The two of them had sat together many a night during their campaigns, cleaning the armor, to keep it free of rust and insure the straps were prepared for yet another hard day of work when next the sun rose. The sight of her face in the flicker of the firelight as she concentrated on her work. How he had loved to watch her then, when she seemed to be too engrossed to notice. Though all too often she would glance up and ask if he was seeing something pleasant with a fool’s grin on his face. The only woman who had ever been able to draw the true scarlet of a blush to his cheeks, his Leviana. She had been the nearest thing he ever had to perfection, but he had been willing to give her up to win. A decision he regretted since the moment she breathed her last in his arms.
The last of his armor neatly stacked to one side, he then pulled off the undershirt he wore, knowing it was sweaty and bloody. She had appreciated that of him when they were at war, him lying down next to her without fear he would bleed on her. There had been nights when neither of them had been badly hurt and they slept together, sweat and blood mingling on their skin, content in being together. If only the world were the same now, but this woman, he scanned her with heavily lidded eyes. They were nearly one, certainly, he could feel it. The darkness and the light, they were as inseparable as such. It was without question, yet she was incomplete. There was something he would have to do. Then it struck him and he ran from the room, chest bare to the wind and boots thudding heavily against the stone.
17
The snow hit on the second day into the passes. The group was prepared to continue forward and an advance scout had been sent to alert those guarding the entrance caves of the incoming party. It was going to be a close shave to make it before they were snowed out. If the snowfall blocked their passage inward, it would be a long trek back down the mountain to avoid freezing to death. Mordaen owed it to his men and their families to get them up back home safely. Already he had one too many casualties with his second, Darien, being ridden on the shoulders of someone’s horse just so he could return home.
“Lord Mordaen!” A man rode down toward him from further up the trail. “We’re about there, another hour’s good push and we should be in the antechamber.”
A weary smile crossed his face, they were nearly home. One of his promises had certainly been kept. They would see their families again and live to fight another day against the tyrant who was undoubtedly mustering his own army to crush them under his heel. “Onward men,” he called back to his column, his voice rising above the wind seeking to drown him out. “Onward, we’re nearly home.” Some of those with him kicked their horses to go a little faster, closing gaps in the line. Each and every one was as eager as the next to see a truly warm fire and any of the faces they held in their memory as being of paramount importance be it a wife, a child, a sibling, a parent. They all had someone waiting. And Mordaen knew there would be a least one such face would fall when the body was revealed. However, he would promise and see it through to the death given to his people was thoroughly avenged against the one who had dared to visit this hardship upon a family under his care. The wind might have been the only thing to hear him make the promise the first time, but it would be made again where it could be heard and witnessed properly by men. Nature was a beautiful thing, but she kept no accounting of men, had no care for them or their promises. She would just as soon bury them all in ice and let her bears run over them with their great clawed feet.
The first of the great caves had a small guard station hidden within it, just out of sight of the opening in case some explorer or advanced scout who did not know the area was attempting to find their way into the homes of the sons of Sartol. No need to give away the entrance so easily when a little bit of stealth would do them all well. The entire group was greeted with stone faces from the two set to guard the entrance, though they had been told of its coming, it was just their training holding them back from cracking into grins at the return of their fellows. Two stiff and identical bows to Lord Mordaen as he rode in and dismounted near the guard station. “What news?” he asked straight away.
“The council will be awaiting you when you reach home, sire,” one of the guards stated, his manner wooden. “They are eager to hear what has been said at the gathering and why you have returned so soon.” The scout had been given specific orders not to discuss anything he might have heard on the trek back home. Mordaen wanted to be able to present things to his advisors without them having been infected with rumors and the poor thinking of those around them. It would be difficult to tell them, but there was nothing else he could do. They had only until winter lifted her hand from the mountains to prepare. He did not put it past the damned conqueror to be waiting to invade soon after the passes are cleared of snow.
“Good, send word down I expect everyone in the council chamber when I reach the lower levels.” Undoubtedly they would all be waiting with bated breath for just such a summons. He handed off the reins of his horse to one of the soldiers with him, they would see the animal walked to the stabling area and bedded down. Normally, he would see to it himself, but now he had other things on his mind. Like the fact his entire way of life was possibly going to be exterminated by a young man who had no right to command so much power and yet did so with wild abandon.
Most of the kingdom of Sartol was built into the mountains around a central valley. In the central valley was the place where farming was done and the horses were normally kept, but the only way into it was through the mountains themselves, tunnels carved into the rock over so many years. Yet where Mordaen was going was not to the valley, but rather into his own home, deep in the base of a mountain on the far side away from the entrances. It was the fall back position, the last area defended since the invading forces would have taken most of Sartol before anyone could touch the house of the Lord of the Valley. The council chamber was a ornately wrought room carved with the history of the valley and its inhabitants all over the walls like tapestries would have been done in some places. At one end, there was also an ornate family tree. It was the tree of Mordaen’s own family back as far as they had record, the proof of his right to rule. Descendant of the great leaders who brought Sartol to glory and protected it from invaders hundreds of times. Using one of the many chutes to get to the lower levels which would allow him to go beneath the valley, the quickest route to his stone carved home, Mordaen was planning, as he had been for days, what exactly he was going to say to those who would be arrayed around the council table awaiting his report of the world outside. There would be no hiding the fact he had left Jalcina behind. It would be the first clue to make them wonder, the fact the negotiations had been set to last until spring according to the invitation he followed down out of the mountains, would be the second. Of course, then he would have to tell them he wanted every family to prepare for war, the stores were going to have to be inventoried carefully in order to fully prepare for what was coming. The lower levels were chilly, full of a chill with more damp than being out in the wind. His armor was warm enough to keep the chill off his skin. It took a half-hour, at a jogging pace, to reach the doors of the council chamber. Great doors made of stone and heavy wood that boomed through the hall when they shut. Like the walls, they were carved with part of the history of Sartol. Perhaps once he had defended his homeland against the coming threat, the story of its defense would be carved on these same walls. The doors were ajar, meaning there were others already inside. The voices drifting out only confirmed his thoughts.
“So he’s returned early, has he?” Darien’s father asked. “Well, perhaps it is with good news.”
“If it is anything other than a surrender to the Usurper King, then it will be good news.” Darden was perhaps the closest to him in age. They had been boys together, running through the lower caverns and catching glow frogs. He was also Mordaen’s closest friend. The one whose counsel Mordaen went to in times of trouble, even more he was the godfather of Jalcina, the one who was to take up protecting her should anything happen to her Father. Suc
h as his being slaughtered in the coming war. Pushing in the doors, he stopped the conversation before it could go any further, no use in letting them stew in the news of his return any longer. The bad news was going to have to come out at once.
The thunderous expression in his features combined with the downcast weariness of his eyes shut the mouths of all five of the people at the table. No one said anything as he walked to his place at the head. Then together, they sat down, each in their chosen seat. Mordaen took a moment to scan around the table and make eye contact with each of them, aware of the feeling in the air around them. The air was heavy with the need to hear what he was going to say. So heavy it seemed the mountain above them was bearing down on the chamber in an effort to squeeze out his words.
“Sartol goes to war in the Spring.” It was the kindest way he had found to tell them they would spend their winter preparing for a losing battle. Yet he knew them, each of them, just as he tried to know every family under his care. They would accept this fight was inevitable, seeing they were meant to fight a battle possibly preordained as a loss for them, but they would not have accepted any attempt he made to surrender.
“So the Conqueror brings his army to the mountains.” Darden was the first to speak up. “What kind of force are we up against?”
“Everything he has, I think.” Mordaen had not stayed around long enough to get a troop count. “I do not know. He has, undoubtedly, added at least a few new armies to his arsenal since there were probably another fifteen or twenty lords of the surrounding region still in the room when I left.”
“Where is Jalcina?” The council had known his daughter since she was born, most of them had held her during her first weeks and when her Mother had disappeared, Lady Gorgina had been the one to dandle the little girl on her knee and put her to sleep many a night when Mordaen was at his wit’s end dealing with a child too upset to sleep. It was the near ancient lady who asked the question, her white hair pulled back into a long braid. “Should she not be here with you?”
“That,” he took a deep breath, “is going to take some explaining.” Then he related the events leading to him turning tail into the mountains, minus two of the party he started with.
“So you think he had my boy killed because he was escorting a messenger toward the mountains, damn fool.” Karsen, Darien’s father, snapped out at the assembled. “And you let him keep Jalcina? Have you gone foolish?”
“No, I did not have the necessary force to try and make him give her back to me, Karsen!” Mordaen’s words were moderated only by the clenched way he held his jaw. “Would you have had all of us slaughtered for a single one? I considered it; I truly did!”
“Enough!” Darden held up his hands in an attempt to bring the argument to an end. “The decision was already made; Jalcina is still among our enemies. We all love her very much, but that will not bring her back and we have not the force to be able to stand against this king and mount a mission to rescue her from his clutches.”
“Which means only one thing,” Lady Gorgina stated, drawing them to look at her.
“What?”
“We pray she has the good sense to find her way home on her own.”
Darden stepped from the Council chamber and leaned back against the heavy door. Putting on hand on his chest, he concentrated on his breathing. Age was catching up on him.
“Father.” Lecern, his eldest son and Jalcina’s intended, approached him. Then he offered the old man his arm. “I saw Darien.”
“Karsen is stricken.” Darden walked down the corridor, putting part of his weight on his son. “My only solace is it was not you.”
“Father,” Lecern began.
“Jalcina is captive.”
“Captive?” Lecern stopped, nearly pulling his Father off-balance. “But…but how?”
“She was seen. Drew the eyes of the King.” Darden exhaled, pulling Lecern down the corridor toward an opening out into the valley. “And he took her.”
“Father, I…”
“You want to go after her.”
“I do.” Lecern paused, both in sound and step. Releasing his father to go forward without him. The old man went further a few more steps. “Father, please?”
“If you go, I will never see you again.” Darden shook his head. “If you remain here, you will marry and have children. If you chase her, you will die. I know it the way an old man knows the approach of winter. I would beg you to stay, but I know your heart is deaf to it.”
“Not deaf to it,” Lecern contradicted. “It is only drowned out by the song of another.”
“At least wait a week or two. Let the storms begin to settle. Then you at least may be able to make it down the passes without being trapped by the Blue Lady.”
“Of course.”
Lecern accompanied his father back to their home, helping him as they moved along some paths covered with ice.
18
Jalcina woke again to the sounds of someone moving around her. Several people were in the room and she had been covered with a blanket. They were removing the hangings from the walls. Brow furrowing, she started to sit up only to be pounded back by a headache splitting her skull. With a groan, she settled back, closing her eyes once again. The sharp sound of someone clapping and then scurrying feet made her twist onto her side and fold up a little further in hopes of making the echo in her skull lessen.
“Princess.” Romkita was once more at her elbow, sweeping hair back from her brow with one hand. “Wake up.”
With the hangings gone, the late afternoon sun was filtering down into the room, pressing against Jalcina’s eyelids as if daring her to open her eyes and let in the waiting light. In the interest of keeping her head from splitting, she did no such thing. “What?” she said, trying to shield her eyes from the light. It was as if someone was poking her in the sides of the head with a sharp stick.
“You have to prepare, Mistress, the King has announced we are to leave.” Romkita had been surprised by the sudden appearance of the Master barely clothed in the scribe’s hall calling for someone to write him marching orders for the entire army. They were all preparing to move out and return to the capital at Arthum for the king’s marriage to this new princess. Her jaw had quite nearly dropped at the news, but she had managed to keep her composure.
At Rom’s words, Jalcina attempted to sit up only to find herself pressed back down to the pallet by the sudden ringing in her head. The last thing she remembered was being dragged into the ring to fight against Vad’Alvarn’s second in command. How had she come to be lying back in the king’s bedchamber? She opened her mouth to ask and then just let her mouth hang open as she understood what Romkita had just said. The king had announced they, everyone, was to leave. His entire household, his army, all were being moved from the place where they had been stationed. How was she going to sneak off into the mountains now if they were on the road south to Arthum? The trepidation in her eyes was obviously mistaken for jitters by Romkita who curled up next to her rather like a cat would and said.
“It will be a beautiful ceremony and I’m certain he will try very hard to see you happy.” For just a moment, she was just another woman anticipating a wedding. Pity Jalcina was not as enamored of this wedding as much as she was. Swallowing heavily, she tried to settle her thoughts with the idea her dreams of escape had once more been dashed because she opened her big mouth and challenged the one person who could truly destroy them. She combed her fingers through Romkita’s hair and just laid there a while longer, too heart sick for words.
19
Vad’Alvarn had thrown on a robe, but still let it hang loose around his body, sitting in the council chamber, he had business to complete before he could truly quit the fort. Namely the business of the prisoners awaiting his order of execution. Each of them had been judged cowards and as such forfeited their lands in his eyes, but he would not simply allow them to rot in the dungeon he assigned them to. After all, there was no reason for him to allow them to keep their lives
, possibly return to their homes, and muster armies against him. No, he had other plans for them.
They were seated much as they had been had it been but a bare day before around the council table with each looking to him as if expecting some grand speech to come from his lips. The air of expectation dragged on the edges of the king’s robe in an unwelcome fashion.
“You each came here in hopes of some peaceful treaty.” Vad’Alvarn toyed with a crystal goblet set on the table for his use. It was empty, but he still ran his fingers along the edge as if to make it sing like it did when there was something within and the edges of his fingers were wet. “Now, you have your treaty.” The hastily written treaty, which had been the work of two scribes writing on two different sheets of parchment, one penning the beginning, the other the end lay on the table before the assembled. “Sign it.” The parchment moved, but only slightly with the force of his breath. The inkpot, with its feather, the white of a flag of surrender, sat waiting for the first person who was willing to abandon his seat and sign away his life. Not one of them held any illusions of survival. Once they signed their name, they gave up the only thing keeping Vad’Alvarn from killing them. Again, they glanced one to another and played the game of who would be the first to move. The same game a child would play, but only with far more deadly consequences. The first to blink was going to be the first to die. Unfortunately, Vad’Alvarn did not have the patience to allow the game to play out to its conclusion.
Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Page 15