the one they were having would have stressed his little brother, putting him in a sense of unease. While not the most comfortable, Gerry had shown some strength in his resolve to control his sensitivity. His fits of anxiety had lessened in the days since the assault on the castle, though he still carried his sword unnecessarily. At present, he did touch the pommel of his sword, as if to remind himself that it was still there.
Dawkin appeared the most unfettered by the events of days passed. His recount of the Battle of the Riverford was scholarly to put it mildly. Even in his truth session of the skirmish, his lack of emotion was astounding, as he remembered the engagement while exhibiting little agitation or excitability.
Ely reflected on his own actions. After finding their way back from the tunnels, he was overwhelmed by the urge to hack the enemy to snippets. He wanted to unleash his mania, to possibly wreak havoc on all those in his path. For once, it was Gerry who managed to rise to the occasion as the mature and logical one. His little brother had proposed wearing Ely’s disguises – so as to appear as castle guards – before they rejoined the fight to win back the castle. Ely had conceded, though by the time they united with the fray, they found the major assault by the Lewmarians had been quelled, leaving only pockets of enemies to vanquish.
One of those pockets involved Sir Ernald, whom the Voiceless and Realeza had cornered in the lower bailey. With a traitorous knight on each side of him, Sir Ernald and his two cohorts chose to fight their way through rather than surrender. They paid dearly for their hubris, with the two knights falling in battle while Ernald suffered a near-fatal wound to his abdomen.
Baron Tristan, meanwhile, had exhibited less valor. The Realeza had chased him through the galleries and halls until he finally came to the grain room, where he proceeded to barricade himself for the rest of the day. Once the Voiceless learned of how the baron had entrenched himself, they responded with a two-handed iron battering ram, which easily broke down the door to reveal a quavering lord on the other side.
Artus had both Marlish traitors brought into the Throne Room, where he promptly displayed them before King Felix to assure him that his son’s assassins had been apprehended. Once Felix was satisfied that neither he nor his kin were in any further danger, Artus paraded the two to the dungeon. From there, the Voiceless placed wool hoods over their heads and escorted them to Terran, so as to allow the four brothers their chance to interrogate the conspirators.
One by one, the Fourpointe brothers appeared to Ernald and Tristan, with the Voiceless on guard to administer truth serum. Symon went first, his questions focused more on what the siblings of Har-Kin Boivin had revealed to the Lewmarians than anything else. His examination revealed that the Boivin brothers had provided maps and details of the hamlets and villages that dotted the northeastern Marlish coast in exchange for the raiding party that Ernald and Tristan needed to overtake Arcporte Castle.
Dawkin went next, with his queries directed at extracting any information the Boivins had on other traitors within their midst. Ernald gave up the names of a few Har-Kins, while Tristan identified a handful of others. From there, Dawkin went on to what he and his brothers really wanted to know: had any foreigners, beside the Lewmarians, assisted them? The foxes of Kin Foleppi? Were any left in Marland? Or the Volkmar? Had they facilitated the correspondences between the Boivins and the Lewmarians? And what of the Ibians? Had any of Kin Garsea had a hand in the murder of their father?
On and on Dawkin went. His questions had no end. As thorough as he was though, the Boivins gave up little, in spite of the truth serum they had consumed.
Then it was Gerry’s turn, who surprised all of his brothers by being meticulous in his own right. He repeated many of the questions Symon and Dawkin had asked, lest the Boivins omitted any details from the first two sessions. Then he broke from the pack to make inquisitions all his own. Much of his session targeted what Har-Kin Boivin knew of the Garseas, particularly when it came to the night that their Armada was burned. That discussion divulged that every traitorous Har-Kin aligned with the Boivins at that point were prompted to prove their commitment to overtaking the Crown by setting afire the fleet of the foreign devils. Gerry, satisfied with what he uncovered, turned the proceedings over to Ely.
And his examination ran the gamut of his madness.
Ely started with a degree of sensitivity, given that he had never encountered two individuals in a truth session at the same time, let alone kin. He first prodded the knight and the lord on their full family history, which included many joyful accounts of the two brothers in their youth in the Upper East Waterlands. The session continued with recollections of the losses they suffered during the Century War, which prompted Ely to retire for a spell as he sought to control himself.
Upon his return, the conversation shifted to the plot to overthrow the Crown and end the reign of Kin Saliswater. And that stirred the mania within. With each detail of their treachery, Ely stewed, his rage constrained only by the need to know more. He pressed each one for every intricate detail, even those that seemed mundane or trivial. All the while he drank far too much memory tea, so as to become intent on remembering all that transpired, which only heightened his madness. When the effects of the truth serum for the two began to wane, he administered a triple dosage of the potion, sending both Ernald and Tristan into shock.
“Ely.”
Ely, in the trance of his mind, snapped his head. Dawkin stared at him, cocking his head forward. “We’re here,” he said.
The sheen of the moonlit surface of the lake shimmered, disturbed by a breeze. The trees crowded the shoreline, their roots often stretched from earth to water. Most were sto
ut compared to those of the low-lying Marlish forests, standing only twice or three times taller than a man. Save one. A giant alpine oak with white bark and leaves that shone golden even in the night. From its thick trunk spread strong boughs, beneath one of which stood the gallows.
“The Voiceless put that up in a hurry,” Symon commented.
Indeed, Ely knew. For it was his idea. When the Boivin brothers had somehow avoided uncovering their foreign conspirators despite four separate truth sessions, Artus had urged his grandsons to execute them. A public trial and hanging would prove too risky, for none could be certain of other foxes committed to seeing the brothers free. Even keeping them in the dungeon was deemed unwise, considering Konradt’s inexplicable escape. So Ely and his brothers concluded that Terranese law, not Marlish, would take precedent.
Dawkin proposed that the hanging take place in Terran itself, so as to save them from ascending unnecessarily. Symon wanted the punishment to happen on the Chesa, the sight of the two battles attributed to the Boivins’ treachery. Gerry, not sure how he would process such a public display, was fine to let the Voiceless do the deed and be done with it. Artus had then interjected by suggesting a family property, as the crimes in question required Saliswater justice. With all in agreement, the choice for the deed was narrowed to the Ridge of Tarns.
Such a setting offered privacy and solace. The Boivins could be set atop horses, nooses tied to a branch and the hanging done with little preparation. A quick pat on the rear of each horse would send the mounts off and their riders left to dangle.
Yet something had inspired Ely to recommend a tad more effort. Some theatrics.
He advised that the Boivins should be offered one final chance to open up about any remaining foxes in their land. Truth serum before the hanging would certainly loosen their tongues. As would the sight of a proper, if not hastily-built, set of gallows with nooses and all, rather than their horses simply riding out beneath them. Yes, Ely argued, that would do the trick.
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