The Captain’s eyes were clenched in concentration but flew open in surprise. “Lord Fool?” He clutched on to the tree branch to keep from falling. “How are you here?”
“I have questions for you.”
“You surprised a fellow. If not for the circumstances, I’d have shat myself!” For the first time, he seemed to notice the hand behind Timble’s back. “You have flowers back there for me?”
“How did you escape Belgorsk? No one else has managed since spring.”
“Give us a second.” The Captain pulled a few leaves from the branch and tidied himself. “Told you before, I bribed my way out.”
“You’re hardly the richest merchant on the Green Lady. Why only you?”
“I guess I just have a winning personality.”
Timble said nothing for once, revealing the crossbow and letting it carry the conversation.
The Captain used another clump of leaves. “A customs officers said we could leave if I delivered a parcel in Harlowe Ford,” he said reluctantly. “I’m not above some harmless smuggling, but then we heard about the poisoned duke. That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Who took the parcel? Was he a villager, or someone from the castle?”
“Not at man at all. A lady, though tall as any man. She waited until nightfall and came to us. I never looked in the parcel, but figured it was blue amber or gems.” The Captain eyed the distance between them. Timble tightened his grip on the hand crossbow. “I’m no assassin. Are you?”
“Not today.” Timble pointed the crossbow at a rotting palm trunk and sank the bolt up to its fletching.
“Good.” The Captain grinned shakily and stood from his perch. “The townsfolk make a liquor from eggfruit and papaya just for the Festival of Joining. Would’ve been sad to die before trying it.” He pulled up his trousers. “The rest of the crew is at the tavern. Want to get drunk?”
“Absolutely.” It would be two days before Bluenose sailed again. He could think of worse ways to pass the time.
CHAPTER 33
T he Harlowe army was on the march to face King Randolf, over five thousand strong. Selwyn and Reyhan watched them pass, every available man not defending against the Vyr or holding Wicke’s Keep on the border with Belgorsk. They were drawn from the far corners of the March: light horsemen with bows and lances from the villages; townsfolk and castle levies bearing crossbows and pole cleavers; and his vassals’ heavy cavalry. Horse-drawn barges trailed his army, bearing food and supplies, Clapperclaw the troll, and a smithy. They moved quickly for so large a force, as the savanna provided horses for all, though the archers and infantry would fight afoot when battle came.
Their course followed the Green Lady southeast toward the walled town of Yozgelton. The royal army had invested it a week ago. It was an act of war, and Selwyn had no choice but to respond and come to the aid of his people.
“It’s been too long since I fought outside a tourney,” Reyhan said eagerly. “Only unnamable more miles to go.”
Just eight miles more until battle. Selwyn rolled his eyes at Reyhan’s superstitiousness. Tengra-Nu was just a dark outer faie, and there was no reason to avoid saying his sacred number. “We must parley first. With representatives of the other dukes here, Randolf might listen to reason.”
A half mile on, they saw a detachment of light horse returning from the south and hurried to meet them. The scouts were bloodied, one man pressing cloth to a wounded arm and another bleeding from the head. “We’ve been around the town, milord,” their leader said, an older villager whose face showed the scars of previous fights. “King Randolf is there in force. He’s ready for us.”
“Send your wounded to the surgeons,” Selwyn told him, then turned to Reyhan. “Have the army continue south and call my bannermen and the ducal envoys together for a council. They should hear this man’s report as well.” Ten minutes later, the war council met under the shade of river trees.
Selwyn’s bannermen clustered around the scout, chief among them Lord Filip Hewland, a rich lord from the east of the march, and Batuhan Switt, a battle-hardened veteran whose family kept firmly to the old ways. They would lead the right and left flanks during the coming battle. Nearby stood the envoys from Dukes Killyngton, Shear, and Mauntell. They were officially neutral but sympathized with House Harlowe. Selwyn was glad to have them as witnesses to the dispute.
If the scout leader was nervous from all the eyes upon him, he gave no sign of it. “We swung ‘round Yozgelton to the east and made it all the way to the river on the south side. Randolf only has enough men around the town to keep it penned up. The bulk of his force is on flat land to the north, awaiting you.”
“That was inevitable. You can’t hide an army of our size for long,” Lord Hewland said, flattening his mustache in thought. “What numbers did you see? Any mercenaries among them?”
“In the main body, maybe five thousand infantry and two thousand archers. Four centuries of heavy cavalry and twenty-five centuries of light horse.” The scout shook his head. “No mercenaries that we could see.”
“Priest-King Leax already hired them all,” Reyhan said sourly. “We’ll fight them later.”
Selwyn considered the numbers. “We have a slight edge in light cavalry. Our heavy horse and archers can hold their own. His advantage is in all that bloody infantry from the coastal cities. What did you see of them? Simple rabble or proper militiamen?”
“A bit of both, Your Grace. Some rabble, but plenty of militia with decent leather and weapons.”
“We’ll have to stay mobile,” said Lord Switt. “If they close with us, we’re finished.”
They spent the next twenty minutes redrawing plans in light of the news, and then set out again for Yozgelton. The rest of the march kept Selwyn too busy for reflection, sending orders to everyone from the bannermen down to the quartermaster in preparation for battle.
Approaching the field, he saw King Randolf’s army stretched out across a wide plain. The walls of Yozgelton rose behind, the domes of its godhalls shining in the sun. A quick survey confirmed the scout’s report. Selwyn could match the enemy in most respects, but the giant mob of infantry at the center would grind his army to paste if he let them. With horns and banners, his commander drew up the Harlowe army into a center and two wings. The left wing was the weaker of the two, as it had the river for an anchor.
Once all was in place, Selwyn rode to the killing ground between the two armies, Reyhan at his side bearing a God’s Mace peace banner, Lords Switt and Hewland and the duchy envoys just behind. Reyhan drove the peace banner into the ground, and then they waited.
Nearly half an hour passed before King Randolf emerged from enemy lines, Sir Gladwin, Marshal Jasper, and Duke Lockridge in tow. Just behind them rode the faietouched girl from Far Ingarsby and a stooped old man in patchwork armor. Selwyn growled low in his throat as he recognized Uncle Rupert.
Duke Lockridge drove his peace banner into the dirt, and the two sides lined up facing one another on horseback. “Selwyn Harlowe— King Randolf grants you this final chance to abdicate your chair to its rightful owner and deliver the murderers of His Majesty’s soldiers.”
“And we offer His Majesty a final chance to obey Jandari law,” said Lord Switt. He fixed the king with his single, dark eye, though Selwyn could tell it was the mutilated, empty socket on the other side of his face that held the king’s attention. Switt refused to cover it with a patch, preferring to unsettle people instead. “You, Lockridge, have trampled on the ancient rights of our nobles and now this king wages war against his own people. Even the Vyr are more civilized.”
Sir Gladwin visibly tensed at the words but nudged his horse forward and addressed Selwyn directly. “Duke Harlowe, I implore you. If you truly believe the Belgorshans plan to invade, then step down for the good of your people. Only a united realm can defeat them.”
“And place a degenerate in my father’s chair? The Vyr attack from the west, and we believe Priest-King Leax will soon march against us. My dear Uncle Rupe
rt can’t even fend off his creditors, let alone an invasion.” Selwyn glared at his uncle, and anger choked out all other thoughts, including the negotiations. “And there he is, my father’s brother. Wrap your hair in purple, Rupert, for we all know you’re playing the whore just to cover your debts. Watch for me during the battle – I will certainly be watching for you!”
“Your Grace, please,” Gladwin said, “threats have no place in a parley.”
“This is useless.” Duke Lockridge turned to the king. “The boy usurper will keep us talking until sundown about illusory threats from Belgorsk and imagined slights to his honor. Let us get to fighting.”
The king’s party shifted in their saddles and looked past Selwyn. He glanced back to see a commotion among his front line. A rider in Harlowe colors eased his horse between the crossbowmen, waving a linen shirt over his head in lieu of a peace banner. “Avishag’s quim!” Reyhan said, hand dropping to his sword hilt, “What’s that damn fool doing?”
“What is this?” Duke Lockridge shouted, and each of the king’s party reached for their blades. “Would you violate a banner of truce?”
Sir Gladwin interposed his horse between Selwyn and the king. Reyhan did the same.
“Peace!” Selwyn called, raising his hands. “It’s a messenger. Look, his scabbard is empty.”
The rider approached cautiously, waving the shirt for all to see. He halted several paces away, clearly exhausted by his travels, but wasting no time in preamble. “The Order chapterhouse in the Swanlands sends warning. Priest-King Leax approaches our borders with an immense host, at least sixty thousand strong, and the Order believes there is a spy in the Harlowe household.”
Selwyn felt as if snakes were coiling in his stomach. Sixty thousand? That was over ten times what he could bring to the field without stripping the frontier. And who was this spy?
Duke Lockridge and Marshal Jasper exchanged ironic glances, and King Randolf sneered openly. “Wonderfully convenient. Do you think this ruse will save you?”
“Your Majesty,” Sir Gladwin said quietly, “I am not convinced this is a ruse. Their surprise appears genuine.”
“I can tell if he’s lying,” the faietouched girl said, her child’s voice sounding frightened. “We can seek the faie.”
“Would you consent, Duke Harlowe?” Sir Gladwin asked. “I give my word that Larissa will not harm your man.”
“Gladly.” Selwyn gave silent thanks that a pactmaker had come. A geas was likely the only proof the fool king would accept.
The messenger dismounted slowly and took a knee in the dirt. Larissa climbed from her pony and stood in front of him, a tiny thing, barely of a height with him even when he was kneeling. Her wide eyes stared into his. Then she closed them and began humming quietly, head weaving slowly to and fro. Suddenly, she went rigid, fists knotting tightly in his hair. “Your blood will boil in your veins if you lie. You will burst like a sausage skin.” Even at a distance, Selwyn felt a chill of power brush over him.
The girl’s eyes flew open and she gripped the messenger by his chin. “Do you speak the truth?”
“How can I know?” he protested, all color draining from his face. “We received the bird from the Swanlands. The Order could be wrong.”
Larissa shook her head. “The geas only kills if you lie deliberately. Are you telling us the truth?”
“I swear it. The Order says Leax will be upon us in days. He means to conquer us all.”
The girl turned her head up to Gladwin and smiled shakily. “He believes it.”
“Well done, Larissa.” Sir Gladwin faced the king. “Your Majesty, in light of this…”
“It changes nothing,” Lockridge said, cutting his hand through the air. “First we bring this traitor to heel, and then move on to Leax.”
Selwyn opened his mouth to object, but Sir Gladwin beat him to it.
“Have you been right about anything, Lockridge?” the king’s hearthguard asked, showing heat for the first time. “Civil war could have been avoided, but because of your intransigence, Jandaria is weak and divided. We should join forces with Duke Harlowe.”
“I will not have a common knight speak to me in this way!”
The king ducked his head, trapped between his two closest advisors and clearly at a loss for words. Perhaps it was the right time to speak. Selwyn raised his voice. “King Randolf, if you join us in this fight, once it is done I will abdicate my chair.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe the right thing to say, but Randolf was the wrong man.
“You would give us terms? Are we equals now, boy?” The king backed his horse from the group. “We tire of this. The royal army will return to the Crownlands. Let this usurper buy us time with his blood. Once Leax has finished with him, the rest of Jandaria will be ready for war.”
The king wheeled around and rode back to his lines, followed by Jasper and Lockridge. Uncle Rupert looked as if he might speak, but then meekly turned and followed them. Sir Gladwin paused a moment and spoke quietly to Selwyn. “I will do all possible to help you, short of violating my oath to the king. My prayers go with you.”
“You’re a good man, Gladwin,” Selwyn said, touching his heart in salute. “Wish you were riding with us.”
“Right or wrong, my duty is to my king. I’m glad this day ended peacefully.”
Larissa lingered behind. “Is your sister well, Duke Harlowe? I heard about the fight on the savanna.” She faltered. “Is Far Ingarsby safe?”
Selwyn managed a wan smile. “Helaena is fine, last I heard. And the Vyr are terrified of Far Ingarsby. All reports say they avoid your village like a rabid aksu-kal.”
Before heading north, Selwyn stripped every available man from the Yozgelton garrison, as he planned to do with as many towns and villages he could. Even so, it would never be enough. He had read every history in both the Harlowe and Wicke libraries. Only a grand strategist like King Alec the Halfsword or Gulshan the Bold could have won at the current odds, and Selwyn was no hero from the songs.
Selwyn pondered his options. Aventir would be no help, paralyzed by a succession crisis. Great Keferi might respond to the king of Jandaria but would never go to war for a duke. That left only the Swans. Without their help, the March would fall.
CHAPTER 34
M irko Bowback grunted as one of Rotamir’s serjeants kicked him awake. He sat up, squinting in the sickly light of early dawn. From the looks of it, the rest of his tithe had received the same treatment, most struggling to their feet, while Yosip the Woodsman dabbed at a bloody lip with his sleeve. They herded out to the woods to piss and then ate a quick breakfast of trail bread. Encouraged by cuffs and curses from the serjeants, they were on the road within ten minutes. Now that they were close to the border, Mirko noted, Priest-King Leax was driving the army faster.
At noon they halted for lunch and kitchen slaves passed out wooden bowls of cold buckwheat and cabbage. The trees were thin here, and ahead he could see a vast stretch of grass and red dirt, as wide as the night sky. Uncle Luka and Vasik One-Hand had spoken of it, but this went beyond anything he imagined. It terrified him that they would soon be marching through those lands. To be so exposed, without the sheltering trees above, must be how the dormouse felt when an owl swooped down upon it.
Each tithe ate alone. Mirko had come to know his mates and liked most of them. Kirilo the Tanner was half-deaf and rarely spoke, but when he did, he used wisdom. Dusek the Butcher’s Boy trained in the evenings with the camp surgeons. Yosip the Woodsman was the strongest. Pisspot, who called himself Endri of Kryvoriv, was a latrine cleaner who came from a real town.
The only one Mirko disliked was the Magpie, a young man with hungry eyes and sunken cheeks. He was a thief. Occasionally he stole extra rations for the tithe, but Mirko knew he stole other things as well, and they would all take the lashings or worse if the Magpie was caught. Cousin Stepan had spoken to him about it but got only a snarl in return. Uncle Luka had just shrugged. “There’s no law for fools.”
It took only a few moments to wolf down the meager meal. “What are they doing?” Dusek asked, motioning down the line. The various tithes sat along the road, devouring their rations. Mirko caught sight of what Dusek meant; a lord and two serjeants were passing from tithe to tithe, a Belgorshan peasant interpreting for them. Occasionally they would pull a man from his group and inspect him like a horse at market. Some got sent to the rear.
“They’re looking for poleaxemen,” Uncle Luka said, picking at his teeth with a splinter of wood. “Happened during the last war as well.”
Vasik One-Hand nodded agreement. “It’s the Belgorshan way. Lacking heavy cavalry, we use heavy poleaxes to break the enemy line. Before a fight they pull out strong lads and all the woodsmen to put in special tithes.”
“That don’t sound too bad,” Yosip said cheerily. “Though I would miss you lot, of course.”
Uncle Luka scowled, spitting his toothpick into the bushes. “Poleaxemen are like boar hounds, meant to wear down the prey until the noble hunter arrives to finish it off. Except nobles care what happens to their hounds. Few of the axemen I knew survived the campaign.”
Soon enough, the lord was upon them. He barked something and the peasant said, “Churls, on your feet.” The men scrambled to stand as they had been shown, shoulder to shoulder with spears presented to the front. “Anyone here handled an ax?”
“Milord, all of us have,” Uncle Luka said meekly. “Most of us are from the forest.”
The serjeant sucked his teeth and spoke to the peasant. “Do you have any woodsmen in your tithe?” the peasant asked.
“None, milord.” Mirko felt a cold flush of fear at lying, but he would not lose a member of the group.
One of the serjeants squeezed Yosip’s arm appraisingly and said something in Oberyn.
Mirko laughed. “Yosip the Lame? An axeman? You’d do better with me and I’m bowbacked.” His head buzzed with fear as the peasant interpreted his words and the lord rounded in anger. A gloved hand struck the side of his head, sending him to his knees. The peasant spoke for the lord again, “Is it true? Are you lame?”
Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1) Page 21