by Jeff Wheeler
She was standing off the main road, perfectly visible to any passersby. Inside the tent, she thought she heard a muffled voice. What should she do next? Wait for the man to come out? Should she go inside and challenge him? Try to find a way to warn her father?
The sounds of the camp wafted in on the night breeze. The grinding of steel on stone. The shared laughter of comrades eating dinner. The rustling of the leaves. The wind also brought the smell of smoke and the briny scent of the sea. It reminded her of home. She didn’t know what to do, and the hesitation only increased her trepidation.
Better to confront the trouble directly. Time was not an ally at the present.
Steeling her courage, she gripped the hilt of one of her twin swords and marched up to the tent. She tried to be quiet, but the cracking of twigs and hiss of the tall grasses announced her well before she got there.
The tent was still, no murmuring noise. She reached out with her magic probe for danger, letting it ripple from her. There was only one person inside who was armed, and he was standing to the side of the tent opening with a sword in a defensive posture, clearly expecting trouble.
She drew her sword and then barged into the tent. If the man attacked her, she was ready to defend herself. The Fountain magic whirled up in a cocoon around her. She would wait to be attacked. Her power was strongest then.
There was a small brazier and a lamp at the center of the tent, but her eyes immediately flew to the right side. Fallon stood by the entrance, sword held upright as if he were going to strike her on the head with the pommel.
Fallon.
But he hesitated when he saw her. Trynne walked deeper into the tent so she could turn to face him. She avoided the center pole that kept the tent from collapsing. Immediately, she invoked the ring on her finger and disguised her features, giving herself a slightly altered appearance of a soldier with a woad-painted face.
“Sir Ellis?” Fallon said in surprise, lowering the sword.
“Prince Fallon,” Trynne said in her lower voice. Warily.
Fallon wore a boiled-leather tunic over his hauberk. Why did he not wear the badge of the Pierced Lion marking him as a man of Dundrennan?
“What are you doing here?” Fallon demanded in confusion. “You are the young man I met in Marq, are you not?”
“I am, my lord,” Trynne replied, trying to understand what was going on. Where was the man with the silver mask? She realized instantly that Fallon was alone. He must have been wearing the disguise, and confusion and distrust began to swell inside her heart.
“And why are you here? Why did you come armed into my tent?”
“I didn’t know it was yours, my lord,” Trynne replied. “I was . . . following someone.”
The wary look began to subside. “Ah. You were following someone, you say? Who? I’m quite alone, as you can see. Well, except for you.”
Trynne felt the presence of another Fountain-blessed approaching the tent from higher up the hill. Was it her father? Morwenna? Was she close enough to their camp that they had felt her using her power? She needed to leave immediately.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” she apologized and started for the tent door, but Fallon quickly stepped into her path.
“Why the rush?” he asked in a distrusting way. “I never did thank you properly for helping me during the Gauntlet. You’ve painted your face, but you’re not from Atabyrion, are you? You said your name was Fidelis, but are you faithful to the true king?”
The presence was drawing closer. Trynne’s nerves ached to knock Fallon down so she could run from the tent. Then she spied a rumpled black cloak on the floor where Fallon had discarded it.
“The true king?” Trynne asked suspiciously.
“Yes, the true king of Ceredigion,” Fallon said. “You said you were following someone. What did he look like? You seem so familiar to me. Are you part of the Espion?”
“I am not,” Trynne answered. “Stand aside, my lord.”
“But we have so much to talk about still,” Fallon said, giving her a meaningful smile while continuing to block the exit. He was stalling her. Deliberately. “I don’t think your name is Ellis. It’s a disguise. Who are you, truly? Maybe we can help each other.”
Trynne’s heart was sinking at the evidence before her. Had Fallon told her about the rebellion against King Drew to hide the fact that he was a part of it? Was this true king he spoke of Severn Argentine? His words were all buried beneath layers of nuance, but they hinted at treason. How could Fallon have gotten himself so mixed up in the intrigue? Because he wanted to be important. He wanted to be useful. If he could not be useful to Drew, perhaps he’d found a new master to serve who was willing to give him more power. Or it could be that he’d gotten so caught up in playing his game of Espion that he didn’t realize the danger to himself.
His expression changed, twisting with something like guilt. He stared at her, unable to see through the magic, but his senses were screaming at him.
“You do remind me of someone,” he said softly, almost tenderly. “Who are you?”
“Stand aside, my lord,” Trynne warned for the last time, taking a step forward.
“I’m sorry, but I won’t let you go this—”
His words were cut off when she suddenly kicked him in the stomach, knocking him backward out through the tent flap. She snatched up the cloak from the floor and felt something hard underneath it. Assuming it to be the mask, she tucked it all under her arm and stormed outside the flap. Fallon was standing again, gripping his stomach, and he leaped at her with a look of rage in his eyes. Below them there were shadows and trees and laughter and smoke, but no one was close enough to notice them. Trynne dropped into a front roll, and Fallon sailed over her, grunting as he smashed into the bark and earth. She spun and then whacked him upside the head with the bundle containing the silver mask.
He slumped to the ground again, groggy and stunned, but not unconscious.
Trynne sheathed her sword and marched partway down the hill, releasing both the magic of the ring and her own power, letting it dissipate into the wind. Then she cut another angle and hid in the brush, hoping to overhear what happened back in Fallon’s tent.
She heard Morwenna’s voice first, her tone full of worry and concern.
“Fallon? What happened? Who struck you?”
Trynne squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to blot out the memories of everything they had shared for so many years. Memories that threatened to sting her eyes with tears. She felt betrayed. The possibilities jumbling inside her mind frightened her. Had Morwenna told Fallon about Trynne’s feelings? Were they both trying to use and manipulate her somehow?
“It was that lad from the Gauntlet,” Fallon said heatedly, stifling a groan. “The painted one. I told you about him.”
“He’s here?”
“Down the road yonder.”
“I’ll go after him.”
“No!” Fallon said urgently. “My head is about to burst open. Tend to me first. Have the Espion search for him. It hurts, Morwenna!”
“Men cannot endure the slightest pains,” she chided, her voice a little mocking. “I’m going to warn the king about this.”
“Later. I’m so dizzy. Help me sit down.”
“Come, my weak prince,” Morwenna said soothingly.
Trynne couldn’t stand to hear their banter. Tears streaked down her face as she melted into the night.
The fog reached landfall after midnight.
Captain Staeli stood at her left elbow, arms folded, his finger stroking his mustache as he stared down at Gahalatine’s forces. The moon was radiant and silver in the sky, but the ocean of fog down below masked everything. It was silver and purple and rippled with an otherworldly quality. Only the highest spires of Guilme pierced it. The lights of the city were all illuminated, creating an eerie mix of colors in the deep night. The hill of the king’s camp was just barely above the fog. The fleet of treasure ships anchored off the coast had vanished in the haze
.
“Real or magic?” Trynne whispered softly in awe. The air had a bite of chill to it. Her senses were searching for the presence of the Fountain. There was only silence.
“Grand Duke Maxwell said it’s normal to have mist along this coast. Comes almost every night at certain seasons.” He sniffed. “They can’t see us and we can’t see them.”
Trynne looked up the hill at the king’s camp. All the fires were out. The whole hillside seemed like it was slumbering. It was just as deceptive as the fog.
“Father is going to attack tonight,” Trynne guessed. “He’s waiting for the right moment.”
“It’ll be too loud,” Staeli countered. “And what about the net?”
“That’s why he’ll do it,” she said, smiling. “The mist evens the odds.”
Their brief discussion was interrupted by a member of the Espion who jogged up to where they were standing.
“Captain Staeli?” the man asked, out of breath.
“Aye,” he replied gruffly.
“Lord Owen wants you to make ready. He’s given the order. We’re going to attack tonight.”
Staeli turned to Trynne in shocked admiration and then started chuckling.
The Espion continued. “Quietly rouse your men. Hauberks only. Blankets are being laid down to tread on. The watchword is ‘Sinia.’ Come to the command pavilion. Your force is going with Lord Owen himself.”
Trynne felt her throat constrict.
Guard the king, the Fountain whispered to her.
The Battle of Guilme started before the first cock crowed.
Trynne paced in suspense and agony, standing on the hillside overlooking an endless sea of fog. She waited for it to start, each hour that passed adding to her torture. The camp was roused and ready to fight. Soldiers stood along the road running the perimeter of the highest hill, where the king’s camp was in darkness. There were no lights to provide a hint to the enemy that the forces of Kingfountain were on the move. Every night bird that shrieked made Trynne’s heart race. She waited for the moment.
And then it came.
Thunder crashed down from the star-filled sky. The sound was a portent, startling the soldiers and drawing everyone’s gaze skyward, where no storm clouds existed to cause such a ruckus. Trynne flinched as if a huge hammer had struck her soul. She felt the white-hot stab of magic emanating from the bank of fog down below. And then it snuffed out.
There was noise and shouting, the clash of arms. The battle had begun, but it was invisible within the shroud of fog. Trynne’s heart thundered in her ears. She had felt the magic. She’d recognized it as the same magic of the silver bowl from the grove. Her father had recently reminded her of that place, and of the storm he’d summoned to show her how it worked. His magic had shielded them both from the hailstorm, but it had still frightened and thrilled her.
Suddenly she felt the ripples of Fountain magic and a keening wind began to blow and howl. The trees started to sway and groan. Hunks of bark from the mighty eucalyptus trees began to slough off and crash down. Cries of pain and panic joined the clash of steel and arms.
And then the enemy came out of the mist like grasshoppers.
It was the only way to describe it. Trynne watched in startled horror as armed warriors wearing armor that was green like palm fronds leaped out of the fog, arching into the sky as if they had been catapulted from below.
The warriors had helmets tipped with thorny spears, and each carried wood-handled glaives with blades that were sharpened on both sides. The warriors’ momentum slowed before they reached the hillside, and instead of crashing like boulders, they unfolded like strange plants just before they struck.
Watching them mesmerized Trynne until one of them was suddenly uncoiling in front of her. She ducked to the side, two swords in her hands, and blocked a blow that had already skewered one of the knights standing near her. Her magic rose to her defense and she blocked his next five attacks before striking him down with a single blow. Another volley of enemy soldiers came up the hill, some landing even higher up the slope. Trynne knew they were going to attack the king, so she began to run up the slope to intercept them. One of the strange leaf-armored soldiers landed directly in front of her, swinging his glaive around in a circle. She dodged to the side, trapped his weapon between both of hers, and kicked him hard in the stomach. He flew backward and then suddenly he was floating in the air above her, like a puppet suddenly snatched up by its strings.
He plummeted down just as quickly, trying to slice her in half.
Trynne had never experienced such an enemy before. The knights of Ceredigion were collapsing all around as the warriors of death scythed through their ranks. Trynne caught that attack with both swords again, then reversed her move and sliced him in the side and neck with her blades. A look of surprise was frozen on his face as he died.
Trynne continued to charge up the hill, her breath coming in gasps as she watched more of the warriors fling over and around her. Running uphill put her at a disadvantage, so she muttered a word of power and lurched up a ley line to the top. The action drained her, but it brought her to the crest, where she found the king surrounded by Espion and his guards. There was a whirlwind of commotion. The fighting hadn’t reached them yet, but it was imminent.
Archers were rushing up one of the hillsides to shoot at the flying warriors, but they dared not loose arrows uphill for risk of hitting their king. The battle raged across the hillside. Trynne stared in dread at the field below, exposed with the fog blasted apart. She saw tiny little specks in the distance, men leaping up to the walls of Guilme. Now it was apparent to all that the enemy didn’t need siege engines. Gahalatine’s army was attacking King Drew’s army and the besieged city simultaneously.
Suddenly more of the leaf-armored soldiers dropped from the sky and the Espion were in hand-to-hand combat with them. King Drew freed his sword Firebos and joined the fray, trying to hold the hilltop against the invaders who had bypassed his entire army to reach him.
And then she saw the flag of the White Boar charging up the hill. It was Severn Argentine’s sigil. He was leading about fifty men, all mounted, and they rode up through the ranks of fallen warriors.
They were heading straight for the king.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lord Gahalatine
Trynne whipped around, slicing through another opponent while blocking his overhand attack with her second blade. The drain on her Fountain magic was palpable, but the leaching effect was tempered because she was acting in defense of the king. The soldiers of the White Boar were nearly at the hilltop when she heard Severn’s voice ring out.
“To the king! Form a circle! No one gets past. Show these knaves our will is made of iron! Come, lads! To the last man standing, save the king!”
Trynne felt the first flush of relief. Perhaps Severn wasn’t the enemy, but she still had to stay near the king to protect him. She ducked a glaive as it spun toward her head, then butted the warrior in the helm with the pommel of a sword and stabbed him through. The hillside was swarming with enemies, converging on the hill like fire sweeping through grass. The horsemen of Glosstyr barged in, the knights slashing and crowding their way to the hilltop. The leaf-armored warriors hoisted up into the air like poppet dolls on strings before slamming down on the knights and stabbing riders or steeds. The noise and commotion of the battle raged around Trynne as she closed up ranks.
“My lord, we’re surrounded,” Kevan Amrein said to the king in a tone of desperation. His sword was bloodied from the conflict. “Where is Morwenna? We need to get you out of here.”
“I will not abandon my people!” Drew said fiercely, holding the blade Firebos in front of him. Trynne could feel the ripples of Fountain magic coming from it. Since their enemies could leap around like grasshoppers, many continued to drop down from above, and the king was courageous in his own defense. With each stroke of his blade, he knocked back several men, as if the sword brought the force of a waterfall with it.
> Severn brought up his steed, its lips lathered with foam.
“What happened down there, Lord Severn?” the king demanded, not looking over his shoulder.
“I know not,” Severn replied. “Owen suspected treachery and sent me back to guard you.” Another warrior plummeted from the sky and Severn kicked his stallion forward to engage. The glaive clanged off Severn’s shield before the old king took off the man’s head in a counterstroke. Trynne’s fears for her father bloomed. She hadn’t known his strategy, but she did know that he had planned to test Severn’s loyalty. Despite the strangeness of what had transpired between Fallon and Morwenna, it appeared the former king had passed the test.
“Here comes another wave,” Lord Amrein warned.
They were hopelessly outnumbered. Like arrows shot from bows, the next phalanx of leaf-armored warriors dropped down on them. The knights of Kingfountain were falling at an alarming rate.
Trynne saw Fallon’s father, Iago Llewellyn, emerge from the hillside, his face grimy with blood and dirt. There was Fallon at his side, shield in hand, sword drawn. Warriors from Atabyrion and Dundrennan came with them.
“To the king!” Iago shouted.
The sound of a hurricane ripped over the hilltop as their enemies continued to drop from the sky. Trynne couldn’t make sense of the madness as she fought, moving from one foe to the next. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. The knights of Glosstyr were hewn down, man by man, their horses shrieking and writhing.
She caught a glimpse of Fallon in the midst of a desperate fight. He received a wound to his leg but continued to fight after he collapsed, his face wild with fury as he stabbed his enemy through the bowels and killed him. Iago was buffeted on the helm from behind, the glaive slicing into his back. When he arched and fell forward, his opponent spun the glaive around his head in a circle, clearly intent on impaling him from behind. Agony tore at Trynne—she was closer to the king, and though she could see what was happening, she would not be able to stop it.